Ducie

By Chris Freeman

61 people live on a remote South Pacific island.

Why are they there?

What does this place have to do with a drug rehabilitation institute in Birmingham, England?

And why are both of these places consuming the thoughts of the British Prime Minister?

For every answer this story affords you, you'll be another step away from where you thought you'd be.

Welcome to Ducie!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Freeman
• Release date: Jan 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301569915

Chris Freeman

Long time writer of song lyrics and poetry, Ducie is my first venture into story telling of novel proportions. My lovely wife and self-confessed book addict Nicole keeps me motivated by persistently nagging me to read my finished work. My son Jack and daughter Sophie humble me every day with their energy and curiosity. I hang on every word and babble that leaves their mouths. Away from writing, I follow Walsall FC home and away with my son Jack and I enjoy a good game of chess. Most of all, I really believe there is no greater pleasure to be had than to sit around some table or other enjoying good food and conversation with your family and friends.

Book preview

Chapter 1. I kill you last!

Kate Gaffney’s room at the ‘Two-Steps-Forward Drug Rehabilitation Institution’ backed directly onto the concrete quad where patients would go to inhale a mixture of fresh air and cigarette smoke throughout the day. A steady coming and going of staff and patients from morning onwards cascaded a therapeutic ebb and flow of sound into Kate’s room throughout the day. It didn’t make for a peaceful dwelling, but she’d grown to take comfort from the definite presence of others outside her window, safe in the knowledge that these muffled, reassuring verbal exchanges required no input from her whatsoever, and could therefore never lead her into troubled relationships, of which she’d already experienced too many.

On the shelf above her television, four books in pristine condition were piled in descending size order from bottom to top. A red Gideon’s Bible sat on top of ‘L’etranger’ by Albert Camus, The Buddhist classic ‘The Three Fold Lotus Sutra’ and a cellophane wrapped copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. A deep and well rounded world knowledge worthy of any academic accolade, and a sensitive heart nourished by years of absorbing tales of moral and philosophy were mere by-products of her literature addiction; what she really read for was solitude and escape.

Reading is sometimes an ingenious device for avoiding thought

She’d been at the Institution for a while now. She didn’t count the months or years. There was little point. There was nothing for her on the outside any more, so she didn’t plan on going anywhere soon. Not that she could up and leave if she chose to anyway.

Some time ago now, Kate had responded to an advertisement at one of the local drop-in centres asking for volunteers to take part in a drug trial. The criteria was pretty simple: You had to be a heroin user and be willing to sign a document of informed consent, which basically constituted your agreement to the risks involved with an untried medicine. The goal of the experiment was to test the effects of a new drug on the addiction-riddled candidates. Whilst the advert made it clear that there was no promise of a cure, there were strong hints that this was the ultimate aim of the project.

She wasn’t sure why, but Kate had kept that poster to this day. She took it out of her bedside drawer and stared at it like it were a love letter from an old forgotten boyfriend, full of promises of eternal care and adoration that he’d ultimately never kept. Her eyes scanned the blurb and pulled out a sentence.

"At any point in the trial, volunteers can withdraw their consent of participation without explanation or consequence".

That may have been true from the start, but it certainly wasn’t the case any more. Not since the project had grown arms, legs and a huge metaphorical dick, with which Kate had been royally screwed over. It was true that nobody could be blamed for the trials taking the catastrophic course that they eventually did, but to say the various developments were handled unethically by those in charge would be a polite way of putting it.

- Why are you always poring over that poster Katie?

The croaky voice of the man freshly emerged from sleep belonged to Adam Trundle. A wiry, bearded man around the same age as Kate, who had arrived at the Two-Step-Forward Institution a few days after her as part of the same trials. Kate still hadn’t decided whether his tendency to hang around her like a scruffy, anaemic shadow was a curse or a compliment. She crumpled up the poster into a ball to give the impression it meant nothing to her and instantly regretted doing so.

- I’m not poring over anything, dickhead! And now you’re finally out of your coma, is there any danger of you pissing off back to your own room, so I can get some sleep of my own without you constantly in my face?

- Alright Katie! Chill out. What’s wrong with you? You’ve been like a dog with a sore head all day.

- A bear….

- Huh?

