Fug and the Thumps

by Malachy Doyle

  But while I still have power in my arms, power in my legs, I keep going. There’s no alternative.

  Well, there is one alternative. But I’m not going there. I’ve too much to live for…

  My knee! I’ve just whacked it on some freaking great rock!

  And then I realise, hey! That means I’ve made it to shore! I’ve done it!

  I’m clean out of breath, though. I’ve swallowed a load of water, the gravel’s sliding away under me, and the waves are sucking me back in.

  I slip and go under. I drag myself up. My knees rip on the stones. I thump into another rock. But I will not give up. I am the one and only Ben Hastings, and I will NEVER give up!

  I haul myself up on the shore, retching, gasping for breath. I’ve lost the oar. I’ve lost the stupid kayak again. I’m half dead, three-quarters frozen. But at least I’m alive.

  6

  Who cares?

  Back to the holiday house. I borrow some clothes. I look like a tramp, but who the hell cares?

  More beans. I’m farting like a trooper. But who cares about that either?

  I wonder what’s going on out there in the real world. There’s no TV here, so I can’t tell if I’m on the news yet. I probably am. I mean, when kids go missing they’re always on the news, aren’t they? They have search parties. Everybody in the whole neighbourhood goes out looking for them.

  The trouble is, I’m more than fifty miles from home. Nobody’s got a clue where I am. The chances of someone coming across me, just by chance, are next to nothing. Summer’s over. The holiday-homes people are gone, back to real life. And nobody else sets foot on this place, not even that lonesome fisherman, by the look of it.

  I suppose the shop woman, in the village where I got off the train, might remember me. But she was a doddery old thing, half way to the grave. I don’t think she even looked up at me.

  Someone on the train maybe? Or the guy at the station? But even if they do remember me, I don’t see how they’re going to track me down to here. It’s the last place in the world anyone’s likely to look.

  It’s up to me then. Ben Hastings. Either I find some way to get off this stupid island, or a way to let people know I’m here.

  Because, yeah, I’d no choice. I had to get away from Fug and his Thumps. But now that I’m here, in the one place they’re never going to find me, I’m not so sure how clever it was.

  Maybe I should have done what they wanted? It wouldn’t have been so hard, would it? Just put pressure on a few of the younger ones. Twist a few arms, while nobody’s looking (none of the teachers, that is). Thump any that don’t come up with the goods, any that don’t do what you tell them. Put the fear of god into any of the braver ones – the sort that might tell.

  Happens everywhere. It’s just a part of growing up, isn’t it? A way of learning where you fit in, how you fit in? Just a way of learning to respect your elders and betters.

  Except it isn’t. It’s not growing up. It’s not learning. And I couldn’t do it. It’s not who I am. It’s not part of a world I want to live in.

  The fear on their faces when they’d see Fug looking at them. I can remember it, clear as day. And then, when he’d point at them, they’d be wetting themselves. That or running. Into the welcoming arms of the Thumps.

  Maybe I should have stood up to them, good and proper. Maybe running away like I did was only that – running away. Running scared. Yet again. Yellow-bellied Hastings.

  I force open the door of the hut by the slipway. There are old broken lobster pots, rubbish, bits of old engine. Nothing useful.

  I search all round the house I’m staying in. I find a radio, but the batteries are dead. In a shed, out the back, there’s a bucket and spade. Maybe I could dig my way home?

  Up in the rafters, I spot a surfboard. No way, kid – don’t even think of it.

  There’s a fishing rod, though. It might come in handy if I run out of beans. Not that I know how to fish. If I did manage to catch anything, I’d have to kill it, and I can’t even hit people, never mind killing things.

  I go over to the other holiday house. There’s nothing much outside. Nothing useful anyway. I think I’m going to have to break in here too. Blimey, I’m turning into a right bad ’un. Fug’d be proud of me.

  I lob a rock through one of the windows. I try not to rip my arm open as I clamber through, stepping over the broken glass.

  I check the food stocks. Enough to keep me going for a few more days, if I need it.

