Personal Log: Adrian Rodd

Fresh, clean clothes. Only a short while ago, they would have been an inaccessible luxury. Now, she was rapidly getting used to them again, to the point that they had become once more indispensible. The washing machines in the Swan were a long hike out to get to, but they were worth every trip. Sarah ran her hand over the sleeve of her clean white t-shirt as she walked across the beach, heading towards a blond woman who was standing outside a tent, beating sand out of a pair of shorts.

“You know it would be easier to wash them?” she called over as she came nearer.

The woman looked up, and gave a quick smile in greeting. “I’d be spending my life at it. No matter what I do, the sand just gets in everywhere. How are you?”

“Fine. You?” Sarah returned the smile, and came to a stop when she reached her. “Have you got a moment?”

“Sure.” Libby looked around, gesturing briefly with one arm. “We’ve all got a lot of time these days.”

“Well, I’m not missing the routine of work yet.” Sarah’s face turned more serious, and she lowered her voice. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. . . uh, professionally. As a clinical psychiatrist. If that’s ok?”

“Psychologist,” Libby corrected her automatically, with a slight smile. “And yes, of course. What can I do for you?”

“Psychiatrist, psychologist... I’ve never been able to remember the difference,” she admitted, in what she hoped was a light tone. She glanced round. There seemed to be no-one within earshot. “This is going to sound strange. But I don’t think I’m crazy. At least, I hope not.”

“You know what they say about people who think they might be crazy.” Faced with Sarah’s mildly puzzled expression, Libby explained: “The fact that you’re wondering about it means that you’re probably not.” She smiled, reassuringly. “Now, what’s all this about?”

“Well... it’s like this.” Sarah kept her voice down. “A while ago, someone –I can’t tell you who– suggested that we were all on this island because we’re being punished. Or, more accurately, that everything that’s happened to us since we got here is a form… a sort of punishment. For things we did in our past life.” She paused, realising how that sounded only once she had said it. She gave a rather uncomfortable laugh. “I mean, our life before we arrived on the island. Anyway, it occurred to me… I mean, I was wondering… I mean, it’s been on my mind a lot, and I…” She paused, and took a deep breath, steadying herself. She met Libby’s calm, reasonable gaze. “Do you think it’s possible at all, or am I going insane? I wouldn’t have asked, wouldn’t have bothered you with this, but… I don’t know, it’s just been… well, as I said, on my mind for a while.”

Libby nodded slowly. For a short while she appeared to reflect on it in silence, while Sarah waited anxiously. Finally, she said: “You heard someone talk about this. When was that? How long ago?”

“Uhm, about… Today is the 17th, right? It must have been just under two weeks ago. I think. When we thought the Others were coming, and we all left for the caves. Before you arrived here, of course.” She thought back to it, and frowned a little. “Does it matter?”

“It does if it’s been bothering you all this while.”

“You think it’s not important? That I should just brush it off?”

“Not at all,” Libby said calmly. “Anything that’s bothering you matters.” Her voice was soothing, but by no means patronising. She gestured towards the far end of the beach. “Shall we go and sit down? On the grass. We’ll be a little more private.” Sarah nodded gratefully, without a word, and followed her. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while. You must have formed some opinion, by now, about whether or not it’s true?”

“About whether we’re being ‘punished’? We-ell…” Sarah was hesitant. “The problem is, that would sort of imply someone was doing the punishing.” When Libby nodded, she went on: “Someone that’s, well, powerful enough to do that. Someone, or something, perhaps, that brought us here. And that brings us into the… implausible.”

“God?” Libby asked calmly.

“One of the, uh, people discussing it mentioned fate.”

“And do you believe in fate, Sarah?”

“Me? No. Well…” Again, she hesitated. “I never used to. I’ve always been a rational sorta girl. Or at least I like to think so. Which is why I’m not happy having all these… doubts.”

Libby nodded once more. “Have you talked about this with anyone yet?”

“No,” Sarah said, shaking her head emphatically.

“Not even Tom?”

“Especially not Tom. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.”

