by Ali Ahearn
Frances saw the slight curl in The Stapler’s top lip and felt protective of the younger woman. Surely treasure was in the eye of the beholder? At least Misty’s motivations were a hell of a lot nobler than her own.
Another sleazy smile from Darryl, then his ‘Next!’ heralded their turn.
Joni started beside her and Frances tensed. Now everyone else could judge her and her choice.
Please call Joni first. Please call Joni first.
‘Frankie. You’re up!’
Frances’s heart boomed like a tropical thunderclap, then beat hard and fast, the pounding in her chest mimicking the torrential rain they’d endured nearly every night of their stay.
She took her first step towards the fake stone monolith. How could she make them understand?
There were two silver domes left, rising like pregnant metal bellies, when Frances’s tremulous legs finally made it to the altar. Her name was printed on a white card next to the plate closest to her. She hesitated, staring at her reflection in the highly polished silverware.
Marcia was going to have an apoplexy when she saw the state of her split ends.
‘We’re waiting.’
Frances stiffened as Darryl’s prompt came from somewhere behind her.
Sod off, nob.
She lifted her hand and watched as its reflection grew bigger in the silver until she could almost make out the whorls of her fingerprints. The handle was cool to touch and she shut her eyes as she lifted the lid.
Sadly, her item hadn’t, through willpower alone, morphed into something more sentimental. It hadn’t turned into the cross-country trophy she’d won when she was twelve or a piece of hallowed turf from Greenham Common. It wasn’t the teddy bear she’d had when she was a child or her dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights.
No, sadly, it was still her credit card that stared back up at her.
‘Well?’ Darryl demanded.
Frances bit the inside of her cheek and turned around. As much as she’d scoffed, at least a little, at each of her competitors’ treasures, at least they’d all had some … heart. This cold piece of plastic just seemed so superficial. She heard Joni gasp as she realised what it was and her humiliation was complete.
Darryl raised a weave at her. ‘That is your treasure? A credit card?’
Frances nodded, avoiding her sister’s shocked gaze.
‘I do believe we defined treasure as the only thing you would run back into a burning house to save. Isn’t that right?’
Frances nodded again.
‘A credit card? You’d run back into a burning house to save a credit card?’
Frances felt heat bloom in her face. Okay, so it wasn’t a family heirloom or an autographed poster of her idol, but Darryl had no idea – none of them did – what this represented to her. The raised letters spelling Frances Tripton, not Frances Sutcliffe, stood out against the gold background and she ran her finger over their perfection.
Hers. Not Edwards. Hers.
Frances lifted her head and pinned Darryl with her best fuck-you stare. ‘Aren’t you moving off the script a bit?’
Darryl turned his pages around. ‘Nope, following it to the letter.’
Frances could just make out some red pen scrawled across the black print and shot a look at Sally. Was this apparent departure from the script her doing? She doubted Darryl was actually literate enough to pull it off by himself.
‘Okay, Frankie,’ he said. ‘Tell us the significance of your credit card.’
Frances dragged her gaze from Sally’s and looked down at the item in question. So small and benign looking and, yet, it meant more to her than all the ugly, expensive shite in her house that Edward had collected over the years.
The one consolation was that Nick wasn’t here to see her humiliation. Would he have understood her making a choice that seemed so cold and mercenary? What had his most treasured possession been, she wondered? Maybe the deeds to his property? A letter of gratitude to him and Cheryl from a mother of a disabled child?
She shrugged. ‘It’s mine. All mine. It represents my financial independence from my husband.’
Joni gasped again and Frances flicked her gaze back to her sister, who was clutching Des to her chest. If anyone were to understand financial freedom, it should be Joni. G’s money would, after all, buy back her knobby kneecaps.
‘And why did you choose your credit card as your most valuable treasure?’
Frances ignored the sarcasm, while wondering if The Stapler had underlined that part in the script so that Darryl knew to put the right emphasis on it. ‘If I can do that – get my own credit card – then I can do anything.’
