The Raft: A Novel (33 page)

I waited for him to be completely out of sight before darting back into the house. As I ran I thought about what Moneta had said about Burt chasing her in the woods—how she’d feared that his large hand would land on her shoulder at any moment. I glanced behind me. There was no sign of Anubis.

I sprinted down the corridor to the old man’s room, gave one last look through the window to make sure Anubis hadn’t returned, and went inside. The old man was on his back, eyes closed, breathing loudly.

I rushed to the bedside and shook him by the shoulders.

“Hey,” I said. “Wake up.”

He opened his eyes.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Out back. Is there a key?”

The old man shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”

I glanced around the room. There was nothing else in there—at least nothing I could use to help me. The television on a wheeled trolley. A pile of magazines against the wall. A portable electric fan, unplugged, its cord wrapped around the base. Nothing else.

“Talk to me,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on. Did your son do this?”

“He’s not—”

I moved closer. “Not what?”

“He’s not my son.”

“I don’t understand.”

His eyes were deep in his narrow skull, a sheen of mucous rimmed his nostrils. A terrible, foetid smell came from his mouth.

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“I washed up on the beach. I was on a raft.”

“Did he tell you about his brother?”

“Yes. His twin. I met him in the cabin.”

The man sighed and closed his eyes.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice a panicked whisper. “Listen carefully, and when I’m done, leave. Leave immediately.” His dark eyes burned. “There is no twin brother.”

“What?”

“It’s him. Only him.”

It wasn’t as if his words confirmed something I already knew, but as soon as he spoke I knew he was telling the truth. It was an outrageous notion, but it explained my unease since arriving on the island, slotted neatly into the many discomfiting gaps in the twins’ stories. But still I needed to test it. Make sure.

“He told me a story,” I said. “A story about his parents. His life. His brother’s condition. I
met
the man in the cabin. Why would he go through the trouble? Why would he lie?”

“He isn’t lying,” the old man said. “He just doesn’t know it. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know.”

“This isn’t making any sense.”

“Please,
listen
,’ the old man groaned.
“Parts
of what he says are true. His parents … the ship. That’s what happened. But no one survived that day they came through the jungle. No one survived but him. I found him down there and I took him in. Because this is my island, not his. Always has been.”

The man lifted his head and coughed loudly.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He lay back on the pillow and took a deep, calming breath.

“I used to work for Huang Enterprises. A plant geneticist … we were weaponising organic environments for … for the military … but I
le
ft
… I left the corporation a long time ago … escaped it … and I had this island made. A place to get away from a world I didn’t understand anymore! That was the idea. All I … I wanted, was somewhere safe … no fear of anyone disturbing me again. Dear God. I had no intention of deliberately harming anyone. You must believe me! I had signs … signs put up on the beach—warning signs about the fruit, the trees, the—”

“I believe you. Go on.”

He cleared his throat. “No one came further than the beach … and for a while I lived in peace up here … with my wife … my darling wife … There was no trouble at all.”

“Your wife?”

“My wife passed away … and I was left alone, resigned to living out … the remainder of my days here … that is, until that day
his
family came to the island—those Borrowed Gun activists on their corporate witch-hunt, looking to find and destroy people like me …”

I felt myself slide out of reality. I could see everything—the old man in bed, the walls and the television—but everything was out of sync. Unstable. Ready to spin off into space.

“But the boy. He didn’t die. He survived, and I took him in. What could I do? I had no choice. He was by himself. I was all alone. I thought I could raise him. Teach him to take care of this island …
Water.”

I grabbed his mug again and held it to his lips while he took another sloppy sip. When he was done I returned the mug to the table.

“One day something happened—there was a terrible screeching sound in the air—and after that we struggled to remember who we were. Where we were. Any of it. We heard reports—people on the radio. People calling themselves … the New Past, telling us not to worry if we didn’t remember. There were answers waiting for us. All we needed to do was make our way to the communes. I tried to steer the island to one of these communes but the boy wouldn’t let me. He said … he said the voice on the radio was telling lies.”

