by Ali Ahearn
Frankie had a point; Joni hadn’t been able to work out how to make it horizontal after the initial vertical dig. She picked at her nails, thrusting out her bottom lip.
‘You can’t do this, you know, Joni. You’ve got to muscle up. Pull your weight. I’ll be damned if I’ll lose this thing because of you.’
Part of Joni knew she had to come some way to reconciliation. She had, after all, returned to Frankie’s shelter, which she’d had no hand in building. She was wet and miserable, and desperately needed to dry off and get some sleep. And she was banking on the fact Frankie needed her fit for the game tomorrow. ‘Yes, yes, I know, Frankie. I do.’ A tiny pause. ‘So, can I stay? Please?’
Frankie considered Joni, running her eyes across her sister as she passed her a dry sweater. Joni noticed the tic was still there and that her hands were shaking as she continued to smooth her jeans. Her manicure was shot.
‘Clean up,’ Frankie conceded. ‘You’re no good to us with pneumonia.’
Joni scraped the worst of the muck off herself. It was difficult to see properly with only the light of little coals, but the intermittent flashes of lightning aided the task.
What harm could befall her with Fearless Frankie here?
At least while Frankie had some reason not to slit her throat …
‘You’ve done a grand job, Frankie,’ Joni said, feeling she should bring something to the table. ‘I reckon we’re going to be all right now.’
She could see an acerbic response in Frankie’s beautiful grey eyes. But, reminding her of her mother wailing Don’t tempt fate, Joni’s words seemed to be the catalyst for a thunderous crack and a sudden fierce blow to the structure.
‘What the sweet Jesus was that?’ Frankie’s nervous eyes were now openly agitated. And Joni remembered.
She’s afraid of storms.
Frankie and Joni. Tiny. Maybe eight and six? Their father had briefly been posted to India.
Carter had been at an embassy cocktail party, and Lizzie had been off somewhere, doing her best Mother Teresa. Joni (who was usually the one who crawled, supplicant, into Frankie’s bed), felt Frankie’s warm hand pulling back her sheets this time. ‘I’m scared, JoJo, can I come in?’ It had been one of those wild storms that never touch England.
Joni had been scared too, once she was awake enough to realise the house was being pounded by some wild weather. But not in the same way as Frankie had been. The noise seemed to rock her very core. Something this reckless would not behave logically. And, somehow, even at six, Joni knew that logic was how Frankie understood the world. It kept her safe. If she just worked hard enough, tried hard enough, she could keep the chaos of their home, their lives, at bay.
Joni had held Frankie’s hand in hers, grateful to be the one offering comfort, for once, and begun, ‘Raindrops on roses …’
But there was nothing she could do about this storm.
Guilt erupted as Joni realised she had left her terrified sister to build the structure. Alone. And, worse, while being filmed for international telly, unable to let down her guard even a fraction.
Joni knew she had to help. Years of evading school administrators, local authorities and credit card companies had perfected her capacity to tell lies casually and convincingly.
‘I’ve read about tropical storms,’ she bullshitted smoothly. ‘Just as they’re about to peak, you sometimes can get localised pockets of lightning. Usually means things are winding up. Quite harmless, apparently.’
‘Where?’ Frankie was not one to be mollified easily. ‘Where did you read that?’ Her eyes were suspicious but hopeful.
‘G’s National Geographics,’ Joni confirmed.
Frankie nodded shortly and Joni knew her words rang true. Frankie had often lamented the time Joni spent poring over those things when she should have been doing her algebra. ‘Right, then, we should get some sleep.’
‘Yep, sure,’ Joni agreed happily. ‘Need to be on our game for tomorrow.’
Frankie was already in one of the Gore-Tex sleeping bags she had insisted they purchase, so Joni moved over to the other and lay down. There was no more talk but, after a few moments, Frankie’s breathing started to settle into her soft, snuffly rhythm that preceded sleep. Joni felt herself being pulled down by its tender fingers, despite the storm’s continued crash and thrust. Her muscles bitched and moaned, but she and Des both whimpered in contentment.
