The Island (8 page)

This time I recognise it at once.

My SpongeBob SquarePants bikini.

I sort of remember lifting it from Primark. It's turn-your-stomach skimpy. I don't know why I took it. I pick it up, and SpongeBob winks at me with his giant blue eyes. It's only the bikini bottoms. I'm hot though.

I have a wash in the sea, strip off my dirty clothes and put the bikini bottoms on. It feels weird being topless. I feel like I'm being watched, but of course there's no one here to see Fran Stanton's boobs. I push the water away and launch out and it feels nice, the bath-warm seawater on my skin. I should cover up soon though. Don't want to get sunburnt.

Imagine.

Then I find the second offering in the shallows. I pull it out of the water and it's fat and heavy and streaming.

A black rucksack.

It could be one of the boys' on the plane, I think. At first it seems to be empty, most of its contents swirled away by the sea. But right at the bottom is a red Nike T-shirt. It's XL, which is good. Means I'll have something to wear at night, and I can hug it over my knees when it gets chilly. There's half a packet of chewing gum and a Lambert & Butler fag packet, containing two wet ciggies. I lay these on a rock to dry. Not that I'm stupid enough to use one of my last matches to light them. But it's nice to know they're there.

And there's something in one of the pockets: a photo, much folded and refolded, and almost destroyed by the sea. I lay it out on the rock and look at what's left of it.

It's Joker – Kieran. The man that's with him must be his dad, because they have the same eyes and teeth. They're both grinning away at the camera and holding up cans of lager, even though Joker only looks about twelve in this picture. His dad has his arm around his son's shoulder, loose and easy, and Joker looks happy as hell.

When both the bag and the picture are dry, I refold the photo and zip it back in its pocket. Try not to think of Joker thrashing around on the floor of the plane.

Won't think of that.

The bikini top is strewn further up the beach, so now I have the full set.

Lucky me.

But next to it on the sand is something much more exciting. A pair of sunglasses. They may be fake Ray-Bans, like something swiped from Brixton Market, and they may have an arm missing, but right now they're worth more to me than all the fags in the world.

Well, almost.

I put them on, and it feels amazing, to not be squinting against the harsh sun. I tie my T-shirt over my head so it hangs over my neck, damp and cool from the sea. Then I take two pieces of chewing gum and they burst mint-fierce in my mouth. Make my cheeks ache with drool. Can hardly bear the cold-fire of it, not after so many could-be nuts.

Taking a deep breath, I go to the Red Nylon Bag and take out the little waterproof packet.

Three matches left. Only three.

I take one of the matches in my hand and my hand's trembling now –

blistering pages shrivelling in the heat, crinkling paper, curling, withering, dying
–

and I drop the match in the sand.

Now I'm panicking as I can't find it; the sand's covering it. I'm frantically scrabbling in the sand.

‘Oh God, no, no,' I moan.

But it's OK, it's here, I've found it.

Shaking, I pick it up and stare at it.

One match. It only took one match.

 

Fish Might Fly

I'm staring at the flying fish when the police come to get me.

They're frozen for ever in flight, but still sort of beautiful; even if they'll never shoot up into the air; never bounce over the waves.

So I'm in the Natural History Gallery when Bill the guide taps me on the shoulder.

‘Sorry, love,' he says.

I know what he means because there's two police officers standing right behind him, looking serious.

‘That her?' asks one. She's short and dumpy, and has a Scottish accent. The hairs on her upper lip are pale where she's bleached them.

Bill nods.

I'm cornered, here at the top of the gallery, surrounded by fish and fossils. For an insane moment I think about launching myself over the balcony; perhaps I'll land on the back of the giant walrus's neck and slide all the way down his back to land by the ostriches. Then it's a quick dash out the exit and through the gardens to grab the next bus to Brixton.

Yeah, right.

I lift my chin to face them and turn myself into stone.

‘Are you Frances Eileen Stanton of 19A Plover House, Tulse Hill, Brixton?'

Freeze.