Libby smiled a little. They had reached the stretch of grass, and sat down. Sarah glanced back nervously towards the camp, but no-one seemed to be looking in their direction. “Then you were right to come to me. It wouldn’t have helped you to keep all these questions bottled up inside. All right, let’s start at the beginning… This person’s words, his or her suggestion, have had quite an effect on you. Is there some reason why you think we may all be here… for a reason?”

Sarah’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure…” she began slowly.

“Let me put it another way.” Libby’s tone was gentle, encouraging. “You don’t have to answer this, but it will help if you do. Is there something you’ve done, at some point in your life, which makes you believe that perhaps, just perhaps, someone or something may want to punish you?”

Sarah was quiet for a very long while. She could not blame Libby for asking. It was an obvious question, and she should have seen it coming. But it was the first time anyone here, on this island cut off from the world beyond, had come close to piercing her own little secret. That anyone had threatened –so to speak– her attempt to start afresh, unblemished in the eyes of her fellows. Not that she saw herself as a criminal. She had made only that one serious mistake in her life, a moment of folly, but it had stained her, inside – stained her self-image, her conscience. Out here, it had been as if the past had been washed clear, as if all could be forgotten. And then, one night, that sudden suggestion: what if, far from cleaning away the past, this island brought it into focus, forced it back into the present, and amplified her guilt… and its everlasting consequences? The very idea was so terrible that it had been a lasting shock upon her mind. And now, as Libby tried to bring her sense of guilt into the open, she was uncertain what to do. She remained untainted in the eyes of the other castaways at least. Did she really want to change that? She had witnessed Sawyer publicly shaming Kate, exposing her as a convicted criminal, throwing the woman’s guilt into all their eyes… which had unanimously reflected condemnation back at the lonely castaway. And then, two days ago, she had been there to see Charlie’s public shaming, to watch every one of his campmates physically turn away from him, leaving him stricken in the cold sea, cast alone with the humiliation of what he had done. His guilt, too.

“Maybe,” she said at last. “I’m not sure myself, to be honest.” She looked into the other woman’s eyes. “But that would imply that we’ve all done something. And how could we all have been brought here? How were we chosen? How could–?”

Libby lifted a hand, quieting her. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” she said gently. “If we look at this reasonably, we’d have to assume that our being here is an accident, along with everything that’s happened to us. Everything so far can be explained logically–”

“Our surviving the crash?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Over seventy of us survived the crash, yes?” Sarah reminded her pointedly. “Almost all of us were completely uninjured. How likely is that?”

Libby considered that for a moment. “Just because something is unlikely doesn’t make it…” She trailed off. “How do you relate that to…?”

“I don’t. I don’t know. I’m just saying…” She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m probably just getting concerned about nothing at all.”

Libby nodded slowly. “Perhaps… Or perhaps you – we are missing the bigger issue. Perhaps you’re focusing on the idea of us all being ‘punished’, as you put it, because you’re concerned mainly with… with what you did.” She looked at her seriously. Sarah grimaced.

“Yeah, that’s a distinct possibility.”

“A fresh track for you to consider?” Libby smiled slightly, and Sarah merely nodded, looking rather unhappy at this new turn in their conversation. “Listen,” Libby said kindly, “if you do want to pursue this whole angle on fate and… divine punishment… Well, it sounds as if we’re talking more about religion, and that’s not quite my field of expertise.”

Sarah laughed, briefly and with little humour. “Yeah, mine neither. And since we haven’t got a priest on the island…”

“Oh, but we have.” When Sarah gave her a startled look, Libby nodded. “Didn’t you know? Eko’s a priest. I’m not sure what denomination, though…”

“Eko is a priest?” she echoed. “Oh…”

“You might try talking to him,” Libby suggested. “I’m sorry if I’ve not been much help…”

“No. No you have.” Sarah got to her feet, brushing stray blades of grass off her shorts. “Really… You’ve given me things to think about. And… Well, I’m not sure about seeing a priest.” She smiled a little awkwardly. “I’m not at all religious.”

