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“Jus’ lemme concentrate... we on the way now...” Jubo’s head was still down and his voice was muffled. There was a kind of glooping sound, and after another couple of moments he raised his head.

“Ey,” he said. “It worked! Me got one!” He fiddled about beneath the water and brought up the balloon – held it aloft for all to see. It had partially inflated, a quite respectable bladderful.

“Wow,” said Gene. “You’re a one-man gasworks, Jubo. Quick – someone grab a plastic bottle. We need to save this.”

Finding a bottle was no problem, and Enoch was out of the door and back again in a few seconds.

“Out you come then, Jubo. Let’s do the final stage.”

“But now me all wet, man!” Jubo stood up, water streaming down his legs and all over his shorts and trainers.

“Yeah, well,” said Gene, “that’s water for you. We just need to get hold of some extra rags or something to use as towels. So. Put the bottle in the bath and make sure there’s no air in it. Then push the balloon underneath it... actually, that’s not so easy...” Gene struggled to submerge the now buoyant balloon. “OK. Just gotta be careful, that’s all. And then we let the gas up into the bottle. Like... that. Put the cap on...” Gene pulled the dripping bottle out of the bath. It was about three-quarters full of water.

“That gap you can see at the top – that’s pure explosive, guys. Gotta make sure the cap’s on good and tight, so it doesn’t leak out. And there we have it. Our first instalment.”

“Hey, that’s great, Gene! How much do you reckon we’re gonna need?” The boys stood around admiring Jubo’s efforts.

“Dunno. A good few litres. I don’t even know what we’re gonna put it in yet, or what the best gas-and-air mixture should be or anything. But it’s a start. OK. Who’s next, then?”

It gave them a sense of purpose, and over the next few days the fart factory went into full-scale production. The hour or two between supper and lock-up became known as Fart Club, the boys experimenting with various techniques, and competing to see who could produce the most gas. Jubo set the benchmark in this respect. Nobody else could match the volume and frequency of his contributions.

There were some who were too shy or too intimidated to perform in the spotlight. They needed privacy. Dyson was one of these, and Ray another.

“Anyway, I’m better in the mornings,” Dyson said. “Get more of a build-up.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Ray. “Maybe I’ve got a slow met... metathingy...”

“Metabolism,” said Gene. “That’s OK. But no cheating! I got calculations to do, and I don’t want them mucked up by anyone just blowing the balloon up a little bit and then pretending it’s a fart in there.”

Between them the boys were capturing about a half-litre of methane per day – one small Coke bottle – and soon the question of where to hide the stuff came up.

Gene had already thought of this.

“The water butts,” he said. “Up at the sports center. We’ll get some big two-litre bottles and hang ’em upside down in the barrel we use for cleaning the tins – chuck a concrete block in there and tie ’em to that. Then we can put the gas from the little bottles into the big ones whenever we get a chance.”

“Maybe the water crew could do it?” said Robbie. “Whoever’s on that week could take the small bottles up to the sports center. They got an excuse to be goin’ up there.”

“Brilliant.”

CHAPTER
 
TWELVE

On the morning following the first session of Fart Club, the jetty crew stood in the corridor outside the sort room, ready and waiting for their orders. Baz was there, along with Amit, Jubo and Dyson – all the bigger boys, in accordance with Steiner’s instructions from the night before. There had been no picking of teams this time.

Steiner eventually showed up. He was carrying a steel tape measure, its bright green casing vaguely luminous in the dim light of the corridor.

“OK. You’re gonna need pickaxes, and you’re gonna need shovels. Wait here while I go and see Isaac.”

Steiner walked away, pulling out the end of the steel rule as he went, and brandishing it like a rapier. As he reached the corner at the far end of the corridor, he allowed the rule to snap back into position, an urgent whizz of the mechanism followed by a sharp click. Then he was gone.

What lay beyond that darkened corner was still unexplored territory to Baz, a mysterious otherworld known only to the salvage crew and the capos – and to Preacher John himself. None of the boys had ever been further than the slob-room door, and could only wonder at how they lived, those hulking giants who controlled the lives of so many. Down there was the center of all power, the palace of the mighty, a kingdom. With Preacher John as its king.

