These sultanas tasted sublime. By the time I got to the last two I waited a full five minutes between each one, and then sat enjoying the aftertaste, and voluptuously running my tongue around my teeth for any remnants. To my amazement this meagre repast had taken over half an hour, and once I’d licked my teeth over again it was almost time to drink the rest of my water. There must have been sufficient fluid in the sultanas to offset the sugar, because when nine o’clock came my thirst was more comfortable than raging, and I was able to stretch the experience out for almost fifteen minutes, taking a sip, savouring it, thinking about it, then taking another. Mealtimes are definitely going to be the best part of the day.
10.00 a.m.–12.00 p.m.: Stand in entrance space. Do any exercises possible in the space.
The next stage was the most uncomfortable. I had been sitting in the low space to do the sorting and to eat my rations. Now I had to force myself to get up and move to the standing space near the entrance to keep the blood flowing so my muscles wouldn’t seize up.
This was quite a procedure. First, I did what exercises I could in the sitting position – neck rolls, hand rolls, ankle rolls, rocking from side to side. Unfortunately, there was not enough room for full arm rolls, but I tried to keep changing the position of my legs, from sitting cross-legged, changing from one foot to the other, to semi-kneeling (a position I couldn’t keep up for very long). Then, and this has proved to be the most painful bit, I manoeuvred myself forward into a crawling position and half-crawled to the space near the entrance, when, still painfully, I slowly stood up.
There’s a small stone ledge on the east wall of this space and I’d decided to try leaning against that to see if it was more comfortable. It wasn’t exactly more comfortable, but it was less uncomfortable, and I found that there was enough room to do some leg-flexing exercises and to pump my lower arms in and out which, combined with the sitting exercises, might help alleviate the stiffness if I do them often enough. In fact since there’s nothing I can do to distract me when in this standing position, regular sets of exercises are a welcome diversion.
12.00–1.00 p.m.: Return to sitting. Fruit snack if available. No water.
After a standing break, returning to the sitting position was much less painful, and I briefly wondered if it mightn’t be a good idea to try to spend some of the night standing up. Then I remembered that the contortions necessary would be pretty much impossible to achieve in complete darkness, so I’ve abandoned that idea.
However, there’s no doubt that any change of position helps, and I must be rigorous in sticking to the plan. To this end, I repeated the sitting exercises, and only when they were completed did I allow myself to pull out the karkalla and pick off one of the fruits.
I’m grateful that I took Professor Atkinson’s summer school course to get to know the Australian flora. Not only do I know that karkalla is edible, but I have actually eaten it. Well, not the fruit, which wasn’t available at the time, but the leaves, boiled up in a billy, bush-style. We also tried the leaves raw, so I know not to try them now. Apart from the saltiness, uncooked they have a sharp, rasping quality that leaves your mouth sore and parched, the last thing I need at the moment. I don’t think they’re actually poisonous, so if I reach a really low ebb I might have to try eating them, but for now I’ll stick to the fruits, which are supposed to taste like strawberries.
These fruits tasted like no strawberry I’ve ever had, but they were certainly edible. A bit sweetish, rather watery, more like a fig or a kiwifruit, but not as nice. However, I had no trouble eating my five allotted fruits, (skins and all, despite Professor A’s suggestions), and found them watery enough not to need a drink. This was fortunate, because only two small drinks a day are permitted in the plan, and even on this regime, I’ll run out of water in just a few days.
While I know it’s illegal to forage for native vegetation, I don’t feel nearly as bad about it as I probably should. I’m counting on two things here: the first is that I’m on a privately-owned island so the rules may not apply; the second is that even if they do still apply, this pales into insignificance compared to the risk of dying of starvation. I’m usually not a rule-breaker, but in this case I feel my behaviour is perfectly justifiable.
1.00–3.00 p.m.: Write up diary.
This has turned out to be another enjoyable part of the day. I managed to extend the time by reading yesterday’s entry over again, and now writing it up gives me time to analyse how well my timetable is working, and to fine-tune it if necessary. Once housekeeping has been dealt with, the time between one and three o’clock is going to be very difficult to fill. I find myself tempted to make lists or doodle, but I don’t want to run out of paper, so I’ll only indulge myself with one list on the inside cover of my diary.