The shelter was like the Hilton compared with the burrow.
‘Good God!’ Joni was dragged from the black pit of sleep by the screaming of her sister, who, in one bound, had crossed the small distance between them and leaped into Joni’s sleeping bag.
Rubbing her eyes hard, Joni saw the wall of fire right beside Frankie’s sleeping bag, and even her sleep-addled brain conjectured correctly that the hut had been struck. Frankie was now frozen in terror.
Joni jumped up nimbly and thrust a rations bowl out into the rain. It filled in seconds and she doused the wall with the water. It wasn’t completely effective; small spots of flame remained, but Joni dealt with them by throwing clumps of sandy dirt at the wall. Only afterwards, when all remaining sparks had been dealt with, did Joni realise Frankie’s sleeping bag was saturated and filthy.
Frankie gaped at her. ‘What?’ Joni said.
‘It’s just …’ Frankie shook her head and began to sob uncontrollably.
The sister part of Joni opened like a wound at the sight of her fearless sibling coming apart at the seams. She scurried to Frankie, hopping into the sleeping bag, and wrapping long, slim arms around her while she patted her hair.
‘Shhhh,’ she crooned. ‘Shhhhh, Frankie, it’s okay now.’
But no amount of crooning was going to work. Like a floodgate bursting open, the close call had ripped open the frayed edges of Frankie’s grip on self-control.
There was only one thing for it.
‘“Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens …”’
Joni had not been blessed with a good one when God had handed out singing voices, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And if there was one thing G had taught them, it was that there were some things only Julie Andrews could fix. Joni felt Frankie buck a little and then still. She was sure she could hear Des starting to purr.
‘“Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens,”’ she went on.
Unexpectedly, she felt rather than heard Frankie’s alto, quiet and hiccuppy, pick up the melody. ‘“Brown paper packages tied up with string …”’
With that, both of them threw caution to the wind and belted out the tune with ever-increasing gusto. It felt naff, to be sure, but it also felt right. Just as the sisters reached the second chorus, they became aware of something else. Two somethings, really. First, they weren’t the only ones singing. Somewhere in the howling night, a tinny echo was drifting over, maybe half a beat behind them. Different accents and pitches, but a collective beating back of fear and isolation. One sound rang through clearly – the deep crooning of two male voices, harmonising perfectly in a thick, delicious brogue. Joni shook her head.
Fuck the United Nations. All the Middle East needs is Baroness von Trapp …
Second, both Joni and Frankie became aware that a black mirrored eye had insinuated itself through an opening in the wall that was slightly larger than the others. They were being watched.
Joni flipped the camera the bird and almost screamed at it: ‘“… then I don’t feeeeeeelllll soooooo baddd!!!”’
An answering scream rent the night, The Stapler’s profanities clearly audible even above the singing, and the crash and wail of the storm. ‘What the fook is this? This is not the fookin’ Disney Channel. Shut the fook up, all uv ya. Do something worthy of ratings, you useless pricks. Screw each other. Hit someone. Have a nervous fookin’ breakdown. But if I hear one more fookin’ bar of anything from The Sound of fookin’ Music, you’re off this fookin’ island!!!’
A sudden silence settled over the camp, as though the storm itself d
ared not challenge The Stapler’s authority.
Joni and Frankie smiled, and settled back to sleep.
Prising herself heroically from the dark, safe spot where no-one could hurt her, Joni registered that she and Frankie were still lying like sardines in her sleeping bag, arms wrapped around each other.
And the black eye was still watching.
Oh dear, Frankie is not going to like this, not one little bit.
This was not the plan. This is not the right look. Not at all.
Sliding easily into avoidance mode, Joni carefully eased herself away from a softly snoring Frankie. She took in the soddenness of Frankie’s side of the structure and the thick sludge of mud in which her sister’s sleeping bag lay like a slug in quicksand. Joni darted through the entry and scurried away quickly, making sure she took the obligatory mike pack with her.
