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  “What?”

  “I said, how do you think? Try using your loaf instead of asking dumb questions. How did your dad manage to get hold of the cartridges?”

  “Um... gambling. Playing poker.”

  “Yeah, well, lucky for him, then, if that’s all he had to do.” Ray looked down at his feet once more, and kicked harder at the coil of rope.

  Baz might have said more, but then the Japanese man, Moko, turned and scowled at them. It was a look of warning, and with it the man disappeared, apparently wanted out on deck to help with the unloading.

  Isaac could be heard shouting out the rates he was prepared to offer for the goods that littered the slipway.

  “Three hundred litres o’ diesel – I’ll give you five hundred tins. What? Don’t come it with me, Goffer. We’re trying to do an honest job here, and all you do is give us grief. OK, six hundred. But you’d better start cutting me a better deal on fuel, ’cos if we don’t turn up here, you starve. Moko – load six hundred in the net! Tea bags and kitchen towels – I’ll give you ten tins, mixed. Box o’ firelighters, bag of flour – twelve tins, mixed. Bag of apples – forty tins, two packs of beer. What’s next? Magazines...”

  Baz did a calculation in his head over the apples. So if the Trolleymen had got forty tins for them, his dad might end up with twenty-five. Perhaps one of the packs of beer, if he was lucky. Twenty-five tins... maybe five of those would be stew or curry... two or three of fruit... the rest soup or beans. Dad could get by for over a week on that, and still have a little capital for poker stakes. Yeah, that wasn’t bad for a few cooking apples.

  “Listen up.” Isaac was bringing the trade to a close. “We’re doing an extra run next week – a Special. We got baby food – jars and tins – and we got wine. We need clean clothing, men’s extra-large. Boots, jackets, jumpers, shirts, trousers – whatever you’ve got. Boys’ stuff we’ll take, but you’ll get nothing for it. If you’ve got a lad on the island with us and you want to send a parcel, then it’s up to you. But we don’t pay for it. OK, we’re ready to offload – and let’s have no funny business this time. Keep it civilized and there’ll be no trouble.”

  Moko yanked the winch motor into life, a cloud of blue smoke rising from its exhaust. The boat creaked and tilted as the heavy net with its cargo of bottles and food tins was swung out over the side of the boat and lowered onto the slipway.

  “Keep back!” Isaac’s voice yelled out, and Baz lurched sideways in fright at the sudden crash of the automatic – duh-duh-duh-duh-duh!

  Maybe a few of the Teefers had edged too close, or maybe Isaac was simply taking no chances. With the boat halfway between unloading and loading, and nobody at the helm, this was always the moment when things could get dangerous.

  “Sorry.” Baz had bumped against Ray when the gun went off. He sat up straight again.

  “Jumpy, aren’t you?” Ray said.

  “Hey – they shoot people.”

  “Good job. Some of them need shooting.”

  Well, you’re a tough guy, thought Baz, for such a little squirt.

  Ray leaned forward and touched the helm, pressing his fingertips against the wheel until it moved slightly. He turned to look at Baz and said, “Know anyone who’s been there? To the island?”

  “No.” Baz was feeling irritated. Or maybe he was just jumpy. “Not really. A girl I know had a cousin who was there for a few months. I never met him, though.”

  “What happened?”

  “Same as always, I s’pose. He got too big. Got too expensive to feed and so they sent him back. Probably a Teefer now.”

  “No, I mean what happened to him over there? What do they make you do?”

  “Dunno. Work on the salvage, clean it up or whatever. It’s gotta be better than here, oreverybody wouldn’t be trying to get on the boat.”

  “Yeah. Wish I knew someone who’d been, though.”

  Baz shrugged. Maybe this kid should have given his cornflakes to someone else if he was having second thoughts. He turned to gaze out of the porthole behind him, rubbing his bare elbow against the glass and staring into the blanket of steamy mist that hung upon the shoreline. On a clear day you could sometimes get a glimpse of the true horizon, miles and miles away, but clear days were few and far between now. Baz wiped the glass again, and peered closer. What was that? He thought he had seen something. Yes, a face – and there was another – pale faces coming through the gloom. Oil drums... a raft. A group of men crouching on a home-made raft...

