The Beach (28 page)

'Airfix models.'
'Or Matchbox models. Either.'
'Any particular reason?'
'Curiosity.'
'Mister Duck, we just buried Sten today. Sal made an amazing speech. There's some celebration called Tet coming up, which you've never mentioned, and...'
'Spitfires,' he said patiently, sliding himself round to face me. 'Messerschmitts. Did you ever make them?'
I looked at him.' ...Yes.'
'Hurricanes?'
'Hurricanes too.'
'Lancaster bombers? Lysanders? Mosquitoes?'
'...I think I made a Lysander once.'
'Hmm. Any jets?'
I resigned myself to the unlikely topic. 'No. I never liked making jets.'
'Me neither. How about that? No jets... Or boats, tanks, trucks...'
'Or helicopters. They were such a pain, which was a shame because I loved the way they looked.'
'Naturally.'
'It was the rotor blades...'
'Those bloody rotor blades. They'd keep falling off before the glue was dry.'
I didn't reply for a moment. A gentle tickling had alerted me to an ant that had found its way on to my stomach. After a couple of seconds I found it, trapped in the line of hair that ran from my belly button. I picked it up by licking my finger so the ant stuck to the spit. 'Very difficult,' I finally said, and blew the ant away.
Mister Duck's eyes gleamed mischievously. 'So you weren't very good at making models then.'
'I didn't say that.'
'Well, were you any good?'
'Uh...' I hesitated. 'I was OK.'
'You didn't use to mess them up? Too much polyester cement, the pieces not fitting together properly, annoying gaps where the wings met the body, or where the two halves of the undercarriage met. Be honest now.'
'Oh, well... Yeah. That used to happen all the time.'
'Same. It used to drive me nuts. I'd start the model with the best intentions, trying so hard to do a perfect job, but it would almost never work out.' Mister Duck chuckled. 'And at the end, I always got left with the same problem.'
'Which was?'
'What to do with the messed-up model once it was finished. I knew a guy who made perfect models and he'd hang them from his ceiling with bits of thread. But I didn't want to do that with the planes I made. Not with their gluey fingerprints all over the place. It would have been embarrassing.'
'I know what you mean.'
'I thought you would.'
Mister Duck lay back on the grass contentedly, using his folded arms as a pillow. As he did so a butterfly passed near him. A big one, with long strips on each wing that ended in a bright blue circle, like tiny peacock feathers. He reached up a finger, hoping for the butterfly to land, but it ignored him and fluttered off down the slope towards the DMZ.
'So, Rich,' he said lazily. 'Tell me what you used to do with the messed-up models.'
I smiled. 'Oh, I used to have the best laugh with them.'
'Yeah? It didn't drive you nuts then.'
'Sure. At first I'd be kicking chairs around and swearing. But then I'd go out and buy some lighter fuel and I'd drop them out of windows. And also I'd cut holes in the bodies and slide in a firecracker to blow them up.'
'Good fun.'
'Great fun.'
'Burning the bad models.'
'So you used to do the same thing?'
'Sort of.' Mister Duck closed his eyes against the hot sun. 'I burned the good ones too.'
It must have gone midday before I checked on Zeph and Sammy. Our chat had distracted me from the job at hand, which may have been its intent. I'd sunbathed and dozed for a couple of hours, remembering melting Focke-Wulfs and plastic burns from being careless. I might have forgotten about them altogether if Mister Duck, with careful timing, hadn't reminded me.
'Sal's not going to be happy,' he said.
I sat up. 'Huh?'
'Sal's not going to be happy. In fact, she's going to be seriously pissed off. She'll do her funny little frown... You ever notice her funny little frown?'
'No. But how come she isn't going to be happy?'
'I can't believe you've never noticed her frown. I always used to think she looked so pretty when she was pissed off. Her eyes would glow and... Do you think Sal's pretty?'
'Uh...'
'I think she is.'
I looked at him for a couple of moments, then burst out laughing. 'Well, well! You had a crush on her, didn't you?'
'A crush?' He went red. 'I wouldn't call it a crush. We were very close, that's all.'
'You mean she didn't fancy you.'
'I just told you, we were very close.'
I laughed harder. 'Nothing ever happened, did it?'
Mister Duck shot me an annoyed look. Then he said, 'Nothing physical happened. But some relationships,
close
relationships, don't need a physical connection. A spiritual bond can be more than enough.'
'Unrequited love.' I groaned, wiping tears from my eyes. 'Now I understand why you put up with Bugs all that time.'
'Well, you'd be the expert on unrequited love.'
'Excuse me?'
'Does the name Françoise ring a bell?'
I stopped laughing.
'Ding dong!' Mister Duck chimed. 'How's that for a fucking bell?'
