And the nations were angry and Thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead that they should be judged and that thou shouldest give reward unto thy servants and prophets, and to the saints and them that fear thy name, small and great; and shouldest destroy them which destroy the earth.
King James Bible, Revelations 11:18
Thirst woke me again, with daylight piercing the cave as I took my jeans to the entrance to put them on, pulling the strap belt another notch tighter. Then I returned to the sitting position to put on my boots. Everything took so long, and I felt so weak, that it was almost more than I could manage to dress myself and gather my knife and water bottle for the short trip to the coast banksia trees to collect the nectar, and immediately feel the familiar wash of energy coursing through my body. After that I made a detour to the nearby copse of boobialla trees, but all that remained were three lone fruits, so wizened and dried out they were hardly worth harvesting.
So that was breakfast. All I could hope was that there would be some remaining fruit on the other side of the island, as I made my way back to the cave to pack a few necessities for a trip to the cabin. I crammed my hat, water bottle and the last of the specimen bags into every available pocket and then sat for a while to catch my breath and write up my diary. Then I set off once more, and as I walked I made a plan to cook a large lunch and then try to collect enough fruit for a light supper back at the cave.
Although my thoughts were dominated by the hopeless conviction that I am trapped on this island without any possibility of escape, I had to concentrate on my day-to-day survival. I felt less panicky now that I was getting into a routine again, and decided to try to get up early tomorrow and make it washday at the water tank. I was so absorbed with planning that it was a moment before I registered a noise coming from the far side of the island.
The noise of a boat.
I was almost to the viewing point above the cabin, and was immediately and horribly aware of the fact that I hadn’t been brushing my footprints away, saving that ritual for the return journey. How long would it take whoever it was to get across the sandblow? At least there was no other access on that side, so I could be sure that if they were coming to the island, they’d come that way.
Without giving myself time to think, I tore off two small branches of grey saltbush and, trying not to rush, retraced my steps, rubbing out every trace of my footprints as I went. I got back to the cave in record time, but didn’t go in. I had to know who it was and what they were up to. I couldn’t risk going all the way to the tree overhanging the sandblow. Instead I made for the hide on the clifftop. So terrified I could barely breathe, I forced myself to keep going, always slowed down by brushing out my footprints, until at last I arrived, panting and heart pounding, at the hide.
Then I waited. Not knowing what was going on was terrible, but I was able to hear the boat’s engine stop, so at least I should be able to hear when it started up again.
After what seemed like hours, I heard voices. For a dreadful moment I thought they were coming up the cliff path, but the footsteps stopped, and then I heard the unmistakable tones of Mick and Kel Duffy.
‘Maybe that fuckwit Dave was right. She’s karked it.’
‘Shouldn’t we go up the top, Mick?’
‘Nah. Looks like no-one’s been up there for months.’
I heard the crunch of footsteps going back towards the cabin. After a few minutes, I crawled out of my hide and cautiously raised my head. Nothing. Slowly and carefully, staying in the brush at the side of the path, I followed the two sets of boot prints until I reached the rocky course that led to my spying tree. I didn’t dare go any further, and anyway there was no adequate cover near the cabin, so I made my way as quickly and quietly as possible to the edge of the sandblow, knowing that eventually they must come past my hiding-place.
Again I waited, hearing nothing, except one excited shout that echoed down the sandblow, and filled me with foreboding. What had they found? Soon after that I heard the crunch of boots on sand, followed by snatches of conversation.
‘Might not be hers.’
‘Yeah? Who else d’ya think’s been here? Robinson Crusoe?’
‘Might’ve washed up.’
‘Then why was it right up there? These dints look new. But how the hell she could’ve done them I don’t know. We didn’t leave no tools.’ Then Mick’s nasty laugh. ‘Tell you what, kid. You’re gonna get your wish. I think we should make ourselves a little search up that cliff path. See if we can scare the rabbit out of the hole.’
I heard their boots scrunching as they hurried back along the sandblow towards the cabin and, heart sinking, I heard them turn off along the cliff path. Towards the cave. Abandoning all caution, desperate to know what was happening, I again wriggled out of my hidey-hole and, darting from tree to tree, I pushed through copses and shrubs until I could hear voices again. By this time, they were nearly at the cave’s entrance. I hung back, hardly daring to breathe, then I heard Mick give a shout. ‘Hey, Kel, look at this! This tree’s not in the ground! There’s something behind it.’
