X-Isle Read online

  X-Isle

  CHAPTER ONE

  The steady chug of the diesel engine drew closer, and eventually the salvage boat emerged from the mist, a blank grey shape steering a middle course between the ghostly lines of chimney stacks that rose from the water. It turned right and came sailing up John William Street.

  There was a general scuffle of movement as the crowd edged a little further down the muddy bank. From where they stood, the two parallel rows of houses that had once been John William Street descended into the oily waters, so that the rooftops became a guiding channel for the approaching vessel, the steep pathway up to the bowling green acting as a kind of jetty.

  Tense and expectant, the boys sat like jockeys astride the shoulders of the men – fathers, uncles, elder brothers – as though they were waiting for the start of a race. Many of the boys carried backpacks with extra clothes and belongings, in case they should be chosen. And on their foreheads, in paint or felt-tipped pen, many had scrawled the letter X, the symbol of their hoped-for destination.

  “Get closer to the front, Dad – see if you can get to the front.” Baz put his hands on his father’s damp mop of hair and tried to urge him forward.

  “Doesn’t matter where you stand, son.” The muffled voice was calm. “It’s what you’ve got that counts. It’s all down to whether you’ve got something they want.”

  And that was true. Already some of the boys were holding their offerings aloft – bags of sugar, bunches of runner beans, packs of cigarettes, whatever pitiful resources they had been able to muster in the hopes of buying their passage on the boat.

  Idiots. It was stupid to show what you had. The gangs of thieves – Teefers – who circled the edge of the crowd would be taking note, getting ready to pounce once the trading was over. The Teefers would get much of it in the end, but there was no point in serving it up to them on a plate. Safer to keep your hands in your pockets until the last minute. Baz didn’t even know what his father was carrying. Now some skinny boy over to the right had just lost his goods, judging by the brief scuffle that had broken out.

  Skinny boys. Always skinny and always boys, for that’s all that Isaac would take. No girls. They had to be boys, and they had to be small for their age. They were hoisted upon the shoulders of the men so that they could be seen for what they were – small and light. Some of them had taken off their shirts, lest there be any doubt, and their thin torsos glistened in the sticky heat.

  The boat was drawing up to the tarmac pathway now, and its crew could clearly be seen: three burly men standing on the foredeck with machine guns slung over their shoulders. The Eck brothers. Isaac, Luke and Amos. Between them they controlled the coastline, the salvage trading, and the lives of all who stood before them. But it was Isaac, the eldest, who skippered the boat, and it was Isaac who would make the decisions. He was the one to watch. And with his long dark hair and beard you could pick him out easily enough. The younger brothers were both shaven-headed.

  “Keep back!” Isaac’s voice rang loud through the still air. “Oi, you – get off the slipway!”

  A boy had broken away from the crowd and taken a few steps down the strip of tarmac. He was waving what looked like a pack of cards.

  “Get back, I said!” Isaac raised the automatic and fired off a short burst – duh-duh-duh-duh – a crashing echo that bounced around the half-submerged rooftops. The boy scuttled backwards into the crowd. The salvage boat rocked closer to the makeshift slipway, its sign clearly visible now, painted in blue lettering on the bow: Cormorant. One of the brothers threw a loop of rope over the buckled gatepost that had once marked the entrance to the bowling green. He hauled on the rope and the boat swung diagonally towards the shore, until its nose bumped gently against the tarmac. The man held it there, kept it steady and then secured the rope to a cleat, repositioning his shotgun with his free hand so that it swept upwards towards the crowd. The diesel motor was kept running on fast tickover, in case of trouble.

  “Recruiting today!” Isaac’s voice rose above the noise of the diesel. “We’re looking for two new lads this trip. Orders from Preacher John.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Two recruits! There was never usually more than one place on the boat, and often none at all.

  Baz took a closer look at those around him, trying to judge the competition. Many of the boys looked quite a lot bigger than him. They’d have to have brought something pretty special to be in with a chance. A few were obviously too young to be of much use. There were maybe a dozen who seemed about right.