* * *

London. City of a thousand famous names, of red buses and friendly bobbies, Big Ben and the Thames. For many years she had wondered what it would be like to stroll down its busy streets, soak in the atmosphere, listen to the accents, wander by the riverside. And now that she was here, she found she could not appreciate any of it. She would, in fact, have prefered to go straight home. She had considered staying at the airport, but nineteen hours was a long time to sit in a waiting lounge, and she had hoped the sounds and feels of the city would provide a welcome distraction. Take her mind off… things.

They had, for a brief while. But as she left her hotel and made her way towards the Thames, glancing frequently at her fold-out map, her solitude in this strange country brought her sense of guilt to the fore all the more powerfully, and she longed to leave Europe far behind, forever. There was nothing like being alone in a foreign place to feel broody, to fill oneself with self-doubt.

She had left Paris earlier that day, completing the first leg of her long flight home by a stop-off in London. Her next plane would double back eastward, touching down in Seoul before she finally reached the familiar shores of Australia, and the events of the past few months could be buried safely in a hopefully irretrievable past.

It bothered her somewhat that she should feel so bad about one little mistake. After all, she had not actually hurt anyone, and many people no doubt did far worse on a regular basis, without being haunted by the demon of self-inflicted guilt. But the sharp, severe gaze of that French judge, after the firm hand of the plain-clothes policeman on her arm, had shaken her far more than she cared to admit.

The somewhat murky waters of the Thames flowed by alongside her as she began to follow the river, mimicking the flow of buzy Londoners going about their daily business with barely a glance at one another. She was lost amidst a crowd, anonymous, insignificant, but she realised she drew little comfort from that. In the distance, she could make out the iconic Tower Bridge, outlined through a thin fog. It was going to rain, she thought. She slowed, without quite knowing why, and stopped at an empty bench, sitting down. She wondered –a ridiculous thought– whether she could remain sitting here for the next twelve hours or so. She heard herself laugh briefly, mirthlessly.

For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together! What are you, a crybaby now? You have no excuse to feel sorry for yourself!

She flinched inwardly at her self-rebuke, and gazed out absently at the water.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was foreign, heavily accented, decidedly male… concerned without being intrusive. She glanced up warily, and looked upon a tall, broad-shouldered black man with a kindly face, wearing the plain black suit and white collar of a Catholic priest. Inside, she groaned. There was never a good time to approach her with hopes of conversion and religious salvation, but this man had unwittingly picked the worst time immagineable. She considered telling him she wasn’t interested, but held on to the basic forms of politeness. “Yes?” she asked, with an audible trace of warning in her voice. Back off. Go away.

If he picked up on the hostility in her tone, the man did not react to it. “You look troubled,” he said, much to her annoyance. He gestured at the bench. “May I?”

Sarah sighed. “Plenty of room,” she mumbled, and pushed herself to the opposite end. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” The man’s lips gave a faint, polite smile, and he joined her on the bench, leaving a wide space between the two of them. “Please forgive the intrusion, but you seemed particularly unhappy.” He turned his head to look at her with obvious interest. “I am Mr. Eko.”

“Mr. Eko?” Despite herself, she looked him in the face at last. There was a hint of contempt in her voice, a trace of bitterness. “What kind of name is that for a priest?”

“You may call me Father Tunde if you prefer. It makes little difference.”

Sarah sighed again, and rolled her eyes. “Look, Father, I appreciate whatever it is you’re trying to do. And I realise that, to you, you have some sort of obligation to bring… spiritual help to people, or whatever. But if you’re looking for a lost soul to soothe into your flock, I’m really not it. I’m not even a Catholic, and I really don’t need a priest.”

The tall African nodded slowly. “Sometimes, my child, we do not know what it is we need. But I am not here to convert you in your times of trouble. If you are meant to see the light of God, you will do so. I am only here to give you what help I may.”

Sarah considered a witty retort, could think of none, inhaled deeply, and lowered her head. “I don’t really want attention right now,” she said at last, after a long while, and was surprised at how small her voice sounded.

