The Island (25 page)

‘Haven't said anything to your mum,' Wayne is saying. ‘She's got enough on her plate. So I've had to borrow the money for your bail.'

He presses the horn and swears at the car in front. He reaches over and takes his time pulling a load of home-made CDs out of the glove compartment.

I concentrate on pulling the plastic biscuit packet into tiny strips and ignore him.

Wayne's found his CD, one hand on the bottom of the steering wheel. The other's trying to shove the rest of the cases back.

I edge as close as I can to the window.

A voice starts crooning about stars shining. Wayne's put his own record on. It's from the time he got through to the second stage of
Sing Your Heart Out
, when he thought he'd make it big. Even Cassie stayed awake long enough to watch him perform in front of the live audience. The real Wayne sings along to his gravelly voice, drumming his fingers on the wheel. Thinks he sounds like Frank Sinatra, but he doesn't; Sinatra's voice is smooth as velvet.

‘Want to know who sang that? That's The Mamas And The Papas, that is.'

Well, and the rest, I think. I close my eyes and try to smother Wayne's voice with Ella and Louis Armstrong's version. It's not working.

‘And now me. It's gonna be my debut single. When they sign me up.'

Yeah right.

The car shakes as Wayne reaches round to the back seat. I dig my nails into my hands; I wish he'd keep his eyes on the road.

‘Crisps?'

I shake my head; listen to him opening a bag with his teeth.

He's crunchcrunchcrunching, wagging his head in time to his own voice singing about lingering till dawn.

My nails dig.

The lights change to red.

He's leaning towards me now, voice breathing out a waft of cheese 'n' onion crisps.

We're stationary now.

‘So, thought about what I said before?'

Not this again.

‘You'd be a great backing singer, love. Get you in a nice little dress up on that stage. Just you an' your Uncle Wayne.'

I turn away from him and stare at a sticker on the dashboard.
Elvis is King. Long live the King
, it says.

‘Most girls would give their right arm for an opportunity like that. I'd buy you some nice clothes, make you look pretty. You oughta be more grateful to me.'

There's knives as well as gravel in Wayne's voice now.

‘After all I've done for you and your brother: housing you, keeping your mother in work, putting food on the table. You owe me.'

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,' I say.

Wayne moves closer, his cheesy breath damping my cheek.

‘You just need to be a bit nicer. Smile more. You're lucky to have me looking after things. I just need a bit of appreciation, that's all. It's not everyone who'd have you back after what you've done, is it?'

When I recoil, he laughs.

‘All right, all right, I get the message. Think I'm interested in a little freak like you? Your mother shoulda got rid of you long ago. What are you? An arsonist what burns her school down, makes her teacher all disfigured. What if she dies? Have you thought of that? They'll put you away, lock you up for life. You better be nice to your mother and me – you're lucky to have a nice home like this, a monster like you.'

Wayne's on a roll.

I close my eyes. Try so hard to freeze but it's not working.

‘Know what that policewoman told me? That she's lucky to be alive, your English teacher. Got her face half-melted away. Your little brother's lucky to be rid of you. He's better off without you.'

Don't tell me things I already know.

Wayne leans closer, eyes bright. ‘They won't let you be alone with him, not someone who's done the things you've done. You're a danger – nearly killed a kid, didn't you? Think they'll let you see him unsupervised? Not on your nelly.'

I stare at the dashboard; try and melt it.

Wayne snorts and turns the CD player up. There's a break in the traffic and he throttles up, swerving into a gap in the outside lane.

I listen to him crooning about dreams all the way back to the flat.

At least his hand's back on the steering wheel.

 

Wayne's World

I brush crisp crumbs off my leg and follow Wayne up the steps to the flat.

‘Come on, then. Come see your mother,' he's saying.

We pass the landing where I can get up on to the roof and I wish I was there; wish I was on my mattress with my earphones on.

Wayne unlocks the door.

‘Here she is,' he says. ‘Here's your little darlin'.'

