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Dinner |
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This years invitations
were splendid. Another advantage since his move to Rio de Janeiro –
stuff like this cost of fraction of what it did in Europe. Still – not
nearly as cheap as Asia, but neither he, nor any of the other 17
survivors from the nightmarish island of Kao-Shiatsi, would ever return
to Asia. It was all just too painful. He nodded politely at the
woman in the print shop and handed over a few notes, picked up his box
of gold-embossed invitations and walked into the streets. Rio was so full of life
– teeming with people – old and young, the rich and the extremely
poor. Fabian, luckily, was amongst the richest. His driver pulled up right
on schedule and Crossley waited for the chauffer to open his door. “Thanks Peter”. Peter
was another of the survivors, and since that time during the Second
World War, they had been firm friends. The misery they had all endured
had formed them into a very close group. With a good deal of
difficulty; Fabian eased himself into the back of the Mercedes. His legs
were approximately fifty percent functional – that’s what the
doctors had decided – and any form of movement was painful. Those
Japanese soldiers had a lot to answer for. On the drive back to his
house high above the city smog, Fabian succumbed to the gentle rocking
of the car and the comforting purr of the engine. In his dream he was back
on that hellhole of an island. It wasn’t really an island at all of
course – more a rock. It was a hundred and twenty feet long and ninety
feet wide and was completely barren. The sheer rock faces made it
virtually inaccessible, and the Japanese had gone to great lengths to
get the twenty adults and twelve children onto it. ‘A natural
prison’ – that’s what they had called it. There was virtually no
shelter – just a small cave, but this at least did have fresh water
dripping down its walls. The islanders took three weeks to discover a
way to effectively collect this water. Had they taken any longer, more
would have died. As it was the first to go was Kimberly-Anne. She had
been seven. Then there was the problem of food. None of them had any
idea how long the Japanese were going to leave them there. Fabian woke with a jolt.
The car had been forced to break heavily. “Bloody street
urchins!” Peter shook his head in disgust as a boy of no more than
five years of age ran up to the driver’s window with his hands
outstretched, begging for money or food. The little boys eyes
widened as the window slowly lowered, and he peered in through the
darkened glass to see the face of his benefactor. His smile turned to
deep sobs as Peter’s hand jabbed out of the car and punched the little
boy on his cheek. “Get out of the damned
way, and tell your little sister to stop faking illness in the middle of
the road, or I’ll just keep driving.” His Portuguese was not
perfect, but the message had hit home. The boy wheeled away clutching
his bloodied face and the even smaller girl leapt to her feet and ran
after him. Scenes like this were
normal in a city that was over-run with homeless, parentless children,
and Fabian’s mind did not wander from his dream for an instant. Very
soon he was asleep again and once more he was back on Kao-Shiatsi. After almost six weeks of
captivity, the islanders were in a terrible state. The meagre rations
had been exhausted long ago and the group were degenerating into
animals. Some were eating their own hair, nails, anything they could put
into their mouths and chew on. Two couples, the Moodys
and the Harpers, tried to swim for it. The nearest land was no-where to
be seen on any horizon but anything had to be better than starving to
death. Keith Harper died almost as soon as he reached the water – his
weak body crashing obscenely against the rocks below as the waves
buffeted him around like a child’s sail-boat. The other three did much
better, swimming out for at least a quarter of a mile. That’s when the
sharks arrived. Even from that distance, you could hear Janet Moody’s
pitiful cries. It was a lady called
Harriet Read who started eating her own faeces first. Very early on in
their captivity, the group had decided to appoint a small area behind a
large rock as the toilet. You could hold onto the rock and lean out over
the low cliff and with reasonable success, manage to direct your waste
into the sea below. Harriet was discovered one day lying weakly on the
ground, forcing herself to eat the unimaginable. She died of some fever
or other less than 10 days later. In the meanwhile, another
of the group, Laurel Gordon, had been equally inventive. Using a sharp
rock, he had cut himself just below the elbow. Not only was he able to
drink his own blood, but when it had scabbed over, he was able to pick
these off and eat them too. Others then followed his
example, and for another twenty days, this is how the group kept
themselves alive. Most took care to bathe their wounds in the remarkably
clean water collected from the cave. Laurel Gordon’s wife was not so
careful and she developed a hideous infection on her arm. Her veins
enlarged and turned a greenish colour, which spread up to her shoulder
and down her neck. As it reached her chest, Mannie Gordon died. It was
slow and painful. As the men in the group
threw her body out to sea, everyone knew that something had to be done
about food before they all died. It was Fabian who had come
across a solution, and because he had been the one who had saved them,
he was the one who had the honour of arranging the yearly survivors get
together. The Mercedes pulled up
outside his grand home and Fabian limped his way inside, followed by an
adoring and appreciative man-servant, Peter. December 7th,
and everyone had turned up – everyone!! This was not unusual of
course; none of the survivors ever missed one of Fabian’s
get-togethers. They had all arrived from their various homes all over
Europe and North America and everyone was looking remarkably well. “Now my friends, who
will help me this year?” As usual Peter and one
other stepped forward… “Ah Laurel. Yes, that
would be perfect. Ladies and gentlemen, the main course will be served
shortly.” Laurel followed Fabian
from the room and into the kitchen. The host had trouble opening the
trap door, which lead down to the cellar, and Laurel jumped in
enthusiastically to help. “Do you remember,
Fabian, it was you and I the first time, all those years ago on Kao-Shiatsi” “Yes my friend, my idea
and your strength of mind” “How would we have
survived if it hadn’t have been for you. No-one could have lasted
eleven months without finding food.” Fabian chuckled as he
walked along the long underground passageway to his cellar. “I
remember how disgusted we were at first, how much we all fought our
instincts, how we all heaved our guts up.” Laurel nodded in the
semi-darkness. “And after a while, we actually got to enjoy it. Once
we had our minds straight on the whole thing. Do you think it would have
been easier if we could have cooked it, instead of eating it raw?” “No, I’ve tried it
that way since – its not the same. Ah! We’re here. Please open the
door for me Laurel, its too heavy for me.” Calmly, Laurel pushed open
the cellar door and walked into the pitch-black room. Fabian reached
around in the darkness and switched on the light. On the table lay the
stone. The one they had always used. Beyond the table, laying
tear stained and terrified against the cold stone wall, a little girl
looked up at them, shielding her eyes from the sudden light. “There are so many
anonymous children in this city – we have a never-ending supply my old
friend.” “Indeed we do,” said
Laurel calmly as he picked up the large, blood encrusted stone and
walked towards the little girl, “indeed we do…” |
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