Derek Hansen - Sole Survivor

“Probably?”

It was Rosie’s turn to flush with embarrassment. It simply hadn’t occurred to her to bring a torch. What had she expected? Street lighting where there were no streets?

“Let’s hope he probably put batteries in as well.”

Rosie took the box from him and carried it up the beach. She started to rummage through, wishing to hell she’d thought to go through the box when Col had given it to her. Any smart person would have. She heard one of her bags thud into the sand behind her and rushed to get it before an incoming wave beat her to it.

“Here’s another.”

She reached up and grabbed the second carryall.

“How are you going with the torch?”

“Give me a chance!” she snapped.

Give her a chance. Yes, Red thought, he should give her a chance. But what if he did and what if she stayed? Oh Christ! Old Bernie had a lot to answer for. Red waited until she’d dumped both bags by the box of supplies. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let up on her.

“Don’t forget the diesel.”

“Who could forget the diesel?”

Red reached for the jerry can, not daring to smile. “While you’re here, I’ve got something else for you.”

“What?”

“My clothes.”

Red peeled off his oilskins and handed them to her. Then his woolen sweater, shirt and trousers. He was determined to do things the way he always did, woman or no woman.

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Just keep them dry. Now let me push her out. C’mon, Archie.” Red jumped naked onto the sand, followed by Archie, and began to push his boat off the beach sternforemost.

“Where are you going?”

“To the mooring.”

“Oh.”

Red grimaced. There’d been a touch of anxiety in her voice when she’d thought he was leaving her all alone. It was enough that their plan worked without having to feel the hurt it caused. He started the motor and ran up to the buoy. The deck was slippery with vomit, and it seemed no part had been spared. His instinct was to clean up the mess immediately, but the trip had been hard enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her standing alone on the beach while he did. Reluctantly he let things be, knowing he’d have to beat the sun up in the morning and get back to his boat or it would stink to high heaven. He tied off the mooring rope, jumped over the side and swam ashore. When he reached the shallows he stood and waded the rest of the way. A torch beam caught his crotch and held it unwavering.

“Nice penis,” said the voice behind it.

“If you want me to help carry your things up the hill, would you mind not shining your torch in my eyes.”

“Strange place to have eyes.” Rosie turned the torch away so that it shone on her bags. She picked up Red’s trousers and held them out to him. “Your eye shades.”

“I’ll put them on when I’m dry. Leave the jerry can here and pick it up in the morning. There’s diesel up there. In the end, Bernie couldn’t be bothered running the generator. You carry the bags and I’ll carry the box of supplies.”

“Then lead on. Do you need my torch?”

“No. I know the way. C’mon Archie.” He set off up the track at his normal brisk pace.

Rosie followed, trying hard to keep up with the shape in front of her, the smaller of the bags and torch in one hand, the larger bag in the other. The track shone smooth and white in the torch’s beam, well worn and friendly. Then it began to steepen and crisscross with roots. She couldn’t keep up no matter how hard she pushed herself and fell farther and farther behind. She tried to picture the beach and her bach as she’d seen them from the amphibian. She gasped as her legs gave way and she stumbled. “Bastard!” she muttered. But curses didn’t make her stronger or the track less steep. She vomited, then lay down on the track unable to continue. She’d vomited up every last ounce of energy as well.

“Red! Wait!” she called weakly.

Red put down the box of supplies and turned back. “Stay, Archie.” At last she’d cracked. Now he could afford to show some kindness. Not too much, but enough to make him feel better about what he’d done. He found her sitting on the track with her back to him. Her shoulders slumped, her head in her hands. He thought she was weeping and was stricken with guilt. He’d seen men slumped that way before, their spirit broken and no longer able to drive their weary, wasted bodies. He’d been the same way himself.

“I’ll take your bags.”

“Thanks, Red. How much farther?”

She sounded tired, but her voice didn’t waver as it would have if she’d been crying.

“About halfway.”

Rosie closed her eyes. How would she possibly manage when she could hardly take another step?

“Need a hand up?”

“Mister, I need a crane, closely followed by a taxi. But no, I’ll manage.” She dragged herself to her feet. “How about slowing down a bit?”

Red grunted noncommittally. He slipped his arms through the handles of both bags, flipped them over his shoulders and set off back up the track, moving noticeably slower than before. He paused briefly to pick up the box of supplies and kept walking. He could hear her plodding along slowly behind him, stopped and waited for her. “This is where your track branches off. Not far to go now.” He listened for a reply, but Rosie was too weary to give one.

As they neared Bernie’s bach, Archie ran ahead to see if he could surprise a careless bush rat. Red heard him suddenly crash into the undergrowth, so at least he was on the trail of one. “Here we are.”

Rosie looked up wearily and saw the dark, looming shape of the bach and the welcoming glow of a lamp within.

“Didn’t think you’d want to arrive to a dark house.”

“Red, you surprise me. You really do.” Without thinking she reached forward and briefly put her hand on his arm to acknowledge his kindness. It was a nothing gesture, but it totally unnerved Red. That was something Yvonne used to do. It aroused memories he kept hidden in the dark, buried parts of his mind. The nights when the touch of her hand and the comfort of her nearness were his only medication. He remembered his gratitude and the love that grew from it. All gone. Wasted. Destroyed by the Japanese. Then the pain came and he felt himself hurtling headlong into a flashback. He jerked forward as if reacting to the starter’s gun. Work could drive her from his mind. Work could give him back his control. He took the veranda steps two at a time and pushed the door open, threw the box down on the table and the bags alongside it, then raced back out the door. Don’t think! Don’t think! Don’t think!

“I’ll start the generator.” Not a statement, nor a shout. More a plea.

Rosie didn’t move. Her mouth hung open in surprise. Her hand still reached out in front of her. She wondered what had suddenly got into the man. Perhaps she’d just hit him with a massive dose of static electricity. Maybe it was her vomit breath. Or maybe—just maybe—she was the first woman who’d ever touched him. Christ, don’t tell me, she thought. All this way and the bastard turns out to be queer. But weariness overcame speculation, and she dragged herself up the steps and into her new home. She slumped wearily into a chair and looked around her. It didn’t occur to her to turn up the brightness of the propane lamp. The place looked clean, though, which surprised her. Dying old men weren’t noted for their housekeeping. A generator coughed, and the bare bulb above her head flickered into life. She was wrong. The place wasn’t clean, it was spotless. Scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Even the gold and silver flecks in the tacky Formica countertops shone. Fresh flypapers hung from the ceiling. The screen door creaked open as Red returned.