by Ali Ahearn
His voice stroked over her like velvet gloves and she smiled up at him, his blue eyes remarkable even in the dark. He smiled back and Frances swore she heard her ovaries sigh.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
Frances fought a bizarre urge to cry at his gentle enquiry. ‘Sure,’ she lied, looking out over the dark mass of moonless ocean to nearby Perseverance Island.
Nick was silent for a moment and Frances decided that was a plus. Edward would have tried to be witty. There was something exceedingly sexy about the strong, silent type.
‘That was one helluva game you two had going on today.’
Frances nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So … you really are feuding?’
Frances was aware of his solid warmth beside her. Like an anchor. The desire to unburden the whole sordid tale took her by surprise. But she was too conscious of the mike pack picking up every word. The all-seeing cameras.
‘Seven years and counting.’
‘That’s sad.’
Frances nodded softly at the understatement. Sad didn’t even begin to cut it. Devastating. Gut-wrenching. Ravaging. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Family’s important,’ Nick mused.
Frances marvelled at how different he was to Edward. How this Australian farmer seemed to be more in touch with what was important than a fancy London lawyer. ‘Yes, it is,’ she agreed again.
They lapsed into silence again but she was excruciatingly aware of Nick’s gaze. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her so intently – not since the early days with Edward – and she felt a sudden wild urge to strip off her clothes and drag him down to the sand.
She turned her gaze heavenward instead, the breathtaking celestial display a welcome distraction. ‘It’s like the gods have thrown diamonds from heaven,’ she mused.
Nick turned his face to the stars. ‘There’s Venus,’ he said, pointing.
Frances squinted as her gaze followed his arm and became completely distracted by the divine musculature of his bicep.
‘And Mars,’ he murmured, shifting his finger slightly to the right. ‘You can just make out its red tinge.’
Frances saw stars of a different variety as Nick’s bicep flexed enticingly. She loved how he spoke – his voice full of interest and awe. There were no lectures to be had, no pontificating or big-noting. Nothing at all like Edward. ‘Where?’ she asked, dragging her gaze from his bicep, lest she succumb to the urge to press her mouth to its bulk.
Nick shifted to stand behind her and his heat surrounded her. She could smell the salt on his skin and the mint on his breath. His hand slid to her shoulder and his thumb found its way to her nape, stroking the skin there. He raised his other arm, the hairs brushing her cheek as he directed her line of sight past his extended finger.
‘There, see?’ he said.
‘Mmm,’ Frances said, as her grey matter liquefied and the stars started to shimmer like fireworks.
‘And that,’ Nick turned her slightly more to the left as he pointed towards the inky heavens, ‘is the Southern Cross. It’s only visible in the southern hemisphere, which is why it’s such an important symbol for us. At the Eureka Stockade. For the Anzacs.’
It sounded like another language to Frances but standing in the circle of Nick’s arms, her oestrogen receptors overdosing, he could have been speaking to her in tongues and she wouldn’t have cared less.
His thumb continued its circular caress at her neck but she felt its lazy stroke everywhere. She swallowed. ‘We just don’t have skies like this back home.’
Nick nuzzled her hair. ‘Maybe you should move down under then,’ he murmured.
Frances felt her stomach loop the loop. She drew in a husky breath, fighting the urge to succumb to the stark beauty of him and the balmy night. The waves lapped gently at their feet, the sand was gritty between her toes and a slight ocean breeze danced around them.
It was the perfect setting for seduction. But she’d never acted on her fantasies before … dare she now?
What about Edward?
And the cameras?
‘What’s that one?’ she asked, raising her finger skywards.
Nick’s low chuckle brushed against her temple. ‘Coward,’ he whispered, before turning his attention to where she pointed.
A few hours later, Frances was roused from sleep by a noise of sonic boom proportions.
‘Wake up, wake up, yer fookers!’
The Stapler’s screech, like metal on glass, amplified via a megaphone, scared the living daylights out of everything on the island with a pulse. Even the swamp shuddered. ‘Challenge time, losers. Up and at ’em!’
