More wrecked fuselage washed up this morning.
\nBiggest section yet, like a whale carcass in the breakers.
\nThere\u2019s a corpse still belted in a seat, the face bloated
\nin its oxygen mask. He has a beard. None of us recognises him.<\/p>\n
Jane\u2019s still not talking. Mainly she cries and hugs her knees.
\nWhen she really gives it some, her shoulders shake slightly.
\nShe\u2019s sunburnt raw and her lips are scabby and dry.
\nI\u2019ve moved my shelter further down the beach.<\/p>\n
Marcus spells out HELP in rocks on the white sand. Rev. Biddle is losing weight, but remains a true believer. Marcus came over today to ask how I was getting on for a voice, a signal, anything (are you there, survivors?<\/em>). and whittle at the bails I\u2019m carving from a piece of driftwood.
\nFilippo says it should be SOS. The universal sign for distress
\nis actually a large triangle; I know this but don\u2019t say.
\nI read it once on MSN; How to survive a desert island<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nHis sermons are beginning to chew at people\u2019s nerves.
\nI don\u2019t fancy his chances, not long term.
\nSince Bryony ran off into the trees, nobody\u2019s seen her.<\/p>\n
\nwith that radio set. It\u2019s going to take some time, I said.
\nSalt has eaten at the circuit board. I must have looked the part,
\nwearing the big headphones like I was trawling interference<\/p>\n
\nTruth is, I\u2019ve got the Test Match on. It\u2019s the second day
\nand we\u2019re batting well, but I keep it to myself, obviously.
\nWhen rain stops play, I listen to commentators filling air<\/p>\n
\nSometimes I lie back with one hand under my head,
\nlike a gorilla in a zoo, and think of my red-faced boss
\nclearing my desk and struggling to cover the hours I\u2019ve left.<\/p>\n