This time I headed to the other side of the cabin, picking up the long stick I’d left leaning against the side wall on my way. I’d noticed a little splash of pink and green on the rocks edging the southern side of the beach. For fear of serpents, I was not keen to go onto that side of the sandblow, but this area did seem fairly open, and I’d come prepared, so I approached it tentatively but bravely. There was indeed a good crop of karkalla growing there. Before I ventured into it I hit the ground heavily many times with my stick and screamed loudly, the unfamiliar sound frightening even me. Then I stamped my feet with each footstep and, heart pounding, quickly gathered as many fruits as I could before panic forced me to retreat.
Nothing was in sight except karkalla, rock and sand, but my heart was hammering and I couldn’t bring myself to go back in there. I was proud to have gone so far, and carried my small bag of fruits like a trophy. I put the stick away, stored the fruit for later, and checked my clothes again. Nearly dry, except for the jeans. I’d need them for the walk back to the cave, so I spread my anorak out on the sand, put my hat back on and sat, surveying my surroundings, until my jeans were ready to put on.
. . . And woke up to find that it was almost dark. There was no way I could climb up to the cave in that light, but the evening was quite warm, the sand was soft, and I didn’t think anyone was going to come tonight. Quickly, before it got too dark, I ate some of my fruit, then began to scoop out a shallow sand bed, experimenting until I got the pillow height exactly right. With my anorak stretched out under me for a ground sheet, and a T-shirt over a plastic bag on the sand pillow, I lay back in my Amnesty T-shirt and looked at the stars. This was the first time I’d been able to sleep lying down for almost two weeks. Maybe I can bed down here every night.
Warm and comfortable, water bottle by my side, I settle down for sleep on the night of Tuesday the 24th of April.
* * *
I wake cold, shivering, and sick, with strange, hallucinatory images swirling through my brain.
I know I won’t make it to the dunny in the dark so I stagger to the water’s edge. Must have been the limpets. The very thought makes me sick again. And again. Finally, moaning softly, I find my way on hands and knees back to my bed, now as cold and unwelcoming as a tomb.
I’m chilled and clammy, tossing and turning, my comfortable bed of warm sand turned icy, lumpy and damp, giving me a new appreciation of my cave. I drift in and out of consciousness. Conversations, real and imagined, play through my head like horror movies.
Matt and Dave leaning over the rail on the boat going over. I was sick then too. Maybe it was an omen.
‘Aw c’mon, Matt. You can spare a little bit.’
‘You’ve had enough, mate. Got to be able to perform for our little friend.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.’
‘You quite sure she doesn’t suspect anything?’
‘Nah. Stupid bitch. Expects everyone to jump. Can I carry your bag for you, Alix? Can I kiss your foot, Alix? Totally full of herself. Bitch’ll get what’s coming to her.’
For a moment I’m not sure if this is a memory or a bad dream. If this was real, how come I also remember Dave being so nice to me on the boat, bringing glasses of water, holding them for me to sip? Then it suddenly strikes me that rather than doing me a kindness he could have put something into the glass to make me more malleable, less alert to what was going on. My stomach heaves again at the thought.
This time I haven’t got the strength to reach the sea. I crawl as far as possible before being sick again. All I can do when finished is cover the evidence with sand and crawl slowly back, the words ‘Bitch’ll get what’s coming to her’ reverberating through my mind.
I’ve heard those words before. About a girl called Danielle.
We used to have occasional Sunday community barbecues in the park opposite the flats, and one of Dave’s favourite party pieces was about a girl who had accused him of sexually assaulting her. The way he told it she was the town bike and a lying bitch. I’d heard it a couple of times and taken it pretty much at face value. Dave was one of those people who impressed you as a nice guy at first meeting, when he turned on the charm, and it was only later that you gradually found yourself backing away, avoiding him for no identifiable reason. I was still living with Jonathan when he moved in next door and he didn’t seem to show any particular interest in me then. In fact, the first sign of interest was when I returned from the Philippines, and he offered me a friendly shoulder to cry on. Now in retrospect I can see why I was suddenly attractive. Distressed, temporarily alone and seemingly needy, I had turned into potential prey.
