Authors: Steve Augarde
Gene sighed. “I don’t care who goes first, but I’m not starting till we’ve got a lookout.”
“Well, OK.” Jubo gave in. “But two minutes, and another guy better show.” He disappeared through the doorway.
“Right,” said Gene. “First we’re gonna get the water out of the bottles.” He tipped the Coke bottle upside down. “Tear me off a bit of gaffer tape, Ray, like I told you. OK?”
“Yeah.” Ray had a roll of black plastic tape at the ready.
Gene picked up a wine cork that lay on the floor. There was a needle sticking out of it.
He pierced the upside-down plastic bottle, as near to the cap as he could, then gently began to squeeze the bottle. A thin stream of liquid leaked out, fine as a miniature water pistol. Gene kept up a steady pressure and said, “Gimme the bit of tape, Ray. Here, on my thumb.” As the last drops of water turned to spray, Gene quickly pressed the scrap of black tape over the hole.
“Phew,” he said. “I caught a whiff of that. There you go.” He held up the partially crushed bottle for a moment, before placing it upright in the steel cauldron. “So that’s pure methane in there, yeah? No water left, and no air can get in. OK – one down, three to go. Somebody go and take over from Jubo.”
“I’ll do it.” Amit left the washroom, and Jubo rushed back in a few seconds later, just as Gene picked up the second bottle.
“All quiet out there.”
Once the same operation had started for the third time, Baz took over from Amit. He figured that this way he wouldn’t miss anything that he hadn’t already seen.
The corridor was silent and empty as Baz began his watch – no sign of anyone about. It was pitch black down at the divers’ end, and Baz felt an increased sense of something awful hanging over the place. He couldn’t shake the thought of Nadine and Steffie from his head.
A special service
, Amos had said;
a very special offering...
Baz pictured the altar down on the jetty... burning fires... flames... screams...
“OK. My turn.” Dyson’s voice made Baz leap sideways in fright.
“Jesus, you made me jump!”
“Hey. Sorry.”
Baz hurried down through the deserted slob room and back into the jakes, his head still full of troubled images.
The circle of dimly lit faces surrounded Gene as he moved to the next stage.
“Right,” he said. “So we’ve put all the bottles in. Now we do the cartridges. I reckon if we open maybe half of them and tip the gunpowder into the pot, then that’ll set off the rest. Grab a couple each and pick the ends open. Pull out the wadding, and then tip everything else into the pot.”
There was a general scrabble as everyone took a couple of shotgun cartridges from the two square boxes. Baz looked curiously at the smooth cylindrical objects in his hand: orange plastic casing, shiny brass ends. They felt pleasurable to hold, a satisfying weight to them. These had been his passage over here, he thought, won by his father in a poker game. Were they now to be his means of escape? Baz used the blade of his penknife to pick experimentally at the rolled-over lip at the end of one of the cartridges, levering it up and back. Beneath that was a small plastic disc, then some tightly packed wadding, like cotton wool. He pulled this out and gently tipped some of the remaining contents into his hand. Black gunpowder and a stream of little balls of lead. So tiny, they were, for such a deadly purpose. Baz sniffed at his palm and was instantly reminded of firework nights... sitting on his dad’s shoulders... watching all the wonderful lights. His baby sister, Lol, sitting on Mum’s shoulders and looking the wrong way completely, staring not at the fireworks but at the moon... ‘Look at
that
one, Mum... look at
that
one’...
“Come on. Don’t muck about with the stuff. Just get it in the pot.” Gene was giving out orders. Baz quickly opened the second cartridge and knelt by the pressure cooker. As he added his small contribution to the mix, he took the opportunity to brush a forearm across his eyes, glad of the semi-darkness.
“Last ingredient,” said Gene, and dragged the ammunition box towards him, the metal case scraping across the gritty floor. He undid the hasps, flipped up the lid and drew out a long folded belt of machine-gun bullets. Baz had never seen such a thing in real life. He rubbed at his watery eyes again, and caught the sparkle of brass, the rows of bullets like teeth or miniature rockets, each neatly held in place by its clip.
“Are we gonna take those apart as well?” said Robbie.
“Nope. We’re just gonna add them for good luck.” Gene lowered the belt into the cauldron, using both hands to weave it around the upright bottles.
