Personal Log: Adrian Rodd

You’ve got to…
Make your own kind of music,
Sing your own special song,
Make your own kind of music,
Even if nobody else sings alo-o-o-ong…

You're gonna be knowing
The loneliest kind of lonely;
It may be rough goin',
Just to do your thing's
The hardest thing to do…

Sarah’s fingers drummed idly against the armrest of her seat, the earphones chanting the old song, and she glanced out of the window. White clouds drifted down below, parting here and there to reveal the dizzying altitude they were flying at. She shifted closer to the viewport. If they were on time, any minute now…

The clouds drifted away as the plane began its slow descent, and the city appeared far below, the evening lights already coming on, offering her the unique beauty of city lights seen from the sky. She smiled to herself. As the music continued in her ears, she whispered, thrilled:

“Paris… Here I come!”

* * *

“Sarah… Sarah, wake up.”

She groaned, stirred, and turned onto her back, opening her eyes. For a moment, she expected to be in her student flat in Paris, but then it came back to her quickly. The French woman’s warning that the ‘Others’ were coming, Jack saying he had a plan and going to find “supplies” in the jungle, everyone moving to the caves, Sun and Shannon whispering about fate and punishment… Now Tom was kneeling beside her, whispering for her to get up. She did so. She could hear voices outside, see the light of torches or of a campfire.

“What’s going on?” she asked, sleepily.

“Jack’s returned.”

A large group, almost every survivor, had gathered in front of the doctor and his team-mates by the time Sarah and Tom joined them, mingling in. It was very dark, the middle of the night, the cool air warmed only by the crackling fire. It seemed most of the others had stayed up, no doubt waiting to see whether the Others were going to attack. The tension remained palpable. Jack himself looked uncertain, edgy. Hurley stayed near him, sitting down and looking thoroughly glum; Kate and Locke moved aside a little. There was no sign of Arzt, nor of the French woman, Rousseau.

“Uh, Locke found, uh, a hatch in the ground about a half a mile from here. We left to blow it open so that we could hide inside – so all of us could hide inside, in case – but that doesn't matter now because it's not going to work. There's no way for all of us to get down in there tonight.”

There were sighs, groans. People looked at one another worriedly. Sarah grimaced. Great plan, Jack, she thought, but said nothing. He had tried his best. She glanced at Tom. She could see the question in his eyes. A hatch? That could mean anything, really. She wondered whether it had anything to do with the notebooks she had found. That would be something to investigate… assuming they were still alive come morning.

How typical not to tell us about it earlier, though! she thought, irritated.

“Jack, where’s Doctor Arzt?” Charlie asked.

“Um, he didn’t make it,” Jack said, obviously reluctant to go into further detail for now. Sarah looked at him in dismay. Arzt is dead? She felt Tom slip his arm round her, supportingly, and she gave him a small, grateful smile.

“Did you see them?” Shannon inquired. “Did you see the Others?”

“Hey, Shannon,” Charlie disagreed, “there are no Others. We've already had this conversation.”

“What the hell would you know about it… just because you didn't see anything?”

“There’s no-one out there,” Charlie said stubborly. Sarah shook her head, slowly. That was exactly what Ethan had told her, once. They knew there had been someone here once, at the very least. Someone who had built a bridge in the middle of nowhere – and, it now appeared, a mysterious ‘hatch’, as Jack called it. And why would Rousseau lie?

“You don’t know,” Shannon countered, just as stubbornly.

“Hey!” Jack retook control of the conversation before anyone else could join the argument. “Everything's going to be okay. Let's just take it easy. We're going to be alright. We're going to stay here tonight, okay, together. We've still got four guns; we'll put lookouts at all the entrances. We're all going to be safe as long as we stay together. The sun comes up in three hours and we're all going to be here to see that happen. I promise.” He paused. “John, what are you doing?”

Locke was walking past, carrying a roll of some sort of cable. “I'm getting some cable,” he answered, unecessarily.

“What for?” Jack asked, his patience strained.

“It's for the hatch. I'm going in.” There were murmurs. Again, the assembled survivors looked at one another, questioningly. Sarah bit her lip, thinking. She was tempted to volunteer to go with him. But then Locke was another one of ‘them’ – the castaways’ self-appointed leaders, who, for some reason, felt they could make life and death decisions for everyone on the island. She had never really trusted him, and she was not going to start doing so now. She had never even spoken to him. He made her feel uneasy.

“Do you really think that's the smartest thing to do right now, John?”

