X-Isle Page 3

  “I never tried before,” said Ray. “Mum said I was too small. She still thinks I’m too small.” He looked at Baz. “I’m thirteen and a bit, though. Your face is a right mess. Blood all over it.”

  Baz glanced around the deck area, wondering if there might be a bit of cloth or something that he could use to clean himself up. There was nothing handy that he could see – just empty plastic crates and a few remaining tins. The contents of the tins were written in black marker pen on the lids. B/BEANS. I/STEW. P/APPLE. That must be somebody’s job in the factory. Marking up the tins. How hard could that be?

  “It’ll have to wait,” he said. “Hey, look – is that it?”

  The humid smog had faded away completely, and the boat was sailing on open water. There was a horizon now, and smack bang in the middle of that horizon they could see a dark shape, hazy grey, rising from the sea.

  “Wow. Yeah, has to be.”

  “Wow.”

  The dark shape was a long way off, miles to go yet, but that was it all right. Their destination. X-Isle.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The name was a kind of joke. The tiny island, once part of the posh Tab Hill district, was where Preacher John Eck based his salvage operation. So first it had become known as Eck’s Island, and then X-Isle.

  Visibility from the mainland was usually poor – thick steamy mist followed by sudden tropical downpours – and the island was too far away to be seen in any case. The Cormorant was the only boat in the area, and no makeshift raft could cover such a distance. X-Isle was a natural stronghold, safe from invasion.

  In the hazy spells between smog and rain, the converted fishing boat would sometimes be spotted roaming the coastline or anchored far out to sea as the divers went about their business. All the underwater world was within the grasp of those four men, the treasure of the city theirs for the picking. The mainlanders could only look jealously on, and wait for whatever scraps might come their way. It was said that Preacher John and his sons had enough food stored on X-Isle to see them through their lifetimes, and the thought of this drove the mainlanders to concoct ever more crazy and desperate schemes to get at it.

  Hence today’s attack. Baz breathed in deeply through his open mouth at the memory of those wild faces beyond the porthole, the sudden hammer of gunfire.

  And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this – properly filled his lungs. The surrounding water still looked grey and scummy, and the air still reeked of nameless decay, but it was far better than back on the mainland. There you learned to take short shallow breaths, preferably through your nostrils. You tried not to gag, and you hoped not to catch some terrible disease...

  “Storm coming.” Ray was looking towards the dark confusion of cloud rising beyond the island. There was no outline to the cloud, no definition, just a blur of grey spanning the horizon. Such storms came and went nearly every day, sudden ferocious downpours that momentarily swamped the land, and then evaporated once more into a steamy haze.

  “We might get there first,” said Baz, “if we’re lucky.”

  The diesel motor drubbed on and on. Eventually the island was close enough for Baz and Ray to be able to pick out some of its features. They could see a large white building standing on a plateau. Lots of windows. Perhaps this was the factory – although it looked more like an office block or a school. Part of the structure, to the left, had collapsed. The remains of other buildings rose from the surrounding waters, their roofs shattered by the force of the earthquakes, timbers sticking up at crazy angles. And further out into the sea stood a great tangle of stone and iron girders – a square construction, like the battlements of a castle or a church tower. Yes, the top of a church tower, protruding above the choppy waves, all smashed in on one side where some huge metal thing had toppled into it. The metal thing was a crane, Baz realized. He could see the concrete counterweights and the operator’s cabin, an open glass door dangling high above the water.

  The boat headed directly for the church tower, keeping a steady line. As they drew close, the engine note changed, throttling back to a slow tickover. Two of the Eck brothers emerged from the cabin – Amos and Luke – to stand one on either side of the boat. They grabbed long wooden poles, obviously a practiced maneuver, and made ready.

  Where the twisted metal of the crane had collapsed against the tower, an archway had been formed. Baz and Ray looked upwards in wonder as the boat slowly began to nose its way beneath the rusting girders. The two men pushed with their poles against stone and metal, helping to guide the boat safely through the gap. It was a tight squeeze, and Baz wondered why they didn’t just avoid the whole lot by going around it. Maybe there were other obstructions elsewhere, hidden dangers just below the surface of the water, and this was the quickest and safest way.

