Neighbours

Neighbours

I was listening to the rain outside. I turned off the light and opened
up the curtains and looked out. I watched the little explosions on the
tops of cars, in the road, in the gutters, on the pavement. As it
became heavier I saw the drops of rain streak past my window as they
were hurled down from the sky. They smattered against the glass and
splattered on the pane. I opened the louvres so I could hear it more
clearly and to allow some of the water to splash its way inside. A
stream of cold air rushed over my fingers.

Charlie sat on the bed, waiting for his mother. All the other boys had
gone home after rehearsal, but Ms Forbes was already twenty-five
minutes late.

Although we agreed that the sound of the rain beating down was
beautiful, he was afraid of the sudden darkness in and the shadows
leaping about the room as I pulled back the curtain, and so I told him
a story to pass the time.

I once had a friend, who lived on a desert island. It was a beautiful
place, with palm trees and fruit and beautiful beaches all around. It
was a small island, you could walk from one end to the other in under
an hour, and it was far from civilisation. The nearest person was on
the next island, which was about an hour away by boat. My friend had a
boat, but he didn't want to leave the island. It was his paradise. He
survived on fish and fruit and he grew his own rice and every now and
then people would come to visit from the neighbouring island, mainly
tourists looking for adventure or wanting to make the leap from being
tourists to being travellers.

One day, my friend was looking at the sunset when he thought he saw a
boat coming in to the shore. He ran back to his hut to fetch his
binoculars and confirmed he was right. It was a small boat and the
engine it was simply coming in with the tide. There were three men
inside, all muscular and tanned. Two had long blonde hair and the third
had dark, brown hair and a beard. They were looking towards my friend,
although they did not see him at that time, and they allowed the waves
to bring them onto the beach. He hurried down to greet them.

"No power!" one of the blondies said when he caught sight of my friend
running towards them and he laughed. As they got closer: "We might have
to stay here for the night. I hope we are not intruding!"

He told them not to be silly, he didn't own the island, and he helped
them drag their boat ashore.

"Ran out of fuel," the talker said. He was tall and athletic, his body
was ripe with youth. He had an American accent and he introduced
himself as Rusty. The other blonde who just grinned was James and the
dark-haired man looking cross was Brandon. "Didn't realise it was so
far away," Rusty said.

"It's getting dark," Brandon said. He was evidently annoyed at having
to stay on the island. Perhaps their arrival here on petrol fumes
showed a lack of professionalism on his part as he seemed to be their
navigator. He also seemed particularly incensed by James, because he
kept staring at him out of the corner of his eye and then shaking his
head in disgust.

"I live in a small hut on the hill," said my friend, pointing. "There
is a shelter down there," he pointed again, to the right, "where
travellers such as yourselves sometimes spend a night or two."

"We won't be staying that long," Brandon said, his dark brows meeting
in the middle as he frowned. "It's getting dark now. I'll radio for
help tomorrow, because the radio's wet -" he glared James again who was
stilling chuckling to himself "- and they'll come by with fuel."
Presumably, Brandon's bag contained radio equipment and perhaps some
basic supplies. He held it tightly at his side.

"It's not like we're lost in the jungle," he said. "We're not far from
home."

"It'll be an adventure," said James, which earned him another
glare.

My friend showed them where they would be spending the night. It was a
large shelter in the middle of a small clearing with two rooms large
enough for two people in each. There was plenty of bedding and the roof
was made of sturdy tree trunks and vines. There was an unlit fire in
front of the entrance to the shelter and a little stream running beside
the shelter and into the trees where there were 'facilities' to go to
the toilet.

They made arrangements for Brandon to sleep alone, while Rusty and
James shared the second room.

"Perhaps," my friend said before he left them to acquaint themselves
with the hut, "you will be kind enough to arrange a lift to the island
for me when you leave in the morning."

"I thought you lived here," Rusty commented cheerfully.

"I need supplies. Johnson and Johnson Baby Shampoo doesn't grow on
trees." They laughed. "Everyone needs a vice. So I will see you in the
morning?"

"Sure thing."

"See you at about nine," said James. He talked slowly, as though he had
just done a lot of drugs. He spent a lot of time grinning for no
apparent reason.

