X-Isle (43 page)

He put the fishing spool and the bottle of water beside his feet, and checked his direction again. Was he really going to do this? There were only two choices, when it came down to it. Either he returned to the mainland, with all its hardships and danger, or he risked trying to find his friends. Risked going back to X-Isle. And maybe never reaching it...

His dad would be there on the mainland, ready to take him in, and look after him. But the divers could be there also, watching the shoreline. Waiting for him. What would they do if they ever caught him? And what might they do to his dad?

Baz took a deep breath and opened up the throttle. One last look behind him, and then he swung the tiller round, adjusting the angle of the boat so that he was guiding its prow towards the blank and endless horizon.

CHAPTER
 
TWENTY-SEVEN

The weather had changed. It was just a growing mistiness to the air, nothing unusual, but for Baz the effect was devastating. The line of the horizon had gradually become less distinct, until it had finally disappeared. There was no sign of the island. And the mainland – his only possible reference point – had long gone, vanished into the surrounding haze.

Visibility was down to maybe a couple of hundred meters, so that the dinghy seemed to be in the center of a huge circular tank of sea water. And for all Baz knew, he was simply going round and round the tank.

He shut the engine down to tickover, and took another swig from the water bottle. It was already half empty. He’d have to start being a bit more careful.

The surface of the sea had calmed, no waves now, just an oily rhythmic swell. Rising... falling... rising... falling. A terrible feeling of eeriness descended upon Baz, creeping across his shoulders and up the back of his neck. He was so completely alone, and so lost. Hopelessly, hopelessly lost. What was the point of wasting petrol when he hadn’t a clue where he was? Maybe he should just sit here until the mist cleared. Wait it out.

That could take hours, though. Days, even. He could drift miles and miles out of his way in that time, and never see land again. No. Keep going. Baz opened the throttle, and the engine picked up speed, a sturdily confident note that kept the sea-ghosts at bay.

It didn’t last. A couple of minutes later the motor faltered, spluttering out of time alarmingly. It fired again, just briefly, and then died away. A last hollow rattle, a final cough. Silence. Baz stared at the engine in horror, and it took him a long moment to realize the likely cause of its failure. It had run out of fuel. He reached under the seat and pulled out the red plastic container once more.

The heady smell of petrol was reassuring, rising from the tank like a genie to grant Baz the wish of power. But once this fuel was gone, he was done for. Up the creek without a paddle – for a paddle was one piece of equipment that the divers had not bothered to include.

It took a good few pulls before the motor came back to life. Baz sat down, relieved if slightly out of breath, and knocked the engine into gear. Something flashed across the bows of the dinghy. He had no time to even blink, let alone wonder what it might be. And then the exact same thing happened again. And again...

Fish! A school of bright mackerel, dozens of them, silvery blue against the smooth surface of the swell, were passing from right to left, shooting out of the water at amazing speed. Baz immediately swung the tiller hard round so that the boat altered course. There was no reason for him to try and follow the mackerel shoal, other than that it was such a miraculous thing to witness. When was the last time anyone had seen a real live fish? Baz opened the motor flat out and leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck for a better view. He was never going to keep up with that glorious dancing display, but he wanted to watch it for as long as he could. More fish appeared – to his left and to his right – overtaking the dinghy and all heading the same way. He could see every detail of them now, the black and blue stripy patterns across their backs, the sharp-cut fins, the faces open-mouthed and wide-eyed, each with its permanently startled expression. Maybe something was chasing them, trying to catch them.

It occurred to him that if he was to use the fishing spool, he might catch some himself. How amazing would that be – to turn up on X-Isle with a string of fresh mackerel?

To turn up on X-Isle...

What did he think he was doing, chasing fish around and wasting fuel? He was supposed to be trying to find the island. And now he was more lost than ever. Baz turned down the throttle.

