Bright Young Things

by Scarlett Thomas

‘Then I’ll take my chances and go in the boat with you lot.’

  ‘What boat?’ says Jamie. ‘I don’t remember making one.’

  ‘We’ll sort something out,’ says Paul.

  Bryn ends up making the coffee, since Paul cooked. He places dripping mugs on the floor next to each person and then sits down on the sofa next to Thea. Everyone’s here, except Emily, who’s still in the kitchen.

  ‘We fucked up pretty bad today, didn’t we?’ says Bryn.

  ‘We suck at escaping,’ says Anne.

  ‘It’s not like any of us have been in this situation before,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Makes you realise you should have joined the Scouts after all,’ says Paul.

  ‘I was a Brownie for a day,’ says Anne.

  ‘What happened?’ asks Jamie.

  ‘I got expelled for saying fuck.’

  ‘Were none of us in the Scouts or the Guides or anything?’ asks Jamie.

  ‘You must have been in the Scouts,’ says Anne. ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘It was on a Monday night and my mum had to work.’

  ‘But you wanted to be, though, I bet?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know,’ says Anne. ‘It is funny, don’t you think?’

  ‘What?’ says Thea.

  ‘Well, we’re all so useless,’ she says. ‘We’re the perfect kidnappees.’

  ‘Did the dead guy know that?’ asks Jamie. ‘Do you think it’s significant?’

  ‘I think it’s an accident,’ says Anne.

  ‘How did it happen?’ asks Paul.

  ‘What?’ asks Emily, walking in with a tea towel.

  ‘We’re just wondering how come we’re all so incompetent,’ says Anne.

  Emily laughs. ‘I see.’

  ‘Paul isn’t incompetent,’ says Thea. ‘He could design some system to get us out.’

  ‘What, a teleport system?’ he says. ‘Get real.’

  ‘See,’ says Anne, laughing. ‘We all suck.’

  ‘Well, we’re all urban young people,’ says Emily defensively. ‘We’re not exactly geared up for survival in the fucking wilderness.’

  ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it?’ says Jamie.

  ‘What?’ says Emily.

  ‘Well, that we got here by claiming to be Bright Young Things.’

  ‘We are Bright Young Things,’ says Paul. ‘We’re just not very practical.’

  ‘But we are going to do it,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Emily. ‘We’ll prove ourselves wrong.’

  ‘They always escaped on The A Team,’ says Bryn. ‘Yeah, and when we get out of here, we can go on Trisha,’ says Emily.

  ‘What’s Trisha?’ asks Thea.

  ‘Never mind,’ says Emily.

  ‘So much for healing,’ says Bryn.

  Bryn’s got a headache.

  ‘Does anyone want anything from the medicine cabinet?’ he asks.

  ‘He just can’t help drug-dealing,’ jokes Paul.

  ‘Yeah, you’re funny mate,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I’m going to give all that up.’

  ‘Seriously?’ says Thea.

  ‘Yeah. I’m going to sort my life out when we get home.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Emily. ‘I think we could all do something like that.’

  ‘Not the life-change thing, please,’ groans Anne.

  The cold air out in the hall clears Bryn’s head almost instantly. Nevertheless, he could do with one of the Tamazepams he saw in the medicine cabinet up in the dead guy’s room. The stuff up there is far superior to the medical supplies in the kitchen. In the kitchen there’s paracetamol; upstairs there’s co-proxamol. In the kitchen there are some plastic plasters; up here there are proper bandages. He must remember to take an ankle support down for Thea. He wonders why he didn’t think of it before. Anyway, he doesn’t know why someone would have sleeping pills on a desert island, but it’s cool, because jellies are Bryn’s favourite. Of course, he’s going to give up drugs and all that one day; it’s just not going to be today.

  Bryn’s already been up here exploring once. The room’s full of fucked up but interesting things (apart from the fear stuff and the body, that is): loads more seeds, fertiliser, hosepipes, funny tubes, some kind of air pump, supplies of paper, pens and notebooks, water-purifying tablets, rolls of material, wool, and about fifty bars of soap.

  He necks a couple of jellies and goes to leave. There are some planks of wood and old bookshelves stacked against the wall just by the small toilet. He didn’t do a very thorough job of materials research or whatever the hell it was earlier on, but now he wonders if you could make a boat out of all these bits of wood. Of course he’d have to test their buoyancy, but they could be just the thing. He starts pulling the planks away from the wall, examining each one. They seem to be the top, bottom and sides of a large crate. Soon, without even really noticing, he’s shifted all the junk away from the wall, and it’s only then that he realises there’s another small room behind it.

  When he goes downstairs, he’s carrying an inflatable boat and an outboard motor.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ says Paul, when Bryn walks back into the sitting room.

  ‘Is that a boat?’ says Emily.

  ‘Shit,’ says Jamie. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ says Bryn, putting it, and the motor, down in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Cool,’ squeals Emily. ‘This is so cool. Does the motor work?’

  Paul pokes at it a bit and then pulls its string. Nothing happens.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Why would there be a boat upstairs?’ muses Jamie.