‘Shite! What’s the time?’ Joni groaned as a spotlight that could have been used to replace the sun stabbed into bleary eyeballs.
‘You all have five minutes to be up, dressed and at the fireplace.’
Joni squinted at Frances. ‘She has got to be joking. Sadistic bitch.’
Frances winced as the light set her tic into fibrillation. She glanced at her watch. It was midnight in the garden of good and evil. ‘The Stapler doesn’t joke.’
They hauled themselves out of bed, threw on some clothes and made it to the fireplace just as The Stapler’s incessant countdown over the megaphone hit ten. ‘Nine, eight, seven, six – there will be no halves, Sorority Sisters!’ Sally pointed the megaphone in the direction of the frilly shelter. ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’
The girls, in their itsy-bitsy bikini tops, flew out of their abode and jogged towards the fireplace, bouncing all the way. Frances rolled her eyes. She had seriously underestimated Kandy and Misty’s show-as-much-skin-as-possible strategy. Even in the middle of the night, they were canny enough to work their angle.
They were definitely here to win.
It was hard not to respect them for that. Harder still not to like them as they greeted her with warm smiles.
Why did they have to be so damn … nice?
The Stapler stood with the spotlight directly behind her so they were all forced to squint into the retina-frying orb. The light might have given anyone else a heavenly glow, but, despite having the face of an angel, Sally looked plain demonic. Frances squinted at two backpacks by The Stapler’s feet, and wondered what instruments of torture they contained and why there were only two of them.
Darryl was notably absent. Apparently, his contract stipulated no early mornings. Not to worry; through the miracles of editing, he’d no doubt do the voice-over for the challenge at a more respectable hour. Surprisingly, though, Lex was up. Just. He was standing beside The Stapler, swaying slightly, as if Sally’s Nazi-commandant awakening had been as much a shock to him as it was to the rest of them.
‘Right then,’ Sally announced, thankfully ridding herself of the horrible megaphone. ‘Overnight trek starts now. Can you hear that?’ she demanded, pointing upwards.
Frances glanced up, straining to hear something – anything. But there was only the incessant trilling of a billion insects and the rhythmic sweep of the waves against the beach. Then, suddenly, she thought she could hear something different. She strained a little more, shutting her eyes to tune out the island’s unique white noise and the bloody spotlight.
Yep. There it was again.
A distant thud, like encroaching thunder, emerging from the rhythm of the waves.
‘It’s a choppa,’ Nick announced to the group.
‘Well, bonza, dinky-di and crikey, give the Aussie a cigar,’ Sally snickered. ‘The chopper will pick you all up and drop you into the middle of the island. You must find your way back here by midday. It’s only a six-hour trek and we’ve given you double that, so suck it up.’
Sally bent to pick up a backpack and raised it above her head like a trophy. ‘One compass. One torch. One packet of matches, in case you get lost and need to signal us. One camcorder, for compulsory filming of your pitiful efforts. You’ll be too remote for mike packs, so every step must be recorded. Tapes will be scrutinised on your return – insuf
ficient footage will result in disqualification. Hundreds of cameras have also been installed between the drop zone and here, so you will be being watched.’
Sally held up the last item in the pack. A bottle of water. ‘Enough water for four people in each pack.’
‘Four?’ Joni whispered. ‘But there are ten of us.’
Frances had thought the same thing. Was she going to make them fight for water as well? The Stapler was wasting time on this island when Guantanamo Bay was calling.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Frances murmured, instinctively giving Joni’s hand a quick squeeze.
‘Mr Miyagi. Mr Aichi.’ Sally turned to face the two men. ‘You won immunity in the Truth by Taser challenge, so you get to go back to bed.’
As the rotor thudded closer and the Japanese contestants leaped gleefully about, there was an audible groan from the other couples. Frances caught Takahiro’s eye and he gave her a triumphant look.
‘The rest of you will be paired with another team. Heiresses and Potato Farmers versus Outback Exes and Sorority Sisters. One couple from the team that comes last will be banished Sunday night. And, don’t forget, the jungle has eyes.’
