X-Isle Page 4

“Huh. I’ll tell you later,” Steiner muttered. “But I’ll tell you summat right now – there’ll be payback.”

  Baz did as those around him were doing, sorting tins into plastic crates according to how they were marked – BB, T/SOUP, G/PEAS – then hefting the crates onto wooden pallets. It was only a few minutes’ work, but it gave him a chance to try and make sense of what was going on.

  The room seemed to be both packing area and workshop, a place where salvage was brought and made ready for trading. The corner nearest the door was piled high with plastic containers, a tumbling mountain of soap and shampoo dispensers, medicines, bottled water, soft drinks – all covered in the smeary grey film that was X-Isle’s trademark. These were goods that had been dredged up from the devastated world below, and it was a world that clung to them still. The sickly odor of rot and decay hung in the air.

  At the far end of the room stood a long workbench stretching from wall to wall, and as the boys finished what they were doing, they began to gather in this area. Baz joined them, seeking out a space next to Ray. An upside-down bicycle stood on the oily bench, its rear wheel missing. And there were other bits of machinery: part of an engine, a woodburner stove, several paraffin lamps, all apparently in the process of being dismantled or restored. Beneath the bench lay a nameless jumble of scrap metal.

  “OK, Steiner – we’re done!” The bigger boy, Hutch, approached the workbench, making notes on his clipboard. The base of his neck was so thick that his head seemed to taper upwards. On top of his otherwise shaven scalp was a flattened-down patch of greasy hair. It looked like a bit of wet seaweed clinging to a rock. In fact Hutch could almost have been made of rock. When he turned towards Steiner, his head and shoulders moved as though locked together.

  “Check this,” he said.

  “Give it here, then.” Steiner took the clipboard, glanced at it and handed it back. “OK. We’re heavy on the usual then. Beans and spaghetti. Oi, you – Jubo.” Steiner gave one of the boys a shove, a broad-shouldered kid with dreadlocks. West Indian maybe. His naked torso was streaked with grey dried-on mud. “Hook out nine tins from the pallets and put ’em on t’ floor. I want to see three meat, two beans, two spaghetti, two tomatoes.”

  “Tomatoes?” The boy sounded surprised.

  “You heard.”

  Jubo went over to the stacked pallets and began to rummage around. He shifted the plastic crates this way and that in order to get at what was required, picked out an armful of tins, then ferried them over to the workbench area and placed them on the floor.

  Baz looked at the tins. The lids were all marked in the familiar black pen: I/STEW, B/CUR, C/CUR, B/BEANS, TOMS, SPAG. And now he could feel tension around him, the circle of boys edging closer to the tins. What was going on?

  “OK, Gene,” said Steiner, “pick out your tin. Rest of you stand up straight, arms at your sides.”

  An olive-skinned boy, Mediterranean looking, maybe a bit older than the rest, stooped casually and chose one of the tins. He stepped back from the group. Baz saw that one of the meat tins had gone – B/CUR.

  Steiner spoke again. “Right then, Hutch. Who’s your top dog?”

  Hutch waved his clipboard towards a tall boy with very long blond hair. “Dyson,” he said. “Yours?”

  “Amit.”

  A few sighs and groans from the group.

  “Top-dogs-ready-go!”

  Steiner’s words came out as one, with no warning, and Baz’s jump of surprise was a delayed reaction. Amit and the blond boy had immediately dived forward, sliding on their knees towards the tins. A quick scuffle, a snatch of hands, and they were back on their feet. Baz blinked. The whole thing had taken no more than three seconds. Amit and Dyson moved to one side, clutching their prizes – a tin of food apiece.

  Baz scanned the jumble of words on the remaining lids and saw that I/STEW and C/CUR had now gone. Two tins of beans left, two spaghetti, two tomatoes. So if—

  “Rest-of-you-ready-go!”

  Baz had been caught out again. He lunged forward, throwing himself into the scrabble of bodies, but by the time he hit the floor he already knew what he was going to end up with.

  He’d been slow off the mark, and Ray, crashing to the ground beside him, had been slower still. Ray’s hand snaked out, desperately grabbing for whatever it could find... but the race was already over. Only one tin remained on the floor, and nobody else wanted it in any case. Ray’s small brown fingers hesitated a moment longer, then slowly closed over the last word: TOMS.

