X-Isle (33 page)

“Nice chairs, tables. There’s pens up there. There’s even 
paper
. Yeah—”

“Yeah, but did you find the right books?” Baz was impatient to know whether the trip had produced any actual results.

“Yup. Working mixture’s anything between seven and fifteen per cent gas to air. Found it in a chemi book. We’ve got enough methane for a ten-per-cent mixture. So that’s it, boys – we’re there. We’ve already got enough gas.”

“You sayin’ we can stop blowing up balloons?” said Jubo. “Good.”

“What, are you all out of breath, Jube? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Ha, ha!”

But it was a sobering moment. They’d reached their target, according to Gene, and with it a turning point. They had the vessel, they had the explosive, and they had a way of detonating that explosive. They had the makings of a bomb.

On Friday morning Baz was in the little sluice room next to the kitchen, rinsing out the divers’ foul underwear – his least favorite job. He heard voices outside in the corridor and was surprised when Nadine looked in at the door.

“Hiya,” she said. “You’re always so busy! What’re you doing now?”

Baz resisted the temptation to say, 
What does it look like?
 and just grunted, “Washing some clothes.” He was resentful of the easy life these girls led.

“Yeah? We’re just seeing Aunt Etta off,” Nadine said. “She’s working over on the mainland this weekend. A couple of the men are taking her across in the boat. She’s coming back on Monday...”

“Ooh – is this the laundry room?” The younger girl, Steffie, appeared. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Like her sister, Steffie looked unfeasibly neat and clean. She was maybe twelve or thirteen, her fair hair tied up in bunches.

Baz glanced up and said, “Hey, Feel free to come and join in the fun.” But then he looked at Nadine and added, “What – you mean your aunt’s going back and you’re staying behind?” This seemed a bit odd.

“Yeah.” Nadine put her hands in her jeans pockets. “She’s got some more patients to see. Mr. Eck says Preacher John’s given us special per mission to stay on. It’s only till Monday, when Aunt Etta comes back.”

“Oh. She, er... she trusts him, does she? I mean, to look after you OK? And to bring her back again?”

“Who, Mr. Eck? Well, yeah, why wouldn’t she?”

Then someone was shouting from the corridor, “Aren’t you going to come and wave me goodbye?” A woman’s voice.

“OK!” Nadine shouted back. She turned and smiled at Baz. “Back in a bit. We’ll come and give you a hand.”

The girls disappeared. Baz heard them giggling as they ran off down the corridor. He slapped a soaking wet vest down onto the draining board and began to wring it out. Yeah, right, he thought, I’ll save something special for you. Moko’s underpants maybe.

But Nadine was as good as her word. In about fifteen minutes she was back again, along with Steffie, and both girls seemed willing to muck in.

“Where do you want us to start, then?” said Nadine. She grabbed a handful of clothing from the pile on the floor.

“Wow. You’ve got real soap powder.” Steffi picked up the box that stood beside one of the sinks. “We’ve been having to use washing-up liquid for months now – and that’s for our hair and everything. This is luxury!”

Baz had forgotten in the past few weeks just how hard life was back on the mainland, where there were no supplies other than those that could be bought on the black market. If you had nothing to bargain with, then you had nothing. And even if you had a skill, like his dad, or like the dentist, then you could only trade your skills for what was available – which still might be nothing. Life was tough here on the island, and deadly dangerous, but at least they had the basics.

These girls weren’t rich, he realized. For all that they’d managed to keep themselves looking good, they were poorer than he was. Hungrier probably, maybe even more desperate. No wonder they were so delighted to be here. No wonder they wanted to stay. Wasn’t that the very reason he’d been so keen to get here in the first place – for the promise of food every day, and a roof to sleep under every night? His attitude towards them softened, and he tried to be a bit nicer.

“Yeah,” he said. “We got soap powder. I might even be able to get hold of some proper shampoo. I’ll ask the guys in the sort room.”

“It’s OK,” said Nadine. She didn’t look at him. “Ra—Your friend Ray... he already said he’d—”

But whatever she was about to say went unfinished.

“What’re you two doing here?”

Luke was standing in the doorway. His stubbled face was unsmiling, his eyes cold and threatening.

“Sorry?” Nadine looked at him, her arms still full of dirty clothes.

