The Island (2 page)

Our survival kit is in the hold. It's all been packed for us. They think we can't be trusted to pack for ourselves because:

we'll fill our backpacks with knives and vodka and smack

we're city kids so haven't seen a frickin tree before, let alone a coconut.

‘Are you really nervous?'

Hi I'm Rufus!
is still trying hard. Has he forgiven me yet for spoiling his stupid team game back at the Centre? Probably wants to write a report on me or something. Fran Stanton: Special Case Study.

He has pale skin, the sort that looks surprised to be outside. Eyes blue as a Tory boy. Everything about him is soft: soft skin, soft fringe, soft life.

‘Here, have a sweet to take your mind off it.'

He hands me a wrapped boiled sweet which I shove into my pocket just as the plane gives an alarming shake. Everyone cheers except me.

‘I flew one of these once, a Cessna two-seater. My father gave me lessons for my eighteenth birthday. Fantastic things. Really robust, you know –'

‘You don't have to practise on me,' I say.

‘What? I mean, pardon?'

‘All your TeamSkill training. You don't have to practise on me. It won't work. I'm not listening.'

I watch his flush deepen.

I take a swig from my bottle and try to ignore the stink-pant of the dog. Outside, the world is all wrong: everything is edges and angles.

The co-pilot turns round to us and smiles. ‘OK, you guys. Hope you are all comfortable back there.'

But I'm staring at the plastic-coated escape plan which is stuck to the seat in front. Cheerful passengers bobbing about in the sea and blowing whistles.

And now we are rising, high over the ocean, away from the land.

The plane lifts and my stomach drops.

 

Indictable Offence

‘Frances Stanton. You understand why you are here in the Children's Court today?'

Shrug.

‘It is my duty to pass sentence on the following crimes. You have been found guilty of, amongst other things, inflicting criminal damage to a public building, causing damage in excess of two hundred thousand pounds. We believe that there are many circumstances that make this case an indictable offence…'

Shrug.

‘…aggravating factors…'

Don't think. Don't think about it. Watch her mouth work and twist but don't listen to the words coming out.

‘However, in view of your age…and other mitigating circumstances…'

I am panting with rage, running, running. Running down the stairs, past the caretaker. Left down the corridor, up the passage. Outside, the sound of the loudspeaker. Inside, the clink of bottles in my bag.

I start to shake. Try to shove the memory back where it came from. Freeze it out. Freeze it out.

‘…more focused approach…'

What is she saying? I fix on her purple glasses as her mouth works, blah blah blah. They are interesting glasses, for someone who must be at least fifty. They've got glittery bits in them. I imagine her choosing them, maybe with her daughter. ‘Get those, Mum,' her girl would say. ‘They're well cool…' I read the designer label on the side: Paul Smith. So she's got money then. Plenty of it, from sorting out crims like me.

‘Frances Stanton?'

Stone stare.

‘This scheme works by offering an intense three-month course that gives offenders the opportunity to focus on team-building skills…'

‘What?' I say.

Sigh. ‘Since this is your future we are discussing, Frances, it would be nice if you would pay attention. We've decided that we'd like to avoid a custodial sentence in a juvenile detention centre if at all possible.'

‘Three months?' I say. ‘I can't be gone for three months – my brother needs me!' I am shouting now. My Medusa thing isn't working. Sometimes it doesn't; sometimes I can't seem to turn it on.

Purple Glasses leans forward then.

‘We are aware that you do have a close relationship with your half-brother, Johnny Bailey.'

A hand is restraining me as I struggle. My breath's coming quick and fast in my throat.

Remember you are rock. Remember you are stone.

‘What of it?' I say.

‘If you take up this opportunity we are offering, you avoid a custodial sentence, which means you will be able to have regular access visits.'

Then a man with white hair, who's been quiet all this time, shifts round to speak to me.

‘Basically, Frances, if you get yourself locked up, you may not get to see your little brother for up to two years.'

