The Beach

by Alex Garland

  ‘No!’

  I looked around. Françoise had also stood up.

  ‘This is too stupid! Both of you sit down now!’

  At that moment there was a jeer from the far end of the longhouse. Bugs was calling to us. ‘Oh let me guess! The cavalry’s arrived!’

  ‘I’m going to stick a spear in your fucking neck!’ I yelled back.

  ‘I’m worried!’

  Jesse howled. ‘You’d better be fuckin’ worried! You’d better be very fuckin’ worried!’

  ‘Is that right, you Kiwi cunt?’

  ‘You’ve got no fuckin’ idea how right it is!’

  Then Sal was standing too. ‘That’s enough!’ she screamed. ‘Both of you! All of you! Enough!’

  Silence.

  The two groups stared at each other for a long thirty seconds. Then Françoise stabbed a finger at the ground.

  ‘Sit!’ she hissed. So we sat.

  Ten minutes later I was crawling up the walls. I wanted a cigarette so severely I thought my chest was going to cave in, but my supply was at the other end of the longhouse and there was no way I could get them. In an effort to help, Cassie rolled a joint, but it didn’t do much good. It was nicotine I needed. The dope only made the craving worse.

  Not long after, Ella brought in the food she’d cooked, but she’d burned the rice and without Unhygienix’s magic touch the fish stew tasted like sea water. Plus she had to hand it round in the most uncomfortable atmosphere imaginable, which baffled her and made her think it was her cooking. No one bothered to explain, so she left the longhouse nearly in tears.

  Jed stuck his head through the door at eight fifteen, gazed around curiously, then disappeared.

  So that’s how the time passed, a succession of tense episodes, all serving to distract us from the fact that the Swedes still hadn’t returned from fishing.

  At a quarter to nine the longhouse door banged open.

  ‘Oh there you are,’ Keaty started to say, but the words dried up in his throat.

  Karl was half bent over, barely illuminated by the candles. It was the expression on his face that instantly informed us there was something badly wrong, but I think it was his arms that had choked Keaty. They seemed to be absurdly dislocated, jutting out from the top of his shoulders. And there was what looked like a tear in his right hand. Between his thumb and forefinger the split continued down to his wrist, so that the two halves hung like a limp lobster claw.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Jesse loudly, and all over the longhouse I heard movement as people rose to get a better look.

  Karl took a single heavy step towards us, moving into the brighter candlelight. That was when we realized that the mutilated arms belonged to the person he was carrying on his back – Sten. Abruptly Karl collapsed, toppling forwards without making any effort to break his fall. Sten slipped off him, balancing for a moment on his side, then rolling over. There was a ragged semicircle of flesh missing from his side as large as a basketball, and the remainder of his stomach area had been flattened to no more than four inches thick.

  Étienne was the first to move. He barged past me, almost knocking me to the ground. When I looked up, he was bending over Sten, trying to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Then I heard Sal call behind me, ‘What’s happened?, and at once Karl began yelling at the top of his lungs. For a minute he yelled non-stop, filling the longhouse with high, frantic sound that made some people cover their ears or yell equally loudly, for no apparent reason other than to block him out. It was only after Keaty had grabbed him, shouting at him to shut up, that he managed to form an intelligible word: ‘Shark.’

  The Third Man

  The stunned quiet after Karl said ‘shark’ only lasted a heartbeat. Then we all started jabbering again as abruptly as we’d all shut up. A circle quickly formed around Karl and Sten – the same kind of circle you get in a school-yard fight, jostling for position whilst keeping a safe distance – and suggestions started flying thick and fast. It was a crisis after all. Whatever else a crisis causes, it causes a buzz, so everyone wanted to be in on the act. Étienne and Keaty, tending to Sten and Karl respectively, were instructed, ‘He needs water!’ and ‘Put him in the recovery position!’ and ‘Hold his nose!’