  “Ha!” Steiner was clearly delighted with the way things had worked out. “Just a bit too slow there, girls. Better luck next time, eh?” The grin disappeared from his long freckled face. “’Cos there’s gonna be a next time, don’t you worry. I’ll teach you little tarts to come it with me! Yeah.” He prodded Ray in the chest. “And especially you. Go on – back to the slob room, the lot of you. Line up there and wait for one of us to let you in. OK, Hutch, let’s lock up.”

  Baz and Ray picked up their belongings and followed the rest of the group out of the sorting room. They turned left down the corridor. Again they didn’t go very far. At the next door along the boys stopped and formed a queue.

  A little light fell on them from the row of filthy windows opposite, and Baz looked around at the once-familiar signs of school life – the notice boards with their torn and fading posters, the line of grubby marks all along the lower walls where many feet had scuffed the paintwork. The far end of the corridor was lost in gloom, a square tunnel into which parallel rows of overhead strip lights disappeared, their covers smashed or missing, bare wires hanging down.

  “So where’s the factory?” Baz asked the question of his neighbor, Jubo, the black kid who had doled out the tins.

  Jubo blinked in apparent surprise, but then just muttered, “We don’ talk here, guy.” He nodded his head towards the dark end of the corridor, as if this was explanation enough.

  The boys stood silently waiting, each holding a tin of food. Baz looked along the queue and counted nine of them including him and Ray. How many of their names could he remember? There was Jubo, standing next to him. Amit, the Asian lad, who had been given first choice of the tins, along with Dyson, the tall kid with the long blond hair. Gene, the older boy who had been allowed to choose his own tin of food. And... and a couple more that he hadn’t got yet.

  Someone was coming down the corridor jangling a bunch of keys. Hutch. Baz was glad to see that it wasn’t Steiner. He’d had enough of Steiner for one day. But Hutch didn’t look too friendly either. He walked down the line and stopped in front of Baz.

  “I got my eye on you,” he said. His voice was quieter than Steiner’s, but menacing nevertheless, and the grubby lab coat seemed to give him extra authority – permission to do what he wanted. God, he looked unhealthy, though. Hutch’s pockmarked skin had a kind of sticky glaze to it, and his eyes were almost invisible, hidden away in the dark slits between the puffy lids. He smelled funny too. Like someone had spilled beer over him. “And you.” The glistening face turned towards Ray. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve been hearing all about it, and if I get any of your crap I’ll stomp on your skull. Got it?” Hutch flicked a finger against Ray’s bruised cheek. “I said, got it?”

  “Ow!” Ray flinched away. “Yes. Hutch.” He put his hand up to his cheek.

  “Hutch? Hutch? It’s Hutchinson to you, kid. And keep your voice down. That’s summat else you’d better learn fast. And you’d better learn fast. Dyson!” Hutchinson walked to the head of the queue. “You and Amit get these two newbies shaped up. Kit ’em out, and make sure they’re ready and knowing what’s what by morning – names, work duties, the lot. You know the deal by now. I have to tell ’em anything more than once, and it’ll be your fault. Yeah?”

  “Yes, Hutchinson.”

  “Yes, Hutchinson.”

  Amit and Dyson murmured in unison, heads lowered.

  “Right. We’re slobbing down early. Half eight start tomorrow. Usual split, workshop and
jetty. Amit, you’re on the jetty. You take one newbie, don’t care which. Dyson, you take the other.”

  Hutchinson rattled the keys in the lock, but then paused. Steiner was running down the corridor towards them.

  “Hutch,” he gasped. “I forgot! Cookie’s in there! Come on, open t’ chuffin’ door.”

  “What?” Hutchinson unlocked the door, and Steiner pushed past him.

  “Cookie!” Steiner was in the room, his voice audible to those still out in the corridor. “Shift your fat tush. Get down to t’ kitchen now! They’re eating early tonight.”

  Hutchinson put out a hand, preventing the gaggle of boys from entering the room.

  “Come on, lardo! Move it!” Steiner was still shouting at someone in there.

