Beware of Dogs

by Elizabeth Flann

  Sometimes I see the shark coming at me; sometimes it’s my mother’s body I see; at other times a sea of blood and floating babies. Eventually I reach a stage when I am too afraid to fall asleep, and in the half-dozing state that results, I find myself back in my bedroom at Tante Leni’s house, surrounded by books. These are not the kind of books my mother had used to teach the Malagasy children English, the kind left behind by English missionaries, the respectable works of Elizabeth Gaskell, Austen, Thackeray and Dickens, and the slightly less reputable works of Enid Blyton and Arthur Ransome. These books belonged to Uncle Raoul and his brothers as children, and a strange and motley collection they were, with an entire shelf of medical textbooks and sensational chronicles of real-life crimes, including Lives of the Great Poisoners.

  Although I pored over the pictures in these books and dipped with a kind of awful fascination into the crimes and medical horrors, it was the shelves of adventure books I loved, reading them over and over again. My favourites were the works of R.M. Ballantyne – Martin Rattler’s adventures in the jungle, Ralph Rover’s time as a castaway in The Coral Island. I still know whole sections of these books word for word, though I found myself skipping the parts where the author strayed off into religious meditation and homily. I’d had enough of that at home. There was a selection of Arctic and Antarctic memoirs as well, and these I also devoured, finding their matter-of-fact language and harrowing descriptions of starvation, frostbite and falls into ice chasms strangely comforting.

  My mother’s English lessons had prepared me well. She loved the English language with its thesaurus of words to say one thing in a multitude of different ways, and she passed on this enthusiasm to me. I’m often taunted about the formality of my English, which is probably because a lot of our family’s knowledge came from reading our old-fashioned library of English ‘classics’.

  Although I spent my weekends at my aunt and uncle’s house, I rarely saw them. Uncle Raoul’s work seemed to take up all of his time and my aunt was busy with the choral society, the church, and doing good works among the ungrateful poor. I was free to do what I liked, which meant lying on my bed reading and weeping or, when misery and loneliness made me too restless, roaming the moors, with only Tante Leni’s dogs for company.

  At first Leni worried about me ‘wandering about, all by yourself’, but soon I was able to tell her I’d made a friend during my wanderings. ‘Oh? That’s good, Alix. What’s her name?’

  ‘Edward.’ That she enquired no further is a measure of her relief to be rid of my sodden, tear-laden presence.

  Edward was the best kind of friend. He listened patiently, never interrupted, and was never critical of anything I did. You might say he was my first boyfriend. There have not been many. Maybe Jonathan is right and I’m not suited to being in a relationship.

  Or perhaps it’s more the case that I don’t know how to do it. How do people learn these things? Watching their parents? Talking to their friends? Certainly Kathryn has given me plenty of advice, but she’s not so successful herself. I think of the couples I’ve known, and realise that there are only two: my parents and Leni and Raoul. I’ve never met Abel’s wife. Or his children. He’s still married, however. What did he learn from our parents’ strange alliance that I didn’t?

  I think about the relationships in my life: Jonathan, the first Australian I ever met, and my first and only sexual relationship; the long-distance relationship with my parents and brother; and Edward, who died in 1864, and whose bones were in some ways better company than any of them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He is chastened also with pain upon his bed, and the multitude of his bones with strong pain.

  King James Bible, Job 33:19

  FIELD DIARY – Saturday 21 April

  * * *

  It is eight o’clock. For the first time since being in the cave I have slept past the dawn.

  And I feel terrible.

  Although I know I need to move urgently, get my circulation going, I just sit, diary in hand, and write, which is all I have the energy to do. Yesterday I was amazed at the apparent lack of after-effects from my swim around the island. Now I know the answer. Delayed reaction. Every bit of me hurts, and when I do try to get up my legs go into a series of painful spasms and my stomach rises in waves of nausea so severe I almost black out. All I want to do is lie down and that is one thing I cannot do.

  I try rubbing my legs and now they seize up completely, with sharp pains shooting through my calves. I have to try to stand – anything to reduce the pain . . .

