by Oliver Tidy
The Captain stared at the man in the bed. For the first time in his career as a military policeman, he didn’t know what to say, how to sympathise, unable to empathise. A click from the Dictaphone shattered the silence, making him start.
Captain Harris removed the tape from the machine, labelled it and inserted another, deliberately labouring his actions to give Sansom time to collect himself.
‘Are you all right to carry on?’ he said.
Lieutenant Sansom indicated that he was. The second recording began.
‘I was shot, nicked, a flesh wound – plenty of blood but no real damage. They were too busy on The Rendezvous slaughtering people to keep an eye out for me. I knew they’d come though.
‘I got myself up the beach and into the trees, made it to my feet and just stumbled as far as I could into the undergrowth. I found somewhere, hid myself as best I could and then I must have passed out again.
‘It was dark when I came to. The bleeding had stopped. I was weak but I wasn’t going to die. Not then, not there.
‘As the sun came up, I made my way back to the beach. There was no sign of Holdstock or the guy I’d shot in the surf. They’d been back. They must have looked for me. They’d smashed up the few things we’d taken from the boat.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘There was some food that wasn’t spoiled and bottled water that they’d missed. Probably hadn’t expected me to survive. They’d been sloppy and careless. If they hadn’t, I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it through the first week. If they had come back for me then, I wouldn’t have had a chance.’
‘But they didn’t?’
‘No, they didn’t. They never came back.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Harris. ‘Are you saying that you spent the next year alone just surviving on an island in the Pacific?’
‘Twelve months, eight days to be precise. Sounds incredible, doesn’t it? Sounds made up. Sounds like the ravings of a madman; in this day and age to be marooned for a year on a tiny dot of land in the Pacific. I’d find it hard to swallow myself if I hadn’t endured it.’
There was a long moment’s quiet as the two men stared at each other. Harris looked away and then at his watch. He’d been told by the medical staff not to overdo his enquiries and he could see that Sansom’s recollections had drained him both physically and emotionally. He turned off the recording machine, signalling the end of the day’s debriefing. They agreed that they would resume the following day.
Captain Harris gathered up his things. As he reached the ward door, he turned to Sansom, intending to make some encouraging, understanding remark, offer something. But already the Lieutenant’s eyes were shut, the thong with his wedding band twisted tightly in his grasp.
***
3
The tape recorder whirred on for several seconds, indicating that the interview had ended. An impressive antique long-case clock marked the passage of time in the corner of the room. The visitor leaned across and turned the machine off while the politician, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his fingers steepled in front of him, remained pensive and distant.
When Bishop eventually spoke, his expression was grim. ‘We’re accepting all he says as true, are we?’
‘Our man conducting the interview finds him wholly convincing,’ said the Brigadier. ‘He’ll be undergoing some psychiatric screening, so that we can get a better picture of his mental state, but for now, yes, we’re accepting it. There’s no reason not to and no appealing alternative.
‘Over ten years in and an exemplary service record prior to all this, and his physical change, I’m assured, is consistent with his story. He still needs to answer questions regarding his time on the island and his resurfacing, especially regarding the events of last week.
‘Harris, chap who’s debriefing him, will be back at it today. Of course, we still only have his word for everything. Proof could be a little difficult to come by. It would almost certainly include some kind of visit to the island in question. But that’s all for the future.’
Bishop ran his hands across his face and through his thinning hair, stood up, removed his jacket and went to the window of his office. ‘Thanks for this, Peter,’ he said. ‘Much appreciated. How’s Jean?’
‘Bearing up. It’ll take her a long time.’
‘Of course. Nasty business. Give her our best would you?’
‘Thank you, I will. Do you want to see him?’
‘Not yet. Eventually, though, yes. I’d like to hear the whole story first. That all right with you?’ He asked the question merely as a courtesy. The answer was never in doubt.
‘As soon as we have today’s tapes, I’ll have them sent over. Give me a call when you want to talk to him and I’ll arrange it,’ said the Brigadier.
The two men shook hands, a symbol of their shared complicity in something as well as part of their leave-taking.
*
Lieutenant Sansom had clearly moved on to solid foods judging by the empty bowl on the tray in front of him. Several sheets of plain paper lay strewn about the bedcovers, written on in pencil. There were some crude drawings.
The men exchanged a greeting.
‘What’s all this?’ said Harris.
‘I’m thinking that I need my own account of what goes between us here. I also have a life to get back sometime. Plans need to be made.’
‘Good to see that you’re recovering and looking forward.’
A nurse came in and removed the food tray.
Captain Harris arranged himself as he had done the day before, his tape recorder positioned ready. ‘I can arrange for copies of these tapes, or transcripts, if you’d like them,’ he said.
‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that. Where do you want me to go from?’
‘Let’s keep it chronological, shall we? Just take up from where you left off yesterday.’
Sansom thought for a long moment. To the Captain he seemed more composed than the day before – more in charge of himself and his emotions.
