X-Isle (24 page)

A crowd of emotions jostled for space in Baz’s head, too many to be able to cope with. Rage burned him from the inside out – flaring torches of hatred for the capos. And terrible sadness for Enoch. But then he imagined that it was Ray lying dead back there amongst the rubble, Ray instead of Enoch, and relief flooded through him. It was shocking. Frightening.

It was frightening about Gene as well – Gene who was supposed to be their hope, their saviour. Gene had showed that he could be wrong, just like anyone else. His plan hadn’t worked. He could make mistakes after all.

As they wound their way up the pathway that led to the school buildings, Baz turned once more to look down at the jetty. Just before it all disappeared from view he caught a last glimpse of Steiner. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. It didn’t look as though disposing of Enoch would take very long.

CHAPTER
 
FOURTEEN

Having the time to think, to keep reliving the moment, made Sunday almost unbearable.

Only Gene had anything to say – and he said it over and over, in the same distraught voice. This was all his fault. If only he had been more careful, thought things through, taken everything more slowly, then Enoch might still be here now.

Lost in their own grief and anger, none of the boys gave Gene much reassurance or argued against him. His plan had been a screw-up, and now Enoch was dead. Perhaps Gene was not such a genius after all.

Eventually Dyson spoke up in Gene’s defense.

“What were you supposed to do?” he said. “They didn’t give you enough time, they didn’t give you the right gear, they didn’t give you the... the watchamacallit – the manpower. And when it all started to go wrong, the capos wouldn’t let you stop and think ’cos Isaac says it’s gotta be done now. And Isaac’s only doing what he’s told in any case. It’s Preacher John’s fault, not yours.”

Dyson was right. There was no point in blaming Gene, or in Gene blaming himself. They were all slaves, and they had no choice but to obey orders.

Preacher John sickened them all by giving another pious Sunday sermon, regretting the sad loss of their ‘brother’, Enoch, and once again asking that Enoch’s life be accepted as a sacrifice to God’s will. 
Draw back the waters, O Lord
, was Preacher John’s plea, 
and let the world be made whole again
. It was horrible.

Ray spent a tense Sunday afternoon trying to dodge the capos. In the event nothing happened. The drain had not been reopened, and both capos had made a very early start on the wine. Or maybe they’d just decided to lay off for once. At any rate they collapsed into a stupor long before evening, and Ray was safe. But his luck couldn’t hold out indefinitely.

Trudging along the jetty on Monday morning, the work crew came upon a strange sight. Preacher John was there, all alone and staring out to sea. He stood beyond the platform, right at the edge of the jetty, with his arms raised high. It was as though he was greeting the day, his head thrown back, long ginger hair curling down over his shoulders.

As the boys approached, Preacher John lowered his arms. He stood with his head bowed for a moment, then straightened up again. When he turned to face them, they saw that he was smiling.

That smile was the most extraordinary thing – open-mouthed, fixed, like an opera singer reaching a last rapturous note. And he looked as out of place as an opera singer might have done, standing amidst the heaps of sand and rubble and upturned wheelbarrows. Dressed in immaculate black, shoes polished, his great red face beaming, Preacher John was of another world.

He walked towards them, one hand in his pocket, and as he passed by, he waved his free arm in the general direction of the sea. “The power of prayer, my sons,” he said. “We have made a beginning at last.” He walked on.

Baz lowered his barrow and looked out to sea. It was unchanged as far as he could tell, the water level as high as ever.

But then Ray said, “What’s that?”

The day was clear for a change, and the horizon visible. Far away to the left the ocean abruptly changed color, a definite line separating the familiar dull grey of the coastal water from the broader expanse that stretched towards the skyline.

“Whoa...” Baz put a hand up to shade his eyes. “It’s 
blue.”

Even the capos stopped to look. Something had undoubtedly happened out there, or was in the process of happening. The difference between the two colors was remarkable, a strip of blue water melded to the murky grey, like new plasticine attached to old. 
The power of prayer
, Preacher John had said. Did he believe that this was somehow down to him?

There was no time to consider further, because Steiner turned away from the sight with a shrug and said, “Come on. Stop hanging about.”

The boys began the process of trying to lift the stone slab once again. They hated the thing now, and they worked in glowering and resentful silence, ignoring the remarks of the capos and listening only to Gene.