“I doubt it. In fact, you're right. The safest thing is to stay here… wait for morning… wait for these Others, to see if they show up… wait for the brave folks on the raft to bring help. But me, I'm tired of waiting.” With that, he continued on his way, off into the dark forest. The group stirred. Sarah felt herself surrounded by the ripples of her fellow castaways’ uncertainty, permeating her.

Sarah raised her hand, and spoke when she had Jack’s attention.
“What’s in the hatch?” she asked, bluntly.

The man shook his head, looking tired. “Not now, Sarah.” He stepped down from the rock he had been standing on.

“I’ll volunteer for sentry duty,” Tom spoke up, beside her. Like her, he looked at Jack fixedly. “But tell me, Jack… Since when have we got four guns?”

“Never mind that,” Kate put in. “Let’s get organised. Jack’s right. It’ll be morning soon, and then we’ll be safe. Tomorrow we can head back to the beach. Tom, I’ll get you a gun. Who else wants to help out? The rest of you can probably grab a few hours’ sleep. You’ll need it if we’re going to be walking back to the beach with all our bags tomorrow.”

Sarah stayed quiet. The others were in need of reassurance, and that was precisely what Jack was giving them. Questioning him now, openly, would only make everyone worried and confused. She nodded at Tom, silently. The hatch was presumably not going anywhere… For now, they simply needed to stay alert until sunrise.

* * *

Dawn came, followed by full daylight. Sarah sat near the water, while Faith cooked mashed fruit over the fire for everyone’s breakfast. After a while, she began filling up bottles of water; they would need them on their short trek back to the main camp. Routine was beginning to set in again… The Others had not come, and, apart from Arzt’s still unexplained death, it seemed all was going to go back to norml.

Well… Of course, there’s the hatch.

She ate breakfast with Tom in the cave she had slept in, while other survivors milled around, preparing for the day ahead.

“I haven’t seen Jack this morning,” she mentioned casually, and took a drink from their shared bottle. Tom smiled slightly, reading the implicit meaning in her words.

“You wanted to ask him about what Locke found.”

She looked at him steadily. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Of course.” He stood. “Do you want to wait for him here? Or see if we can find Kate?”

Sarah grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to talk to Kate. It’s beyond me why Jack and Locke confide in her but not in anyone else. We have a convicted criminal on the loose, and it doesn’t seem to bother anyone…”

“I don’t think, somehow, that Kate is the main threat here,” Tom pointed out. He brushed his hands together. “I’m going to go and wash the fruit juice off my fingers… Jack may be at the beach already.”

“Or he may be at the hatch.” Sarah stood in turn, picking up their bottle. “But since we don’t know where that is… No, I don’t see much point waiting here. Let’s go back to the beach.”

She rubbed at her eyes, still a little tired, as they left the caves, nodding at others gathering their own bags and preparing to set out, or just emerging from sleep themselves. The walk back was a lot more peaceful than their hurried, tense exodus the previous day, fleeing from the hypothetical threat of the island’s original –and quite possibly fictitious– original inhabitants. Only the news of yet another casualty among them dampened her spirits somewhat as she enjoyed the feel of the slowly warming morning air on her face.

There were relatively few people at the beach at this early hour. It seemed as though they were returning to a ghost camp after a long absence, although in reality it had only been one night. Small waves lapped carelessly against the shore. The tarpaulin of their shelters flapped quiety in a faint breeze. She looked round, and waved at Paulo, walking over to him. The Brazilian was in his tent, sweeping sand off his belongings with his hands.

“Welcome home!” he said, with a rare touch of humour.

“Oh, don’t!” Sarah said with a quick laugh. “It’s only going to be ‘home’ for a short while longer, anyway. Until Michael sends rescue.”

“Assuming his raft doesn’t sink, and they’re not lost at sea,” Paulo pointed out, brushing the sand off his hands. It was a concern none of them had voiced out loud until now.

“Oh, you’ve seen their ship,” Sarah countered with feigned casualness, trying to brush those fears aside. “That thing’s unsinkable.”

“Maybe.” Paulo sounded unconvinced, or perhaps not particularly interested. “But we’re still going to be here a while. We can’t put all our thoughts on rescue.”

“Tell me, Paulo,” Tom asked him, “do you know anything about the hatch Locke and Jack have found?”

“Hatch? No. Not a thing.”

“Aren’t you curious about it?” Sarah pressed. “A hatch. . . Well, a hatch has to be something that leads somewhere.”