  Baz leaned over the side of the boat, stretching his arm out horizontally as far as he could. He managed to briefly touch the tower as it passed by, the grey lichen-covered blocks of stone brushing warm against his fingertips. The scale of it all hit him anew. He was as high above the city as a hammerhead crane, as high as a church tower, and the world that he had known lay many meters below the swaying deck of the boat. It made him dizzy to think about it.

  Isaac emerged from the cabin doorway, squinting upwards as he checked the sky. His beard looked darker than ever somehow, crow-black against the looming grey of the storm clouds. He glanced at the litter of empty crates and boxes, spat in disgust, and then lumbered round the outside of the cabin to make his way onto the foredeck. Baz and Ray could see the skipper’s raised hand pointing this way and that as he helped guide the boat to shore.

  They were almost there. The bulk of the island towered above the fishing boat now, a dark mass beneath the heavy sky, and Baz felt the first drop of rain spatter on the back of his wrist.

  A steep tarmacked pathway ran down the hillside, and at the end of the pathway, extending out into the water, was a bank of rubble. On top of the rubble stood a small group of boys, three or four of them, watching the boat as it edged its way in. The boys were all dressed in T-shirts and khaki shorts, and they each had a wheelbarrow. Black wheelbarrows with red wheels. It looked as though the stone bank was a work in progress, the beginnings of a jetty. A row of old car tires had been fixed at water level, wired into the stone blocks, and the boat bumped gently against these as it finally came to land.

  “Steiner!” Isaac threw a rope to a big lanky youth who was ready and waiting to catch it, and the rope was made fast to an iron stanchion. Then three younger boys came scrambling down the slope carrying a makeshift gangway between them – a couple of builders’ planks roped together. They laid this across the gunwales, and Isaac stepped ashore.

  The big lad appeared confused. He looked at the empty crates that lay about the deck. “Er... what’s to unload, Skip?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I said nothing, cloth-ears! Get out of my sight. Clear up the deck, and then go and find that lard-arse Cookie. Tell him we’ll eat early tonight.”

  As Isaac heaved himself up the slope, the skies broke in earnest. Down came the rain at last, an instant deluge that hammered on wood and stone and bare heads alike. The other three men were already ashore and hurrying up the tarmacked path behind Isaac, shoulders hunched against the storm, arms raised for protection.

  “Pick up those crates!” yelled the big lad, Steiner. The younger ones were already hopping across the gangplank and down into the boat. They scrabbled about the streaming deck, gathering up the empty plastic crates, the bottles and the tins – whatever bits of rubbish came to hand.

  Baz and Ray joined in, slithering and sliding on the greasy planking as the rain lashed at their bent backs. The job didn’t take long. A last look around the deck and Steiner shouted, “OK! Get it shifted! Come on, you bum-rags – I’m chuffin’ soaked here.” His voice was almost lost in the roar and hiss of tumbling water.

  Baz stuffed his backpack into one of the plastic crates, balance
d two more crates on top of that, and stepped up onto the wobbly gangplank. He made it across OK, but then heard a scuffle and clatter behind him. Ray had slipped and tumbled – fallen from the gangplank down onto the rubble.

  “You stupid little git! Now I’ve got to hang around waiting for you. Pick it all up – idiot!” Steiner stood on the planks, water pouring from his long ugly chin as Ray struggled to gather his crates and tins together below. Baz hesitated, wondering whether he should try and help.

  “What are you looking at? Get after the others and quit gawping!” Steiner made a threatening move towards him.

  Baz clambered up the rubble bank and onto the tarmac pathway. He began to climb the hill – not an easy exercise in such a torrent and with three big crates to carry. By the time he reached level ground his arms were aching, he was soaked to the skin and he felt that he’d gulped in almost as much water as he had air.

