The Island (33 page)

‘Oh, Dog!'

I pull him into me and whisper ‘Sorrysorrysorry' into his sodden ear and he wriggles free and gives a huge shake that flings water like diamonds over Rufus and me and the raft.

I laugh and laugh

and Dog's hard little head is butting me; he's licking me with hot stinky breath, licking away the tears, making me laugh, making me –

‘You're crying,' Rufus says.

‘I never cry. Rocks don't cry,' I say.

But I make his words all wet, and my whole heart is being pulled out, uncoiling and unending. And my tears are warm and endless, spilling my cheeks, my hair, my neck.

Dog and Rufus try to kiss them all away but each shudder brings more as the sun turns to stars and the moon smooths and cools.

 

Tap Three Times

I dream of Rufus.

‘Come on, Fran,' he says, covering my eyes. ‘I have a surprise for you.'

He's holding something wriggly in his arms and when I open my eyes it's Dog but his eyes are different; they're Johnny's eyes.

‘I'm back, Frannie,' says the Dog that is Johnny.

We're on the beach and it's a party; everyone's invited, they're all here: Trish and Steve and there's Cassie, waving from the settee by the rocks. Coral is dancing with a little girl and they're spinning, spinning on the sand till the sun flings out of their hair and eyes.

‘Come on, Frannie. What are you waiting for?' asks Johnny-Dog. He leaps in to join the party and his tail is spinningspinning.

Rufus pushes me gently into the very centre.

He points to my feet and tells me to tap my heels together three times. ‘It's all you've ever needed to do to go home,' he says. And he floats off in a bubble like Glinda the Good Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
.

 

Scorching

‘I've had such a funny dream,' I say to Rufus with a smile. I shift around to look at him.

He's already watching me, just one eye open the tiniest bit. His breathing is very fast and shallow and he's burning-hot.

‘Fran,' he whispers, and his voice is the smallest thing.

I'm scared of the hand that scorches me, and I chatter on 'cause talking pushes it away, this fear.

‘We were all on the beach. Everyone, even TeamSkill, and you were there and –'

‘Fran.'

‘Have some water, Rufus. It won't be long now till someone will find us and –'

‘Fran –'

This time I lean close as a whisper to hear him.

‘You have the water,' he says.

‘Don't be stupid, you've got to have some. You –'

‘You…have…it.'

I stare at him then. He's flushed all over, hotter than I've ever seen him, and no amount of wiping with squeezed-out seawater cools him down. His one eye is burning at me, forcing me to –

‘All right,' I say. ‘Just this once, I'll have yours.' I take a tiny swig of water and he seems to relax. ‘OK? Happy now?'

Rufus's hand tightens on mine. I put my arms around him, spoon my body around his like he always did to me. An owl in its hollow; a nut in its shell; a butterfly in its cocoon.

‘Silly old Cow-bag,' he whispers.

 

Spinning

I thirst.

The last peepa is at the back of the raft, green and full of liquid. My knife lies beside it; Rufus's machete. But I don't take it; I can't move from here, where I lie, because Rufus is beside me, like he's always been, and if I move – if I leave him for a moment – he might leave me, I might break our connection.

My will is all that's keeping him here.

I look past where Rufus lies burning, eyelids flickering in fever-dreams,

and for a moment I look beyond to the scratched barrels of our little raft and they seem to bulge and bend into yellow rubber; it's not wood, it's rubber. Yellow raft, yellow bouncy spaceship.

I blink –

make it come back
–

and it is our raft again.

But if I squeeze my eyes tight I can see our story. I can replay it over and over again.

Rufus and me: spinning for ever on the scribbled sand; in this spinning sea.

A voice, posh as plums and husky from disuse.

‘Do you want me to scrape the dirt off you?' Rufus standing under the waterfall, a clam shell in his hand.

Rufus taking my hands and swinging me round and round on our beautiful, patterned beach. The sunlight is spinning and our smiles are flying and just at this minute,
this moment, this exact moment, nownownow –

And Monkey…

I close my eyes, smiling, soaking up every millionth of the moment of memory.

Then I kiss Rufus's poor, burning lips and reach for his machete.

 

Brighter

The peepa tastes good.

I drink, deep and full, and the liquid fizzes sweet against my tongue.

I chew shark meat slowly and feel strength come back.

I take the pole and measure my rowing, pulling twice, slow and steady, before swapping to the other side.

After ten pulls I rest. I cover my head with my T-shirt and try not to squint. I set up my solar still.

‘Getting better at this,' I tell Rufus.

He's lying beside me, leg outstretched and red-throbbing. His freckles have finally won the takeover bid for his skin. He's Robinson Crusoe, a hobo, a wolf-boy. His face is fever-flushed but smiling.

And I am strong.

And I am rock.

And I will not stop till I've saved him.

Faces shimmer in the burning sun.

Rufus becomes Cassie, soft and plump and sleepy, careworn eyes bright with booze, bright with love.

Monkey's cheeks burning, flushed as he races to escape zombies, as his breath catches, as he's caught and his eyes flit past me, to his friends, and he's happy.

And I did that.

I think what Rufus would say; what he'd tell me to do.

He'd say: go to see your brother, Cow-bag. Be the best sister you can be.

He'd say: look how he's growing up, look how he's happy. You did that, Fran. You did that.

If I get out of here, I will:

Be nice to Cassie.

Buy a lock for my door and practise my angry yowl.

Ask to take Monkey out for the biggest pizza and make him wide-eyed with my adventures.

Visit Miss and say that I am sorry. Write her a story to try to explain.

Night comes and the sky's stabbed with stars now, moon-cooled.

I lie back, reach for my bow.

You can always shoot the stars. There's always the stars, Fran.

One star is brighter. It hovers just above the water, bigger than the rest.

‘Shall we?' I say to him. ‘My turn first?'

This star winks as it burns and grows.

On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On.

‘Do stars blink?' I turn to ask Rufus.

Do stars grow bigger and bigger? Do shooting stars do that?

And Rufus's hot hand squeezes mine.

So, I draw back my hand,
steady
now
; lick my parched lips; grip the arrow more firmly. It's a good, straight arrow and I've made it with pelican and gull feathers, exactly like Rufus's headdress. Closing one eye, I gaze at the approaching star, take a deep breath and aim.

And then.

And then.

And then.

 

 

 

 

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