Alone Read online

  FORTY

  Another fast-flowing stream. Another obstacle. I sink to my knees. My neck and upper back ache from the strain of carrying Galaxy in the T-shirt sling I’ve made, and I lift it over my head and gently lie him on the ground next to my wooden crutch.

  I want to lie down too. To curl around him, and rest. But I can’t. Not until nightfall. I have to keep going, like I have for the last two days and nights since leaving the river and striking out in the direction of the smoke. Since then I’ve walked from dawn to dusk, with only brief pauses to drink at the many streams blocking our way, and to bathe my poisoned foot. The heat has been unbearable, the insects merciless, and my body is badly burnt and covered in bites and bruises. And apart from a handful of nuts, I’ve still had no food.

  But I couldn’t risk travelling at night, or heading into the jungle to search for food. The chance of stepping on a snake or a scorpion, or blundering into quicksand, or twisting an ankle in the dark was too high. So I’ve had to push on during the day, regardless of the heat and humidity, how tired and hungry I am, how much my leg hurts. Knowing our only hope of survival is to get help before the poison paralyses me completely. Or Galaxy’s heart stops.

  A quick examination of Galaxy confirms what I feared. With no food for five days he’s limp and emaciated, and his lump is a lot worse, swollen to the size of a golf ball with a scabby weeping cyst on the taut skin. There’s no time to rest. We have to keep going.

  Trying to ignore the gathering vultures I reach for my crutch, but my aim is off, and my hand closes around a clump of leaves instead and something squelches through my fingers. Pulling my hand back I gaze at a purple pulp stuck to my palm, then sniff it, and touch it with the tip of my tongue. It tastes intensely sweet, like fudge, or a toffee apple, and the sudden sugar rush ignites something in my brain. Greedily sucking the gooey substance from my hand I peer into the bush and see more purple berries nestled within the leaves, dozens of them. I pluck a handful and shove them into my mouth, and keep cramming until my cheeks are bulging and I can’t fit any more in. The energy surge is astonishing, as if my brain has been plugged into an electric socket, and I pick and cram and chew and swallow as fast as I can, only pausing to spit out an occasional leaf or stalk.

  Biting down on something hard I dribble it into my palm, assuming it’s a pip or stone. It isn’t. It’s a tooth. My tooth. I don’t care. I simply throw it away and keep chewing. Then I remember Galaxy. Shoving another three berries into my mouth I chew and grind until the fruit is a mashed up pulp, then I lift Galaxy’s head and try to prod the pulp into his mouth, but I can’t, there’s an obstruction. The lump on his cheek has a hidden half, bulging within his mouth and almost blocking his throat. Unless I can find a way to remove it, there’s no way he can swallow, and without food his body can’t fight the infection.

  There is only one way I can think of to remove the blockage. I’ll have to lance the boil and drain the pus, like Mum would.

  After twisting a sharp thorn off the bush, I wrap my T-shirt tight around Galaxy and clamp him between my knees.

  ‘This is going to hurt me a lot more than you,’ I lie, trying and failing to sound convincing as I position the thorn above the cyst.

  ‘Now I’m going to count to five.’

  ‘One, two…’ and at ‘three’ I jab the thorn into the cyst, and squeeze my knees a little tighter as Galaxy’s head jerks back. He emits a heart-ripping cry, and I feel his muscles knot as he tries to wriggle free. The scab is thicker than I expected and the thorn can’t break through but I keep twisting and pressing down hard until the tip pierces the scabby skin and yellow pus spurts out. Galaxy starts to wail and squirm, tearing at the T-shirt, and in a strained voice I tell him it will be only be a few seconds more, and then he’ll feel much better, and I tell him what a good boy he is, how brave, as I press my thumbs into the base of the lump to force out more pus. The pain must be excruciating and I hate myself for doing this to him, but I daren’t stop, not until I’ve got rid of all the infection. So I keep talking to him instead, raising my voice to drown his cries, and only when the fluid dribbling out is more blood than pus, and the lump has collapsed into itself, do I stop. I cradle Galaxy in my arms, still swaddled in the T-shirt.