  . . . I must have passed out. It’s now half past ten. I haven’t eaten, but my stomach revolts at the thought of peanuts. I’m so thirsty. I know I’ll have to move soon.

  I must move . . .

  It is now twelve o’clock and I’m still here, frozen in place. My brain knows that it may already be too late, that my limbs may have become immovable, but my body is beyond reason. Or is it my reason that is beyond reason? Thirsty. So thirsty. With a massive effort, I tip myself over so that I can just reach the water bottle. It’s only about a quarter full. With the recent abundance of rainwater, I had allowed myself to drink without restriction. Now I don’t know when I’ll be able to collect any more. Do I drink it all and then just let myself die? Even if I wasn’t so afraid, there’s no chance I could go outside in this state to try to get more.

  I gulp greedily, then somehow manage to stop, leaving little more than a mouthful. I screw the lid on, put the bottle as far away as possible and cover it with a dirty T-shirt. Out of sight, but not at all out of mind.

  At least having a drink has helped diminish the nausea. I know I must eat, but can’t face the same old food I’ve been eating without complaint for so long now. What’s happened to me? Is this how people give up? Pushing themselves beyond hope of retrieval?

  I recall that I have emergency food. There is no doubt in my mind that this is an emergency. I just have to remember where it is. For an awful moment I think I left it in the zip pocket of my abandoned backpack, then I recall moving a small plastic-wrapped package.

  Retrieving it requires crawling, but somehow I manage, and scrabble through the bag of spare supplies, unbelievably excited as I pull out the small lumpy package.

  Before crawling back to my sitting place I rub my legs and arms and tentatively try a few flexes. Both arms are sore but at least I can move them. My legs are still painful and almost impossible to move. I drag myself back and can now concentrate on my treat.

  It takes a while to unwrap them, because the plastic has stuck on, but when I get to the core of the package, the two cough lollies are slightly soft but pretty much intact. I admire them from all sides, lick my finger and touch it to a surface. The taste is sweet and tangy, but it doesn’t make me feel sick. If I had a knife I could cut a piece off and try it, but the knife is too far away.

  I place one on my tongue, and tentatively begin chewing. No problems. I take my time, ruminating slowly like a cow with its cud, and then just as slowly eat the second one. The flavours of sugar, wax and menthol burst through me, and I feel a thin wave of warmth and energy pervade my body. Now, while the impetus is there, I decide to attempt to crawl to my standing space. Then I will try to stand up . . .

  . . . It is now half past four, and although the pain is still excruciating, I can move all my limbs. It has taken hours of agony to get to this point, but the despair is gone and if I can find some way of topping up my water supply, I know I can survive in passable shape for at least a few more days.

  I cannot allow myself to give in to despair again. Even with the fear of discovery and the occasional fear of accident or drowning, I realise that I have not actually expected to die here. Now I see how easily it could happen. The biggest threat is not outside at all.

  But it is . . .

  Just as I was meditating on the different degrees of danger, a voice broke the silence, calling my name, ‘Alix!’

  ‘Alix!’

  It’s been so long since
I’ve heard a human voice, I was momentarily confused. Then I heard heavy footsteps, and realised it was Dave. To my absolute horror he came right up to the entrance to my cave, still calling, and my newly freed body froze once more, afraid that he hadn’t found my jacket. Or, worse, that he had and wasn’t convinced that I was dead.

  Quiet as a bush mouse, I crouched and listened. Dave went on calling. His voice gradually moved away, but not far. He seemed to be at the top of the rocky path.

  Would he go down to the little beach? Had I left any evidence behind? Barely breathing, all I could do was keep quiet and wait.

  Soon, too soon for him to have gone down the path, the footsteps returned. But not the calling. Then they stopped. Right outside the cave’s entrance. Slowly, very carefully, I reached out for my knife and my hammer, and hid myself as well as I could behind one of the ridges in the cave’s rocky wall.

  Silence once again. And then a sound so terrifying, I almost ran out and attacked him, hoping to get in first, take him by surprise.

  The sound of a zipper unzipping.