'Do me a favour. It's completely different. For a start, Françoise actually does fancy me. And whereas Bugs is a prick, Étienne is a great guy. Which, I should point out, is the only reason nothing happens. Neither of us wants to hurt his feelings.'
'Mmm.'
I glowered at him. 'Anyway. Do you think we could get back to the point?'
'What point?'
'You said Sal was going to be seriously pissed off about something.'
'Oh... Yeah.' Mister Duck chucked me the binoculars. 'Because of the raft.'
'...
Raft?'
I scrambled over to the edge of the look-out point and slammed the binoculars to my face. Quickly, I scanned along their beach. It was empty. 'I don't see anything,' I said. 'What are you talking about?'
'Where are you looking?' Mister Duck replied languidly.
'Their beach!'
'Find the split palm.'
'...Got it.'
'OK. Now go to six o'clock. Six or seven.'
I eased the binoculars downwards, leaving the sand behind, moving into the blue water.
'There yet?'
'
Where
yet? I still can't see anythi...' I gulped. '...Oh fuck.'
'Impressive, huh? They may have taken their time, but they sure put it to good use.' He sighed while I hyperventilated. 'Tell the truth, Rich. No bullshit. Do you think Sal ever thinks about me?'

Discovering that Zeph and Sammy were on their way left me a lot more anxious and a lot less excited than I'd expected. I found this confusing, and was still trying to make sense of my reaction by the time I arrived back at camp. Whereupon, immediately, I became even more confused.
There was nothing in the clearing to suggest we'd buried Sten that morning. The atmosphere was more like a Sunday than a wake. A few people were kicking a football beside the longhouse, Jesse and Cassie were whistling as they laid out some washing to dry, Unhygienix was playing the Gameboy with Keaty watching over his shoulder. Françoise was the biggest surprise. She was sitting with Étienne and Gregorio in the spot occupied by the Bugs faction until only yesterday. I'd expected her to be keeping an eye on Karl until sundown, as she had every day since the attack. In fact, a quick look around didn't show up any missing faces, so I guessed Karl had been left alone.
In a way, it was reassuring to learn that, whatever my own state of mind, I was sane enough to recognize this as abnormal behaviour. And to make sure that my companions' behaviour was as inappropriate as it appeared, when I passed Cassie I asked her how she was feeling. I chose her partly because she was on my route, but also because this was the question she'd nagged me with in the days following the food poisoning. 'Um,' she said, not pausing from hanging up the washing. 'I've been worse.'
'...You aren't feeling sad?'
'About Sten? Oh yes, I am, of course. But I believe the burial helped. It puts it in the past, I think. In perspective, wouldn't you say?'
'...Sure.'
'It was so difficult to find perspective while his body was lying around.' She laughed, looking puzzled. 'What an awful thing to say.'
'But it's true.'
'Yes. I think the burial was the release we needed. Just look how it relieved the tension around here... Shorts, Jesse.'
Jesse handed her a pair of shorts.
'And Sal's speech was a great help too. We needed her to bring us together. We've been talking a lot about Sal's speech. We thought it was very good, didn't we?'
Jesse's face was hidden by the heap of damp T-shirts he held in his arms, but I saw his scalp nod.
'Yes,' Cassie continued, in her vague and cheerful monologue. 'She's good at that kind of thing... Charisma and... And what about you, Richard? How are you feeling?'
'I'm feeling fine.'
'Mmm,' she said absently. 'Of course. You always are, aren't you?'
I left Cassie and Jesse a few minutes later, after some small talk that wouldn't bear mentioning if it wasn't that the small talk was another reason why everything felt so strange. The only time I got close to unsettling Cassie was when I asked after Karl and Christo. She dropped the T-shirt she was holding at the time — not the dramatic response it might seem but an inconsequential slip of the hand. Less inconsequential was her reaction. 'Fuck it!' she snapped, which was unusual in itself because Cassie rarely swore, and her face darkened with a sudden flush. Then she held the shirt up, glowering at where the dirt had stuck to the damp material, and threw it back at the ground. 'Fuck it!' she said again. A strand of spit that had been linking her lips broke with the force of the words, and the top half swung upwards and clung to her cheek. I didn't bother to repeat the question.

On my way across the clearing, I briefly debated who I should tell about the raft first — Jed or Sal. Going by the book, it should have been Sal. But we didn
'
t have a book so I went with my instincts and told Jed.
I noticed the bad smell as soon as I climbed into the hospital tent. It was sweet and sour; vomit for the sour and something less distinct for the sweet.
'You get used to it,' said Jed quickly. He hadn't even turned round so he couldn't have seen me wince. Maybe he'd heard me cut my breathing. 'In a couple of minutes you won't smell a thing. Don't
go.'
I pulled up the neck of my T-shirt to cover my nose and mouth. 'I wasn't going to go.'