“What made him say that?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said, and then again, “I don’t know. By that time my memories were beginning to return … as were his. Only, for him, new memories came back—ones I was sure he hadn’t had before.”

“The brother.”

“Yes. He began to talk about a brother he hadn’t mentioned before. I thought he was telling me about a brother from back home somewhere. I didn’t realise the brother was now here. With him. In him. Until the night I saw them switch before my eyes.”

I rubbed my eyes with the palms of both my hands, struggling to grasp what I was being told. I thought about every moment I’d had with both Anubis and his alleged brother. How long had I been lost in the jungle while trying to find that cabin? Had it been long enough for him to get down there before me?

“It wasn’t long before this brother was completely real to him,” the man went on. “And then … and then things moved from bad to worse. He began to believe I … I was his father. I wouldn’t let him believe such a thing, of course—I couldn’t! That only worsened the situation. He moved between these characters more often. He saw me as a threat … I tried to explain that his brother didn’t exist … and he became paranoid. He cuffed me to the bed … took down the warning signs from the beach.”

The man coughed again. I put my head around the door and peered through the window. The young man had not yet come back. I moved back to the old man’s bedside.

“Please,” the old man said. “Turn off that television. It’s been playing constantly. It goes on and on …”

I went to the corner of the room and shut off the incessant static.

“Sometimes he thinks he was born here,” he continued. “Other times he recalls the truth. It’s all mixed up in his head.”

“What about the pirates?”

“Pirates?” The man looked me straight in the eye. “You are in his fantasy, sir. There are no pirates. You are playing a game with a very sick and dangerous boy …”

“So who are they, then?”

“They?”

“There are people making their way into the jungle as we speak. People from another island.”

The old man stared at me and his eyes brightened. “They came. Oh God, they came,” he said. “They’re trying to find me. They
must
find me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I sent a message on my radio a while ago … a plea for someone to find me. But no … he won’t let them. No, sir. They’re a threat. And he’ll do whatever it takes … with violence if necessary. This is his world now. His rules. And he’ll never let it go.”

I stepped away from the bed and paced the floor. I had to think. I had to make sense of my predicament and gauge the precise level of threat. I didn’t know the island; Anubis did. For all I knew, he was watching us. I had to play the fool for a while longer or I might not have a hope of getting away. I had to be patient—calm and exacting—or I’d never get the upper hand. I’d probably find myself drugged and chained like the man in the bed.

“You must be careful!” the man said, louder than was warranted. “You must!”

I put my hand swiftly across his lips then moved it away. “Keep your voice down,” I said. I grabbed the tip of the duvet and wiped his perspiring forehead. I couldn’t leave any sign that he and I had been talking. I went back to the television and switched it on. “Just for now,” I assured him, studying the rest of the room for signs that I had been there. “A little bit longer. Breathe slowly. Settle down. I’ll be back. But you stay quiet. Stay calm.”

Then I left the room.

The cloud on the horizon had grown into a grey wall. The wind had picked up over the ocean and the colossal grey wall tucked and tumbled into itself with speed, edging closer to the island like the ominous chariot of Zeus himself. From somewhere far away we heard the first boom of thunder.

“There they go,” Anubis said, pointing to the beach below. The group were visible now, small black specks making their journey inland, moving slowly towards us before disappearing beneath the canopies of the jungle.

Anubis stroked the chunky barrel of his weapon. “Poor sods. No idea of the shit-storm to come.”

He gave me a shotgun and I held it anxiously. He raised his own weapon, cocked it, and then laid it down on the rail carefully, stretching out his arms and finding his stance. I imagined he’d learned to hold a gun from a movie he’d once seen. It was a dramatic showing of technical flair that didn’t ring true, elbows prodding out and the stock not quite aligned with his shoulder, which was surely supposed to absorb the force of a recoil.

The most disconcerting part was his utter conviction. He knew what he needed to do and there were no conflicting voices advising him otherwise. When those people came out on our end of the jungle, having survived its strange tricks, he wouldn’t hesitate to finish them off. I could already tell.

