by Ali Ahearn
As everyone scarpered around her, Frances adjusted the still-unfamiliar weight of the mike pack sitting in the small of her back and fantasised about wallowing in a green tea and ginger bath. Washing off the sludge that was drying like pork crackling on her exposed skin and oozing, like lubricant, into other, unexposed places. Vile-smelling, hideous lubricant that would disgust even a very horny ogre. She suppressed the urge to do a little pelvic squirm. The Stapler had warned that cameras were everywhere.
Damned if millions of viewers worldwide were going to see her pluck a greasy wedgie out of her posterior.
She could hear Edward’s horrified What would the partners say? Frankly, she didn’t care. She hoped they all had apoplexy and went to hell, where they belonged.
Anyway, they were certainly the least of her worries as she stared down their first challenge – building a shelter. She looked at Joni, who looked back at her with big, frightened eyes as she absently petted her belly. Her legs and the hem of her pretty green sundress, fluttering in the increasing breeze, were soiled with dark brown swamp muck and, with her green hair, she looked like a tree.
A tree who could hear the distant rumble of the dozers and knew its days in the forest were numbered.
All she needed was a bird to land on her head and she’d be the full catastrophe.
They were doomed.
Frances looked up at the ominous sky as a rumble of thunder growled around the island. Or was it G chuckling, up in heaven? Not that Frances thought for a minute the old biddy deserved to have gone up after this little stunt. She could say that, should G suddenly appear in front of her now, she’d gleefully push the meddling old hag straight into the swamp.
‘Shouldn’t we be doing something, Frankie?’
Along with Joni.
Frances glared at her sister, who was shuffling nervously from foot to foot, like a toddler who needed to go to the toilet.
‘Good question, Frances,’ Darryl said, sidling up to her, his cameraman panning in on the only two contestants not doing anything. ‘Time’s a’wastin’. Storm’s a’comin’.’
Frances decided if he said ‘train whistle blowin” next, she’d push him into the swamp too. Instead, she smiled at him and touched his arm.
‘We’re thinking, Darryl. We’re strategising.’ Even though Joni was still doing her tree impression. A fossilised one at that. ‘We’re not going to go off half-cocked. No siree.’
Darryl smiled back at her with one of his famous hey-baby grins and, for a moment, despite the fact that she had wanted to smack him a million times during the Endurance Island marathon (seasons one through nine) that she’d endured, Frances was dazzled. His smile was so white – fluorescent almost – and he had a certain look that said: You’re the only woman in the world.
It was reminiscent of the way Edward used to look at her and, for a moment, she could actually see how he could charm librarians. And electric eels. Frances had a brief mental flash of pushing him down onto the banks of the swamp, ripping his shirt open, and scooping up handfuls of the warm ooze and rubbing it into his chest.
Frances blinked. Eww.
She’d not even been here two hours and already this island, with its blatant sexual pulse, with its phallic flowers and wild, musky aroma, was making her depraved.
Darryl winked at her. ‘Half’s not much use to anyone, is it, babe?’
‘Excuse us.’ She bestowed a tight smile on the sleazy host before grabbing her sister’s arm and yanking her in the direction of their allocated site.
‘Let’s just do it, all right?’ she lectured as she frogmarched Joni to their patch of jungle, aware of the all-seeing camera and all-hearing microphones.
They walked into the stiffening breeze, which instantly banished the cloying humidity. It blew her cotton tee against her body and Frances was grateful for the cooling effect. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the hem of Joni’s skirt flutter and swirl. She found herself suddenly praying for an almighty gush that would whoosh the bloody impractical thing up around Joni’s head. With any luck, she still went commando and the breeze would cause an avalanche of votes in their favour. If she were watching this in the comfort of her own home, she’d be disgusted at anyone using such a cheap ploy to win viewer votes but, with her hip still smarting from her rumble in the jungle, she was prepared to do anything to win.
They both surveyed their allocated site. ‘Site’ was a euphemism. It looked like virgin wilderness. Impenetrable.
