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“The reason,” Joel said, his tone irritable now, “is because some people didn’t seem able to stick to their rations. What if we came down and found Bayer had drunk the whole lot?”
“First, Bayer is dead, Joel. Do I need to remind you? At Conor’s hands, no less. Second, you give everyone their own allocation!” Santana’s voice was rising too. “You don’t take a unilateral decision to hold everyone’s water hostage.”
“And then what?” Joel said. He had sat up in bed, plainly too annoyed to lie down, and I could see his shape silhouetted against the night sky, his shoulders visibly tense even in outline. “When the water started to run out? What if someone decided they deserved a bit more and felt like they’d take it by force? No. You give it to the strongest, most trustworthy person and put them in charge of making sure it’s doled out fairly.”
There was a long silence. Then Dan spelled out what everyone, apart from Joel, was apparently thinking.
“The problem is, mate, we don’t trust him. And to your point about rations, we have no idea if he’s sticking to his allowance out there, because we have no idea what’s going on. No, I’m sorry, the longer we let this go on, the harder it’s going to be to challenge it. I’m going to say something tomorrow.”
“Dan…” Santana sounded worried. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“I’m not going to be a dick,” Dan said. “I’m just going to calmly point out that this isn’t a fair way of organizing anything. And if everyone backs me up, I don’t see that he can kick off about it. So will you?”
“Are you talking to me?” Joel asked.
“I’m talking to everyone. Will you back me up if I talk to him tomorrow, yes or no?”
“Yes,” Santana said. “But I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I’ll back you up,” I said. “But Dan, please tread carefully on this. The last thing we need to do is set up some kind of feud. Things are bad enough.”
“Like I said,” Dan said. “I’m not going to be a dick about this. I’m just going to point out that this is a democracy, and we didn’t agree to this. And what about you, Joel?”
“I just think—” Joel said, and then stopped. He didn’t sound convinced. At all. He sounded defeated, and like he’d had enough of arguing Conor’s corner, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“Go on,” Dan said, but not goadingly, like he genuinely wanted to know. “You can say it.”
“I just think… look, I think you’re hanging a lot on his girlfriend being a bit shy and some commenters on YouTube being twats. I feel like you’ve written the guy off based on—what? Nothing. Conjecture. Some video you didn’t like. And none of that has anything to do with his actions here, does it?”
“No,” Dan said. His voice, in the darkness, was persuasive. “No, it doesn’t. And look, I take your point. If this was a court of law and we were on a jury, I’m not saying I’d convict him on this evidence of being a dickhead wifebeater. But like you say, none of that’s relevant. All I’m asking him for is the water back, and a discussion, going forward, on how we handle things. Okay? That’s it. No one reasonable could possibly object.”
Joel didn’t reply, but I saw, silhouetted against the moonlit forest, his head nod slowly, and then he slid back to lie down.
But as I rolled onto my side to wait for morning, I couldn’t help but wonder, exactly how reasonable was Conor? Either way, we were going to find out. I just hoped we could live with the answer.
CHAPTER 20
BREAKFAST WAS A tense affair, with Joel, Santana, and me all waiting on tenterhooks to see if Dan followed through on his promise to say something to Conor. He said nothing as Conor doled the water out, and nothing again as we passed around chunks of tinned papaya, increasingly unripe bananas, and the everlasting pastries, now starting to taste distinctly off.
But as Conor stood and stretched, and Zana began picking up the plates and gathering banana peelings into a pile to be tipped into the sea, Dan coughed.
“Um… listen, before we all disappear, could I ask a question?”
“Yes, where is Angel?” Conor said, looking around, and then down the table where her plate stood untouched, with the beaker of water next to it. “Is she okay?”
It was a good question, and for a moment the realization distracted me from what Dan was about to say, but Dan was plainly not to be diverted.
“Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to say,” he said. “Conor, listen, we had a bit of a chat last night—”
I winced internally, wishing he hadn’t said that. That was the exact thing I’d wanted to avoid—a them and us situation arising from the suggestion that we were ganging up against Conor. But maybe it was inevitable.
“And?” Conor said, raising one eyebrow.
“And… we understand the need to protect the food from animals and from, um—” I could see he’d been about to say Bayer, and then thought better of speaking ill of the dead. “Well, all that. But, um… we’d like to have a chat about the best way to handle the rations going forward.”
“Right,” Conor said. He folded his arms and tipped his chair back.
“Well… I think…” Dan looked around the circle, seeking backup, and I saw Santana nodding vigorously. “I mean… we’d all feel more comfortable if we had our own individual rations of food and water.”