Seems like Cassie's been on the skunk all day; the room reeks of it: sort of stale garlic mixed with cut grass. When she sees me, she rises up from the depths of the settee like a terrible fish.

‘Baby,' she says.

‘I've found her. I found the dirty little stop-out,' Wayne says. He smiles at me. ‘Go and hug your mum, love. She's been worried sick.'

Cassie smells unwashed. She pulls me into her pain and she's soft and smells of need and hurt and no hope and pathetic, pathetic, she's pathetic, she's –

I wrench myself away. Can't bear her clammy hands squeezing sohardsohard like it's going to bring me back. Like hugging's going to make it all better.

Cassie sways a moment, all bleary and bloated. Her confused eyes are killing me.

She sinks back down on the settee and Wayne goes and stands by her; caresses her shoulder.

‘I'll make some coffee,' I say.

Cassie reaches for him and leans her head against his chest.

I push past them into the kitchen.

As I wait for the kettle to boil, I can hear Wayne fussing over Cassie.

‘No, no, don't you get up, love. I'll tell you later what she's been up to. Let me deal with her, don't you worry. Let me light us both a little rollie – there you go. That's right. That's better, isn't it.'

I'm removing plates out of the sink, trying to find a mug, when I'm aware he's standing behind me. I can smell the smoke from his fag.

‘You shouldn't treat your mum like that.'

‘Like what?' I say.

‘It's not fair, not after what you've done.'

I rinse out the mug with cold water.

Wayne doesn't move away. Just stands there, smoking.

‘Got a nerve, you have.'

I take my time with the mug.

‘What?' I say.

The kettle steam is misting the window. I reach over to open it.

‘Coming in here, bold as brass, making coffee.'

‘It's my home. I live here.'

I squeeze past him and get the coffee. Spoon it into the pot.

‘Coffee?'

‘I don't think so, love.'

He reaches on top of the fridge for a six-pack.

‘I haven't told your mother about you being held in custody. But I won't be able to bail you out next time, sweetheart. You'll be lucky if you get only two years for what you've done.'

I watch his fingers snap a couple of cans out of the plastic.

‘What you looking like that for? She needs a drink. We all do, after what you put us through. It's no wonder your mother's the way she is.'

The coffee's bubbling. I take a spoon.

Wayne leans up close so I'm looking straight into his eyes, black and too-small in his smiling face.

‘You need to start toeing the line, darlin'.'

Cassie bleats from her nest.

‘Wayne?'

‘Coming, love,' he says. He takes a family pack of crisps and a bag of doughnuts from the worktop. ‘Look what your Waynie's got for you.'

At the door he stops and turns to me.

‘Try and be nice, love. Remember you owe your Uncle Wayne.'

He winks and the smoke from his cigarette rises high like a spiral.

 

Truce

‘Sorry,' says Rufus. ‘I shouldn't have asked.'

‘No, you shouldn't,' I say.

‘It's just that – well, I thought…'

‘Forget it,' I say.

‘Listen here,' Rufus is saying. ‘I know you hate me and I guess it's because I annoy you, and I'm always saying the wrong thing. But…I just want to say that I don't hate you, Frances Stanton. So…truce?'

The shivering flames are making me sleepy.

I turn to look at him in surprise. Hate? The word is ugly and weighs like a stone on this island, in this quiet night.

‘Truce,' I say.

That's the night I move my bed closer to the fire.

 

Bottoms

I hold my fist against my mouth to stop myself spluttering.

Rufus bends down as he salutes the sun.

He's stark naked except for his grass skirt and I can see his nads if I'm looking. Which I am.

I've followed him down to his One Tree Beach for once, desperate to know what he does so early each morning.

He's at it again, touching his toes. Then he springs back into a sort of low plank, kissing the sand. Another flash of bottom. He's strong though, I'll give him that.

And very bendy. I watch him arch like a cat and that's when he sees me looking.

‘You have a very white bottom,' I remark.

He freezes, but just for moment. Then he carries on, cool as you like.

‘I have a very lovely bottom,' he says, upside down.