  Hold His Nose was directed at Étienne – said by one of the Yugo girls – because you have to hold the victim’s nose while giving mouth-to-mouth to stop the air from escaping. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. You could see the air bubbling out of the hole in Sten’s side so his lungs were obviously fucked, and anyway, you couldn’t imagine anyone looking more dead. His eyes were open but showing the whites, he was as limp as rags, and there was no blood coming out of his wounds. In fact, just about all the advice was stupid. Karl could hardly be put in the recovery position while he was jerking around and screaming, and I didn’t have a clue what use he’d have for water. Morphine yes, water no. But in emergencies people often seem to call for water, so I assumed it was said in that spirit. The only person talking sense was Sal, who was yelling at everyone to get back and shut up. No one took any notice though. Her role as leader had been temporarily suspended, so her good suggestions were about as useful as the bad ones.

  The whole scene left me feeling flustered. I was telling myself, ‘Alert but calm,’ and waiting for my head to come up with the kind of suggestion that was needed. Something that would cut through the chaos, creating a stern efficiency that was appropriate to the gravity of the situation. Specifically, something like the way Étienne had acted on the plateau. With that in mind, I considered pushing my way through to Sten and saying, ‘Leave him, Étienne. He’s dead.’ But I couldn’t shake the idea that it would sound like a line from a bad movie, and I wanted a line from a good movie. Instead I pushed my way backwards through the crowd, which was easy as most people were trying to get closer.

  As soon as I was out of the circle I began thinking a great deal more objectively. Two realizations hit me at once. Number one was that I now had a chance to get my cigarettes. Number two was Christo. Nobody had even mentioned the third Swede, who might have been on the beach, wounded and waiting for help to arrive. Possibly even dead like Sten.

  I dithered for a couple of moments like a cartoon character, first looking one way, next the other. Then I made my decision and ran down the longhouse, passing the few squid-sufferers who were still too sick to see what was going on. I lit up on the run back, taking two matches to catch the flare of the phosphorus. Just before I ducked out of the longhouse door, I shouted, ‘Christo!’ but I didn’t wait to see if anyone had heard me.

  Through the jungle, I cursed myself for not having also grabbed a torch. I couldn’t see much apart from the red glow of my cigarette, occasionally brightening as it burned through a spider’s web. But having recently walked the path in darkness, en route to seeing the phosphorescence a couple of nights before, I didn’t have too much trouble. The only mishap was walking straight into a bamboo thicket which had been recently cut for spears. My tough feet were OK. It was my shins and calves that got cut, which bothered me because I knew they’d sting if I had to go into the salt-water.

  On the beach, however, there was enough moonlight to see clearly. Across the sand were deep tracks where Karl had dragged Sten. He seemed to have reached the beach about twenty metres from the path to the clearing, come down, missed the entrance to the path, and doubled back. Christo, I noted as I dropped the butt, couldn’t have made it as far as the shore. In the light from the moon, the sand was silver. The odd coconut husks and fallen palm branches were black. If he’d been there, I’d have seen him.

  I took a deep breath and sat down a few feet from the water, juggling options and ideas. Christo wasn’t on the beach and I hadn’t passed him on the path – unless I’d walked over him unawares – so he was in either the lagoon, the open sea, or the cave that led to the sea. If he was in the open sea he was probably dead. If he was in the lagoon, he was either on a boulder or floating face down. If he was at the cave, he had to be a
t one of its two entrances, maybe too tired to swim the lagoon or too injured to get through the underwater passage.

  That was the Christo angle. The shark angle was more straightforward. It, or they, could be anywhere. I had no way of knowing any more than that, short of spotting a silhouette fin weaving across the lagoon, so I figured I’d be better off if I ignored the shark angle altogether.

  ‘I bet he’s in the caves,’ I said, and lit another cigarette to help me think. Then I heard a noise behind me, a padding footstep on the sand.

  ‘Christo?’ I called, and heard myself in stereo. The other person had called ‘Christo,’ at the exact same moment.

  ‘No,’ we both answered together.

  A pause.

  I waited a few seconds, looking in all directions, unable to spot the figure. ‘Who then?’

  No answer.

  ‘Who then?’ I repeated, standing. ‘Mister Duck, is that you?’

  Still no answer.

