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

and then the pickup hit what felt like a log, throwing all four of us (Mo had joined our little human chain the other side of Amelia) up in the air at once and slamming us back down onto the ribbed metal tray with a steel-band crescendo b-b-bang.

Nobody complained.

In fact, when we spoke at all, we tried to make light of the hardship.

Xander’s fake indifference rubbed off on the rest of us. We said, ‘Nice!’ and ‘Great!’ and ‘Bring it on!’ instead of ‘Ow!’ and ‘Damnit!’ and ‘I can’t take much more!’

And it helped. When the pickup eventually jerked to a halt, I felt like I’d spent a day inside an industrial tumble drier, but I hadn’t cracked. None of us had. Xander simply said, ‘Well, that was fun,’ and we waited beneath the beating sun, frightened, yes, but ready to face whatever would happen to us next.

29.

Somebody said something and Mo relayed it. ‘Sit still, very still,’ he said.

I waited, unable to decipher what was happening.

Xander said, ‘Thanks so much. No, really.’

Then a hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me round. Fingers lifted the hem of the sack at the base of my throat. There was a ripping noise. Light broke in and a knife blade, carrying on past the duct tape and up into the hessian, passed a centimetre from my nose. Whoever it was yanked the sack – and a clump of my hair – clean off my head and tossed it aside. Blinking blindly, I followed Xander’s example, murmuring, ‘Too kind.’

Amelia went for a more direct approach. When she realised what was happening, she hissed, ‘Be careful, will you, idiot!’

Happily, Barrel-man was wielding the knife and he didn’t pick up on the insult. He cut Mo out of his hood last, then freed our hands and stood back from the truck while we got down and shook ourselves loose and adjusted to the brightness.

If I’d thought the little fishing port where we’d come ashore was the middle of nowhere, I was mistaken. Compared with this place, that was a metropolis. It had some proper buildings at least. We were in scabby bush here, with nothing nearby except a clutch of ragged-looking tents. The biggest one, nearest the truck, had no ridge pole. This gave it a deflated look.

A man emerged from between the tents. He was slight, about thirty years old, and he was wearing smart military fatigues. Despite the dusty surroundings his boots gleamed and his shirt was pressed. His scalp was also gleaming, oiled and as clean shaven as a conker. Tucked up under his left arm was a little black stick, a baton in fact, and he waved this in Barrel-man’s direction as he approached.

Barrel-man took a deferential step backwards. The muscles in his neck were rigid. He said something quietly to the new guy, who ignored him in favour of looking us over.

‘Good morning. Welcome,’ he said. His mouth smiled but his eyes were unreadable. ‘My name is General Sir.’

‘General Sir what?’ said Amelia.

‘General Sir,’ the man repeated, his cold smile still in place.

Amelia drew breath to say something else but I coughed and she got the message.

‘Please,’ said General Sir. ‘You must be thirsty. Hungry. Come this way.’

Flanked by Barrel-man, the pickup driver and Flip-flops – the pirate captain appeared not to have made the journey with us – we four kids traipsed along in General Sir’s wake, skirting the shabby tent towards a clearing among the thorny, head-high bushes that seemed to be a speciality of this dust-bowl place. As well as thorn bushes, there were flies. Lots of them. They buzzed around my head and tried to land on my face. I waved them away constantly. There were people scattered around this clearing too. Quite a few, in fact. General Sir led us briskly along. Distracted by the flies, it took me a moment to realise that the people were children.

‘What is this place?’ Amelia asked loudly.

Mo said, ‘This is General Sir’s camp.’

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ asked Xander.

Mo looked confused. ‘At home he’s the same as –’

‘It’s just an expression,’ Amelia explained, swiping at a fly. ‘It means who is he? These insects …’ She whisked another away with her fingertips.

‘You’ll get used to them,’ said Mo.

I doubted him, particularly as at precisely that moment a fly, its buzzing suddenly loud, landed just inside my ear. I shook my head hard to dislodge it and missed the first half of what Mo said next. It ended with, ‘… what he calls his covert operations.’

‘What operations?’ asked Amelia.

General Sir, having arrived at a blackened fire pit surrounded by scattered picnic furniture, spun on his heel. A few tendrils of smoke rose lazily behind him. He seemed to be waiting to hear Mo’s response – how would the boy characterise what he, the General, was up to? – but Mo decided against giving an explanation for now. This seemed to please General Sir. He waggled the end of his baton at Mo and gave him a tiny nod of approval.

General Sir turned aside to Barrel-man and Flip-flops and had a quiet word with them. I watched closely and saw General Sir slip Barrel-man a thick brown envelope. Barrel-man didn’t look inside it, just tapped the corner of the envelope against his forehead before shoving it unceremoniously into his back pocket. At which General Sir said something that had to do with Mo. I’ve no idea what it was, just that it made the pirates glance his way.

General Sir shook his head as he spoke; it sounded like he was explaining a sad fact. When he finished, he spread out his hands in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture, in response to which Barrel-man took a few quick steps our way and struck Mo hard across the face. The boy reeled, dropped to one knee, then slowly stood back up, keeping his head lowered.

General Sir spoke sharply to Barrel-man. It felt as if an argument would erupt between them. But