Frances felt a strange connection to it.
It had been a long time since anyone had touched her wilderness either.
Aware of the frantic buzz of activity around them, Frances pulled herself into line. ‘Right then. Let’s get started.’
‘This is impossible,’ Joni whined. ‘And I’m hot and sticky. My legs are covered in swamp goo and …’
Frances couldn’t believe what she was hearing. They hadn’t even started yet and Joni was giving up. ‘Oh dear, did you get your legs all dirty?’ she asked. ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one? At the moment I have amoebic swamp bugs relocating to the deep, dark depths of my vagina!’ She thrust the pouch at her sister. ‘Suck it up, Princess.’
‘But, Frankie, we don’t know the first fucking thing about building a shelter,’ Joni whispered.
Frances glanced sharply at her sister. Joni had perfected that round-eyed bewildered look at a very early age and it had never failed to suck her in. The urge to choke her sister battled with Frances’s need to hug her and tell her everything was going to be all right. That Frankie was here and nothing could hurt her.
Just like old times.
Frances cursed herself for this weakness and mentally reached for her big-girl pants. She would not baby her sister any more. They hadn’t come this far to give up at their first major challenge. How hard could it be?
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Frances said, ‘I’ve renovated my house several times, and I’m pretty damn sure you’ve slept with your fair share of construction workers, so, between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll muddle through.’
‘Jesus, Frankie, what’s it like to be perfect?’
Frances ignored the wounded note in Joni’s voice and the corresponding wave of guilt that washed through her. If it took getting angry to make her sister productive, then so be it.
‘Yes, Frances, what is it like to be perfect?’
Darryl and the cameraman were suddenly beside her again. She could see ratings dancing like sugarplums in his eyes and, for a moment, she wanted to pick up the nearby wooden stake and ram it through his heart.
Damn bloodsucker.
Did he honestly think she enjoyed airing their dirty linen to total strangers?
She looked at Joni. ‘Lonely.’
Obviously not getting the answer he was hoping for, Darryl slunk off towards the next couple, leaving the sisters staring at each other just as another rumble of thunder tolled its warning.
‘Right,’ Frances said, dragging her gaze from Joni and clicking into organisational mode. She’d built her own charity from the ground up. She could certainly build a rudimentary shelter. ‘We need a roof and walls.’
Joni looked at the leaf-rot ground. ‘What about a floor?’
‘We can decorate the bloody thing later,’ Frances said, crouching down and pulling tools out of the pouch. There was a hacksaw, a machete, a hammer and nails, a spade, a good amount of rope, and various other tools that Frances couldn’t have identified had someone put a gun to her head. ‘We need to keep the rain out, first and foremost.’ She passed a hacksaw to Joni and pointed towards the mass of twisted flora before them. ‘Go and get saplings.’
Joni looked at the saw. ‘Saplings?’
Frances nodded, not looking up. ‘And palm fronds. Or anything green that looks waterproof.’
Joni looked at her as if she’d just been asked to identify a new species of plant. ‘I live in Hackney, Frankie. The only thing green there is the fucking District Line and even it skirts a
round the edges! We don’t all have a view of the botanical equivalent of Disneyland.’
Oh, for fu– Frances pulled herself up short.
For the love of God.
‘Joni,’ Frances said, pressing the corner of her left eye, ‘living a five-minute walk from Kew does not make me a sodding botanist. Saplings. Young skinny trees, not many branches, easy to hack down.’
Joni stood her ground. ‘I’m not sure this is environmentally sound. What the fuck kind of carbon footprint is this show leaving?’
Frances was amazed that Joni even knew what a carbon footprint was. But then, she had always been a bit of a revolutionary. Next she’d be worrying about the birds and other forest animals they were depriving of hearth and home. ‘We’re not clearing the bloody Amazon, for Pete’s sake.’ Frances pointed. ‘Go!’