  A big red-faced boy came stumbling through the doorway, one arm through the sleeve of a dirty white jacket. His torso was naked, and his belly jiggled from side to side as he searched frantically for the other sleeve.

  “Don’t worry about yer friggin’ coat – just keep moving! Go-go-go!” Steiner hustled the fat boy all the way down the corridor. They disappeared round a corner, the boy still struggling to get his jacket on properly.

  “OK. In there, the rest of you. I’ll be back to put the light out in’ – Hutchinson looked at his watch – ‘an hour and forty minutes.”

  The boys filed into the room, and the door closed behind them. There was a collective whoosh of escaping breath, and then everyone was talking at once.

  “Sheesh! What’s been happening? What’s going on?”

  “It’s those new kids – they went for Steiner! Kicked him, that one did! Or tried to...”

  “... and the boat came back empty. Dunno why...”

  “... chucked his crates at Steiner, and then Steiner beat them both up...”

  “... lucky he didn’t kill ’em. Prob’ly would’ve done, but then Isaac turned up and whacked Steiner...”

  “Whaaat?”

  Baz was half listening and at the same time looking around the room. Mattresses lying on the floor, side by side... a few tatty chairs that might have once been in a staffroom... jumbled blankets and clothing... more clothing strung out on washing lines.

  The air smelled damp and fetid. Cabbagey. Like old farts. Baz stared up at the ceiling. A light bulb! An actual working electric light bulb...

  “Huh?” he said. Someone was talking to him. Amit. A muddle of other faces gathering round.

  “I said, why was the boat empty?”

  “Oh, that,” said Baz. “It was attacked when they were unloading. Some men on a raft tried to – you know – attack it. With shotguns. Tried to get hold of it. But then Isaac and the rest, they started shooting back and they got away. But all the stuff was left behind.”

  “Yeah? Oh well – less work for us. Anyway’ – Amit tossed his tin into the air and skipped backwards a couple of paces – ‘snap’s up. Come on, I’m starving.” He caught the tin as though he were a rugby player, turned and ran with it.

  The boys charged after him, pushing and jostling one another as they crowded towards a corner at the far end of the room. Here there was a cheap sink unit – not that there would be any running water of course – and a few pots and pans on a shelf. The draining board was half hidden beneath a pile of kitchen rubbish. A drawer was yanked open, and everyone tried to get a hand in there at once, in competition for eating utensils, as it turned out. The more successful bagged themselves metal spoons and forks, the rest had to make do with plastic. By the time Baz and Ray got to the drawer there were just two plastic teaspoons left, and one of them was broken. Baz took the broken one.

  “Hey, you newbies.” It was Dyson, the boy who had won first pick of the food along with Amit. He’d already opened his can and was carefully stirring bits of meat and potato around with a metal fork. “Those mattresses over there, by the curtain – they’ll be yours from now on. Eat first, and then we’ll tell you how things work round here. Are those tins ring-pull? Yeah? Well, there’s an opener hanging by the sink for when they’re not.” He turned his back on them and walked away.

  Next to the sink area was a curtained-off doorway, and beside that lay the two mattresses that Dyson had indicated.

  “Which one do you want?” said Baz.

  Ray shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Baz chose the one furthest from the doorway, dropping his backpack beside it in order to stake his claim. He’d already taken the broken spoon, so he thought it only fair that he got the mattress least likely to be disturbed by any passing traffic.

  The mattresses themselves were stained and tired looking, their cheap nylon coverings fuzzy with wear. No sheets, no pillows, just a rolled-up grey blanket apiece. Baz sat on his bed with his blanket propped up behind him and leaned against the wall. His hair and clothes were still damp from the rain, but he was too exhausted to bother about it. He couldn’t even summon up the energy to eat, at least not straight away.

  Instead he let his eyes wander where they would. He counted four beds on one side of the room, and three on the other. With his and Ray’s that made nine. The sink was down at their end, in the corner closest to the curtained doorway. Up at the other end was the door where they had come in, and to the right of that a seating area with a scattering of chairs and a low table. There was one more bed, he realized, all by itself, to the left of the main doorway. So ten altogether. Vertical blinds, very grey and dusty looking, covered two windows, and there were various notice boards fixed to the walls. The floor was carpet-tiled. Baz would have bet anything that this had once been a staffroom. It was certainly no factory. And ten boys didn’t seem like much of a workforce, either. Surely there must be more somewhere?

