part0046

The fishing boat bobbed on the sea like a child’s bath toy and Ana felt her knees go weak. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? A man stood on the deck, a lone silhouette against the burning sun. Chakrit’s uncle, their saviour, waiting for them, to rescue them, to take them home.

Home . What a wonderful, perfect word that was. It conjured up images of her and Rachel laughing, playing in the shared garden, Ana helping her sister up when she fell off the swing, their mother calling for them to come inside because dinner was on the table and it looked like it was about to rain and if it did they’d catch their death of cold. She thought of the room she and Rachel had shared until Ana had turned thirteen, and the constant battle over who got to put up their posters, Ana wanting Green Day and Rachel fighting for Backstreet Boys. Rachel had won, of course. She always did.

The battered-looking yellow dinghy lounged on the sand, lapping up the rays of the sun, the useless craft they had arrived on still embedded in the sandbank near shore .

Rachel could barely keep her eyes open, never mind walk, so they laid her in the life-raft and dragged it over the sand into the water. It was a struggle, but they managed. The prospect of survival does extraordinary things for morale. Ana wondered why the small boat was still here. Had Paul not made it back? Was he still roaming the island, lost and disorientated?

Chakrit tugged the cord on the outboard motor and it caught on the second try, sputtering to life. As the dinghy rocked on the waves, heading towards the fishing boat, Ana took one last look at the island, expecting to see it brooding with unrestrained menace.

Instead, she saw the idyllic paradise it should have been. The unfinished resort still stood vigil, a sad reminder of mankind’s insignificance in the face of the unknown. She thought of what lay below it in that hollowed-out hill, of the infernal pit secured within the chamber, and all the horrors therein. It all seemed so absurd now, little more than a campfire tale. She looked at the slight swell of Rachel’s belly, and wondered what she carried in there that was so important.

Important enough to spare her life.

Someone can help her. Someone will be able to get it out and kill it and Rachel will be fine and everything can go back to normal.

It was a pipe dream.

Such an empty word. She clasped Rachel’s cold hand .

‘Rach,’ she whispered.

‘Yeah,’ came the delayed response.

‘Hang on. We’re almost there.’

She turned away from the island. The boat was close. She heard music playing from a radio, an oldies station, Frank Sinatra singing about The Wee Small Hours of the Morning . God, music! Was there a sweeter sound on Earth? Her spirits lifted. Even Rachel’s eyes fluttered open at the sound.

‘Are we home?’ she asked, her hand weakly clutching Ana’s.

‘Not yet, Rach. Soon. We’re almost at the boat.’

‘Is Paul there?’

‘Yeah, he’s there,’ said Ana, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘What about mum?’

Ana looked out to sea, biting down on her lip.

‘Yeah, Rach. Mum’s there too. We’ll all be together real soon.’

‘Good. I’m so tired.’

Chakrit averted his eyes and Ana was thankful for his discretion. The remainder of the short trip passed in merciful silence until the dinghy reached the boat with a bump. The old Thai man casually tossed a rope down to Chakrit, who tied it to the metal ring on the nose of the small craft and put a hand on the three-rung ladder to steady it.

‘I go first, you pass her to me,’ he said to Ana. She could see the relief in his eyes. No doubt a celebratory smoke would soon be on the cards.

She nodded, too tired to talk, sitting and watching as Chakrit climbed the ladder with difficulty. His ankle was badly infected and needed urgent medical attention, the thick dark blood congealing around his wounds. His uncle held out a hand and hoisted Chakrit up and onto the deck. One down, two to go.

The old man helped Chakrit sit then looked over the edge at the two near-naked girls in the boat, both scarred and scratched and beaten almost beyond recognition. Rachel didn’t stir, though Ana could see her chest rising and falling at painfully long intervals. The old man pointed at them and said something. Ana tried to smile at him. The man put his head in his hands. When he took them away, Ana could have sworn he was crying. He reached down and picked up a shotgun, carefully raising it. He muttered a quiet prayer and pointed it right at them.