“OK,” he said. “So now we’ve got methane, gunpowder, shotgun cartridges and M sixty ammo. If that lot goes up, then it’s gonna be a bloody big bang.
But...
we have to try and make sure it does go up, and that’s where this little baby comes in.”
Gene held up a small plastic bottle. It might have once contained nose-drops or body lotion.
“What’s in there?” said Robbie.
“Lighter fuel. It’s like a detonator.”
Gene took the cap off the little bottle, and then gently pushed the mouth of it over the end of the spark plug. He looked up as Dyson came back into the room.
“Hey – someone else’s turn,” Dyson said. “I bin out there for bleedin’ ages.”
“Sorry,” said Gene. “We got carried away. Anyway, we’re almost done. Just keep an eye out through the doorway, someone – we’ll risk the last couple of minutes. OK, I need four pairs of hands – Whoa-whoa-whoa. Get back, all of you. I’ll tell you who they’re gonna be. Me, for a start, ’cos I know what I’m doing. And Ray, ’cos this was his idea. Baz, ’cos he found the pressure cooker, and Jubo.”
“Why Jubo?”
“’Cos without that arse of his we’d never have got enough friggin’ methane, that’s why.”
“Hah! Good old Jubo.”
“Right,” said Gene. “The tricky bit. We’ve got to loosen the caps of the Coke bottles, but keep ’em pressed down so the gas doesn’t escape, yeah? Then when I say go, we whip off the caps, grab the lid of the cooker and get it on there as quick as we can – tighten up the bolts before any of the gas leaks out. Anybody smells farts then we’ve been too slow.”
Baz and Jubo and Ray knelt down next to Gene and took a Coke bottle each.
“After three, then,” said Gene. “One, two, three...”
Baz took the cap from his bottle, threw it aside and grasped the rim of the heavy lid. He lifted in unison with the others, and in less than two seconds the lid was sitting snugly on top of the circular steel drum.
“Bolts! Tighten the bolts! Quick as you can...”
Their hands flew, flipping the hinged bolts upwards into their slots and spinning the T-shaped wing nuts until they met resistance. Tighter and tighter they turned the wing nuts, until the lid was well and truly clamped down.
“My God,” said Gene. “We’ve done it.” He sat back on his haunches for a few moments, then got to his feet. The others followed suit, and the washroom was silent as all stared at the object in front of them.
It was impressive. The heavy vessel stood well over knee-high, and was almost as wide as it was tall. With its pressure gauge mounted on top, and the white ceramic spark plug protruding from the metal dome, it looked deeply purposeful. A mighty engine of destruction. A weapon of vengeance. If they could truly make it explode, then what could withstand such a blast?
“See, the gas’ll mix with the air in there,” said Gene, “now we’ve taken the tops off the Coke bottles. It’ll all mingle up together. So when the detonator bottle explodes, it should be like a chain reaction—”
“Oi! What are you lot all doing down there?” A voice coming from the slob room.
Hutchinson! He was heading directly towards the jakes – his square bulk just meters away – ugly face screwed up in a frown...
Oh God, no! Baz was too stunned to move. He swayed to one side as someone squeezed past him. It was Ray, already through the door of the washroom.
“Hey, Hutchinson.” Ray stood in front of the capo. “You haven’t got another shower-head, have you? A proper one?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Hutchinson came to a halt.
“That old garden-hose thing we’ve got – it’s had it. The holes are all blocked up. We can’t get the shower to work.”
God, the kid was sharp. Baz gawped at Ray in total admiration. But Gene was making better use of the delay.
“Quick,” he hissed. “Help me drag this thing into the cubicle. Get rid of those cartridge boxes – and block the doorway, some of you.”
“
Shower-head?”
Hutchinson glanced down at Ray. “What the hell do you expect me to do about it, you little tosser?”
“Well, I just wondered – you know, being a capo – whether you could get hold of a new one for us?”
“Eh?” Hutchinson still looked confused, but he stepped round Ray and continued towards the jakes. Baz, finding his senses at last, crowded himself into the doorway with one or two of the others.
“Get out of the way.” Hutchinson was trying to peer into the washroom. “Christ, it’s like a chuffin’ mother’s meeting in here.” He shoved Baz aside. “Move yourself, arsehole.”