“You know,” he said, eye against the sight, “I went down to speak to my brother and he told me that he’s seen this, all of this, in one of his d-d-dreams.” He pulled his head back from the gun and straightened his back. “He’s seen how this ends.”

And then he turned and smiled assuredly, devilishly, back at me.

“Tell me about your suh-
suh
-son,” he said. We’d been waiting on the deck for over an hour. The visitors had gone into the jungle but hadn’t yet come out.

All the while Anubis and I had been patiently waiting, mostly in silence, but now cracks were beginning to show in his once cool character. He was becoming impatient. Each time something rustled down in the jungle, he’d whip up his gun to take aim. Realising it was nothing, he’d drop it back on the rail and huff to himself, disappointed and frustrated.

“Tell me about Andy.”

I didn’t want to tell him about my son. I did want to disarm him, but convinced myself I was waiting for the right moment, uncertain when or if the moment would come. He was clutching his weapon too tightly, itching to squeeze that trigger. I couldn’t underestimate that; I couldn’t risk having the barrel swing my way.

“I don’t know what you want to know,” I said.

“I want to know about your son, Kayle.”

I rested my own gun on the rail, but only because it was getting heavy.

“I don’t remember much about my son.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“But you love him.”

“Yes.”

“And thuh-that’s enough.”

“It’s enough.”

I wanted to say nothing at all but that might make him suspicious. He’d know something was wrong. As I thought about what I could tell him, however, I became lost in a dream of finding Andy, what that might be like. For a moment I forgot about the island, the man in the bed, the unsuspecting guests in the jungle. For a moment I wasn’t even talking to Anubis.

“I have to believe he can be found,” I said. “I don’t remember the details of who he is or was, but none of that matters. I love him. I’ve loved him since the day he was born. I love him
because
he was born. That’s why it’s enough.”

“Yes,” Anubis said, nodding. “Perfect. F-f-antastic! That’s what I’m talking about.”

I resented his reaction. The last thing I needed was his approval, his pat on the back.

“And you really remember nothing about his life?” he asked.

“Like I said. No.”

“Huh. So do you … duh-
duh
-do you remember anything about
yoursel
f
?”

“Not really.”

“Your childhood?”

“I have flashes. But no.”

“Heavy,” he said, scratching the crown of his scalp. “So really, you don’t know what kind of a father you were at all, do you? You go around telling yourself you’ve guh-guh-got to find him, you
have
to find him, he
needs
to be found … but, for all you know, you were the worst father in the world, because you can’t remember anyway.”

“I suppose.”

“But maybe
he
can remember. He could remember all too well. Which begs the question, Raft Man: how can you be sure your son wants to be found by you anyway?”

“I can’t.”

“What about the rest of your family?”

“I had a daughter.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding sincere. “How?”

“She was hit by a speeding car.”

“On purpose?”

“No, but he was speeding. And he didn’t slow down. Didn’t even stop. Just kept going.”

“Bastard! You ever find the driver?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t that cut you up? That would cut me up.”

“Hm.”

“And what about their mother? You remember anything about her?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to find her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Why?”

I sighed. “Because she left us. After Day Zero she …”

I paused, fed up with the conversation.

He leered knowingly. “She couldn’t remember, could she?”

“No. She wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t say ‘wouldn’t’, Kayle,” he added, bending to look through the sight again. “I said ‘couldn’t’.”

I hadn’t thought about Sarah in months. Perhaps his insinuation had been right: I
did
resent her—resented her for not being able to remember us. So she’d left that house of strangers, as I supposed anyone eventually would. I’d jumped to the defence of my children so quickly, without allowing that I hadn’t given her the proper consideration. I recalled nothing of our early lives, hers and mine. What had we been like together, before the children? What promises had we made and what kind of life had we once dreamt of sharing? What had we known of each other that we later did not even know of ourselves? Were we once in love … and how had that felt? The day she left I shut her out of my heart and mind—cancelled my caring—but now, all this time later, there was finally the dimmest sense of remorse. The sense that I had somehow wronged her.