The Island (32 page)

I take the first pole; place it over the barrels. Pull the ropes taut, lash them round.

Building, lashing, tying.

This will not defeat us.

I am strong. I will save both Rufus and Dog and all those I care for.

For I am a rock.

Pulling, dragging, tying, lashing, heaving, panting.

Just hang on in there, hang on, hang on, hang on.

For some reason I'm thinking of Cassie, slumped on the settee. Grasping at me, at Johnny.

She tried.

She tried to grab on to what she loved, but she just didn't hold on tight enough.

I'm not going to let that happen.

I feel around with my foot and there's the next pole; I move it towards me, which means I can keep the rope tight with my hands.

And so it continues. The heat presses against me like a heavy dog panting on the back of my neck but there's no time to stop; no time to take a drink; no time to let go of my concentration for a moment.

Keep lashing.

Keep fighting.

By the time dusk falls, I've run out of poles. I need to save one for steering. But there's more bamboo.

My machete's good and sharp. I place my foot on to the cane till it snaps; finish off the job with the knife.

I don't stop till night comes 'cause we're fighting for time now. We need to catch the tide. It'll take us in the rip current; sweep us far away. And there'll be other islands out there, hundreds and hundreds, just like there are stars in the sky.

There'll be fishing boats, out night-fishing. They'll see us and pull us in, net us safe.

Not long now.

A little white shape appears in the darkness.

Dog scampers in and out, curious, bold now.

He's woken up

and it's time,

it's time to grasp everything I love and hold on tighttighttight till the bitter end 'cause really that's all there is to this world.

Grab that hand and clingclingcling.

Hands reaching out like stars

rising from the sofa, like a terrible fish.

‘Love you, baby.'

‘Love you more than sky and sea and stars,' I whisper, to Cassie, to Johnny.

I drag the finished raft to the edge of the ocean, where the water laps and sighs. Lashed to it are bottles of water, the last of the peepas, a fishing line.

Please let her float.

Praying hard, I crouch down and ease myself on board, slowly, gently. Water seeps, cool between the poles and net, but the raft stays buoyant. Her flag flutters. She is strong.

The moon waits.

It is time.

 

Escape

Rufus is worse.

His skin's shining but his eyes are dull.

‘I can't move, Fran. Don't make me move.'

I have to lean forward to hear him and his breath is sour-hot.

‘I'm thirsty.'

I pour water into his mouth and he swallows gratefully, but almost at once he sicks it up; a thin stream trickles out of the side of his mouth.

‘I'm so sorry, Fran,' he whispers.

‘Don't be stupid, Posh Boy.' I'm making my voice all jolly like I'm Santa or something, and he knows and I know that it's all an act because we're both

scaredscaredscared.

‘The raft's ready,' I repeat.

I brush Rufus's hair out of his eyes and try not to see what a skeleton he's become. His eyes stare back at me, blue-bruised.

‘I'll help you down to the beach. You can lean on me, and I'll lay you down on the raft, nice and comfy, and I'll take us to another island.'

‘Another island?' Rufus is slipping back into that half-sleep again; he's so still that for a moment I panic and think –

‘Rufus?' I say, shaking him gently. ‘Rufus?'

But he opens his eyes again and tries a smile. ‘I'm here, Fran, I'm here.'

I take his damp hand and squeeze it tightly.

‘It's OK, Rufus, I've got it all sorted out: we'll get to the edge of these waters, and there'll be tons of other islands – remember me saying? And there'll be a fishing boat or something.'

‘A fishing boat?'

‘Yeah, someone will see us and bring us ashore and there'll be…there'll be someone to help you, Rufus.'

And I do believe it.

I do.

But Rufus is asleep. His chest rises and falls the tiniest amount and it hurts to wake him but I have to – I must.

‘Rufus, wake up. You must wake up.'

It's an effort but I manage; I make him sit upright even though the movement makes him bellow with pain.

‘I'm sorry, Rufus. Christ, I'm sorry.'