‘People get their own credit cards every day, Frankie.’
Darryl spoke to her as if she were simple and Frances fleetingly fantasised about slitting his throat with the pointy edge of the card. She didn’t need him stating the bleeding obvious. Hell, Joni, whose credit rating was worse than Zimbabwe’s, had a credit card from every bank and other lending institution in England.
It was what Frances’s credit card represented. Edward had always controlled the finances. Even the charity had been founded with his backing, with him looking after the money side of things.
Which is why it’s all in such a bloody big mess.
Frances lifted her chin and looked Darryl in the eye. ‘It’s symbolic.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Thank you, Frankie. Next! Joni.’
Frances replaced the card and walked back to her place, her legs like wet noodles now she’d unburdened. She passed her sister, expecting to see a look of superiority in her eyes.
But all she saw was dread.
Joni handed Des to her and Frances watched her walk as if to her doom. Had she been forced to guess, Frances would have said Joni’s treasure would be round and made of vinyl. Some ancient record from the early British punk scene, maybe the Clash or the Sex Pistols.
But the look in her sister’s eyes told her maybe not. Joni obviously didn’t like the idea of having her treasure revealed to the whole group either.
That didn’t bode well.
Frances watched as Joni lifted the lid on the one remaining plate, and waited with bated breath as she slowly reached for whatever it was and picked it up. It was another few seconds before Joni turned around to reveal her treasure.
It took several more seconds for Frances to register what it was. Seconds for her world to go from can’t-get-any-worse to flung-back-to-that-shitty-night-seven-years-ago worse.
Worse on so many levels.
Dangling from Joni’s finger, swinging slightly from the sea breeze to her rear, was a silver chain sporting an oval locket.
Her chain.
Her locket.
Given to her by G on her thirteenth birthday, and never taken off until it was, seemingly, lost forever on that fateful night seven years ago.
Frances wasn’t sure if she’d gurgled audibly or not, but she felt The Stapler’s raptor-like gaze fan over her.
Darryl smiled at Joni. ‘Tell us the significance of your treasure item.’
Joni shuffled her feet. ‘My first boyfriend gave it to me, as a one-month-anniversary gift.’
Frances, still conscious of The Stapler watching her closely, stifled her gasp. Joni’s first boyfriend had been fourteen years old, and spent every last penny he earned at Tesco on cigarettes, guitar strings and condoms. He’d certainly got Joni’s virginity for free.
Even now, the ease with which her sister lied surprised her.
There was a pause while Darryl and Sally conferred. ‘Really?’ he pressed. ‘It seems to me your locket is important to Frankie too. Frances?’
The other contestants’ eyes swivelled to Frances, who forced herself to shrug. She looked at her sister. ‘It’s just a dumb locket.’
Joni’s eyes widened and Frances hoped it had hurt her to hear it as much as it had hurt her to say it.
Darryl’s gaze cut back to Joni. ‘Is there a photo in it?’
J
oni shook her head. ‘No.’
It was on the tip of Frances’s tongue to dispute this but she had no desire to incur The Stapler’s gaze again. There had been a photo of her and Joni as kids, their arms around each other’s necks, at Greenham Common. Frances wanted to demand that Joni open it but she held her tongue.
Darryl waggled his weaves, clueless to the sudden tension between the sisters. ‘What happened to the boyfriend?’
He’d dumped her the day after their anniversary. Frances had lain with Joni for three nights as she had cried herself to sleep.
‘He dumped me the next day.’
And that’s why Joni was such an accomplished liar. She kept everything as close to the truth as possible.
‘So, why did you choose it as your treasure?’ Darryl continued.
Joni stared directly at her sister. ‘To remind me you can’t count on anyone in life. Ever. Only yourself.’
Frances was stunned.
She wanted to run up and slap Joni in the face. Hard.