There was a murmur of sound and Isaac appeared, emerging from the gloom, with Steiner following close behind. The boys stood in silence as the skipper approached. He was dressed for a day on the salvage boat – grey fisherman’s smock, navy tracksuit bottoms and cut-off rubber boots. The sleeves of the smock were pushed up above his elbows, bits of thread dangling down. It looked as though the seams had either split or been deliberately unpicked in order to accommodate his huge forearms.

As Isaac passed by the line of boys, Baz caught the indefinable aroma of adult male, threatening and powerful.

The storeroom door was a little further along the corridor, on the opposite side, and here Isaac stopped.

“How many do you need?” he said to Steiner.

“Er... just three pickaxes, Skip. We’ve already got shovels.”

“OK. Here...” Isaac handed Steiner a bunch of keys. “I want these back at the end of the day, and I’ll be here to watch you check everything in again.”

Steiner undid the two heavy padlocks to the storeroom, drew back the bolts and entered the room. Isaac positioned himself just inside the doorway, so that any view of the interior was effectively blocked.

“You got ropes?” the boys heard him say. “Take two off that hook. And I don’t want them disappearing, either.”

Steiner emerged after a few moments, carrying a couple of pickaxes. He stood them against the corridor wall and went back inside the storeroom. Isaac turned and glanced at the line of boys. Baz quickly dropped his eyes and stared at the floor.

Then Steiner came out again, this time with one more pickaxe, and some skeins of blue nylon rope looped over his shoulder. “OK. That’s the lot,” he said.

Steiner padlocked the door once more. As Isaac waited, he took another look along the line of boys. Baz felt as though they were being judged, examined. He instinctively stood up a little straighter, in case he should be found wanting in some way, but then he regretted this because Isaac said, “Getting a bit 
big
, aren’t they, some of these kids? Who’s that one?”

“Er...” Steiner looked across. “Dyson. Been here a while now.”

Isaac nodded. “Hm... long enough, maybe.”

There was a low rumble of other voices, a distant accompaniment to Isaac’s own, and the rest of the salvage crew came round the corner at the far end of the corridor.

They were carrying their diving gear. Luke and Amos each had aqualungs hoisted loosely upon their shoulders, while Moko, bringing up the rear, carried a bundle of wetsuits over his arm. As they came to a halt in front of the line of boys, Baz realized that this was the first time he’d been in the presence of the entire crew, and so close up, with an opportunity to study them properly. He’d noticed before how similar the shaven-headed brothers were, and now he guessed they might actually be twins. He could tell them apart, though, the one called Luke having a broken nose, a white scar across the misshapen bridge. Moko was shorter and stockier than the brothers, maybe a bit older. All of them were tough-looking guys, their broad frames and stubbled faces a reminder of the vast difference between boys and men. One swipe from Moko alone could have sent the entire group of boys spinning away like skittles.

“What’s going on?” said Amos. “Trouble?”

Isaac continued to stare at the boys, looking into their faces, one at a time. “No, just weighing up stock, Amos. Weighing up stock. Haven’t taken much notice for a while, and we need to be careful. A boy gets to a certain age... things start to change.” He rubbed at the underside of his bearded chin as his attention passed from Dyson to Baz. There was no emotion in his expression, nothing beyond professional interest, a cool observation of the specimens before him. He might have been at a county fair, appraising sheep or cattle. Baz kept his head up, and found that he could meet the skipper’s gaze after all – if only for a few moments.

“Pups grow into young dogs before you know it, and that’s when they begin to get ideas. They start to get that look in their eye—”

“They do indeed, Isaac. They do indeed.”

Isaac jumped – actually jumped – as the words came booming along the corridor. Baz reacted almost simultaneously, jerking backwards in alarm, the wall behind him thudding against his shoulder blades. He turned his head, and saw all the other heads do the same, swivelling to the right as if yanked by a single thread.

Preacher John!

From the direction of the main entrance came the preacher, bearing down upon the assembly. His vast rolling bulk seemed to take up all available space, and to soak up the very light itself. Bright particles of dust flew towards him, as though magnetized, sucked headlong into the black hole of his being.

He drew so close that Baz could smell him. A vague musty aura, like stale tobacco, or burning wax. And now Baz saw for the first time just how huge and awesome Preacher John was. The man was a giant. He dwarfed his sons. Even Isaac looked insignificant by comparison, shrunken, deflated.