- Like a bear with a sore head, you ejit!

- What difference does it make? A bear….A dog…. They’d both be as tetchy as you if they had a sore head.

- Can you just go please?

- Yeah, yeah, I’m going. I’ll save you a seat in the canteen at breakfast.

- Oh yes, golly, would you do that for me Adam?

He was used to Kate’s sarcasm and his slapstick laughter was enough to force a smile out of Kate. He was a good sport if nothing else.

- You a funny girl Katie…. I kill you last!

Adam made that joke in the voice of what presumably was meant to be a Middle Eastern terrorist far too often. One of the many things about him that annoyed Kate.

- See you tomorrow Katie, yeah.

Kate waited until the door slammed shut before muttering to herself:

- No you won’t.

Chapter 2. Marinated rope

Kate had prepared the knot in advance the night before. As she retrieved the multicoloured, makeshift rope out of the cistern of the second ladies cubicle from the left, it looked exactly as she had remembered when she had hidden it there the night before. A large loop at one end, with nine thick coils winding up towards about a two foot length of rope beyond the knot itself. Kate thought it looked impressive; sinister. So synonymous was this method of knot tying with the gruesome demise of so many condemned souls throughout the ages, that just the symbolism of it made Kate shudder. Kate wasn’t the type to shudder, but here she did. The rope was wet from a night marinated in toilet water, and she briefly considered how this might hinder or help matters. There was only one way to find out.

It had taken thirteen weeks to accumulate hundreds of lengths of material and assemble them together into something of suitable length for her suicidal intentions without arousing suspicion. Now the many smaller, individual knickknacks were tied together in all manner of directions to form a length with the thickness and strength of a rope. Shoe laces of various colour and condition conjoined with scrap lengths of material she’d pocketed from the various textiles and craft sessions held at the Institution. Each individual knot was small and tight, but their collective strength came from their sheer quantity. Kate had modelled the main knot on a picture she’d seen on the cover of a paperback novel in the Institution library, called ‘Alex Cross’s Trial’. The cover featured a yellow and orange sunset, behind the title of the book, which stood prominent in bold, black letters. The ‘I’ of the word ‘Trial’ was represented by a rope, ending in a hangman knot similar to the one which Kate now held in her hands. After many failed practices on small pieces of cotton, Kate had eventually mastered the technique of securing this style of knot, which featured an adjustable noose that allowed a flexible loop size, but would tighten when the relevant weight was applied. The relevant weight being Kate.

Kate had raised the two-tiered bunk bed about half a foot off the ground, using stacks of A4 paper underneath the corners. She had collected the paper from various posters, letters and magazines over the same period of time that she’d collected the materials for the rope. It stood high enough now. Taking the saturated rope, she tied it around the highest bar of the guard rail on the top bunk of the bed. The loop end, she placed over her head, so it rested on top of her ears. The metal stool beneath her wobbled a little, owing more to its poor construction or condition than any nervous disposition on Kate’s part. She knew exactly what she wanted from this.

She paused and listened. The jumbled drone of dinner time chatter was broken up occasionally by the metallic chime of dropped cutlery. The source of it all was distant enough to give her the reassurance she needed. She would have enough time. She checked the knot on the bed frame one last time with a tug, before she slipped the loop around her neck and began rocking the stool. Gently at first, the less noise the stool made when it fell, the less chance that someone would come by to investigate. Now a little harder, as the left to right momentum was helped along by the rickety condition of the metal stool. This basic piece of furniture on which she stood, would have been manufactured by some factory operative or workshop engineer somewhere in the world. Little would they have anticipated at the time, the tragic use it would later be put to.

Kate rocked the stool left, then right, then left… then just air.

Chapter 3. Some time later

The word ‘Ducie’ had never been far from the thoughts of the British Prime Minister since he’d given the project his sign-off, but today the word made his stomach cartwheel with fear, the way your stomach tends to when the severity of a situation dawns. Ever since this project began he knew he was only ever one wrong turn away from a crisis. True to character, the Prime Minister kept his fears under lock and key, the way a tranquil, floating duck hides feet that paddle frantically below the water. This well practiced act was enough to convince everyone but himself that there was nothing to fear. Somewhere deep beneath these layers of hologram bravado however, lay an acceptance of the fact that things would never really be the same again from here. The whole project was out of hand. Way out of hand! Lex cursed his own naivety for allowing himself to become tangled up in all of this. He’d accepted the risks involved with such a flimsy, fragile venture were the price to pay for the chance of becoming the centrepiece of an historic milestone in human discovery. Easy to say now that it was a stupid thing to do, but the bright lights of eternal adoration can prove too much of a honey trap for even the most level headed amongst us, and for Lex that was no different.