‘The wound healed quickly and cleanly enough,’ he began. ‘Like I said, it was really just a flesh wound. No infection. I rested for a couple of days, eating what I had, gradually. I suppose I must have been in a state of shock. I’ve been in war zones, fought in them. I’ve seen what hate can do to people, but what happened on Jackson was different; it was personal. I lost my family. Murdered. It’s hard to remember accurately those first few days, how I felt up here.’ He tapped himself on the forehead.
‘I stayed close to the sea. I soon had to accept that they weren’t coming back and that unless I got off my arse and started to organise myself I wasn’t going to last long. And I didn’t want to die of self-pity.’
Sansom looked hard at his interviewer. Was he seeking judgement? wondered Harris.
‘I’d seen something of the island already. It wasn’t without its resources and I wasn’t without some knowledge and experience of survival in hostile environments. Thanks to the Army for that.
‘And I was motivated. Maybe it would have been easy for me to have just given up, but it’s not in my nature. I think it’s how I dealt with my loss, my situation. It sounds perverse but I’ve had a long time to think about things. In a strange way, I believe that I somehow took strength from what had happened, my anger, my desperation, my hatred of those who had done this to me, to my family, to all of us.
‘I’ve heard it said that hate is empty. I don’t agree. My hatred for those cowardly bastards overflows with ideas of how I’m going to hurt them when I catch up with them. But that’s for another time and place.’ He smiled thinly at the military policeman. ‘At times, especially early on, the sense of loss and bereavement was almost unbearable, overwhelming.
‘I went into survival mode. I found a reason and a focus for my continued existence. Simple, primitive, basic human emotion: revenge. Someone was responsible for what had happened and there were several directly involved – the South African on The Rendezvous, for examp
le, and the men with him. I used my hate, my longing for retribution, to fuel my need to survive.’
‘Describe the island for me,’ said Harris, moving the man away from the feelings that threatened to overshadow his account of events.
‘I suppose it must have been about three miles in length and two across at its widest point. As I said before, it rose to quite a height towards the centre. There was plenty of vegetation and cover, lots that I was able to utilise. There were coconut trees and birds, and a small population of wild pigs. I never saw evidence of any other kind of life apart from bugs. There were sections of beach that shelved very quickly to considerable depth and others that were rocky and shallow. Over time, I found that both types afforded me opportunities for gathering food.’
‘What about water?’
‘Obviously, water was my biggest priority. I was lucky in that it rained just about every night in the early days, so I was able to collect enough water to see me through the beginning. The island was clearly formed as a result of some subterranean volcanic upheaval. The peculiarities of the formation had created some natural basins that I was able to use for water storage when it rained. Some of them already held small amounts of fresh water.’
‘And shelter?’ said the Captain.
‘Initially, I used the awning material that we had taken to the island from The Rendezvous. Most of it had been damaged in some way, but I was still able to make something from it. As I established myself on the island, though, I realised that I needed something that was stouter and could offer me better protection from the elements. I also needed a better position. I made myself a more permanent shelter out of the vegetation that was lying around.’
Harris sat back and bit the end of his pen. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s quite a story.’ Sansom shot him a hostile look. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but you’d have to admit, it’s fantastic.’
Sansom shrugged. ‘You asked me for my account of things. That’s what I’m giving you. When you need your proof, it’s all there on an island in the Pacific Ocean. I know that place like the back of my hand. I kept a record of every day.’ The Captain raised his eyebrows. ‘The morning that we went across to the island, one of the women took her sketch book and some pencils. I found them among the things that had been left behind. I’d been there about a week before I realised that I should keep a record of everything that had happened.
‘If I wasn’t going to survive, I wanted to die knowing that there was some documentation of what happened. And if I was to survive then I never wanted to forget. After that, I kept on writing; every day that I was on that place I made an entry. I made it part of the routine that I needed to help me stay sane.’
‘And where is that now?’
‘Safe.’
The Captain decided not to pursue it. ‘So, you were on the island for twelve months?’ Sansom nodded. ‘And in all that time, no one else visited the island, like you did?’
Sansom drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly. ‘The island was visited once.’ He closed his eyes and shook his head at the recollection of an opportunity missed, so much time wasted.
‘I’d been there about six months. In the beginning, I had taken to touring the island twice a day – part of a routine to keep myself busy – once in the morning, once in the evening, but it was taking it out of me and I didn’t have the food or water to replace the energy I was using in that heat.
‘Then I became involved in a project and I let my touring slip. I missed some days. When I resumed, I discovered evidence that people must have pulled in at the island – a couple of empty wine bottles and the remains of a barbecue.’ Sansom gave an embarrassed shrug.
‘That’s real irony. I was on one side of the island keeping myself busy, trying desperately to build some kind of craft to get me out of there, and over the other side was a boat that could have taken me off, saved me six months of my life.’ He met the Captain’s gaze. ‘I’ve learnt not to dwell on some aspects of the past that I can do nothing about. I have bigger things to focus on.’
The intensity of the Lieutenant’s stare left Harris in no doubt about what he was referring to. A long moment of silence dragged out between them.