  What were they doing?

  It was another long moment before Baz caught on. Oh my God...

  “Down!” He grabbed at Ray’s elbow as he threw himself to the floor. “Get down!”

  “What? Hey—!”

  Ba-doom! The deep thud of a shotgun. Shouts. And then the answering fire of the automatics – duh-duh-duh-duh-duh...

  More yelling and firing, the piercing clang of bullets against metal, and Moko came stumbling in through the doorway. Baz felt the heavy kick of a boot in his ribs as he tried to scrabble out of the way, heard the frantic rev of the diesel, then tumbled over onto his back. He squinted upwards, choking for breath, and was immediately blinded – ugh – something in his eye. All he could see was red. He squirmed into a corner beneath the bulkhead and desperately rubbed at his eyes. Blood – a long wet smear of it across the back of his wrist. It was the Japanese man, Moko, bleeding all over the place as he spun the wheel, heavy drips of bright red spattering the greasy floor of the cabin.

  Ba-duh-duh-duh-duh... more shots and curses... the boat rocked wildly, engine going full throttle. Baz tried to sit up, but was knocked back down again as the vessel struck against something solid – a horrible grinding shudder.

  “What’re you playing at, Moko! Try going around the ruddy rooftops...” Isaac, yelling through the doorway.

  Another few vicious bursts of gunfire, and then the motion of the boat gradually evened out. The shouting ceased, and the steady drub of the diesel was all that could be heard. Baz cautiously raised himself up, and saw that Ray was on the opposite side of the cabin, huddled beneath a bench seat. Had he been hit?

  Isaac ducked into the wheelhouse, his broad bulk darkening the tiny space. He wrenched at the strap of his gun, pulling it furiously over his head. “Right, that’s it. I’m done with that lot. They can dam’ well starve for all I—What the hell...? Look at all this! Moko? What’s happened?”

  “Nugh.” The big Japanese man grunted as he held up his dripping forearm, but kept his eyes on the window in front of him.

  “Amos! In here, quick.” Isaac was already shouting to one of the men outside. “Moko’s been hit in the arm. Get him bandaged up. Oi, Luke, come and take the helm while I sort these kids out.”

  Isaac bent down and yanked at one of Ray’s ankles. “Right, you little snot-nose – outside. Now! Yeah, you too – get up, and get out there on deck.”

  As Baz staggered to his feet, Isaac gave him a shove, and he lurched into Ray. The two boys were catapulted through the doorway. Isaac followed and gave them both another push. “Get down to the stern and out of the way. Amos, see what you can do to fix up Moko. Give him some brandy or something. Luke, we might as well head straight for home. No point in doing the rounds, now that we’ve got no flaming diesel.”

  “OK, but the old man’s gonna have a fit when he hears about this. What d’you wanna do with those kids?”

  “What do I want to do?” Isaac’s voice roared above the clatter of the engine. “Feed them to the ruddy mermaids is what I want to do! But I’ll find out what they know first. As for the old man – you leave him to me. He should try this caper some time.”

  Baz and Ray stumbled through the maze of crates and boxes that littered the deck. The yawing movement of the boat kept them continually off balance, so that their progress was awkward and slow. When they reached the stern, they turned to find Isaac already bearing down on them, his bearded face set in an angry scowl. Fear instinctively drew the two boys closer together �
�� but this simply made it easier for Isaac to collar them both at the same time. His huge hands shot out and grabbed at their throats, and Baz found himself standing on tiptoe, with Isaac’s face thrust so close to his that he could smell his horrible black beard.

  “Now then. Let’s have some ruddy answers. How long had that little scheme been planned?” Isaac’s breath stank of pickles and tinned fish.

  “Don’t know.” Baz could hardly get his voice to work. “I don’t know anything about it. Honest.”

  Immediately he felt himself being shaken so violently that he thought his neck would break.

  “Listen, you little toe-rag! That raft wasn’t built without other people knowing about it. So who organized it – the Trolleymen? Who else was in on it? You?”

  “No! I don’t know anything. I just looked... looked through the window and there they were.”