Things I most wish I had with me:
• Pillow
• Rescue beacon
• Rope
• Mobile phone
The pillow is self-explanatory, as is the rescue beacon. Of course even if I had a beacon I could only use it if I knew for sure that no-one else was on the island, and then I’d have to time it very carefully to avoid the bi-weekly boat run, since I fear I cannot trust the Duffy brothers. At present it would be no use at all. Rope I regret the most. It would enable me to hang things much more easily, enable me to climb up and down the cliff safely and (to me the most compelling reason) if I did manage to catch any of my hunters before they caught me, it would enable me to tie them up securely. The mobile phone I know is silly. Dave said mobiles don’t work here, and even though I now know he is not to be trusted, common sense tells me he’s right about this, but somehow, irrationally, just having my phone beside me would make me feel safer.
One other thing I do regret is that I didn’t bring my Atkinson’s Guide. Professor A is a legend in the geology department, with a history of daring, usually successful, forays into inhospitable and remote areas in search of rare minerals. He’s also a keen botanist and bush survivalist, and completely crazy. His guide contains the kind of common-sense advice everyone should give you, though normally no-one does. He’s retired now, but still comes in each year to do his summer school and he’s always the first to arrive at parties, where he brings bizarre bush tucker offerings and ends up standing on the table reciting ‘The Man from Snowy River’ and ‘The Man from Ironbark’, his special party pieces.
Fortunately, with my neurotically retentive memory I can recall quite a lot of his advice, but despite that just having the guide would have helped to evoke his larger-than-life presence and given me a bit of company in my own survival story, as well as something to read.
Now I’ve run out of things to do. I hadn’t planned to move to the standing space because I’ll have to go out later anyway, but I think I’ll add a new item to the list just to break things up a bit. I’ll bring my diary so I can meditate about any possible substitutes for my wish list.
3.00–4.00 p.m.: Stand in entrance space. Exercises.
The only alternative to a mobile that I could think of is telepathy, so I guess I can abandon that particular dream. I can’t think of any alternative cushioning material either except cushion bush, and I don’t think there’ll be any on this side of the island, as its preferred habitat is on sheltered sandy beaches. However, the idea gives me a goal, something to search for, and I realise that is important because it makes the concept of a future seem somehow much more real. Rope. Not much chance of that. Then I think of the karkalla stem. Not strong enough for rock-work but it might make a functional tie. Would it be strong enough to tie a person? I doubt it, but even the possibility is exciting.
Feeling pleased with myself for finding such an excellent way of passing the time, I am just about to turn my mind to rescue beacons when there is a loud crack and a crash. What was that? But of course I know what it is. Now that it has finally happened, I recognise only too clearly the unmistakable sound of a human being crashing through bush. Hand over mouth, I crouch and wait . . .
Sunset.
What I’ve been dreading has finally happened, and the experience has been both far worse and less bad than I had been able to imagine. I’m still alive, that’s the good part, but so sick with fear that it is only with great difficulty I can force myself to take a tiny drink of water. Even though I’d thought it, even written it, somehow I don’t think I had really believed they’d come this far. I should have known. Dave tracked me down once, now he’s tracking me again. And that’s the worst of it. I’m beginning to feel that, whatever it is he’s wanting from me, he’ll never give up. In the back of my mind I’d been counting on the boat coming back on Monday and picking them up, but now I’m faced with the possibility that Dave won’t leave until I do. The others may go, probably will. But he’ll stay. And while he does I’m trapped here.
Which makes it doubly important to stick to the timetable, but the shock has left me craving sweetness. Crawling back to my food store, I permit myself to eat two of the remaining karkalla fruits. However, I do not allow myself even a tiny sip of water, yet still my bladder tells me: I have to go out. I know this, but don’t think I can do it. However, two positive things have come out of this manifestation of my greatest fears. I heard him coming, and I heard him going away. Which means I have covered my tracks well enough that he didn’t find me. Of course there’s the possibility that the going away was a feint, and that Dave is hiding out there, waiting for me to show myself. But I don’t think so. I have a real sense that I’m alone in this part of the island now. Not that this makes me any more eager to leave my shelter.
