Alone Page 4

  The mood has turned really nasty now and the tree shakes with the fury of a howling mob of monkeys all screaming abuse. I am seriously outnumbered.

  I turn to leave but a turd hits my shoulder and splatters across my cheek. At first I can’t comprehend what has happened, it’s too gross, too disgusting to believe. But then the stink hits me, a sort of sour milk and farts smell. I stare at the monkeys bouncing above me and all thoughts of retreat evaporate.

  I’m beyond angry, incensed by my humiliation and the hail of fruit and poo raining down on me, and it’s my turn to rant and rave. I use my T-shirt to wipe the mess from my face, pick up a stick and scream at my assailants.

  ‘Come on then! Come on! Is that all you’ve got?’

  But my challenge only serves to spur them on and within seconds I am pelted with a barrage of fruit and branches. Burning with rage I hurl my stick at them and scramble around, searching for ammunition, and blindly chuck papayas and sticks into the tree. The noise is deafening, there must be at least thirty jeering apes chucking poo and whatever they can rip from the tree down at me.

  I kick a pile of leaves aside and find a stone, oval and heavy, the perfect size for my hand. I toss it in the air, judging its weight, while selecting my target – a grinning monkey with his arm cocked ready to launch something at me. I take aim and throw the stone as hard as I can. It whizzes through the air and smacks into the monkey’s forehead. Bull’s-eye! His head snaps back. A papaya drops from his hand and he grabs his head and whimpers with pain.

  I whoop and punch the air then give him the finger. The rain of missiles slows, then stops completely; the noise abates as the monkeys stare at their wounded comrade, then down at me. I glare back at them, square my shoulders and stand as tall as I can, and thump my chest, letting them know I am up for a fight and there is plenty more where that came from.

  But it’s clear the monkeys are far from intimidated, and I am now facing the deadly hate of an enraged mob.

  One monkey, bolder than the rest, hangs by one arm from the lowest branch and drops to the ground, landing solidly on all fours, gnashing his teeth and glaring at me.

  My sense of triumph evaporates. Exhausted as I am, if the mob decides to attack there is no way I can outrun them or fight them all. I have to get out of here before more monkeys join their companion. Mind racing, I vaguely remember reading somewhere that attack is supposed to be the best form of defence, and with the monkey now advancing towards me I can’t think of anything else to do, so I charge at him, yelling and waving my arms, and to my relief his eyes widen in surprise, and he drops his stick and turns and scrambles back up the tree trunk.

  In that instant I turn and run. As fast as I can. Charging blindly through the undergrowth, unable to see where I’m going and not daring to look behind.

  I’ve covered no more than a hundred metres or so when I suddenly burst out from the trees into bright sunlight, and the earth falls away beneath me.

  NINE

  I tumble down the steep slope, rolling over and over, desperately trying to grab hold of something to slow my fall. Thorns tear my skin and a sharp pain shoots up my arm as I hit something solid and come to a juddering halt. I lie still for a moment, chest heaving, with a loud rumbling noise in my ears. For a moment I assume it’s the sound of my heavy breathing, but as my head clears I realise it is the river I can hear, and by the sound of it I am only a few metres away.

  Rubbing my throbbing elbow, I look down at the thing which halted my fall. It’s a sheet of white metal about the size of a pillow, heat blistered and streaked with fuel stains. I’ve found the plane!

  Dizzy but elated I climb to my feet and eagerly look around. I can see the plane’s cockpit wedged against a sandbar in the middle of the river, no more than ten metres away.

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ I shout over and over, and listen hard, straining for a reply. But I hear nothing above the sounds of the river, and the cries of vultures circling overhead.

  Vultures! Perhaps Dad’s injured and unconscious, somewhere on the sandbar.

  I run to the river and wade in, eyes scanning for any sign of him.

