The Island (15 page)

‘Dog?'

The tide is still out but it's on the turn, little licks and flicks around the tiny beach.

Tucking my bottle in my sling, I strain to hear him.

‘!' repeats Dog.

The crusted walls scratch my hands as I push on further. All at once something cold and wet touches my leg and I scream.

‘Jesus, Dog, you nearly frickin killed me.'

He disappears again and I curse. Don't want to be stuck here at high tide, not when there's the fire to keep going and the dark descends sudden as a hand scribbling over the sun.

Twice I slither and twice I cut my hands on the rocky wall. But then I see the crack in the rocks. And that's where his bark's coming from.

I clamber up and stick my head inside and you have to squeeze through the gap in those pressing rocks in order to get inside. Maybe there's a cave on the other side. Maybe it's just a never-ending tunnel. I wriggle my shoulders through and am met by solid darkness.

I feel like I cannot go back and I cannot go forward. Like I'm frozen in this dark space. And all the time I'm tortured by that sound, that
trickling
–

It could be water. You know it could be water
–

but I can't climb into that cave.

I can't. It's just too dark. And silent, apart from the dripping.

Suddenly I'm desperate to get out, desperate to see daylight.

I can't hear Dog any more.

He's left me again.

 

Sunken

Dog still hasn't come back.

He went into the darkness and hasn't returned. Last night, for the first time in ages, I slept alone. There was no warm body curled into mine, no panting breath hot against my leg.

He went into the cave like he knew it was there.

He left me.

So I lay listening to the heaving sea but all the time I was listening for

the

thunk

of could-be nuts falling to the sand.

But there's been no wind. Everything is warm and still, as if the island is holding its breath, waiting.

Waiting to die.

I spent hours just calling him. Even pushed through to the back of the crevice where it starts to twist, but I couldn't go further; couldn't bear the darkness, those pushing rocks. The way my voice echoed back, mocking me.

Maybe Dog's found a way to the other side of the mountains.

Maybe he's gone back to Whoever. Will they see my message? Will they tell me how to reach them?

I thirst.

Sometimes I stare into my mirror for hours at a time, just gazing. The girl inside stares back at me through sunken eyes.

I spend hours watching her.

And all the time, through the shimmering smoke of our fire, the sky burns cruel and blue.

 

Candyfloss

I squat and pee in the sand.

My urine drips dark. I haven't had any fluids for two days, and three –

three is the magic number
–

means death. Everyone knows this.

I know I should be getting could-be nuts down from the trees but when I look upward they are a million miles away, clutched up high in the spindly palms. I reach for them with my finger and touch them, one by one. Then spread my hand and blot them out.

All my thoughts are confused like candyfloss in my head, like clouds –

except there are no clouds.

Once I get a stick; it's the longest, thinnest one and it even has a fork at the end which would be perfect to hook round those nuts if only I could stand for long enough and if only my head didn't swim like all the water that's trapped inside them is sloshing round my brain.

I did try, before.

Dog and me, we used to spend hours trying to get those nuts down. My hands stripped raw from climbing the palm trees, Dog barking below. Like, why would you make a tree with no branches?

 

No.

• No. of could-be nuts left: 0

• No. of filled water bottles left: 0

• Pond water left: 0

• No. of clouds in the sky: 0

 

Knock, Knock. Who's There?

‘Cassie,' I hiss. ‘Get up.'

'Course, she can't. There's stuff all over: sliding piles of magazines and receipts and bills and cans, cans, cans.

I clear the cans away and open the window.

‘There's someone knocking. Shall I let them in?'

‘Leave me alone,' she whines. She's flicking through the telly guide with the remote, trying to find a black-and-white film she hasn't watched.

The rapping again.

‘Hellooo?'

Bits of a face peek through where the chain is: an eye, a cheek, a nose stud.

‘Hello, my name's Angela Cockerton and I work for Lambeth Care Services?' she says.

I say nothing. Wait.

