The Island Read online

  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

  I stare out of the window.

  ‘You’re friendly, aren’t you?’ I hear Coral shift in her seat. ‘What the hell’s that?’
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  Hi I’m Trish! has also noticed the ‘super’ view.

  ‘Cumulus.’ She smiles. ‘Cumulus clouds across the Indian Ocean. Look at them, all banked up like towers, like a forest.’

  I am a rock. I don’t have to look at rose-splashed clouds, kissing the afternoon sun like a garden of pink coral. But I do look. ’Course I do.

  And for once the entire plane is quiet; even the pilot, it seems, has not seen a sight quite like this before.

  Tiny is pressed up against the glass as if he wants to lick it; his breath makes little huffs of mist.

  The clouds are beautiful.

  ‘Come up, come up, Paul.’ Hi I’m Trish!’s voice.

  Tiny scrambles up and over the seats, skinny as string. Sits and gapes through the front window as Trish smiles and gives him a squeeze.

  She’s still smiling through the first lurch of turbulence.

  We rise and fall, but only Joker cheers.

  Derek puts down his spoon.

  Fasten Your Seat Belts

  Me and Cassie are watching old movies and eating popcorn on the settee. It’s the one where Bette Davis turns from the stairs and tells her guests to buckle up ’cause it’ll be a bumpy night.

  Cassie is plump as heaven and smells of sweet cider and cuddles.

  ‘Love you more than the moon and the stars and the planets,’ she whispers, and gives me a swig (‘Only one, mind!’) of her cider.

  ‘Love you more than all the fishes and birds and bees,’ I whisper back, and the cider fizzes, sweet in my mouth.

  ‘Sure you love me as much as that?’

  ‘More than that.’

  Bette Davis is right about the seat belts. It gets bumpy all right.

  Crash and Burn

  The plane is being seriously pummelled and it’s like we’re in an upside-down avalanche.

  ‘Heyyyyyyyyyy,’ whoops Joker. He’ll regret that attitude soon.

  ‘Sorry, folks. A bit of turbulence, that’s all,’ says Derek-the-co-pilot.

  Up front, in the cockpit, the radio crackles. It seems the pilot isn’t happy about something. He’s sweating in his Hawaiian shirt and shades.

  The plane rocks violently and, for a while, we’re all quiet. Even Trish. Even Joker.

  Coral reaches for Joker’s hand and squeezes it.

  Me, I turn my music up and Ella Fitzgerald shimmies into my head, singing about summertime.

  A jolt, and Coral’s Brazil nuts are thrown out of her hand.

  She gives a little scream and Joker puts his arm round her again, which is what she wanted.

  ‘Ohmygod,’ she says. ‘Ohmygod.’

  And Joker leans to get the nuts but he can’t quite reach, so he’s unclasping his belt and squeezing between the seats.

  Coral’s scream is a full stop, but it’s also the beginning: it sets everyone off and now the air is whipped with cries and moans and even laughter.

  ‘Uh, we are hitting…a pretty bad…downdraught,’ says Derek. His words are broken and his spoon has clattered to the floor.

  But Joker spreads his arms wide and grins. Waves his hands around as if he’s conducting an orchestra. Then Joker makes a bow so that everyone claps.

  ‘What about my Brazils?’ Coral shouts.

  And then he

  then he

  hits his head during the turbulence and dies.

  Joker is flung right across the seats, and there is a CRACK as his head makes contact with the metal armrest and he smacks against the floor and doesn’t move and Coral is screaming.

  And me? I’ve left my body and I’m crouching on the cabin ceiling, safe among the seams. I’ve left Other Me gripping that armrest, as the dog whimpers and whines.

  I see:

  Hi I’m Trish! – she’s first aid trained, of course she is – swinging her head round just as Hi I’m Rufus! starts to unclasp his belt.

  ‘Keep your belts fastened,’ yells Derek.

  The pilot is wrestling – wrestling with the stick and the weather.

  ‘Stop,’ shouts Trish to Rufus, and with this word she saves one life and ends another.

  Because, as she rises to help, her foot is caught beneath the seats and at that moment the sky heaves our plane up and Trish lurches forward and SNAP.

  There’s her ankle broken.

  She’ll not get up again, but Rufus sits back down. Snaps on his belt.

  I see:

  Poor Trish writhing and gaping, but no one cares because the plane gives a little leap and POP, the propeller stops.

  I see:

  The pilot on his radio, listening and gabbling, fingering the rosary beads around his sun-scoured neck.

  Brazil nuts begin to roll and the plane begins to drop, left wing first.

  Words.

