The Island (21 page)

I scowl at him.

‘What the frick's it got to do with you? Anyway, you lot all read my notes, didn't you?'

A little pause as the penny drops. He flushes again, all the way up till he's redder than crab claws.

‘Ah,' he says. ‘You're the girl who…'

I scowl harder and harder; fix him with my Medusa stare. Haven't used it for so long but it'll still work, I'm sure of it.

‘Sorry,' he says at last. ‘Didn't mean to rub it in.' He laughs and it's not a nasty laugh. ‘I guess we've both kind of changed a lot, right?'

My stare must have weakened in its powers.

‘At least it's a good skill though?'

‘You what?'

‘Lighting fires. Best skill for being marooned, I'd say.'

Is
Hi I'm Rufus!
making a joke?

I glare at him till his flush comes back.

 

New Camp

Rufus has gone to get more wood, even though there's plenty as far as I can see, so I'm left alone at his camp.

It's nothing like mine and Dog's.

I totter round, weak on my wobbly legs, and poke about a bit, trying to explore.

It's like
Through the frickin Keyhole
.

What would Keith Lemon say to this?

Ha.

Neat piles – everywhere. Neat logs, neat tools, neat beds. I had my could-be pile but the things I foraged were all thrown on the heap any old how. Here, everything is ranked in order of size, in order of material. Rufus doesn't have half-finished projects like mine; everything is finished and definite and solid.

His palm shelter is like something straight out of a survival manual.

He has an array of knives.
Array
isn't a word I'd normally think of using, but it's definitely the word to describe those knives.

I poke about his cooking range, his fire.

Stare into the dancing flames; sigh, and chuck on another log.

Inspect his water system.

As well as tin cans with wire handles nestling in the fire –

billycans. They're called billycans –

which I vaguely remember Steve showing us how to make at TeamSkill, he's set up solar stills all around the camp, made from plastic bags.

I take out his chopping boards in different sizes, beautiful pieces of driftwood; it's like he's Jamie Oliver or something.

Wish I'd had that idea.

There's a line strung up with dried fish, just like mine – at least I did something right – and a plastic bucket full of what looks like edible seaweed. Next to it, my Hello Kitty washbag. I move it under my bed.

Rufus has several styles of shoe, ranging from foraged flip-flops (I'm liking the mismatched pair in baby pink best, especially the one with the Tinkerbell logo) to beautifully plaited sandals. These are all arranged neatly under his bed.

While I've been sleeping on a raised platform made from bottles, Rufus has been sleeping in his day hammock, which is head and shoulders above mine on One Tree Beach. It's a complicated structure of bamboo poles and grasses and palm leaves, and there's no way I'm jealous.

He's made a pillow out of palm leaves and coconut fibre, and there's something poking out from underneath. I pull it out and it's my own bark message, neatly rolled.

Ha!

It's when I'm tucking it back underneath that something rushes at me, hot and wet and twisting.

And then my heart starts jittering and pounding like it's going to flip out of my mouth and lie gasping on the ground like a fish.

It kills me, over and over.

'Cause it's Dog.

He's come back to me.

 

His Master's Voice

I squeeze him like I will never, ever let go.

‘Oh my God, Dog! You came back. You came back.'

He's real and he's solid and he's overjoyed to see me, I can tell. He's wriggling in my arms as we sink together on the sand and I'm laughing and –

not crying, I'm not crying
–

laughing so much.

He's got my ear now, and my neck.

‘Ouch, ouch, Dog. Mind my shoulder, you mentalist.'

A whistle.

Dog stops as if shot.

Leaves his hotbreathlicking and

shoots off

somewhere behind me.

When I turn round, Dog is sitting very nicely, very still but tail flicking, gazing up at his master with adoring eyes.

Good as gold. Trained like Crufts. Comes to a whistle.

Rufus bends down to pet him and Dog's tail spins like it's going to fly off.

Rufus laughs when he sees my face. ‘I see you've met  Virgil.'

 

Virgil

I hate.

