by Olivia Levez
There is no sign of Dog.
And I’m running, running, back towards camp, back into the forest. I have no idea if it’s safe to be near all these trees in a raging storm but all I know is –
oh God, oh God –
I’ve got to find Dog because
I can’t be alone, can’t be alone,
not on a night like this.
The rain smokes and sighs. In front of me a tree snaps, barring my way, and I scrabble over its fallen log, sobbing now.
‘Dog? Dog,’ I scream. ‘Oh, please come back.’
I break through into the Poison Pool clearing and it lights up white-sudden, a stage full of screaming trees. Splash through its muddy waters, claw my way over branches. Trees are crashing
– snapping like a fistful of twigs –
hissing, steaming rain,
twigs and thorns stabbing my hands, face,
tearing my legs.
I twist round because there’s only one place he’ll have gone, only one place that he’ll be safe in this storm, and that is the place that I hate most of all –
it’s dark, it’s dark, it’s dark –
and somehow I’ll have to squeeze through that craggy tunnel into whatever’s on the other side.
But I have no torch.
Oh God.
There is a knotted palm leaf, and another; through my rain-blinded eyes I see them and follow.
Monkey
Johnny is wailing outside the front door and when I let him in his head is covered in blood.
‘Ow, ow, ow,’ he screams.
‘Oh Jesus, ohmyGod. Johnny, what happened? What happened?’
Angela is hovering, white-faced.
‘Get a towel,’ I hiss.
‘It’s all right, Johnny. It’s all right.’
I hug him to me and he’s heaving and there’s blood everywhere, on my top and on my hands and in his tears and eventually we get him to sit down on the kitchen stool and he calms down enough to talk to us. There’s a nasty gash on the side of his face and I’m glad there’s a towel pressed against it because Idon’twanttolookIdon’twanttolook.
‘Monkey?’
‘What happened, love?’
Johnny buries his face into my chest and I kiss his head and stroke his hair.
‘Tried to jump off the swing,’ he mumbles.
‘Oh, Monkey.’
‘Think there was some glass on the floor. It hurts, Frannie, it hurts.’
‘I think he’ll need to go to A and E with that,’ says Angela. ‘Would you like me to drive you both?’
I nod numbly. Johnny is calmer now, his little shoulders shuddering.
Angela clears her throat.
‘Do you think one of us should wake your mum?’
Flash
The sea spits and lashes over the rocks as I climb.
Once, twice, the sky splits.
Once, twice, I slide off the rocks’ slimed shoulders and have to swim, choking and gasping in the churning water. It’s difficult to climb back up then. I cling to drenched ledges, face pressed into shivering stone. And my legs are liquid and the sky shudders again as if it’s taking a photo of itself.
Flash. There’s Fran on the rocks. Flash. There she is in the black water; can you see her dark head bobbing?
The crack in the rocks is there, where it’s always been. This time its walls are slimed by rain. Eyes tight against the rain, fingers slipping and grasping, I squeeze through. And this time I push further. A faint light now, green ghost-mist. I climb through into the cave that lies beyond, with its dripping, sighing walls.
And there is Dog waiting for me, nose in paws, shivering.
‘?’ he says.
I laugh and cry and hughughug him.
We cling together, Dog and me, in that dripping cave of sighs.
Stars
Johnny is leaning so close his breath is warm on my ear. We’re reading his favourite picture book, The Little Boat.
I turn the page and now Johnny is almost asleep; his head sinks heavy on my shoulder.
We’re sleepy, Monkey and me; the lull of the words rocks us.
So at first we don’t hear the car outside or the footsteps on the stairs or the rap of the letter box. We are with the boy and his boat as he plays by the side of the water.
I turn the page but we never get to the end because then the rap comes loud and clear.
‘Wait there, Johnny. I’ll see who it is.’
I settle him on my bed and go to answer the door.
When I peer through the chain I see Angela, but her smile looks all bendy today.
‘Can we come in, Fran?’ she says.
When I open the door, I see that Angela has brought a tall man, who looks like another social worker, and two police officers.
‘Can we sit down?’
There’s nowhere to sit so Angela perches in her usual spot next to Cassie’s feet on the settee and the rest of us remain standing. After a while, one of the police officers draws the stool in from the kitchen.
‘This is my colleague, Lee Jackson,’ says Angela.
Lee nods. He’s got dreads tied back in a headband and his eyes don’t meet my face.
‘Fran, is your brother here?’
I nod, and Angela gestures to her colleague.
‘Would you wake your mum for us please? And then would you go and fetch your brother?’
‘He’s asleep,’ I say.
Something about her face, about all of their faces, is scaring me.
I push Cassie’s shoulder.
‘Cassie – wake up. There’s people here.’
‘Mmmm?’ mumbles Cassie.
I shove her hard and she gasps and opens her eyes.
Angela takes a deep breath. ‘Mrs Bailey, we’re here because we have some concerns about the welfare of your son, Johnny. We believe…that his safety might be compromised whilst he remains living here…’
Even Cassie’s listening now.
‘…and that it is difficult in your current situation for you to meet his care needs. So I’m afraid that we’re going to have to take him away, just for a few weeks while we make some assessments –’
‘You’re not taking my brother,’ I say.
