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  One makes a lunge for Galaxy, its vicious hooked beak aiming for his face, and something explodes in my head, and I howl, and throw the Coke can at the scavenger. I will not let these scumbags take Galaxy! As long as I can see, or hear, or punch, or bite, then the vultures won’t have him.

  Hauling myself to a sitting position, I lift Galaxy into my lap. He’s burning up, eyes rolled back, breathing shallow and erratic. It won’t be long now.

  I lift him to my chest and lower my head, and in a hoarse whisper I tell him how much I love him, how much he means to me, I tell him to hold on, just a little longer. I tell him he’s tougher than this.

  Dark shapes crowd around us in a squabbling, screeching ring, wings beating and beaks snapping with greed. They’re close enough to smell now. They smell of the decomposing catfish, and the pilot’s corpse and my rotting foot. I want to scream at them and wave my arms to make them back off but I can’t. I can’t scream and I won’t let go of Galaxy.

  A vulture grabs my toe and tries to tear it off and I kick out at it, and keep kicking until it lets go. Then above the screeching scavengers I hear more noises, faint and unclear, but approaching fast. The monkeys, come to join the kill, and in my mind’s eye I see the golden tamarin again, torn and terrified, and I can hear its blood-chilling cry and I swear I’ll smother Galaxy myself before I let the monkeys have him.

  Then, to my amazement, I feel Galaxy’s paw touch my cheek, like it did after he’d saved me from the pig, and with his other leg he claws at the T-shirt and tries to wriggle free. Still he clings on. To life, and to me. Still he tries to protect me.

  He won’t give in, and neither will I. While there’s breath left in my body I’ll fight for him like he fought for me, and if these ugly bastards want him they’ll have to kill me first.

  Scrabbling around in the dirt I pick up a rock and bare my teeth and in a weak, rasping voice I snarl at the vultures.

  ‘Come on then! Come on, you cowards!’

  Suddenly a cloud of ash billows over us. The vultures lift away, screeching in anger, and I can hear a new sound. I hear shouting. And then the sound of running feet. Then a voice. A man’s voice. And I hear what he’s shouting. I hear my name.

  ‘Sam. Sam!’

  The man suddenly appears by the fire and stops to catch his breath. Then he crouches down in front of me, his face filling my vision. ‘Sam?’ he says. ‘You Sam, yes?’

  I never knew a voice could sound so good. It takes me a moment to compose myself before nodding and in a hoarse whisper I reply, ‘Yes. I am Sam.’

  The man grins. The widest brightest grin I’ve ever seen, before jumping to his feet and shouting into a radio, speaking unbelievably fast and laughing as he does so. Then he kneels again and offers me a bottle of water, but I won’t let go of Galaxy to hold it so he raises it to my lips and tilts it. The water is cold, and sweet and wonderful, and as it pours down my throat I splutter and grab the bottle for Galaxy. I pour it into Galaxy’s mouth. The man gives me his shirt, gently draping it over my shoulders to cover my nakedness.

  I mouth ‘Thank you’, hand the empty bottle back, and close my eyes.

  Sometime later I hear more people arrive, five or six I think, or it could be more, running down the track, laughing and cheering.

  I raise my head as they arrive. Most hold back, and fall silent, as they allow one man to approach me, and as he moves into range he says my name. And I instantly know his voice. I know his voice!

  Dad kneels before me, wheezing heavily. His right hand hesitantly reaches out to touch my blistered cheek while he holds his chest with his bandaged left hand, fighting to get his breath back. Then he throws his arms around me and I can feel his stubbled chin on my cheek. I bury my face in his shirt, and feel his heart pounding and I know I’m not dreaming.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Dad whispers, both hands now cradling my face. He’s close enough for me to see the tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. Forgive me. I thought I’d lost you.’

  I press my face into his chest and hug him even tighter, unable to speak. And he hugs me back.

