Personal Log: Adrian Rodd

Sarah pulled her covers more tightly round her, snugly. She stretched, yawned, and sighed, content to remain where she was for at least a short while longer. It had been so long since she had woken up in a bed, she felt she could allow herself the luxury of enjoying it while it lasted. There was, after all, no pressing need to get up, unless the computer alarm started beeping. For now, all was peaceful and quiet. The filtered, artificial light glowed through the shuttlers from an unseen source. She turned her head, resting it on the comfortable pillow, and gazed out at the empty room. It was like being in a large flat, somewhere in a city. As if the jungle and the island just beyond these walls did not exist at all…

Finally, she pushed the covers off herself, yawned again, and stood, walking bare-foot across the smooth floor towards the bathroom. She was still a little sleepy, but it was nothing that a nice long shower, with real soap and shampoo, would not cure. She smiled as she locked the door and took off her nightwear. The small things in life…

She had arrived at the Swan late the previous night, finally taking Jack up on his reluctant promise to let her help out once Sawyer was healed and back on his feet. It was now four days since Shannon’s funeral, and Sawyer had returned to the beach. This morning, she had the Swan almost to herself. With all its little luxuries, she thought, still smiling, as she enjoyed the warm water rinsing over her body. Yes, she reflected idly, living down here was definitely something she could get used to.

After drying herself over and getting dressed in a fresh set of clothes, she made her way to the kitchen, humming softly. Somebody had left a bowl out for her, next to a packet of breakfast cereals. She soon located milk, fruit juice, a glass and a spoon, and lounged back in the sofa. She picked up And Then There Were None, and flicked through it absently as she ate.

The alarm rang out, loudly.

Putting down her book and bowl, she hurried into the next room, just as she heard the sound of someone typing on the computer’s keypad. Eko looked up at her as the alarm ceased, and the counter flicked noisily back to a reading of 108. She smiled at him, wiping a spot of milk off her lip.

“Eko. Good morning. I didn’t realise there was someone still here.”

“Good morning, Sarah,” the tall, muscular African greeted her with his slow, careful pronunciation and thick foreign accent. He stood, pushing back the stool. “I was just leaving. Would you mind taking the next shift?”

“Not at all. That’s what I’m here for.” She brushed a strand of her still damp, untidy hair from over her forehead.

“An interesting place you have here,” he commented casually, looking round the computer room as if seeing it for the first time. “And you have no idea what its purpose is?”

“No idea,” she told him. “We just push the button because… because we just push the button.” She laughed lightly. “I s’pose it gives us all something to do.”

Eko nodded, apparently accepting that. “If you’ll excuse me now, I have work to do back at the camp. Something I should have done a long time ago.”

“That’s fine, I can handle things here.” She glanced at the counter. “Have a good day, mate,” she told him warmly. Eko gave a thin smile. She watched him leave, and wondered again where on Earth it was she had seen him before walking right into him at Sydney airport. He did not appear to remember her at all. Perhaps they had just crossed paths in the street one day, and his face had been etched for some reason onto her unconscious memory… After all, they had both been in Sydney. She shrugged the question off again. It seemed of little importance.

There was over an hour and a half to go before the computer began screeching for attention, but she sat down on the stool nonetheless, looking at the empty screen idly. She heard the metal door creak and clang shut as Eko left the Swan. She was alone now… Alone in this mysterious place that had once, twenty years ago, been under constant scrutiny, and now seemed almost abandoned. She found herself tapping her fingers against her thigh thoughtfully, gazing at the computer screen without really seeing it… After a while, she shook her head, stood, and returned to the living room to fetch her breakfast. She brought it back into the computer room, and ate it silently, opening a page of her book at random to pass the time.

…The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall, and Lombard, pushing it aside, indicated where two or three small holes had been unobtrusively bored through the wall. Adjusting the gramophone he replaced the needle on the record and immediately they heard again “You are charged with the following indictments––”

Sarah turned the page. She remembered how it went, of course, albeit it not down to the slightest detail. An incredibly good thriller, and a baffling mystery. She had been about eleven or twelve when she had first read it, sitting alone at her father’s house in Sydney, in the front room. It had been a hot, almost sweltering summer day, but that book had made her shiver. She had been unable to put it down until she had finished, and by the end she had been jumping at shadows.