  Before him stood the remains of a big modern building, the one they had seen from the boat. A broad flight of steps led up to a covered entranceway, a set of glass doors. Baz could see the knot of boys huddled in the entranceway, and he made his way towards them. TAB HILL HIGH SCHOOL. Red painted letters danced in and out of watery focus. They were carved into a big tablet of stone, a pale monolith that stood upright in the ground to one side of the overgrown driveway. Baz staggered past the sign and climbed the flight of steps. He dumped his crates on the top step, as the other boys had done, and scuttled for shelter.

  Then he remembered his backpack, and had to run out into the rain again in order to retrieve it.

  “Got any food in there?” One of the boys spoke as Baz ducked beneath the entranceway once more.

  Baz pushed back his streaming wet hair and shook his head. “Just clothes.”

  “Maybe we should check, eh?” The same boy, a shaven-headed Asian lad, his expression cool, mouth unsmiling.

  Baz wiped the water away from his face and stared back at the group. They hung close together, shoulder to shoulder, like a pack of bedraggled hyenas. None of them were any bigger than he was, but there were three of them – three sets of hungry eyes weighing him up, testing him. And they weren’t just skinny. These boys were wiry, tough looking, their arms and bodies sharply detailed, as though layers of skin had been stripped away to leave just muscle and bone.

  Baz let the dripping backpack slide gently to his feet. “Go ahead, then.”

  He kept his voice flat, no challenge, no aggression. But if they wanted the backpack they were going to have to come and take it from him. He looked from one to the other and waited. The rain bounced and splattered on the entranceway steps.

  “Nah, it’s OK.” The Asian boy again. “We’ll believe you. What’s your name?”

  “Baz.”

  The trio relaxed into general movement, spread themselves out a little.

  “Baz. All right. Well, this here’s Robbie... and this other kid’s Enoch. And I’m Amit. OK?”

  “Yeah.” Baz let his shoulders drop. “I can remember that...”

  The attention of the three boys had already shifted away from him. Baz turned to see what they were looking at.

  It was Ray. And the lanky older boy, Steiner.

  Half hidden behind his stack of crates, Ray was making unsteady progress along the driveway towards the school building. From left to right he staggered, obviously exhausted. And Steiner was right beside him, bending down, bawling in his ear.

  “That the best you can do? That it? You’ll not last five minutes here, kid, if you can’t even manage a few empty boxes. What’s gonna happen when they’re full o’ tins? Come on, get those weedy little legs working properly! Gaaah! You’re all over t’ chuffin’ place...”

  Right to the very bottom of the steps Steiner kept goading Ray. “What’s your chuffin’ problem? Got one leg shorter than t’ other, is that it? Try walkin’ bloody straight, then! Come on – keep moving. Pick ’em up! Pick ’em up!”

  Ray got as far as the fourth step. Then he turned and with a final effort he heaved the crates towards Steiner. “Pick ’em up yourself, dickhead.”

  The crates bounced and clattered down the steps, empty plastic bottles, tins, bits of rubbish rolling everywhere. Steiner jumped as he tried to avoid the avalanche, but he missed his footing and tumbled towards the steps, arms outstretched. He landed heavily, his palms making a loud slap on the wet stone. With one knee forward and the other straight back, he looked for a moment like a sprinter about to come out of the starting blocks.

  It took him a couple of seconds to recover, and then he was up. “Come ’ere, you little bleeder...”

  As Steiner lunged towards him, Ray managed one kick at the older boy’s shins, but it was a feeble effort and he was already off-balance. Steiner grabbed him by the hair, swung him violently to the ground, and immediately began punching him.

  “I’ll bloody kill you for that!”

  Ray curled himself up into a ball and lay unresisting, abandoned to the kicks and blows that rained upon him. His utter defenselessness jolted Baz into action.

  “Hey! Leave him alone!” Baz ran down the streaming steps, no thought in his head as to what he would do next, but knowing that he had to do something.

  He threw himself half across the prostrate form of Ray, and did his best to keep Steiner away.

  “Stop, OK?” Baz lifted an arm, half in defense, half in an attempt to push Steiner back. “He’s had enough!”