‘It's just a friendly visit. Nothing to worry about. We've had your family referred to us by the school?'

She has an accent. First, I think it's South African, then I realise she's Aussie or maybe from New Zealand. Her voice goes up at the end.

‘Right,' I say. I'm trying to stay calm because alarm bells are going off inside my head and it's difficult to think straight.

We've been visited by a social worker before, when Johnny was a baby and Cassie wasn't coping well, but that was before she started drinking, and that was before our flat was such a state. Johnny's dad was still with us and he was a personal trainer with massive OCD, which was about the only thing good about living with him. Bleached our worktops to within an inch of their lives, and everything in its place like we were in the frickin army.

‘So…can I come in?' She's still smiling.

‘Wait there. I think I've left the grill on –' is all I can think of to say, and I leave Angela-the-social-worker dangling on the chain and dash back to the lounge.

OhGodohGodohGod.

And in my head:
So she's done it. Miss has done this.

‘Cassie,' I hiss, shoving her duvet back over her and sweeping all the crap into more carrier bags. ‘Say you're ill, OK? You're ill.'

She nods. ‘I know, love, I know. Would you just pass…?'

I shake my head as she nods towards the stack of Tennent's.

‘Chewing gum,' I say.

She gapes like a chick in its nest and takes the gum I offer her. At least her breath won't stink like a brewer's.

All the rubbish goes in the kitchen cupboards. That's the good thing about them always being bare. More storage.

I open the window wider, take a breath, put the kettle on.

Then I unhook the chain and let the social worker in.

Angela is small and smiling and has dimples. She has a satchel bigger than she is over one shoulder. It's covered in festival stickers.

She's still smiling as she comes into our lounge, but her eyes are darting about like sparrows.

She holds out her hand to Cassie.

‘Hi, I'm Angela? You must be Mrs Bailey?'

Cassie looks up at her blearily. Takes the offered hand with a confused look on her face.

‘Mum's sick,' I say.

They both look at me.

‘I feel awful,' agrees Cassie.

‘Got one of your migraines, haven't you, Mum? She can't see anyone when she's like this,' I add pointedly.

Cassie moans a little and closes her eyes.

‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that,' says Angela. She looks round for a place to sit and finally perches on the end of Cassie's settee.

She rummages inside her satchel. ‘This won't take long?' she says. Draws out a ton of papers. ‘We have to take each referral seriously, as I'm sure you're aware? Just got to follow procedure…ask a few questions about your son Johnny –'

I freeze. ‘What about Johnny?' I say. My heart's going
thudthudthud
now.

And all the time I'm thinking,
what has she said? What has Miss said about my story?

Bitch.
Bitch.

She's been blabbing off to Mr Pearson and social workers and God knows who else. All that crap about critique partners and up on the roof and the red notebook and magnum opus.

I want to kill. I want to scream.

Angela scans through one of her sheets. ‘Well, I'd really like to talk to him. Is he here?'

‘He's at the park,' I say. ‘What do you want to know? He's playing with his friends. He's got lots of friends.'

I'm gabbling. I stop.

Angela nods kindly. ‘I'm sure he has too? I just want to check that your mum is coping OK? To find out some basic information and to see what strengths and difficulties your family may have? Whether there's any more support we can offer –'

‘We don't need your support,' I blurt out.

There's a snore from the settee. Cassie has gone to sleep.

I swallow. ‘Would you like some Turkish coffee?' I ask.

I go into the kitchen, trembling. Wayne has left his Marmite jar of skunk out on the worktop so I shove it in a saucepan of congealed baked beans and hide it with a plate.

It's Miss. She's done this. She's put them up to it.

My hands shake as I measure out two scoops of coffee into my special pot. I found the Turkish coffee pot on Camden Market and it's beautiful: tiny and made of battered copper. I add a cup of cold water to the coffee and whisk it up with a fork.