 

Yogurt

Derek-the-co-pilot is tanned and relaxed. He winks at us all and dips in a spoon, slowly. He's eating blueberry yogurt. I watch that yogurt like hell because as long as he's eating it, everything's just fine.

‘Our journey to the island will take around two hours. We hope you enjoy the flight, kids.'

The heat shimmers and the little dog grins and pants beside me. Coral nudges Joker and giggles. Tiny looks out of the window; hardly moves as he takes it all in.

‘Carob-coated Brazils, everyone,' sings
Hi I'm Trish!
She starts to throw bags of nuts and bottles of ice-cold water to us all.

Joker catches some nuts and chucks them at Coral, who shrieks. My water rolls under my seat but I ignore it. Twist the lid of my own bottle instead.

‘Tiny, not for you because of your nut allergy,'
Hi I'm Trish!
says.

Nice Trish. Wonderful Trish. Thinks of everything.

The other TeamSkill kids have quietened down now. They're swigging water and opening packets.

Coral has her head on Joker's shoulder; his hand, I notice, is under her top, stroking her back. Tiny's still staring out at the sea. As Coral yawns and stretches, her sleeve falls back, showing her tattoo. Too late, she sees me looking.

‘My kid,' she says, and smiles.

She rolls her sleeve higher to show me.

‘Tia. She's eighteen months. Just started walking.' She sighs. ‘Got anyone you'll miss?'

So I stare at her tattoo, at this baby that crawls along her arm, one hand after the other, little fingers grasping the plumpness of her flesh, and I'm thinking…

I'm thinking

of another baby,

smiling

as it makes its way trustingly towards me.

The little inked face wobbles closer, closer.

Stare. Blink.

Turn away now.

 

Starfish

He's all scrunched up and angry-looking.

But I don't mind.

I am nine and I like babies.

‘Can I hold him, Mum?'

Cassie's all woozy with wires. She's talking sort of bendy because she's had a difficult labour. That means there was trouble getting the baby out. I know because my best friend Priya's mum's just had a baby too.

Cassie nods, smiling through her blurriness. She watches me place my arm under the baby's head so he doesn't loll, and lift him, as carefully as I can, in my arms.

I sit on the chair and we both look at him.

He's all sleepy-warm and his hair's kind of yucky with my mum's blood and stuff but that doesn't matter.

What matters is that he's mine.

He gives a sort of snuffle and stretches one hand out like a starfish.

‘Look, Mum,' I say.

He's smiling in his sleep; his eyes roll back and forth under their lids as his little mouth laughs silently.

‘He likes you,' Cassie says.

I am enchanted. I trace my finger over his cheek, and it's firm and new. He's a conker just come out of its shell.

His eyes open then, and they gaze into mine, wise as an owl, thoughtful as time.

‘Hello, Monkey,' I say.

 

Tarmac

I wonder when
Hi I'm Trish!
will notice that half her vodka's gone from the bottle in her duty-free bag. I refilled the last bottle of water she gave me with vodka, after pouring the water out over the hot, hot tarmac. Stood there for ages watching its steam shimmer and vanish.

The plane gives a jolt and I tighten my grip on the armrest. Take another swig and stuff the bottle into my hoodie pocket.

I take a quick look at the co-pilot. It's OK – he's licking his spoon and chatting to Trish, who is up at the front.

Poor cow. She doesn't know that she's only got twenty minutes left to live.

 

TeamSkill

First time I meet her is after I'm done screaming at the magistrate with her dry voice and glittery glasses.

Two police officers are gripping my arms through my school shirt. Angela said I had to dress up smart to make an impression.

‘She's not stopping me seeing Johnny,' I pant. ‘No way –'

I'm thinking they'll hustle me into a cell or something but instead I'm taken to a room that smells of air freshener and has a vase of fake flowers on a low table.

‘Cup of tea?' asks an officer.

I scowl at her.

She leaves.

