Beware of Dogs

by Elizabeth Flann

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters . . .

  King James Bible, Revelations 22:15

  FIELD DIARY – Saturday 28 April

  * * *

  I sit writing my diary after a long draught of nectar. This could be my last day on the island, so I feel I should be trying to sum up my experience, but I cannot find the words. I feel weak, as weak as I felt after eating the limpets, and I hope I’ll be able to summon enough energy to carry out my plan. The small amount of fruit and protein I managed to find yesterday doesn’t seem to have provided me with nearly as much energy as the carbohydrate-rich diet of the first part of my self-imposed exile.

  I shiver when I think about my chances of survival if I hadn’t included the nuts and sultanas in my pack, now that I know how limited the island’s resources really are. After harvesting nectar from the coast banksia trees early this morning, I combed the wooded areas and found no fruit at all. I think I have finally exhausted the crop for this season.

  I’m too weak to cross the island to look for crabs. I need all the strength I can muster to build a bonfire. As I sit on a sun-warmed rock writing my diary, I feel the usual thin wash of energy course through me from the nectar. I must make the most of this and start collecting leaves and branches for the fire.

  I have chosen the location for my bonfire with the greatest possible care to reduce the risk of the fire spreading and causing environmental damage to this almost pristine island. I have located it on a flat shelf surrounded by higher rocks that should block any floating embers and send them to the ground or out to sea. Fortunately there is virtually no wind, so the risk is minimal. And the island itself is, as I am only too aware, surrounded by nothing but the wide, wide sea.

  I still worry but am comforted by the memory of recent heavy rains, so the trees and understorey are not bone-dry, and also by the thought that I will be utilising every single piece of dry wood and foliage up here on the clifftop, so there will be minimal or no fuel nearby.

  Conscience partially satisfied; time to get to work . . .

  It’s taken hours of leg-wearying toil, but now, finally, it’s done. I purposely went as far afield as possible to build the understorey of the bonfire in case I didn’t find any more food and my energy began to flag later in the day. Last week’s flood had left several large drifts of branches and dried leaf debris and, after checking the area using my stick-banging technique, I gathered them and formed them into a wide circle on the rocky shelf that juts out over the ocean at the island’s northern point. Then, this time feeling like a true environmental vandal, although I knew it would all be replenished soon enough, I pulled off any dead branches I could see, and even uprooted some fairly dead-looking bushes. I added the cave-screening tree to the pile with a small pang, seeing my refuge’s entrance so exposed. Then I rested, gathering my resources ready to comb the ground for sticks, branches, leaves – anything that would burn.

  I realised too late that if I’d thought of this earlier I could have been pulling off branches over the past few days and letting them dry to build up more fuel supply. Stom. Stupid. Didn’t think ahead. It would have been easy to do and nobody would have noticed; the bush is full of dead waste of all kinds. How do I know that what I have gathered will be enough?

  At lunchtime, since I hadn’t been able to find any fruit, I drank some of the remaining nectar. I was beginning to feel light-headed and I was not hungry at all, but I knew I must build up my energy to keep on collecting. The thought of the Duffy brothers and their dogs helped to spur me into action.

  Hands clenched, I counted to five minutes (and ONE and TWO and THREE and FOUR and FIVE), opening out one finger for each minute, then forced myself to stand up. I still felt weak, so took a few sips of water, then peered down the stone steps to the little beach below. The karkalla stems are too juicy to burn, but it could be worth checking for any hidden fruits, and I thought I spied a few pieces of wood on the little strip of rocky beach. It took me a long time, stopping after every few steps, but I made it to the bottom and found two last karkalla fruits, which I popped straight into my mouth, enjoying their chewiness, and about a dozen quite solid pieces of driftwood, beautifully white and dry, which I gathered together.

  They were going to be a heavy load, too heavy for one trip, but my cunning mind managed to devise a plan. I laid out two long stems of karkalla, spread my anorak over them, and stacked the longer pieces of driftwood as neatly as possible on top.

