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“Say once the main boat was gone, we pack up the dinghy. We break into the storeroom and get a load of food, yeah? And put it in the dinghy. Then we keep watch. If we see the salvage boat coming back, we get into the dinghy and hop it. Gene? What do you reckon?”

Baz looked at Ray in wonder. The guy just seemed to be able to pull ideas out of nowhere. And since the mention of Nadine and Steffie, he seemed to have become instantly committed, instantly forceful. He’d made up his mind that this was going to happen.

“Hey,” said Amit. “That’s not bad. Seeing what you’ve just been through.”

Ray looked embarrassed, irritated almost.

“What?” said Baz. He was obviously out of the loop. “What’s he just been through?”

“Capos got him,” said Gene. “Soon as we came down from the library. We broke the tin-opener.”

“What the hell’re you on about?” Baz couldn’t make any sense of what Gene was saying.

“We got back from hiding in the library, yeah? And we were starving. But none of the tins we took were ring-pull, and we broke the bloody tin-opener on the first one. So Ray said he was gonna go back to the kitchen to find you, see if you could get us another opener. I said don’t be daft, but he wouldn’t have it. He was off down the corridor before anyone could stop him. I watched him go – shouted after him. Next thing you know Steiner’s come round the corner and grabbed him.”

“Christ, Ray!” Baz’s head was reeling. “What did they do to you? They didn’t... put you down the hole?”

“No! Do I 
look
 like I’ve been down the blimmin’ hole? I keep telling everyone that nothing happened! It was nothing. I managed to talk my way out of it, OK? Just leave it.” Ray was obviously exasperated, tired of having to explain. “We got more important things to worry about than stupid capos. So forget about it. Come on, Gene. The dinghy idea – what do you reckon?”

Ray had deflected attention from himself, and though Baz had a hundred questions he wanted to ask, he could see they would have to wait.

“Er... well...” Gene blinked. “Yeah, maybe. We got binoculars. We know the Seagull motor works. I suppose if we kept watch and saw that everything had gone pear-shaped, we could make a run for it in the dinghy. There’d be a chance of getting to the mainland without the Ecks catching us – or even seeing us. And being on the mainland’s better’n being dead, I guess. Just about.”

“OK, then,” said Ray. “We got a plan B. So let’s do it.”

Robbie said, “Hey, why not just take the dinghy anyway? We could get away in it right now if we wanted to! Tonight!”

Gene shook his head. “Engine’s locked in the storeroom now that it’s been fixed. We’ll have to break the door down to get at it, and that’s too risky with everyone around. Better to wait till they’ve gone. Then there’d only be Steiner to deal with...” His voice tailed off, and he sat staring into the lantern light.

The dinghy was the key. It provided an escape route, and it gave the boys a lot more confidence. They talked for another hour, picking apart this detail and that – what they would do with Steiner once they got him alone, how much petrol they were likely to need in order to get to the mainland. The one real risk was that the bomb would be discovered before the divers left. But even here they figured out that there might be a slim chance of escape. They could keep an eye on the jetty first thing in the morning, watch the divers as they boarded the boat, and if there was any sign of trouble they could run for it. Maybe hide up in the library, then creep down to the shore after nightfall, and still get away in the dinghy. Somehow...

Finally Ray said, “Too much talk. Come on. Let’s just do it.” He was impatient, pushing for a decision.

“Well, I’m in,” said Baz. “The bomb’s our only choice, far as I can see. If we wait any longer we’ve had it.”

“Count me in, man.” Jubo smacked a fist into his palm. “Me get a pop at Steiner, an’ it all be worth it.”

“Yeah, OK. I’m for it,” said Amit.

“Me too,” said Robbie.

They all agreed. Even Dyson, probably the most cautious of all, said, “Ah, screw it. We’re dead anyway. Might as well go down fighting.”

“Yeah. Well said, Dyse. Let’s have ’em.” Amit was looking belligerent, ready for anything. “Gene?”

Gene had been quiet for a while. The scheme would never have got this far if it hadn’t been for him, yet now he appeared to be hesitating.

“I dunno. It’s not just about... whether it’s gonna work or not. Or whether we get caught or don’t get caught. I mean, this is murder, right? We’re talking about murder here.”

