X-Isle (47 page)

Baz walked along the jetty, kicking up the stones and chippings that he himself had helped to lay. His palms still tingled at the memory, the agony of pushing those barrows up and down. No more. He could let go now. And the altar, when he came to it, was also something he could let go of. It seemed like a relic, a monument from another age, the blackened cross erected by some ancient tribe who were long gone. History.

At the end of the jetty Baz stood and gazed out across the sunlit water. Only yesterday that same water had threatened to swallow him up, to drag him into everlasting darkness, and yet today he felt that he could dive into its dazzling light and swim right to the horizon and back. Or he could simply wade out amongst the waves and bathe himself clean.

Clean on the outside, at least...

Through the brightness of the day came this darker thought, rolling in like a thundercloud. They were murderers. Every last one of them. Amit, Dyson, Jubo, Robbie, Gene and himself – all were guilty of the worst of crimes. Even Nadine and Steffie had played their part. And Rae of course. Rae had played perhaps the deadliest part of all, arming the bomb that had killed Preacher John.

X-Isle was an island of convicts. Not a holiday camp but an open prison. And here the prisoners would serve out their sentence, perhaps forever more.

What else could they have done, though? What 
should
 they have done? Killers or freedom fighters... which were they? Baz knew that he would return to the question again and again, working through the threads of all that had happened in search of an answer. But right now it was beyond him.

He knelt down and began to sort out the fishing spool, unwinding the line, disentangling the knots. The scrap of old bait was still attached to one of the hooks, and Baz picked at it until it was gone. He laid the trailing line of hooks out straight, four of them in a row. Now he was ready to begin.

This was going to be his job, he’d decided. Gene could build his rafts, and Dyson could catch his rabbits, and Robbie could plant his vegetables. But he was going to learn to fish. He would be Baz the fisherman. Later he’d have to go to the library and find out about it properly, but today he’d just have a go and see what happened.

Baz lifted the ring-pull on the tin of sweet corn and peeled back the lid. Sweet corn was good, his dad had once told him. Good for bait. Dad said he’d always used sweet corn when he was a boy. Dad...

Dad...

Oh, I miss you, Dad. I miss you so much. Where are you? Why aren’t you here to help me? A
 great wave of emotion came rolling in from nowhere, slamming against him, choking him, flooding his throat and nose and eyes...
Oh God... Oh God...

The tears rolled down his cheeks, his shoulders shook. He just couldn’t stop crying. For ages he knelt there. Waited and waited until at last his sobs began to die down. Finally he sat back on his heels and wiped his arm across his eyes. Oh God... Christ... where had all this come from? Jesus...

The shape of the cross fell across his blurry vision, and it occurred to Baz that maybe he should stop cursing God so much. Stop cursing and learn to start praying maybe. He sniffed and thought about that for a moment. No, that was Preacher John’s altar, not his. He might learn to pray, but he would never pray to that. And he was OK – as OK as he could be. Safe for the moment, and amongst friends. And his dad would be OK too. They’d see each other again. X-Isle might not be forever after all. People on the mainland would find out what had happened here. They were bound to in the end. Someday they would come, and his dad would be there among them, on the boat, on the raft, on the plane. Walking up the jetty, his old raincoat folded over his arm, ready to protect him... to look after him...

And besides, Baz reasoned, he hadn’t come here to pray. Or to curse, or cry, or decide right from wrong. He was here to fish.

Do it, then. Baz took a handful of the sweet corn and popped it in his mouth. His breathing hadn’t completely steadied yet, and it wasn’t easy to swallow, but the corn tasted good. Still chewing, he picked out a single golden piece from the tin, studied it for a moment and pressed it down onto one of the hooks. Then did the same with the other three.

He stood up and swung the lead weight around a few times experimentally. It felt solid and heavy, and Baz was hopeful that it would travel some distance. But how far? As a second thought he unwound a lot more line from the spool, coiling it loosely at his feet, making sure that it wouldn’t snag.

OK, give it a go. Baz positioned himself right at the edge of the jetty, adjusted his stance and began to swing the weight. As it picked up speed, he let out a little more line... round and round... a little more... faster and faster...
now...

Baz let go of the line and watched the weight go hurtling away from him. Up it went, soaring in a high arc against the sun, the baited hooks trailing behind it... on and on... and then down into the sea, disappearing with a gloop. An amazing distance, much further than he could have hoped for. The most perfect throw.

Wow. Baz kept his eye on the spot where the weight had splashed into the water. That was great.

But what did he do now? How would he know whether he’d caught something or not? He supposed he’d just have to haul the line in every so often and have a look. Whenever he got bored, or whenever he just fancied having another throw. It also occurred to him that there were some things that he would definitely not want to find on the end of that line. A conger eel, for instance. Or a diving mask...

Or a mackerel. Baz decided that if he ever caught a mackerel he would throw it back. He would keep a flounder or a herring, or just about anything else he could get, but he would never harm a mackerel. Mackerel were his saviours and his friends.

His lucky fish.