Then shouts and whoops of triumph. ‘It’s a fuckin’ cave! Now let’s see if the little bunny is inside it! Go on, Kel. You’re skinnier than me. Go in and see what you can find.’
I moved as silently as possible behind the trees until I found a spot where I could see what was happening. There was silence for a while, apart from Mick’s shuffling feet, and then Kel emerged, dusty and dishevelled, carrying an assortment of objects: spare clothes, plastic bags and my heavy-duty, waterproof, completely useless watch.
‘She’s not there. I went right in,’ says Kel.
‘That’s her stuff though. I recognise that fancy watch. You think she’s still alive?’
‘I dunno. Maybe. There’s no food.’
‘No signs of life?’
‘Nah. Not really. Maybe she did drown?’
‘Well, if she is alive she’s not goin’ nowhere.’ Then something that chilled me right to the bone. ‘Tell you what, Kel. We’ll come back Monday. Bring the dogs.’
‘Or tomorrow.’
‘Nah. Tomorrow’s B&S night. She can wait.’
‘What if she swims for it?’
‘Then she’ll drown.’ Another unpleasant laugh. ‘If the sharks don’t get her first. And this time we’re not leavin’ nothin’, not even the time of day. If she is here, she’s in for a nice surprise.’
They appeared in my line of sight, Kel awkwardly carrying my cooking pot, Mick clutching something that I couldn’t quite see, and then gradually their footsteps faded away. I was about to climb down from my perch when I heard footsteps again and voices almost directly underneath.
‘Here’ll do. We can sit on that rock.’
Then there was a shuffling noise and Kel said anxiously, ‘I can’t find it. I had it, Mick. I’m sure I did.’
‘Ya probably shoved it in a pocket somewhere.’
More shuffling. ‘Got it!’
I wondered what they were searching for. Then some muffled sounds, followed by the striking of a flint and a scent reminiscent of my university days. They’d sat down for a smoko. I wondered, as I’d often wondered before, why two such unpleasant people would go to so much trouble for Matt. Did they take part in whatever dubious practices went on in the cabin? Was there some kind of long-standing feudal connection from when his family lived on the island? Or was it just about money?
I’d debated these questions over and over in my head on those long nights in the cave, but without answers.
This time I got some answers, but they left me more puzzled than ever.
‘Mick.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What if the dogs find her, and she is dead.’
‘Then she’s dead.’
‘But won’t there be, ya know, trouble?’
‘Who’s gonna tell them? You?’
‘No, Mick. Not me.’
A short silence. Then Kel piped up again. ‘But what if she’s alive? She’ll tell.’
‘Tell what? No-one’s done nothin’ to her. She ran away.’
‘I dunno. How much does she know?’
‘She can’t prove nothin’, mate, no matter what she says. Anyway, what if she did? You know how good Matt comes over in court.’
‘Yeah.’ Kel’s voice brightened. ‘And she’s a foreigner.’
‘Right.’
More silence, then: ‘I thought she’d be different. More . . . exotic.’
‘Yeah. Too mouthy. I like ’em when they don’t understand a word.’ More silence. ‘And when they’re blonde.’
‘Yeah.’
All this time I remained immobile until I heard the sound of the boat, and my limbs were beginning to seize up. Even when I heard the motor start and the sounds of the boat slowly taking off, I didn’t move, almost paralysed by one word of their conversation reverberating through my mind.
Dogs. They’d find me. They’d sniff me out. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if I could find an underwater cave and submerge myself, like the children in my well-thumbed adventure books, they’d track me there. I’ve seen the Duffy brothers’ dogs and they terrified me even from a distance. The thought of having them seek me out filled me with horror.
I’d seen what happened on an animal hunt once when Jonathan and I were on a walking tour of the Pennines. The packs of hounds, baying for blood; the packs of humans on horseback, voices harsh with the excitement of the chase, baying in disharmony with the dogs. Male and female voices, raised in the clamour of the desire to see the prey torn apart. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. Until now.