I'm sobbing by the time I finally get him standing. He's hanging over me, gasping, too exhausted to scream any more. He weighs no more than a –

fistful of twigs
–

and his breath pants light and hot and quick on my shoulder.

I swallow to get myself together. Make my voice calm and even.

‘We can do this, Rufus. Just walk with me – that's right. I'll carry most of the weight…'

Each step is knives; each breath is a sucked-in scream. Dog runs back and forward, anxious to keep his pack together.

We are tatters by the time we get to the beach.

Rufus sags, moaning. But there is the raft, silhouetted against the shimmering water.

‘We've made it, Rufus.' I try to smile.

 

Moving

I don't think about how I got Rufus on.

I've made him a nest from our softest, wornest clothes and all the dry grasses I could find. I've put rolled palm leaves under his head to support him.

On board I've packed:

5 bottles of fresh drinking water

Our last 6 peepas

A fishing line and hooks

Plastic bags to make solar stills

A tub of limpets for snapper bait.

My rucksack, with my knife and Rufus's machete inside.

We're very low on carbs but that's how it's always been; we'll have to survive mainly on fish. And anyway, when we reach civilisation we'll get all the carbs we can eat.

Rufus is too exhausted to open his eyes. But he's here. And I'm here, and the raft creaks as I push it into the breakers. Dog hops on obediently and knows to avoid Rufus's leg.

Sighing with relief, I use my peepa pole-oar to head the raft straight for the horizon.

 

Rocking

We lose the fishing line a long time before dawn.

I'm pulling in a snapper when it tangles on some flotsam and gets yanked out of my hand. I can still see it, snarled over the rubbish, bobbing out of reach.

‘
No!
' I scream, and the wind takes my words and scatters them like crumbs. ‘Nononononooooooooooooooooooo!'

I fight it; I scream and howl and kick. If I could bite something I would bite.

All this time, Rufus is lying at my feet, eyes half-open, watching me.

‘Let it be, Fran,' he says quietly. ‘Let it be.'

‘I will
not
let it be,' I rant, grabbing the pole.

I paddle with wild fury, digging in the pole on both sides like I'm stabbing that stupid silent sea, jabjabjabbing. It's not till I rest a while, exhausted, that I hear Rufus gasping.

‘It hurts, Fran, it hurts.'

‘Oh God – it's me. I'm rocking the raft. Rufus, I'm sorry.'

I place the pole carefully down the side, hands trembling. Sit back down and watch the flotsam drift away, a small heaving shape in the slapping water.

Rufus sleeps; he's burning to touch but peaceful now. I hold his hand and watch the flickering stars scratch out their distant patterns.

And all the time the water slaps.

 

Time Burns

The night is clear, the sky salty with stars.

We lie on our backs on the raft, watching. I'm careful not to jolt him.

‘That's
Caelum
,' Rufus says. ‘Its name means “chisel” in Latin.' His voice is quiet as the breeze.

I watch his finger trace its outline in the sky.

‘Do you know, like, everything?' I ask him.

‘Practically everything,' he whispers.

‘That's what I like about you,' I say. ‘You're so frickin modest.'

But Rufus is asleep again.

I doze fitfully in shreds of sounds: the whacka-whacka bird bawling its call; the
ting ting
of the tin cans on their bamboo sticks and somewhere I hear, too, the sigh and hiss of splitting melons.

Around us, the sea lops and slaps in the rustling wind.

Rufus's hand tightens on mine as he stirs in his sleep. He's peaceful now, but it's an uneasy peace; it's a giving-himself-up-and-accepting kind of peace and I don't want that.

I. Don't. Want. That.

We spin, Rufus and Dog and me, in the star-stabbed sea.

Time burns.

 

Dog

‘Dog – don't!'

He's barking at a seagull that's standing bold-eyed at the end of the raft.

Each little movement jolts Rufus; I can tell by his wince. He closes his eyes.

The sea's picking up now; we're on some rolling waves, swelling and surging. I use creepers to tie down the last of our stuff: our water bottles (two), our last remaining peepas.