Frances half expected The Stapler to throw her head back and laugh maniacally. Bwah ha ha ha ha ha.
Instead, the spotlight was shut off and the darkness of the island at night suddenly deepened several more layers as her sister groped for her hand.
‘Do you think she’s some kind of witch?’ Joni whispered.
Frances snorted. ‘I think she’s a cannibal.’
An hour later, her heart beating like a butterfly on Red Bull, her hands clutching a camcorder she could have fitted into her credit card holder, Frances’s feet were the first to touch down on unfamiliar ground, as the noise of the helicopter dominated everything. She quickly tugged off the blindfold and stepped out of the harness, shaking harder than the leaves that clung desperately to branches tossed about by the chopper’s downdraft.
Frances looked around at the dense foliage. Something scuttled nearby and her pulse kicked up another notch as she tried not to think how many creepy-crawlies teemed all around her. As far as she was concerned, even Des, secreted in Joni’s clothes, was one animal too many.
She had a sudden longing for their shelter. Over the course of the week, they’d made it more functional. Put some thatching on the roof, for better protection against the nightly dusk downpour, and put soft rushes down, to line the floor. Joni had helped her construct a hinged, sloped awning mounted on poles, for the front. It left the majority of the shelter open to allow in the breeze but could be dropped down, for a modicum of privacy and protection from the rain.
They’d also made a freestanding wooden frame for the back wall, to provide them with a kind of a bench, allowing them to get their stuff off the ground. It wasn’t the Swiss Family Robinson but she’d trade their current unknown location for it in an instant.
Within minutes, the other three had joined her, and they heard the chopper move off to deposit their rivals in a different location, equidistant from camp.
Right, it was time to get organised. They needed a plan.
‘Okay, I say we try to get a good head start for a couple of hours, then we can reassess.’ Frances scrabbled through the backpack and pulled out the torch, shining it at their faces.
‘Objections?’ she asked, as three lots of eyes blinked, owl-like, back at her.
No-one dared. ‘Excellent.’ Frances pawed through the bag again finding what she wanted. ‘Right. I can’t make head nor tail of these things. Who knows how to read a compass?’
It wasn’t an easy admission for her to make. Their father, who – in an effort to teach his daughters outdoor survival skills, had dragged them up hill and down dale on many a summer camp expedition – hadn’t seen fit to surrender the compass. An old-fashioned military man through and through, Carter Pike had held steadfast to his belief that women just didn’t have a good sense of direction.
Despite that, Frances had loved those times with their father. He hadn’t been an easy man to love or to know. Affection had certainly never been high on his list of priorities. But he was a different man when he was prowling around in the wild; somehow easier to unravel – to love – out in the elements.
Even Joni had grudgingly enjoyed their outdoor forays, despite her constant bitching about preferring to be at Greenham with their mother.
Silence greeted her again. ‘Colm? Daragh?’ she demanded, directing the torch at their faces, one at a time.
Colm looked terrified and Daragh looked … not right.
‘Are you okay?’ Frances challenged, peering more closely at his face. It wasn’t anything she could put her finger on. The younger cousin just didn’t seem … normal. He had sweat on his upper lip, but then, who on this godforsaken island didn’t? His eyes darted around the place, as if he were seeing things.
Unless, of course, he was seeing things …
‘Fine,’ Daragh mumbled, looking at his feet.
Colm placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘He’s fine.’
Frances nodded. ‘Good.’ She gave them a few seconds. ‘Well?’ she demanded again, waving the compass in the air.
‘I can’t,’ Joni offered.
Frances rolled her eyes. Like she didn’t know that already! Seven years ago, Joni was still forming an L with her thumb and forefinger to tell which side was left.
Daragh shook his head as Frances peered at him. ‘Don’t be looking at me.’
Colm reached for the compass. ‘Here, m’lovely, let me have the wee thing.’