She took another spoonful of her cereals, chewing quietly, and flipped forward several pages.

Blore turned his square shoulders slightly and viewed the last speaker thoughtfully.
“You think not too, General?”

General Macarthur said sharply:
“Of course it won’t come. We’re counting on the motor-boat to take us off the island. That’s the meaning of the whole business. We’re not going to leave the island. . . . None of us will ever leave. . . . It’s the end, you see––the end of everything. . . .”

Sarah shivered, as she had done all those years ago, and set her spoon down in her milk with a slight splash. The air in the computer room had turned suddenly colder. She closed the book, and pushed it to the other end of the desk. She glanced up at the counter. 99 minutes…

She chewed her lip, thinking. There was little else to do, at least for the next two hours or so. She was alone with her thoughts. And memories.

How long had it been since they had crashed here? Fifty-three days? Not all that long, really. Objectively speaking. Not even two months. And yet so much during that time had changed. They had all adapted –if you could call it that– to surroundings and events none of them could have believed possible. That first night, they had all been so certain rescue would come; not a shadow of a doubt. Why would it not? That question itself still remained unanswered. They had waited… and waited… And then that injured man had died. And then Scott. And Boone. And… Fifty-three days. It might as well have been an eternity. It was an eternity.

Because we’re not going to leave this island… None of us will. Not ever.

She thought back to what Sun had said, just over a week ago, that night at the caves. “Do you think we’re being punished?… The secrets we kept, the lies we told…”

“The secrets we kept…” she barely heard herself repeat the words, a mere whisper. Of course, in her case, there had been no secret. Despite the crowd, no anonymity. A pair of eyes, right behind her… No opportunity to lie. Except here, on this island, where she was a stranger once more, to everyone. Where she could lie, and keep her shame to herself. Would she have felt any less guilty, she wondered, if she had not been seen? Probably not.

“The secrets we kept…”

“Do you think we’re being punished?”

Perhaps… The thought came to her hesitant, unwilling mind. There was no shying away from it here. Time, perhaps, to face it. To accept a possibility that, to a rational mind, seemed meaningless, mad… Could it be that they were all being punished? Somehow, by someone or something, every single one of them? That they had all been on that plane, and that they had crashed, because they had been meant to come here, all of them? Cut off from the rest of the world, for all eternity. Never to get off the island. Just them, alone. Forever. Eternity: a form of living hell…

Could it be that she had to accept it? And what would happen if she did? Her lips parted, very slowly, with the utmost hesitation. She whispered…

“I’m being… punished?”

Shifting on her stool, she lifted her fingers to her mouth and bit her nails, tensely. The room was quiet, cold… oppressive. She withdrew her hand, looked at it, and glanced up anxiously at the counter. 91 minutes.

“But I’ve already been punished!” she blurted out, a sudden burst of anguish reflected in her dark eyes.

“Mademoiselle Sarah Ng. In view of the charge against you…”

* * *

The large Place de la Bastille, in the heart of Paris, was crowded with cars, buses, vans and pedestrians, and when Sarah approached hesitatingly, she could not help but wonder whether she had got the wrong time, or even day. She glanced at her watch. After making her way here hurriedly from the Portail d’Arabie restaurant, she had arrived less than five minutes early. Surely, if there was a protest march organised, the roads would have been cleared of traffic? She looked around, a little confused. People moved past her, unconcerned, talking in French.

“Sarah! Par ici! On est là.”

She turned, and smiled as she saw Myrtille waving at her. Her friend, in her eclectic style of brightly mismatched clothing, stood on the edge of the square’s wide pavement with several other people, not all of them young. Now that she had focused her attention, Sarah could see a much larger group of people a little further away. Reassured, she walked over to join them.

“Ca va, Myrtille? [I thought I might have missed you.]”

“[No, no.]” Her fellow student laughed. “[We’ll still waiting for a few people. I’m glad you’ve come.]” She gestured at two men in their early or mid twenties beside her. “[This is Yves, and Rachid.] Les mecs, je vous présente Sarah. L’Australianne dont je vous parlais. C’est sa première manif’.”