‘After that,’ continued Sansom, ‘I never missed a day – one tour in the morning and one in the evening, but I never saw another soul for six months. That’s the next time that someone came to visit my island.’
‘So, you didn’t use the craft that you were building to get away?’ said Harris, trying to deflect something of the depressive atmosphere that had fallen on the room.
Sansom gave an uncomfortable impression of a smile. ‘No. I spent months cobbling together the best raft that I could, but in the end I just didn’t believe it was going to carry me to safety and survival. And survival was paramount for me. In my sane mind, I wasn’t going to risk my life on something that I just didn’t believe in and against such odds.
‘It floated. It was OK for pissing about near the shore, for fishing, but that was it. Also, water had become a bit of a problem, possibly through a change of season. Rainfall had eased off and I had barely enough to keep going on the island – and that was only made possible because of a filtration system I had rigged. At the time I probably could have just about gathered and filtered enough water for a week at sea.
‘On the island, at least I was able to replenish my supply. And of course food would be a problem. I still felt I had a better chance of getting off the island if I just sat tight, kept myself healthy and active, and waited until a ship passed close enough for me to attract someone, or another yacht called in.’
Harris couldn’t help imagining himself in a similar position. What would he have done? Gambled everything in a perilous bid for freedom? The Pacific was a big place to float about aimlessly in the hope of being noticed. ‘How long do you think you could have gone on like that?’ he said.
Sansom made a face, ‘I don’t know. I’d lost a lot of weight, but that had seemed to stabilise. I became used to my existence. I had routine. I was healthy and fit enough, despite the wound that I’d sustained. I had a good shelter – some of the storms were bloody awful – nature’s bounty wasn’t exactly an endless resource and to be honest my diet was certainly lacking certain food groups, but on the plus side there were the pigs and the fishing was good and plentiful, although it could get dangerous.’
‘Tell me.’
‘There was a significant shark population around the outer reefs – where the best fish were to be had. More than once when I was out there on the raft I had a close encounter with them.
‘But I think that my mind was my biggest threat to my survival. Even though I kept as busy as I could, I had to limit my exertions at times because of the risks of the heat and humidity to my health, and lack of sustenance and water. Those were my most threatening times.’
He stared hard at the Captain. ‘You can’t understand that until you’ve experienced what I did – the loss, the anger, the frustration, the helplessness and hopelessness of a situation, the time involved. It can make one irrational.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Harris, once again seeking elaboration for the benefit of the tape.
‘Three months after the visit to the island that I’d missed, I lost it completely. I’d had enough of waiting, everything was running low and the climate had become incredibly oppressive. I suppose I went a bit mad.’
‘What happened?’
‘I tried to get away on the raft. Took nothing – no food, no water. Just got on, pushed off, cut the mooring line and paddled for the ocean. I lost control. When I think about it now I know that at the time I just didn’t care any more.’
Sansom gave a little self-conscious laugh, the first time he had displayed anything like light behaviour. ‘I didn’t get far. The sea was kind to me in a cruel sort of way. Let me get a little way out and then picked me up on the crest of a wave and dashed me back on the shore. Split the raft in two and that was the end of that.
&n
bsp; ‘I came to realise what a stupid, senseless thing I’d done. From then on I resigned myself to my position. I was determined simply to stay alive, stay as healthy and fit as I could, and stay sane. I made my survival my sole goal.’
‘And that was your situation for, what, a further three months?’
‘Yes, about that. It had to be only a matter of time and patience. Someday, someone would pay the island a visit or come close enough for me to attract attention. They had to. It was probable.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Harris.
Again, Sansom became distant as he delved deep into a memory that clearly still held him in its emotional grip. ‘After the visitors that I’d missed, my daily routine began with a climb of the high ground – the climb I’d made on the day we arrived. It afforded a view from which I could see, more or less, the sea around the entire island. I must have climbed up it hundreds of times while I was there and yet each time I felt a pang of excitement, the hope that this would be the time I would see something other than sea. Like a marooned man’s rescue-scratch-card.’
‘And this time you did?’
‘Yes, this time I did. A small yacht was passing the island a mile or two out.’
Again for the benefit of the tape, the captain asked the obvious question, ‘What did you do?’
Sansom turned his head to grin at his interrogator. ‘By that time this was something I was well prepared for. I had spent some days, months before, collecting as much dead wood as I could from around the island and hauling it up to the top.
‘I’d dried it out in the sun and protected it from the elements. I’d even practised my fire-starting technique so that I had it down to as short a time as possible for me to get a blaze going.
‘The yacht was some way off and was heading away from the island. There was a minute or two when I thought I’d missed my chance. But I got a small fire going and soon I had quite a blaze up there, piled on some green fronds from the coconut trees, which created the most smoke, and then played my last card.
‘I still had the rifle that I’d taken from the man I’d killed, along with a few rounds. I fired into the air, just hoping that the report would carry across the ocean. If they didn’t see the smoke then maybe the sound would attract someone, just get their attention long enough to notice the smoke.
