‘There are other islands, I saw them when we swam beyond the gap,’ he says.
It takes us a few minutes to reach the left end of the beach and climb a huge pile of boulders. There is no beach on the other side, just more rocks.
He’s right. In the distance there’s another island, hazy and indistinct.
‘Maybe the others are on one of the other islands? This place is like an archi— What do you call it?’ says Beti.
I stand on the highest rock and stare past the setting sun to the far side of the bay where there is more haze, and a third island even further away.
‘An archipelago,’ I say.
‘Yeah. Or one of those rings of islands,’ says Callum.
An atoll.
I chew my lip. So first we search this island, then we find a way to get to the other islands. My eyes scan over the water in the centre of the atoll but I can’t allow myself to imagine what could be out there.
Beti, Callum and I clamber down the rocks at the far side of the beach together.
‘Wildhaven isn’t a university study camp, is it?’ I say.
Callum and Beti look at each other.
‘We’ll talk, but first we need to get a shelter set up before sunset,’ says Beti.
I follow them up the sand. My thigh muscles quiver from the swimming and climbing, my head feels too heavy for my neck. Palm trees edge the beach, and are widely spaced, creating a natural clearing for our camp. Beti now has an axe at her belt and the fire she has built is large and surrounded by smooth rocks. Behind her is a pile of thick bamboo poles, with pale, cut ends. She points to where she has marked a circle in the sand, and Callum starts to bang in one of the poles with a flat stone.
‘Tell me what’s going on . . . please? You can work at the same time, but you have to give me something.’
She takes a deep breath and faces me.
‘This isn’t easy to explain. Iona met us all when she was treating our family members at refugee camps, and hospitals in war zones. We are all orphans, or as good as. She offered us a test, and found we had genetic markers for cancer. She was trialling a new therapy, and a complete way of life, outside society, at Wildhaven. She organized everything.’ As Beti talks, she sharpens the ends of the bamboo poles with a machete and hands them to Callum.
I blink at her. ‘How old are you both?’
‘We are both seventeen. Everyone is over sixteen, they have to be, to consent to the therapy.’
Goosebumps raise on my arms. What was Iona doing?
‘So what exactly is this therapy?’ I say.
Beti shrugs. ‘It’s an injection. You get a bit sick, as the therapy gets into your cells through a virus. We had two, one from Iona and then a booster from Doctor Jonathan. After that we were monitored by Iona. Doctor Jonathan used to test our blood but even that’s not needed any more.’
An injection. Like the injection she gave Poppy and me that seemed to cause the fever. Did we have this genetic marker? No one ever mentioned it to us before, but Mum died of cancer, and so did her mum. Maybe Iona didn’t get our consent because she thought she didn’t need it, as she’s our guardian. Anger builds in my chest, hot and tight.
‘So this Doctor Jonathan might know where we are?’ I say. Before the words have left my mouth I doubt it. Poppy and I got a strong impression of what Iona thought of the doctor.
Callum bangs in another pole and I see him catch his thumb and quickly straighten his face so Beti doesn’t notice. ‘She said we would eventually have to relocate. Somewhere more remote. We weren’t to discuss that with anyone, not even the doc.’
Tears sting my eyes. I take a deep breath and wiggle my toes in the sand. The surface of the lagoon glistens, unbroken. Where are you Poppy?
I watch as Beti directs Callum on where to place the rest of the poles, and then holds them as he bangs them into the sand. They’ve already made a half circle. There are three palm trees that make up part of the walls and I see how that will strengthen the hut. They know how to do this.
So my aunt took in the students at Wildhaven so she could test this experimental therapy on them.
‘Were you allowed to leave the ecovillage? If you wanted to?’
‘If people were coming and going then the camp would soon be found, and we wouldn’t be able to stay there any more,’ says Beti.
What was Iona thinking? She was a respected oncologist. What she was doing had to be illegal or it wouldn’t be so carefully hidden at Wildhaven. She must have gone to a lot of effort to get them all into the country.
‘So Iona told you to lie to us, about the natural lifestyles study?’ I say.
Beti nods. ‘Just to hide the truth, until you were ready. Sorry,’ she says.