It was obviously still early, although the sun was already warm on her back as she made for the beach. She saw a small huddle of crew conferring frantically over something at the editing tent but no other bodies yet graced the beach. No doubt, they were sleeping off the effects of the storm and the late-night homage to Julie Andrews.
Good, I need privacy. I need to think.
Joni started to sprint up the beach. Both she and Frankie were strong runners. Athletics had been one of the few pursuits they had shared growing up. As Joni powered along the crisp white sand, she remembered how it felt when the two of them would train together. They would pound the pavements of whichever town their father was posted in, keeping time deliberately, going for endurance rather than speed to start with. Then, as footpath gave way to moor, or marsh, or woodland, they would open up, pushing themselves and each other, striving for faster and longer and harder.
Joni ran for what seemed like miles before she stopped. She spied a lone figure, out in the surf, spare and brown, determinedly swimming against the current.
‘The early bird catches the worm,’ a maniacal Japanese voice shouted at her over the rush of the surf, and she realised it was Takahiro’s. She pointedly ignored him, and he raised a fist at her in challenge.
Bet they weren’t singing last night.
Striking out further up the beach, Joni rounded a corner and found a relatively sheltered patch of sand. She carefully and surreptitiously made a little shelter out of her clothing for Des to rest in while she bathed, and removed the mike pack. She hoped anyone watching would put her furtive actions down to modesty. She decided to strip only to her underwear but, even so, ran swiftly into the surf. The thought of millions of eyes on her near-naked body agitated her in ways she didn’t want to think about.
The water felt good, like a salty body scrub against traumatised skin. Joni wallowed for what felt like an eternity, before dragging her protesting limbs back out onto the beach. She was almost at the small pile of clothes and rodent when a cheerful voice called, ‘Morning, Joni, and may I say how much I enjoyed the impromptu performance last night?’
Lex. Sounding loose and relaxed. Lying on a striped towel, like he was passing the time at Blackpool.
Not at the ends of the bloody earth. With a job to do.
He looked long and golden brown, like royalty. She thought about the rest of the crew, obviously frantically editing and splicing ahead of tonight’s viewing deadline, and felt unaccountably annoyed with this beautiful loafer.
He was Lex Margate. He should be better than this.
‘You’re a fan?’ She tried to squash the surge of irritation.
‘I prefer “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”, but yes. Definitely a fan.’
He smiled in a kind way that made Joni want to tell him things.
‘I think I’m in trouble with The Stapler.’
Lex brayed, somehow elegantly.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Joni. She thinks only sex sells. But what about all those YouTube hits for that sweet guy dancing his way across the world? We like to feel uplifted sometimes. I think the singing was brilliant. Did you plan it?’
The question seemed innocent, but Joni couldn’t shake the feeling she was being tested. She shook her head and saw in his eyes that he saw the truth of it. He nodded, and smiled at her with real warmth.
‘You didn’t seem to be involved in the challenge yesterday?’ Joni couldn’t help but ask.
‘Nope.’ Lex nodded his head in agreement, smiling beatifically at her.
‘Busy with the creative stuff?’ She couldn’t let it go.
‘Busy Skyping my niece,’ he corrected her. ‘It was her birthday.’
‘Seems to be something going on back at the editing tent,’ Joni remarked, with an effort at casualness. ‘Should you be there?’
‘Ah, no, I shouldn’t think so,’ Lex drawled gently, patting his stomach and reaching for some sunscreen for his gently sloping shoulders. ‘Bigger fish to fry.’
‘Specifically?’ Joni felt testy.
He doesn’t feel the need to even fake interest in his job.
‘Tan,’ he supplied shortly. Then, ‘You don’t, I see?’
Joni looked down at her dripping form, clad only in bra and panties, and saw the truth of his words. She also saw herself as he must see her – skinny, white, and strangely camera-shy for a girl who dressed as she did. She didn’t feel embarrassed. For all his apparent debauchery and laziness, something about Lex made Joni feel safe. Maybe it was his lovely accent. Or maybe the gentle way he moved, like he didn’t want to startle her.
Perhaps he’s gay?
But, as she watched him take in her body in an assessing, appreciative kind of way, she thought, Okay, not gay.