Is it possible to sound any posher than that?

‘You look a right tit,' I say.

‘Why, thank you,' he says between his legs.

I watch for a little while longer and then I turn to leave.

‘Fran?' he calls, then.

‘Yes?'

‘Why don't you join me for yoga?'

I stand next to him, giggling. We press our hands together in a sort of prayer shape and stand straight and tall.

‘First, a slight backbend,' Rufus calls. He's well into this because he's ordering me about. Which of course he loves.

I do a slight backbend and even this makes me sway. Above us, the sun wobbles high and bright.

‘Now forward, all the way down. Straight legs.'

There's no way my legs are going straight. But it's kind of nice, just hanging there and looking down.

Between my legs I can see:

Rufus's flip-flops, perfectly lined up.

A white stone in the shape of an arrow, lying on the sand.

A tiny stick insect crawling over the white stone.

‘Now for chaturanga.'

‘Chatu-what?'

I attempt to lower myself to the sand on to just my hands and toes and I collapse, panting.

‘Cobra. Downward-facing dog.'

This one's easy. I decide I like the ones that are topsy-turvy best. I shuffle myself round till I'm opposite Rufus and we look at each other upside down.

‘Hold for five breaths,' he says.

We stare and we stare.

Rufus's eyes aren't pure blue like I first thought; today they have stars in them.

His eyes drop before mine.

Ha. His flush goes all the way up his neck.

 

Tooth

‘Fran?' Rufus looks white. ‘Come over here. I need you to look at something for me.'

I leave the melons I'm watering.

He's squinting into his knife-blade with his mouth open.

‘What is it?'

‘Ay oo.'

‘Well, for frick's sake get your hand out of your mouth when you're talking.'

‘My tooth,' he says.

He looks worried and that makes me worried.

‘Which one is it?'

He points and I take a look.

It's kind of hard to see into someone's mouth when they're flinching and moaning but I do my best.

‘Hold still. I'm going to use the knife to see better.'

That stops him. He sits still like a good boy as I check every one of his teeth till I get to –

‘Oh God,' I say.

It's on the bottom left: a gruesome molar with half of its enamel missing and wobbly as hell.

‘Is it bad?'

‘Um.'

‘How bad is it?'

I tell him.

Rufus curses. ‘That's the one I damaged playing rugby. Had to have root-canal work done on it. I just bit down on a sodding coconut and then…'

We sit face-to-face, looking at each other. I know what he's going to say next.

‘Will you…'

‘How much daylight's left?' I ask.

After, Rufus lies down on his bed with my polo shirt wrapped round his face. I've soaked it in seawater and wrung it out so it should be nice and cool against his cheek.

I bring him warmed seawater in a coconut shell.

‘Take another swig,' I say. ‘It'll clean your mouth out, stop any infection.'

‘Who's the doctor now?' he says. Well, he doesn't exactly say that 'cause he has a mouth full of tampons, but I understand him.

I leave him and start to tidy up a bit. Try not to look at the rock, the blood-spots on the ground and the string.

As I wash up, my tongue feels each of my teeth in turn: all there, all firm, none loose.

I sigh with relief and continue to scrub blood. The polo shirt might be almost in tatters but it's the only one we've got.

 

Tooth Fairy

He's sleeping at last.

His face is soft and sweated with sleep and I lean over and kiss him, soft as feathers to not wake him.

Slowly, gently, gently, I reach my hand under his pillow and slide in a coin.

He doesn't wake.

‘Night night,' I whisper.

 

Pig Stew

It takes ages to die.

Screams like hot wire being yanked through your spleen.

Ingredients:

• 1 pig

Rufus found the piglet trapped between two tree roots.

We didn't need to speak because the same thoughts were hitting us. Like, ohmygodohmygod,
meat
. And:
who is going to do it?

In the end it was Rufus.

I mean, he went to Gordonstoun, didn't he? He's practically spent his childhood rifle-shooting and horse riding and rabbit-snaring or whatever else the boys do in those woods they call
grounds
. Like, really.