  A few minutes later, I become aware of a lady crouching next to Dad, and there’s something about her, something reassuring enough for me to allow her to lift Galaxy from my lap and place him gently on a sheet on the ground.

  ‘Is… is he going to be all right?’ I ask.

  The lady looks up at me and smiles, a beautiful, warm smile of glossy red lips and pearly white teeth.

  ‘He’s going to be fine,’ she says, and taps the side of a syringe with a shiny needle on top. ‘These antibiotics will sort him out. They’re tough, these ariranha. And as soon as your dad lets go we can have a look at you too, aiy!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ And then, ‘Galaxy,’ I add.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Galaxy. His name is Galaxy.’

  ‘Good name,’ says Dad, wiping his eyes while he reluctantly rises to his feet and backs away so the lady can have a look at my foot. And only when she’s washed and bandaged it, and given me five or six injections, and a litre of eye drops, and made me swallow a dozen pills, does she let a hovering Dad near me again.

  FORTY-THREE

  Galaxy’s back in my lap, sleeping peacefully and breathing with a regular, deep rhythm when Dad crouches down in front of me again. I’m struggling to stay awake but then my eyes spring open as I see a blur of orange in Dad’s hand. The life jacket!

  ‘Roberto found it,’ he says, nodding towards the man who gave me his shirt. ‘And after so long we all feared… but then I checked the pockets, and found this, and I just couldn’t give up on you.’ Dad hands me his watch. ‘Thank you, Sam.’ He closes his hand around mine. ‘Thank you.’

  Before I can say anything in reply I hear a crackling noise and see a phone the size of a house brick in Dad’s other hand. He lifts it and listens for a second or two before handing it to me, with a huge smile on his face. ‘Someone wants to talk to you.’

  I don’t want to let go of Dad’s hand, or the watch, so Dad holds it to my ear.

  After a slight delay a voice comes down the line, crackly and faint, but just loud enough to hear, and there’s no mistaking who it is.

  ‘Hello. Hello. Is anyone there?’

  I squeeze Dad’s hand, swallow hard and bite back tears before I’m able to speak.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ I reply.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Hannah Sheppard, agent extraordinaire, how can I ever repay your faith, encouragement and guidance? (‘Get on with the next book!’ I hear you cry.) Seriously though, thank you, Hannah, for believing not just in me as a writer but also in the power of a true adventure story and the timeless magic of a child-animal friendship. Thank you too for knowing the perfect editor for Alone – Charlie ‘Viking’ Sheppard, my uber-awesome editor at Andersen Press who can see the arc of a story like some sailors see currents in water, and whose keen mind and slashing sword spares none in her pursuit of pace and slaying of ‘clutter’. Without your wisdom and invaluable input Alone would not be the book it is today. To Chloe Sackur, the ultimate demon of detail, eagle-eyed, passionately meticulous, and not afraid to call a crocodile a caiman and a plum a papaya! You are the ultimate copy-editor. To Kate Grove and James Fraser for their amazing cover design and to all at Andersen Press for their commitment and professionalism – what a team!

  My eternal gratitude to my first-draft reading team – Eve, Ben, Paul, Lesley, Stu and Mark, with particular thanks to my Irritant and Special Adviser Laura, unnaturally gifted in knowing what works and what doesn’t, and wise beyond her years.

  To Debbie, for putting up with the illogical dreams of a would-be-writer for so many years without once pouring water on those dreams even though the bucket was poised many times.

  To my son Joe, for watching so many adventure, survival and natural history documentaries with me, and for reminding me what a thrill it is to be young. And for believing in the power of nev
er giving up.

  To my parents, for showing me the world and for imbuing in me a life-long love of reading.

  To Bear Grylls, for inspiring the man in every boy and the boy in every man.

  To Richard Bach, for writing Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Susan Shaughnessy, for Walking On Alligators.

  And last but most importantly of all, my thanks to you, the reader, for choosing to give this a go. I hope you find the journey as exhilarating and worthwhile as I did.