Tante Leni and Uncle Raoul had dogs. I always got on well with them and often took them with me on my rambles over the moors. But the Dodgy brothers’ Rottweilers aren’t companion dogs like Pippin and Sherlock. They’re hunting dogs like the baying pack, and would only be held back by the brothers from tearing me limb from limb. Or would they let them, give them free rein, and then throw the mangled pieces into the wine-dark sea to confound the authorities later?
My mouth was dry, my rapid breathing had parched my throat and there was no water left in the bottle. I knew they’d gone and that I was safe for the time being, but I also knew that the safety had a time limit on it, so I’d need to make the best of the time in between.
I stumbled down to the cabin and discovered the nice surprise Mick had left for me. A shiny new padlock on the dunny door. Shocked, I turned to the water tank and opened the tap. But, what relief, there was water flowing and the level hadn’t changed. I topped up my bottle and drank my fill, but had a nagging feeling something else was different. I patrolled the whole area twice before I saw it.
They’d taken the gas bottle. That must have been what Mick was carrying so awkwardly.
No cooking pot. No stove.
I don’t know how long I’d have sat slumped in the sand, too full of despair to move, but I felt the sun beating down on my back and knew I had to make the effort. I’ve got two days before they come back to think up a plan, if I can believe what they were saying. I think I can. Mick’s smart enough to know the cooking pot wasn’t there before. And unlike Dave, he’s unlikely to believe I’m dead until he sees the body. The heat, and the unpleasant thoughts, were making me feel woozy, so I stripped off and had a quick swim, then rinsed myself off, dressed and spent a calming few minutes writing up my diary. But I can’t stop worrying about how I can cook things now that my lovely pot has gone. And the barbecue. Mick Duffy must certainly have believed there was a chance I was alive to bother to do that. Or was it Matt’s idea?
Someone bought the padlock for the dunny door.
I finally got myself moving and found that, no matter how diligently I searched, there was no fruit to be found along the vegetation line, so I climbed through rocks and sharp grasses to a few lone boobialla trees further up the slope and ate the meagre harvest as I went, but it was barely enough to provide energy for the climb. I felt as if I was working in slow motion, that I had become unreal, ghostly, half-alive. Then I saw two fat skinks sleeping on a rock and without even thinking I picked them up effortlessly and dashed their brains out. I wasn’t hungry enough to eat them raw, so I put them in a bag and scrambled back down to the beach and the rock pools. This time the crabs were plentiful, though small, and I collected and bagged about half a dozen. Then back up to the vegetation line so I didn’t need to worry about footprints, a quick clear-up of the cabin area and a top-up of my water, and I headed back for the cave. I began to notice dead wood along the path, and as I neared the cave, I collected armfuls of sticks and branches. Since I was going to be caught anyway, there was no real point in hiding my presence. I decided to light a fire on the rocks near the cave and grill the food on sticks. Apart from the risk of detection, I’d been reluctant to use up the matches, but I’ve still got half a pack, and soon it won’t matter, so what the hell?
The grilled skinks were delicious. The crabs were less successful, but there was enough edible meat on them to make a reasonably satisfactory meal. I cleared the remnants of the fire as best I could, threw the bones and shells off the rocks and into the sea, then proceeded to the coast banksia thicket. This time I bagged flowers only to see if the system would work for nectar, since I have no fruits and I’d brought enough water to last until tomorrow.
* * *
And so to sleep, as the darkness enfolds me.
But I can’t sleep – all I can think about is that on Monday I’m going to be caught. Unless they don’t come, and there’s not much chance of that, I can’t escape a dog search. So I’ve got to do something before Monday, but what? Most castaways seem to spend their time building rafts, but I don’t think a raft would survive the seas between here and the mainland, and even if it did most of the possible landing places are rocky and treacherous. Without any means of steering it would be a doomed enterprise, which is a relief in a way. The last thing I want to do is cast myself into deep water on a frail craft of any kind. I’m frightened enough on a real boat.
So that’s out. The only other option is to attract attention before they come back. But not attract their attention. That’s the tricky part. I try to piece together what I know of the Duffy brothers’ habits and as I walk and search, snippets of conversations from the boat trip over come back to me.
‘You going to nail a few at the B&S night Saturday week?’ Matt’s voice.
‘Nah.’ Mick Duffy’s.
‘Thought you never missed it.’
‘Not fuckin’ on, mate. Fuckin’ Easter break. School holidays.’