  Halfway across, the riverbed falls away and a strong current pulls at my legs. I brace myself against it and keep going, thankful my life jacket survived the fall. A purple and blue fuel slick coats the water around the sandbar and stings the cuts and scratches on my arms, but I hardly feel it, I’m too focused on reaching the plane.

  I clamber onto the sandbar and only now can I hear a faint humming sound above the noise of the river, and my heart jumps as I think it could be the radio. The noise grows louder as I approach the cockpit and a new smell fills my nostrils. A meaty, smoky smell. An odour I vaguely recognise but can’t identify. I reach the cockpit. Peering within all I can see is darkness and a whirling mass of flies. I bang hard on the metal and duck as a torrent of flies streams out through the shattered windscreen.

  The pilot’s body is still strapped in his seat, head snapped backwards. Maggots crawl over his eyeless face, and he smells like a barbecue.

  I turn away and heave, spewing up stinging orange bile and the small amount of papaya flesh I had managed to consume. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. I have never seen a dead body before, or smelt one, and it’s gruesome.

  But at least it’s not Dad.

  I try to remember the pilot’s name, and I can’t. All I can remember about him is his cool Aviator sunglasses, and his skull-and-crossbones Zippo lighter, the one the wind couldn’t blow out when he rolled and smoked a cigarette just before we took off. The practical part of my mind says I should search him for his sunglasses and the lighter, and any other useful things. But the thought of touching his charred flesh makes the bile rise back up my throat, and I decide it’s too dark. I’ll do it in the morning. Then I’ll bury him. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

  I take a quick look around the cockpit, hoping to spot a torch, or signal flares, or anything to eat, but it’s too dark to see, and the flies have returned.

  I really want to find my rucksack, with its can of Coke, the chocolate and chewing gum, and my phone. But dark clouds are massing overhead, the light is fading fast and however much I want my stuff, I’m not prepared to grope around the wreckage in the dark. I have to get back to shore before the storm hits and the sun sets and the caimans emerge.

  A quick scan around the sandbar reveals no sign of Dad, no footsteps or other clues as to where he might be. I cup my hands and call, ‘Dad!’ again and again, but there’s no reply.

  Rain starts to fall. Hard and fast, rebounding off the water into my eyes and reducing visibility. And with the current now stronger, it takes me much longer to wade back to shore, fearfully squinting through the deluge for any sign of caimans.

  I clamber up the slippery bank and try to find some shelter, but it’s impossible to see anything much in the dark and driving rain. Then I remember the metal sheet and wrench it from the bushes and try to use it as an umbrella, but each time I lift it above my head the wind howls beneath it and threatens to tear it from my grasp.

  A sudden powerful gust eventually rips the sheet from my icy fingers and, left with no protection at all, the hard rain stabs my face like meat skewers. I wrap my arms over my head and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the storm, but I can’t. It’s too loud, and I’m too cold and scared.

  For hour after torturous hour the storm rages. Stabbing, relentless rain hammers my shivering body and churns the ground to mud. Booming claps of thunder shake the air and echo off the ravine walls.

  All is darkness except when bolts of lightning slice the sky and illuminate the raging river, its surface whipped to foam. Each time it happens I can see the river is far higher and closer than before, and I climb further up the slope and crouch down among the bushes.

  Sometime in the early hours, with the storm at its fiercest, and a howling gale threatening to pluck me from my perch and fling me into the river, I hear a new sound, a growling, menacing roar, like a mon
strous creature being held against its will. It’s beyond loud, beyond deafening. And it’s raw, primeval and thick with threat.

  The roar intensifies, drowning out the storm, and I hug my knees tight against my chest and shake uncontrollably. I’m hysterical now. Beyond reason. The river has come alive, I’m sure of it, and it’s coming for me.

  I have to get away. I try to climb higher up the slope but I lose my footing and slip in the mud, and as the icy wind hits my bare foot I realise I have stepped out of a trainer. A flash of lightning illuminates the slope below me just long enough for me to glimpse my trainer floating away in a stream of liquid mud. In a few seconds it will be in the river. I can’t lose it! I have to get it back. I grab the base of a thorn bush to lower myself down.