“And how long have you been alone with your problems?” Eko asked her calmly. She flashed him a look of profound irritation, almost anger.

“What business is that of yours?”

“May I ask your name?”

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question.” She grimaced. “Sarah. I’m Sarah, if you really must know.”

“Sarah. None of us is ever fully alone. We must simply find out how to reach for support.”

“So what do you want from me?” she asked sarcastically. “A confession of my sins?”

“If you would like, I can hear your confession,” he told her kindly. “But I can see that your misdeed is troubling your conscience.” His voice was slow, his words precise and well articulated through his foreign accent. “This leads me to think that you are a good person, Sarah. Whatever it is you may have done.”

She opened her mouth… then closed it again slowly. She looked at him, for the first time without hostility, although her eyes were still wary. “And how would you know?” she asked, provocatively.

“Because you regret.” He moved no closer to her, but there was an almost gentle warmth in his earnest eyes. “It may not be confession, but it is the first step to redemption nonetheless. There are those who confess without sincerity. You are sincere in your remorse, even though you do not confess. God knows what is in your heart.”

“Yeah, well…” She shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks. I think. But that’s mostly just mumbo-jumbo to me.” She got to her feet. The priest remained seated, watching her intently. “I appreciate your kindness, but I don’t need it. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ve had enough spiritual therapy for one day.”

The priest smiled faintly. “Goodbye, then. Thank you for listening at least a moment.”

“Uhm… yeah.” She checked mechanically to make sure nothing had fallen out of her pockets, then glanced down the riverside towards Tower Bridge. “That’s fine.”

“Perhaps I will see you again in the next life.” Still he remained seated, as if quite content to stay on this bench now that he had found it. “Or before.”

Sarah gave a quick, almost scornful laugh. “Pardon me if I’m in no hurry to get there, Father. I’ve still got a bit of living to do in this life first.” She gave him a curt nod. “Goodbye,” she said, and turned away, walking at a quick pace towards the distant Tower Bridge.

She imagined she could still feel the priest’s curious eyes on her back…

* * *

Sarah found Eko some distance from the main campsite, pushing a long, trimmed branch of wood up onto the skeletal structure of a wooden building’s still bare frame. She approached quietly; the muscular African priest seemed intent on his work.

“Hi again,” she said casually, as she walked up to him. Eko turned his head, registered her presence, and nodded.

“Good morning,” he acknowledged her politely, and pushed the wooden pole up further, before securing it in place with some sort of strapping.

“Building yourself a bigger house?” she asked curiously. She glanced round, taking in the wooden logs piled nearby, alongside a smallish axe.

“Not quite.” Eko smiled, and brushed the sand and soil off his large hands. He turned to face her fully. “This is the Lord’s house,” he explained to her reverently. “I am building a church for my brother.”

“Your brother?” She gave him a surprised look.

“It is a long story.” He glanced at his work for a moment, nodding quietly to himself, then focused on her once more. “Is there something I can do for you, Sarah?”

“I think there may be.” She managed a slight smile. “At least, Libby thinks so. I’m taking you up on an offer you made to me a few years ago.”

“A few years ago?” This time, it was Eko’s turn to appear confused. “I don’t understand.”

A faint smile played on Sarah’s lips. “This is the third time we meet, Father. I bumped into you in the airport in Sydney, and I’ve finally remembered where it was I’d seen you before… why you looked so familiar. London. Don’t you remember? By the Thames. You came to me; I was sitting on a bench… You seemed to think I might need a priest. Well…” She paused, took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eyes. “Third time does it,” she told him seriously. “I’ve come to confess.”

Eko looked at her for a long while, searchingly. She held his gaze without flinching. He seemed to be peering straight into her soul, and for a moment she felt the skin on her back crawl, but she held her ground firmly.