As with anything sensitive in nature, Steve had kept the details of the project between himself and his trusted friend and Director General of the Security Service, Steve Towerbridge. Steve was a military man. Stout in presence and clinical with his words. He saw no use for emotions or niceties that didn’t serve towards achieving a goal. He’d been the PM’s right-hand-man in a number of sticky situations and they’d always found a way out. None like this though. None like Ducie. The Prime Minister massaged his brow firmly, as if by doing so it might somehow stir the ideas in his head into something more ingenious.

- We did the right thing Steve.

- Yes sir.

Steve’s affirmation was as to-the-point as ever.

- We did do the right thing, didn’t we Steve?

- Sir, we had no other choice.

- So what do we chalk these deaths up as? Collateral damage?

- It’s inevitable Sir. It was bound to happen sooner or later. We’ve done well to keep it contained this far.

- It’s hardly contained though is it Steve? We’ve caused havoc in 2 corners of the globe. Innocent people Steve. Innocent people suffering, not through war or through famine, but through….

The Prime Minister struggled for a description. Steve helped by finishing his sentence.

- Through science Sir. Progress and human evolution.

- Human evolution happens on its own Steve. There’s nothing natural about any of what we’re doing here.

- Sir, there’s no point dwelling on this. We’ve got to keep moving forward.

The Prime Minister ignored Steve’s advice and instead began scanning a manifest list in front of him. Names of people known to him not by sight, or acquaintance, or a handshake, but just as inanimate components of this dirty scheme he was embroiled in. One name leapt out at him.

Adam Trundle.

- Trundle. Trundle. Tr – undle.

The Prime Minister played with the word as if it were part of a new foreign language he was learning. He rolled it around his mouth and tried to imagine a face to put with the name.

He’d never met Adam. And now he probably never would. The Prime Minister pondered it for a moment and quickly came to the conclusion that not knowing the face of this man was probably a good thing. A good thing since this was the man that he had just ordered to be killed.

Chapter 4. Time moves slowly from a distance

The fall wasn’t smooth and Kate’s neck didn’t break. The toppled stool tangled in her feet and in her brief struggle to free herself, she broke her momentum further by catching the bottom bunk with the rubber grip of her right trainer. Too much noise. Not enough speed. It had all looked so much more polished when she had run the film of it through her head countless times the night before. She’d seen a blue flash when the rope had finally tensed, but she was painfully aware of her own consciousness, which sent a wave of panic through her body which she hadn’t planned for. The uneven contour of the makeshift rope had prevented the contraption from tightening as well as it should have. It wasn’t efficient, but it was slowly doing its job. Kate was barely aware of Adam’s frail body desperately trying to support her weight. The noise, the silence, the movement, the mayhem all blended into one frightening, chaotic fog. Kate began to watch herself dying from a distance, as her awareness slowly detached. It was all so fast, but seemed to have been going on for years. In reality, it was less than 30 seconds in total, before the room began to fill with people responding to Adam’s feeble cries for help.

Chapter 5. Welcome to the island

Lucas had walked the sands of Village Coast more times than he could attribute a number to. The short, thin stretch of coast that connected Capital Village with the King's Estate was easily the most pleasant walk on the island. The surf there was gentle at all tides and the tropical vegetation was home to cuckoos that sang the theme tune to your stroll.