“[Nice to meet you],” Yves said. Sarah began to extend her hand to shake, but the young man laughed. “On est en France, ici!” he reminded her, and kissed her on both cheeks, the standard greeting. Rachid did likewise. “[Do you like it here in France? Here, have a beer!]”

“[I’m enjoying it, yes. Thanks,],” she said, accepting the bottle and returning the smile. “[And this is a nice warm afternoon too, isn’t it?]”

“[Right.]” Myrtille touched her shoulder. “[The others are moving. Let’s go.]” Passers-by cast them a mildly curious glance as they mingled in with the crowd of protesters. Sarah remembered, as she joined in the group’s fairly slow pace, that she still had no idea what it was they were protesting about. She glanced at Myrtille, who was unravelling some sort of banner with three others. “[Do you want to help us carry this?]”

“[Uhm… sure.]” She looked up ahead. She estimated there were about a hundred people, perhaps even less. They were chanting and holding up signs, making their presence very visible, but it was nonetheless a remarkably small procession. Nothing compared with the tens and even hundreds of thousands she had heard about or seen on the news in previous weeks. “[I’d have expected there to be more people?]” she mentioned, queryingly.

“Y’en aurait eu beaucoup plus, si on avait eu l’autorisation préfectorale,” Rachid muttered in response. Over the sound of the chanting, and occasional hoot of loud party horns, she could not quite make out what he had said.

“[Sorry, what?]”

“[I said],” he repeated, more loudly, “[there would have been a lot more of us if the préfecture had authorised us to be here!]”

“[Wait…]” She stared at him. “[You mean– ]”

While she was looking at him, she had not been paying attention to what had been happening ahead, and when those in front of her came to a sudden stop she walked right into them. “Pardon, désolée!” she apologised hastily, and tried to look over their shoulders. They had come to a standstill. She heard sirens wailing, loud and very close. Trying to drown them out, the chants of protest had turned to boos and cries of anger. She turned to Myrtille. “[What’s going on?]”

Her fellow student scowled tensely, gazing past her. “Comment on dit, en anglais? Ze cops.” She pointed. Sarah tried to rise onto the tips of her toes, then jumped up to catch a glimpse of what stood in their way. Three police vans had lined up beside the road, disgorging at least two dozen men in dark uniforms, complete with black helmets, shields and truncheons. Sarah’s eyes widened in alarm, and she turned to Myrtille again.

“Those are the CRS!” she blurted out, switching to English without even realising it. “They’re the bloody anti-riot police! What the hell’s going on?”

The young woman brushed off her comment as if it were of little concern. “[Relax. The CRS turn up every time we go on a demo without authorisation. Then they’ll claim we were rioting, and the government can justify cracking down further. It’s always that way.]”

“[But why are we here if we’re not allowed to be?]” Sarah pressed, growing increasingly worried. “[There are plenty of authorised protests all the time!]”

Myrtille gave her an almost condescending look. “[Of course, you would say that. I suppose in your country– ]”

“CETTE MANIFESTATION NE DISPOSE PAS D’UNE AUTORISATION PRÉFECTORALE!” The booming voice of a riot police officer blasted over her through a loud speaker, only a few metres up ahead. “DISPERSEZ-VOUS DANS LE CALME !”

“[You heard them],” Sarah said. “[We have to leave. Come on.]”

“[Like hell!]” Yves said defiantly. “[They’re provoking us. We stay.]”

“[Are you crazy?]” Sarah gestured towards them wildly. “[They have riot gear! Shields, truncheons! And they have the law on their side.]” For all the Australians’ reputation of defiance towards authorities, Sarah had no desire to make a stand against truncheon-wielding police officers, just for the sake of it.

“[Relax,]” Myrtille told her calmly. “[Nothing’s going to happen. I’ve been through this lots of times.]” She did look rather tense, however.

“[I’m a foreigner here],” Sarah reminded her, increasingly stressed. “[I don’t want to break the law. They could deport me!]” She shook her head. This was getting out of control. “[I’m getting out of here.]”