I don't know how long
The Medusa
will last. It creaks and squeaks with the bottles. If it stays fairly calm, everything will be fine, but what if a storm comes?

We'll never survive a storm.

We can survive three weeks without food though, and that's an awfully long time. So I just need to keep up our water supplies.

Carefully, I pour out the water that's collected from the seawater in the stills. I've set up four, one on each corner of the raft. Beneath the plastic, the water's warm and pure and life-giving.

I make Rufus drink first, even though he shakes his head; tries to push it away.

‘No. You,' he says.

I press it back to his mouth.

‘Drink up. Don't be daft.'

I can only just hear his words as he drinks and closes his eyes.

‘Silly old Cow-bag.'

I smile and let Dog lap up water from a peepa shell. He finishes it double quick and still pants.

‘Move over, Dog.'

His stinky breath's too hot against my skin.

Heat shimmers, but the waves are swelling.

The seagull is back. It stares us both out, bold as anything.

‘!' warns Dog. He doesn't like seagulls.

‘Quiet, Dog.'

I'm dry-mouthed 'cause I didn't get anything to drink myself; I'm waiting for the other still to refill. I'm tired and crabby.

So I forget to check on Dog. I don't see him hop on to the barrel, the oil drum that's always been a struggle to lash in close as the others. I feel his little feet scrit-scat on to the tin; sense his warm body has left mine.

So I don't see the wave come.

And I don't see the creepers unwind.

The barrel takes the wave surge, and I see it almost in slow motion, the lazy surge as it breaks over Dog's end of the raft.

I see the seagull lift its wings and fly, soar into safety.

I see the barrel detach and take Dog with it.

For an instant he's there, little legs scrabbling frantically to keep his balance.

And then the barrel rolls and a wave sweeps Dog off.

 

Can't

‘Fran, please, you have to leave him.'

There's no way –

no way
–

I'm leaving Dog alone in all that wide, open sea.

I'm in the water and I've remembered to wind the rope from the raft around my hand.

I'm scooped up on top of rolling waves huge as houses, and from there I look and call, over and over:

‘Dog!'

‘DOG!'

‘DOG!'

And there he is, his black nose pointed up to the sky, front legs scrabbling. He's seen me; he's trying to come back.

‘Come on, boy, come on –'

But as I watch, the swelling wave behind him breaks over his head and he's down; he's sucked under, a tiny form. He can't do battle with all that weight of water.

I dive down, eyes stretched as stalks, and in the sudden silence, with only the whumpwhump of my heart in my ears, I see his little pale body, legs circling, slowing.

Things touch and swirl. I push back water and yank my neck up for gasping breath and I
will
get to him.

I will save him.

Keep hold of the rope.

I can see him; he's trying to keep his head up,

his little nose is just peeping out

of the water.

I will not, will not let

Dog go.

I'll not give up.

Sinking bright water spins

him under.

I dive, and through water bubbles slow and cool

I see him.

He's still paddling.

His little feet going.

Sinking, he's sinking.

Sobbing, gasping.

I grab his collar, the scruff of his neck.

Oh oh oh.

 

Still

Please move, Dog. Please breathe.

The white shape of Dog lies still at our feet.

A hand finds mine.

‘It's not your fault,' Rufus whispers, soft as moth-breath.

His little body couldn't cope in all that water.

‘No!' I say. I retch over the side, all that seawater out of my lungs and stomach.

I press down on where I think Dog's heart may be, and seawater streams out of my eyes, my mouth, my hair.

I howl, and all the pain in the world is in that cry.

‘Please don't, Fran. Let him go.'

I'm sorry, Dog, I'm sorry.

I wail out my pain, over his little drenched body, so still, so –

shivery.

‘Dog?'

His body heaves, and he's coughing, retching up seawater all over my feet. Then he opens his liquid eyes and looks at me.

‘!' he says, in a tiny voice. His little tail thumps, just a little.