Gene refused to be hurried. This time he constructed the three supporting stacks from builders’ planks instead of concrete blocks, so that the angle of leverage wasn’t as steep. It took a lot longer, but with six boys working the scaffolding poles and Gene directing operations, the slab was gently raised and then shuffled sideways, inch by inch, until it rested on top of its box. At last the job was done. And still nobody had the slightest idea of what this thing could be for.

Later that evening, when Hutchinson came to the slob room to lock up, he said to Gene, “Hey – Isaac wants to know when that cross is going to be ready.”

Gene kept his head down. It was plain that he wasn’t going to answer Hutchinson, or even look at him.

“Listen, you. Just because some dozy kid—”

Whatever Hutchinson said next went unheard. From outside in the corridor came a high wailing sound, almost a scream, mingled with the more distant cursing of a man’s voice. Hutchinson moved towards the doorway – then had to immediately dodge sideways as Cookie came crashing into the room.

“Ahhh-ahhh... !” Cookie was bent over double, one hand extended, palm upwards, obviously in agony. He lumbered around in circles, his hand stuck out, rocking up and down as though performing some wild dance. The effect was somehow comical, and a few of the boys laughed out loud.

“Oi!” Hutchinson snatched at the collar of Cookie’s white jacket. “What the hell are you bawling about? Shut up and keep still!”

But Cookie fell against Hutchinson, grabbing him around the thighs, wailing and crying all the louder. Hutchinson shoved him away in disgust and Cookie fell heavily to the floor. He crouched forward, head low, still with one hand extended.

“Jesus! I better find out what’s going on. Get this idiot sorted, some of you.” Hutchinson backed away and left the room.

Nobody made any move towards Cookie. The boy remained on his knees, swaying to and fro, his grubby white jacket stretched tightly over his rounded back. He looked like a big mushroom.

Baz couldn’t stand by any longer without at least trying to find out what had happened. He went over to Cookie and crouched down on the greasy carpet tiles beside him.

“Hey – what is it? What’s wrong with you?”

Cookie made some gulping sound, but his head was almost touching the floor and Baz couldn’t understand him.

“What?” He reached out and put a hand on Cookie’s shoulder – aware that he was crossing some sort of boundary in doing so. “What did you say?”

The pimply rolls of fat on Cookie’s neck became more deeply creased. He raised his head, turning his face sideways to look up at Baz.

“They... they...” Cookie struggled to get the words out, tears and snot dribbling down his wobbly chin. “They shoved my hand... in the... in the...
soup
!”

Baz heard the explosive sniggers of some of the boys around him. He might even have been inclined to join in – but then he looked properly at Cookie’s hand. It was awful. The back of it was one huge blister, like a big yellow jellyfish, full of fluid, the surrounding flesh mottled red, fingers swollen as though they would burst. Baz winced at the sight. He could see strange little orangey bits here and there, as though globules of fat had bubbled up through Cookie’s skin.

“What are those things?” Then he realized. “Oh. They’re lentils. Hey – shut up, willya?” He frowned up at the snorting onlookers. “This is serious. Ray, come and take a look...”

Ray stepped forward and bent closer. “God,” he said. “That’s horrible. Uh... we better see if we can get him over to his bed or something. Then get his jacket off.”

Cookie seemed helpless, almost unable to move, and it felt strange to be making such direct contact with him – touching the untouchable. It was only Baz and Ray who were doing any serious lifting. The others hovered around, vaguely sympathetic now, but they stopped short of physical assistance.

With Cookie on his bed at last, Baz began trying to remove his jacket. Every jerk and tug brought a fresh wave of agonized howls from the patient, and Baz began to wish he hadn’t taken this task upon himself. Cookie was so big and so awkward, that was the trouble. The jacket stuck to his heavy nakedness, seemed to get caught in the folds and creases of sweaty flesh.

Ray said, “I’ll go and get a wet T-shirt or something. Wrap it round his hand.” It was a good idea, but Baz felt that it was partly an excuse to leave all the hard work to him.

“Come on, Cookie. Almost there.” Baz gritted his teeth and hauled on the sleeve of the jacket.

Ray came back with a white T-shirt dripping water, and wrapped it around Cookie’s hand as gently as he could. “That’s gonna have to do for tonight,” he said. “Maybe in the morning...” His voice trailed off. There was no guarantee that the morning would bring anything more in the way of assistance. Cookie lay back on his bed, still crying, but silently now, as though withdrawn into a private world of pain. He looked like a defeated boxer, naked from the waist up, one huge paw all swaddled in a bandage.