I remember how no one really engaged us in conversation at Wildhaven, how they diverted our questions.
Callum clears his throat and rests the stone on top of the bamboo pole but doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘Look Aster, we were in bad situations when Iona found us. My dad and gran died in the same hospital months apart. Iona treated them. Then the house was sold to pay off some debts and they wanted to put me in a children’s home so I lived on the streets for a bit. Iona heard, and she found me. Wildhaven was . . .’
‘Our sanctuary,’ finishes Beti. ‘Iona found me in a refugee camp in France. I left Eritrea when I was ten. My mother was in the field hospital for months, I was alone and I slept beneath her bed. No one cared what happened to me except Iona.’
I am silent after that. They have no one, same as me and Poppy. No one is going to come looking for us. Any of us.
Callum smacks in another pole with a grunt. ‘The seaweed I was looking at near the reef is bullwhip kelp. We’ve learnt how to prepare it to make fish traps, and oyster cages. I am sure Iona planned for us to be here.’
I remember the activities on the beach at Wildhaven.
‘Look,’ says Beti, pointing inland, ‘there’s breadfruit trees and a bamboo grove. Iona could have planted them.’
I don’t know whether this makes me feel better or worse, or whether I even believe them, because this sounds like wishful thinking to me. But it would be so, so good to believe they are right, that there is some sort of plan. Maybe Iona and Poppy and the others are just on the next beach, with all of the others, together.
The low sun now stains the sand deep amber, dragging our shadows sideways, and the fire licks at the wood, kicking off heat. Beti and Callum start to bind the poles together with vines.
Frustration builds in me like a tight band around my ribs. We didn’t sign up for this. Iona tricked us. Poppy and I aren’t refugees or homeless, we have each other. We had each other. My fury flips, focusing inward. I should have trusted my instincts when Iona first said the house wasn’t ready. I should have trusted Poppy when she said she wanted to leave. This is all my fault.
I can’t just stand here. I turn away from Beti and Callum and stride through the trees and down on to the sand. I head to the other end of the beach – I guess it is the east end, opposite to the setting sun – where we haven’t explored yet. The boulders at the end look like a pile of stones inexpertly piled by a giant. It’s a longer walk in this direction. I guess the entire bay is a couple of kilometres long. The sun is sinking fast and I haven’t searched hard enough. Before the end of the beach there’s a stream, which flows out of the trees and down the sand, spreading into rivulets as it meets the sea. I taste it.
Fresh. At least that’s something.
I finally reach the boulders and then scramble up a shallow cliff to stand on top and scan below. There’s no beach on the other side, only more huge rocks all the way along, rolling waves crashing into them at an angle. No one could have washed up here, surely – it doesn’t bear thinking about. I turn back to the lagoon beach and spot Callum up by the trees, arms folded, watching me.
A breeze whips up as the red rind of sun drowns in the sea behind me. I jog back to the camp, and by the time I get there the moon is rising and nearly full, ribbons
of pink scudding across it. More purplish clouds build along the horizon. It’s all unbearably beautiful and yet all I want is to be back in our tiny London flat with Poppy. And Mum. My desperation winds tighter.
Callum and Beti have finished the round hut, a proper actual hut made out of bamboo. It is almost head-height, bound together with vines and roofed with palm leaves. Next to it is an open-sided palm-leaf canopy, strung between the trees. Callum sits by the fire, prodding it with a stick, and Beti is cross-legged, hands moving quickly, weaving something.
‘I found fresh water by the rocks,’ I say.
Callum punches the air and Beti looks up and grins. I’m not interesting in celebrating; all I want to do is carry on searching. I realize that both Callum and Beti are now wearing matching beige T-shirts and shorts and each has a machete strapped to their waists.
‘Where did you get the clothes and equipment? Is there a torch?’ I say. I unzip my waist pack and take out the items, laying them on the sand. A flint striker for lighting fires, a knife in a sheath, and three bundles of tightly rolled material that turn out to be a T-shirt, shorts and a sort of sarong or sheet, all in the same sandy colour.