  Then I rolled up the anorak and tied the sleeves to form a kind of bag, tied the karkalla stems around this parcel, and looped the ends around my shoulders to form a backpack. It worked surprising well initially, but as I neared the top of the steps I felt the weight of the timber shifting the bundle ominously, so I slumped down, took it off and unwrapped it, allowing the contents to tumble gently onto the step.

  Then I made three trips up the last few steps to transport the driftwood to the bonfire site, where I stacked it to one side. I now had no more food and very little energy, so I found a shady spot and sat and tried to meditate, taking sips of water whenever I began to feel parched, but making sure I used as little energy as possible. When I was collecting this morning I set new bags for tomorrow, just in case, but I fervently hope I won’t need to use them.

  The sun was now high in the sky. I must have dozed off. I took another small drink, filled my pockets with specimen bags in the hope I might find some food, and brought the anorak to use as a carry bag. The bonfire was not yet large enough to burn for more than a few minutes. I needed to at least double its size and for that I would have to search the ground thoroughly and pick up every single dry leaf, twig and branch. I started with leaves and filled the anorak over and over, lugging it to the bonfire site and throwing its contents onto the middle of the pyre.

  Then I searched for twigs and small branches and did the same. When I’d built up a good mound of small stuff, I began to arrange the larger pieces of driftwood on top so that the leaf litter would blaze up and ignite the larger sticks. Then I pushed into the boobialla thicket and collected every stick and branch I could carry. As I staggered back with the load I spied a fat skink on the path and cautiously emptied the anorak of its contents, rushed forward and dropped it on the unsuspecting reptile. After a bit of a struggle I managed to knock it on the head with the hammer and put it in a bag. Then I reassembled my cargo and lugged it onto the fire.

  At least now I had dinner.

  One more trip, to the coast banksia trees, and I realised I’d pretty much exhausted the resources of this side of the island. There was no question of going any further afield. I was so tired I could barely manage to stumble into the cave to retrieve a few necessities. When I woke this morning I packed all my remaining belongings, except the water bottle, plastic bags, matches, knife and torch, into kitchen tidy bags and placed them just inside the entrance of the cave. This time I refilled my water bottle from the last of the spare bags and placed my lizard-in-a-bag carefully in the shadiest spot I could find.

  Then I went outside again, spread the anorak on my sitting rock, and quietly caught up with my diary, matches in one pocket, knife in the other.

  But after a while I couldn’t sit any longer. At least restlessness gave me a bit of energy so I walked almost briskly to the one area I hadn’t fully stripped, my original toilet spot. Perhaps for hygiene reasons I’d been reluctant to collect material there, but after a little more than two weeks it could hardly matter. I entered the little copse and found several piles of brush, a good collection of sticks and branches and in a small thicket a most wonderful discovery, a largish dead tree.

  Slowly, methodically, with many stops to regain my breath, I collected the brush, the sticks and the branches and dragged them onto the fire. Then I brought some lengths of karkalla stem, tied them round the tree and, like Europeans hauling home their Christmas pine, I looped the stems over my shoulders and dragged the tree, in s
hort stages with many stops, to the edge of the fire.

  There was no way I could lift it onto the top, but I realised that if I could find some way to climb up onto the higher rocks, dragging it behind me, I could drop it into the centre of my bonfire. If I succeeded in placing it correctly, it would stick up out of the pile like a candle, and continue burning when all the small fuel was used up. To give me the energy for this challenge I drank the last of the nectar, and then harnessed myself up again.

  The tree was heavy and dragged my arms painfully, but the distance was not far, so I forced myself to go on. One metre, two, three and I was up on the rock ledge, but the tree was dragging me back. I stopped and rested, trying to gather enough strength for one last heave, and I finally managed it, although I felt an agonising wrench to my left shoulder and almost let the whole thing go.