“Didn’t Jack say it was too small to hide everyone, whatever it is?” Paulo asked. “Doesn’t sound as if there’s much there.” He shrugged. “I’m not really interested in what Jack does out in the jungle.” He picked up a folded pair of trousers from a pile of clothes, and shook the sand out of it, before folding it up neatly once more. “Except that our only doctor should know better than to spend his days risking his life for no purpose.”

“Right. . .” Sarah said, nodding slowly. She was not too sure what to reply to that. “Well, we’ll let you get on with your. . . whatever you’re doing. See you around.”

Paulo nodded absently. Sarah hesitated a moment, then turned and followed Tom as he walked away. Paulo, too, remained a bit of a mystery, she thought. To say that he was not the most sociable or outgoing person in their little community would be an understatement. Even during their hike out into the forest to find Ethan’s people, over two weeks ago now, he had said fairly little. Perhaps it was something to do with English not being his native language. Then again, he speaks good English, and he’s living with Nikki, so he speaks it all the time… Some people, it seemed, were just naturally reserved and uncommunicative. It was only once they had moved away several metres that Paulo called them back.

“Hey! Wait.” They turned. “About the hatch…”

“Yes?” Tom asked.

“I don’t suppose you know where it is? More or less?”

Sarah looked at him curiously. Her efforts to guess what might be on his mind, however, immediately proved fruitles. “No,” she told him. “Not a clue.”

Paulo nodded. “Never mind.” He picked up a shirt, brushing it over with his hand. “It’s really not important.”

* * *

The following day, the weather was pleasant as ever, and she sat outside her tent in a light top and shorts, making the most of the sun. She still had the abandoned wheelchair to herself, and, although it made a poor substitute for a deckchair, it was at least something to sit on. She leaned back into it as best she could, flipping through the curled notebook she had kept from the stack of capsules. Its sheer lack of identifiable meaning made it a fascinating read.

“Watching the Swan,” she read, in a whisper. “Subject four reading The Turn of the Screw.” What was ‘the Swan’? A ship? It could be anything, anywhere. Why was ‘subject four’ being watched, round the clock, by unseen observers, dutifully noting down everything he or she did at each moment of every day? Where was this information supposed to go? Obviously it had never reached its intended destination. But who could be interested in knowing what someone else was reading? There was, she felt, a slightly sinister undertone to all this. A certain Orwellian je ne sais quoi, perhaps… On the other hand, it would make great suspense fiction. She looked up at Tom as he approached her.

“I think I’m going to write a story,” she announced cheerily, “when I get back to Sydney. About spies, in their secret bases codenamed ‘the Swan’ and ‘the Flame’, being watched by other spies from an enemy– no, from their own side! A story of double agents and people watching people watching other people… A whole tangled web thriller.” She smiled at him. “I just have to sort it out a bit in my head.”

“Reading that again, are you?” He glanced down at the notebook. “‘7:04 AM,’” he read. “‘Subject three takes his shots.’ What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll think of something by the time I get it down on paper.”

Tom smiled. “No, I mean what does it really mean?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better, in fact. You don’t get carried away by too much imagination.” She flipped through the notebook to the last page with anything written on it. “‘Can’t get to Pala. Where to now?’ Sounds like a place rather than a person. Do you think it’s code?”

Tom laughed. “I suppose anything’s possible. Come on, put that away for a moment.” He sat down on the sand, facing her, and his expression turned more serious. “There may be developments. Stories are circulating about Jack’s hatch.”

“Oh?” Her curiosity piqued, she rolled up her notebook and returned it to its capsule.

Tom nodded. “Hurley knows what’s going on. Well, of course he was part of Jack’s team of merry adventurers, when they went to that hatch and Arzt died.” He looked at her gravely. “He blew himself up, by the way. With dynamite. When they blew open the hatch.”

“Dynamite?” she hissed, both incredulous and horrified. “Is that the ‘supplies’ Jack said they were looking for? Where on earth did they find dynamite?”

“Presumably from the French woman. Arzt tried to help them, and got himself killed. Anyway… Hurley knows where it is, what’s inside it, and what’s going on out there. But he’s being secretive… for once.”

Sarah nodded. Unlike Paulo, Hurley was usually one of the most talkative people around. “I s’pose Jack told him to keep quiet.”

“But why?” Tom pointed out. “It suggests they’re hiding something out there.”

“They’re always hiding something,” Sarah reminded him, with a touch of bitterness.