  A swell swept up the sand and tugged at my feet. I had to take a quick step forwards to keep my balance. The following swell was just as strong and I had to take another step. The next thing I knew the water was up to my knees and my cuts were smarting at the salt. The second cigarette, which I’d forgotten about, fizzled out as my hand hit the water.

  *

  I tried to swim along the most likely route Christo would have taken between the cave and the beach, pausing every so often to climb a boulder and scan around me. By the time I’d crossed three-quarters of the lagoon I could see flashlights on the beach. The others had arrived, but I didn’t call to them. I wasn’t decided whether their distant presence was a reassurance or a drag.

  Shadowed

  Christo’s name was being called. Low-pitched and high-pitched, boys’ voices and girls’ voices, floating across the lagoon. I didn’t like the sound. From my position, resting on a boulder by the entrance to the cave, the call was always answered by an echo. It gave me the creeps, so I swam into the cave to cut the sound out. Then, once started, I didn’t stop. I swam straight ahead until I bumped blindly against the rock-face where the passage ducked below the water-level, took a lungful and dived.

  It was very exciting underwater. The rock walls, never warmed by sunlight, cooled and deadened the water. I felt as if I’d dared to enter a forbidden area, the zone I’d shied away from with Étienne and Françoise, diving for sand on Ko Samui. ‘Braver now,’ I thought dreamily, relaxing my legs and slowing my arm strokes. I wasn’t hurried; Christo and the shark seemed rather distant concerns. I was almost enjoying myself, and I knew my lungs were practised enough to keep me under for over a minute thirty without serious discomfort.

  Every few feet I stopped and groped around to make sure I wasn’t accidentally heading down the side passage to the air pocket. In the process, I discovered the central passage was far wider than I’d previously imagined. At full arm’s length I couldn’t touch either of its sides, only the barnacle-covered ceiling and floor. I realized, with a reproachful grimace, that to have ended up in the air pocket I must have strayed quite a way off course.

  I grimaced harder when I came up on the seaward side of the cliffs. A strong night swell gave me a harsh reality check, pulling me out of my otherworldly stupor by knocking me against the rocks. I had to clamber awkwardly out of the water, slipping on algae and cutting my legs yet again. When I’d found my balance I looked around for Christo and yelled his name, without a lot of hope because the moonlight was bright enough for me to see he wasn’t there. I could, however, see the boat. It was floating freely in the small cove that served as its port and hiding-place, untied. I made my way over and scooped the rope out of the sea, securing the boat with as many granny knots as the rope’s length would allow – not very nautical but the best I knew how. Then I perched on a small rock-shelf and wondered what I should do next.

  The problem was, I could easily have missed Christo on several stages of my search, the boulders particularly. It was possible he’d already been found and was back at camp. But I also had a powerful sense that I hadn’t missed him. The untied boat told me that they’d got as far as the entrance to the cave. If Christo hadn’t been injured, he’d have made the swim with Karl. If he had been injured however, Karl would have left him where I was sitting, intending to come back for him later.

  ‘Unless…’ I muttered, clicking my fingers and shivering in the sea breeze.

  Unless he’d been killed outright at sea, in which case it was a safe bet he’d never be found.

  ‘Or…’

  Or he’d only been injured a little. He’d been fit enough to make the swim through the underwater passage. He’d swum under with Karl, helping him with Sten, but something had happened. Swimming three men wide. Slightly hurt. Had to be scared and confused.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said firmly.

  Karl wouldn’t have realized Christo had gone until he came up in the lagoon. With Sten to deal with, maybe still alive, he couldn’t go back. Maybe he waited for as long as a man could last without breathing. One or two desperate minutes extra to be sure. Maybe then he gave up.

  ‘That’s it. Christo’s in the air pocket.’

  I stood up, filled my lungs, and dived back into the water. I found the side passage to the air pocket on my third attempt.

  *

  I surfaced, incredibly, into stars. I wondered if I’d missed the turning a fourth time, got disorientated, come up in the open sea or the lagoon. But the stars were beside and ahead of me. The stars were everywhere, unnaturally dense, within reaching distance and a thousand miles away.