“DERNIER AVERTISSEMENT! DISPERSEZ-VOUS, MAINTENANT!”

“[Form a chain!]” The shout rose, defiantly, from the front of the group. “[Link arms, form a chain! We stand ground!]” Other shouts echoed the first one. The crowd of protesters shifted, people pressing towards the front. Jeers and taunts rang out against the police. Sarah caught a brief glimpse of them in their dark costumes. She saw an officer lower the visor over his helmet, a grim smile appearing briefly on his face.

“[Myrtille!]” she said, urgently.

“[The bastards are going to charge],” the young woman said, a flare of anger in her eyes.

“[Come on! We have to get out of here, now!]”

“[We stay until they advance.]” Stubbornly, the French woman stood still, firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. Up in front, the shouts of anger intensified… merging suddenly with dull, repeated thuds and cries of pain. The crowd surged forward as the riot police slammed forward into the human chain of protesters who had linked their arms in defiance. Protesters, held still by one another in the chain, unable to ward off blows, fell to the street, beaten down by the fierce slam of truncheons. Sarah watched, horrified.

“[They’re… they’re beating them down!]” she gasped, barely believing what she was seeing. “[But… they’re defenceless!]” Officers grabbed stricken protesters off the ground, hauling them to their feet, still struggling, and carried them off to the vans.

“[Bloody cowards!]” Yves screamed, furious, and hurled a half-empty can of coke towards the police. It hit an officer on the helmet, and the man took half a step back, as if dazed. There were cheers, savage laughs from the crowd. Sarah could feel the protesters surging all around her, pressing in on her, throbbing as if one… She raised her arm, still holding an almost full bottle of beer, swung it back –

A hand gripped her wrist from behind, hard and firm. She let out a cry, the bottle slipping from her fingers and smashing against the pavement. She tried to turn, but someone grabbed her other arm too. Right behind her, a young black man in civilian clothing looked at her severely, his gaze hard, harsh.

“[That’s enough from you. I’m arresting you for attempted assault against the forces of the law. You’re coming with me.]”

* * *

Sarah rested her forehead against the desk, sighing deeply. The thunderous blare of the alarm jolted her up, and for a moment she felt completely disoriented. Gone was Paris, almost to a whole different world; she was alone in the computer room, and the counter had just ticked down past four minutes. She sighed again, deeply, and turned to the keyboard, typing in the series of numbers that was remarkably easy for her to memorize. 4, 8, 15, 16, 23 –

“…and 42,” she muttered to herself, her fingers pressing the keys. She tapped ‘Execute’, and the alarm fell silent. For another hundred and four minutes.

No doubt she would return here again, over the weeks, months and possibly years to come. The thought was profoundly depressing. She pressed her head on her hands, resting her shoulders on the desk, and watched the counter tick down to one hundred and seven. Could this be it, then? A lifetime pressing a button, as punishment for one brief mistake, a mere swing of the arm in anger one sunny afternoon half a world away from here? With no hope of escape except through death in some utterly meaningless accident, like Arzt or Shannon… Was that what lay in store for them all? Death, one by one, like the ten guests in Agatha Christie’s novel? Perhaps the guiltiest, here too, would die last of all. She wondered where she ranked… Abruptly, she laughed, without humour.

Pull yourself together, girl. I’m not going to go insane.

A hundred and six minutes. She stood, gathering up her empty bowl and glass to go and wash them in the kitchen sink. Routine… Routine set literally by the clock. A countdown that went nowhere, perpetually renewed, never to reach zero. Eternal repetition.

She thought of Sisyphus, while she washed her bowl. The ancient Greek murderer who had tricked and defied death itself, before ultimately being confined to hell and condemned to push a heavy rock up a slope over and over, without ever successfully reaching the top. The parallel, she thought sombrely, was frightening.

She dried her glass mechanically, and glanced back towards the computer room.

If this were hell, she thought, it would probably involve eternal, meaningless repetition of the same act, leading nowhere. A look of fear entered her eyes.

* * *

November 15th. 55th day on this island.