‘That’s OK. The pub’s going to put one on in town instead. Could be some tasty new blood. Then why don’t you come over to my place on Sunday? I’ll be showing some interesting foreign movies.’
I’d forgotten all about this conversation. And the fact that when Matt mentioned foreign movies they all turned and looked at me.
I keep wondering what Lana’s role is in all of this, and another conversation comes back to me, from the first night in the cabin. I was in the bunk room, drifting between sleep and semi-wakefulness, so that it was difficult for me to separate the dreams from the reality, but I remember hearing Matt say: ‘She’s too old, mate. And too smart. Hope she’s not going to bring us trouble. You have to get them young and stupid. Train them up.’ And then his voice changed as he addressed someone else. ‘Don’t you, darl?’
Did he get to Lana young and train her up? And then they need other girls to make the sex more interesting. (Or more saleable – I haven’t forgotten Matt’s camera. Or the other scary stuff they had hidden away.) Where do they find the girls? What do they offer them? A free holiday at the beach? Money? Drugs?
They didn’t need to offer me anything. But Dave misled Matt about me. He presented his fantasy Alix – sad, needy and foreign. And now they are not going to let the real Alix escape. They are going to hunt her down with dogs.
A small whimper escapes me. I’m reminded of Lana’s hopeless crying in the early morning before dawn. What did he do to make her cry like that? And what did he have in mind for me that has made him determined to hunt me down?
I must not think like this. I have to figure out a plan, some way to survive this new threat. But all I can think of is the slavering jaws of Mick’s dogs closing on my leg, my throat . . .
I wake to pitch darkness and this time I recklessly light a match. I use its light to find my torch, hoping the batteries are still OK. I put new ones in before I came and have barely used it, but it was still a relief to see a thin clear beam cleaving the blackness.
I decide to relieve my sleep stiffness by taking a short walk outside the cave, and after experimentally turning the torch off, find that the moonlight gives just enough definition to paths and rocks to enable me to navigate. I climb a little way up the rocks and sit, staring at the huge black hole that is the sea.
If only I could get across it, but it’s such a formidable barrier, I can’t see any solution. Too far to swim, too far to sail even if I had a raft. If I had wings, I could fly across. I imagine myself winging high above the waves. I wonder where I would go. Would I head home to my flat? Or would I fly on and on, across to the west, or even further, north to Canada? I could visit Nederland, find out how Dutch I really am.
It’s surprisingly pleasant sitting here. Not cold at all. I can still smell the remnants of my dinner fire, a comforting combination of smoke, fat and burnt wood. Tomorrow I’ll scour the rocks for skinks, as well as doing a thorough search of all the boobialla trees for anything edible. With any luck I’ll be able to have nectar for breakfast, fruit for lunch and some kind of meat for dinner. I don’t really want to go over to the cabin side again, just in case they come back early, though reason tells me they won’t, but if I can’t catch any kind of meat on this side of the island I’ll have to go crabbing again. What will happen after that? The fruit supply is pretty much dried up, and even the coast banksia flowers are almost at an end. I’ll still have water, but I can’t count on finding a large enough haul of skinks and crabs to keep me going for long.
And my time is running out. On Monday it will all be over, and sitting here thinking about food is not going to solve that problem. The only thing I can think of is to light another fire and hope someone sees it. Which is the more likely day for sailing boats to be out, Saturday or Sunday? I don’t know. And would any boat be likely to come close enough to see a fire if I did light it? I don’t know.
I stare out to sea and as I look I find I can pick out the lights on the mainland, indicating the small settlements that line the coast. And I realise what I must do. If I light a fire at night, on the edge of the clifftop, the chances of being spotted would increase enormously. People picnicking on the beach, or out night fishing, even planes flying over, would be able to see flames coming from the peak of the island, and they’d know it wasn’t just a bonfire on the beach.
One thing Australians take very seriously is bushfire, and some of these islands are inhabited, so anyone who saw it would be highly likely to report it. But would they take action? And if so, who would come? What if they sent the Duffy brothers? Despite these reservations, perhaps because of them, I realise my decision has been made. It has to be Saturday night, when if all goes to plan Mick and Kel Duffy will be fully occupied with trying to nail the lucky ladies at the local pub’s bachelors and spinsters night.