  But I found I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, becoming part of the cave floor, a thing of sand and rock. A non-creature. Only the weapons in my hands had any life. I poured every ounce of energy into my hands, keeping the rest of my body perfectly still as I held the hammer high, ready to crash down on his head, and the knife poised, ready to plunge into his heart.

  And then, another sound. A splash, a torrent, a cascade. And an acrid, familiar odour. A grunt, a zipping up, and the footsteps retreated and gradually faded into the distance.

  If it was not so terrifying it would be funny. Of all the caves in all the world, Dave chose to relieve himself outside mine. Was he marking the territory? Did he know I was inside? If he had, I’m convinced he would have come barging in, ready to take his revenge for my imagined sins, which he must now feel is long overdue.

  I sit compulsively writing my diary, as I have done all day, even through the worst of my misery and pain. My excuse is that it keeps me sane, but now I know I must stop writing and eat. Even now, well after five o’clock, I’m not hungry, but I must get out the day’s food, this morning’s rations still uneaten.

  I could not face the peanuts, but I ate the sultanas, one by one, and managed to keep them down. Then I drank, very slowly, the remaining water. Tomorrow, no matter what happens, at some stage I will have to go out.

  The thought makes me realise that I do need to go out. Urgently. But it’s almost dark. It’s too late. And I’m too afraid that Dave is hiding somewhere, waiting for the darkness to fall, waiting for me to come out from wherever I am hiding.

  I’ve done what I’ve been dreading for days. I’ve used a plastic bag. It was difficult but not impossible, since I’m still dressed in the long T-shirt and socks, but I had to take my underpants off. I used them to wipe myself and then hung them up, and found some clean ones. I’m too exhausted to put them on, so I’ve left them on one of the rocks for the morning.

  The time is 5.49 p.m. on Saturday the 21st of April. As I ready myself for sleep, a strong stench, like the whiff of a urinal, fills the cave.

  * * *

  As darkness falls, my body is heavy and exhausted, but once again my mind is wide awake.

  I’m afraid I won’t sleep, having drifted in and out of consciousness all day. I feel as if I’ve been drugged. At least I’m alive and capable of kicking, although it was a pretty close call. I rearrange my sheoak padding, trying to make myself comfortable, trying to ignore that all-pervasive stench, and . . .

  Deep, deep blue water, horribly, eerily silent. I am trapped in some way, my foot clamped to the ocean floor. I look up and see a great white shark, teeth bared, swimming straight for me. The quiet only enhances the terror . . .

  I wake and manage to stifle the cry forming in my throat. But the silence remains. In films there’s always music when the shark comes. Silence is worse. Seeing that relentless, unblinking, emotionless eye approaching with no noise, no fanfare, all over in a second.

  I wonder if it really is soundless under water. I realise I’ve never put my head fully under the surface. Even on that long swim I only ducked my face under briefly. Just that one shark-panicked time. Jonathan said I had a European relationship with the sea. Perhaps he was right.

  I never went to the seaside in England. Although Manchester was not far from the coast by Australian standards, it didn’t ever occur to me. I realise now that in all those years of exile in England, except for the voyage that took me there, I never even saw the sea. Moors and rocks and caves. That was my vision of England’s green and pleasant land.

  Jonathan went to the seaside once, on a cricket team trip to Blackpool. ‘Never again!’ he said. ‘Bloody Poms don’t know what a beach is for. Prancing around in suits and high-heeled shoes! Paying for deckchairs to sit on a pile of black grit.’

  As soon as I arrived here, Jonathan introduced me to the glories of the Australian beach, particularly the joys and alarms of surfing at Bells Beach, and the freedom of nude sunbathing at Point Addis where, to my surprise, I was surrounded by the sound of languages barely remembered – German, French, and even, occasionally, Dutch – tantalisingly familiar, but now almost incomprehensible.

  Never, at any of these times, did I dive under the surface, although Jonathan often did. And when, one weekend, he went skindiving with a group of cricket mates at Phillip Island, I stayed near the shore, bodysurfing the fairly inadequate waves, pottering in the rock pools. I told Jonathan I didn’t want to hold him back because he was the stronger swimmer, but really I was afraid of sharks, though I would have died rather than admit it.