‘There’s no torch,’ says Beti. She scans my face. ‘If you can find the right kind of stick I can try to make you one with the fire.’
She’s kind, and my eyes prickle. I shake my head and pack the gear along with the goggles around my neck back into the equipment pouch. I keep the clothes out, and strap the knife to my waist.
Beti hands me the life vest I was wearing when we arrived. The tubes still snake from the shoulders, ends dragging in the sand like dead tentacles.
‘There’s a pocket in the back; it holds a machete, a hatchet head, a hammock, and some other stuff,’ says Beti. ‘Enough to get us set up.’
I stare at the black canvas-type fabric, finely woven, with a slightly metallic sheen. Sewn into the back of the neck and the base of the back are vented black boxes. Next to the tubes there are holes, like empty sockets, where something has been plugged in.
This is all too much to take in.
I grind my teeth and rub my fingers across my forehead, feeling the grit of dried sea salt.
Callum looks up at me.
‘We could all search the island, first thing, together?’ he says. I meet his brown eyes. He doesn’t understand, neither of them do. I can’t sit, I can’t relax without Poppy.
‘Aster. The life jackets seem to have a motor inside them. Iona never mentioned anything like this, but I think it’s what got us here safely. The others must have this same kit. They are safe too, just somewhere else. Another island, or another part of this one. Either way, Iona will find us.’
I stare at Beti, her hands hadn’t stopped weaving grasses as she spoke. She seems to really believe this, but Callum bites his lip. Beti didn’t see what she looked like when we pulled her out of the lagoon. Nothing about this is safe.
I turn away from them and stalk back to the beach, my eyes hot and gritty, my breath short. The moon is now obscured by clouds and it is very dark. I sway in the breeze, surveying the inky lagoon, and press my knuckles to my teeth. Finally I sit until Callum and Beti’s conversation behind me fades to murmurs. There’s a shuffling sound at the fire, and then quiet.
An unnatural peace. The soft scrape of the sea against sand and the rustle of shifting palm fronds is a white noise, almost soothing. But like the gentle hissing of Mum’s oxygen tank, it is a false comfort.
I don’t know how much time passes before I’m aware of someone behind me. ‘Hey – here to relieve you. It’s my watch.’
Callum.
I shake my head. I can’t. If I sleep it will be like giving up, like leaving Poppy out there, like accepting no one else is coming.
Raindrops spatter us then stop. Clouds scud across the full moon.
Callum offers a folded leaf to me and at that moment the clouds pass and the bright moonlight highlights marks on his arms, puckered silvery circles on the inside of his elbow below his T-shirt sleeves. My eyes flick to his other elbow and see more of the same. Needle tracks?
He catches me looking and I look away, feeling my brow furrow.
‘You see why I didn’t want to stay where I was. Gran and Dad’s death – I never want to see anyone go through anything like that again.’ His voice is abrupt, gruff, and I get that.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I know.
‘Not your fault,’ he says, rubbing his thumb over the scars and then chewing the skin at the edge of his nail. ‘I know you think your aunt is mental, Aster. But I was one of the first at Wildhaven. She took me in; she got me clean. Then she made sure I won’t go the same way as my family. Or the same way of other kids like me, with no one.’
I don’t say anything. I take the leaf from him and there’s food inside, pineapple, cooked bamboo shoots and more coconut flesh. I eat it without tasting.
‘Let me take my watch,’ he says, quietly. He chews on his thumb again and although he’s older than me, he doesn’t seem it.
I swallow with difficulty. I know that without rest, anxiety will sweep me up and I’ll be useless. The moon peers through the clouds and glitters on the lagoon, and its beauty mocks my despair.
‘If you see anything at all—’
‘I’ll call out. Right away,’ Callum finishes.
I leave him wrapping the sheet of thin material around his shoulders as he settles in the dent I’ve left on the sand. I plod back to the hut. It is warm and gloomy inside but I make out three pale hammocks attached to the trio of palm trees the hut was built around. They hang low to the ground, their cords crossing each other. One is occupied.