But I didn’t behave like prey. Dave asked me out once after that when Jonathan was away working in Sydney. ‘I’ve got two free concert tickets. Why don’t you come with me? Just as friends, of course.’ I remember thinking how well I handled it, basically telling him the truth. ‘I’m a bit freaked out still about my parents,’ I said. ‘I’m just not ready for big social occasions.’ He seemed to take it OK, but would I have noticed if he hadn’t?
Surely that was not enough to put me on Dave’s list, his program of revenge. At the end of the Danielle story I remember now how he smiled when people, usually men, commiserated with him. ‘Oh, it was all right. She got what was coming to her.’ How could I have forgotten? How could I have accepted his story without question?
I don’t know how he got his revenge on poor Danielle, but it seems he’s waiting impatiently for my turn to come around. But why? I’m quite sure I never gave him any encouragement.
I wonder what the time is. My mouth is dry and painful and there’s a foul taste on my tongue. I find the water bottle and take a couple of tiny sips. I don’t want to be sick again. My stomach heaves, so I don’t dare take any more. I try to settle to sleep, but memories keep flashing round and round in my head until I think I’ll go mad. My misery forces itself out in little baby whimpers and I try to cry, thinking it might help to relieve the discomfort, but it just makes me sick again.
I crawl off into the sand, but I needn’t have bothered. I’m dry-retching now. It’s so painful I fear my throat will scar. I can feel ulcers forming, either from the sickness or poor nutrition. After being so careful, how could I have suddenly been so stupid? I don’t think the problem was the limpets. There’s nothing around here to pollute them. I think it was the leftover grease I was so excited to discover. I should have scraped it off and then burnt off any residue. Instead I ate every last tiny bit, and now it may be the death of me.
At least thinking about this hasn’t made me sick again, but I can’t risk drinking any more water. I lie down and try not to think of being found by the Duffy brothers in a few days’ time, half-naked and surrounded by little pools of dried vomit. That would certainly give them a laugh.
Surprisingly, thinking about the worst makes me feel slightly better, and I settle down again with some hope of sleep.
I hear crying. A desperate, terrible crying like an animal in pain.
And wake up in a panic, but around me all is silence. I must have been dreaming.
On the first night I was also woken by crying and a lot of unpleasant crackling noises, but that time it was not a dream. As I listened, lying rigid in my virginal bunk, my bed must have creaked, because the sounds came to an abrupt stop, and after that nothing broke the immensity of the silence. My first thought was to wonder if there were koalas on the island, having heard their heart-wrenching cries once before, which sound just like a human baby that has lost its mother.
Then I realised that it must have been Lana who was crying so wretchedly, and that something on this island was terribly, terribly wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
These shall ye eat of all that are in the waters: whatsoever hath fins and scales in the waters, in the seas, and in the rivers, them shall ye eat . . . And all that have not fins and scales in the seas, and in the rivers, of all that move in the waters, and of any living thing which is in the waters, they sha
ll be an abomination to you.
King James Bible, Leviticus 11:9-10
FIELD DIARY – Wednesday 25 April
* * *
I woke up to find that the sun was high in the sky and the air was warm, although the sand beneath my anorak was still damp and cold. I sat up carefully and realised the sickness had diminished to a faint dull pain in my lower back and a feeling of unease. I feared I would never eat again, no matter how hungry I became. My throat ached miserably, and I nervously took a sip of water. It didn’t make things either better or worse, so I had a little more.
But when I stood up the water bubbled in my stomach and cramps rapidly followed. I stumbled to the dunny, and thanked God I hadn’t been sleeping in the cave. And as I had the thought, my father’s voice resounded in my ear: Don’t you know it’s a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain, Alix.