Twenty minutes later, Frances, who had forayed into the jungle with the machete, had formed two piles back at the site. In one pile, saplings and small branches that could be lashed together with the rope to form the roof and walls. And another pile of various large fronds to help waterproof it. She was sticky again, the breeze not strong enough yet to penetrate the humid underbelly of the dense jungle.
She looked around for Joni and spotted her in the distance, looking under a leaf and poking at something. Frances could see her lips moving and it seemed she was frantically trying to coax something to come out. Jesus Christ! Joni surely wasn’t going to try to adopt some poor bloody jungle creature as a pet while she was here, was she? She was supposed to be gathering raw materials for their shelter. Not being Dr Sodding Dolittle.
Even if she was doing little.
Two beautiful tenor voices fluttered towards her on the wind, interrupting her thoughts. ‘“Farewell to Old England forever, farewell to my old pals as well.”’
She was momentarily transfixed by the Irish lilt in the old seafaring song and how right it sounded coming from the potato farmers’ mouths. There was a plaintive quality to it and, for a few seconds, Frances could picture rolling green fields and the broad sweep of the Cliffs of Moher.
Everyone stopped what they were doing – except for Joni, who had moved further away to harass another poor living creature – and enjoyed a moment of solidarity. Endurance Island may not have been a convict colony but the way Frances’s back was breaking at the moment, it bloody felt like it.
As the too-ra-li, oo-ra-li, ad-di-ties started, everyone returned to the task at hand. Well, Frances pretended to, anyway. She couldn’t help but notice the advanced state of Colm and Daragh’s shelter.
She started to feel panicked. What the bleeding hell was Joni doing? Was she trying to gather two of every species on the island before the rains came? Like some scatty green-haired Noah? They were going to be pipped at the post. The ones with the best tool stash.
‘Joni,’ she hissed.
Joni gave her a startled look but obeyed the imperious finger Frances crooked at her. While she waited for Joni to join her, Frances busied herself sorting the two piles in front of her in order of size while surreptitiously scanning their surroundings.
Recon. Of the island and the enemy.
Jesus. She was turning into her father.
The area where they were setting up camp was slightly inland from the beach. Frances could hear the pound of the broiling surf and could just see it through the mass of skinny trunks. They were in a kind of a clearing. The foliage was less dense and the canopy sparser. Each couple had been allocated a space within the clearing, separated from each other by about ten metres either side and forming a rough semicircle around a massive stone fireplace.
The fireplace was an impressive prop. All they needed was Joan of Arc and it would have been the full catastrophe. Yes, it was out of place in a lush wilderness more primeval than medieval. But Endurance Island wasn’t about historical or geographical accuracy. It was about ratings, and kickbacks from telcos with major hard-ons over texting revenues.
Frances knew from watching all nine seasons that this was where the weekly Banishment ceremonies occurred. It was also where they’d cook, eat, receive messages and gather for challenges.
The quagmire they’d all been forced to endure sucked ominously somewhere beyond the fireplace and, further away again, beyond half-a-dozen strategically based trailers belonging to the crew, she could just make out the yellow tape signifying no-man’s-land.
‘Here you are.’
Frances looked at the two paltry saplings Joni threw on her pile before scuttling off into the jungle again. Two? Couldn’t Joni see they were falling behind? She looked back at the stone ring as visions of erecting a pyre in the middle assailed her. Joni of Arc?
Movement to the left caught her eye and she turned slightly for a better angle. Paolo was manfully bouncing on a recalcitrant green sapling, while his could-have-been-a-supermodel wife, Consuela, gazed on adoringly. The pair of them were so exotic, so striking, they were like a pair of toucans amid all this lush jungle.
Unfortunately for the Horny Honeymooners, they’d been among the unlucky ones to come away pouchless from the swamp and this was one place where their startling beauty meant nothing.
Mother Nature could be a real cow like that.
All they had now were the practical gifts the gods had given them – their brains and their bare hands (or feet, if Paolo’s current attempts were anything to go by). And their love, of course. Paolo stopped mid-bounce and pulled Consuela towards him for a full-on open-mouthed kiss.