  Then I spot a tiny radio. No batteries, but there’s some sort of a handle. I pull it out, shake the thing, and hear a bit of music.

  Aha! A wind-up radio! I spin it, giving it all I’ve got, and it takes me right through the next song and into the news…

  ‘Police are on the look-out for Ben Hastings, a twelve-year-old boy who disappeared from…’

  The charge runs out. Wind it, kid! Wind it!

  ‘Search parties are combing the area where he lives. The public are asked to get in touch if they have any information…’

  Search parties! I was hoping there’d be search parties. Wind it! Wind it!

  And then I hear Mum! It’s my mum!

  ‘Please come back, Ben, love. Nobody’s cross with you. We just want you home, safe and well.’

  Then Dad. ‘And please, if anyone knows where he is… If anyone’s got him,’ he says,voice cracking, ‘we beg you…’

  He’s crying. It’s Dad and Mum, on the radio, crying.

  7

  S.O.S.

  I go down to the slipway and wait for the fishing boat to come past again.

  I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll shout. I’ll whistle. I’ll fart and set light to it to make a flare… Whatever it takes to get someone’s attention.

  I wait all day and there’s no sign of him. No sign of anyone. Why doesn’t the stupid fisherman come back? Doesn’t he have to check his pots? Isn’t he supposed to do it every day?

  The only sign of life is a seal, popping his head up to see who I am. Coming in closer when I call to him. Well, who else is there to talk to?

  ‘How are you doing, seal? Is it cold out there? Did you catch any fish today? Have you seen that fisherman? If you do, tell him to come and get me, will you? I’m getting a bit fed up out here, to tell you the truth. It’s not exactly the most exciting holiday destination in the universe, is it? Not exactly Disneyland. Not exactly the Costa del Sol.’

  I go back inside. It must be about time for the local news. I wind up the radio again and it’s already started…

  ‘One of his friends, Francis Green, is with me, here at the school gates. Anything you’d like to say, Francis?’

  Oh my god. Fug. Pretending to be my best buddy.

  ‘Yeah, we’re all really worried about him. Ben’s a good mate and he’d do anything you ask, pretty much. All we want is for him to come back. We just want to tell him how much we care about him.’

  I nearly spew. Francis Ultan Green (Fug for short) always was a good liar, but this is the worst yet. It makes me sick, how he can twist adults round his little finger. How no one sees what he’s up to. Not the teachers, not the head…

  I mean, no twelve-year-old boy’s going to say, ‘We just want to tell him how much we care.’ Anyone with an ounce of sense can tell he’s lying through his stinking teeth!

  But adults – they can be so dense sometimes. They just hear what they want to hear. They just want an easy life, that’s what I think. I mean, would they even believe me if I told them what Fug’s been doing for years? What he’s been making other people do?

  And if Fug found out that anyone had squealed on him – well, life wouldn’t be worth living.

  The reporter asks him another question.

  ‘Have you any idea why Ben might have run away, Francis? Was there anything going on in school that he might have been upset about?’

  ‘Upset?’ He thinks he’s being challenged, and if there’s one thing Fug can’t stand, it’s being challenged. ‘Why
would he be upset?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Exams. Bullying. That sort of thing,’ says the reporter. She’s just floundering around, filling up time. Hasn’t a clue who she’s talking to. But Fug sounds worried.

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ he says. And I can hear the anger in his voice. He’s fighting it, I know – trying to stop it showing on national radio – but there’s nothing Fug can do once he lets the anger in. Nothing but explode. Or get someone to do his dirty work for him.

  ‘How would I know?’ he says, all sneery-like. ‘I hardly even knew him…’

  ‘But you just said he was a good mate.’

  ‘Did I? Well, yeah. Everyone’s friends in our school, aren’t they? But I don’t know him.Not really…’ He’s well and truly rattled. Trying too hard to get off the hook, before he’s even on it. And I don’t know if the reporter can tell yet. But I can.

  He’s gone too far this time, that’s the thing. Gone too far and and he knows it. He’s picked the wrong person to try and break. Me. Ben Hastings.