How many times before the estrangement had she been there for her sister? How many times had she been Joni’s safety net?
How many times had she loaned Joni money, called in favours, covered for her? How many interviews had she set up? How many calls at all times of the day and night had she responded to? Calls that had taken her to all kinds of unsavoury places.
Including the local lockup. Twice.
What about the intervention she and G had set up? The drug and alcohol counselling she’d arranged? The strings she’d pulled to get her a place in London’s top rehab centre?
How often had she tried to help?
Too many bloody times to count.
And for what? For this woe-is-me spiel? Was nothing sacred to Joni? Was it not enough that her sister’s atrocious actions seven years ago had torn them apart? Did she now have to act like she was the injured party?
Had Joni forgotten that she’d been the straw? That her actions had broken the camel’s back?
Darryl looked directly down the camera. ‘That doesn’t bode well for your team spirit,’ he said dramatically.
Joni nailed him with a look of contempt. ‘We’re still here, aren’t we?’
Darryl shot her a silly grin. ‘You may rejoin your fellow contestants.’
Joni dropped the necklace back on the plate, and Frances watched as she made her way back, green curls bouncing. Joni held her hands out for Desmond, careful not to make eye contact. Frances turned away, refusing to hand him over. If she didn’t have something to do with her hands, she might just put them around her sister’s scrawny neck and strangle her in front of five rolling cameras.
‘Right,’ Sally announced, moving forward now that Darryl had done his bit to brief the contestants on the rules. ‘The treasure will be taken away and buried. You have four mini challenges to complete. At the end of each challenge, you get a clue. You have five hours to complete the challenge and find your treasure. The winner earns immunity. The other two will face the trapdoor. As an added incentive, the losing team’s treasure will be brought back to the fire pit, where it will be destroyed.’
Sally paused for the shocked gasps and the obligatory dram-cam shots.
‘First challenge is down on the beach. See you all there in ten minutes.’
Sally walked off and the contestants made their way back to their shelters, to strategise and prepare. Joni again reached for Des once they were in the privacy of their shelter but Frances dodged her effectively.
‘You have my locket?’ she hissed, muffling the mike pack.
‘Give him back to me,’ Joni insisted.
‘You. Have. My. Locket.’ Frances felt each word come from the very depth of her soul.
Joni’s arms fell to her sides. ‘Yes.’
‘You’d better hope we get it back or this little guy,’ Frances said, dumping a twitchy-nosed Des in her sister’s arms, ‘is going to be on the menu. I’ve seen Takahiro eyeing him off this last week. I bet that sick bastard knows a couple of good recipes for ferret.’
Joni gave her a horrified look and covered Des’s ears but Frances was so furious she could barely see straight. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 14
Joni
‘Just do it.’ Frankie’s voice was smooth and brutal, brooking no argument.
Fair enough too, Joni had to admit. If Frankie had managed to swallow that wasabi-coated scorpion, surely the least she, Joni, could do was eat a tiny rat drumstick.
Except that it was part of an animal. And Joni didn’t eat animals.
Ever.
But Frankie wasn’t letting up.
‘This is the third challenge. As soon as you eat that, we get the third part of our clue. We have one more challenge after this, and then we’ll have the whole clue and can start looking for our things.’ Frankie looked Joni in the eye. ‘My things,’ she corrected. ‘Both are my things, remember? So harden up.’
Joni was resolute. ‘I. Do. Not. Eat. Animals.’
‘Until today.’
Joni’s eyes were pleading with her sister.
Frankie held her gaze. ‘A rat is a pest, not an animal. And it’s only his leg.’
Joni shook her head furiously.
Frankie sucked her breath deep inside her lungs, like a mother who was seeking patience from God to avoid murdering a recalcitrant child. ‘Look, Joni. Tell you what. You eat that thing and I promise, promise, I will take you behind those bushes as soon as this scene is over and do what I did to Daragh. You remember. The vomit trick. I promise I will get that thing out of you.’