  I can feel Galaxy trembling and squirming to break free as I rock him back and forth, telling him over and over how sorry I am, and I promise I’ll never hurt him again, until after a while his moaning stops and his muscles relax, and I can risk placing a morsel of chewed-up fruit on the end of my finger and presenting it to him.

  He turns his head away and grunts but I keep my finger steady and talk to him in the most persuasive voice I can muster. ‘It’s lovely, Galaxy. Even nicer than mangoes. I promise. Go on, try a piece. I promise you’ll like it. Just try it. Please.’

  Galaxy’s nostrils twitch and I know he’s caught the fruit’s scent and is just being stubborn to punish me for hurting him. But he’s too hungry to resist for long and when I move my finger a little closer he swivels his head and sniffs the fruit. He touches it with the tip of his tongue, and licks it, and I can tell by his eyes it’s having the same electric effect on him as it did on me.

  ‘Good boy. Good boy!’ I say, and gently prod some more pulp into his mouth. He starts to chew, awkwardly at first, only using the side of his mouth away from his wound. To begin with, most of the fruit falls out, but I loosen the T-shirt so he can get his forelegs free and he accepts the next berry whole, crams it into his mouth, and chews and swallows as fast as he can, and after the third or fourth mouthful he even emits a shaky Give me more! cry. Relief washes over me.

  Although I know we should get moving, I spend the next half an hour or so stripping all the berries from the bush, and it’s worth it. With the massive sugar boost energising my brain I feel strong enough to stand, tuck a gurgling Galaxy back in his T-shirt harness, and tackle the stream. I can’t see the smoke from here but I’m not concerned. I’m confident I know the right direction to head in, and I’m feeling more positive and optimistic than I have in a long time. Not even the sight of the vultures circling overhead can dampen my spirits and I can’t stop babbling away to Galaxy, even though I know he can’t understand a word I’m saying.

  ‘We’ll be home soon,’ I tell him. ‘And Mum will spoil us both rotten and you’ll have more fish than you can eat. And prawns, and lobsters, and things you’ve never even dreamed of, like ice cream and strawberries and bananas and cakes and chocolate!’

  But all too soon the effects of the sugar rush wear off, harsh reality seeps back in and I don’t have the energy to talk any more.

  Sometime in the afternoon the trees start to give way to shrubs and tall grasses, and even though I can hardly dare to believe it, I think we might be coming to the edge of the jungle. It’s not a moment too soon. I’ve been pushing myself too hard, with no breaks and nothing to drink since the stream earlier this morning. Drained and dehydrated, my vision is going blurry, and a massive headache has formed in my temple. Leaning against my stick, I breathe deeply and wait for the headache to pass, but with a loud crack the stick splinters and splits in two. My legs crumple and I fall forward. As I do Galaxy’s harness swings out in front of me. I try to grab him and twist onto my back to shield him from the fall. But I can’t focus and my reactions are far too slow and the last thing I see is Galaxy thud into the earth, entangled in the T-shirt, before my head hits the ground hard, and everything goes black.

  FORTY-ONE

  I don’t know how long I lie there, drifting in and out of consciousness, but I do remember the harsh cries of vultures, and the prickly feet of flies tapping over my lips and into my mouth, and I remember thinking that I have to get up, and get moving. But I don’t want to. Even the slightest movement might jar me out of this place of rest and comfort and bring the pain back. So I let the flies be, and try to drift off again.

  But then the voice comes. Softly at first, little more than a whisper, then rising in volume and suddenly sneering and sco
rnful. Telling me I should have done what I said I would, and built the raft and left when I had the chance. Telling me I’m finished. Telling me I’ve failed. Telling me that Galaxy belongs to the jungle and I should have left him in his holt and not interfered. Telling me if I’d kept my camp site clean then the pig would never have found us and wounded Galaxy. Telling me I’m responsible for Galaxy’s pain. Telling me I only brought him with me because I’m a coward and I couldn’t face the journey alone, and now if I wake I’ll have to pay for my cowardice and watch him die in agony, like the tamarin, and know that I’m to blame.

  No!

  With all my heart I know that’s not true, and I won’t listen. I refuse to. I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears instead, even though I know the voice is inside my head.