  He noticed a lad with black hair away to his left, sitting upon the shoulders of a woman. Both were wearing the same yellow-colored T-shirts. The woman looked oriental – Malaysian perhaps – the boy less so. It was unusual to see women here. Things could get rough, and a woman alone was easy prey for the Teefers. Whatever she had brought in that carrier bag was unlikely to leave with her.

  The dark-haired boy was also scanning the crowd, weighing up his chances. He looked across at Baz, realized that he was being watched and turned away. Neither of them smiled. No sense in getting friendly with the competition.

  “Right then!” The skipper jabbed a burly fist into the air, two thick fingers extended. “We’ve just dropped a couple o’ lads off a little way up the coast. They got too fat and lazy, as usual, and so it was back home to Mother for them. We molly coddle ’em, that’s our trouble. So now Preacher John wants me to pick two new ones. You know the rules by now. Free board and lodging for all boys we take, and you can trust us to look after ’em. We feed ’em well, and they’re a dam’ sight safer over there than they are here. Had no complaints so far. But they have to work, and those that aren’t up to scratch’ll soon find themselves sent back. So don’t waste our time on buying a passage for useless layabouts. Let’s see what you’ve got for me, then.”

  This was the signal for the bidding to begin. All hands were raised aloft, and each was waving some hopeful offer – a packet of lentils, a bar of soap – a ticket out of here for those who were lucky on the day.

  “Dad?” Baz was getting worried. His father had made no move as yet, but kept his hands jammed firmly in the pockets of his battered raincoat. Playing it close, as always.

  “Let’s just hold on a minute, son. No point in showing what you’ve got if you know you can’t win. What do you see? Anything good?”

  Baz looked around, ignoring the usual rubbish and trying to pick out the treasures. “Um... packet of rice. A rabbit – no, two rabbits... cigarettes... soap powder... couple of big candles... more cigarettes... Blimey. Look at that. A box of cornflakes.”

  Cornflakes! Now there was something you didn’t see every day. It was the kid with the black hair, the one sitting on the shoulders of the woman. Where on earth had they managed to get cornflakes from?

  “Cornflakes?”

  “Yeah – just over there. See ’em?”

  “Hm. Good shout. Could be an empty box of course.”

  Isaac and his brothers were considering the goods on offer. The three of them stood close together on the foredeck of the boat, craning their necks as they studied the crowd, occasionally drawing each other’s attention to this object or that.

  “You, there. Yeah, you – cornflakes. Full box?” Isaac had quickly picked out the dark-haired boy.

  “Yes. New packet.”

  “Come on down then, lad – let’s have a look at you.”

  The boy slid from his mother’s shoulders, took a carrier bag from her and began to weave his way through the crush of people. He and his packet of cornflakes wouldn’t have got two yards if it hadn’t been for the protection of the Eck brothers.

  Baz was beginning to lose heart. The cornflake kid was certain of a place on the boat, provided the box really was a full one, and the next likeli
est candidate would be the owner of the white rabbits. But then his dad said, “Anything better than the rabbits?”

  “Don’t think so...” Baz turned round and looked behind him, making sure.

  “Try this then.” His dad took his left hand out of his pocket and passed a small square cardboard box up towards him. Baz reached down and nearly dropped the box, it was so heavy. ELEY it said on the side – red, white and blue lettering against a black background. There was a picture of some birds and another word, IMPERIAL.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Shotgun cartridges. Twelve-gauge.”

  “Wow. Where did you get them?” Baz felt the shrug of his father’s shoulders beneath him.

  “Poker game.”

  Of course. Silly question really.

  Baz lifted the carton into the air and waved it from side to side. He tried to catch Isaac’s eye, but the skipper of the boat was reaching over the side for the cornflakes. Isaac shook the packet and then nodded at the black-haired lad. “OK. Stay there.”

  One of the younger brothers had noticed Baz. He muttered something to Isaac, and pointed. Isaac looked across, his dark-bearded mouth chewing casually.

