Thunderbolt by Wilbur Smith (reading strategies book .txt) 📕

above the boat was full of depth, with some stars so distant they were barely visible and others seemingly near enough to touch.

Barrel-man had his feet up on the boat’s dashboard, to one side of the steering wheel. He was leaning back in Pete’s chair, dozing. Astonishingly, Mo’s efforts to make things tolerable for us seemed to have paid off for Amelia. She was curled up on her side at my feet, breathing in the steady rhythm of sleep. And before long Mo, cocooned in his blanket, seemed to have drifted off as well. But I was still electrically awake, and though his back was turned to me I could sense that Xander, like me, either didn’t want to give in to sleep, or couldn’t.

The burbling of the cruiser’s motor, together with the slap and splash of water beneath our hull, was enough to mask a little noise, so I decided to risk it.

‘Xander,’ I whispered.

‘Yes,’ he breathed.

‘Keep an eye on the pirate. If he stirs, do something to distract him. OK?’

‘Sure.’

Very slowly indeed I twisted from a sitting position until I was curled on my side among the life jackets. Then, over the course of about fifteen minutes, I inched my way along the bottom of the boat towards the raised platform that supported Pete’s chair. Not because I wanted to get at Barrel-man – what could I do with my hands bound? – but because I needed to reach the starboard bulwark behind his seat. Our dry-bags were hung on hooks there.

Fortunately, the closer I got to Barrel-man the less likely he was to see me; by the time I was pressed up behind the forward platform he would have had to turn right round and lean over his chair-back to spot me.

Still, I had the problem of unhitching my bag without it thumping down into the hold. The best I could think to do was to try and lift it from its hook with my feet and let it flop down onto my midriff, cushioning the bag’s fall with my body.

That was the plan, but for long moments I couldn’t manage it. To stop things bouncing off them in rough seas, the hooks had barbed lips. Try as I might, I couldn’t manipulate the bag finely enough with my feet. A howl of frustration welled up within me. I fought to keep my cool, took a deep breath, tried for the bag again. There was a strange squeaking in my ears as I struggled with it, a noise I realised was coming from me, ferociously grinding my teeth.

Could I time it so that the bag fell when we hit a wave? No: there was no pattern to the background boat noise. Just get on with it, I told myself. What’s the worst Barrel-man might do if he caught me? Trying to reassure myself with that question was pointless. He could chuck me overboard like Pete. Well, that was a risk I’d have to take. Holding my breath again, I finally levered the dry-bag clear of its hook, and let it slide-tumble down my leg and onto my chest.

Nothing happened. Specifically, no head appeared over the seat-back. I glanced across at Xander, plainly visible in the starlight. He nodded at me almost imperceptibly. So far, so good. The boat rose and fell to the same gentle soundtrack, the stars rocking from side to side above it.

With my back to the bulwark I eased myself up into a sitting position and shifted the dry-bag to my side. I had to strain to reach the clasp fastening its neck, but once I had hold of it I managed to pinch the thing apart easily enough. It didn’t take me long to fish out my phone. Once I had it, I fastened the bag shut again and, lying on my back, I pushed it up to the bulwark again with my feet.

That part wasn’t as tricky as it sounds. The carry handle slipped over the hook easily enough. Inching my way back to the stern was agony though. The night sky seemed to have grown brighter still. If Barrel-man had thought to check he would definitely have spotted me out of place. But he didn’t, and soon enough I’d made it back to my slot between Amelia and Xander. She was still sleeping, but he was very much awake.

‘What are you up to?’ he whispered.

‘I need to send a message,’ I replied.

‘To who? Saying what?’

‘I’m going to tell Mum to blank these guys when they make contact asking for money.’

Xander shifted so that he could see my face close-up. ‘You’re going to do what?!’

‘Trust me,’ I whispered.

‘You know I trust you, but …’ He tailed off.

It was impossible to use my phone behind my back. No matter how much I strained, I couldn’t see the screen while I was holding it. But I managed to ignite the thing blind and, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Xander, with him angling it my way, I could see it.

I always keep my phone on silent: only an idiot wants to be interrupted by constant notifications. That’s why none of the rash of messages spread across its screen had made it beep or buzz. All of the messages were from Mum. The first, casual and breezy, asked when we expected to be back at the resort. When she’d received no reply, she’d sent further pleas for an update. Mum always punctuates and proofreads her texts carefully, but the last message she’d sent was a frantic Please Jack pick up or reply I’m really so worried without commas or a full stop at the end.

My heartbeat had slowed down since I’d retrieved the phone. Now it felt dead in my chest, a plodding boom of sadness for poor, poor Mum.

I knew what I wanted to tell Mum, and I knew how upset she’d be to hear it, but thinking up the right – few – words was nowhere near as hard as getting them typed. Very