The room is swimming and the light through the window seems to be pounding white-spears into my eyes. Somewhere I think I hear seabirds scream.
‘You can’t take Johnny.’
Angela is leaning towards me; she’s taking my hands in hers and it’s her fault, it’s all Miss’s fault.
‘Where’s he going?’ Cassie is saying. ‘Where are they taking my baby?’
A female police officer is holding her.
‘You said you’d help us,’ I say.
Her eyes are shiny but I make mine like stone.
‘You’re just like all the others,’ I say.
She turns away then. ‘Will you come with me to get Johnny?’ is all she says.
He’s tight asleep in my bed. The Little Boat is splayed next to him as he dream-breathes.
‘You’re not taking him,’ I say.
Angela takes a deep breath. ‘Frances, you knew it was on the cards. Your mum isn’t keeping to the terms of the care protection plan. She didn’t attend the pre-proceedings meeting. She hasn’t answered our letters.’
‘I look after him. I’ve always looked after him,’ I say.
‘I don’t doubt it, Frances. You’re a very capable girl, and it’s obvious that the two of you are incredibly close.’
We both look down at Johnny as he sleeps.
‘I want to go with him.’
Angela closes her eyes for a second. When she speaks, her voice is low and calm. ‘It’s your brother I’m concerned about. You know they found bruises, at the hospital. You must know that it’s for the best.’
I shake my head; I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want her to make me think that she’s right. She’s been trained to do this, I realise. It’s all part of her training.
Be
low me, Johnny sighs in his sleep as Angela’s words drift in and around me. I am Other Fran, floating over the scene and looking down.
‘Sixteen years old…it’s not fair that you’re his carer…take the pressure off you…exam year at school…regular access visits…’
I snap back to myself.
‘What if I don’t let you take him?’
Angela sighs. ‘Frances, the police are here to support me in taking Johnny to his foster care. If you protest, you’ll make things even more upsetting for him.’
I stare at her. I think that even her voice has changed. It’s not rising at the end into questions now; she sounds firm and definite about killing me inside.
I stare till her eyes flicker away, and then I crouch beside my little brother.
‘Monkey?’ I say. ‘Monkey, wake up.’
He stirs. I touch his sleep-dampened cheek.
‘You need to wake up now, Monkey. There’s people to see you…’
Angela crouches down then.
‘Hi there, Johnny,’ she says.
‘Hi, Angela.’
I get his school bag, the one with Spider-Man on it that I got him for Christmas. I empty all his pencils and spelling books and football cards out of it. Look around for some clean socks and pants.
Angela is talking to him quietly. I shut my ears because I’m stone, I’m stone, I’m stone.
Get his inhaler, check there’s a refill; his little glasses from the side of his bed. The Doctor Who T-shirt he wears for pyjamas.
I stare at the page we got up to; the little boy with his sun hat and his boat.
Then I close it and put it in his bag with the rest of his books.
‘Noooo,’ Johnny wails.
‘Johnny, it’s just for a little while,’ Angela is saying.
Johnny runs to me and flings himself around my waist. ‘I’m not going away. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not –’
I lift him up and put him on my hip. I can still lift him, even though he’s heavy now.
‘Shhh, Monkey,’ I say. ‘It’s not for long. It’s like…it’s like a little holiday.’
But he’s howling now, and he’s still howling when we go back into the lounge.
Cassie starts wailing too when she sees us.
‘You’re not taking my kids away, not my kids. Tell them, Frannie, tell them –’
Lee is squatting down in front of her. ‘It’s only your son. Just until you’re better able to take care of him, Miss Stanton. So that both you and your son can get the support you need.’
‘Noooo,’ wails Cassie. She reaches out to me, to Johnny. Her fingers touch me, damp and teary. She tries to pull me into her misery, but I flinch away.
Johnny is gasping into my neck.
Both the police officers’ faces are carefully blank.
Angela doesn’t make eye contact with me. ‘Frances is sixteen,’ she says to Cassie. ‘She’s a very capable girl. We try to avoid taking children into the system if at all possible, but we don’t feel that the current situation is a suitable environment for Johnny.’
The female officer coughs. ‘Now, if you could just sign here, Mrs Bailey, just to say that you are in agreement that you have handed over responsibility of your child to the care services.’
Beside me, Cassie moans and shakes her head as they try to give her the pen.
I hear Angela’s voice; she’s crouching down to speak to her, and her voice is low and calm.
I kiss Johnny’s head; breathe in the smell of him, like an ache.
‘I’ll come to see you soon, promise,’ I say. ‘Love you, Monkey.’
This sets him off howling again.
In the end they have to peel him off me, an arm and a leg at a time.
I follow his eyes following me all the way out of the flat, all the way down the stairs, all the way to the police car.
His little hands reaching out like stars.
Dead Man’s Bay
There are jellyfish in the trees.
They shiver, shiny and surprised.
Me and Dog blink at them as we emerge, stumbling, from the forest, and it is these that are taking our attention, not the dark bundles lying here and there on the beach.
So we don’t see the things the sea has spat out. Not at first.