Baz glanced across at Ray, and then around the room, realizing that most of the others had disappeared. Only Dyson remained in the vicinity of Cookie’s bed.

“Where the hell is everybody?” said Baz.

Dyson just shrugged and said, “Fart Club, I guess. Not that anyone’s really in the mood. Better hurry up, though, if you want your turn. Hutchinson’ll be back in a minute.”

Cookie kept up a low moaning throughout most of the night. Usually he was the first to depart the slob room, but in the morning he was still there, struggling to get his jacket on as the other boys were lining up.

Hutchinson came by. “Cookie,” he said, “gimme a look at your hand.”

Cookie unwound the T-shirt that bandaged his damaged hand. Baz caught a glimpse of red raw flesh, the glistening crustiness of burst blisters. He knew something of what that felt like.

Hutchinson looked briefly down at Cookie’s hand. “OK. Isaac said to send someone else with you if you weren’t gonna be able to work properly. So... er... you’ – he pointed at Baz – ‘get on down to the kitchens and give this idiot a hand. Ha! Give him a hand...” Hutchinson chuckled at his own feeble joke. “Rest of you line up outside the sort room.”

So Baz found himself unexpectedly accompanying Cookie, walking towards the dark end of the main corridor, about to enter a world that few of the X-Isle boys had ever seen.

CHAPTER
 
FIFTEEN

The kitchen was huge. Baz’s first impression was of stainless steel – acres of it – and blue ceramic tiled flooring. The floor might have been swept sometime in the last month, but the rows of cooker hobs, ovens, dishwashers and steel cabinets had a dull and long-disused look to them. Baz ran his finger along one of the grimy metal surfaces as Cookie showed him around.

“Yeah, none of it works of course,” said Cookie. “All gas, see. This is what I have to make do with.” He came back to the first section of the room, where a small two-ring electric cooker stood on one of the work surfaces. The cooker looked pretty ancient.

“I’ve got this and a microwave, and that little fridge over there. You can only use one of ’em at a time, ’cos that’s all the generator can cope with. The microwave’s a bit dodgy in any case.”

“Hot food, though,” said Baz. “Can’t remember the last time I had anything hot.”

“A lot of the time I’m just heating up tins.” Cookie pulled open the door of a steel cabinet. “But I got all this other stuff too.”

The cabinet shelves were full of jars, bottles and packets. Baz could see flour and salt, powdered milk, herbs, sauces... stock cubes... jam... marmalade... tea... coffee...

It was like a treasure chest to him, and he was sorry when Cookie closed the door again. He could have stood and gazed all day at the array of foodstuffs.

“Don’t often get anything fresh.” Cookie walked over to the fridge, wheezing. “Maybe a lettuce’ll come in, or some mushrooms. Had some cooking apples a few weeks ago – scared the life out of me. Look...” He stooped to open the little fridge door. Baz stared at the sole contents – a bundle of greenstuff with orange roots. “The fridge doesn’t work most of the time. It’s just a place to put stuff.”

“Is that... carrots?”

“Yeah. I’m still thinking about them. Isaac’ll expect something good, and I’m panicking a bit.”

“So, like, you just have to make something up?”

“I got recipe books.” Cookie waved his swaddled hand at a row of perhaps half a dozen books that stood next to the microwave. “But it’s the ingredients, see. Got no potatoes, no butter, no cheese. No eggs, or not very often. Got no fresh milk. Not much pasta. I had a big sack of rice, but that’s half gone. Dried lentils – half gone. Flour’s running out, and I gotta watch that. I worry all the time.”

To Baz the whole set-up seemed quite wonderful, despite Cookie’s gloomy outlook. “Wow,” he said. “It’s pretty amazing, though. I always wondered what you did all day.”

“All day?” Cookie looked at him, his eyes still puffy from a night of pain and weeping. “I don’t just work in here all day. I spend more time cleaning than cooking. I clean their rooms, I clean the bogs, I clean the kitchen. I do all their laundry – wash it all by hand – and that’s a crappy job. I do their mending. I rinse out their wetsuits, hang ’em up to dry. Oh, and I press their Sunday suits. Iron ’em with an old flat iron that I heat up in here on the electric ring. And all the time I’m doing those things I’m thinking about what I’m gonna cook for supper. Tell you what’ – Cookie paused for breath, his chest straining against the material of his jacket – ‘you ever want someone to write a book on what it’s like to be a friggin’ housewife, you send ’em to me. About one day a week I might get a couple of hours off, and then they lock me in the slob room.”