I hate his stupid camp and his stupid headdress and his stupid melon patch.

Hate his poncy voice.

Rufus crouches down.

‘Here,  Virgil, come and say hello to Frances.'

Dog stays by his feet, grinning and panting at me.

‘Raise a paw,  Virgil.'

Rufus makes Dog shakes hands and his little paw is hot and sandy. In all the days we were together, Dog never raised a paw at me.

Rufus whistles and Dog cocks his head instantly.

‘I always wonder where he vanishes to, when he goes walkabout. It keeps me occupied, training him up. He's a bright little thing, isn't he?'

I don't know if Dog is bright or not. All I know is that he's the perfect fit behind my knees at night and when he's hot, the bottoms of his feet smell like biscuits.

I decide not to tell Rufus that I knew him first.

‘So why d'you call him Virgil?' I say.

‘Well, he's obviously named after the ancient Roman poet.'

Obviously.

‘We did him in Classics. Of course, Virgil famously guided Dante through the seven circles of hell, and that's what this little chap's been like to me: my guide.'

‘Stupid name,' I say. ‘I'll call him Dog.'

I click my fingers to get Dog's attention, but he just ignores me.

Traitor.

‘Why was your writing so small in your note?' I say suddenly. ‘And why did you write in all that code stuff?'

He looks pained. ‘I didn't want to waste paper. And I already knew the location we were heading to in the plane, so the rest was just an estimate really. I would have thought that anyone would realise what coordinates were…'

He trails off, blushing.

So he thinks I'm thick, then?

If I had the message with me I'd make a paper aeroplane out of it and sail it across camp, but then I remember I'm not in a classroom now. Even though Rufus treats me like I'm a particularly stupid pupil.

I wish I could fuss Dog, but he's still sitting at his master's feet.

Rufus is hovering, looking at me. ‘Well?'

‘Well what?'

‘Now you've seen around camp, would you like to admire my melons?'

I stare at him. Is he joking again?

But his face is deadpan as he waits for my answer.

I shrug, which makes my shoulder hurt, but follow him anyway.

Dog –

Virgil???
–

trots beside him with barely a glance at me.

 

Melon City

‘Welcome to Melon City,' says Rufus. ‘The melons were already growing here half-wild, so I suppose this island must have been inhabited before, but I grew everything else myself.'

I snort, but can't help feeling a bit impressed.

As well as watermelons, Rufus has grown:

Tomatoes

Peppers

Chinese cabbages

Coriander (which tastes of soap).

‘The coriander's gone to seed, I'm afraid, but I'm drying it, and you can still use the stems in cooking, although they're kind of woody.'

‘What are you – Bear Grylls or something?' I say. I'm thinking that, during all this time on the island, all I've found are a few tiny mangoes and a lime tree but
Hi I'm Rufus!
has grown a whole frickin garden.

‘Well, not exactly, although they taught us a lot of survival skills at Gordonstoun. They believe in a holistic curriculum, based on the four pillars of Challenge, Responsibility, Service and Internationalism.' He flushes. ‘Sorry, is this boring?'

I smile sweetly. ‘No, you carry on. It's, like, really interesting.'

I really want to hear about your stupid posh school with its stupid posh curriculum.

He looks at me warily, but it doesn't stop him going on.

‘I was going to grow onions but there's no point really because I've found them growing wild, over by Mosquito Alley, and they're great; small, but strong and sweet.'

It's strange and swimmy here. I wonder if I'll wake up in my own hammock later and this boy with his strange garden will all be a dream.

The insects and dragonflies buzz and chirrup and the green leaves shimmer in the humming sun. Strong stems force themselves over the earth and there are Rufus's tools, all lined up neatly: his home-made spade and hoe, made from sharpened metal and lashed around sturdy sticks; his watering can made from a plastic peanut-butter container with a lid spiked with holes; his leaning scarecrows with their carved watermelon heads and grass skirts. And all the time, there's the
ting ting
of tin cans on bamboo sticks stuck in the ground.

Rufus is droning on again.