Dear diary… I haven’t been back to the Swan at all these past two days. I’m not sure quite how to explain it, but it makes me feel uncomfortable. There’s something ‘unreal’ yet oppressive, depressing about that place. I wonder whether the original inhabitants ever felt watched? They were being, of course, and thinking back now I really felt as if there were eyes on the back of my neck the whole time. Maybe that was just guilt speaking. I thought I might find answers there, but instead I’m left mainly with doubts. I don’t yet–

“FIRE!!”

She scrambled out of her tent, tossing her pen back in, and the shouts reached her from all around. It was night. The roar and crackle of flames in the trees rushed up at her. She ran towards the blaze, mechanically, moving with the others. There was a hint of panic in the atmosphere, but already Sayid’s voice rose above it, calling out quick and urgent instructions. The flames engulfed the trees on the very edge of the settlement. She watched, horrified.

“Grab tools, containers for sand, anything you have,” Sayid told them. “If we don't stop it, it's going to burn right through the camp.”

Sarah nodded, looking around anxiously. She had no idea what to look for, what to use… Plastic bottles with water? No; that would be pointless. Containers? They had no containers! Crouching down, she tried to scoop up as much sand as she could in her arms, and ran up to the blaze. The heat blasted over the skin of her face as she tossed the sand. It seemed to have little effect.

Wet sand, she thought, quickly. Wet sand will work better. Need to get to the water…

“We need to cut a fire break right here,” Sayid instructed over the rising chaos. “Form a bucket line.”

“Bucket line,” she said to herself. “Right.” They had buckets?

“Some of you people down to the water!” Locke called. He had buckets – somehow. She followed him almost without thinking, and he thrust a container at her. Others ran with them. Splash, splash, splash went their feet as they ran into the cold water and scooped water up as quickly as they could. On the beach, a line was forming, between the sea and the fire. Sea, fire, sand… How had the blaze started? No time to wonder now. She felt a little disoriented by the suddenness of the emergency, and passed her almost full, heavy bucket on quickly to someone – Michael. She watched it be passed up the line, into the dark and the fierce light of the flames, and waited for the empty bucket to be returned to her. The cold water rippled and lapped round her legs with the faint tide, soaking her pyjamas. She shivered.

Michael handed the container to her again with urgent speed, and she filled it up as quickly as she could. They were, she thought suddenly, like a frantic line of ants, all working together... for once. Again the bucket returned to her, and again she filled it up. Mechanically.

The fire still raged perilously close to the camp. It had almost reached Tracy’s tent.

“He’s got my baby!! Stop it!!” She looked up, alarmed, and thrust the container at Michael once more. Claire’s voice, distraught and panicking, rose above everyone else’s in the darkness. “Charlie, stop! Help! Somebody help! He's got my baby!!”

Beside Sarah, Locke turned and ran. Sarah followed him, barely thinking, leaving it to Michael to pull up water. A small group of them gathered round Claire, who was standing at the water’s edge. They all faced Charlie. The young former rock star stood in the sea, watching them warily, almost like a cornered animal. He clutched Claire’s baby close to his chest, defiantly. Sarah stared, aghast.

“Help!” the frightened mother cried. “Come on, Charlie, please! Stop it!”

“I just wanted to save him!” Charlie tried to explain, in a strange voice. His words, to Sarah, made no more sense than his actions. She found what she was seeing almost impossible to believe. Charlie… so friendly. Carefree, yet dependable. She struggled to reconcile what she knew of him with what she was seeing now. It was only after several long, confused moments that she realised she knew very little about Charlie Pace at all. Back before the crash, in a whole other world, before she had met him, he had been a celebrity, a public figure. She knew he had a brother, a niece, that he was from Manchester. Everyone knew that. But the real Charlie, beyond the gloss his celebrity appearance, his public image? She was forced to admit, with some dismay, that he was as much of a stranger to her as anyone else here on this island… even now. Perhaps him grabbing Claire’s child and running into the ocean did make sense, somehow, to him. Perhaps she had misread him completely, missed out on his more private side, unknown to his fans and the rest of the world. He stood, holding the baby very close, and watched them, tensely.