  ‘We…lost…the…engine…’

  The pilot checks the panel – for fuel? For God? – and white smoke pours in. And all the time, this high-pitched, whistling whine.

  That control stick doesn’t want to go forward.

  ‘BRACE!’ screams the pilot.

  Other Fran shoves her head against her knees and Ella’s voice in her earphones is plaintive as hell as she sings about spreading her wings and taking to the sky.

  The suddenness of sea.

  Time stops.

  More Than

  ‘Love you more than the stars and moons and planets.’ It’s a whisper.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say.

  Cassie blinks at me through smeary eyes. Her nest is made of grubby bedding and tissues and Heat magazines.

  I yank the duvet off her and she cowers into the settee, trying to hide her great, fat, useless body. She’s wearing her business suit: a baby-doll nightie in black and red nylon. Her legs need a shave.

  ‘Love –’ she says.

  ‘Move.’

  She lets me shove her off the settee into a standing position. Stupid cow can barely walk. I watch her stumble over to the armchair and sink down with a sigh. She reaches for her Rizlas and starts to make a rollie. Her fingers shake with the shock of the morning.

  I chuck the dirty sheets into a black bag and remake the sofa bed with fresh bedding. It smells of the outdoors because I used buckets of fabric conditioner.

  Cassie looks around, bewildered, and I throw her the lighter, which was underneath a photo of some celeb flashing her tits.

  Cassie lights her ciggie and sucks in her first breath of the day.

  Unravelling

  Sea is up over windows and it is not rain – it is sea. It is not rain – it is sea.

  Fumbling to undo seat belts. Fumbling to get life jackets out of front seats.

  ‘Life jacket –’

  We are standing, clambering, unravelling. Legs, shorts, hands.

  Sea is rolling down the floor of the plane.

  Flip-flops, trainers, yellow rubber.

  A flash of red hair and yellow plastic.

  Where’s my life jacket? Where’s –

  Sea is rolling down the floor of the plane.

  I grab a package with the words LIFE RAFT and now I’m clutching yellow rubber.

  Seawater swallows me. I should be cold, should feel the shock of the cold, but I don’t. Maybe it’s because my face is being pressed up against the ceiling of the plane. And I’m floating now. Not just floating – I’m drowning.

  Screams have turned to throbbing silence. It takes me some time to realise that this sound is my heart whup-whupping.

  I have five centimetres of air space left. The last thing I will see is the seam of the ceiling; this grey vein curving away from my cheek. I clutch my rubber package and my shoe falls off and drifts away.

  The water rises and I’m all covered, above and around and below. This is the way my world ends.

  Something nudges my arm and I open my eyes and turn and it’s Coral.

  She gapes at me, her blind eyes bulging.

  Her hair swirls and it rests and settles, stroking my arms, my face. She is water-whitened, but her hair is beautiful.

&
nbsp; I cannot breathe.

  I push her away with my foot; her belly is porridge-soft.

  I cannot breathe.

  Up

  Soon all this will be over: this last, gasping, thrashing fight for air.

  Saltwater fills my lungs and I am still fighting, banging on the ceiling with my weak, useless hands.

  Burningburning suckingsucking chokingchoking.

  Death is a struggle.

  And just as the lights switch to black, the seam splits.

  A searing crack of whitelight whitelight whitelight.

  I claw through the opening

  and I yank on the string of my yellow package

  and something bursts

  and I whoosh through the water, up like a rocket,

  and am yanked up through the silver skin of the water into

  air

  pure and clean and cold like a

  slap.

  Burning

  My throat burns.

  I can smell talc and rubber, and sunlight is dancing red ripples behind my eyes.

  I open my eyes. Stare at bulging, writhing walls.

  I have no shoes.

  I try to sit, and immediately vodka-waves rise inside me and I throw up, all over this strange, moving floor. At first I think I’m on a bouncy castle like the one in Brockwell Park, when the Lambeth Country Show is on. I retch and retch and wipe my mouth with my hand.

  A spume of water hits the ceiling of my new, closed world and I cower back. Slide down, back into the puddle.

  Everything on this raft is yellow: yellow walls and floor. Above me, a crack of white light behind a yellow flap. I shift round on my knees, lift the flap.

  I look out and see:

  Blue shimmering water.

  Blue shimmering sky.

  And nothing.

  Lots and lots of endless nothing.

  I am alone in the heaving sea.

  I remember the whoosh and I remember the yank as the life raft inflated, as the nylon rope detached from the broken body of the plane. I look about, try to see the plane, but there’s nothing: no smoke, no smashed-up metal lying in the sea. It’s like my whole life has just evaporated: poof – just like that.