The leaping fish were far ahead of him, nearly out of sight. But then the entire school suddenly veered to the right, heading off in a new direction entirely. It happened as if at a given signal, or as though the surrounding wall of mist truly was a barrier that they couldn’t pass. Most likely some fresh danger had caused the mackerel to abruptly alter course, but as they finally disappeared into the swell, Baz felt once again that he was trapped, doomed to patrol a circular arena from which there was no escape.

He idly allowed the boat to cruise towards the spot where the mackerel had swerved away, but found nothing there to explain their behavior. Whatever secrets lay beneath the filthy grey water would remain hidden from him. The boat chugged on a little further before Baz grasped the meaning of his own thoughts. The filthy water... water that was no longer clear...

He swung the boat round and retraced his course, keeping the engine speed low as he studied the surrounding waves. They had become blue-green again. Somewhere around this area the murk had given way to clearer water – although it was difficult to pinpoint where exactly. In fact the change was more noticeable when viewed from a distance. Baz found that if he focused his gaze to about a hundred meters away, he could see a vague line – a difference in both the color and the surface of the sea. Choppier that side, where the water was grey and muddy. Smoother here, where it was clear. As though two currents were meeting, fighting against one another.

It was the same line of change that had been seen from the island.

So... if he were to follow it, guide his boat along that path, would he be led to the island? Or somewhere near it?

Baz looked from left to right, thankful to have found a starting point, but daunted by the fact that he now had to choose which way to turn. He decided that he would continue to follow the direction the mackerel had taken: to the right. They would be his guiding stars, his good-luck charms. Baz hauled the tiller across and increased the engine speed.

The visibility got worse if anything, the circle of mist drawing inwards, but Baz could still see the vague line that divided the fresh water from the foul, and he pressed on. He had no sense of time, no idea of how long he’d been out here, and for all he knew he was sailing in the wrong direction completely. Night could be about to fall, and he could be fifty miles from any land.

It was a terrifying thought, and so the sight of the hammer-head crane looming through the mist came like a vision from heaven. Baz could have wept.

Instead, he found himself whispering, “Thank you! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” He wasn’t sure whether he was thanking God, or the mackerel, or the sturdy little Seagull engine beside him, but he was truly grateful.

The crane was far over to his right, which meant that the line of clear water must have moved yet further across. Baz altered direction and approached the precarious archway of stone and twisted metal. There was plenty of room between the crane and the church tower for the dinghy to pass through, and Baz wasn’t concentrating particularly hard. As he stared into the lapping waters, he saw that there was something down there, a shimmering silvery oval, monstrous yet familiar. He sat back in shock. It was the church clock, dancing beneath the waves, as massive and as pale as a harvest moon.

The boat slewed round alarmingly and Baz had to act quickly in order to avoid colliding with the crane. A few weeks ago that clock would never have been visible...

When he got to the jetty, Baz was amazed to see that the waves that slapped against the stone and concrete were tipped with white foam. The filthy soup that he’d been used to had all moved away. It had happened then. The waters around the island had cleared. It looked as though Preacher John’s prayers had finally been answered. Too late for him, though.

It wasn’t until he had tied up the boat and clambered to the top of the jetty that Baz gave any thought to what he was actually going to do next. All his concentration had been on his own desperate fight for survival, from the moment that he’d left X-Isle to the moment of his return. And by a miracle he had survived.

But what now?

CHAPTER
 
TWENTY-EIGHT

Baz stood uncertainly beside the altar and gazed towards the high windows of the school building. Would somebody be on the lookout? Should he be trying to make his presence known, or should he be keeping his head down? There was no way of telling. He began to walk cautiously along the jetty.

The glass doors of the main entrance were open. Baz paused just inside the building, listening. All was silent. But then, as he approached the sort room, he heard Steiner’s voice.

“Right, then. All chuffin’ day we’ve been running around, turning this place upside down, and now that’s it. We’re not gonna waste any more time. Last chance. Where are those girls?”

It sounded as though Steiner had recovered from his punch in the head.

One of the fire doors was wedged open with a piece of wood. Baz inched a little closer. He could see some of the boys now, standing with their backs to him, just beyond a couple of half-stacked pallets. And in between the gaps Baz caught a glimpse of Steiner... Hutchinson... somebody else...