This room is small and bland and peach: peach flowers, peach walls, even a box of peach tissues in case it all gets too much. On the wall, a poster of a girl tells me that
Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much more.
Another has a bunch of teenage lads clutching each other and air-punching.
Coming together is a beginning
, it says.
Staying together is progress. Working together is success.

Yay.

The door opens and in walks
Hi I'm Trish!
I know she's called that because she has a name badge with a rainbow logo on it pinned to her bright yellow polo shirt.

Trish is all sweetness and lies.

‘Hey there,' she says. She's from Australia or New Zealand, small with shiny, dark hair.

The officer's back in the room, just in case I go wild and punch Trish or something. She places a cup of tea on the table, even though I didn't ask for it. It's in a mug with
Keep Calm and Eat Cupcakes
written on it. I can tell without looking that it'll have tea stains inside because the handle's all grungy.

‘OK, Fran – can I call you Fran? – I'm here to tell you more about the TeamSkill Enterprise for Young Offenders. It's a really exciting opportunity that will help in altering negative behavioural patterns…'

I hate fake flowers.

I hate how they're bright and cheerful and pretending to be something else while all the time they just sit there gathering dust, with their stiff petals and plastic stems. They don't even have a scent. What's the point of a flower with no scent?

‘…and, consequentially, we find the challenge lowers the risk of reoffending. And of course there's an increasing body of research that indicates that contact with natural places supports both physical and mental health…'

She's really trying hard, is
Hi I'm Trish!
She's waving her hands around and smiling like she's got the best job in the world. When, really, she just gets to work with people like me, all the misfits and losers. I wonder what drives her.

She's pushing a leaflet at me. It's bright and shiny with the TeamSkill logo sweeping over the front.

‘We're really glad that you're on board, Fran,' she says.

On board?

I'm staring at a picture of a desert island with palm trees and happy kids lighting fires.

‘What's this?' I say.

Hi I'm Trish!
looks pained. ‘Like I said, it's an amazing opportunity for first-time offenders like yourself to learn how to build community skills and reduce lone mindsets –'

‘Yes, but what is it?
Where
is it?'

She looks pleased I'm taking an interest.

‘The magistrate has recommended you for our pilot scheme for first-time offenders, Fran. You will take part in a twelve-week TeamSkill programme working with communities on a remote Indonesian island.'

‘Indonesia?' The word sounds strange in this peach-washed room.

‘It's in the Indian Ocean. There'll be a select group of other offenders on this scheme, all first-timers like you. The islanders will teach you the skills of survival in a natural landscape. You'll learn how to work with your hands, build shelter, live off what the island provides. In return, you will support them in rebuilding their environment after recent storms.'

I stare at the picture in my hands. The palm trees look unreal, like on a movie poster.

‘You're taking the piss, yeah?'

Trish is delighted now. ‘No. I mean, I know it sounds amazing, right? But we've worked together with the Indonesian government on this scheme and we really think it'll work. It's the ultimate in team building and community service. And all the young offenders we'll be taking will come home equipped with transferable life-skills, like…'

She's off again, blah blah blah.

The sky on the leaflet is bluer than blue. It's a colour I've only seen once before, and that was in a museum display case: a family of monkeys, picking fleas out of each other, frozen for ever under a bluer-than-blue sky.

I look at the blue and I think of the grey I see out of the window of Cassie's flat.

‘Why me?'

‘We've looked at your past history and you're a survivor, Fran. TeamSkill needs survivors. We give young people like you a second chance by providing outlets for risk-taking and facilitating social interaction. In return, you agree to let us use your success story as part of our new marketing strategy…'

So they're going to use all us social misfits to prove their little scheme really works.

‘Just a few photographs and interviews,' Trish is saying.

Ha.

Like I said, sweetness and lies.

They drag me off to get my tetanus and yellow-fever and typhoid jabs.

And that's how I get to be in this tinpot plane over the middle of the Indian Ocean.

 

Clouds