Read Online The Island by Olivia Levez - Free Book Online Page A

say it again. Is your name Frances Eileen Stanton?’
    Freeze.
    Sigh. ‘You’ll be better off if you cooperate. We have reason to believe that, at two fifteen today, you committed a serious act of arson…’
    I tune her right out, this policewoman with her Scottish accent, and make myself hover over the centre of the room instead. It’s a nice room, a white curved ceiling and with a gallery that runs all the way round the top.
    Skeletons leer at me as they march my body down the stairs and past the frozen birds and animals.
    People stare. I watch myself stare back and see them flinch away. Watch the schoolgirl who’s struggling and smirking in her handcuffs.
    I am a rock. I am an island. I am a monster.
    Â 
    Embers
    I can’t make fire.
    I need to make fire.
    I remember being in a vodka haze, out in the life raft. Laughing, crying, striking the matches one after another. Trying to scratch the memories away.
    Shaking, I place the match back inside its little plastic bag.
    Then take it out again.
    I make a little pile of dry seaweed in the sand, and strike the match. Lean low and drop in the flickering flame. The seaweed curls and crisps till it’s nothing but black glowing edges, flecks that break off and blow in the sand.
    I put on some sticks, dry ones I’ve collected from the beach. Smoke billows, but the fire’s not catching the sticks; there’s a breeze coming in from the sea.
    I swallow as I think of red sparks shooting up from the flare. Matches waving in the dark. The seaweed withers to an ember that burns bright in the sand.
    And then goes out.
    The fire’s not catching.
    I lean forward and blow and blow because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but it’s too late; the sparks have all shrivelled and died and there’s just smoke.
    Two matches left.
    This time I build a wall with stones from the beach. I get big ones and stagger with them over to One Tree, where I bury them on their sides till there’s a sort of curved windbreak between my fire and the sea.
    I wipe my forehead. Sun’s going down fast now; there’ll soon be no light because when it gets dark on this island, it gets very dark.
    And then I’ll be alone again with the shadows and the night noises.
    So I take some more seaweed; place the smallest twigs around it like a wigwam; take the second match.
    Flare.
    Â 
    Bus
    â€˜So,’ says Sally, the school counsellor, ‘what is your greatest fear?’
    Wayne-and-extra-strength-lager-and-bruises-and-school-and-what-happens-after-Year-Eleven-and-the-rest-of-my-life-and Cassie-dying-and-Social-Services-and-empty-fridges-and-after-one-a.m.-on-a-Wednesday-and-Johnny-being-taken-away-and–
    What a stupid question.
    â€˜I’m not scared of anything,’ I say. ‘What are you scared of?’
    She smiles. ‘This isn’t about me, Frances. It’s about you.’
    I want to wipe that smile off her smug face.
    â€˜Got any ciggies?’ I ask.
    Sally pretends not to hear. I hate that.
    â€˜Imagine this bus is your life, Frances.’
    She’s actually waving a toy bus at me which she’s taken out of her desk drawer. She must have all sorts of stuff in there. Dolls, probably, for kids to show where they’ve been touched by paedos. Puppets. Sweeties, to bribe kiddies to tell her their deepest darkest thoughts. She’s sick. I vow to take a look in that drawer one of these days.
    The bus is yellow. A nice, happy colour.
    â€˜Imagine this bus is your life and it’s full of all the significant people in your life. Now, who is driving the bus, Frances? Who is driving your bus of life?’
    Oh for frick’s sake.
    I give her my widest smile.
    â€˜I am,’ I say.
    She looks grateful for that. ‘Good, Frances. So you’re in the driving seat. That means you’re in control of your life. Now…’
    She holds the toy bus out to me and looks serious. She even opens