“I have a couple of theories.” She looked at him, interested. “If there’s a hatch, and presumably something behind it, then obviously someone built it, right?” Tom said. “Ethan’s people, these ‘Others’ we’ve been hearing about, like our bridge.”

Sarah shuddered. “Don’t remind me of the bridge.”

“If they built it,” Tom went on, “chances are they were still using it. Why abandon something you’ve built? Perhaps it was even their main base of operations. Then Jack arrives and blows it open. Finds them inside.”

Sarah winced. “They’d be a fight.”

“Exactly,” Tom said. “And we know that Jack’s group have guns – though goodness knows how. Maybe from Rousseau, too. So there was a fight. Perhaps it was actually the Others who killed Arzt, and Hurley is lying about that; I don’t know. Now just imagine for a moment that Jack and company won that fight, and that they’re keeping prisoners out there.” He laid special emphasis on the last words, looking at her intently. “Maybe he’s not worked out what to do with them yet. Maybe he’s trying to get them to tell him how to get off the island.”

“Maybe…” Sarah repeated, thoughtfully. “Although… I can’t really see Jack firing a gun,” she admitted, dubiously.

“Could you have imagined Charlie firing a gun? And yet he shot Ethan.”

She nodded, conceding the point. “All right. But” –she smiled a little– “I still think I may have to take back what I said about you not having much imagination. What’s your other theory?”

Tom frowned slightly. “Perhaps a more plausible one. If there’s a building, out here on this island, it must have some form of communication with the outside world. Maybe they’re trying to use it to get us rescued, and they don’t want to get our hopes up too soon.”

It was Sarah’s turn to frown now. “You really think they wouldn’t tell us that?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“But Sayid’s our resident communications expert. He was a military communications officer. Surely they’d have consulted with him.”

“Who’s to say they haven’t let him in on it?” Tom said pointedly. “He’s generally part of their closed circle of initiates, isn’t he?”

“Yes…” she said slowly. “Yes, I s’pose he is.”

“One thing that is a little bit more concrete… Rumour has it there’s food behind that hatch. Lots of food. Tins and boxes and stuff.” He smiled as Sarah’s eyes lit up.

“You mean… food from the outside?”

“It’s the rumour mill. I haven’t heard any specifics, but… yes, probably.” He smiled again. Sarah grinned slowly.

“Oh, well that would be good news!” She sighed, imagining. “A change of diet… Proper food… ready-made! D’you think there’d be jam? Strawberry jam… ooh, with bread!”

Tom laughed. “Strawberry? Aren’t you sick of eating fruit every day?”

Sarah smiled, and giggled. “Well… strawberries are different. And nothing beats good strawberry jam. I’d brave our local monster just for a spoonful.”

Tom chuckled, before his face turned grave once more. “More seriously… I’m a little tired of everyone keeping secrets around here. No-one knows what anyone else knows any more. There are things we ought to know, and we’re being kept completely in the dark. Everyone’s doing their own thing. It’s enough to drive someone insane. So many damn secrets.” He looked at her appreciatively. “At least I know where I stand with you. All the others… I never know when they might be hiding something.”

Sarah met his gaze, a little surprised. That had been unexpected. She smiled, faintly but warmly, pleased, and tried not to blush. “What makes you think I haven’t got some terrible secret too?” she asked him, her tone a little teasing.

Tom smiled. “I don’t believe that.” He paused. “Besides, for all you know, I might have a secret too.”

Sarah smiled. “Please. Don’t feed my latent paranoia. A girl has to have someone to turn to.” She ran her hand thoughtfully through her hair, dislodging grains of sand with a slight grimace. After a moment’s hesitation, she added: “You know… when we were at the caves… I overheard something.” She was, even at that moment, not entirely sure she should tell him, but after what they had both just said about secrets… And she could see she had his full attention. “I heard Sun talking to Shannon and Claire,” she went on. “They were talking about fate… and punishment.”

“Punishment?” Tom echoed, questioningly. Sarah nodded.

“Sun was suggesting that perhaps we –all of us– perhaps we’re here for a reason. That perhaps all that’s happened to us… perhaps it’s punishment. Somehow. For every wrong thing each of us has ever done.”

“So us crashing here, and everything we’ve had to endure… Sun think it’s fate’s idea of justice? For what? For us not being perfect?” Sarah shrugged, uncertain and uncomfortable. Tom went on: “What about Boone dying? And Arzt? Were they being punished?”

“And Joanna, and Scott, and everyone else who’s died… I don’t know.”