‘Ah, no,’ Joni agreed.
A tiny alarm sounded on Lex’s beautiful gold wristwatch and he jumped as though pulled out of an erotic daydream.
‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. ‘Must be off.’
‘Crew meeting?’ Joni asked hopefully.
‘Time for my meds,’ Lex announced.
She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
As he loped off, he waved cheerily, leaving Joni to dry off slowly in the sun and wonder what habit Lex Margate was trying to kick.
The following night, one hour after a surprise Banishment had been sprung on them, Joni stood stock-still atop a trapdoor. She tried to reassure herself that, while it had been made to look appropriately rustic, it would, of course, be solid enough to hold her weight.
The rules of ‘Banishment’ had only just been explained to them.
Of course, they’d understood that this season of Endurance Island was to include live shows for the Banishment ceremony scheduled each week, the whole shebang ending with a climactic Christmas special. But the logistics had not become clear until tonight.
‘Contestants.’ Darryl Driscoe’s slimy vowels pawed the steamy black air. ‘Welcome to Banishment.’
Joni’s stomach lurched violently at the words. She looked carefully at the ten others facing her. They formed a circle around the ring of fire, and each couple stood on an identical trapdoor, awaiting their fate.
There was no sign of Lex.
Kandy and Misty looked the most relaxed, standing as though they were waiting to break into a cheer, in matching white t-shirts and red hotpants, bright white trainers like orbs of glory at the end of their goddess-like legs. Their matching expressions said it all: No-one gets rid of girls like us in the first week.
Darryl spoke again, working hard to ratchet up the intensity with each sentence. ‘Through the miracles of modern technology, last night a hundred million viewers worldwide watched your efforts to build a shelter.’
Joni felt her knees almost buckle. Cripes, we’re fucked.
She tried to stay focused by continuing to assay the circle. Next to the Boobs were Takahiro and his sidekick. Both looked tense. For a moment Joni was inclined to think they should be, but then remembered the events of earlier in the day. The Apprentice, as she had mentally nicknamed the sidekick, had speared a fish and eaten it on the spot, standing on the shore like some kind of caveman on speed.
Joni had gagged in disgust, while Frankie murmured, ‘Bugger. Great telly. Those two aren’t going anywhere. And they’re going to annihilate us in the food challenge.’
‘And then today, they voted, these citizens of the world. Instantaneously, by the magic of text message and the support of our sponsor, Go Low Mobile.’
Joni took in the couple standing directly across the fire from her.
The dreaded Iron Nick and his harpy ex-wife. Through the flames she glowed like the Antichrist, while he looked like some kind of oiled, incandescent Adonis.
‘Banishment will be a surprise to all, and effected by the automatic opening of the trapdoor beneath you. The first you will know the public has banished you will be a savage jolt, a quick drop and the shattering of your dreams. There is no return from Banishment.’
To black out Darryl’s words, Joni flicked her eyes to the Irish lads who’d lent the extra poignancy to ‘My Favourite Things’. Dark haired and dreamy eyed, their sole claim to fame so far had been to burst into song at any provocation. Too bourgeois. They’re shagged.
But then there were the Horny Honeymooners.
Perhaps they were more irritating than the Danny Boys. They’d certainly done nothing more these last few days than mooch about, looking longingly at each other. And their shelter made the burrow look like a mansion. After ten rounds with the Storm to End All Storms, it had been scattered from one end of the beach to the other. The Honeymooners hadn’t bothered to rebuild it either. They’d simply wandered disconsolately from one makeshift shelter to the next, chatting to the occupants as though they were making social calls, and slept on the beach instead.
A low, slow drumbeat pulled Joni back to the present moment, and she finally focused on the last member of the group standing around the fire. Her sister. But she couldn’t see her very well, as they stood roped together side-to-side in the firelight, facing the other contestants.
She watched Nick also watching Frankie from across the ring of fire, and remembered how impressed he’d been with her performance in the swamp. She wondered if Frankie were watching him too. If so, it was ballsy of her. The harpy made Joni’s insides quake.