“London…” the priest said at last. An absent look drifted into his dark eyes. “London… seems such a long time ago now. But yes, of course. I remember you, Sarah.” Again, that faint smile. “I remember telling you… that you’re a good person. I’m afraid my church isn’t quite finished yet. But if you’d like to step inside…”

“Uh, yes. OK.” A little nervous, she moved under a thin wooden beam, into the bare structure. “Look, I’ll come straight to the point. I’m not sure I should even be here, and maybe I’m wasting your time, but… I’ve just talked to your friend Libby.” And she told him. The conversation she had heard between Sun and Shannon. Her doubts and fears. The thoughts that had tormented her in the Swan. What she and Libby had discussed. Eko listened with silent attention, his face serious but not judgemental. When she had finished, she moistened her lips uncomfortably. “So I was wondering… theologically speaking… What do you think? Is there such a thing as… I don’t know… divine fate?”

“Have we undergone judgement already, you mean?” Eko fingered the small wooden cross he wore around his neck. “That is not how God’s justice works. We are still alive; we cannot yet receive final judgement. There is still time for each of us to do good or bad, redeem himself and find salvation in the eyes of the Lord.”

“So…” She looked at him hopefully. “You’re saying everything that’s happened here is just coincidence? It has no… meaning?”

Eko shook his head slightly. “I do not know what has meaning. But you must trust in one thing, Sarah.” He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “The Christian God is a merciful God. This would not be His way.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Sarah admitted with a quick sigh of relief, although she was not entirely certain why. It was not as if she even believed–

“I will hear your confession now.” She looked up at him, startled and almost alarmed, drawing back a step or two on instict. “If you will give it to me.”

“Uhm…” She swallowed nervously. “I’m not sure…” Eko did not move. There was something both intimidating and comforting, fatherly about his patient gaze. She bit her lip. She had told no-one on the island. No-one… “You have this… thing called… priest-sinner confidentiality sort of thing, yes?”

“Yes,” Eko assured her. “What is said in this church remains in this church. It is for the ears of God alone.”

“Well… and for yours, too,” she pointed out, with an awkward little smile.

“I am but the instrument of God,” Eko told her gravely.

“Yes, but you’re human too.” Sarah paused. She exhaled quietly, and closed her eyes briefly. “All right. It was in Paris… A few months before I first met you. I was in this demo…” Her throat was dry. She swallowed again. She had rarely felt so nervous. “I… swung a glass bottle towards a policeman.” She looked up into his eyes anxiously. “I was arrested, charged…” She trailed off. “There you have it.”

“And this,” the priest asked seriously, “is the worst thing you have done?”

“I think so, yes.” She nodded earnestly. To her great surprise, Eko smiled slowly.

“In that case… Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

She met his gaze again, and grinned slowly. Despite her disbelief, she felt, strangely, as if a weight had just been lifted from her shoulders. “Well… That’s done, I s’pose. I wasn’t actually asking you for absolution.”

Eko brushed the comment aside. “One day, you may be glad for it, and realise what it means.” He looked at her seriously. “Even if you do not believe, Sarah, you have been penitent, and I believe you sincerely regret all you have ever done that is wrong. There is no cause for you to be punished. Not any more. I believe now, as I did when we first met, that you are a good person.”

Sarah shrugged awkwardly, uncertain what to say. “Well… Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She moved a few steps away, through the still unbuilt wall, until she was standing outside the ‘church’. “I do appreciate your help. And I’m sorry if I bothered you. I’ll… uhm, let you get on with your… building.”

Eko nodded. He barely seemed to be paying her much attention any more. His eyes were turned up towards the heavens, and he was observing the structure of his roof.

“I hope you may go in peace now,” he said, distinctly. But Sarah had already walked away.

* * *

That night, she lay in her tent in her (freshly washed) pyjamas, holding up the book And Then There Were None above her and leafing through it absently. It was too dark to make out the words, but she was not trying to read it anyway. She had borrowed it off Hurley, before realising that she no longer wanted to read it. It merely served as a memory of doubts and fears she had now discarded. Or was trying to.

She flipped through to the final pages, then set the book down carefully atop her neatly folded clothing. She would return it to Hurley in the morning. Perhaps its effects on his imagination would not be quite as disturbing as on hers.