Yes, Vader, I know.
Stom! You’ll die there. You should not have turned your back on the Lord your God. Your sins will betray you!
Yes, Vader.
My father’s voice has haunted me before, but now I seem to feel his presence, judging me with triumphant glee.
So this is what you’ve come to, when you chose to leave the straight and narrow way.
I forced my ears closed to his taunting and turned to more immediate questions. Would the smell be best dissipated by leaving the lid open on the dunny? Or would that attract flies? I decided to leave it closed, and resisted using up the diminishing roll of toilet paper, just in case. I flipped the lid shut, latched the door behind me and raced into the sea, throwing off my T-shirt on the way. After a thorough salt wash and a quick rinse under the tap, it was time to check out my clothes.
They were dry, but stiff. The jeans were almost rigid and I could only make them wearable by spreading them out on the anorak and giving them a good pummelling, then rolling and unrolling them a few times. At least they’ve shrunk a bit, making them slightly less baggy, but they still need the makeshift belt to hold them up. Today is Anzac Day. This is the one day I am confident the Duffy brothers won’t be around. I heard them telling Matt they’d be going to Melbourne for the veterans’ parade – possibly to commemorate an ancestor or, more likely, to sell some of Matt’s drug supply.
Anzac Day is also a day when most Australians are on holiday, so as soon as I felt well enough I knew I had to make a journey to the jetty side of the island. I was hoping there might be some form of yacht activity between the island and the mainland, though I knew there was little likelihood of an official regatta. The waters are too unpredictable and treacherous for racing, but a few yachts passed us on the way out here, so there is some hope of a bit of traffic.
My plan was to cross to the landward side of the island and build a bonfire on the jetty at the end of the sandblow, where there would be plenty of driftwood on the beach to use in its construction. In my current weakened state I knew that I needed to travel light. I wore my hat and knotted the anorak around my waist. In various pockets I carried my knife, the water bottle and the remaining fruits. I would not eat or drink until afternoon at the earliest, but I needed to have supplies with me, just in case, which seems to be becoming my mantra. I was worried that the matches might have become damp after a night on the sand, so I took them out of the anorak’s inner pocket to examine them. They looked OK and the waterproof container seemed to have kept them good and dry. I put them back, carefully zipping the pocket.
Keeping to the shade of the trees, I managed to make slow but steady progress. My legs were weak and my head felt strangely empty, and after a depressingly short time my breathing became laboured and I had to stop. I folded the anorak and sat hunched on the sandy ground with my back against a rock protruding from between a tangle of tree roots. I wondered how far I had come. Distances can be deceptive and this time it seemed that the jetty was further away than I remembered. My thirst was terrible but I didn’t dare risk a bout of diarrhoea so far from the sea, so I suppressed the urge to drink and after a short break forced myself onto my feet again.
I wondered why I was not worried about dying. Perhaps I’d gone beyond fear. I had no idea what effect sickness and diarrhoea might have on my chances of survival, but couldn’t bring myself to care. I just kept doggedly on, putting one foot in front of the other, carrying out my plan.
I wished I could hurry. What if there were yachts passing within sight at that very minute and I had no way of signalling them? No-one would be searching for me. The only person who could possibly miss me is Kathryn and she wouldn’t be worried yet.
Or would she?
I pondered the strangeness of my friendship with Kathryn. Would we be friends if we weren’t both single? Despite not quite seeing eye-to-eye about men, Kathryn and I have had some good times. We work together like an old married couple, each of us working to our strengths and backing each other up to the hilt. But we’ve mostly avoided getting too personal.
Kathryn knows my parents are dead, but she’s never asked me much about them, possibly fearing it’s a delicate topic. She did ask me once what it was like living in Madagascar. ‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ I remember saying. ‘I was sent away at thirteen. To go to boarding school!’ I added, seeing her shocked look, although this was, of course, not the full story. Now, with so much time for reflection, I’m coming to the conclusion that my mother sent me away before Vader could break my spirit. I couldn’t have told Kathryn this, because I wasn’t aware of it myself until now.