It needs to heat slowly so I put on my music so that I don't hear Cassie snoring and Angela thinking
what?what?what?
as she assesses the state of our lives. Ella croons that she has a cosy little flat in what is known as Manhattan and the coffee grinds settle slowly into soft mud as the pot rattles and simmers over the gas flame.

To do it properly, you're supposed to place a couple of cubes of marshmallow on a tiny saucer but we have nothing like that. The closest thing we've got is half a packet of Haribos.

I decide to leave it.

Angela is calling.

I unplug Ella. ‘Just coming,' I say.

I feel calmer now I've made coffee. Coffee is the real me. Not the one talking to social workers in this pigsty of a flat.

‘Ooh, lovely,' she says. ‘Turkish coffee, my favourite?'

We sip in silence.

Cassie farts.

‘Um, while your mum is taking a nap, shall I start with you, Frances? You are Frances Stanton?'

I nod.

‘So apart from your coffee-making skills – and this is lovely coffee by the way – what do you like to do when you're not at school?'

Outside, dogs are barking.

Someone is shouting from the street, ‘Yeah? Yeah? You're the big man. Think you're the big man?'

‘Frances?'

‘I dunno. I do my homework and revision,' I say. ‘And make the tea to help Mum.'

‘Do you help Mum a lot? What sorts of things do you do to help her?'

‘Oh no.' I smile. ‘Mum's only like this when she gets a migraine. They're very debilitating, you know. Most of the time she's looking after us and going shopping for food and making lovely meals. Our favourite is Mum's home made moussaka. That's Greek, you know.'

‘Yum – delicious. Can you show me round the flat, Frances? Shall we start with your kitchen?'

Shit.

Angela's crouched on the floor, peering into our cupboards.

‘It's shopping day tomorrow,' I say.

‘What are you going to eat today, Frances?' Angela stands up and her shoes make a tacky noise where they're unsticking from the lino.

‘Oh, today's our takeaway day,' I say airily. ‘We get pizzas from Herne Hill, as a treat.'

‘And for breakfast?' Angela is running her hands under the tap. She looks around for a tea towel and wipes her hands on her trousers.

‘Um. We get croissants from…'

‘From the bakery in Herne Hill?'

I nod and Angela sighs.

‘Frances, will you show me your bedroom?'

And so it goes on: Where do you do your schoolwork? Where does your brother sleep? Who gets Johnny from school? Who makes sure you both go to school? How often does Cassie have migraines? Are there any other regular visitors? Who cooks in this household? Does your mum's partner or either of your fathers ever visit?

I'm showing her the books I read to Johnny when she notices his mattress.

‘Ooh, lovely.
Each Peach Pear Plum
,
The Little Boat
– they're from the Bookstart pack, aren't they? I can see the bag under the bed.'

We're sitting on the floor because there's not a lot of furniture in mine and Johnny's room. In fact, it's pretty empty when you consider how jam-packed with junk the rest of the flat is.

Angela stops looking through the books and wrinkles her nose.

‘Frances, does your brother wet his bed?'

I frown. ‘Sometimes, when he's got to sleep alone. He's fine when he's with me though.'

I haven't got round to changing his sheets yet. I mean, he's hardly ever in his own bed anyway so what's the point?

Outside, birds are shrilling.

Doors are slamming.

Then: screaming, screaming, screaming.

I leap up, books flying.

‘Johnny,' I say.

 

Wet

Turns out I'm good at dying.

Fran Stanton. Spat out. Died on a rock. The end.

I'm doing a great job of it; have even curled up on my side so that, when it happens, I've made it easy. Like I'm asleep.

Lie there staring at the fire 'cause those flames, they don't let you forget, do they? Let's burn all those memories back, just in case you'd forgotten them.

Ha.

The fire's getting low. There's only a settling of ash; a blacked-out log, which would shiver into dust if I touched it.

Half a day left to die.

I feel the flies tickling as they land. They know, 'course they do. They're rubbing their little feelers together, waiting. Dead dolphin, prickling with sandflies.

Dead wood. Drift-meat.