I try to catch Dog's attention but he's ignoring me. I want to bury my face in his fur and kiss his warm head.

‘I use seaweed fertiliser,' Rufus is saying. ‘Brought the seeds with me, of course. I was particularly interested in how Defoe based his character's adventures on Selkirk. Although I thought tomatoes, peppers and chillies more useful to grow than the barley and rice he recommends.'

I blink. ‘Defoe? Selkirk?' I say.

Rufus nods patiently. ‘As in Robinson Crusoe. Defoe based him on Selkirk, a real-life castaway.'

‘I've heard of Crusoe, I'm not stupid,' I snap.

Hi I'm Rufus!
flushes. ‘Of course, when you're planning an expedition like this, you make mistakes. The cauliflowers and lettuce were a complete disaster – hated the tropical climate. And most of the seeds I'd ordered from specialist catalogues were in my bag in the hold.' He shakes his head. ‘But the rest are doing well, as you can see. And as long as I water them three times a day, Bob's your uncle.'

Bob's your frickin uncle?

‘Here.'

He passes me a tomato, fat and warm from the sun, and I bite into it greedily. It's hot and juicy and just about the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. I use the TeamSkill polo to rub juice off my chin and think of my own crappy attempts to find food. In fact, hasn't the main fruit I've found been the poison-berries?

Rufus is humming away, fiddling with some string he's tied around his pepper plants.

‘By the way, jolly nice bikini you're wearing.'

‘You what?'

But my gorgon glare seems to have no effect. Rufus is turning his head to flick off an enormous bug, but not before I see him smiling.

A pause.

‘I mean, it's kind of making me wish I had some matching trunks, although personally I prefer Squidward or perhaps Mr Krabs…'

I stare at him. ‘You're taking the piss, right?'

But he's bending over, squishing bugs or whatever the hell gardeners do. Then he straightens up and passes me something.

‘Here – taste that.'

It's a red pepper.

Crunch.

It's hard to be a rock when there's a million taste buds having a party in your mouth.

 

Bob's Your Uncle

Rufus walks with a swing, slashing stray creepers with his machete while Dog dances at his feet.

Prat. Wanker. Tit.

He's got me working straight away. It's like I'm at his snooty school on one of their stupid army courses.

The minute I'm up on my feet, he makes me:

Water all the veg.

Collect dry sticks.

Help him cut down tree trunks.

Assist him in making another bed for myself to sleep in.

And his
rules
:

‘Oh, you need to put your shoes over here,' he says.

‘And it's probably best if you don't touch my machete. Best tool we've got – took me ages to make it from one of the plane's fan blades.'

‘I like to sort the logs in terms of size, so that it's more efficient regulating the cooking temperature.'

Rules and lists all the time.

The tree-cutting is the worst.

He marches on through his garden and down into the forest which contains the waterfall and the tunnel opening.

I trail behind him, scowling.

All I want is for it to be just me and Dog. We might have been a bit crap sometimes, but we got there, mostly. And there was no one telling me what to do.

I imagine burning holes through Rufus's stupid flapping headdress and his peeling freckled back; taking a match and watching his grass skirt shoot up into flame.

‘OK, so you need to press down on this end whilst I bounce up and down on it until it splits. But first of all, I'm going to chop at it to give a dent.'

I fold my arms and deliberately don't look at him as he strikes at the trunk again and again, his headdress swinging. I concentrate on an insect instead; it's moving up a fallen log, front legs feeling the air stiffly, like it's made of clockwork. It's big as my head and would be good to eat. I bash its head quickly with a stone and put it into my Hello Kitty bag, which I've strung from my waist.

I've got a mismatched pair of flip-flops from Rufus's collection and one of his home-made knives tucked into my palm skirt.

I can hear the waterfall from here. Its hiss and rush is lovely but it makes me need to –

I leave my Hello Kitty bag where it is, and find a suitable spot in the trees.

I'm squatting on the forest floor when Rufus's voice makes me jump.

‘We're ready to call timber now, Frances.'