Before Skeleton can get a good look at me, I hurry to Room 14 as fast as my pumps will allow. Without bothering to knock, I duck into the room and quickly shut the door.

Bo looks up from where he’s sitting on his bunk, his bare feet flat against the floor. A ray of sunlight crosses his chin, where a bit of stubble has begun to grow. He gives me a questioning look, but I march right up to Jamie, who’s sprawled out like he’s in a hammock slung between two palm trees. I poke him in the ribs.

He jerks, and his eyes pop open. “Huh? Val, what the bloody hell?” He sticks his face in the pillow, but I wrangle it away.

“Did you gamble last night?”

He hoists up an eyelid, wincing at the sunlight.

“You gambled, even though you swore not to. I heard Bledig telling Skeleton he got swindled by a Johnny, and I know it was you. Just say it.” My voice stretches taut, and even though I’m trying to keep quiet for the sake of the lads, my hurt has grown wings and a stinger. “You want to be rid of me.”

Jamie rubs his eyes. “I didn’t gamble, Sis,” he says more gently. The beds rustle and squeak as the lads awake.

“Then who—”

“I did.” Bo’s words hit me just like the pinecone I didn’t see coming.

“How much did you make?” Wink asks, all business, even fresh from the land of Nod.

Bo doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Bledig lost his shirt, a shirt worth . . . “Two pounds,” I say wearily.

“So that’s two pounds, plus their four shillings from yesterday. They tied us.” Olly’s voice goes round with amazement. Wink scowls.

Jamie, fully awake now, works his mouth but can’t seem to find the right words. Bo stares guiltily at his feet.

“Well, Jamie, I hope you’ll be very happy stumbling around that thicket.”

“What are you on about, Sis?”

“Ask your mate.”

The doorknob slips in my slick grip, but I give it a hard twist, needing out. And though a goldfish has as good a chance of outswimming its bowl as I have of fleeing this ship, I bolt.

17

I scurry down Scotland Road on the balls of my feet, tempted to remove the pumps and throw them out the nearest porthole. The drone from the boiler casings competes with the noise in my head. Why would anyone choose a job doing the same bone-wearying thing day after dreary day, a job that slowly pickles you with soot? Where’s the creativity in that?