I make a deal with myself. I’ll just nick out quickly, no exploring, and I’ll head for that flat rock and use it as a toilet no matter how suitable or unsuitable it proves. I know this is a good plan because if someone is there, I’ll be more experienced on rocks than he will, and if they’ve gone away and then return I’ll be out of sight of their path.
Quick toilet run. Exercises if possible. Prepare for sleep. Finish diary.
Well, I’ve done it, and, obviously, lived to tell the tale. I crouched under the light from the largest ceiling hole for a full minute to help adjust my sight, then slowly crawled to the entrance, stood up and, heart in mouth, pulled the tree aside. I stood like this until my vision cleared. Nothing moved. No-one came. As fast as I could with my slowly unstiffening limbs I made it round the point, all the time scuffing out my prints with a branch. When I reached the flat rock, it was even better than I’d thought. A shallow depression in the centre dipped into a hole about five centimetres across, and beneath this hole was a deep chasm.
Unfortunately balance was even more difficult than this morning, but eventually I managed to do what I had to do, relieved in every way as I heard the evidence trickling onto the rocks below and out of sight. I even took a moment to take in the view and gulp some deep draughts of bracing salt air. It would have been beautiful if not so fraught with danger, and in fact it was beautiful, the rocks disappearing at this point straight into the blue-black depths of the sea. Aqua profondo. Not Homer’s wine-dark sea this. A clear poisonous cobalt blue. But dark, certainly dark. And deep.
It took a bit of time to pull my jeans back up, and by then the light was fading fast. I peered round the rocks, no sign of movement anywhere, then picked up my branch and made my way back as quickly as possible, still taking care to cover my tracks. It was the work of less than a minute, but I couldn’t breathe easily again until I threw my branch into the bushes, darted into the cave, and pulled the tree carefully across the entrance. Then I stood, stock still, listening.
Nothing. I needed to move fast now, because while standing on that rocky outcrop an idea had come to me, and I wanted to try it out before my limbs stiffened up again. I’ve had my jeans on from the moment I decided to leave the cabin. Not only were they now becoming quite uncomfortable, but they also made my toilet dashes both difficult and dangerous. What I wanted to do was take them off and use them, folded, as a ground cushion overnight, and then leave them hanging to air while I made my morning dash, wearing only my long T-shirt, socks and boots.
This involved a very complicated procedure. I needed to crawl to the interior sitting position in order to take off my boots, then crawl back to the standing position where, with enormous difficulty, I peeled off my jeans. There was a terrible moment when I thought I was going to be stuck, jeans round my ankles, unable to move, but finally desperation took over, and I managed to drag them off. I felt naked and vulnerable as I folded the jeans and stuck them awkwardly under my arm. The crawl back into the cave was painful, with sand and rock grazing my knees, but there was nothing sharp enough to draw blood and I brushed the sand off using the jeans as a duster, before placing them as a cushion between me and the cold ground. The light was almost gone by then, but I forced myself to pull the Amnesty T-shirt out of my backpack and put it on, plus the pair of long socks I’d left stuffed in the bottom of the pack.
I just have time to drink my overdue water ration, fold the backpack, now skinny and totally inadequate for its role of cushion, and place it behind my head, finish writing up my diary and prepare for sleep, knife in hand, rock and hammer nearby.
The time is 5.58 p.m. on Saturday the 14th of April.
* * *
Reluctantly I put my diary away as darkness descends, leaving me once again with only my thoughts for distraction . . .
As blackness envelops the cave, I begin to feel almost safe. Having spent one night in this space, I know that nothing lives here but me, and I’m also confident I have nothing to fear from Dave or Matt after dark. Their bush skills are limited enough by day, and I’ve seen no sign of any equipment that would enable them to patrol the island by night. In fact, I think it was my superior bush skills that enabled me to escape so easily, and their collective ignorance that enabled me to hide my intentions. The people I usually hang out with wouldn’t have been fooled for a minute.