Our shelter is gone.
I swallow as I take in the space where our camp used to be. Our little attempts to make a home, all vanished. The storm has torn up our roof like tissue.
Here and there, shreds of cooking pots, curls of palm roof, scraps of plastic lie twisted.
I look across the beach. One Tree has been torn out of the sand and thrown across the bay. It looks like a bent elbow, broken and pointing.
I touch a jellyfish. Already it has crisped in the sun.
Dog barks and barks from across the beach as I search for our stuff.
I find a few scraps of our kitchen: the giant clam shell we used to serve food; the sharpened twig we’d use for snail kebabs. The MARINA BAIT tub is bobbing near the rocks, near our broken fish-trap.
‘Quiet, Dog,’ I shout. ‘For frick’s sake.’
He won’t stop yapping and yapping.
I can’t see any sign of the fishing net. Our canopy, which took so long to make: hours and hours of gnawing at the trees with sharp rocks and my safety knife, jumping and swinging off the branches till they finally groaned and gave; hours and hours of dragging tree trunks through the forest, gasping in the pulsing heat. All for nothing.
And then I see the fire. Dead. The sodden log blackened and no embers, no heat, no life.
No matches.
That’s when I want to howl and howl, because I really don’t think I can take any more of this; don’t have it in me to drag myself from this wet sand and get myself standing and start all over again.
Because I can’t do it. Not on my own, not even with Dog.
There are things on the beach.
I start to gather them in my sling, not caring, not seeing:
A trainer, half-buried in the sand.
A set of headphones, the kind that lock you in so no one hears or sees you. They have a skull sticker on them, half-scratched away by the sea.
A piece of metal, twisted by a madman. It’s white and silver and looks vaguely familiar.
Dog’s really going for it now, hopping back and forth, sniffing at one of those dark bundles and then leaping back as if he’s been stung.
No matches, I think. No fire, no matches, no way to boil water.
I make my way up to Dog slowly ’cause it’s difficult to walk when your legs feel like stone. It still doesn’t register, not even when I see the pelicans swoop, whup-whup-whup-ing across the sea. Not even when I see the sandflies fizzing and jostling like they’re at a circus.
Not even when I see what’s all over Dog’s nose.
He grins at me, tail wagging.
‘What’s that, Dog? What have you been –’
And then I see what he’s been looking at
and I stop
and drop my sling
and just scream and scream.
Soft as Sugar; Sweet as Meat
Coral’s face is half-eaten away and there are sandflies in her eye sockets and in her mouth. She has no tongue. Instead, meaty shreds hang from her jawbone, where gulls have been tugging.
The sand is soft as sugar between my toes.
And there’s something crawling out of her mouth: the crab’s pale arms wave blindly.
The sweet stench of her rises like fug; then the sun heaps it on, more and more.
She’s all chewed up and spat out.
I turn round; make myself look at the others. Because it’s better to know, better to see, than to imagine. Even though the sight of Tiny’s torn-away arm; of Trish’s top, still with its smiling TeamSkill logo; the whitebonegapemouthemptyeyebristlemeatsweetstink makes me sob and splatter-retch on to the sugared sand.
But this is better than the dreams I would have if I didn’t see.
&nb
sp; I kneel by the water’s edge and splash my face. Breathe deep. Stare at the sea ruffling and unruffling.
Then I walk over to the thing that was Coral and gently untie her shoes. They’re red canvas pumps and come off easily. A fly lands on my arm and I brush it away; trying not to breathe till I am well away from her.
Hi I’m Trish! is no longer smiling –
’cause she has nofacenofacenoface –
but she still has her clothes and still has her badge with her name inside its rainbow logo. She is lying very close to Tiny, and I wonder whether she was with him at the end, when the final wave washed over them and filled their lungs. Then I remember the snapping sound of her ankle. She would’ve been trapped inside the cabin; maybe Tiny too.
I hope they were together.
Wiping my eyes, I wonder if I can force myself to tug off her sodden jeans. Jeans burn well.
I can’t.
And I have no matches.
Chunks of metal that must be plane wreckage are scattered by the far rocks. There’s no sign of the pilots or Joker. A glass bottle half full of clear liquid has been flung by Tiny’s feet and I pick it up.
I make myself put Coral’s shoes on. It’s agony at first because my feet are all cut up from the rocks but I take the laces out and that feels better; Coral’s feet are a size bigger than mine. The laces go into the bag too.
I take a swig from the bottle and start to giggle.
It’s Trish’s vodka.
Once I start giggling I can’t stop.
Seating Plan
I stand up.
‘Frances?’
Pick up my things.
‘What are you doing?’
Place the chair under, ever so carefully.
‘Don’t like it here, Miss.’
‘Go back to your seat.’
‘Stinks, Miss.’
‘Frances, there is a seating plan.’
‘Stinks of lies and promises and crap, Miss.’
‘Fran–’
‘Think the stink is coming from you, Miss. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just sit at the back.’
‘Frances Stanton, I need you to move back to your allocated place.’
‘Miss Bright, I need you to move back to your desk, away from me because I’m not being funny or anything but your breath really stinks.’