  And the wave hits. A wall of water thunders down the ravine in a grinding roar, funnelled by the sloping walls, tearing up trees and bushes. The crest of the wave claws at my legs and threatens to sweep me away. I grip the bush with both hands as tightly as I can and hang on as the water pummels my legs. A metallic groaning noise joins the roar, and I scream.

  Then as swiftly as it arrived, the flash flood passes.

  I raise my head.

  One lightning-lit glance is enough to tell me my trainer has gone.

  And so has the plane.

  TEN

  Steam rises from my T-shirt, the sun warm on my back.

  The river is flowing much higher and faster than yesterday, dark brown and lumpy with uprooted trees and bushes. The sandbar is deep below water and there’s no trace of the plane.

  Or Dad.

  I’m gutted. I was so sure I would find him. But the vultures have moved on. They must have been here for the pilot. Dad has to be alive. He’s either searching for me somewhere else or a rescue team has already found him. It’s the only logical explanation. For all I know, Dad and the search team could be at my sandspit right now! I have to get back. There’s no point in staying here. There’s no food. No shelter. No stream for fresh water, and another flash flood could kill me. And with all traces of the plane gone and the ravine’s steep walls hampering visibility, a helicopter could fly directly overhead and not see me. I have a far better chance of being found at my beach, with its open sky and my HELP sign.

  But how will I get there? My legs ache, my elbow is swollen and stiff and even if I still had both trainers the ravine walls are too steep and slippery to climb with only one good arm. If I did somehow reach the top the monkeys could be waiting, and I would have to cross the swamp.

  I’ll have to swim back.

  But impatient as I am to get going, I’m in no hurry to enter the water. Even if my arm was 100%, I’m not a strong swimmer, and the river’s flowing far too fast for me to risk it at the moment. I’ll have to wait for the level to drop. In the meantime I might as well search for my trainer and something to eat.

  I retie the life-jacket strings and clamber along the side of the slope, just above the flash-flood mark, checking piles of flotsam for my trainer. It’s hard to keep my footing on the steep bank, and after an hour or more of fruitless searching I’m hot and filthy and plagued by tiny black flies. I’m about to give up when I see a pile of debris snagged in the branches of an uprooted tree, a little further downstream. Then with a sigh of relief I spot the bright neon stripes on my trainer bobbing amongst it.

  I wade out to the debris and grab my shoe. I’m about to shuffle back to shore when I catch sight of something glinting just below the surface further out, swaying in spindly branches bent by the current. Something small and metallic. Most probably a piece of scrap metal from the plane. But what if it’s something valuable to me – a torch, or a water bottle? Or even the pilot’s lighter!

  The object is another couple of metres further out into the river, and I will have to go out of my depth to reach it. I hesitate. It’s too risky. But then again the possibility of being able to carry water, or see in the dark, or best of all light a fire, is too tempting to resist.

  I put my trainer on and slowly work my way along the flimsy dam and out into the river, pausing each time the tree creaks and shifts in the current. Its roots are working loose from the bank and with any more pressure from me it could tear free completely. But my mind’s made up. I’m only an arm’s length away from the object now and determined to reach it. I shuffle a little further out and as I take a last step I’m swept into the middle of the tangled branches and only the life jacket prevents me from being dragged under. The tree creaks again, and groans, and I feel it shift further and sway. I have to hurry. Taking a deep breath, I dunk my face in the water and grope around. I feel the object, cold and hard, and as my fingers close around it, the tree’s roots pull free. The tree is claimed by the current.

  I wrap my arms around the trunk and hang on, legs dangling. But just before I do, I manage to catch a glimpse of the object clasped tightly in my hand.

  It’s not a torch, or a water bottle, or the pilot’s lighter.

  It’s a watch. Dad’s watch. Badly dented and covered in deep scratches and indentations which look just like teeth marks. Caiman teeth.