“Put that stuff down and get back up to your room. You don’t talk to these other kids, and you don’t show your faces down here again, got it?”

“What? But we were just trying to help. And Mr. Eck said that we could go wherever we—”

“I don’t care what Mr. Eck said. Things have changed, girlie. Now get back upstairs and stay there. You keep to your room till you’re sent for. Preacher John’s orders.”

“But why should we?”

Don’t argue
, thought Baz. 
You don’t know these guys... you don’t know them...

“Don’t question me, you gobby little slag! I already told you – Preacher John’s orders! Now get upstairs!” Luke had moved forward, one arm raised.

Nadine dropped the clothes back on the floor and stormed out of the room. After another moment Steffie put down the box of soap powder and ran after her.

Luke watched them go. “You keep away from those two,” he said to Baz. “
Well
 away – understand?”

“OK.” Baz didn’t question this.

“See that you do, then, fella.” Luke paused at the door. “Ladies’ Night tonight,” he said. “There’ll be four of ’em coming back on the boat, so you’re cooking for nine altogether, right?”

“Yes,” said Baz. But then he thought about this. “Um... don’t you mean eleven? There’s the two girls as well.”

“You don’t cook for them anymore. You give ’em a can o’ beans, same as the rest of you get.”

“All right.” Again Baz put up no argument. “Am I allowed to get someone to help me in the kitchen for the night?”

“Do what you like. Just make sure you put some decent food on the table – and plenty o’ wine. Nice and generous with the wine.”

Luke turned his back on Baz and left the room.

Tuna-fish curry, with rice and chapatis. Tinned mandarins for pudding, with condensed milk.

It wasn’t the most dazzling of menus, and Baz knew it. But he had none of Cookie’s finesse, none of his inventiveness with a limited range of in gredients, so he preferred to play things safe rather than get too adventurous and risk messing up.

Baz and Ray stood side by side, their backs to the kitchen door, and watched the meal in progress.

Four women had been brought over from the mainland, and it had been a squeeze to fit them all in around the dining table, but nobody seemed to mind that. The ladies were plainly here to enjoy themselves. They ate and drank everything that was put in front of them, screeched with laughter, clinked their wine glasses and called for more. Baz looked wonderingly attheir made-up faces, their dyed hair, their shiny shoes... it was out of this world. You just didn’t see women like that anymore. He vaguely remembered Saturday nights before the flood, when girls would emerge from their houses, transformed into exotic creatures such as these, ready for an evening on the town. He would watch them from his bedroom window, groups of bare-limbed girls grasping at each other for support as they tottered down the road in their impossible shoes, the sound of high heels click-clacking on the summer pavements.

But now those tropical birds had disappeared, most of them, or shed their fancy feathers for something more practical. And for those few that remained, dressing up was no longer something they did just for fun. This was their job, Baz realized. This was their skill. Like his dad, and like Aunt Etta the dentist, these women had a trade. They were performers, actors.

And very good at it they were too. As Baz watched, he began to appreciate how cleverly the women controlled the situation. In between the loud laughter and the crude jokes, he saw the glances that passed between them, the subtle sign language that would result in a change of seating positions after a joint visit to the washroom. He saw that it was the girls who were making the choices, and how each girl then attended to the man she had chosen – keeping his wine glass full, engaging his attention, hanging upon his every slurred and leering remark. They were as good at their job as his dad was at poker, Baz thought, and probably made about as good a living.

He found his eye drawn to the woman who sat next to Isaac. She acted – if acting it was – in a more sober and demure way than the others, a way that seemed fitting for the lady of a skipper. Her dress was flamboyant and colorful enough, a flower in her dark hair so that she looked vaguely Hawaiian, or Thai, but she didn’t shriek or bang her wine glass down on the table or trade raucous insults with her companions. Instead she listened, smiling, to whatever Isaac was saying, and when he laid his heavy paw upon her slim brown arm, she put her own hand over his, squeezing it briefly. A friendly gesture rather than a provocative one. It was as though they had known each other for years – as they might have done, for all Baz could tell.

Moko was the only one who didn’t seem to be enjoying the party. He sat beside a woman in a blonde wig, an outrageous confection of swirling ringlets that tumbled halfway down her back. And though the woman kept plying Moko with wine – which he drank – and kept up a steady chatter, Moko barely glanced at her. He stared into the distance, lumpy and uncomfortable in his shiny suit, looking more like a man who’d just been given a death sentence than one who was at a party.