“Arghhh! Arghhh...” A cry of pain. Baz flinched at the sound. What was going on in there? He put a hand against the door frame and stood on tiptoe, craning his neck for a better view.

Jubo. He could see Jubo’s face screwed up in agony, the top half of his body rocking from side to side. Steiner and Hutchinson were standing close to Jubo... doing something to him...

“Arghhhh.” Another yell...

They had his hand in the bench vice! A couple of the boys shifted position and Baz’s view became clearer. Jubo’s face was battered – a big red graze across one of his cheekbones. He looked as though he’d already taken a hammering, but now he was being tortured, his right hand trapped in the heavy vice. Hutchinson was brandishing a length of wood – a pickaxe handle by the look of it – keeping the boys at bay.

“Get back!” Steiner roared. “Or I’ll break his bloody fingers! Back!” The group of boys had instinctively lurched forward, but at Steiner’s threat they hesitated. Hutchinson moved belligerently towards the boys, the pickaxe handle raised to shoulder height like a baseball bat, and the boys retreated. It was clear that any rescue attempt would only make things worse for Jubo.

“Let him go! You friggin’...” Amit was hissing with fury.

“Yeah? You think this is bad? You think I’m just playing around here? Watch!” Steiner continued to face the angry boys, his front teeth biting down on his lower lip, shoulders jerking to one side as he tightened the vice.

“Gaaaaaahhhh! Aaaahhh!” Jubo was screaming now, a terrible sound.

And then the back doors of the sort room gave a rattle, and Ray appeared. He stood against the light, his hands raised, waving...

“OK! OK! I know where they are! Stop! Stop!” He looked as though he were trying to flag down a train. “I can find them! I know where they are! Stop!”

“Aha! 
Now
 they start showing themselves. 
Now
 we’re getting somewhere!” Steiner turned towards the back door. He must have loosened the vice a little, because Jubo stopped screaming. His head fell forward, then rocked back again, eyes closed, mouth still open. Sweat and tears poured down his face, and his dark hair was drenched.

“Yeah, now we’re getting somewhere,” said Steiner. “Should have done this in the first place, shouldn’t we? ’Stead of sodding around all day! Right, you little tart – go and get those girls back here.”

Ray didn’t go out the way he’d come in. Instead he made his way across the room towards the fire doors, weaving quickly through the clutter of crates and boxes. All eyes followed him – and then widened in disbelief. Baz had decided that there was no longer any point in attempting to hide. He stood just inside the doorway now, and stared back at the shocked faces of his friends.

“Baz? Oh my God... you’re back...” Ray took another couple of steps forward, looking as though he might collapse. “What... what...?”

And then all the other boys were murmuring his name in wonder. 
It’s Baz... Baz... he’s back! God, he made it...

Steiner’s loud voice rose over the boys’ heads. “Oi! What’s going on down there? Who’s that? Is the boat back? Right. You better get going then, Cornflake. “Cos if those girls aren’t here in two minutes—”

“The boat isn’t back,” said Baz. He was looking directly at Steiner, but his words were for his companions. “And it isn’t coming back, either. Preacher John’s dead. Yeah. Along with all the rest of them.”

“What?” Steiner’s mottled jaw was hanging open, in an expression of total incomprehension. But Baz didn’t say anymore for the moment. He looked at Ray, then the others. Saw their eyes as they took in the meaning of his words – disbelief at first, then hope, then the realization that he was telling the truth.

“What d’you mean, 
dead?
 How?” Steiner couldn’t get it at all.

Baz let his eyes travel around the group, returning every stunned gaze with a slight nod of his head. 
Yeah, it’s true. Amit... Dyson. Gene, Robbie. It’s true. It’s true, Ray. We did it
.

He looked across the room at Jubo. The poor guy was obviously still in pain, and still held captive, but his eyes too were filled with amazement.

“It’s true, Jubes,” Baz called out. “We’ve done it.”

Steiner and Hutchinson exchanged a quick glance, their manner uncertain.