‘You think you could guarantee that?’
Frankie crossed her heart. ‘Won’t be so much as a toenail left.’
Joni’s head dipped to the side as she thought. ‘Do you think that would mean it … doesn’t count?’ Her grey eyes searched for absolution in her sister’s face.
Frankie dipped her own head in unconscious mimicry. ‘I … I think so. Technically, you would only be providing a temporary resting place. If you don’t chew, that is.’
Joni shuddered. ‘Chew?’ Her face turned ever so slightly green. ‘You think I would fucking munch on a fucking living thing? Like maybe you think I really do want to eat the thing and I’m just playing coy?’
‘Conferring time is up,’ Darryl announced sunnily. Like they were on Wheel of Fortune and had to decide whether they wanted to take home the toaster or the kettle. ‘Do you accept the challenge or not?’
‘We do,’ Frankie confirmed loudly, looking at Joni.
There was the slightest missed beat before Joni nodded.
‘Rodent up!’ Darryl announced gleefully, motioning to one of the two black-clad crew members to unveil the morsel on the platter he was holding. The crew member swept the lid off the silver platter with a flourish.
Joni wondered briefly if they were the same platters that had been used to serve up their treasures three hours before. A lifetime ago.
Don’t think about the locket. Don’t think about Des.
Joni knew it was hard for other people to understand her feelings about meat. Why animals were so significant to her.
As she inched towards the platter, a memory assailed her.
A tiny squirrel, its mother lost or dead. It had looked at her with frightened eyes. She had kept it in a cardboard box under her bed, feeding it tiny droplets of condensed milk, and crushed nuts from her father’s ration packs. Indira, as she had named the squirrel after much surreptitious research about how to determine gender, had looked at her with huge, trusting eyes and she had never felt so important.
Or important at all.
Indira loved her without reservation.
And by the time her father discovered the cardboard box, it was too late. Joni was hooked. Still, only her mother’s intervention had ensured Indira went to the local animal shelter rather than being used for target practice at the base.
Sometimes Joni thought Lizzie had colluded with her just to annoy her father. Or maybe it
had been because she saw something of herself in the teenage Joni: the scatty one, the rescuer of strays.
Whatever the reason, when Joni had begrudgingly taken Indira to the shelter, she had never imagined she would find a place where she would immediately feel at home.
For her, animal shelters were like church was for other people. No matter where you landed when your father’s next rotation tore you away from your latest home, you could always find one. And they were always the same: kept afloat by two or three eccentric, kindly souls, and full of hard-luck cases looking for a meal. And maybe even a pet and cuddle.
She fit right in.
Joni inched forwards, visions of Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine dancing before her eyes. The sand almost singed her bare feet, but she could barely feel it. The sun hammered at her back.
She grasped the tiny, crumb-covered thing and opened her mouth wide, like aliens in a miniseries she’d once seen. Like she had to swallow a rat whole, rather than only its tiny leg. She gulped furiously, feeling the scritch scratch of a minuscule claw as it made its way down her oesophagus. There was very little taste, but to Joni, it was like eating a deep-fried baby hedgehog, so hard did she try to keep her oesophagus wide open during the transaction. She did not want any pieces of the luckless creature left after Frankie performed her feat.
A horrible thought occurred to her.
What if Des could smell it?
She tore over to Darryl for the ritual inspection, opening her mouth and allowing him to pronounce the deed done. He grinned beatifically and handed her the third clue, sealed in a turquoise envelope. Within seconds, she was back at Frankie’s side, gripping her arm.
‘Now,’ she barked, feeling a moment of terror that Frankie might back out of her end of the deal. ‘Do it.’
Frankie’s face was ashen and pink all at once. If Joni hadn’t known better, she could have sworn she saw remorse in her sister’s eyes.
‘Didn’t you think I’d do it?’