  “OK, then – what about you, Cornflakes? Come on! You’re going overboard in any case, so start talking.”

  But Ray seemed totally unable to speak. His mouth simply hung open.

  Isaac looked from one to the other, as if making up his mind what to do with them.

  “Gah!” He finally hurled the boys away from him, so that they both staggered against the bench plank at the stern of the boat. “Over a thousand ruddy cans I’ve lost today! A thousand cans! And only you little snits to show for it. That’s a hell of a lot of diving, a thousand cans. And I’ve got a man wounded, dammit!” Isaac snatched at the nearest thing to hand – an empty wine bottle – and flung it at them. The boys both ducked as the bottle whizzed over their heads and disappeared soundlessly in the wake of the boat. Isaac turned to go. “I’ll tell you one thing, though – we’ll get our money’s worth out of you two. You’re going to find out what hard work is, boyos. And then I’ll sling you to the mermaids personally. Dead or alive. Stay back there, and don’t move till I come and get you.”

  Isaac shambled off amongst the scattered cargo, his massive shoulders rolling from side to side as he walked, his hands dangling from his sides like the paws of a grizzly.

  Baz let out a long, long breath as Isaac disappeared into the wheelhouse. He looked at Ray. “You OK?”

  Ray said, “Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?” But then he knelt upon the bench seat, leaned over the stern of the boat and threw up, all in one movement. It was very neat, almost graceful, the way he did it. Baz felt his own stomach tighten as he watched, and thought for a moment that he was going to come out in sympathy. But no, it wasn’t going to happen. He reached across and put a hand on Ray’s shoulder, feeling the sharp definition of the bones shivering through the baggy yellow T-shirt. God. He was skinny, this one.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m scared too. You’ll be all right.”

  “I am all right.” Ray pulled himself back into the boat and wiped his mouth. His face was very white, and his eyes looked teary. “I just get a bit seasick, that’s all. Happens every’ – he took a deep juddering breath – ‘every time. I’m fine now. I’m fine.”

  Why did he have to keep pretending he was such a hard nut? The last ten minutes had been terrifying enough to make anyone puke.

  “Christ, I really thought he was going to sling us over, though,” said Baz. “You wouldn’t even know which way to try and swim. Can’t see a thing.”

  “Yeah, well. You can’t blame him for being mad. He’s just lost about a ton of gear.”

  Baz rested his chin on his forearms and looked over the stern of the boat, staring down into the hypnotic swirl of the wake. After a while it seemed as though it was the boat that was standing still and the water that was moving, passing beneath them, foaming and snaking away into the surrounding smog. Awful to think that there was a whole city down there. Most of a city. Office blocks, supermarkets, shopping malls, streets and flyovers. And people. Thousands and thousands of people, all drowned. Baz thought of his mum then, and Lol, his sister – saw them leaving, smiling and waving from the car. Off to go and stay with Auntie Carol for a few days. A holiday. A little break. Back on Sunday. Be good!

  But the car didn’t come back on Sunday. It drove off down Maple Close, and by Sunday there was no Maple Close for it to ever drive back up again.

  A terrible thought exploded inside Baz: maybe his dad had been caught up in the shooting. Accidentally. No – that couldn’t happen. No... no... no. He wouldn’t think that. Not his dad too. He wouldn’t think it... wouldn’t think it—

  “Want some chocolate?”

  Ray’s pale hand was extended towards him, shaking. He was holding out a piece of chocolate. Three chunks.

  “Wow. Where did you—?” Baz decided not to finish the question. He reached out for the chocolate, and saw that his own hands were shaking as badly as Ray’s. “Thanks.”

  The chocolate was half melted and very old, but Baz couldn’t remember when anything had tasted as good. He chewed the first piece quickly – a huge burst of joy that filled his entire being – but then let the second piece melt slowly in his mouth, trying to make it last as long as he could.

  “Mum gave it me,” said Ray, munching on his own piece. “In case the cornflakes weren’t enough.”

  It was miracle stuff, and it cheered them up.

  “They must’ve been nuts, those guys on the raft.” Ray’s eyes widened at the memory of it. “What did they think they were gonna do? Pole-vault aboard?”