I unzip the grey suit and peel it down, and Beti tips from her hammock to help me yank it off my feet. I am blasted with a memory of Poppy. We’re on holiday, I smell sun lotion and chips and Poppy’s got gaps in her front teeth. She’s lying on her back in hysterics as I haul a wetsuit off her feet, dragging her along the sand . . . The image makes me gasp and my tears feel acidic, burning.
I leave the swimsuit on and Beti hands me the soft T-shirt I took from the waist pack earlier. I draw a hitching breath and dry my face on the sheet she hands me. I’m hollowed out. I can’t believe any of this is happening.
‘Climb in,’ she murmurs, spreading out the fabric of a hammock.
I lie back and the material folds over me as I rock. Beti climbs into her own hammock and I manoeuvre awkwardly in the fabric to face the wall.
Where is Poppy now? I picture her in a hammock like I am, with Iona nearby, in control. I have to believe it.
I mouth the words, ‘Night, Popstar.’
I imagine her voice: ‘Night, Astronomer.’ Then I press my face against the fabric and screw my eyes up, tight.
I fantasize this is all an elaborate trick or joke. Tomorrow the boat will pull up beyond the reef and Poppy will be waving at me on deck, then shaking her head in horror at me because I’ll be sobbing with relief.
My mind fights sleep, but loses the battle. Between waking and sleeping, I speed back across the lagoon, through the gap in the reef and into the blue beyond. Again I see that dark figure, that unmistakable star shape of a person twisting and kicking away. It’s impossible, and yet I’m sure I saw it all the same.
The corridor of the hospice muffles my jogging footsteps with its carpeted floor, just as its lilac walls and watercolour prints are probably intended to muffle my grief and fear. The door of Mum’s room is ajar and I slide in, seeking out the heart monitor, which is drawing miniature, moving mountain peaks. She’s alive. The oxygen tank hisses, almost drowning out her crackly gasps, and a fine tube snakes over her shoulders from the toggle at her nostrils.
I tell my heart to slow down. Mum’s propped up, mouth slightly open. Her face has the sunken look I’ve grown used to, but the sculpted beauty of her features is still there, always, made more stark by her naked scalp. Her skin is pallid for her, an almost khaki-brown against the white of the pillowcase. There is a shiny blotc
h on each sharp cheekbone. Are her breaths more shallow than usual? Is that even possible?
The message was to come straight to the hospice. Poppy is going for a sleepover tonight, so I don’t need to worry about her.
‘Hey – it’s OK,’ says Suzie, Mum’s usual nurse. ‘Sorry if I scared you. She has a temperature, things looked a bit rocky earlier; her oxygen levels dropped. She’s stabilized now and seems to be responding to antibiotics.’
A fist clutches my heart. Another infection. The chemotherapy wasn’t successful and the lung cancer has now invaded Mum’s whole body. There’s not much else they can do.
Mum’s eyes flicker. I move to her bedside and take her hand. That strong hand that used to nurse others, now almost skeletal, and so cold despite her fever. She grimaces, chest fluttering as she takes shallow sips of air. She’s slowly drowning. It’s agony for her to simply stay alive, let alone allow the morphine to wear off enough for her to interact with me. But she smiles, raises my hand to her lips and kisses my knuckles. I lean over and give her a careful hug and a peck on the cheek. She still smells like my mum even through the illness and bleachy medical odour, and pain forms a tight ball at the base of my throat.
‘All right, Mum?’ I say, and the words feel dusty in my mouth.
But what am I supposed to say?
I know this is torture for her, and I hate that more than anything. But as always, I’m barely able to stop myself sobbing and begging her not to leave us.
Mum nods at the writing pad on her bedside table and I prop it up on the special sloped tray and put her pen in her hand. She lifts the pen, closes her eyes for a moment – gathering her strength – and scrawls.
Maths test?
I had it this morning. I don’t know how Mum always remembers. I roll my eyes because I know it comforts her if I act like I would at home.
‘Seventy-six per cent,’ I say.
Did u study?
I didn’t, and I consider lying, but she’ll know if I do. So I shrug. That’s a good score, but not for me. I usually get top marks in Maths and Science and Mum’s always fierce about Poppy and I not ‘wasting our talents’.
Secret Deep Page 6