The warm, thick evening air rumbled with muddled conversations a few hundred yards ahead. An explosion of collective laughter crackled, then fizzled out before being consumed by the rumble again. The pop of a champagne cork forced an ironic cheeer, quickly followed by more laughter. Hearty and genuine cackles. Someone was tickling their audience. It was probably Vasco, with his unrivalled ability to tell the same story seven times and make each recital funnier than the last. Lucas often wished he could make people laugh like that. On an island of 61 people, popularity could take you a long way. People did like him, but not like that. He wasn't known for his charisma or his humour.. He'd always been... What was the word...? Smart!. A word his Mother liked to use a lot:

- Lucas, if you could find your way to 'Merika (America), you could make enough money there to buy this stupid island. You're the smartest creature on this rock Lucas, and you're put to waste fixing every damn thing in Ducie that breaks. A Handyman they call you? Yeah, I'll say! It's handy for Eduardo that you're stupid enough to take the degrading work he gives you without a murmur.

That was 'King Eduardo' to everybody else, but not to Paula Medina. She was old school something or other, but Lucas had never quite worked out what. Lucas knew that his pensive curiosity that his Mother called 'smart', basically made him a glorified daydreamer.

- Not one employer in 'Merika' or the rest of the world for that matter would pay a chump to stare out of the window all day, cooking up answers to questions that nobody asked Mother.

There were a lot of questions that nobody asked...

As the gentle tide nipped in to steal his footprints again, the smell of barbeques filled the muggy air. Lucas idly began to ponder the champagne cork he'd heard. Nobody asked how it got here. Nobody seemed to care. The same could be said for any of this material stuff that seemed to magically appear from lands afar for the consumption of Ducie residents. Certain things were just accepted by the people as 'part of the deal'. But Lucas was in the habit of allowing his mind to lazily question what others saw as normal. Paradise with no questions asked. No questions asked, yeah... but with one rather large string attached: 61! And these were the sort of things that Lucas pondered.

-Hey Lukie, there's a dead bird here with your name chargrilled on it!

-Lionel my man, I told you before I left that my appetite's gone

-Mrs Medina, your son... he takes this life too seriously. Little Lukie! Always wondering, always pondering, always something putting you off your food. Eat my friend! We're celebrating.

-Can't someone just have had their fill? What makes you say......

-I've seen how you're looking at her Lukie! Who wouldn't? She's a beauty!

Lucas couldn't deny that Daniela was sublime. If she were created for a purpose, it must have been as the perfect matching accessory to this beautiful island backdrop. Daniela was Ducie and Ducie just enhanced what Daniela already was. In reality there were only 14 girls of a realistic age on the island that Lucas could conceivably and legally have romantic thoughts towards. And even then, the closely entwined spirit of this tiny community tainted any romantic notion with an ever so slight sense of incest and guilt. Daniela felt like a sister.

Residents of 'normal' areas of a healthy population take for granted the 'boy meets girl' and 'love at first sight' scenarios. Never a thought is given to the sheer scale of a normal sized city or society that allows chance encounters to take place. Ducie wasn't a normal society. And there were no chance encounters. Ducians knew Ducians.

-The bird, Lukie... I see the way you're looking at her. She's a beauty! Fresh today! Eat!

Lionel thrusted the grilled duck at Lucas in a wicker basket.

Lucas ate.

Chapter 6. Ducians know Ducians

Daniela Diaz was a pretty girl. You probably worked that much out for yourself already. I wouldn't say it was a sea shell pretty, a palm tree pretty or a sunset pretty; she was more like an institution. A complex matrix of angles, shimmers and smiles, ghosting her way effortlessly around the scene, the very dust of her personality providing welcome infection to those around her. She lived for the social side of island life. Tonight was her perfect stage.

King Eduardo's birthday celebration was the only real semblance of what I suppose you and I would call a public holiday. The island would grind to an uncharacteristic standstill for two days; one day to celebrate, and another to recover and reflect, then back to work for another year. Except for the miners! The miners never stopped. Vasco was the exception this year. As the winner of the annual 'KEMP' award (King's Elect Miner's Prize), he was free to spend the following day as he wished lazily seeing off the effects of tonight's alcoholic shenanigans. A day off! A privilege bestowed each year upon the miner deemed to have contributed the most to Ducie's lucrative mining and extraction industry. Every year, the award triggered an element of bitterness amongst the miners, but in true Ducie fashion, this took the form of playful banter.

- Hey King's pet! You making the most of your free pass I hope?

