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“I was asking Zana,” I said, unable to prevent a note of irritation from creeping into my voice. Conor smiled and put up his hands.
“You’re right. Rude of me. Zana?”
“I’m fine,” Zana said, echoing Conor’s words. But she didn’t look it. She looked deathly pale. I turned and looked at Santana, trying to communicate my unease, but Santana was frowning down at her diabetes monitor, fiddling with something on the display.
“Dan?” I said at last, but he only shrugged.
“I’m bushed. Are you coming or not?”
I felt a wave of powerlessness sweep over me. But what could I do? If Zana was determined not to admit her fears in front of Conor, how could I bring them up?
“Okay,” I said. “Good night, all.”
And then I turned and followed Dan and Santana into the darkness.
It’s now more than a week since any of us have had a shower, or washed our face in fresh water, or drunk as much as we wanted to slake our thirst—and honestly, right now, I would give my kidney for a cold Coke brimming with ice, or a huge pitcher of fresh lemonade, misted with condensation. I lie awake at night and dream about water—in my dreams I’m gulping it down; it’s running over my face.
I’m not the only one suffering. I know the others must have found it just as hard, maybe even harder—particularly the men who have more body mass, and probably by rights ought to get more water, though we agreed we’d share it out equally. I tried to persuade Conor to take some of my fruit at least, but he wouldn’t. We help each other to keep strong. It’s amazing what you can survive when you have people telling you that they have faith in you, that you can get through it.
If I get through this… God… if we get rescued, I swear I will never take water for granted again.
CHAPTER 18
“PUTAIN! ELLE EST où, la bouffe?”
It was Angel, standing in the middle of the cabana, shrieking the words at a volume that made the birds in the trees dotted around the clearing screech and take to the wing, rising up in an indignant flock to circle and resettle.
I sighed, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and climbed the steps.
“I don’t speak French, Angel.”
“The food! The fucking food!” she shouted in my face. “Where is it? And the water, too.”
I looked around, blinking. The sun had only just risen and the shadows were long, making confusing shapes out of the tables and chairs, but even so, I could see Angel was right. The big stack of boxes and bottles over by the end of the cabana had gone. There was nothing there. Just the marks of footprints.
“Okay, look, don’t panic.” I tried to think. “There must be an explanation. It was there when we went to bed last night.”
Joel was coming up the steps behind me, yawning and stretching, and now I turned.
“Joel? Do you know anything about this?”
“About what?”
“About the fucking food and water!” Angel screeched. “Which has gone, if you would wake up. Putain de merde, I am on this island with fucking idiots.”
“These fucking idiots are right here, Angel,” I said a little irritably. My headache from yesterday had not gone, and I had spent the last few hours fiercely looking forward to a cool cup of water. Now my mouth was dry and my head was throbbing with every dramatic shriek Angel uttered. More than that, there was a coiling sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. Where had our supplies gone? Had someone moved them? But if so, why?
“What’s going on?” The voice was Dan’s, and I turned and saw him coming through the trees. He looked tired and worried.
“It’s the water,” I said shortly. “And the food. It’s gone.”
“Fuck.” Dan looked stricken. “I was coming to get something for Santa. Her bloods have gone very low overnight.”
“Shit. Is it her leg?” I asked. Dan shook his head.
“I don’t think so. The cut seems to be healing, but she’s having trouble getting her insulin right in this heat. I know we’re rationing the food, but that doesn’t count for something like this, surely?”
“I mean—” I waved a hand at the empty space where the boxes should have been. “I would have said not. But extra nothing is still nothing.”