  Lack of oxygen, I thought, and took a tentative breath. The air tasted better than the last time, maybe freshened by an extra-low tide, but the stars didn’t go away. I took another breath, shut my eyes, waited, opened them again. The stars remained, twinkling away, even a little brighter. ‘Impossible,’ I whispered. ‘This makes no…’

  A murmur cut me off, coming from somewhere in the thick constellation. I paused, treading water slowly.

  ‘Here…’ said a quiet voice.

  I pushed my hands out and felt a rock ledge, then I ran my hands along and felt skin.

  ‘Christo! Thank God! I’ve been…’

  ‘…Richard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘Yes. I’m here to help.’

  I continued feeling along the skin, working out which part of the body I was touching. It was surprisingly difficult to tell. What I first took to be an arm turned out to be a leg, and what I took to be a mouth turned out to be a wound.

  Christo groaned loudly.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry… Are you badly hurt?’

  ‘… I have… some injury…’

  ‘OK. Do you think you’re able to swim?’

  ‘… I do not know…’

  ‘Because you have to swim. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘… Out?’

  ‘We’ve got to get out of the air pocket.’

  ‘Air… pocket…?’ he repeated, forming the sounds uncertainly.

  ‘Air pocket. Uh… this little cave. We need to get out of this cave.’

  ‘But sky,’ he muttered. ‘Stars.’

  I frowned, surprised that he could see the stars too. ‘No. They aren’t stars. They’re…’ I hesitated. Then I reached up and my hand sunk into cold strands of hanging seaweed. ‘Not stars,’ I finished, managing a short laugh, and pulled down a glittering strand.

  ‘Not stars?’ He sounded upset.

  ‘Phosphorescence.’

  There was a small space left on the ledge so I hauled myself out of the water and sat beside him. ‘Listen, Christo, I’m afraid we’re going to have to try for this swim. There’s no choice.’

  No reply.

  ‘Hey, did you get that?’

  ‘…Yes.’

  ‘So what we’ll do is I’ll swim ahead using my arms, and you’ll have to hold on to my legs and try to kick. Are your legs injured?’

  ‘
… Not legs. It is my… my…’ He felt for my hand and put it some place on his torso.

  ‘So you can kick. We’ll be fine. No sweat.’

  ‘… Yes.’

  His voice sounded like it was getting fainter so I talked my plans out loud to keep him awake. ‘Now our only problem is going to be finding the right passage out of here. If I remember right there are four passages to choose from, and we don’t want to get the wrong one. You understand?’

  ‘… I understand.’

  ‘Good. Let’s do it, then.’ I leant forwards to drop back into the water, but stopped myself just as I was about to drop off the ledge.

  ‘What?’ asked Christo feebly, sensing that something had happened.

  I didn’t answer. I was transfixed by a chilling and beautiful sight – a slender comet cruising through the blackness beneath my feet.

  ‘What happens, Richard?’

  ‘Nothing… There’s just… uh… something down there.’

  ‘The shark?’ Christo’s voice instantly rose to a frightened sob. ‘Is it this shark?’

  ‘No, no. Definitely not. Don’t worry.’ I watched the comet carefully. Actually, when I’d first seen it I’d thought it was the shark, which is why I’d hesitated before answering Christo. But now I was sure it wasn’t. Something about the way it moved wasn’t right; it wasn’t gliding and it was too jerky. It was more like a person.

  ‘It’s probably me,’ I said with a drunken smile.

  ‘… You?’

  ‘My wake…’ I giggled. ‘My shadow.’

  ‘… What? I do not…’

  I patted Christo’s leg gently. ‘It’s probably a shoal of fish.’

  The comet continued on its leisurely path and then, curiously, began to shorten. It took me a moment to realize it was passing into one of the passageways leading out.

  ‘OK, Christo,’ I said, putting a cautious hand on the back of my head. I’d suddenly felt as if part of my skull had fallen away and its contents were streaming out or expanding like vapour. Relieved to find hard bone and wet, matted hair, I allowed myself to slip into the water. ‘I think I know which direction to take.’