“Hey, Cookie! More wine!”

Luke was calling him, and Baz took another bottle of red from the trolley beside him. He glanced at Ray and raised his eyebrows. They were in for a long night by the look of it.

But Ray’s face was cold and set, with no emotion in his eyes or apparent interest in the proceedings. He seemed to be blanking out the whole experience.

*  *  *

Later Hutchinson turned up. He nodded in the direction of the party – by now a rather bleary and weary bunch – and spoke to Baz.

“I’m not waiting up any longer,” he muttered, “so I’m gonna have to leave the slob-room door unlocked. But I’m warning you... any trouble...”

“What are we gonna do? Run away?” said Baz. The slob-room door was rarely locked, and he knew that Hutchinson had only shown his face out of curiosity. Come to leer at the girls probably.

“Watch your lip,” said Hutchinson. He glanced over at the revellers. “Looks like fun. It’ll be our turn on Sunday, eh?” This remark was addressed to Ray, but Ray made no reply.

Baz wanted to pick up one of the remaining wine bottles and smash it over Hutchinson’s head, but the capo had already turned to leave.

“Yeah. Definitely this Sunday...”

He wandered off.

“Pig,” said Baz. But still Ray said nothing.

When the last of the drinking party had finally staggered off to bed, Baz whispered, “OK, forget the clearing up. We’re gonna have to risk leaving it till morning. Let’s grab the pressure cooker while we can – might be our only chance.” He and Ray went back into the kitchen. But while Baz was concentrating on manoeuvring the huge cauldron out of its steel cabinet, he realized that Ray was rummaging through the food cupboard.

“Hey – what’re you doing? Come and give me a hand with this thing.”

Ray didn’t reply. Instead he reached in amongst the tins and boxes, and pulled out a packet of some sort.

“Ray!” Baz was getting annoyed. “What’re you playing at? Put that back and get over here.”

Ray closed the cupboard door, but he still had hold of whatever he’d taken from the cupboard. He walked over to where Baz was crouching and dropped the packet into the cooking pot.

“That’s mine,” he said – the first words he’d spoken in over an hour. “Wages, OK?”

“Wages?” Baz stared down into the pot, saw the reflection of cellophane in the dim yellow light. It was a packet of pasta quills. Unopened. “How do you mean, 
wages?
 That’s no good to you here. You can’t spend it – can’t even eat it. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Just shut up and don’t ask questions. They’re my wages. Now come on.” Ray stooped forward and grabbed one of the handles of the massive pot. “Let’s go.”

“Ray—”

“You wanna make something of it?” Ray’s mouth barely moved as he spoke. His face was rigid, eyes furiously determined.

Baz let it go. “No.”

“Then shut up.”

Baz grasped the other handle of the pressure cooker, and together they hurried out of the kitchen and down the corridor, bearing their heavy cargo between them. When they got to the slob room they found that Gene was still awake.

“Hey – is that it? Did you get it?” His voice was an excited whisper in the darkness.

“Yeah.”

“Brilliant. Stick it in the jakes, then. We’ll take a look at it tomorrow.”

They put the pressure cooker in the second cubicle. Ray reached down, took his packet of pasta and left the washroom without another word.

CHAPTER
 
TWENTY

Dressed in scruffy jeans and T-shirts, hair tied back, their pale faces washed clean of make-up, the group of women who were gathered in the corridor next morning bore little resemblance to the gorgeous beings of the night before. The performance was over. Props and costumes had been packed away into holdalls, along with the bawdy jokes and raucous laughter, and now the players were silently awaiting their transport.

Baz and Ray had been detailed to carry bags and belongings to the jetty, and this took a couple of journeys. On the second trip the women followed them down, accompanied by two of the divers. Luke and Moko had turned up, having been given the job of ferrying the ladies back to the mainland, by the look of it. Nobody spoke.

Standing beside the pile of luggage, Baz waited for further instructions. The gangplanks were already in place, bridging the gap between the rocky slope of the jetty and the salvage boat. Ray stood looking out to sea, as uncommunicative as he’d been the night before. He was muffled up in a hoodie, his hands stuffed into the pouch pocket, even though the morning was warm. Maybe he had a cold or something.