My friend displayed his bare wrists. "The sun is my alarm clock," he
said. I'll be up and about while you are asleep in your beds. Sleep
well."

From his hut on the hill, my friend watched the black, rolling waves.
He listened to them crash into each other, draw back, and then crash
again, unrelenting, unstoppable, like a hunger that can never end. He
listened much as we are listening to the rain right now.

The next morning, he was up with the sun. He performed his ablutions
and went down the hill to see his new friends. When he got there the
clearing was empty. The door to the hut sat open, the fire had been lit
and had gone out. He peeked inside the hut, just to be sure it was
empty. It was. He wandered around for a little while, wondering if they
had left without him, when he heard trudging through the trees.

Rusty came into sight, followed by James.

"What's wrong?" my friend asked.

"Brandon is missing."

"Missing?"

"Woke up this morning and he wasn't there. His bag is gone too, but the
boat is where we left it. It's strange." He pushed his hands through
his hair. "We've been looking for him for over an hour."

"I have been up since sunrise," said my friend, "and I haven't seen a
thing."

"Let's look for a while longer," Rusty said to James. "Then we'll think
about what to do next."

"I'll help," said my friend, and they searched the island after leaving
a note at the shelter in case Brandon returned while they were out
looking for him. Two hours went by quickly, the sun soared across the
sky, and they found nothing.

They had worked up a fierce hunger, so my friend suggested he take them
spear-fishing. He said he had some chickens up in his hut, but he was
worried that their meat might make Rusty and James sick as they were
not used it. Fish was a safer bet.

They all agreed that they would be no use to Brandon if they continued
to look for him on empty stomachs. They took a spear each and followed
my friend to the sea.

Brandon had indeed been their navigator, but he was no professional. He
knew how to use the radio, he knew how to steer the boat and he knew
where they were going. That had put him in charge. They had met him on
the neighbouring island and took up with him on recommendation. They
had got on well at first, but his cynicism, which had been amusing at
first, started to grate their nerves. They liked him, but he was a
little quiet and they always had to guess what he was thinking.

When James dropped the radio overboard trying to tune it to an R&;B
music station, Brandon had gone white. His hands curled into fists and
although he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, he could not help
releasing a torrent of expletives. It was probable that Brandon had
abandoned them on the island to teach them a lesson. If he had been
picked up, that would explain why their boat was still on the
island.

If Brandon was still on the island somewhere and his radio had not
dried out, people would come looking soon, because he had known many of
the staff at the hotel. A boat might come that afternoon when they
noticed him missing from the hotel. Surely, the next day, someone would
come. As Brandon had said, it was not the jungle.

Although they did not forget Brandon, it seemed increasingly likely
that he had stranded them on the island as an act of revenge, and they
were able to take their minds off his disappearance for a while.
Spear-fishing took all their concentration and after a while they even
had fun. Sweat glistened on their bodies as the sun beat down on their
heads. James was a little slow for fishing, but he looked the part with
his trouser legs rolled up to his knees and his hair tied back from his
eyes. Rusty would have made a good fisherman. The muscles in his back
rippled as he plunged the staff into the sea and withdrew it with a
fish impaled on the end of it. His face glistened with sweat and his
blonde hair shone as though it had trapped the sun.

They returned to the clearing half an hour later with enough fish for
the three of them and for Brandon should he come back.

The smell of fish roasting on the open fire made the men so hungry they
bit their lips and their fingernails in anticipation. The moment my
friend declared the meal cooked they wolfed it down like savages. They
ate the fish with white rice my friend had grown on the hill. It took
all James' reserve to save the bit they had set aside for
Brandon.

"If he doesn't come back in the next couple of hours," he said, between
mouthfuls, "I'm eating it ... before it goes off."

They washed it all down with a drink that my friend made from a tree on
the island. It was known as jungle juice, and he didn't have to do a
thing to it, simply drain it from the tree and let it ferment for a
while for it to develop its alcoholic properties. He drank first to
show the others it was okay and then they drank about three bowls each.
They thought it had an unusual taste, but it was sweet, and it kicked
like a mule. James did not notice the effect until he had to go to the
toilet and his first step sent him face down in the sand.