  And because of what he’s done to me, because of what I’ve done in response, the whole world’s going to find out. About his cruelty, his bullying.

  So what I can really hear in Fug’s voice is fear. Fear that he’ll be found out for who he is, at last.

  And the power’s shifting. From him. To me. It’s shifting.

  8

  Whoosh, Bang!

  I go out, after dark, and flash the torch. What is it you’re meant to do? Dot dot dot, dash, dash dash, dot dot dot…

  I worry about the battery running out and not finding any more. But hell – I’ve got to get off this stupid island. I’ve got to get back there and tell the truth for once. See if I can get someone to believe me. Someone who can actually do something about it.

  I find a proper whistle at the back of a kitchen drawer, run out and blow it. Hard and long. Over and over. Three times, isn’t it? Three long blasts, then a silence.

  But the wind’s getting up. The sea’s getting rougher. The rain’s come in, so I go back inside. And by morning I can’t even see the mainland any more.

  I find a load of stones and spell out HELP on the beach. Above the high tide line, of course.

  But the sea’s bigger. The weather’s turned. High tide, when it does come, is even higher than before. It wipes out my message. So I have to do it all over again. Only this time I write SOS, because it’s quicker.

  I tear up a sheet and write SOS on that too, in really big letters. Then I tie it to a length of wood and struggle up the hill.

  Blimey, the wind’s pretty strong up here! Anyway, I wedge the wood in the rocks at the top, leaving the sheet blowing like a flag. Maybe someone might see it from the mainland. Someone with binoculars. Or someone flying overhead. My own personal search party. If anyone’s still looking.

  I’ve run out of baked beans. I’m on to tins of tuna. The gas for the cooker ran out in the first house, so I’m over in the other one now. The one where I found the wind-up radio. I give it a quick twirl…

  ‘Search parties are being scaled down in the hunt for missing schoolboy Ben Hastings. After four days, with no news, the police say that hope is fading…’

  Four days! Is that all they’re going to give me? That poor kid in the south of France – aren’t they still looking for her after ten years or so?

  I’d a terrible night, last night. No sleep at all. I just lay there, tossing and turning and listening to the wind and rain. But I’ve decided what to do. It’s down to me now.

  They’ve given up on me already. They couldn’t care less if I live or die. (Except Mum and Dad. They always care.) But four measly days! Is that all I’m worth?

  It’s not as if anybody’s going to stumble across me by chance. There’s nobody coming out to the island. No boats on the sea because it’s so rough. So they’re not going to just spot me by accident. I’m going to have to show them where I am. I’m going to have to force them to pay attention.

  I spend the day bringing all the rubbish I can find to the old fishing hut by the slipway. Paper, cans, cardboard, broken chairs, old bits of bed, driftwood… Anything really. Anything that’ll burn.

  I wait till dark and then I stick a lit candle in under it all and stand well back.

  Whoosh! Up it goes. The flames are leaping, dancing.

  Bang! A can explodes and I run for it.

  Whoosh! An even bigger one. Probably the oil can. Or the engine.

  Soon the whole hut’s going up. The sea lights up all around. Someone’s sure to see it. I mean, what about the coastguard? Isn’t that their job – looking out to sea for weird stuff going on?

  I wait. All night I wait. And no one comes. All the next morning I wait, but still no one comes.

  ‘Come ON!’ I yell. ‘Don’t you even WANT to find me any more? Don’t you even CARE! Doesn’t anyone even CARE!’

  Well, if that didn’t work, there’s only one thing left to do. Only one way to get the big wide world to notice me.

  And it’s not a flipping message in a bottle.

  9

  Arson

  This time it’ll be bigger. Much bigger. And I’ll do it in daylight, when there’s more people around to see it. It won’t be as bright, I know, but there’ll be smoke. Lots of smoke.

  Arson. A nasty word for a nasty business. It means burning stuff down. On purpose. Not something you’re supposed to do, I know. But I need to get off this island – before I die of hunger, boredom or beans.

