The Island (28 page)

‘Fran.'

‘Hi, Monkey, I'm so glad I found you.'

He's shiny-sweaty, hair glistening and cheeks flushed.

‘Come and give me a hug, Monkey.'

He lets me hug him; the floor heaving as kids press and bounce and scream around us.

‘Missed you, Monkey,' I say.

I breathe in his Johnny smell of grubbiness and warmth and sweat. For a moment he's all I can hold on to; I think I'm holding on to the last piece of myself.

‘Is it true?' he whispers against my ear. His breath is hot and sweet-sticky. He smells of boy-sweat and cola bottles.

‘What, Monkey?'

He wriggles away. ‘Ouch, that hurts.'

He's wearing clothes I've not seen before: a Dark Knight T-shirt and brand-new jeans. He has his hair in cool braids like Jaden Smith.

Johnny's eyes are bright and serious as he starts to bounce in the spaceship.

‘Is it true, what they're saying? Billy's sister says you burnt down the school and hurt all the teachers.'

Bounce.

‘Why did you do that, Frannie? Were you angry?'

Bounce.

‘I never…I didn't mean to hurt anyone, Monkey…'

But my words fall like stones.

They're hard and brittle like all lies. Because I did mean it. I meant to hurt from the moment I climbed those stairs. Rewind. From the moment I cleared Cassie out of vodka; stuffed the bottles into my bag.

And if you asked me: what was in your mind the instant you dropped that match?

Then the answer would be: I wanted to hurt and burn and kill.

In that instant I wanted to blow up the whole frickin world.

Johnny's still bouncing, those dark eyes looking at me, puzzled.

‘So did you do it, Frannie? Billy says that you're a monster and I should keep away from you.'

‘Who's…Billy?' I make myself say.

I'm not bouncing any more, but the walls and floor are still bellying up and down, up and down. My knees will give way. And I'm sinking, I really am. Because my match never blew up the world. It just withered the last piece of me that was still human.

Johnny bounces, arms and legs like a starfish.

Arms, legs, socks, kids, bouncingbouncingbouncing.

Are you a monster, Frannie?

Are you a

monster?

Johnny's eyes flit past me and he smiles.

‘Zombie attack!' he screams. He turns to go, still jumping as two kids jump down into the bouncy spaceship; the walls surge and hiss as I lose my footing.

‘
Got
you!'

‘No you haven't, Billy. You've got to blast me first an' –'

I'm getting to my feet; the noise from the air pump is deafening.

‘Hey, Fran, I'm in the middle of a game – I'm being chased by speed zombies!'

‘Wait –'

He's scrabbling back through the netting, the two boys close behind him. I stumble off the spaceship, wade through the balls to reach him.

‘Monkey, see you again, yeah?'

‘Bye, Fran. Oh, Fran?'

I look up hopefully. He's hiding behind a Minion, face pressed to the netting.

‘Don't call me Monkey, OK?' he's whispering. ‘An' if you buy me any presents, don't get me picture books.'

‘OK, Mon–Johnny.'

‘It's just that,' he says, ‘they're for babies.'

The two boys chasing him squeeze through at last.

Johnny's eyes brighten.

And he's gone.

 

I Wish

In the end I go to bed.

I get into Rufus's bed, after refixing his canopy and retying the drinks bottles under his palm-leaf mattress topper.

I wish Dog was with me. I wish Rufus would come back.

I can't sleep; images of all the people I've hurt keep pushing into my brain, squeezing out any chance of sleep.

Cassie and Johnny and Angela and Trish and Sally and Coral and Rufus and –

Miss.

I think I've only ever been nice to Dog.

It's too much, it's too much

oh oh oh.

‘Shhhh.'

‘Johnny?'

‘Fran? Wake up and move over, Cow-bag.'

‘Rufus?'

A face swims into the flames; pale, and smiling white teeth.

‘Honestly,' the face says. ‘You could have put dinner on.'

 

Less a Bitch

‘You came back,' I say.

I wipe my eyes as Rufus climbs in next to me. Feel the bottles creak as he moves around trying to get comfy.

We both laugh as Dog rushes out of nowhere and jumps up too. I push him away as he tries to lick my salty face.