Sarah stood with the others, in the half-darkness, silent. The waves lapped at the sand with a steady rush before them; behind, the fire crackled and blazed.

“Charlie!” Locke called. His voice, calm and demanding, held the authority of an older, more reasonable man than the almost pathetic-looking, cornered rock star. “Give me the baby.” Sarah shook her head, quietly. She had trusted Charlie implicitly, and had always kept away from Locke. Had she been entirely wrong about him, too? The sudden thought that she was surrounded by strangers, their pasts and motivations hidden from her, was an unpleasant reminder of how little they knew one another. She shivered.

“Eko, tell them.” Charlie turned in desperation to the one person he thought might be sympathetic in the small crowd. Sarah glanced at the tall black man, enveloped in shadow. “Tell them, Eko. Tell them what you told me – that the baby has to be baptized.”

Eko’s voice bore an almost gentle rebuke, with a definite touch of sadness. “This is not the way.”

Eko… Baptised… Something stirred in her mind at that, but was gone the next moment.

Locke was equally calm. Sarah, feeling incredibly tense inside, could not fathom how he managed it. Shouts from those struggling against the fire a few metres away sounded strangely distant, disconnected from the unfolding drama. “Charlie, come on, give him to me.”

As the voices around him pressed in on him with almost gentle sternness, isolating him completely, Charlie seemed on the verge of breaking down. “Who the hell are you, John?” he lashed out. “Aaron's not your responsibility. Where were you when he was born? Where were you when he was taken? You're not his father! You're not his family!”

“Neither are you, Charlie.” Sarah winced at Locke’s simple words. In spite of herself, she felt a sting of sympathy for the trapped man, his eyes wild as he realised he had no support from any of them. Sarah said nothing.

“I have to do this!” Charlie insisted. “I need to. I'm not going to hurt him.”

It was hopeless. Claire’s painful plea was the last straw. “You’re hurting me, Charlie…” Charlie was defeated. He did not resist when Locke took the baby from his arms, and returned him to his immensely relieved mother. Claire turned and walked away quickly, without so much as a word. Sarah found she could not blame her.

“Claire.” Charlie began to move after her. Sarah tensed again. She opened her mouth to tell him not to… No words came. She did not know how to talk to him. He was, she felt, no longer the same Charlie, a stranger, and she could not think of the words to talk to him anew. He too had now become a closed book, mysterious, discomforting and vaguely threatening. She felt suddenly dizzy, and a little sick. Pity. She felt pity for him, his helpless voice, the expression on his face, what he had made himself into in her eyes just now – in all their eyes. “I'm sorry, Claire–”

He got no further. Locke stood in his way, and, as Sarah gasped in shock, punched Charlie viciously in the face, once, twice, a third time. Thwack-thwack-thwack. There was no pity there, no kindness or mercy, and Locke’s face was hard as he turned away from the stricken man. Charlie had collapsed in the water, and half-pushed himself up, but did not stand. The small crowd around her murmured, and began to disperse, some returning to the fire. Within moments, Sarah stood alone. She stood motionless. Even from a distance, and through the dark, she could see the expression on Charlie’s face. Confused, dazed… in shock. Almost like a child, she felt… They had all turned their backs on him. He did not even try to get up.

Her feet carried her forward almost before she could decide it, walking into the water in her already drenched pyjamas. Charlie looked up at her, his face bloodied, his eyes questioning and uncertain, barely seeming to recognise her. The water splashed around her ankles, droplets splattering against his bruised face as she reached him. She crouched down, and held out her hand. Her face was hard, almost as hard as Locke’s. All the more so for the pity she felt in her heart. She could not cope with it now, could not understand, and her eyes revealed nothing of the confused sympathy she was struggling with inside.

Charlie hesitated, his own eyes wary, then took her hand, clasping it firmly. She helped him up, then yanked her hand free. He lowered his head, and she saw shame on his face now.

She turned without a word, waiting just long enough for him to look up – for him to see the hard look in her gaze. Then she turned her head away towards the remains of the fire, and walked away from him too. Leaving him on his own.

Yet as she returned to those who were putting out the last of the flames, it was she now who felt inexplicably alone…

* * *