“It’s not murder,” said Amit. “It’s bleedin’ 
war
. It’s whatdyacallit.... 
freedom
 fighting. Yeah. Somebody comes at you with a gun, and you know they’re gonna kill you, then you got a right to smack them first. That’s how I see it.”

“But are we really sure that Preacher John 
is
 planning to kill us, that’s the thing. See—”

“You know what, Gene?” Amit interrupted him. “Wanna hear what I think? You’re starting to back out ’cos you figure you’re better off as you are. Better off than the rest of us. “Cos as long as you just sit tight, you’re gonna be safe.”

“What do you mean? Why am I better off than the rest of you?”

“You’re not in any danger, that’s why. Not really. Not like we are. Kids can get killed round here, drowned, dumped in the sea, chucked on an altar... whatever. But it’s never gonna be you, is it? They’ll never touch you, ’cos you’re too smart. Too useful to them. Whatever happens to the rest of us, you’ll always be OK, yeah? Safe, like you’ve always been.”

Amit had hit on some truth, and it obviously stung. Gene stood up.

“Safe? You better hope I’m safe, Amit, ’cos if anything happens to me you’ve got 
no
 friggin’ chance. Yeah. And if we ever get out of this 
safe
, it’ll be down to me, not you! I gotta try and think of everything. If we left the thinking to you, we’d all be stuffed! Right, then. I’ve had enough. Let’s do it.”

Gene grabbed the lantern and started off towards the washroom.

“What, you mean now?” Baz called after him.

“Yeah, now.”

Amit looked at Baz and pulled a bug-eyed face. “Result,” he said.

CHAPTER
 
TWENTY-THREE

The pathway down to the jetty was steep, broken up by shadows from the hazy moon, and the pressure cooker was heavy. There were carrying handles, but Baz and Ray found it difficult to walk in time. The huge receptacle rocked around alarmingly.

“Hey – try and keep it steady.” Gene was following behind. “I don’t want lighter fuel splashing up onto the plug.”

“Sorry.”

Dyson was last man in the chain of lookouts. He remained halfway along the jetty, watching from above as Baz and Ray carefully descended the bank of rubble. They staggered and slithered among the loose lumps of brick and concrete. God, it was awkward. Gene was already standing on the gangplank below, anxiously regarding their progress.

“Keep it upright! Upright!” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“For Chrissake, Gene. We’re trying...”

The night was hot and airless, and by the time Baz and Ray reached the gangplank they were both sweating.

“Let’s just put it down a second.” They stood the pressure cooker on the end of the planks and took a breather. Baz wiped his forehead and glanced back up at Dyson – a shadowy figure, just visible against the night sky. So far, so good.

The slap of the waves against the jetty seemed amplified in the darkness, everything sharp and clear, as though a thousand sea creatures were feeding down there, sucking and slurping at the island itself. The effect was eerily hypnotic, and Baz jumped as another sound cut through the still air – a high whistling cry...
mee... mee... ma-mee-mee...

A warning signal!

“What the hell’s that?” Ray’s eyes showed white in the darkness. The boys stood motionless, listening. There it was again, more distant now – 
mee-mee-mee –
 fading into the night.

“Christ,” said Gene. “I think it’s a seagull.”

A seagull? Baz couldn’t remember when he’d last heard such a thing, or where. Certainly never round here, not even before the floods.

“Yeah. It’s a gull. Weird. Come on, though – we got no time for that.” Gene wanted to press on. Baz and Ray began to edge their way across the planking, facing each other over the lid of the pressure cooker. It was a short journey but an anxious one, the planks rising and falling unpredictably with the motion of the boat.

“Stay where you are a minute, Ray,” said Gene. “Come on, Baz. Get in the boat.” Baz let go of the handle he was holding and jumped onto the deck.

“OK? Let’s lift her down then.” The angle was awkward, but Baz and Gene managed to drag the pressure cooker towards them, tilt it forward and gently lower it on board.

“Your turn, Ray.”

Ray hesitated for a moment, then jumped. He landed with a thump and staggered against Baz.

“Whoa. You OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, then.”

They picked up the bomb once more, taking a handle apiece.

Gene was already in the wheelhouse. The confined space smelled of oil and diesel and the familiar sickliness of the grey sludge that had become part of their daily lives. Salvage.