“And you? You almost died. You were… impaled by an arrow. Would Sun consider that to be punishment?” There was a hint of harshness in his voice.

“I don’t know, Tom,” she whispered.

Tom shook his head. “Don’t believe a word of it. There’s no such thing as fate.”

“That’s exactly what Claire said.” She gave a faint sigh of relief, although she was not certain why. “And no, no of course I don’t believe in fate. There’s no reason why we should be punished. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Indeed,” Tom said, and scowled. “Just… let’s forget about it.” Sarah’s nodded, but her eyes narrowed slightly. He still looked a little troubled…

* * *

Sarah took a sip of her coffee, and bit into her sandwich, looking down in mild perplexity at the lecture notes she had scattered over her part of the table. While her French was almost fluent, it did take thorough concentration to keep up all the time, and some of the lecturers did speak so very fast. Her notes looked scribbled, untidy. She chewed on her food, picking up one loose sheet of paper and trying to decipher what she had written just three hours ago. It had not helped that the ink in her pen had been running low. Changing the ink cartridge, she had lost track momentarily of what the lecturer had been saying. The low hum of conversations in the communal lunch room all around her now was a further distraction… and the television was on. For some unfathomable reason, a student had changed the channel to watch a news programme from Québec. The newsreader was droning on in French while Sarah struggled with her notes.

“Le complice présumé de Fabrice Langlois, un dénommé Thomas Strange, vient d’être acquitté, faute de preuves à son encontre. Il n’a pas pu être formellement identifié, et Fabrice Langlois refuse toujours de parler. L’identité du second braqueur reste donc inconnue à ce jour, et celui-ci demeure en lib–”

“Salut, Sarah! Je peux m’assoire?”

She looked up, a little startled, to find a fellow student standing by her table. Hastily, she gathered up her papers, and shoved them into a folder. “Oui, bien sûr! Excuse moi…”

“Pas de problème.” The girl, Myrtille, a student with dark, short-cut hair and a colourful, untidy fashion sense, sat down opposite her with a cup of hot chocolate and a sandwich of her own. “T’arrives à suivre, en cours? Ça a l’air d’être un peu le bazar dans tes notes… Je sais pas comment tu fais, comme c’est pas ta langue maternelle. Sérieux, j’admire!”

Sarah smiled. “[My father is of French descent],” she explained, in French. “[Even though my accent isn’t great, I know…]”

Myrtille laughed. “[Your accent is great. I wish I could speak English like you do French. We’re rubbish at English here. No way the are French going to want to make the effort to learn the language of the Brits and the Yanks.]”

“Sauf que je suis australienne,” Sarah pointed out with a smile. She took another bite of her sandwich.

“[Yes, I know. I’d love to go to Australia one day…]” Myrtille leaned back, looking at her. “[So how are you enjoying studying at a uni in Paris?]”

“[It’s… interesting. Different.]”

Myrtille laughed. “[That sounds like a diplomatic way of putting it.]” Before Sarah could reply, she continued: “[Have you had the time to get out and about a bit? Enjoy life in the City of Lights? Go up the Eiffel Tower, do the touristy things, enjoy the French lifestyle?]”

“[Well… Your bread’s certainly fantastic.]” She smiled, and held up what was left of her sandwich. “[We don’t get bread like this down in Oz. I’m going to have to take some back with me.]”

Myrtille returned the smile. She seemed to have something in mind, so Sarah waited for her to say it. It came quickly enough. “[There’s a protest march on Thursday. I don’t suppose you’ve been on any yet?]”

“[No. I’ve just heard of them.]” She felt rather curious. “[What’s it about?]”

“[Never mind that.]” Myrtille brushed the question aside as a technicality. “[The important thing is, you haven’t experienced the French way of life until you’ve been on a protest march. Interested?]”

“[Maybe…]” She said, cautiously. “[It’s not violent, is it?]”

The other young woman grimaced as though she’d tasted something unpleasant. “[What a very Anglo-Saxon, foreign thing to say. What do they tell you, in Australia? No, we have peaceful protests all the time. It’s a tradition. It’s good fun, you’ll see. You can help us make signs to hold up.]”

“[Well… All right. What time will it be?]”

“[Three o’clock, Place de la Bastille,]” Myrtille told her promptly. “[Wear something comfortable, we’ll be walking quite a bit. From here, you can take the métro to Châtelet then catch line one.]”

“[Yes, I know where Bastille is. With the monument in the middle of the square. And the metro station with all the pictures of the revolution.]”

