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“Oh... gawd...” One of the saucepans started to boil over, and Cookie made a grab for the lid. “Chop the onion!” he shouted. “Use that knife with the white handle. Quick as you can!”

Baz picked up the knife that Cookie had indicated, and prepared to tackle the onion. But how did you begin? Weren’t you supposed to peel it or something?

“Cut it into quarters’ – Cookie took the saucepan off the cooker ring, and replaced it with the frying pan – ‘the skin’ll come off easier. Then just chop it up.”

By the time Baz had finished his eyes were streaming.

“Sling it all in the frying pan!”

Baz blindly scraped the onion into the massive frying pan and felt the sharp sting of boiling fat pricking at his fingers. “Ow! What are you making?”

“Onion-fried rice and peas... tin of boiled ham. OK. Rice is done. Empty the water out and tip it in with the onions. You look after that bit; I’ll sort the ham out.”

So Baz mixed the rice and peas in with the fried onions, while Cookie retrieved the tin of ham from the other saucepan.

“God. I can’t do it... can’t get the blimmin’ thing open...” Cookie was struggling.

It was no good. Baz had to leave the stirring of the rice and onions to Cookie, and take over control of the ham. The tin was boiling hot, and he scalded his fingers on it several times trying to get it open.

“Tip it onto a plate and cut it into slices. Then we’re done.”

At last everything was plated up and ready to go. Cookie held open the kitchen door for Baz, and he pushed the trolley through.

The grumbling voices of the divers ceased as Baz and Cookie drew near. They’d been talking about their teeth, it seemed, because Isaac muttered, “We’ll get it all sorted next week. Dentist on Monday.” It sounded funny, the idea that Isaac and his crew had dental appointments.

Cookie disappeared with Preacher John’s tray of food, leaving Baz to deal with the divers. He doled out the plates without mishap, although his whole body was shaking with nerves. When Cookie returned, Isaac said, “Oi. Come here.” He reached out and grabbed Cookie by the arm.

“Take off that filthy bandage,” he said. “Let me see your hand.”

“It – it’s OK,” Cookie stammered. “It’s almost better now.”

“Take it off, I said!”

Cookie began to unwind the long strip of grey and greasy bandage. His big round face was already crumpling as the flesh became exposed, and Baz could hardly bear to look.

The skin on Cookie’s hand was almost purple, with puffy weeping areas of bare flesh, fingers swollen into a soggy mass. Baz had had no idea that it was that bad. The poor guy must be in agony.

“What’s your name?” Isaac’s voice was flat; no emotion there.

“Matthew.” Tears rolled down Cookie’s face.

“Matthew. Right then, Matthew, you’re no good to us now—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be all right. I just need a bit more time... bit more help—”

“Don’t interrupt. I said you’re no good to 
us
. Understand? So you’ll go back tomorrow. Preacher John wants you down on the jetty and ready to leave first thing.”

“Please... oh, please...” Cookie was shaking, near to collapse. He dashed his forearm across his streaming eyes. “Don’t. I can’t go—”

“You’re going.” Isaac turned his attention to Baz. “And you’re taking over. From now on you’re Cookie, understand?”

Baz couldn’t find his voice.

“I said 
understand?
 Are you lot deaf or something?”

“No! I mean, yes! I... I understand.”

“You start tomorrow, then. Now hop it. I don’t want you talking to this kid again. Get back to the slob room.”

Baz looked once more at Cookie, hesitated, and then turned and walked away. As he left the dining area, he heard Isaac say to Cookie, “Take the trolley back to the kitchen and get the place cleaned up. Then you’re done.”

*  *  *

Cookie stumbled into the slob room after lights-out, a confused and shadowy figure. Baz heard his shaky breathing as he made his way into the jakes. Everybody knew what had happened, and for once there were no sneers or jeers following the boy’s progress. But there were no words of comfort either.

As Cookie came out of the jakes, Baz was surprised to hear his voice – a throaty whisper in the darkness.

“Baz – got something to show you. Early tomorrow. “Fore I go.” Cookie passed on, his feet thumping softly on the carpet tiles.

But by the time the boys were up in the morning, Cookie had already disappeared.

As Baz hurried down to the kitchen first thing, he bumped into Moko, carrying a bundle of wetsuits over his arm.