  He would have taken this as another mark of my Europeanness. We often met English and German tourists who wouldn’t venture beyond their knees in Australian waters because of the very same fear. Jonathan mocked them as he swam straight out into the deep, or paddled further and further out on his board. It amused him that people who came from countries where shark attack was not even listed on the statistics were the most fearful. But it made sense to me. Australians couldn’t afford to be afraid of sharks, or snakes, or wide-open spaces. If they were, they wouldn’t be able to go anywhere.

  I managed to hide my fear of snakes pretty well too, particularly from the geology crews. One aspect of the Australian sense of humour I have never really understood is their definition of teasing. It didn’t take me long to realise that if they knew you were afraid of something, they would endlessly torment you with the object of your fear – plastic spiders on the dunny seat, shouts of ‘Shark! Shark!’ as you reached the deep water, rubber snakes in your sleeping bag.

  Although I can walk through the bush as noiselessly as the smallest of bush creatures, on geology trips I earned the title Bigfoot from the heavy tread I adopted as soon as I learned that snakes react to vibrations rather than sound. My crews thought I was brave and fearless because I always took the lead. But in my research I also found out that if a snake is going to strike it will usually not be at the person who disturbs it, but at the one who follows. So my reputation as a good leader was in this respect shamefully undeserved.

  I tell myself that fear of snakes and sharks is sensible and logical. But why don’t I fear spiders then? Or scorpions? Or crocodiles. While they are all creatures that inspire respect and careful handling, I’m never haunted by the fear of encountering them, even when it would be a perfectly realistic fear. I’m always careful not to wade into unknown waters in the Far North, or to camp close to water, but I’ve been out in the same waters in pathetically frail crafts without the feeling (common, I’ve noticed, to many Australians) that a giant crocodile was going to swim under the boat and throw us into the water.

  Unlike its people, this country’s menaces are sneaky. They lurk in bushes, under rocks, in deep water, in all their terrible silence, whereas the ancient, mythic perils of the north come crashing towards you face to face – wolves, bears, sabre-toothed tigers, vampires, werewolves. Why don’t
they haunt my dreams? How ironic that uber-Australian Jonathan is obsessed with zombies and vampires, while I, at least by heritage a child of the Northern Hemisphere, have nightmares of lurking sharks in dark and deep Southern waters.

  Dave and Matt knew about the lurking sharks. On that chilling first night in the cabin, I heard them talking, late, after Lana must have gone to bed. It was their laughter that woke me. Then a sudden, horrible, pregnant pause before Dave spoke.

  ‘She’ll put up a fight.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pussy. There’s two of us to one of her. What can she do?’ Matt’s voice was light, dismissive, amused.

  ‘What about Lana?’

  Another silence. ‘Lana won’t give us any trouble. I’ll promise you that.’ Matt’s voice was becoming flatter and harder as Dave’s became more hysterical.

  ‘She’ll talk.’

  ‘Dead bitches can’t tell tales, can they?’

  Dead bitches. I remember another conversation overheard on that first night in the cabin. ‘Bloody bitch made a fool of me.’ Dave’s voice. The same hysterical tone.

  That was when I first realised that he was talking about me.

  ‘Mate, if she gives trouble, we’ll take care of it on the boat. Leave it to the sharks. She’ll never know what hit her.’ They were drinking. I could hear the slurp, slurp as he gulped something down. ‘Anyway, you made sure nobody knows she’s here, didn’t you? And you know what Kel said. They wash up on the other side of the Prom, miles away from here.’

  They?

  Whatever was going on, it was becoming clear that Matt was the controller. Both Dave and Lana jumped to his bidding, although Dave didn’t seem to fully realise it.

  Lana did. I wondered why she didn’t try to escape, what kind of hold Matt had over her. Was it something to do with what I heard on the first night on the island?

  I dream of bodies floating in hot, milky seas. Then the sharks come. Razor-teethed, razor-faced, like a frenzy of slate-grey torpedoes. The bodies are buffeted helplessly to and fro as they slash and grab. But these are not my parents’ bodies.