They laughed and joked and they told stories about themselves. James
was a student of Philosophy at a college in Philadelphia. He
accompanied Rusty on this holiday in place of his older brother who had
taken ill. He did too many drugs and liked nothing more than women and
computer games. Tomb Raider was a particular favourite, because it
combined his passions.

Rusty was training to be a doctor. He had once saved the life of a man
who was shot three times on his doorstep. That had been a year into his
course and it had made up his mind that he wanted to be a surgeon. Now
he was just six months away from starting an internship at a busy
accident hospital.

He was more sturdily-built than James; he liked to play football,
that's American football, not soccer, although he had played the latter
too. American football was his favourite. He said he enjoyed pushing
his body to the limit, being the best he could be.

They asked my friend questions, but he evaded them; he lived alone, he
listened to the waves, he welcomed visitors and he watched them
leave.

In the next couple of hours the two men gave up ideas of resuming their
search for Brandon and succumbed to their exhaustion. They vowed to
look for him after they had had a few hours sleep to recover from the
surprising effect of the few drinks they had consumed. Night fell and
they did not stir and nobody came.

My friend returned to his hut, however, where he watched the sun go
down on the island.

It got cold on the island at night, colder than this room, so my friend
made a large fire.

Let me shut the window.

He sat in front of the fire and let the heat roar through his bones. He
sat and watched it as though it was a dancer, dancing just for him. He
longed for its beautiful curves, the flickering, wisps of golden hair
that crackled as they moved, the sparks leapt around her ankles. It was
wondrous and he was mesmerised, as he always was. There were three
things he loved in the world; sunsets, making fires, and having
visitors.

He had enjoyed having company. It had been months since the last
visitors to the island, a woman in her thirties and her two children, a
boy and a girl. She had been afraid at first, but he had made them feel
at home. He had made them fires and they had shared a sunset. It was
the most precious thing he had and he had willingly shared it with
them. Soon he would invite Rusty up to the hill and they could share
the view too.

He could see movement down below. He was sure of it. It was way in the
distance and it was more than the movement of the wind through the
trees. Rusty was down there moving with a purpose.

He plucked his binoculars out of his drawer and looked out. It took a
while to pick him out, but eventually he saw Rusty dragging the boat
out of its place in the trees and down to the beach.

My friend left his fire to run down the hill. It was the middle of the
night and it was dark; although there was light from the moon, he made
his way down the hill by memory rather than sight. He jumped and ducked
in all the right places and slid down the slippery sides of the slope.
By the time he got to Rusty he was in the sea and leaping into the dead
boat. He caught sight of my friend as he thudded across the wet
sand.

"Stay away from me! Get away from me!"

He tried in desperation to cast off.

"What? Why?"

"Stay the hell away from me!!" He was terrified. The waves hit the boat
and broke around the bow, rolling up the sand and then thinning out
before drawing back and slowly pulling the boat out like a thieving
hand.

"Why?"

"I saw what you've done," he yelled. He staggered around in the boat,
bent and came up with an oar. He brandished it like a weapon. "I went
up the hill."

The boat was drifting backwards, slowly entering the sea, and my
friend's heart was racing, because he longed to stop him.

"You were collecting firewood, so you didn't see me," he yelled. "Your
door was open. And I saw Brandon. And J-James."

His teeth were chattering with fear and cold.

"You'll never make it!" my friend yelled. "You'll capsize and you'll
drown. Or you'll get lost. It's pitch black out there. The sea will eat
you alive."

"Better that than to be eaten here. I saw what was on the fire!" The
boat drifted away and he began to vainly use the oar.

"The sea will have you before sunrise," my friend shouted. And he
thought of his glistening, bronze calves and his strong arms rowing
away, and he ached; he longed for him to come back.

Although I had shut the window, the curtains still billowed with the
breeze. "It's draughty in here," I said. "Why don't we go back
downstairs?"

Young Charlie, was shivering.

"Was he a cannibal?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Did the police come and get him?"

"No," I said. "No, nobody came. Whether or not Rusty made it back to
the next island, we'll never know, but nobody came." I put my arm
around him as I led him out of the room and into the hallway.

"Did he ever get off the island?" he asked fretfully. "The
cannibal?"

I replied in the most truthful way I could. "No," I said. "No, I never
did."

THE END