That first morning I had made the decision to behave as if everything was completely normal. I’d heard enough the night before to know that I had to get away from the cabin area some time that day and find somewhere to hide where I could work out an escape plan. They were all pretty seedy when they finally emerged late on Friday morning. I had made myself a large breakfast and offered to cook something for Dave. He groaned and took some black coffee.
‘I’m going exploring,’ I said, as bright and breezy as a pixie. ‘Coming?’ I knew he wouldn’t, and set out in a way I hoped would allay any doubts about my intentions. I was lightly dressed, carrying nothing but a large water bottle and a small backpack.
There were paths on the island, perhaps forged by Matt’s ancestors, and though overgrown in places, they seemed to have been maintained to some extent. After a number of false starts, I found the route up to the north-west point. And I found the cave. Then I scuffed out all trace of my footprints, except for those along the beach, made sure I was back in time for lunch, ate as much as I could, and waited until my moment came.
I waited most of the afternoon, while Matt and Dave drank steadily and became nastier and nastier, first to each other, and then Matt changed tack and turned on me.
‘I hear you’re quite the athlete, Alix. When are you going to give us a demo? Some nude wrestling, maybe?’ He squinted and looked at me narrowly, as if sizing me up. ‘Dave says we’re in for a treat. Can’t wait.’ I had a bad feeling that I couldn’t wait much longer either, and that Dave tended to say a lot of things that bore no relationship to the truth.
It was not until Dave parked at the jetty that I learned we were going to an island.
I’d never have accepted the invitation if I’d known there was a boat trip involved. Did Dave know that? I wonder. What he did know was that I had no real way out because we’d come in his car. I’d wanted to drive myself, but he’d insisted that it didn’t make sense, that sharing would save on petrol and parking problems.
He’d also convinced me to leave my phone locked in the glovebox of his car. ‘Matt
’s place doesn’t have any reception,’ he’d assured me. ‘It’s not really worth the risk of losing it if you can’t even use it, is it?’ He’d made a great show of leaving his own phone as well, which made me inclined to believe him.
But as I looked around in consternation at the tiny mussel-encrusted jetty, one alarmingly small boat, six people, and a car park the size of a football field containing just two cars and a beat-up old truck, he grinned.
‘Dave, you said . . .’
‘I lied. Path of least resistance.’ He was still grinning, obviously finding my alarm extremely funny.
‘Calm down, Alix. I’ll introduce you to Lana.’
Just one glance at Lana told me I wasn’t going to fit in with this group. She was wearing white from head to toe. Expensive white. Italian sandals, linen skirt, some kind of artfully low-necked designer shirt, cute yachting cap. She was also wearing heavy makeup, and her hair was styled in a creative disarray that must have been set in concrete. Not a curl out of place. ‘Hi, Alice,’ she said in a lisping Marilyn Monroe voice that sounded weirdly artificial.
‘It’s Alix, not Alice,’ said Matt lazily. ‘And she’s an exotic import a bit like you, aren’t you, Alix?’ It appeared that Matt and Dave had been talking about me.
I was feeling more and more out of my depth, almost disoriented. Perhaps I should have protested then and there, but what could I have done? No car, no phone, no real idea of where we were, and the fleeting idea of appealing to the two men on the boat to take me back to town died the moment I got a good look at them.
Although both Matt and Dave were for the most part all charm on the boat, it was there I felt the first stirrings of unease (apart from the overwhelming unease of actually being on a boat), and that was mainly because of the Duffy brothers. Matt really should keep them in better check.
‘We better get going. Tides won’t last for fuckin’ ever.’ This was the older, bulkier one who looked like your archetypal axe murderer. The other one, with a mean, pinched angry face, was moving around the boat, unfurling ropes. They were introduced to me as Mick and Kel Duffy. The Dodgy brothers. A glance at their truck made me shiver and take a step back. It was guarded by four Rottweilers on very long chains that would have enabled them to deal with any potential thieves without any trouble at all. When I looked their way they growled and strained at their ties, just raring to get at me. No help there.
Beware of Dogs Page 3