  ‘It was behind a load of crap,’ says Bryn.

  ‘But still,’ says Emily. ‘You’d think that the dead guy wouldn’t just leave a boat lying around. I mean, we’re just going to fuck off now, first thing tomorrow, right?’

  ‘I suppose he didn’t know he was going to be dead and that we’d have carte blanche to search through everything in his room,’ Anne points out.

  ‘Maybe the boat was for him to get away in,’ suggests Thea. ‘Since he didn’t have the helicopter coming back for him.’

  ‘The motor doesn’t work,’ Paul points out. ‘It won’t get very far.’

  ‘Do you know what’s wrong with it?’ asks Thea.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Can you mend it?’ asks Jamie.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he says. ‘Probably.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Paul makes a start on the motor immediately. Anne’s helping him and talking about some weird holiday in California. The fire’s still hot, but seems to be dying. The rain has almost stopped, although the wind’s still strong. Emily imagines all the power from the wind going through the turbine and being stored in the batteries. It’s a comforting thought, that the elements are providing power for the house. All the noises soon become hypnotic and Emily yawns.

  ‘Where are we all sleeping tonight?’ she asks.

  ‘Down here again?’ suggests Bryn.

  Paul groans. ‘No way. My back won’t take it.’

  ‘Or mine,’ says Thea. ‘That floor’s too hard.’

  ‘It’ll be cold upstairs, though,’ says Bryn. ‘On our own in those rooms.’

  ‘The fire warms the whole house,’ Jamie points out.

  ‘But not enough,’ says Bryn. ‘And I’m not sleeping on my own with a dead body one floor above me. No way.’

  ‘We could all sleep together in one of the beds,’ suggests Emily.

  ‘What, in a single bed?’ says Thea. ‘Get real.’

  ‘We could double up,’ suggests Bryn.

  Emily gets the impression he doesn’t want to be alone tonight.

  ‘I’m going to be doing this for a while,’ says Paul.

  ‘Do you mind if we go to bed?’ says Thea.

  ‘No,’ says Paul. ‘You need to rest for tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll go with Jamie,’ says Emily.

  Jamie looks astonished. Happy but ast
onished.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks, slightly breathlessly.

  ‘Don’t get excited,’ she says. ‘I only want your body heat.’

  Jamie looks like he can’t get up fast enough. Emily winks and smiles at Thea.

  ‘Right, then,’ she says, getting up. ‘Is everyone else going to be OK?’

  ‘I’m going to stay and help Paul,’ says Anne.

  ‘That leaves me and you then,’ Bryn says to Thea.

  ‘Needs must,’ she says, getting up and yawning.

  ‘I haven’t changed my socks for three days,’ he warns her.

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be getting undressed,’ she says.

  ‘Oh,’ says Bryn. ‘Right.’

  The four of them go upstairs.

  At most, Emily’s spent a total of half an hour in ‘her’ room since she arrived on this island, but she’s still managed to spread her stuff around everywhere. There’s an empty tampon-holder on one of the pillows (romantic, huh?), and the chest of drawers is covered with bits of tissue, two lipsticks (she brought four), some loose face powder (spilled), a comb, some hairspray, a small pocket mirror, her tweezers and some old receipts that were at the bottom of her bag. Her original knickers are on the floor and the spare pair, which she wore yesterday, are soaking in the sink.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says to Jamie.

  He looks nervous. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asks.

  ‘About what?’ she says teasingly.

  ‘This,’ he says. ‘You know.’

  ‘Have you never shared a bed with a girl before?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, of course. But only with, you know . . .’

  ‘Girlfriends.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sits on the bed and takes off her trainers.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ she assures him. ‘Everyone does it.’

  He’s still standing by the door, shaking slightly. Emily gets under the covers fully clothed, and after a few seconds Jamie does the same, stopping first to take off his shoes and socks. Emily notes that his feet don’t smell. Well, that’s good.

  Once in bed, he won’t stop fidgeting.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Emily asks him eventually.

  ‘My trousers are itchy,’ he complains.

  ‘Take them off then,’ she says. ‘You are wearing boxers, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, and wriggles out of his trousers.

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Emily?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you said about healing before . . .’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Did you mean it?’

  She sighs. ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘So, in theory, you would like to stay here for a while?’

  ‘Yeah, in theory,’ she says. ‘But not now. I mean, there’s a dead body here.’

  ‘Hmm. The island’s nice, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess the island’s all right. Just right for six,’ she jokes.

  ‘Yeah,’ laughs Jamie. ‘Just right for six.’

  Emily picks up her white notebook and a pen from the bedside table and starts writing her journal entry for today.

  ‘What are you writing?’ asks Jamie.

  ‘Just stuff,’ she says. ‘I’m keeping a journal.’

  ‘That’s such a good idea,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Did you write about last night?’

  ‘Yeah. Bits.’

  ‘Did it make you feel better?’ he asks.

  ‘It did, actually.’ She looks at him. ‘Sorry I was so mental.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was so weird today,’ says Jamie. ‘I had things on my mind.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’ve been trying to feel normal all day. It’s hard.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Jamie?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Are you scared of drowning?’