  But it was up and I manoeuvred it so that I could push it head first onto the pile, where it landed crookedly but well in the centre, the thickest part of the trunk with its tangle of roots pointing high into the sky. It was some time before I could move and the pain in my arm was so bad I almost fainted when I forgot and attempted to use it to balance my descent. Luckily I’m right-handed, but I wished I had strung the skink I caught onto a stick before putting my arm out of action. With one hand it was quite difficult but I managed it eventually and sat cradling the raw skink kebab on my lap, waiting for darkness. Then I realised the bonfire would be too hot for cooking, so I raked off a small pile of sticks and leaves and made a little fire for my dinner. It was not very effective, and the end result was a bit too rare, but it was food and I ate it with relish.

  Now I sit on my rock, surveying my handiwork. The bonfire rises high in front of me, and I ponder the full implications of what I am planning. If I light this fire there is no going back, and no way to predict the consequences. But if I don’t, by Monday I will have to face the Duffy brothers and their dogs. Fear rises through me. My throat is dry and I feel breathless. I sip water and try to empty my mind. It can’t be long now until dark.

  Another thought strikes me. What if rescue does come? I’ll be in the cave, just in case, so I can defend myself if necessary. I need to leave a trail.

  Like Hansel and Gretel I have gathered pebbles from along the path and formed them into an arrow leading from the perimeter of the bonfire to the cave’s entrance.

  I will close my diary now with this thought: Pray for me.

  * * *

  It is dark.

  Shaking with nerves, because I know that once made this move will be irrevocable, I strike a match. And hover reluctantly for a moment before I plunge it into the bed of brushwood at the base of the pile. And light another match. And another until little tongues of flame are licking all around the bonfire. Then a huge WHOOSH and up it goes, flames leaping into the sky, and the rocks around flashing red and yellow like strobe lights in a nightclub.

  Although it’s really too hot for me so close to the blaze, I am transfixed. As I stare into the flames, people appear, swirling black within the raging red. Jonathan. Kathryn. Vader. Moe. All of them face me and I call out to them. ‘Come and get me. Here I am.’ But they swirl away.

  Then Lana comes. ‘Help me,’ she calls. ‘Help me.’ But Matt appears and throws her into the fire where she burns up and disappears. Only her voice remains. ‘Help me.’

  Then Dave, untouched by the flames, staring out at me. ‘I’ll find you, Alix. I’ll get you. You can’t escape.’

  I have to get away, into the cave, hide away in case someone comes. I duck inside, panting, then peek out to see the fire take the tree and dance up it, so that it bursts into a white-hot light, just like a candle, and I know it will be seen on the mainland, and they will know that this is not a natural fire, although it is not man-made. It is woman-made, and I wonder who will come.

  The pain in my arm is excruciating. I feel faint . . .

  I come back to consciousness, and hear, muffled by the soughing of the sea but still audible to my hyper-sensitive hearing, the sickeningly familiar sound of the Duffy brothers’ boat growing louder and louder, and then, the sound I have been dreading, the barking and growling of a pack of dogs in full cry after their prey.

  I can hear seagulls crying, far out over the sea. Or is it the blood pounding in my ears? I stay in my cave, where I’m safe. If anyone comes in here, I have my torch in my unsteady left hand ready to shine in their eyes, my knife in my right hand ready to plunge into their heart, until I find out whether they are friend or foe.

  Flames crackling all around me, knife and torch in hand, I wait . . .

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.

  King James Bible, Hosea 8:7.

  I woke up in a stark white room like a prison cell. It was a relief to see machines and tubes and people in blue uniforms with ID cards clipped to their chests, although my first, irrational, thought was: Oh please let this be a hospital, and not a hidden torture chamber!