  But the voice is persistent.

  ‘Why don’t you leave the otter here,’ it says, in a more friendly tone, ‘and go on alone? Then when you find help you can come back for him. It’s your best chance of survival. For both of you.’

  No!

  I can’t leave Galaxy. I won’t. The vultures will move in as soon as I’ve gone, and even if I did find help there’s no way I could retrace my steps and find him again, not before they’d ripped him to pieces. No. I promised I’d never leave him, and I won’t.

  I open my eyes. It’s dark. As dark as twilight. I scratch angrily at my itching insect bites, annoyed with myself for not waking earlier. But as my head clears I become aware of how hot it is. Too hot for twilight. I remember the same conditions on the day of the storm. Another storm must be on the way. Thank God! The rain will give us a drink, cool Galaxy, and relieve the maddening itching as well.

  A vulture cackles to my left, and I turn my head to check how close it is and scare it away, but I can’t see it. In fact I can’t see any further than a couple of metres in front of my face at most, and nothing to the sides. I tilt my head back and look at the sky. I can see no higher than the tree’s lowest branches. The sky isn’t dark. My eyes are. I’m going blind.

  FORTY-TWO

  Hugging Galaxy tight I stroke the back of his neck, lumpy with insect bites. He’s burning up with fever, his face is puffy and his swollen tongue is bulging from his mouth. He needs water and food badly, as do I, but I can’t walk, or even hobble without my crutch, and even if I could, I can see no further than an arm’s length in front of my face, everything beyond that is blurred or black, and I don’t have the strength to carry him to a stream, even if I could find one.

  But we can’t stay here. Without water Galaxy won’t last another night. There’s no shelter either, and no protection from the massing vultures. I can tell by the rise in volume that their numbers have grown and some have landed and are skulking in the shadows just beyond the limit of my vision. And I have no way of telling what else might be zeroing in on us as well, alerted to our presence by the cackling scavengers.

  Galaxy groans, and a green discharge dribbles from his mouth, speckled with blood. I have to do something, and fast! But what? I have no idea what to do.

  I bury my face in Galaxy’s fur, inhaling his scent and feeling his heartbeat through my cheek. It’s faint and faster than it should be but it’s still there. Man, he’s tough! Galaxy’s not dead yet and neither am I. I can find the strength to get us out of here. I have to.

  Gritting my teeth I try to stand, but can’t. My one good leg won’t take my weight, and I only get as far as a bended knee before my lame leg slides out behind me and the foot becomes entangled in dead grasses. It’s no good. My body’s too worn out. Too crippled to carry me any further.

  Howling in fury, I slap my bad leg as hard as I can, again and again. I need something to blame, to punish for my feebleness, and I wrench my foot from the grass and glower at it. It’s twice its normal size and completely purple. Bent backwards by the grass, my big toenail is sticking out at right angles, caked in dirt and dried blood and hanging by a thread. I rip it off and as I do so an earwig-like creature emerges from the wrinkled skin where the nail used to be and slinks beneath my foot. I twist my foot to reach it and stop, and stare. The speck of the scorpion’s sting has expanded into a stinking sore of black flesh covering half the width of my foot and speckled with white, and when the white bits move I realise it’s not bones I can see. It’s maggots.

  I jab my toenail into the wound and fork one out, and feel nothing. The maggot writhes in my cupped hand, waves pulsing down its bloated body, and a tiny streak of blood-red foam bubbles from its rear end. It’s a dirty, disgusting thief, stealing my flesh, and I should pummel it into the earth or throw it to the vultures. But as I stare at it crawling across my palm I suddenly realise it’s more than just a greedy parasite, engorged with my flesh. It’s protein as well. Energy. Fuel to power my body and buy us a little more time. Maybe enough time to find help. And that’s all that matters.

  I suck the maggot from my palm and it immediately wriggles over the edge of my tongue and burrows beneath the flap of loose gum left behind when my tooth fell out. I try to hook it out with the tip of my tongue but I can’t, it’s wedged in too tight, and gnashing my teeth together doesn’t work either, the maggot simply scrunches itself deeper into the crater, and I feel a sharp twinge as its probing pointed end touches the exposed nerve.