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ she confesses. ‘Sorry, but I had to say.’

  ‘You can tell me anything,’ says Jamie. ‘Please tell me anything that upsets you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’

  ‘I could go on forever, though,’ she says, laughing. ‘You’d get bored.’

  ‘I promise you I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re so sweet,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not because I’m sweet,’ he says. ‘I care about you. I want you to get better.’

  Emily laughs again. ‘You make it sound like I’m ill.’

  ‘I think you are. And I think talking will make you better.’

  ‘The therapy didn’t cure me. It made it a bit better, but—’

  ‘Yes, but you need to talk to someone who cares about you.’

  ‘Maybe. Well, where do you want me to start?’

  ‘At the beginning,’ he suggests. ‘Tell me your earliest memory.’

  It’s a bit cramped in the single bed, but Emily likes the feeling of Jamie next to her.

  ‘You’re not too cramped in here are you?’ she asks him suddenly.

  ‘Are you?’ he says.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. So tell me your earliest memory.’

  ‘OK.’

  Hours later, Emily is still holding the notebook. Her face is wet with tears, and her throat hurts from talking so much. She puts the book back on the bedside table and switches off the light.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she says, turning away from Jamie.

  ‘Night,’ he says, turning to face her back.

  They lie there for about ten minutes, not moving, hardly breathing.

  ‘Can I put my arm around you?’ Jamie asks eventually.

  ‘Sure,’ says Emily.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Paul’s tinkering with the outboard motor, trying to make it work by tomorrow. Everyone except him and Anne are in bed now, ‘doubling up’, whatever that involves. Anne’s looking serene, reading in front of the fire. He can’t help but stare at her, but every time she looks up, he pretends to be concentrating on the motor.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ he asks her eventually.

  ‘Coke,’ she says hopefully.

  ‘Milkshake?’ he offers.

  ‘Cool.’

  When he gets back, she appears to have given up reading and is lying on the sofa.

  ‘How did you get into computer hacking?’ she asks him.

  ‘Messing about with e-mail,’ he says. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I never said I was a hacker,’ says Anne.

  ‘Oh, come on. You’ve got it written all over you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The attitude, the disrespect for authority, the junk food stuff.’

  ‘I’ve only done a little bit,’ she admits. ‘I’m more into games.’

  ‘What, programming?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Didn’t you create a game at university or something?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What is it called?’

  ‘“Life”.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  She smiles. ‘Life. It’s a life sim.’

  ‘A life sim?’

  ‘Yeah. You know “Sim City” and “Theme Park” and everything?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Well, it’s like that, but it has life as its theme. Instead of creating a world or a business and running it successfully, the object of the game is to take a human character through their life. You have to decide what the person will eat and drink, at what age they will lose their virginity and with which other character it will take place. There are over five hundred characters in the game, all with artificial intelligence developed to a level where the main character can interact with them. You have the same bank of characters – five hundred – to choose from at the start. The opening level is a load of babies all about to be born, and you can look at the
characteristics of the parents and choose which baby you want to “be”. Then for the first few “years” – in game time – you only have to decide when to cry or smile. Then you have to learn how to use the potty you get, which is quite complicated. When you’re a kid, you can earn pocket money, which you can spend on sweets or comics or whatever. If you eat too many sweets, though, you end up spending a load of money at the dentist when you’re an adult.’

  ‘Does the character work when he or she grows up?’ asks Paul.

  ‘If they learn the skills to get a job, then yes. All through the game you have the option to go to places and learn particular skills. For example, if you befriend the video shop owner, he’ll eventually offer you a Saturday job and train you to use the till – unless you’ve already taken up skateboarding, in which case you might turn him down to enter a series of competitions which are all on a Saturday. If you spend most of your time at school, you get the chance to take academic qualifications. Your character can open bank accounts, get mortgages, loans, and so on. They can also visit the hospital if they’re ill – although the NHS hospital is shit, so it’s a good idea to invest in private health insurance when you’re quite young. You receive money, which you keep in the bank – unless you decide to keep it under your mattress, in which case you encourage burglars – favours, which you keep in the form of greetings cards on your mantelpiece, and feuds, which come in the form of bricks through your window.’

  ‘What happens if you run out of money?’ asks Paul.

  ‘You get a loan. But if you can’t pay it off, you’ll have to start selling things.’

  ‘What if you sell everything and you still don’t have any money?’

  ‘You have to cut your costs. And if you’re still fucked, you can either try to get a better job, go to a loan shark, or beg on the streets. If you beg on the streets, it helps if you have a skill you can trade on, for example if you learned to play the guitar as a child, you can do that to earn money. I programmed elements into the game where, for example, if you’ve learnt an instrument at home, befriended a particular set of people, bought a pet goldfish, and then ended up busking on the streets for money, you’ll get approached by a scout for a new boy or girl band. I didn’t actually write these bits for my project, but I’m working on them now. The idea is that there are hidden “celebrity” levels in the game that you try and get to. Then you basically get to live the life of a celebrity.’