“Has Cookie—?” Baz began to ask, but Moko walked by without even a sideways glance. Whatever it was that Cookie had wanted to say, he’d left it too late.

The busy day took over, and there were enough worries and moments of panic to keep Baz from dwelling too much on Cookie’s departure. He found himself thinking about the rabbits in the odd spare minutes that he did have, and wondering how on earth he was going to cope with preparing them for the pot. At around midday he slipped outside the main building and pulled up a few handfuls of grass and dandelion leaves to feed the creatures, and as he stood upright he took a moment to stare out over the seascape. The line of blue water he’d seen on Monday seemed to have moved further away. It was still visible, but surely more distant than it had been. So much for Preacher John’s ideas on the power of prayer, then.

Back in the kitchen he fed the rabbits, watching the silent creatures as they nibbled their way through the fresh fodder. The fate that awaited them hung far more heavily over his head than it did theirs.

Time to think about the cooking. Baz decided to play it very safe. He went to the store cupboard and sorted out some tins of 
I/STEW.
 Irish stew. Couldn’t go wrong with that. And for pudding he would just open some tins of stewed fruit. Maybe he would try his hand at custard, made with milk powder. If it went wrong he could simply leave it out – not serve it – and nobody would be any the wiser. As Baz pulled open the utensils drawer in order to find a tin-opener, he saw the shiny metal hammer winking up at him. He snatched at the tin-opener and quickly pushed the drawer shut.

That evening he delivered Preacher John’s supper for the first time. Walking down the dim corridor, carrying the aluminum tray of food, Baz felt as though he were approaching a dragon’s lair... an ogre’s castle. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to face the monster within.

He turned the corner and came to an immediate halt, rocking forward on his toes in an effort to keep his balance – and almost dropping the tray. Preacher John was standing in his open doorway, a dark and solid mass against the eerie light from the room beyond. The smell of burning wax drifted out into the corridor. Candles.

Baz stood completely still, too shocked to move.

The huge bulk loomed before him, awful in its silence. Then it began to alter shape, shifting, diminishing, as it moved back through the door frame. Preacher John’s face became visible, cracked and weather-worn, the orange hairs of his beard glowing like electric filaments in the flickering light. He motioned Baz into the room with a wave of his hand, and pointed to a far corner. Here stood a small table and a single wooden chair. The table was covered with a white cloth, laid diagonally, and at the center of the tablecloth a candle burned in a glass jar. Baz hesitated for a moment, then stepped across the threshold.

A dark wooden bed with a white coverlet. A wooden cabinet next to the bed. A Bible – the same black leather Bible that was used on Sundays; a crucifix hanging on the wall above the bedstead. Baz took in the sparse features as he crossed the room. The candle flame danced away from him at his approach, sending forth a twisted plume of black smoke. Baz rested the tray on the tablecloth. He noticed that there was a kind of cushion-thing lying on the floor, just beneath the table. It was covered in thick carpet material, heavily em broidered. Baz recognized it as being a kneeler, or a hassock. Like you’d see in church pews... or before an altar—

“And before the altars of God, the righteous lay their offerings.”

Baz jumped at the deep sound of Preacher John’s voice – and at how his own thoughts had been snatched from him. It was as though his head were transparent, everything in it visible. He was aware of Preacher John’s towering presence behind him, black and threatening as a tidal wave. A creeping coldness flooded his insides, ran like icy needles through his veins, pricked at the very roots of his hair.

“So the other one has gone.” The room seemed to vibrate as Preacher John spoke again. His words made no sense, and yet an answer was demanded.

Baz turned his head, instinctively cowering, still unable to properly face the monstrous figure behind him.

“Other one?” He just about managed to get the sounds out.

“The other boy.” Preacher John pointed to the tray. “The other purveyor of these... offerings.”

“Oh.” Baz risked a quick glance up at the great battered face above him. “You mean Cookie? Yes. He’s gone home.”

“Ah. He has gone home – as all must, in the end.”

Baz found himself looking directly into Preacher John’s fearsome eyes, drawn beyond the bloodshot rims and pale grey irises to deeper and darker places within. And then it was as though he was being sucked forward into that darkness, pulled into the night, unable to resist. Like a moth he fluttered, directionless, beating his way through the ruined cities, shattered belfries, slimy streets. Ugly things were hidden here... amidst smoke and fire... wild dancing creatures—

“Take the tray.”