Frances rolled her eyes. Oh, for Pete’s sake!
Thunder rumbled again but the South American love birds were oblivious. She could see The Stapler talking to Darryl and pointing at them, indicating the cameraman should zoom in on their continuing lip-lock.
Oh, sod off! Were they going for the world record?
Still, Frances felt a pang. It wasn’t long ago that she’d looked at Edward like that. That she could have kissed him all day.
A short, sharp noise pulled her out of her melancholy. It sounded like something Monkey would bellow as he defended Tripitaka from marauding demons. She looked over, to find the Japanese contestants, also pouchless, making gritty, determined headway.
Takahiro was breaking off branches with his bare hands while screaming what she could only presume were Japanese insults at his team mate, Kazuki Aichi. Having been on the end of a couple of those herself, she could understand the fear on the younger man’s face as spittle formed on Takahiro’s lip, and felt sorry for him.
The older man held his thumb and forefinger close together and shook them at Kazuki and, while her Japanese was limited to sayonara and sake, it did rather look like he was questioning the size of Kazuki’s package. Considering Kazuki had a good two inches of height on his boss, if it came to a proof-of-size match, Frances’s money was on the younger guy.
Still, the urge to stalk over and confront the arrogant little nob the way she had Kirby Jones was tempting.
‘Hai! Hai! Hai!’ Kazuki bowed frenetically.
Frances wasn’t sure what Kazuki was agreeing to but wouldn’t put it past Takahiro to have ordered the younger man to gnaw at the indicated sapling. She knew from the debrief that both Takahiro and Kazuki were Japanese game show champions. And everyone knew those shows were even more messed up than this one. She’d bet her last cent Kazuki had eaten worse.
A high giggle dragged Frances’s attention away from the sick interchange. Kandy and Misty were hugging each other while jumping up and down. The cameraman was on them like white on rice. Frances looked for a reason for their jubilation. Surely they hadn’t completed the task already?
Her gaze fell upon the most frivolous structure she’d ever seen in her life. It looked rickety and flimsy and barely big enough for one person, let alone Kandy’s enormous breasts.
Where were they going to sleep? On top of each other?
The shelter did look pretty, though. They’d collected frilly palm fronds and laid them on the ‘roof’. It gave the structure a lacy look an
d, combined with the hibiscus flowers they’d strewn around the ground, it looked like Hawaiian Hooker Barbie’s Beach Shack.
A gust of wind rustled the leaf matter around her feet and drew her attention back to the raw materials she’d collected for their shelter. A streak of lightning lit the slowly encroaching gloom and, through the sparse canopy, Frances could see nature’s fury approaching.
Maybe Mother Nature was pissed off they were here?
Well, she could get in line.
‘Joni,’ she hissed. But whether it was due to the background noise of the increasing wind or the fact her sister currently had her head stuck up a log, Joni didn’t hear her.
This was vintage Joni. Fluttering around helplessly while other people got on with the job. And that was the way it had always been. But now she really needed Joni to pull her weight. Frances threw the rope on the ground and stalked off, following the pretty green blur of her sister’s dress.
‘Joni, what the hell are you doing?’ Frances demanded as she followed her behind a tree.
Joni had the good grace to look guilty before she replied, ‘Looking for saplings. And … stuff.’
Frances glared at her. ‘They’re all around you.’ She flung her arms wide, indicating the veritable glut of suitable material. ‘We don’t need them to have golden bark.’
Joni shuffled from foot to foot, looking past her sister to the jungle beyond. ‘You’re much better at this stuff than me,’ she said absently.
‘No, Joni, I’m not. For God’s sake, you have an IQ of one hundred and thirty-six,’ Frances snapped, feeling her frustration with Joni reach a new high. ‘You could build a bloody rocket ship if you …’ hadn’t destroyed your brain cells with lines of cocaine ‘… put your mind to it. All we need is a roof and three lousy walls.’
Joni shifted slightly so she could look around her sister. ‘Genius isn’t always practical.’