  The fishing hut wasn’t big enough. The flames weren’t high enough. It didn’t throw up enough smoke. Maybe you couldn’t see it from the mainland. Maybe nobody was awake in the middle of the night. Maybe even the coastguard fell asleep.

  So this time I’m going to put on a real show. One that the fisherman can’t fail to spot. Or the coastguard. Or anyone who’s looking out for me (if anyone’s bothered any more).

  Yes, this time I’ll put on a show you could spot from outer space, if you’re looking hard enough. This time I’m going to burn down a house.

  Sorry, owners – but it’s a holiday house. It’s not as if you live in it. So yeah, I’m sorry I’ve got to burn it down. But I’ve only one life to live, and I want to get on with it.

  I know I’ve got problems right now, back home. But being there is better than being stuck out here on an empty island for the rest of my days. Which won’t be many, at this rate.

  So I’ve got to get going. Before the food runs out. Before Mum and Dad give up on me. Before everyone forgets I ever lived.

  First I turn on the midday news – and it’s all about me again.

  ‘Ben was the best.’ It’s Winkle, the head. I don’t know whether I’m pleased, because he sounds as if he actually really rather likes me. Or furious, because he’s given up on me already. What do you mean ‘was’, you stupid old fart? I’m over here. Waving, not drowning.

  ‘Everyone was fond of him,’ he carries on. ‘Ben was a quiet, thoughtful sort of boy with a great future ahead of him. He might not have been the brightest boy in class, but he was always kind to the younger ones…’

  What? I’m dead and you’re telling people I’m a thicko! I always thought you were one of the good guys, but I’ve gone right off you now, mate.

  I fling the radio into a corner and go and find the matches. I’ll show you, Willie Winkle. I’ll show everyone.

  It’s not raining, for once, so now’s the time to do it. I stuff a load of paper into the cushions on the sofa. I pour on the remaining oil from the lamp. I drag all the bedding in and pile that on top. I pull the table and chairs over and lean them against it. Hey, it’s going to be quite some bonfire! Then I light a newspaper, toss it at the sofa, and run.

  There’s a blinding flash of light. I fall.

  I stagger to my feet. The room’s filling with smoke.

  I run towards the door. Where’s the door? I trip over something and fall to the floor again.

  The door – it’s over there. I get back up.
But I can’t see! I can’t breathe!

  It’s better on the floor. There’s still some air down there. So I drop down again, and somehow feel my way across the room. But it’s hot. It’s so hot!

  When I reach the doorway, I get to my feet, slam the thing shut behind me, and run.

  My clothes are on fire! I’m burning!

  10

  Come on, you guys!

  I run to the rocks. I dive in the sea. Jeez, it’s so cold!

  I pull myself out of the water, to check I’m OK. Then I turn to look at the damage.

  Already the flames have burst through the upstairs windows. There’s banging and popping. Stuff’s going off like fireworks. Blimey, that was close!

  Soon the fire is coming through the roof. Jets of flame, high into the air! Even from here, the heat’s incredible.

  And then the smoke, that horrible choking smoke starts billowing out and upwards. Smoke from the sofas, the mattresses, the roof timbers… That’s what nearly got me, but it’s what’ll save me, too.

  Because people will see it. People just have to see it. As long as it doesn’t rain too hard, it’ll keep going for ages and ages. They can’t possibly miss it, even on the mainland. They can’t ignore me this time!

  I make my way to the other holiday house, keeping well back from the fire. First thing I do is drink a load of water. I couldn’t care less any more whether it’s poisoned. I’m dying of thirst anyway.

  I check my burns. My hands and face are coming up in blisters. They hurt like hell.

  I find some ointment in the bathroom and dab it on. There’s a big roll of bandage stuff, so I wrap it round my hands. Gently, like.

  Then I get some spare clothes and wrap a scarf round my head, gently as well, to protect myself from the smoke and fumes. I head over to the slipway to wait for the rescue party.

  Someone’s got to see this! I mean, come on, guys, I know you can’t get a fire engine out here, but you’re surely not going to let a whole, perfect holiday house burn to the ground, are you? Not without checking out what’s going on! I mean, it must be worth a fortune!