“[That’s the one.]” Her fellow student grinned. “[You’ll see, you’ll have a great time. You haven’t experienced French culture and traditions until you’ve been on a protest march.] It will be fun, you see, yes!” she added in English, with a smile and a dreadful accent. “You not have that in Australia.”

Sarah laughed. “[No, I s’pose I don’t… OK, then.]” She finished her coffee. “[I’ll look forward to it.]”

* * *

Sarah shook her head, returning to the present. Tom stood up, and she did too, mechanically. He smiled.

“Well, we can be honest with each other, at least.”

Sarah’s lips twitched into a smile. She said nothing…

That evening, she was sitting by the fire, mostly for the sake of its warmth and for company, discussing anything and nothing with fellow castaways. She was getting a little sleepy, and after a while fell quiet, sitting back against a log, half-listening to the conversation and to the soothing swoosh of the waves behind her. She tilted her head back, gazing at the clear night sky, the stars so distinctly visible here, far more so than through the glare of Sydney or Paris’ city lights…

A shadow moved briefly between her and the fire, causing her to turn her head. Tom sat down beside her, grinning widely, his teeth visible in the half-light.

“Guess what?” he said cheerfully.

“What?”

“Remember what I said about there being food in the hatch?” She nodded. “Well, it’s true. And Hurley’s handing it round.” Sarah looked at him, not quite understanding. “Sarah, there’s heaps of food!” Tom explained, joyfully. “And Hurley is handing it all round to everyone.”

Near the fire, people were getting to their feet. There was, all of a sudden, a tangible feeling of excitement in the air. Sarah looked up, still not quite sure what was going, and saw Hurley make his way down the beach, smiling, his arms heavily laden with boxes, tins and packets of food. Her eyes widened, and she smiled at last, standing in turn. Manuel was clapping him on the back, the two of them talking briefly and laughing, before Hurley moved on to Steve, handing out something to him too. Others moved a little nearer, waiting patiently.

Like Father Christmas with gifts on Christmas night… she thought, a slow grin appearing on her face.

“Yo, Sarah, Tom, what would you like?” Hurley asked, walking up to them with a broad smile. Tom glanced at her, smiling. He knew what she was going to ask.

“I don’t suppose… you’d have strawberry jam, and a slice or two of bread?”

“No bread, but… wait, where have I… dudette, I know I’ve got some somewhere, maybe back at…” She waited, hopefully. “Ah, no, here it is right here! Strawberry jam.” Placing down boxes onto the sand, he took out a transparent jar, and handed it to her with a grin. Sarah’s eyes lit up as she took it almost reverently, not quite believing what she was holding. Her face glowed with a delighted grin. “Enjoy, dudette,” Hurley told her kindly, and moved on further into the darkness, dispensing his gifts to more of his campmates.

Sarah sat down slowly, holding the jar in both hands and gazing it at. She heard Tom laugh, as he sat down beside her once more.

“Well… I’m not sure how we’re going to eat it without bread or spoons,” he began.

“Doesn’t matter.” Sarah couldn’t stop smiling. She noticed the strange octogon logo on one side, enclosing a stylised image of a bird, probably a swan, and the word ‘DHARMA’. It sparked a moment of curiosity, but she did not linger on it. Turning the jar further round in her hands, she commented. “It has a sell-by date of February 27, 2005. That’s almost four months from now.”

“What do you think that means?”

“No idea,” she said cheerfuly, and unscrewed the top of the jar.

“Anyone for potato chips?” Steve asked, sitting down near them and tossing a packet to Tom. He caught it and burst it open with a loud bang. Several people laughed. “I’ve got Apollo candy bars,” Nikki said, and shared them round. Sarah took one with a grateful smile, unrapped it, and used it as a makeshift spoon to scoop up some jam. She closed her eyes, smiling with perfect contentment as she savoured her first taste.

“Who wants some jam?” she asked, grinning, after licking the last traces of her first mouthful off her lips.

“Who’d have thought we’d ever have a feast here, on this damn island?” Steve commented cheerily. Sarah said nothing, merely relishing the moment. Much later, she lay back by the fire, resting her head almost naturally on Tom’s lap. She placed her hands over her stomach, looked up at him smiling, and sighed.

The past few days had been filled with tragedy, hope, fear and uncertainty. But just this once, just for one evening, there was laughter and joy all around. For a few hours, everyone at the survivors’ camp was happy and content.

* * *