Survival Island

by Matt Drabble

  Everyone knew that inside was a collection of old equipment and tools, along with the workshop. What they didn’t know was that there was a secret room fenced off from public view. It was there that he kept his special crops.

  The mushrooms had been a project of his for the past few years and this project was his ticket out of here. He had been forced into making a deal with one of the townies and Cooper Fox had been far from his first choice as a partner, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Fox had assured him that he could do a deal with a mainlander, a deal that could set them both up.

  He knew that if the Father ever found out, he’d be in serious trouble, but if Torvan did, then he’d be dead. They might all be brothers and sisters of the Order, but Torvan was Solomon’s blood son and that gave him power - power that he wasn’t afraid to wield.

  People were scared of Torvan; it really was that simple. He was a big man with a quick temper and lately he seemed to be getting worse. When he’d caught Brother Wendt munching on an apple from a basket he’d harvested, Torvan had made him eat more, enough to make him violently ill.

  The Order seemed to be full of such stories of late and Torvan’s interest with Sister Gwendolyn was bordering on obsession. The man had always been a little odd, but now he was slowly going crazy and Jeremiah wanted his own ass a million miles away from here before the nuclear explosion.

  He checked over his crops in the ground and those drying on shelves all around. He was a green-thumbed scientist and he knew that his skills would be justly rewarded on the outside; he just had to get there.

  After he’d finished his rounds, he left the barn and locked it securely. No one else ventured down this far and the barn was known as his own personal property.

  He suddenly looked around as he felt eyes on him. There was no one in his eye line, but still he felt something. He stood there for what seemed like an age before he let out a long breath. Maybe he was just jumpy with the end in sight. Fox told him that he was meeting with a buyer tonight. If that went well then soon - teasingly soon - he could be gone from this place and, more importantly, Torvan himself.

  ----------

  Dale Clayton sat in his father’s chair, drinking directly from the crystal decanter. He knew that his father would hate the sight, but it gave him a small amount of pleasure to act in open rebellion.

  Despite his best efforts, the whole thing was already slipping through his fingers. The mill had been closed for nearly two weeks now, and while he’d told everyone it was just an annual holiday, the truth was that there was no way it was ever going to reopen. The charade had almost run its course, and when the town found out that the mill was broke, they’d want his head.

  He’d been trying to set up the development deal in order to announce the mill closure as his own idea - what was best for the town instead of a failed business. But now that was never going to work. Word would already be spreading quickly, and come morning, Clayton would be ablaze with his failure.

  His only hope was that the upcoming storm hit them hard and stopped the developer from leaving the island just yet.

  “Dale?” a weak voice croaked from upstairs. “DALE!” It sounded again, only this time a little louder and accompanied by the thump of a cane on the floorboards.

  Instinctively, he leapt up from his chair and put the decanter back on the silver tray. He hated that he still leapt to the sound of his father’s voice. Even now, when the tyrant was a feeble old man, he still had the ability to instil fear.

  He headed upstairs, dragging his feet enough to help him feel like he was moving at his own pace.

  “Where the hell are you, boy?” his father snapped but immediately started to cough with the effort.

  “I’m here, Father,” Dale said as he entered the bedroom.

  The room was more of a hospital ward now than a bedroom. There were bottles of pills, tubes of ointment and bottles of liquid on every surface.

  Once a week, the harbour master, Bernard Hale, supervised a shipment of prescription drugs for his father. The bags were numerous and the medication plentiful.

  Haider Clayton had run the town with an iron fist and most people had one of two emotions for the man: fear or respect, and that was how the great man liked it.

  “Those,” Haider wheezed as he pointed to a bottle on the sideboard.

  Dale responded by fetching as ordered, an instinct bedded deep in his subconsciousness. Outside of these walls, he was simply known as Clayton - an eponymous surname, named for the town - but within his father’s home he was Dale. It was as though he was not worthy of the Clayton moniker and his father never let him forget.

  Haider flapped out a hand, and for just the briefest moment, a thought passed through Dale’s mind.

  He found his fist closing around the pills as his father struggled to breathe. It would be so easy to just tell Dr Simmons that he’d simply found his father had passed away in the night. Haider Clayton was an old sick man and wasn’t expected to last much longer. Marion Simmons would understand and probably be sympathetic. She certainly wouldn’t be suspicious.

  All of this passed through his mind in a flash. It was a beautiful dream, a fairytale where he could finally be free, but it was just a dream.

  His arm moved and he handed over the pills as a dutiful son would, or at least a broken one.

  “Useless boy,” Haider snarled as he stuffed the pills into his mouth and flapped a hand for water.

  “Sorry, Father,” Dale said with his eyes lowered.

  “Yes, you are! The sorriest piece of shit I’ve ever laid eyes on. Just how you ever came from my seed I will never know.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Why is the mill closed? I didn’t hear the machines this morning.”

  “It’s the annual holiday, Father, I told you.”

  The cane lashed out and struck Dale hard across the shin. It wasn’t a painful blow but it still hurt, deep down in the places where his father’s wrath would always live.