  Sticking my finger in my mouth, I try to dig it out but I’m too clumsy and my jagged fingernail slices right through the maggot’s body and hits the tooth’s bared nerve end, and an explosion of pain fills my brain. I bite down on my finger, tearing the skin on my knuckle, and scream, loudly and long enough to scare the vultures to flight. My mouth fills with blood but I resist the urge to spit it out, I can’t. I can’t waste a single drop of blood. Or maggot. I suck the blood from my knuckle instead, and as soon as my hand stops shaking enough for me to hold my toenail steady, I scoop more maggots from my wound and throw them into my mouth, gulping them down alive, and as I do so a weird thought crosses my mind. The thought that I am a cannibal. No. I am not a cannibal. I am something even sicker than a cannibal. I don’t even know if there is a name for the thing I have become, a creature which feeds on its own rotting flesh.

  And when I’ve devoured every maggot I can find, I secure Galaxy in a T-shirt sling around my neck and I get on all fours and start moving. Galaxy swings from side to side beneath my chin like a lopsided pendulum, knocking against my elbows and grinding the T-shirt knot deep into the sore skin on the back of my neck. But still I crawl. My bad leg drags behind me, heavy and useless, but still I crawl. My raw thighs chafe together and sharp stones grate the skin from my trailing foot, but still I crawl. I can’t walk. But I can crawl. Even maggots crawl. But I am no maggot.

  I can see no more than a body length ahead, and no higher than the tallest grasses but it’s enough. Enough to set myself a target. That rock. That stick. That clump of dried grass.

  Time no longer exists. Or matters. All that matters is forward motion. So I keep moving, placing one torn and bloody hand in front of the other, blocking out the pain and the cackling vultures, until the grasses unexpectedly part and my hand lands on hard-packed earth, and some part of my brain tells me I’ve reached a trail, a path to take me to where the smoke came from, and rescue. I peer left and right, but can see no more than a few metres in either direction and I have no idea which way to turn.

  Left or right? Left or right?

  I can’t delay, I have to choose and keep moving. My body is on the brink of total collapse and the loud guttural cries behind tell me that at least one vulture is closing in.

  As I twist my head from side to side, frantically trying to decide, Galaxy’s foot jerks free of the T-shirt and scrapes my chin. Spasms are rocking his body and it’s clear by the way his muscles clench and his paws curl that he’s in great pain.

  ‘Hang on, Galaxy,’ I say, in a pleading, desperate voice. ‘Hang on. We’re almost there.’

  Then in the gaps between the vultures’ cries I can hear some sort of commotion in the distance, and in my min
d I see troops of monkeys galloping down the track towards us. I remember what they did to the tamarin, and I know we have to get as far away from them as we can, but with the tall grasses distorting the sound and the vultures’ cries filling my ears it’s impossible to tell which direction the noise is coming from.

  Left or right? Left or right. Decide!

  Suddenly my instincts scream at me to turn right, and I’ve learned to trust them, so right it is.

  With every punishing lunge my leg gets heavier, the pauses between each movement longer, and the vultures louder and bolder, snapping at my heels. But still I keep crawling.

  Then my hand hits something that spins away with a tinny clang, a noise I haven’t heard in a long time. Dragging myself another body length forward, I pick up the object and hold it close to my face and stare at it. It’s a can. A Coke can. Dented and empty but still beautiful. From another world. My world!

  I lift the T-shirt over my head, gently lay Galaxy on the ground, and look down at the thing the can hit – a rock, light grey on one side and black on the other. The rock forms part of a circle in the middle of which is a pile of ash and a half-burnt log. I hesitate. Then place my palm on the ashes. They’re warm! So is the rock. Whoever built this fire could still be close by. I raise myself on to one knee and try to shout, but I can’t, my mouth’s too dry.

  A vulture screams close by, and beats its wings, and I can feel the dusty air blowing across my back. Through fogged and watery eyes I peer at the scavengers but all I can see are dark fuzzy shapes crowding around, towering over me. Their cries grow louder and more hostile as they move in for the kill, egging each other on to make the first move. They want to finish us before nightfall, or the monkeys arrive.