‘Good.’ She handed it to him and shone the torch on it as they all waited for directions. Colm twiddled with the face, and moved his body from side to side a bit. ‘Well?’ Frances demanded after a couple of minutes. ‘Which way?’
Colm pointed straight ahead. ‘That way.’
‘Excellent.’ Frances handed him the torch. ‘You lead the way. Joni, you operate the camera. Daragh … try to keep up.’
An hour and a half later, and forty minutes after Frances and Colm had dragged Joni from an unexpected swamp, Joni was pleading for a short break.
‘Just half an hour, Frankie.’
Frances shook her head, trudging up the incline as her thighs screamed at her. ‘If we go another hour, we can stop for longer.’
‘Bloody slavedriver,’ Joni muttered under her breath as she trudged along beside Colm. Frankie was behind them. Daragh was bringing up the rear. ‘You’re not the bleeding grand old Duke of York, Frankie,’ she said in a louder voice.
‘“Ooooh, the grand old Duke of York.”’ Colm’s voice rang out clear and sonorous. ‘“He had ten thousand men, he marched them up –” oomph!’
Joni extracted her elbow from Colm’s ribs. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ she grouched. ‘Look, here’s a bit of a clearing,’ she said, as the trees thinned and some large flat rocks loomed. ‘Colm, Daragh and I are stopping.’ She plonked herself on the smooth rock.
Frances rolled her eyes. Poor Joni did look utterly wrung out. Between nearly drowning herself and Des in the swamp, and this bloody great mountain they seemed to be scaling, she couldn’t blame her sister for wanting a breather. If she hadn’t seen the island’s peaks from the ocean a week ago, she’d suspect they’d been dropped on another island entirely.
She certainly wouldn’t have put it past The Stapler …
‘Okay, fine,’ Frances said, shrugging her shoulders to relieve herself of the backpack. ‘Sit, drink, rest.’ She checked her watch. ‘You have thirty minutes.’ She handed out the bottles of water. ‘This is all there is, so don’t go crazy.’
Frances took a couple of deep pulls on her bottle, revelling in the cool water sliding down her throat. Then she lay back against the rock nearest to her, warm even at this time of night, peering at the inky sky. The same stars Nick had showed her just a few hours before twinkled down at her and she smiled as she remembered the way his lips had felt at her temple. The way his thumb had felt
at her nape.
What would her life have been like had she been married to Nick instead of Edward?
She could hear the low murmur of voices to her left where Joni and her Danny Boys were sharing the same rock. With the memory of Nick’s smile enveloping her she felt strangely content, and the moment, quiet and warm and still, felt like a little piece of heaven in a night wrought in hell.
But then something rustled in the undergrowth nearby and Frances’s senses switched back to high alert. She raised herself onto her elbows and shone the torch around her, peering into the dark beyond the beam, her ears straining. She felt a momentary streak of fear when she realised she couldn’t even hear the ocean.
Just how far away were they?
The sudden desire to keep going until they reached camp took hold. She looked over at the other three, lounging like lizards on their rock. Joni was laughing at something Colm had said and she knew she’d have a mutiny on her hands if she suggested they moved before their thirty minutes were up.
And that was the last thing she needed on a walk populated with too many sharp drops and places to hide a dead body.
Daragh suddenly sat up. He didn’t look well and her earlier concern about him returned. The other two, engrossed in a debate over some Pogues lyrics, didn’t even notice. But there was something eerily familiar about his posture as he drew his knees up and hunched over them, dropping his head on his arms, rocking slightly.
Six years ago. A Thursday.
Heading back out to Kew after visiting G, her grandmother’s fretful, ‘She’s getting worse, Frances. I know you girls think I can fix anything. But I can’t fix this by myself,’ echoing in her ears.
Standing on the sun-filled platform at Earl’s Court Tube station, waiting for the next Richmond train. Glancing across the rails to the platform opposite, her heart stopping as she recognised the hunched figure on the bench. Wild, curly hair; knobby knees drawn up; rocking slowly; lips moving almost as if she were praying, uncaring about the stares of passers-by.