Baz felt a terrible urge to reach out and touch the black cloth of Preacher John’s jacket, pick at the motes of dust, examine the shiny seams. It was like wanting to reach through the bars of a cage and tug at the fur of a sleeping lion or a mighty gorilla, knowing full well what the consequences would be.

“Yes, Isaac. They get that look in their eye...”

Preacher John’s own rheumy yellow eyes looked down upon Baz... held him for an intense and terrifying moment... and then moved on. Baz felt as though he’d been momentarily pinned against the wall, searched, and then released, his guilty thoughts now in the possession of Preacher John.

“The world might have changed, but boys don’t.” The preacher was looking at Amit now. “I know them for what they are. Pack animals. Aye, and every one of them wants to be pack leader. They’re like dogs, are boys. Each of ’em chasing the one in front, ready to tear at his heels and bring him down. And they’ll go for you too, the one holding the whip, if you should ever turn your back on them. The bigger they get, the more dangerous they become. So dogs need to be kept in their place, and the whip needs to be cracked. Isn’t that right, Isaac?” He pointed a huge red forefinger at Amit. “You. How long have you been with us?”

“Um... ’bout six months.” Amit kept his head low.

“Six months. And you reckon yourself top dog here, yes?”

Amit said nothing.

“I see I’m right. I’m always right. Get down on all fours, boy. On your knees, then, like a dog.”

Baz glanced to his left and saw Amit’s look of confusion, hesitation.

“Down! On your 
knees
, I said!”

Amit dropped to the ground and placed his hands before him, fingers spread.

“Right then – you!” This time Preacher John pointed at Dyson. “Kick him.”

“What?”

“Kick him, I said. He reckons himself to be top dog – but then so do you, don’t you? So kick him while he’s down. Here’s your chance.”

“But I don’t—”

“
Kick him!”
Preacher John’s voice rose to a roar, and Dyson hesitated no longer. He stepped past Baz and gave Amit a kick in the ribs. There was no real force behind it, but Amit grunted nevertheless, and lurched sideways.

“Again!” the preacher shouted. “Kick him! And the rest of you – get stuck in! Come on!”

There was no choice but to obey, or at least pretend to. The boys gathered around the kneeling figure of Amit, and Dyson led the way with another half-hearted kick – this time to Amit’s shoulder. Hesitant and bewildered, the others followed suit. Feet snaked out from all directions, and Baz found himself aiming a gentle tap at Amit’s thigh, determined to cause as little pain as he could.

But such restraint didn’t suit Preacher John.

“
Kick
 him, you scum, before I strangle the lot of you!” The preacher stepped forward, an open hand raised, and in the face of such a threat all fellow feeling had to be set aside. The corridor became a jostling scrimmage of bodies, a football game with the curled-up figure of Amit at its center. Kick after kick landed upon the boy, and still Preacher John demanded more. There could be no holding back, and the game quickly escalated into a kind of blind violence. Baz was caught up in its ferocity, lashing out at any part of Amit that became exposed – arms, legs, buttocks – conscious only that his own skin depended upon it. He was underwater again, choking to death, and it was the same desperate struggle for survival. Whatever it took... whatever it took. And now he had to kick even harder – because he really 
was
 choking. There was something around his neck and he couldn’t breathe. Kick for your life, then. Kick yourself free...

He was being dragged backwards, a hard muscular arm yanking him away from the bundle of bodies, shaking him back into focus.

One of the divers had grabbed him – Luke – and now the other boys were being hauled off too. Baz was shoved roughly aside. He careened into Dyson, and together they fell against the corridor wall, panting, coughing. Wild-eyed faces danced around him, each bearing the same hungry look that he had seen on the day of his arrival. And he was no different. No different to anyone else.

“Dogs.” Preacher John looked calmly down at the prostrate figure of Amit. “And dog’ll eat dog, if that’s what it comes to. Pick him up, then, and set him on his feet. He’ll take no harm from this. It does a dog good to be kicked every once in a while. Reminds him of what he is – a dog. And the rest of you had better remember it. This could have been any one of you. Wouldn’t you say so, boy?”