  Baz laughed. “Yeah. Pole-vaulting pirates.”

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you? About me... you know... being sick?”

  “No. Course not.” Why would it matter? Ray was a funny kid. “Tell you what, though, I reckon this smog’s clearing a bit. Look.”

  They could see wispy patches of blue above them, just here and there, and the circle of mist had widened, become less dense. The water was choppier now, and the boat bounced across it with a rhythmic smacking sound.

  Baz turned to look back at the coastline they had left behind, clearer now that the mists had receded, and was amazed to see that the so-called mainland appeared to be no more than an island itself from this angle. A flat island with broken outcrops to either side. But perhaps beyond that long low ridge lay other ridges, land that stretched southwards for hundreds of miles. Had people survived there too? People who were better off, perhaps? People who still had cars and computers and mobiles... proper beds, proper food... people who would someday come and make everything right again...

  No, you shouldn’t think like that, his dad had said. This was global. It had to be, or they would have heard otherwise by now. There were no phones, no planes, no helicopters. There was no electricity and no communication, and nobody was ever going to come to the rescue. Forget it.

  Except that you couldn’t forget it. It was like watching the same film over and over again – and maybe that was because it had all started with the TV. A big swirly spiral, white against blue, almost filling the screen. Smaller spirals, breaking away from the main one, dividing, subdividing. They were like slow-motion fireworks, huge Catherine wheels, hiding whatever country lay beneath them. India? His dad had been in the room, drying his mop of hair on a green towel as he stood in front of the TV. Baz had only been mildly interested. Terrible things always seemed to be happening in India, or China, or wherever it was. What could you do?

  Words coming out of the TV, serious voices. A man and a woman taking it in turns to read: ‘... originally known as Hurricane Delilah, continues to grow and to multiply... by far the highest readings ever recorded... now deep concerns over Mumbai and San Salvador... authorities are advising... ”

  His father had stopped drying his hair. The green towel hung limply in one hand, a corner of it trailing onto the carpet.

  “Dad? What’s going on?”

  “Don’t know, but it doesn’t look good. Not if you happen to be living in Asia, it doesn’t. Or Central America...”

  The TV pictures had changed. They weren’t just swirly patterns anymore. Baz watched mobile homes tumbling end over end across a
field, trees bending down to touch the ground... and waves – impossible waves engulfing row upon row of beachfront houses. People running, screaming, falling, being swept away. My God... where was this?

  “Dad? That... that couldn’t happen here, could it?”

  “What?” His father didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off the screen. “No. No, don’t worry, son. We’re about as far inland as you can get in this country, and a long way above sea level. Nothing like that’s ever going to happen here. Not unless it happens everywhere else first. Come on. Time you were in bed. Go on up and do your teeth, then we’ll phone Mum and say good night.”

  “Wonder how long it takes.” Ray’s voice broke in on Baz’s thoughts.

  “To get to the island? Dunno. Couple of hours maybe.”

  Ray said, “I still can’t believe I’m actually on the boat. I just can’t believe it...”

  “I know. It’s...” Baz leaned forward, arms across his chest, hugging himself. “I mean, what d’you think it’s gonna be like there?”

  “Hard work, I reckon. But everybody says it’s great, don’t they? Getting fed every single day. Three times a day, I heard.”

  “Hey – that’s what this girl I know said! The one whose cousin was there. She said that Preacher John had built, like, a proper new factory with a canteen, and that you got three meals a day.”

  “Well, I bet it’s true. Must be.” Ray paused, and then said, “Why do they call him Preacher John? Did you ever see him?”

  Baz nodded in the direction of the wheelhouse. “No, but those guys are his sons. That’s what my dad told me. Preacher John’s the boss. It’s his business – the factory and the salvage and all that. Dunno why they call him Preacher, though.”

  “Oh. So the boat’s his too?”

  “S’pose so. Have you tried to get a place before?” said Baz. “I have. Twice. First time we had eggs – half a dozen real chicken’s eggs – but some kid had a big tub of cocoa, so that was enough. Second time we had American rice, but got beaten by a goat. A goat! Where do you get a goat from?”