The Last of Us

Rona Aonranach

Calum Ian did not come back that night, or the next, or the next. I made a hundred bargains with the sea to bring them home, but the sea never listened.

The first night a shiver went through the air, and it began to rain. The water got moving shapes on it, which I thought were rescuers, but they were only waves.

I stared at the sea until I saw boats, whales, faces. When the rain came I walked to the ferry slip to save Elizabeth and Duncan’s bags. Duncan’s fiddle had got wet, and the strings sounded wrong.

I ate the packed lunch that Elizabeth made for us: oatcakes, pineapple juice, jelly vitamins.

Stuffed beside Duncan’s lunch were other things. The fiddle book he was learning last year: Fiddle Time Christmas. Also clothes, pencils, chalks, a packet of cards, a conjuror’s set, jotters, felt-tip pens.

I made a cairn out of stones to remember them by. I threw flowers in the water and begged the sea to change its mind, to be kind to my other friends.

When a plastic bag flew past I thought it was a person, but then I saw it was just rubbish blown from the lines of junk along the shore.

There were big birds – flying, circling over the next beach along. I didn’t want to look too close at them in case they told me where Elizabeth and Duncan were.

At night I went on lookout, for lights on the sea or maybe from the next island. I looked for Calum Ian flashing his torch. He might have a flare: he could shoot it up to tell me they were safe. But I saw no lights.

I sat on a rock to watch. I imagined a genie, giving me three wishes. I could use all three wishes to make the sea go away, like Moses. Then run to the next island to join them. But each time I imagined the sea bottom it was full of mud, or wrecks, or the bones of whales, and then the water came back anyway too quick, and I didn’t have a raft or armbands to stop me from drowning.

I slept in the ferry waiting room. The sleeping bags they left behind had the smell of them. When I closed my eyes I imagined that everything was back to normal.

‘Why was six scared of seven?’ I asked a bird outside. ‘Because seven eight nine.’ The bird flew off.

Behind the metal screen was the waiting-room café. I tried the door and it was open, so I went in and opened up all the cupboards: but the only thing I found was a giant tin of coffee, plus a stack of plastic cups.

Calum Ian was right, though: I did need water. Being thirsty started to take up all my thoughts. Especially as there’d been rain and I never collected any. I knew you couldn’t drink from the sea – that was a rule no one ever attempted to break – but what about rock pools? No one mentioned if rock pools were in or out. Maybe not the ones nearer shore: but what about those higher up?

But it was hard to be certain, so I tore open the cartons of pineapple juice and licked the drops from the bottom of them, then from the shiny insides. The taste only lasted as long as it took to unpick the seams.

I looked for puddles, then for water in the cracks of the wood of the pier. There was a rusty crumpled can, but the water in that had gone gritty, sharp-tasting.

I looked in other places: the drain, the toilet inside, the cars in the car park. I remembered from somewhere that you could suck moss, but where would I find that?

I stared and stared at the sea. At the islands. Until my breath misted the glass of the window. I tried to lick the wetness off, but my tongue was too dry to do it.

Sadness came like a pulse in me. Every few seconds I’d remember, and it would be sharp, and I’d have to turn away from the thought, scrub my mind of it. There would be a second without, before the pulse returned.

I thought for a long time, until it got hard to know if I was thinking or talking.

‘This is me talking now,’ I said to the world. ‘And now, and now. And now and now. And now.’

It helped to imagine where they were. How tall were the adults? Were teenagers taller? Did the ladies have soft voices? Hopefully they wouldn’t mind that our clothes were dirty, that we had scars on our faces (except Mairi), but anyway, Calum Ian would do a quick job of telling our story. And Alex would be all right once he got his medicine. And Mairi would begin to speak again.

It got to three days: then I had to leave. I packed my teddies and clothes, and took Duncan’s fiddle. Then I used his chalks to write a message on the slipway:

But it didn’t seem clear, so in the end I changed HERE IS to RESCUE. Then after that I used Duncan’s jotters to write a message, which I stuck inside the window of the waiting room. The message was: my name, age, parent, the class I grew up in, the family of children I belonged to.

The road was dotted with grass and sheep shit. There were trees blown into tangles. I didn’t want to look at them, because their shapes made me uneasy.

Every hundred steps I chalked a new arrow to show the way I was going for everyone to see.

It didn’t matter that the arrows wouldn’t last, because they’d be coming soon enough.

Her front door was open. Somebody broke it. There were trails of sheep shit going into the hall, which made me think they should’ve taken better care. Once animals get into your house then it stops being a home.

I thought I saw an old green blanket spread out on the stone steps. It was only when I got up close that I realised: it was the body of a somebody.

Then there was another person: just inside the hall, seen through the broken door. Normal brown hair, but with the face shrunk to a skull. A hand with black fingertips.

I ran away to the far edge of the garden.

Counted twenty.

Watched the bees on the flowers, the seagulls miles away, the slow clouds, to help my eyes forget.

I went around to the back door, and found that they didn’t need to break the front one: the back was open. Or maybe Elizabeth opened it later? But the instant I put my head in there was a smell – a very bad smell.

I didn’t have a perfume-hanky, or goggles, so I decided to run in and out quick, so the stink wouldn’t stay.

The kitchen: a big mess. Cupboards open, drawers crashed to the floor. Plates smashed, tins of food under the table. I had to get out – to breathe.

I went back. Checked under the sink. The water wasn’t where Elizabeth said her mum and dad kept it, so somebody must’ve taken that.

I found one empty bottle, that’s all. I had to get out.

I went back. Found a tin of kidney beans on the floor. Plus a jar of beetroot. And a card on the fridge which said: Jesus loves you – but I’m his favourite.

I tore the card into tiny pieces, not caring that for the time it took I had to take a breath.

Back outside, I drank the juice from the jar of beetroot. The taste was very queer. I opened the can of kidney beans with my opener, but the juice was like glue.

I remembered Elizabeth’s rule for food: smell a lot, taste a little, wait, eat. Only maybe it didn’t matter the same for the water that you got in food?

‘It’s hard without a sidekick,’ I said to the world. ‘It’s not easy to tell yourself you’re thirsty.’

After wrapping a T-shirt and scarf around my nose I went back in. I ran upstairs.

Elizabeth’s bed was made. She had a desk, a CD player. Her pencils stacked neat, in the correct rainbow order, waiting for her to come back and use them.

She kept her achievements on the wall beside her desk. Learn to Swim – Level 5. Beginner’s Gaelic Gold Prize. Well done! You Kept our island Tidy. Summer Star Pupil. RESPECT AWARD PRESENTED TO ELIZABETH SCHOFIELD FOR SHARING HER STORY WITH CLASS P1 READING GROUP.

Just beside, a picture of Elizabeth on the wall. Her skin looked normal: it was from the time before. She looked young. But the main thing was: she smiled. I’d never seen her smile with her eyes taking part.

I took the picture, to show the others when they came back. To show them how strong her smile could be.

So I knew what happened. The people came. ‘They ransacked,’ I said, remembering the exact word.

They were looking for medicines, not food. But Elizabeth’s mum and dad were gone: they were sick at the gym. And anyway, they didn’t have medicine. It was all on the boat, which nobody knew about.

Then I knew why Elizabeth didn’t want to go to her home: because it had been spoiled. We all had clean homes, perfect homes, but she didn’t.

Her home had strangers who had died in it, which was why she never wanted to take us there.