She pulled the flap of her tent fully down, and turned to settle for the night. Barely had she set her head down on her pillow, however, when three loud shots rang out close by outside, causing her heart to lurch and miss a beat. She sat up, her eyes wide open.

Those guns! Those damn guns! Who was firing them now? Or is it the Others? Are we under attack? She scrambled out of her tent, worried and alert, in her nightwear.

“…so busy worrying about each other you never even saw me coming, did you? How about you listen up because I'm only going to say this once.”

That voice. That cocky, arrogant American drawl. She moved closer, and in the dim glow of the fire her gaze fell upon Sawyer. All eyes were upon him. He had a rifle propped over his right shoulder, and was surveying his gathering campmates with triumphant confidence. Sarah glared at him. She had –as the proverbial saying went– a rather bad feeling about this.

“You took my stuff,” Sawyer accused them collectively. “While I was off trying to get us help –get us rescued– you found my stash and you took it, divvied it up – my shaving cream, my batteries, even my beer. And then something else happened. You decided these two boys here”– he indicated Jack and Locke, who were standing side by side, looking, for once, equally stunned – “were going to tell you what to do and when to do it. Well, I'm done taking orders.”

Sarah bit her lip, glaring at him. She could understand the feeling, but having Sawyer in charge was far, far worse. She trusted him less than she did the other two; at least Jack had their best intentions at heart. She held back a little, scowling through the shadows, and listened. They all did. The American had found a captive audience.

“And I don't want my stuff back,” he went on. “Shaving cream don't matter; batteries don't matter. The only that matters now are guns. And if you want one you're going to have to come to me to get it.” Sarah’s lips thinned, but she kept her thoughts to herself, and followed the man’s gaze as he looked over at Sayid. Even through the gloom, she could just make out the expression on the Iraqi’s face, and it made her shiver. Sawyer was unfazed, confident in his sudden victory. “Oh, you want to torture me, don't you? Show everybody how civilized you are. Go ahead, but I'll die before I give them back. And then you'll really be screwed, won't you? New sheriff in town, boys! You all best get used to it.”

Sarah rolled her eyes at the dramatics, but inside she felt very much concerned. Through the darkness, her gaze met Tom’s worried face, and they exchanged a meaningful look. They were finding themselves trapped in a power struggle between Sawyer, Jack and John, with convict Kate hovering ambiguously on the margins. The leadership of their small camp was locked in the dispute between those three men, with the rest of them excluded more than ever. And whatever the outcome, she was going to find it difficult to entrust her fate into the hands of the victor. Tom shook his head slowly, and she wondered whether he was thinking the same as she was.

They want to keep us out of their affairs; fine. It’s time we steered clear of them, too. She had been willing to follow Jack for a time, but if it was going to be petty squabbles at the top, the bulk of the survivors were going to have to fend for themselves. We’re not alone, she reminded herself, Tom and I. They had friends. Steve, Jane, Nikki… If it came to that, she told herself grimly, the Big Three would be surprised to find how many of their campmates were quite prepared to cope without their exalted leadership.

She smiled without humour. Sawyer’s focus was mostly on Jack, John, Sayid, Ana-Lucia and a few others. But in the dark air and the light of the fire, Sarah could see other faces. Jane, hanging back near her tent, wary. Paulo, his eyes narrowing slowly into a scowl. Manuel, scratching his neck and smiling grimly. Jin, who, although he did not understand Sawyer’s words, had caught the gist of the situation, and clearly was not happy about it. Eko, his dark face calm but disapproving.

And Tom, watching her with meaningful determination, as though his thoughts matched her own.

Sawyer had control of the guns, but there were about forty survivors here on the beach, many of whom cared little for the struggle over weapons they had never had access to, nor wanted. Sarah wondered how long it would take until they decided they were not taking orders from anyone. She looked round the assembled people as they slowly began to disperse.

No more, she thought firmly. That’s enough. Sawyer could keep his guns, and the pleasure of having Jack and Kate beg for them.

The next time a crisis occurred, they would organise themselves to face it on their own.

* * *