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

Mum seemed completely unconcerned: all she was worried about was how to further her coral conservation work beyond Zanzibar. Doubts crept in about the message I’d seen. How could I be sure of anything from a thumbnail-sized photograph? And the wording had been ambiguous: it could have meant more or less anything. Despite this, when I found myself alone at the breakfast table with Mum on our penultimate morning, I couldn’t quite hold my tongue. She was picking at a fruit salad; I had a plate of waffles swimming in maple syrup and cream. Amelia was churning laps in the hotel pool as she did every morning, even though we were going to spend much of the day underwater. ‘It’s exactly the opposite type of swimming,’ apparently. Xander hadn’t yet got up. I took a sip of iced coffee and felt the question simmering inside me. I didn’t want to ask it again, as I say, but as I stirred the ice cubes in their vortex of froth, it came out.

‘When are you going to tell me who he is?’

This time Mum didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. ‘When the time’s right, I promise,’ she said with a regretful smile.

‘That’s pretty vague.’ I fought to keep the frustration from my voice. ‘You have to admit.’

‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ she replied, without offering anything further.

‘Me as well.’

She spoke slowly, picking her words carefully. ‘It’s a sensitive situation. But trust me, I’m working on it.’

I had a strong urge to throw the remains of my coffee at the bamboo wall beside me. The ice would have clattered off it satisfyingly. But I didn’t. I took another bite of waffle instead, then pushed the plate aside: though hard to believe, there’s such a thing as too much syrup.

Xander arrived, having just stepped out of the shower by the look of him. His hair was scraped back from his forehead in wet black furrows. He and Mum immediately struck up a conversation about dolphins. We’d seen some the previous day. Xander had been closest, right in among the pod as they swam past us. Mum wanted to hear all about it again and Xander, true to form, entertained her politely, when I’m sure he’d have preferred to talk gibberish with me.

Amelia, who’d finished her laps in the pool, sat down with a huge bowl of banana-topped porridge. She tucked into it unhurriedly. The knot of tension tightened in my chest. Those ice cubes really needed chucking hard at something. What was with everyone? Why the lack of urgency?

‘I’m going to get ready,’ I said. ‘We don’t have much more time and I want to push our total finds above ten.’

‘What’s so special about the number ten?’ asked Amelia.

‘Nothing!’ I said. ‘It’s just a target. Better to have one than not.’

‘Sure,’ said Xander sceptically. He was eyeing Amelia’s breakfast. ‘Can I just eat something first?’

‘Whatever. I’ll be down at the jetty helping Pete.’

He looked at me quizzically then, and that was fair enough: he’d done nothing to annoy me so why was I being so short with him? Just … because. I didn’t need to explain myself. I stood up, said, ‘See you later,’ without looking at either of them, and walked off.

8.

The previous day Pete had mentioned an island set apart from the Zanzibar archipelago, with an exclusive resort where the truly fabulously wealthy stayed. I’d immediately wanted to search there.

But with his next breath Pete had said he thought there would be slim pickings off the little beach. ‘Exclusive’ meant small. The place only hosted a handful of guests at any one time, making it less likely that there’d be many lost valuables to detect on the seabed. Though disappointed, I had let the subject drop.

Approaching the marina now, I changed my mind. So what if only a few guests stayed at the place? Over the years that would still amount to a fair number of people. And they’d be properly loaded, dripping with bling probably.

How much did billionaires spend on jewellery? More than anyone else! We would only have to find one ring to make the trip worth our while.

Pete was polishing the boat’s fuel gauge when I arrived. I told him I wanted to dive off the island he’d mentioned, where the poshest of the posh stayed.

‘As I said, I think that’s a real long shot, searching there.’

‘I don’t care. The longest odds often mean the biggest winnings.’

‘It’s a good hour away by boat. Even this one,’ he said.

‘So?’

He raised his sunglasses onto the polished dome of his head and looked at me askance. ‘You OK?’

‘Of course.’ I tried to soften my tone. ‘I just meant it’ll be a fun ride. The weather’s good. Why don’t we give it a go?’

‘You haven’t got a great deal of time to play with.’

‘I know. But like your good feeling the other day, I’ve got a hunch this will pay off.’

He was polishing the twin throttle levers now, though their chrome stalks were already gleaming.

‘It’s your call,’ he said.

I took that as a yes, and to show I was grateful I made myself useful preparing the boat for the day. It needed more fuel. Pete had magicked up a couple of big plastic jerry cans from somewhere. When I lifted one from the hold to pour it in, the thing weighed a ton. Warily, I asked for a funnel.

Correctly guessing that I was worried about slopping petrol all over his precious boat, Pete laughed and said, ‘Don’t bother with that. Use a siphon instead,’ and he showed me how to get the fuel running through the clear plastic tube kept in the stern locker for the purpose.

‘Be careful not to suck down a lungful,’ he said. ‘That’s bad news, though less of a pain than accidentally siphoning a can full of water instead of petrol into the tank, which I’ve seen done.