‘I'll say it again. Is your name Frances Eileen Stanton?'

Freeze.

Sigh. ‘You'll be better off if you cooperate. We have reason to believe that, at two fifteen today, you committed a serious act of arson…'

I tune her right out, this policewoman with her Scottish accent, and make myself hover over the centre of the room instead. It's a nice room, a white curved ceiling and with a gallery that runs all the way round the top.

Skeletons leer at me as they march my body down the stairs and past the frozen birds and animals.

People stare. I watch myself stare back and see them flinch away. Watch the schoolgirl who's struggling and smirking in her handcuffs.

I am a rock. I am an island. I am a monster.

 

Embers

I can't make fire.

I need to make fire.

I remember being in a vodka haze, out in the life raft. Laughing, crying, striking the matches one after another. Trying to scratch the memories away.

Shaking, I place the match back inside its little plastic bag.

Then take it out again.

I make a little pile of dry seaweed in the sand, and strike the match. Lean low and drop in the flickering flame. The seaweed curls and crisps till it's nothing but black glowing edges, flecks that break off and blow in the sand.

I put on some sticks, dry ones I've collected from the beach. Smoke billows, but the fire's not catching the sticks; there's a breeze coming in from the sea.

I swallow as I think of red sparks shooting up from the flare. Matches waving in the dark. The seaweed withers to an ember that burns bright in the sand.

And then goes out.

The fire's not catching.

I lean forward and blow and blow because that's what you're supposed to do, but it's too late; the sparks have all shrivelled and died and there's just smoke.

Two matches left.

This time I build a wall with stones from the beach. I get big ones and stagger with them over to One Tree, where I bury them on their sides till there's a sort of curved windbreak between my fire and the sea.

I wipe my forehead. Sun's going down fast now; there'll soon be no light because when it gets dark on this island, it gets very dark.

And then I'll be alone again with the shadows and the night noises.

So I take some more seaweed; place the smallest twigs around it like a wigwam; take the second match.

Flare.

 

Bus

‘So,' says Sally, the school counsellor, ‘what is your greatest fear?'

Wayne-and-extra-strength-lager-and-bruises-and-school-and-what-happens-after-Year-Eleven-and-the-rest-of-my-life-and Cassie-dying-and-Social-Services-and-empty-fridges-and-after-one-a.m.-on-a-Wednesday-and-Johnny-being-taken-away-and–

What a stupid question.

‘I'm not scared of anything,' I say. ‘What are you scared of?'

She smiles. ‘This isn't about me, Frances. It's about you.'

I want to wipe that smile off her smug face.

‘Got any ciggies?' I ask.

Sally pretends not to hear. I hate that.

‘Imagine this bus is your life, Frances.'

She's actually waving a toy bus at me which she's taken out of her desk drawer. She must have all sorts of stuff in there. Dolls, probably, for kids to show where they've been touched by paedos. Puppets. Sweeties, to bribe kiddies to tell her their deepest darkest thoughts. She's sick. I vow to take a look in that drawer one of these days.

The bus is yellow. A nice, happy colour.

‘Imagine this bus is your life and it's full of all the significant people in your life. Now, who is driving the bus, Frances? Who is driving your bus of life?'

Oh for frick's sake.

I give her my widest smile.

‘I am,' I say.

She looks grateful for that. ‘Good, Frances. So you're in the driving seat. That means you're in control of your life. Now…'

She holds the toy bus out to me and looks serious. She even opens its tiny door.

‘If you're in charge of your bus, Frances, who would you like to get off it?'

I take the bus from her; imagine a tiny Wayne and Cassie sitting inside. Think of squeezing Wayne between my fingers till he pops like a bug.

But really there's only one person I want to get off my bus right now, and she's sitting in her classroom grateful as anything that I'm missing English; that I'm not there messing up her precious lesson.

Here's Frances. Let's put her near the teacher's desk. Let's sit her with someone nice. Let's talktalktalk to her and touch her arm to say, well done, you star, and put smiley faces on her report card and let's benicebenicebenice.