Andrea Fuentes hadn't hidden the fact that he resented Vasco's good fortune. It was a safe bet that he instigated the rumour that Vasco only won the KEMP award by virtue of the fact that King Eduardo enjoyed his comedic nature and knew as well as anyone that a drunk Vasco was a dancer, a singer, a clown and a comedian rolled into one tidy package; free for hire at parties! Basically, giving Vasco a free pass to drink the night away would give him enough incentive to make the party swing.

- Get off my back man! I can't help that I'm the modern day Hercules of the mining world. I'd offer to teach you my ways, but you can't break pure genius down into a curriculum.

- Well why don't you just teach me how to lodge my head up Eduardo’s rear end the way you do? That'd cover it!

- Stop hating Andrea. It's not a good look for you.

- I'm messing with ya' tiger. But in 9 hours time, I'll be rolling out of bed and slipping on my bread-winning uniform. You think about that when your sleeping off your wine overdose with King Eddie's blessing.

- Work is work big man. You know the drill. Work to play... the Ducie way. I'll be thinking of you.

Lucas was sitting on Pendulum rock when Daniela came over carrying two glasses of champagne. He recognised her confident strut at the very edge of his peripheral vision, enough so that he could take the cool option of pretending not to see her come.

-Lucas, darling. I come with a gift for you.

Being addressed in this way by a girl that looked like Daniela would probably be a big scoop for many a man, but Lucas had been here long enough not to lavish his ego with undue flattery. Daniela was always this nice to everyone.

-Hey Daniela! How you enjoying yourself?

- It's ok I guess.

- Just ok? But isn't the tonight the night that the more socially capable of our bunch get their chance to show the rest of us how it's done? We're in your world tonight.

Lucas cast a stone absently into the water. It skipped twice, then vanished.

- It's what you make of it Lucas. It's not like you're an outcast. How could you be in a place this small? You're just an intelligent guy. A thinker. The strong and silent type.

- It's not about me being intelligent or strong. You sound like my Mother. I just think these people act like a herd of sheep sometimes.

- There's nothing wrong with that. Herds stick together!

- Herds are dumb. They follow each other blindly without questioning why they're doing it.

- What's to question Lucas? Look where we live. It's paradise. Do you know what some of the big places across the seas are like. Big smoking cities that you could easily get lost in. With killers and robbers and strangers and.....

- Don't you ever wonder why it is that we never see anyone from those places? Why don't they come here?

- Erm...the law...Lucas...hello?...remember? 61 people. It keeps us safe. You know that.

- Oh yeah, excuse me! The law that doesn't make any sense. I mean ok, so people can't visit Ducie. Erm... Why? Are you telling the island would explode if someone from outside set foot on our sands or something? Come on! And people can't have babies. Erm...Why exactly? What exactly is a baby going to do that puts Ducie in danger? Nothing that's what!

Daniela hadn't backed off or even flinched in the face of Lucas's ever increasing aggravated tone. She sat perched next to him on the rock, one foot dangling idly, dragging to and fro across the surface of the water, as she nodded a sympathetic beat to his ranting.

- You've never mentioned the baby thing before.

- Well, it's not like I'm planning it.. It would just be nice to know that if I met the right girl...

Daniela's interruption coincided with a severe change of her tone.

- Nobody meets anyone here Lucas. Ducians know Ducians! There are 61 of us. If there is a love of your life, then she's at this party right now, and you've met her a thousand times already.

- Maybe you're right. Maybe she is here.

Lucas broke his gaze that had been fixed on the horizon to catch Daniela's dancing green eyes. They eyed each other, almost suspiciously for a long two seconds before Lucas leaned forward. Daniela followed instinctively...

A voice echoed across the waves to them.

- Hey love birds! Smoochy, smoochy! This is a party, not a fishing competition. Get your little backsides off that rock and come and talk with uncle Vasco.

Chapter 7. Two Spice Girls and three Power Rangers

Lucas knew the Estate was empty, but paranoia had his senses primed to a hallucination-inducing level. The Portia tree outside the office window cast moving shadows into the room, causing him to flinch at the thought of an intruder. Ironic, since here, Lucas himself was the real intruder.

Since he’d stopped taking his pill, Lucas felt different somehow. Physically he was as healthy as ever, but his mind felt driven by an agitated curiosity. Something didn’t