  “You don’t tell me anything, boy. Understood?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. Now leave me, you useless whelp.”

  Dale turned and left the room, hating himself all the way down the stairs. There had to be a way out of this - for him, for the town. He promised himself there and then he’d find it, whatever it took and whatever it cost.

  CHAPTER 6

  Old scars

  Haynes took a stroll bright and early. The birds were annoyingly chipper and sang him a chorus as he walked. If he’d had a shotgun, he’d have killed them all.

  His mind was clouded with anger and it was unsettling his stomach. He hadn’t slept much last night and was overly eager to get the ball rolling this morning.

  Clayton was already up and on the move by the time that he emerged from Casey’s. Islanders, apparently, rose like farmers.

  He walked out through Main Street, nodding hellos to the various people that he met on the way. He plastered a warm smile to his face and kept it there, however false it felt. He needed these people on side, for now at least.

  Soon he found himself out of town, such as it was. The wooden structures had a certain charm to them, but he was also certain that most - if not all - would fail building regulations and would have to be torn down.

  He could see the commercial potential for the island, if he could only get rid of the islanders first, but that would come later. Once he had the monastery and the land, he could get to work rebuilding and reshaping Clayton to suit his purposes. The locals would soon be squeezed out but he needed them onside first.

  The trail out of town led him back down towards the docks. He wandered up and down the wooden walkway, picturing the development potential here.

  Obviously the whole place would need to be pulled down and rebuilt. This was an island and the sort of clients he saw vacationing here would require a top-of-the-line marina to dock in.

  “Morning,” one of the locals greeted him as he stood looking out
to sea.

  “Morning,” he replied, turning back around and hiding his annoyance at being disturbed mid-thought.

  “Bernard Hale, harbour master,” the old man greeted him before shaking his hand hard enough to make him wince.

  “Jeremy Haynes.”

  “So you’re the fella that’s going to save us.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “That you’re not him or that you’re not going to save us?”

  The old man looked to be harmless enough but he had a sharpness to his eyes that Haynes hadn’t missed.

  “Well, Mr Hale, I’m certainly going to try, but there’s a lot of obstacles here.”

  “Them religious fellas?”

  “That’s right. I’m afraid that they are proving to be a stubborn bunch.”

  “Hard to do business with those who don’t do business, I’d imagine,” the harbour master mused, and Haynes took him a tad more seriously now.

  “What they’re sitting on would save this town, Mr Hale. It’d bring jobs, money, prosperity to Clayton. I take it that you’re aware that the lumber mill is done?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “So where does that leave you all?”

  “In a pickle, I suppose.” Hale shrugged.

  “That’s right,” Haynes said seizing the moment. “Now think about the future here, Mr Hale. Think about the next generation and the one after that. Clayton could die. No, let me rephrase that. Clayton will die.”

  “Can’t see the Niners moving out any time soon though; not much to be done about that.”

  “But there could be…” a new voice announced, joining the conversation. “Sam Cartwright,” the new man said, introducing himself. “I run a boat repair business.”

  “Really, Mr Cartwright?” Haynes asked innocently.

  “Damn right. Way I see it, those religious nuts have no business standing in our way.”

  “Come on, Sam,” Hale said, trying to calm him down. “Those fellas have lived on the island as long as anyone in Clayton.”

  “Don’t mean it has to stay that way. It’s all right for you, Bernard. You’re going to be retiring soon. What about the rest of us? I got kids. Where they gonna find work?”

  “They’re islanders, like us,” Bernard said soothingly.

  “Bullshit! They’re nothing like me and they’ve no right being there.”

  Haynes wandered away, letting the argument continue in his wake. Yes, he thought to himself, this could all work out nicely.

  ----------

  “Morning, Dottie,” Caleb said as he entered the office bright and early.

  It was no surprise to find the woman sitting at her desk before he got there. He had yet to beat her into work and wondered if she ever slept or – indeed - slept at her desk.

  “Any word come in on Taylor or Ieuan?” he asked hopefully.

  “Neither,” she replied and he sensed a rare slip of concern from the woman before him. “You speak to Cooper Fox yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You know he was arguing with Ieuan just before he went missing?”

  “I know, Dottie.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past that waste of space to have done something.”

  “I know, Dottie.”

  “Maybe you go find him.”

  “I know, Dottie!” he snapped, immediately regretting it. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just go find Cooper.”

  ----------

  There is a Sliding Doors theory about parallel universes centred on an ever-expanding set of alternate realities based on each and every individual choice we make. This thought was one that struck Quinn early the next morning as she turned left out of Casey’s instead of right and saw her father for the first time in almost 30 years.

  Their eyes met across the street. Luther Quinn was coming out of Tommy O’Brien’s general store, his arms weighed down with heavy-looking boxes.

  He loaded them into the trailer latched onto his quad bike and then stood looking at her.