  ELEVEN

  With the river flowing so fast, I reach the rapids above my sandspit before noon.

  The first part of the trip was by far the most frightening, with the tree ricocheting off the ravine walls and bucking wildly in the current. But somehow I managed to hold on until the walls fell away and the river widened and slowed. The tree then proved to be a pretty good raft and the rest of the ride was uneventful until I hit the rapids and had to walk the last few hundred metres.

  The flood mark on the beach is higher than before and the sudden surge has washed away half of my HELP sign. But there are no hints that another human being has been here.

  Yesterday I was sure I must have fought my way through many miles of jungle to reach the crash site, but it turns out that the plane came down no more than a mile or so upriver from here. If I’d followed the river’s course rather than heading into the jungle then not only would I have avoided the swamp and the monkeys but I would have reached the wreckage in a fraction of the time. Hours earlier in fact. More than early enough to retrieve my rucksack and any other useful items I could find, and with plenty of time to search the surrounding area in daylight, before the storm hit. It’s a devastating thought and I dunk my head in the stream to try to wash my bitterness away, swearing I’ll never enter the jungle again.

  I drink long and deep from the stream before scanning the river for any sign of the otters. Nothing. I walk back to the shade of the giant tree and hug the trunk, thankful to be back. I take my time removing my socks and trainers from my bruised and blistered feet and place them in the sun to dry before taking a closer look at Dad’s watch.

  Apart from a few dents and gouges it appears to be intact and, holding my breath, I pull the small crown out and wind it. The second hand starts to click immediately and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. The watch is tough, really tough. Like Dad. It’s a good sign. And I have a sudden cheering thought – as long as the watch works then Dad must still be alive. All I have to do is keep it ticking. With the sun now directly overhead I set the time to twelve o’clock before turning the watch over and tracing the gouges on the casing which on first sight I thought were tooth marks. But on closer inspection I decide I was overreacting and they’re nothing more than scratches and chips caused by the crash.

  The watch is far too big and heavy for my wrist and I won’t risk losing it or damaging it any further, so I give the glass a final polish before tucking it into a pocket in the life jacket and securing the Velcro.

  I yawn and stretch, and rub my elbow. I should rebuild my HELP sign, and check the beach to see if the flood has left anything edible behind. But I haven’t had a moment’s rest since leaving to search for the plane yesterday morning, and hardly any sleep since the night of the crash. Now safely back in the shade of my giant tree, exhaustion overwhelms me. I place the life jacket under my head and close my eyes.

 
; A bark wakes me. Then whistles. The otters! I jump to my feet. The sun is low in the sky and a warm breeze stirs the trees. Another bark and I run towards the river.

  I have a raging thirst but a drink can wait. I want to see the otters first. Slowing down as I approach the bend, I see the mother and pup swimming close to Otter Rock, and trembling with excitement I sit down to watch them.

  My intention is to stay for five minutes at most, before quenching my thirst and searching for something to eat but it’s so good to see them, and they’re so entertaining, so full of life, that before I know it half an hour has passed, or it could be an hour or more, I don’t know. But I do know that in this time the mother catches two crabs, three catfish and five piranhas. The piranhas are clearly the pup’s favourite, and he squeaks and whistles with pleasure as he grasps each one firmly between his paws and attacks the head first, crunching and grunting until only the jaws and tail remain. Why he takes such delight in wolfing down the piranhas I don’t know. Perhaps one bit him when he was younger, or their flashy red bellies annoy him. Or perhaps they just taste the best!

  The mother spends an incredible amount of time underwater, and after she’s caught fish number five I decide to time her. I don’t have Dad’s watch with me so I count elephants instead, and amass a herd of three hundred and six for one of her dives, which I work out to mean she’s held her breath for five minutes. Five minutes! I managed a piddling thirty-two seconds once, and that was while clinging to the ladder in the shallow end of the swimming pool.