‘Didn't think you'd come back,' I mumble. ‘You were gone for ages.'

Rufus coughs. ‘Couldn't bear the thought of all the tidying up,' he says.

I squirm.

We lie side by side, Rufus and me, as we gaze at the stars pricking out their dot-to-dot patterns in the shivering sky.

‘Rufus?' I say.

‘Mmmm?'

‘Do you ever imagine that you're not you; that you're…something else?'

‘Something else?'

‘Like a monster or…a rock.'

‘A rock?'

I'm glad it's dark 'cause now it's my turn to blush; I'm flushing like a frickin beacon.

‘I try to be a rock,' I say.

‘So, does it work?'

‘Not really.' I take a deep breath. ‘I'm glad you're back, Rufus.'

Rufus reaches for my hand and squeezes it. ‘I've always liked rocks,' he says. ‘They're solid and timeless and…interesting and – ugh!'

‘What is it?'

He's snatched his hand away.

‘You're all sticky.' He looks closely at me, as much as he can in the dark. ‘Christ, Fran, you look like you've been attacking zombies.'

‘I was trying to clear up the melons,' I mumble.

He licks his finger. ‘Yum, all sweet and sticky. Mashed-up brains…my favourite.'

‘That's gross,' I sniff.

He pushes my sticky hair away from my face. ‘Trust you to get us all messed up after our shower. I don't know that I can use my special shell-cleansing technique again; it seemed to have a rather surprising effect on you last time…'

I squirm.

‘Rufus, don't. I –'

‘I mean, I know I'm devastating with my auburn good looks and my tall, incredibly dashing physique, but it's amazing what magic I can perform with just a…shell…'

I giggle, wiping tears and smashed melon flesh from my face.

‘I can make a body go all of a quiver with my electric touch.'

He tickles my legs and I wriggle him off.

‘Ugh,' he says. ‘Ugh. Just look at my hands. I'm sorry. I can't go to bed like this. Let's use the cooking water.'

I watch him wash his hands and face over the seawater cooking pot. Then I let him wipe my hot forehead with what's left of his TeamSkill shirt.

‘Rufus?' I say, once we've settled back to bed again.

‘Mmmm?'

‘Have you ever done something so bad that you're frightened to think about it?'

He's silent for a moment before answering.

‘Sometimes I've thought things so bad, it's almost as if I've done them.'

‘Your dad, right?'

Beside me, Rufus nods.

‘Why am I such a bitch?' I say.

‘Hmm. Less a bitch, more a cow-bag, I'd say.' Rufus turns to look at me. ‘But you don't have to be.'

‘I can't change the way I am,' I mumble. ‘Not when I can't undo what I've done. It's easier to act like a monster. It's what everyone thinks anyway.'

‘So what about the teacher? It said in your notes that she'd asked to see you. Have you said that you're sorry?'

I shake my head in his arms. ‘I'm scared to – I don't want to look at what I've done.'

Rufus waits.

At our feet, Dog sighs.

‘She was nice,' I say. ‘Miss was just trying to help me.'

‘So go and see her, silly. Just as soon as we've solved the little problem of how to get off this blasted island where we're marooned and all that.'

I laugh and snuggle down. It feels nice, him spooning me.

‘So does this mean you aren't going to be such a cow-bag any more?' he says.

‘Maybe. It'll take some practice though.'

‘Now go to sleep, Rock Girl.'

‘Night night, Rufus.'

 

Any Girl in the World

Neither of us is asleep.

Well, Dog is. I listen to his little pants from where he's curled up at the bottom of the bed.

It's nice, spooning each other, and I can feel Rufus's hand on mine. His palm is warm and rough from all the log-chopping.

I sigh.

‘I'm just not your type, right?' I ask him.

Rufus pushes hair out of my eyes.

‘Little Fran,' he says, and he sounds like he's my big brother now, ‘if I could see you, I know you'd have this look on your face like you're ready to retract at the slightest hint of rejection. But it's not you, I promise.'

‘Sure?'

He squeezes me round the middle.

‘Yes. If I could do it with any girl in the world, it would be you, Fran.'

