Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [55]
Ace smiled down at them. ‘Hello Sean. Skank, eh? I think it’s time for a little interrogation.’
* * *
The drawing showed an object like a large waterbarrel with a ribbed surface. The three boys looked down at it, the sheet of paper reflecting light from the tent’s naked bulb up on to their faces. Calvin was the first to look up at Ace again, then Guthrie. Sean refused to meet her eyes.
Ace folded the piece of paper and returned it to the black envelope. ‘I’ve come to collect this for a friend. I don’t know what it is and I don’t particularly care. But I know you’ve got it and we’re going to take it away from you.’ Ace paused. She was trying to think of a phrase which would sound suitably threatening and which she could say with a straight face. The three boys were sitting, facing her, in the centre of the tent on folding chairs, their hands untied. The Kurdish mercenaries moved around behind them, helping themselves to food from plastic plates on a low picnic table. The boys’ refrigerator stood outside, door hanging open, ravaged and dead. One of the Kurds had shot it at close range, testing a confiscated weapon. One blast had torn the small Kenwood fridge to pieces. Ace didn’t like to think what would have happened if one of the boys had managed to open fire on the Kurds. Dfewar sat on the floor of the tent behind her, eating vegetarian chilli from a plastic carton. He looked like a kid with the gaming headset over his eyes. The other Kurds were smiling and laughing, all tension gone. But Ace knew that if they’d received fire from the encampment all these boys would be dead now. The Kurds were professionals. She was still trying to think of a convincing threat when she was distracted by a quiet rasping sound. She looked up and saw that the youngest boy, Calvin, had begun to cry.
‘Shut up, you little suckhole.’ Sean was definitely Ace’s least favourite of the three. ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll –’
‘You won’t do anything,’ said Ace.
‘We’re never going to tell you where it is,’ said Sean. ‘Why don’t you start searching the island now? It’ll only take you about three weeks.’
‘Why don’t you act like a nice polite boy?’ said Ace.
‘Sit on it and rotate,’ said Sean. ‘None of us are saying anything.’
‘It’s down on the beach.’
‘Guthrie!’
‘Buried just below the high‐water mark.’
‘Guthrie, what are you doing!’
‘We figured it would help to keep it cool.’
‘Don’t tell her, Guthrie!’
‘Just shut up, Sean. I’m sick of this. I want to go home.’ He looked at Ace. ‘Get a flashlight and we’ll show you where to dig.’
Calvin had stopped crying now. Ace handed him a handkerchief while Guthrie searched their luggage for a flashlight with batteries that weren’t dead. Calvin took the handkerchief without looking at her. ‘You should just leave it alone, you know. Leave it buried. We should all go home and just leave it right where it is.’
But Ace wasn’t listening. There was something strange happening to the section of tent wall that was in shadow. The canvas was flattened, tight, and spots of light were appearing on it. A pattern of tiny bright circles.
Ace stared, fascinated, as the phenomenon continued, spurts of dust blasting up from the floor of the tent, tiny holes bursting in the orange fabric, the darkness of the ground visible through them. A plastic beaker had been knocked off the picnic table and was falling slowly to the floor. More holes appeared and now Ace could hear the sound, like a drill tearing at a road surface.
The Kurds were all yelling. Dfewar reached to pull Ace down but she was already throwing herself to the floor, dragging Calvin with her. She lay on the damp canvas as the next blast of bullets ripped through the tent wall and raked the floor opposite,