  “What’ve you got there, boy?”

  “Shotgun cartridges!” Baz shouted back. He could feel his heart thumping. “Twelve-gauge.”

  “Full box? Twenty-five?”

  “Yes.”

  Baz was aware of the altering mood around him, the frustrated groans of those who now realized that they were out of the running. It was between the rabbits and the cartridges, and everybody knew it. A few people were already hiding their goods away, hoping to escape the notice of the Teefers.

  Isaac was still considering. He nodded at the lad who was holding the rabbits – dangling them by their hind legs, one in each hand. Scrawny-looking things, they were, and not much on them, but meat was meat...

  “Fresh?” Isaac asked the deciding question.

  “Aye, killed this morning. You can check ’em.”

  That would probably swing it then, thought Baz. He wiped his forearm across his brow and tried to fight back his disappointment. The game was as good as over.

  But then his father’s shoulders tilted slightly as he removed his other hand from his pocket. He was holding up a second box of cartridges. “Better go for the full house, then, son.”

  Baz snatched at the box and waved it high. “Two boxes!” he shouted. “Two!”

  Isaac looked over at him; stopped chewing for a moment as he weighed up this new development. Then he said, “OK.” He spat his piece of gum over the side of the boat. “Boy with the cartridges, bring ’em down. Let’s take a look.”

  Baz slithered from his father’s shoulders. “Thanks, Dad.” He didn’t know what else to say – or how he would say goodbye, if that was what it had now come to. “I’ll be... I mean... it’ll be all right, won’t it? And you’ll be OK?”

  “I’ll be fine. You just worry about yourself, son, that’s all. Look out for number one. That way you’ll still be around when things get better. Take a tip from the old man, eh?”

  “OK, Dad. I’ll... well, I’ll see you then.”

  “You will, lad. Got all your gear? Good luck, then. Off you go.”

  Baz began to shoulder his way past the people in front of him, clutching the heavy cartridge boxes to his chest, his small nylon backpack slung over one arm.

  “Hey!”

  Baz turned round to see what his dad wanted.

  “Remember what I told you. You know you can always come back – any time you like. But try and hang on in there for a while at least. Just until things get better, son.”

  “OK, Dad.”

  Until things get better. When would that ever be?

  Baz reached the front of the crowd with his boxes still intact, and hurried down the slipway towards the Cormorant. He had to wade out into the rubbish-strewn water before he could offer his cargo up to Isaac. The skipper reached over the side and took the boxes from him, tested the weight of them in his beefy red hands, and then placed them down beside him somewhere. He didn’t bother to open the cartons.

  “OK, they’ll do. Give these kids a pull-up, Luke, and stick ’em in the wheelhouse,” he said.

  One of the men then leaned over the gunwale. “Come on, Cornflakes, don’t hang about.” He grasped the dark-haired boy’s wrist and swung him up into the boat as though he were no heavier than a kitten.

  “Now you.”

  Baz reached up and was also hoisted aboard, the huge fingers that closed around his upper arm feeling as powerful as a mechanical grab. He tumbled over the gunwale, found his feet, and was then hustled across the slippery deck and into the wheelhouse, along with the other boy. They had to duck beneath the makeshift winch that was used for loading and unloading.

  “Shut the lid of that locker-box and sit there till we need to load it,” said the big shaven-headed man, Luke. “Keep an eye on ’em, Moko. Not that they’ll give you any trouble.” A sweaty Japanese man in a grubby white vest stood at the wheel of the boat. He looked briefly at the two boys but said nothing.

  Baz did as he was told, reaching forward to lower the lid of a big wooden locker-box that was built into the port side of the wheelhouse. He perched on the edge of the locker, next to the other boy, and tried to keep his breathing steady.