She came from a town in New South Wales and had five sisters, all married and, as she described them, ‘great breeders’. ‘I’m the one disappointment,’ she’d say, and then laugh it off. ‘But at least I’ve got a career and can look after myself.’
She poured us both another glass of champagne. ‘To happy families! May they live far, far away!’ Then she looked suddenly stricken, as if she had just realised that my family were about as far away as could be. I wish I could believe that they were in heaven with all the angels and the harps, but I can’t. And I couldn’t seem to talk to Kathryn either, about how much I missed my mother, about my brother in Canada who was a virtual stranger. Why not? There really must be something wrong with me.
But it was no use dreaming about Kathryn and what I should or could have said. Today I had a mission.
A few more paces and I could hear the sea. Resisting the temptation to take another break, I surged on. Nearly there. At least it was a straight flat walk.
And then I reached the end of the sandblow. At last. I stopped a few metres from the shoreline and took a sip of water. It was warm and unpalatable, but it didn’t make me sick. After checking that the tide was going out, I dug a hole a little away from the water’s edge, wedged the water bottle in the damp sand, then scooped a channel between it and the waves as a kind of beach fridge, hoping the water would be a bit more drinkable by the time I finished building my fire.
I decided to risk eating some fruit, starting tentatively with the smallest of the karkalla fruits. After a few minutes with no ill effects, I nibbled a few more, then put the rest away. Softly, softly. I didn’t want to be sick again. Then I began collecting driftwood and piling it up on the concrete jetty ramp, far enough away that there was no risk of setting any of the surroundings on fire, but close enough to be visible, I hoped, from the sea.
I was not at all sure of the island’s location, mainly because I realised belatedly that Dave went to great lengths to keep me in the dark about our destination, sticking to back roads with little or no signage, which he described as ‘taking the scenic route’, and airily chanting ‘it’s a surprise’, when I asked him outright where we were going. I had a feeling after we’d been driving for about an hour that he was deliberately changing direction, even doubling back on occasion, and that was when I first began to wake up to myself and think something was not quite right, particularly as normally I have a very good sense of direction.
I started watching for clues, and keeping a casual eye on the odometer. F
rom the distance travelled, my innate sense of direction, and the rural signposts we did pass, I was pretty sure we were heading towards the Wilsons Promontory area south-east of Melbourne, and as I felt the time was approaching when we’d be getting close I slumped in my seat and pretended to doze so that Dave would drop his watchfulness. He did relax and concentrate on driving as we reached the trickier back roads and I was able to catch a glimpse through half-shut eyes of an old-fashioned black-and-white signpost that told me we had bypassed the town of Foster and headed away from the Prom in the direction of Toora. I was quite familiar with Wilsons Prom itself, but had never travelled on in this direction. However, I had a fairly good memory of the map and when Dave turned off and the sea-coast came into view I knew we were somewhere on the way to Toora and Port Welshpool.
Up until now I hadn’t thought very much about the local geography; I had plenty of other things to worry about. But now that I had a rare chance of trying to attract attention while alone on the island, this lack of knowledge almost brought me to despair. Although there was quite a lot of air transport – mainly small tourist planes and helicopters – over the Prom, I had not seen or heard air traffic of any kind since landing on the island. I had also seen no sea traffic. Apart from the Dodgy brothers’ boat, since I’ve been stranded here there has not been any sign of human movement or presence within sight of the island, making it clear to me that fire was really the only option.
Because of the storm last Thursday the job was easier than I had expected. Driftwood had piled up against every resistant surface – rocks, sandhills and vegetation lines – so all I had to do was scoop it up in armfuls and throw it onto the pile. First, though, I found a snake-scaring stick and bashed it into each pile. Even though I scanned each one carefully first, there could have been babies hidden, invisible among the twigs.
Beware of Dogs Page 15