  I couldn’t remember much of what happened on the clifftop, but two SES people arrived in their orange rescue gear to check on me, introducing themselves as Jude and Serge. Jude seemed to be the spokesperson. ‘You tried to fight us off,’ she said, and they laughed. ‘We had to wait until you passed out and could be loaded into the chopper.’ I have a vague memory of my hand brandishing a knife. At least in my befuddled state I didn’t hurt them. This time the gods were with me.

  They too remember hearing the sound of a boat, but by the time they set down on the flat area of rock it had seemed to be receding. I didn’t dare ask them if they’d heard the barking of dogs. I don’t want to know.

  Coming back into the everyday world has been surprisingly like falling into a dream. Nothing seems real. There are too many people, there is too much light, too much noise. And too many nasty surprises. Like what happened with my diary.

  I have learned that after following my arrows and finding me, Serge and Jude searched the cave thoroughly in case anyone else was trapped inside. They left almost everything as they found it and sealed off the cave entrance until a proper search could be made in daylight, but they did bring my field diary. ‘We were hoping it would tell us who you were.’

  They found my name, and as they combed through the entries in an attempt to discover more details they began to realise that I had been a virtual prisoner in the cave and that in my distraught state I must have thought they were Matt and Dave, or the Duffy brothers come with their dogs to silence me once and for all. So, like good citizens, they called in the cops. Unfortunately that turned out to be a bit of a curve ball.

  It had not occurred to me that if the diary was ever found its contents would be doubted, but to my dismay that’s exactly what happened. Matt’s and Dave’s families quickly appointed lawyers, who immediately advised them to deny everything, and describe the comments about them in the diary as simply the wild fantasies of a diseased mind. My mind, that is, not the truly diseased minds of Dave and Matt.

  I knew only too well that everything in the diary was real, and some days elapsed before I could bear to revisit what I’d written. Once I began the slow road to recovery from the after effects of lack of food and water, and from the sheer terror of that final day, I forced myself to start at the beginning and read the entries right through. It was chilling to relive the dangers and horrors I had put down so matter-of-factly and I’ve spent a lot of time speculating about what was happening on that island, and why I’d been so afraid of what Dave and Matt might do. I was far more afraid of them than of starving to death, though I am not usually a fearful person.

  Now that I was in a hospital I could feel some of the fear that had been weighing me down just dropping away. For a couple of days, I drifted in and out of events as tubes fed me rehydration and sustenance, and wounds were dressed. When I was finally permitted to set foot out of bed my injured shoulder was bound in bandages and placed in a sling and, at least physically, things began slowly settling bac
k to normal.

  But one fear remained. In those first days I was haunted by the idea, always in the back of my mind, that Dave would continue his relentless quest for revenge, or total control, or whatever it was that drove his sick fixation, and try to come and claim me. I was very conscious of the fact that there had been no guard set at my door, which they always seem to do in cop shows, but when I mentioned my fears to the night nurse he was able to reassure me. ‘Don’t worry. We had a series of drug thefts last year and now this place is like Fort Knox.’

  He also pointed out to me a lovely oasis in the very centre of the building, a circular sensory garden offering plants to touch, aromas to smell, and chimes to soothe the sense of hearing. As soon as I was mobile I found my way into this safe haven and sat under a Peppermint Gum (Eucalyptus radiata) on one of the rugged timber benches that curved around the tree.

  As I sat I found myself meditating on the enigma of Dave Grogan and his obsession with me. I didn’t really understand what had brought out such a strange mixture of threats of vengeance and puppy-like adoration, neither of which were caused, as far as I could see, by anything I had done. I had never encouraged Dave, but nor had I ever treated him badly. I had behaved with distant politeness, as you do with people who don’t interest you, but with whom you have no quarrel. So how had it come to this?

  I was reminded of an article I once read about abusive spouses. It was entitled ‘First he beats her up, and then he brings her roses’, and that seemed to sum up the confusing nature of Dave’s ‘devotion’. But Dave was not my spouse, and although I felt safe for now in the arms of the hospital, was I going to live in fear of both his devotion and his vengeance for the rest of my days?