  It had all happened so quickly that he still couldn’t quite believe his luck. He was on the boat, actually on the boat, and getting out of here at last. For a while, anyway. He felt a burst of gratitude towards his dad, and he peeped round the wheelhouse doorway, searching the section of the crowd that was visible from where he was sitting. Yes, Dad was still there, standing on the banks of the bowling green, his thin raincoat folded over his arm now. He looked gaunt and scruffy, his face unshaven, his hair damp and straggly from the humidity. Not beaten, though. He didn’t look beaten, like some men did. Dad was a survivor. As long as there was a pack of cards available, and men to play with, he’d survive. Best poker player around.

  “What’s the first rule of gambling, son?” his dad had once said.

  “Er... dunno. Don’t bet more than you can afford to lose?”

  “No. Don’t make the other guy bet more than he can afford to lose. That way he’ll be round to try again. See, I make sure never to win too much, or too often. Maybe three games out of five, four out of seven. Just enough to get by – and that way we keep getting by.”

  For nearly two years now, they’d been getting by. Ever since the floods came and washed the world away...

  “Wheel ’em down, then!” Isaac was out on deck, organizing the Trolleymen. “Let’s get started.”

  Baz could see the four laden supermarket trolleys being brought down the slipway, awkward things that needed the guidance and restraining hands of the dozen or so tough-looking men who accompanied them. Here was the scavenged wealth of the mainlanders, the pitiful odds and ends that had been raked from the ruins of the city, to be traded against the salvage goods that the Eck brothers had brought over from the island.

  The Trolleymen began to unload their wares, spreading the separate lots about the tarmac slipway and along the muddy banks to either side.

  “Six jerry cans o’ diesel. Three hundred litres.”

  Fuel was always the first commodity to be listed for trading. After that came the things that had been brought along for private sale – various small lots and possessions packed into carrier bags. All such goods had to be handed over to the Trolleymen, who would barter a price on the owner’s behalf in return for a cut of the proceeds.

  The men glanced into each bag, shouting out the contents as they went so that Isaac could chalk everything up, and begin figuring out how many tins of food or bottles of drink he would give for each lot.

  “Small box of tea bags, four rolls kitchen towels.”

  “Box o’ firelighters. Bag o’ flour, plain.”

  “Stack of magazines – er, top shelf. Packet of barley, unopened. Box of household m
atches.”

  “Er... cooking apples. Seven.”

  Baz noticed the hesitation and surprise in the last caller’s voice, and remembered that his dad had said something about managing to get hold of a bit of fruit. Seven cooking apples, though! Who else but Dad could have found such things? He ought to get quite a few tins for them, although the Trolleymen would take their usual heavy percentage of course. Being a Trolleyman was a dangerous occupation. They had to fight off the Teefers – most of whom had ambitions to become Trolleymen themselves – so it was only the toughest and most violent who held onto the job. You wouldn’t argue with them.

  “Bag o’ dog biscuits.”

  “Single duvet – still in its wrapper...”

  On it went, and on it would go for the next quarter of an hour or more.

  The Japanese man pushed himself away from the helm with a grunt, and stepped into the doorway of the wheelhouse. He leaned against the doorpost in order to watch the trading. Baz couldn’t see what was going on anymore. He sat on his hands and looked at the kid sitting next to him.

  “What’s your name?” he whispered.

  The boy kept his head down, eyes fixed upon his feet as they swung to and fro, his muddy trainers kicking against a coil of rope that lay on the floor. He didn’t seem particularly grateful to be here.

  “Ray.” His voice had a husky note to it, as though it was about to break perhaps. Better for him if it didn’t just yet.

  “Mine’s Baz,” said Baz, though the boy hadn’t asked. “Was that your mum who brought you down here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Baz guessed that there had been no man available. “Lost your dad, then? I lost my mum. And my sister. They were away down south when it happened.” It was always good to try and talk about it, so his dad said. Better that way.

  “Never had a dad,” said the boy, “so it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Baz felt uncomfortable. “Brilliant, though, with the cornflakes. How did your mum get hold of them?”

  “How do you think?” Ray looked at him for the first time. His hair was cut very short at the back and sides, but long in the front, and his dark eyes were steady and defiant beneath the blue-black fringe.