  Quinn stared back, unsure as to what to do next. The bullying drunk who still loomed over the small girl inside her was now an old man, but a surprisingly lean and healthy-looking one. Gone was the fat slob, to be replaced by an almost distinguished-looking respectable older man.

  Looking at him now, it was difficult to align the man before her with the quick-fisted brute who had terrorised her as a child.

  They stood that way for what seemed like an age, two gunslingers facing off across Main Street, waiting for the clock tower to chime. Eventually she took the first step, determined not to act scared of the man.

  She walked across the street towards him, and up close, she was still in shock over his transformation. His hair was grey now but it was cut short and kept smart. He still wore the favoured lumberjack checks and jeans, but his outfit was clean and smelled faintly of perfumed laundry detergent.

  “I... I heard you were back,” he said, floundering as he dropped his eyes.

  As much as his physical appearance had shocked her, his passive demeanour shocked her more. She had never known him to be anything other than a towering violent man and this submissive old man before her seemed like a whole new human being.

  “I’m not staying long, Luther,” she said, hoping to cut him by using his Christian name instead of a parental moniker.

  “You look good. I hear that you’re doing well at Merlin; it obviously agrees with you.”

  She didn’t want to show any surprise that he had been keeping tabs on her or even show him that he still had the power to affect her.

  “You’re looking...” She couldn’t think of a word to use. The right one would be the wrong one, especially as she wanted to hurt him.

  “Sober?” he said, laughing a little but without any humour in his voice. “Haven’t touched a drop in going on 15 years now.”

  “So now you’re a good guy?” she spluttered bitterly.

  “No... No, I’ll never be that, Ashley. I know what I am and I know what I was. There’s no changing that.”

  “So let me guess. Now we just start again. Is that it? Like nothing ever happened? You were a drunk but now you’re not so everything’s just gravy?”

  “I’m sorry... I’m sorry for... Well, hell - I’m just sorry. I didn’t want you to run into me. I didn’t want you to have to see me.”

  “You don’t want to beg for my forgiveness? Mend fences? Salvage a relationship?”

  “I’m not a fool, Ashley. Some things are damaged and can be fixed; others are broken and will stay that way forever.”

  With that he turned, got on his quad and drove away, leaving Quinn standing behind speechless and seething, caught somewhere between rage and regret.

  ----------

  Gwendolyn was enjoying the warmth of the sun on her neck as she stood beside the cart. The aromas of freshly grown produce were filling her nostrils and she enjoyed the outdoor ventures beyond the monastery walls.

  She was an attractive woman by any standards, regardless of the shapeless robes that she wore. Her face was devoid of makeup and shone with a natural glow. Her long flame-red hair hung in curls, framing a pretty face punctuated with cute freckles.

  She was standing beside the road that marked the edge of the Order’s boundary. Here, the road ran past the dirt track that led up to the stone walls that separated the two island communities.

  In truth, she wished that the two sets of people could be closer. The monastery walls often felt like a barrier, separating people who probably had more in common than they thought.

  She enjoyed her days on the cart, more so these days as it gave her a chance to be away from Brother Torvan’s gaze. She knew that several sisters had professed jealously about his attention towards her, but those women had never suffered under that icy stare.

  Torvan might have seemed a catch on the outside: a strong man who would create strong children, a man of faith to match his physical prowess, and the Father’s heir to boot, b
ut there was something unsettling about the man.

  More frequently over the past few months, he had started to scare her and she knew that while opinions were kept close to the chest, she couldn’t be the only one.

  Gossip was rife at the present about the island and the townies. The lumber mill was supposedly in trouble and the machinery hadn’t been heard for some time now.

  The visit from the mayor, the constable and two newcomers - although it had turned out to be one newcomer and one returnee - had been greeted with suspicion amongst the Family.

  She had seen Torvan holding private meetings with his inner circle and their faces had looked like thunder. She could feel a storm brewing and it troubled her greatly.

  Whispers were already starting about the townies looking to turf them out of their home. Such whispers had soon turned into yells of anger and proclamations of violent defence.

  The whole thing had left a bad taste in her mouth and she knew that others felt the same, but those who shouted loudest were more often than not heard, whether they were in the majority or not.

  The greatest concern that Gwendolyn had, however, was the fading of their Father. Solomon was looking more and more his age lately, and she shuddered about what life would be like under Torvan’s rule.

  She was pondering such concerns so deeply that she didn’t hear the men approach until they were on her.

  “Hey there, Red,” one of the men said as he approached.

  “Good morning to you.” She smiled back.

  “Hey, Anderson. You ever see such a pretty little thing?” Cooper Fox asked with a leer, clearly enjoying the unease he was starting to cause.

  “Maybe,” his sidekick replied in a quiet voice.

  “You’ll have to excuse my friend here, my dear. He’s carrying a torch for another, but I’m all free.”

  Gwendolyn felt the man’s eyes crawling all over her but was determined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen today?” she asked politely.

  “You hear that, Anderson? I think she’s making eyes at me, the little flirt.”

  Gwendolyn flinched as Cooper stepped into her personal space and leaned across her to take an apple from the cart.