“Listen,” whispered Gene. “I’ve got the locker open, and I’ve shifted the cans of diesel so I could get the trapdoor open as well. When I switch the torch on, I want you to lift the thing up and over, and then hop in and get it as far down into the trap as you can, yeah? Looks like it might be a tight fit. Ready?”

The light flashed on – dangerously bright, it seemed – and Baz and Ray immediately hoisted the pressure cooker over the lip and down into the well of the locker. Then they both clambered in and lowered the heavy vessel through the open trap as far as it would go. The base of the cauldron was resting against the inner hull, and only the lid now protruded up into the locker well.

“Yeah, that’s great,” said Gene. “It’s below the waterline at any rate.”

He switched off the torch, and the inside of the wheelhouse was as black as ink.

“Come on. We need to go and wire it up.”

Outside again, Gene crouched down beside the winch motor. He laid a pair of pliers, two screwdrivers and a roll of thin cabling on the deck. “OK,” he said. “I’ve got to fix this new lead on. It’s gonna take me a few minutes, so here’s what I want you two to do. See these grooves in the decking? I want you to scrape all the crap out of one of them, so there’s a clear channel from the motor to the cabin. Use one of these screwdrivers. We’re gonna try and hide the HT lead down in the groove.”

Gene flashed the torch over towards the wheelhouse door, holding the beam steady.

“Yeah, start that end,” he said. “Pick the nearest groove to the left-hand corner of the door, and just come this way. Clean it out with the screwdriver. Take the torch, but hide the light as much as you can. And keep an ear out. If we hear a whistle, we’re gonna have to dump everything overboard and run for it.”

“Don’t you need the torch?” said Baz.

“Nah. I can see well enough for what I gotta do. It’s easy.”

So while Ray held the torch close to the decking, Baz cleaned out one of the square-cut grooves, using the screwdriver to lift up the continuous plug of dirt and grime that had been trampled in there.

By the time Baz and Ray had reached the winch, Gene was finished. He had his roll of cabling ready, and he began to press this down into the groove.

“Follow on behind,” he said. “See if you can get some of that dust and muck to cover this over. Rub it around a bit. Yeah, that’s right – scuff it in with your feet. Try and make it look like nothing’s changed.”

It didn’t take long to get the cabling in place. Once inside the wheelhouse, Gene ran the thin black rubber lead around the lower framework of the doorway and along the skirting, pressing it into the gaps wherever he could. Then he brought it up vertically at the back end of the locker, just at the point where the lid was hinged.

“That’s about as good as we can get it,” Gene said. He measured out another couple of meters of cabling, and snipped off the remainder with his pliers.

“Nearly done. I’ve just got to strip the end and wire it to the spark plug.”

“Wanna use my penknife?” said Baz.

“Nah, it’s OK. These’ll do.” Gene used the pliers again, then climbed into the locker well. Kneeling beside what was visible of the pressure cooker, he unscrewed the little metal cap from the top of the spark plug.

Ray was holding the torch, keeping the beam low, shielding the light as best he could. There was nothing for Baz to do but watch. He waited for Gene to attach the lead to the plug.

But Gene appeared to have come to a halt. He leaned a shoulder against the inner wall of the locker, holding the wire in his hands, twisting the ends of it round and round. His head had dropped forward. Maybe he’d forgotten something, or maybe there was some detail he needed to go over in his mind. Whatever it was could be vitally important, so Baz wasn’t about to interrupt his thoughts.

A deep stillness fell on the interior of the wooden cabin, the faint whirring of the wind-up torch the only sound.

In the end it was Ray who broke the silence.

“Want me to do it?”

The question took Baz by surprise. It hadn’t occurred to him that Gene might be having last-minute doubts – was perhaps unable to make that final connection to the bomb.

But Ray had seen and understood.

“Here – hang onto the torch, Baz.”

Ray clambered into the locker. “Come on, Gene. Give it to me.” He took the wire from Gene’s unresisting fingers. “And the other bit – the little cap thing. So I just have to wrap it round the plug and screw the cap on, yeah?”

Gene nodded, but said nothing.

“Shift the light around, Baz. Can’t see what I’m doing.”

Baz adjusted his position so that the beam fell directly onto the pressure cooker. Ray crouched down and wrapped the bare wire around the tiny screw-thread on top of the spark plug. He twisted the end over a few times, and then replaced the little metal cap, screwing it down tightly with his fingers.