'Not one person has come in all day. Can you believe it? Not one person.' Now he did turn to look at me, and I frowned with concern when I saw his face. Spending almost all his time in the tent had taken a toll. Although his tan was still deep — it would have needed more than five days to wash that out — it seemed underlain by grey, as if his blood had lost its colour. 'I've been listening to them out there since two,' he muttered. 'They came back at two. Even the carpenters. They've been playing football.' 'I saw.'
'Playing football! None of them thinking to check up on Christo!'
'Well, I think after Sal's speech everyone's trying to get back to...'
'Even before Sal's speech they were staying away... But if it was
Sal in here... if it was anyone else... Apart from me...' He hesitated, looking blankly at Christo, then laughed. 'I don't know. Maybe I'm being paranoid... It's just it's so weird. Hearing them outside, wondering why they don't come to check up...'
I nodded, although actually I was only half listening. His confinement with Christo was obviously getting to him and he clearly wanted to talk about it, but I had to bring up the subject of the raft. Sammy and Zeph would have covered the sea between the two islands before nightfall — a conservative estimate I'd worked out with Mister Duck by halving the time it had taken us to make the swim. At the earliest, that meant they could start the journey across the island tomorrow morning, and could conceivably reach the beach by tomorrow afternoon.
Christo stirred, distracting us both. For a second his eyes opened, clearly focusing on nothing, and a line of dark bile ran out of the corner of his mouth. Then his chest heaved and he appeared to slip back into unconsciousness.
Jed wiped away the line with Christo's sheet. 'I try to keep him on his side but he always rolls back... It's impossible. I can't tell what I should be doing.'
'How long will he be like this?'
'Two days at best... It might coincide with Tet.'
'Well that's perfect. It'll be the perfect birthday present for the camp, and maybe it will help Karl snap out of his...'
'Help Karl?' Jed looked at me curiously.
'Sure. I think half the problem is that no one can talk to him in his language. I think if Christo was talking to him then...'
Jed shook his head. 'No,' he said quietly. 'You don't understand. Christo's not getting better.'
'You just said, in two days...'
'In two days Christo will be dead.'
I paused. 'He's dying?'
'Yes.'
'But... How do you know?'
Jed reached out and took hold of my hand. Confused, I thought he was trying to console me or something, which got on my nerves, and I pulled my hand back. 'How do you know, Jed?'
'Keep your voice down. Sal doesn't want people to find out yet.' He reached out again to take hold of my hand, and this time he held it tightly, drawing it towards Christo's stomach.
'What the fuck are you doing?' I exclaimed.
'Shh. I want you to see.'
Jed pulled back the sheet. The entire area of Christo's stomach was almost jet-black, as black as Keaty's.
'Feel there.'
I stared at the skin. 'Why?'
'Just feel.'
'I don't want to,' I protested, but at the same time I felt my arm relax. Outside I heard the football bouncing near the entrance of the tent, a regular thumping that rose and faded like passing rotor blades. Someone cheered, or screamed, and someone else chuckled. Through the canvas, short bursts of conversation sounded sing-song and foreign.
Gently Jed guided my hand until it rested on Christo's torso.
'What can you feel?' he asked.
'It's hard,' I muttered.' ...It's like rock.'
'He's been bleeding inside. Bleeding badly. I couldn't be sure until last night. Or I knew... I think I knew, but., .'
'That thing... it's a haemorrhage?'
'Uh-huh.'
I nodded respectfully. I'd never seen a haemorrhage before. 'Who else knows?'
'Just you and Sal... and Bugs too, probably. I talked to Sal today. She said nobody can find out. Not after we've started to get things back to normal. I think she's mainly worried about Étienne hearing.'
'Because he wanted to take Karl to Hat Rin.'
'Yes. And she's right to worry. Étienne would insist we took Christo to Ko Pha-Ngan, and it would be for nothing.'
'You know that for sure?'
'If we'd taken him the day after the attack, maybe two days after, he might have been OK. And I'd have taken that chance, even if it meant losing the beach. I think Sal would have too... But now... what would be the point?'
'No point...'
Jed sighed and stroked Christo's shoulder before pulling back the sheet. 'No point at all.'
We sat in silence for a minute or two, watching Christo's shallow and irregular breathing. It was strange that, once explained, it was obvious to me he was dying. The smell I'd noticed on entering the tent was the smell of encroaching death, and the waxy appearance of Jed's flesh was from living in death's proximity.
This thought jolted me and I broke the silence bluntly. 'Zeph and Sammy built a raft. It was what they were doing behind the tree-line. They're on their way.'
Jed didn't even blink. 'If they make it to the beach,' he said. 'They'll see Christo die. Everything here will fall apart.' And that was all.