“Ah...” Baz blinked, and the terrifying visions whirled away into nothingness. “What? Oh... yes.” In a daze he turned once more, and lifted the shimmering plates of food from their tray, slid them across to the table. Oh God. His hands quaked, beyond his control, so that the knife, fork and spoon that he’d brought clattered onto the white cloth in a heap.

“Leave them be!” Preacher John’s voice pulsed at the very walls, too big for such a confined space. “Go.”

“Yes. Thank you. I’ll pick... later – I’ll...” Baz was gibbering, stumbling, backing away across the room, desperate just to get out. As he groped behind him for the door handle, he saw Preacher John stoop to retrieve the hassock from beneath the table. Baz wriggled round the door and pulled it shut. His last glimpse was of the dark-suited figure going down onto one knee, a heavy palm already covering his brow.

“O Lord, look down upon your servant...” The muffled sounds drifted away as Baz fled down the empty corridors, the scent of candle smoke lingering deep in his nostrils, the taste of it upon his panting breath. It was still with him as he burst into the kitchen.

For a while Baz leaned against the stainless steel cooker, head down, gripping the cool metal with both hands. Now he understood. Now he saw why Isaac and his brothers were so in awe of their father, so completely at his command. Only when he looked at you, deep into your eyes, could you experience the full weight of his power. The terrifying hypnotic power of Preacher John.

It was late by the time Baz had finished his duties, and he felt completely shattered. The atmosphere in the slob room seemed unusually gloomy. Nobody was saying much. Baz lay on his bed and waited for Ray to come back from the washroom.

“Everything OK?” he said. “What’ve you been doing?”

Ray fell onto his mattress, rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. “Collecting wood,” he said, “is what we’ve been doing. We had to go up to the copse and find dead wood – branches, whatever. Drag it all down to the jetty. Then we’ve been sawing it up.”

“Yeah? What’s it for?”

Ray turned his head to look at him. He had a smudge of green across his brow, and scratches on his forearms – evidence of his day working in the copse.

“The altar. That’s what we reckon, anyhow. To burn on the altar. What the hell’s Preacher John gonna be burning on there? That’s what we want to know. There’s that blinkin’ great cross sticking up – it’s scary. Yeah. So that got us all worried. And... I dunno. We’ve all been feeling bad about Cookie as well, I s’pose. Really bad about that. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. And maybe if we’d kind of stuck by him a bit... you know... he might still be here. Poor guy.”

“Yeah. Poor old Cookie. I sort of liked him. Still’ – Baz tried to be positive – ‘maybe he’s got family – friends – whatever, back on the mainland. A home. He might be better off there than here, for all we know.”

“What?” Ray looked at him as though he’d said something particularly stupid.

“Well, you know...” said Baz. “I mean, it might not be as bad for him over there as—”

“Baz, it’s Friday. Don’t you get it?” Ray lay back on his mattress and stared at the ceiling again. “Friday’s a diving day.”

Baz had a brief memory of Moko, then, coming along the corridor, carrying wetsuits over his arm...

“Ohhh... God,” he groaned.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ray. “They took Cookie out on the boat this morning, but it came back this afternoon loaded with salvage. The boat never went over to the mainland, and neither did Cookie. He never got there.”

CHAPTER
 
SEVENTEEN

Sunday. Baz had been dreading it. He’d sorted through his recipe books and found a number of interesting ways of preparing rabbits – rabbit stew, rabbit pot-roast, rabbit jointed and deep-fried – but the books didn’t say anything about slaughtering the beasts to begin with. Nobody around him had much in the way of advice or sympathy to offer. What he served up to the divers, or how he did it, was none of their concern.

And that was another thing. He was beginning to feel separated, estranged from the other boys. His role and his position had changed. He worked alone now, and ate alone, and was no longer part of the general crew.

“Yeah, but it’s not your fault.” Ray at least was understanding. “You got no choice but to do as you’re told. None of us have.”

Ray was up and dressed early as usual. Baz was still pulling on his trainers. One of the soles had come away from its upper – the things were completely rotten – and this didn’t help improve his mood.