‘OK. Thanks.'

Pause.

‘I've done it before with girls. Twice.'

I wait and listen.

‘There was the girl at the summer social, when our housemaster invited the local school over. And of course we're coed, which means we have girls and after Year Nine every lad goes a bit crazy.' He fidgets. ‘I knew there was something different about me when I didn't. Go crazy, I mean. All my friends were, even Sebastian.'

‘Sebastian?'

‘My room-mate. He and I had a bit of a thing going; we had since Lower School. Nothing too serious, but we slept together sometimes; nothing out of the ordinary, but we did it more and more. It was just a bit of fun; I thought all the chaps did it.'

Well, what do you expect in an all-boys' dorm full of raging hormones?

‘But there was something more. Sometimes, as we lay kissing and talking, I felt such a sense of calm, of peace, that I felt I could lie in Seb's arms for ever. Which wasn't how it was supposed to be.'

He sighs.

‘Because of course, when we got a new intake of girls at Sixth Form, Seb, along with the other lads in Upper School, was off like a shot.'

His voice is low, his face flickering in the firelight.

‘He'd done it officially with three girls by the time it was Christmas, and it was never the same between us. Seb didn't look into my eyes once after that. “That's not who I am. Sorry, mate,” he said. I saw him stuffing his drawer full of condoms. He'd got his eye on Annalise, the hot one.'

Rufus gives a shaky sort of laugh. ‘As long as my father doesn't find out.' Then he turns to me. ‘Why are you crying?'

‘What?'

For some reason my cheeks are wet. I rub at them furiously.

‘I never cry. Crying's for sissies,' I say.

He sighs again. ‘'Course it is.'

 

Shooting Stars

Later, towards dawn, I wake.

Lie staring at the star-stabbed sky, and as I watch, one of them
moves
; I watch it etch its way across the world in a bright arc.

‘Shooting star,' says Rufus.

‘You're awake.'

‘It's caused by tiny bits of dust and rock called meteoroids falling into the Earth's atmosphere and burning up. Those meteoroids are 4.5 billion years old. We're seeing something that is billions of years older than the ocean, older than rocks.'

I think about this. ‘So are they happening now? Not like stars?'

‘That's right. When we see real stars, we're seeing ones that actually died one hundred thousand years ago; but shooting stars are an event that's only one second old.'

For once, Rufus's encyclopedic knowledge doesn't annoy me. I lie back, thinking about all the layers of time that the sky has to hold.

Then.

‘Ever played Shooting Stars?' Rufus says.

‘What?'

‘Don't say
what
, say
pardon
. Shooting Stars is a game of excellence and supreme skill. I'll go first.'

I feel him raise his arm.

‘First you lift your bow, like so. Keep your grip firm and steady. Take your other arm…'

His hand digs into my side.

‘Ouch.'

‘Sorry. You take your other hand and pull back the string, feeling the arrow taut and quivering between thumb and forefinger. Got that?'

‘I think so.'

‘Then, with infinite care and precision, you position the arrow so it sits just above your target. The aim is to shoot a shooting star. Now…steady…steady…'

We hold our breath as he waits.

‘There's one.
Now.
'

The star flashes in a perfect curve.

‘Damn – missed it. Now it's your turn.'

He hands me the bow.

‘It was a good shot though,' I tell him as I raise my arm.

‘Why, thank you. Now careful, careful. Take your time…'

I take a breath; hold the arrow just so. I decide it's made of chicken feathers, my arrow, but it's a good one, finely weighted. I close one eye. Aim. Wait.

‘Over there,' whispers Rufus.

Fire.

‘I got it, I got it.'

‘Beginner's luck. Now pass me the bow. Ouch, careful – nearly had my eye out.'

For the rest of the night, we shoot the stars till they fade away, one by one.

‘Spoon?'

‘Spoon.'

‘Dog?'

He spoons too. Dog never needs asking twice.

Till morning, we spoon each other, Rufus and me; we fit together like a stone fits a peach.

 

Bottle-tops

‘So what did you do when you disappeared?' I ask him the next day.

Rufus flushes.

‘I went walking,' he says.

‘Well, where did you go?'