Let's tease her out with words,

fake smiles, fake words, fake promises,

so that she will trust me with her rawest, secretest self.

And then I can pull out her heart like a long piece of silly string.

Bitch.

 

Fizz

It's burning; it's burning nicely.

I'm leaning forward on my elbows and blowing slow and steady and there's no wind because the stone wall I built is keeping the fire safe and protected.

I'm thinking of the warm Spaghetti 'n' Meat I'm going to have for dinner. In the morning I'll find that pool again but take my plastic bottle this time. And I'll find something to heat it up in on the fire because I'm pretty sure that Steve said that any water's safe to drink if you boil it first.

The fire goes out.

Shaking, I put the last waterproof match back in its little packet and place it in the zip-up inner section of the Red Nylon Bag. I keep patting it to check it's still there.

One match.

Oh God.

I want to laugh. I want to scream.

Fran Stanton who can't make fires. The girl who –

Don't go there. No, don't go there –

couldn't pass a bin, a park, a roof without lighting a fire.

Well, do you know what? She can't light a frickin fire on a beach. Not to save her life, she can't!

And do you know what's so frickin funny? The funniest thing of all?

Well, listen to this:

She. Has. Only. One. Match. Left.

There. Told you it was funny.

I eat cold Spaghetti 'n' Meat made with could-be nut water and wrap myself round and round inside what's left of the life raft. I put my hoodie on and wrap my Nike T-shirt around my legs to keep warm. It gets cold here at night.

So there's nothing to do but to try to sleep.

I try not to think about the shrinking size of the torch beam beside me.

I'm watching a beetle creep across the sand when the light fizzes and goes out altogether.

 

A Walk in the Park

If you take the main path through the park and keep on going, you come to the lido and that hurts, because it's where I used to take my brother all the time.

It's cheap and clean and little kids love that sort of thing. It was me that taught him to steal and it was me that taught him to swim.

Today the lido is open because it's a bank holiday and half-term so you'd think it'd be heaving and the kids would be out in droves, swimming and splashing around. But it's not and they're not because it's raining, raining, raining.

I only realise how heavy it's coming down as I near the row of kebab shops and restaurants that is Herne Hill. I only just remembered to grab my black parka as I left the flat and it's just as well because my jeans are soaked already and water drips off my hood and off my nose. The park pounds with the usual runners, all dead serious with their armbands and step counters and strap-on water bottles. Everyone's running and no one knows where they're going.

It's early and Cassie won't be up for hours yet. She's sleeping off all the late nights and she's got a few appointments later – Darren 2 p.m., Leroy 4 p.m. – so it's better that I'm out of the flat and out of her hair.

Only a fiver in her purse today. She'll not miss it. I wish she'd miss it.

I carry on past the station, then change my mind and cross back over the road towards Brixton. I walk down avenues of posh houses, gloss-painted front doors in smart navy and green and plum.

Each Peach Pear Plum.

That was the name of Johnny's favourite book. Together we knew all the words, only I'd pretend not to remember and he loved that; he'd shout the end-rhymes and get it right every time.

Little white Fiats are parked on the tarmacked drives; first cars for teenage kids. Inside the sash windows are wooden blinds to stop people like me staring in. A couple of builders sit on some steps, dragging on fags in the rain. They watch me as I walk past and I switch on my Medusa stare.

I am a rock.

 

Dead Pigeons Don't Cry

I decide to eat before heading back.

Everyone's packed in here because of the rain; the only table free is mine and Johnny's.

Tinny pop music and lime and orange walls. I sit on a brown fake-leather stool with my quarter-pounder-no-cheese.

I want to die because all the kids remind me of Johnny.

That little boy with the buzzed hair who gazes at me with treacle eyes. He trails his hand across my table as he passes. He's sitting next to his mum now, kicking the bench with his white Velcro trainers. Has a chicken burger the size of his head but he's still making good work of it. He tilts his head to one side in concentration as he licks mayo from his mouth and his mum reaches over and nicks a chip.