  “Has he?” Steiner’s mouth bubbled with spit. “Then what about... you.”

  Baz had a glimpse of Steiner’s twisted red face, a raised fist, and then a jagged explosion went off in his head. Wow-wow-wow-wow... the world went scooting away...

  Darkness. A confusion of sound. Angry voices. Baz was on his knees, and everything around him was being shaken. No, someone was shaking him. He was being hauled to his feet, effortlessly lifted up, as though by a crane. He blinked and saw a big black beard...

  Everything wobbled back into focus, and there was Isaac. Shouting at Steiner.

  “... you do as you’re damn well told, boy, and keep your hands off ’em till I’m through.”

  “But look what they did!” Steiner’s voice honked and squeaked. “They can’t just attack me—”

  Isaac’s great arm lashed out, and Steiner fell back against the steps.

  “Attack you? I’ll dam’ well attack you if I catch you damaging our goods again! Now get this mess cleared away, and then shut ’em in for the night. And send Cookie to me like I asked you to twenty minutes ago. You better sharpen up, Steiner. I can find plenty more in the same gutter you came from.”

  Isaac splashed up the steps, heading for the entrance to the building. The three boys shrank to one side as he passed by.

  Baz’s jaw hurt, and his vision was still a bit blurry, but he was starting to get his bearings once more. Something had changed – something to do with his hearing – and it took him a moment to figure out what it was: the rain had stopped.

  Ray was sitting on the puddled steps, not far from Steiner. His face was bruised and bleeding. He looked terrible.

  “You OK?” said Baz.

  Ray nodded. He got to his feet and stood there for a moment, as if making sure that he wasn’t going to fall back down again.

  “All right? Come on, then. I’ll help you with this stuff.”

  Slowly, painfully, Baz and Ray picked up the fallen crates. They gathered Ray’s belongings together, retrieved the plastic bottles and tins, put them all back in the crates. Nobody came to help them. The other boys remained in the entranceway, looking down on them, just watching.

  Steiner was watching them as well, still sitting on the steps, his cold blue eyes following their every move. He had pale, almost invisible lashes, and a face so massively freckled – freckles upon freckles – that it looked as though someone had drawn them in with a brown marker pen. There was an angry swelling on his cheek where Isaac had struck him, and both his bare gingery knees were grazed and bloodied.

&nb
sp; “That the lot?” Baz and Ray stacked their crates and began to climb the steps once more. As they drew level with Steiner, he stood up.

  “You’re dead.” His voice was low and quiet for once, a husky whisper. “Hear me? You’re both chuffin’ dead.”

  The two boys kept on going. But Steiner was at their heels, chanting in time with each step they took, “Dead... dead... dead... dead...”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amit and the other two boys had picked up their crates again. They waited for a few moments, perhaps for some signal from Steiner, then began to shuffle into the school building. Baz and Ray followed.

  A long dim corridor straight ahead. Keep walking? No, the group came to a halt almost immediately, lining themselves up beside a fire door on the left. Steiner walked to the head of the line and grabbed the door handle.

  “Take ’em in and empty ’em out.” Steiner swung the heavy door towards him and stood holding it open as the boys filed past.

  Baz was the last one through. He instinctively flinched away from Steiner, expecting a kick or a blow of some sort. But nothing happened.

  The room they entered was large, and at first sight chaotic: scattered crates and pallets, bits of machinery, bicycles, furniture, pots and pans... and there were more boys working here – another three or four maybe.

  Baz looked around in wonder, but was then jolted forward, his crates tumbling to the floor. Steiner had shoved him in the back.

  “Don’t just stand there gawping, you little twerp. Get this stuff sorted. Tins back into their right crates – rubbish in t’ big wheelie bins over in the corner. Hutch! We’re knocking off early.”

  As Baz began to scramble about for the fallen tins, another lad appeared – a big solidly built boy of about Steiner’s age, dark hair on his upper lip, quite spotty. He wore a grubby white lab coat and carried a clipboard.

  “Knockin’ off? Why?” He stopped. “Hey – what happened to your face?”