  One or two of the boys sat as he and Ray did, on their mattresses. Others occupied the chairs in the seating area. Was that a privilege? Baz tipped his head back and let it rest against the wall. The single bare light bulb glared down at him. It was draped over an existing fitting, a loop of cable hanging down from a hole in one of the ceiling tiles. Electricity, though. How could they possibly have electricity? The light was sort of fizzy... vibrating...

  “Are you gonna eat that or not?”

  “What? Oh yeah.”

  Ray had already finished his tin of tomatoes. He tossed the plastic spoon across to Baz.

  “Use this if you like.”

  Baz forced himself upright. His jaw ached from where Steiner had punched it, and he still didn’t feel like eating, but he reached over for his tin of tomatoes and picked at the ring-pull.

  “Blimey. Do you reckon this is it?” Ray was running his finger around the inside of his empty tin. “We better get something more than bleedin’ tomatoes for breakfast, that’s all I can say.”

  “Yeah? Or what?” Baz couldn’t help needling him. “You’re gonna start another fight? Take on a few more this time?” He dipped his spoon into the tin and tried to break up one of the tomatoes. The thing kept slipping away from him.

  “I might,” said Ray. “He doesn’t scare me, that Steiner. He’s a pig. You let pigs like that walk all over you and then that’s it. They... well, they walk all over you.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” Baz gave up trying to cut through the tomato and brought it out whole instead, carefully balancing it on the feeble plastic spoon and leaning forward to suck at the juice. God, he was hungry. At the first taste of it his stomach seemed to wake up properly, and start grumbling out loud for something solid. Baz managed to bite a piece off the end of the tomato and swallow it. Then he got the rest of it in his mouth in one go. That was the way to do it. He fished around for the next candidate.

  “Doesn’t seem that great to me, either,” he said. “Bit of a dump, actually. And I hate that Steiner already. If I wanted to get my head kicked in I could’ve stayed on the mainland. Reckon you’ll stick it?”

  Ray answered him immediately. “What? Yeah, course.” He nodded in the direction of the other boys. “If that lot can stick it, then I can.” But afte
r another few moments he said, “Anyway, got no choice.”

  Baz thought about that. “Well, you could always go back if you wanted to. See, the divers get paid every time they take someone on. So if you wanted to go back, they’d just take on some other kid and get paid again. Another packet of cornflakes, another box of cartridges. What difference would it make to them?”

  “Hey – I’ve only just got here, OK?” Ray was on the defensive again. “What’s all this “if you wanted to go back” stuff? What makes you think I can’t hack it like anyone else?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean you. I was just saying like if anyone wanted to...”

  Dyson was coming towards them, and Baz was relieved not to have to get into an argument. He put down his half-finished tin of tomatoes.

  “You better come and talk,” said Dyson. “There’s stuff to get through. Come on down the other end.”

  “OK.”

  Baz and Ray got up and followed Dyson to the seating area. The chairs were all occupied, but some of the boys were sprawled about on the floor, so Baz and Ray found space between them and sat down. The boys who had been lying on their beds wandered across to join them.

  “OK, we better start with names,” said Dyson. “So what are yours?”

  “I’m Ray,” said Ray. “And this is Baz.”

  “Right. Well, I’m Dyson. This is Amit, you already met, and Robbie and Enoch, yeah? And then there’s Jubo and Gene, and this last little guy, Taps. Got it? I’ll go through it again in a minute. See, you have to remember in case you’re asked. Like, if Steiner or Hutchinson says, “Go and get Gene for me,” then you better know who Gene is. “Cos they don’t expect to have to ask you twice. Not for anything. You screw up and we get blamed for it. So you better get it right.”

  “How it works is like this.” Amit spoke – the Asian boy – and his tone was less aggressive. “You’re just trying to stay here as long as you can, ’cos it’s better than being back on the mainland. That’s all you’re trying to do. This place is crap, but it’s still better’n being back there. So you wanna stay – we all do. But they’ll send you back for any excuse, ’cos they just get paid again every time they take on a newbie.”