“See...” Baz pointed towards the shower, trying to deflect Hutchinson’s attention from the heavy scraping sounds in the end cubicle. “It’s all blocked up.”
Hutchinson stood just inside the washroom and looked over at the hosepipe arrangement that dangled above the shower tray.
“Tough,” he said. “Get Gene to fix it. Where is he anyhow?”
“In here.” A muffled voice from the second cubicle.
“Then get yourself out of there. And everybody else – hop it. Get into your nighties and slob down. I’m putting the lights out now. Come on. Shift it.”
Hutchinson stood in the doorway as the boys trooped past him, seeming to deliberately position himself so that they had to brush against his sweaty body.
“Hurry it up, Gene.” Hutchinson left the jakes and walked back down through the slob room. As he passed Ray, he said, “Sunday tomorrow. And we’re in business, ’cos Steiner’s just smashed that drain cover in. Fun time!” He gave a horrible little double click of his tongue.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
The sense of something awful being about to happen remained with Baz. He walked in silence amidst the other boys as they trooped along the jetty on their way to Sunday service. The capos and a couple of the divers were close behind, and to Baz it seemed as though he was one of a herd of cattle being driven out to pasture. Or perhaps to the slaughterhouse...
He felt the heavy atmosphere weighing down on him, a dull and sticky heat that blanketed the surrounding grey waters in steam. The altar drew closer – so grotesque and sinister, now that its purpose was known. Branches and brushwood covered the stone tablet, piled higher even than before, and beyond that rose the tall wooden cross, smoke-blackened against the featureless sky.
Preacher John was already there, waiting. The lectern had been brought down from the assembly room, and he stood behind it, dressed all in black as usual, his huge crack-knuckled hands gripping the edges of the tilted bookrest.
The boys took their places, shuffling into two lines. Baz glanced up and saw that Preacher John was looking directly at him.
Ivory colored, the whites of his eyes were, as though pickled in vinegar. Pale-grey irises, pink-rimmed lids beneath thick gingery brows. Unblinking, cold, emotionless. Yet that gaze was deeply piercing, and once again Baz struggled to look away, feeling that his every thought was being read.
Crack!
An explosion! Baz had no time to react before it happened again.
Crack!
Gunfire!
From where, though? All the boys were ducking low, bumping against one another, staring wildly about. Baz looked briefly towards Preacher John, half expecting to find that someone had assassinated him.
But the preacher was very much alive. He raised his arms and shouted, “Stay where you are! Face me!”
More confusion, the boys still lurching this way and that in panic. “Face
me
, I said!” Preacher John roared out his order, and this time everyone obeyed. Baz resumed his former place, between Jubo and Dyson, and faced forward.
“Now then. Let’s have those hymn books handed out.”
The gunshots had apparently come as no surprise to Preacher John. He pointed at Ray, standing at the furthest end of the front row, and said, “You – get moving.”
Ray passed along the lines, handing out the copies of
Songs of Praise
. He looked ill, terrified, his skin unnaturally pale.
Baz risked a quick glance back towards the school building. Had the shots come from there? Horrible thoughts surged through his head, and he tried to pick out the windows of the art room...
No, it was impossible. Not even Preacher John could be that insane. But then Baz remembered Amos’s words once again, about the special service. The special offer...
“Hymn number three-three-one. ‘Thine Are All the Gifts’.”
“
Thine are all the gifts, O God
,
Thine the broken bread:
Let the naked feet be shod
,
And the starving fed.”
Baz had never felt less like singing. The words stuck to his dry tongue, and judging by the feeble croaking of those around him, he wasn’t the only one having difficulty. The hymn droned on, but Baz was scarcely present. He tried to hear once again the echo of the distant gunshots; tried to judge from which direction they had come.
Was
it the school? This was crazy.
“O Lord, we know that you hear our prayers...” Preacher John had begun his sermon. “The clear waters draw ever closer, by your hand, and so we continue to lay before you all that we have. Whatever it may please thee to receive, so we shall give, even to our own. And for whatever is given to us, we shall offer our thanks in return.”
Preacher John leaned forward across the lectern. “Yes, my sons! We understand that it is not enough to merely pray for deliverance. When such deliverance comes, we must offer up proper acknowledgement. From the deep comes the bounty we seek, and from the heavens the blessed rain. To the deep, then, and to the heavens, we send tokens of our gratitude.”