Wicked Game

  March 2003 Cape Tribulation, named by James Cook because it was where his troubles started. As I look out at the achingly blue sea I hope it will be where mine end.    It's where the rainforest meets the reef, just a strip of clean sand separating them. I wish I could walk into the sea, but swimming here is not an option due to jellyfish and crocodiles.    Wherever I go there is always danger.    I take a guided tour through the forest. The air is close and thick with moisture, pressing into me. Rain drips through the leaves of giant palm trees.     I speak to two girls on the tour. Unthinkingly I push my wet hair out of my face. They frown at my neck, still bruised purple with teeth marks. They don't speak to me again.    I walk on the boardwalks among the mangroves near the hostel. Their roots are like huge blades jutting from the water. Balls of rain tumble from the sky. I shelter under umbrella leaves. There is a small co...

  March 2003 The evening we arrive in Cairns everyone from the bus meets up in a pub for pizza. This is the first time I've eaten a proper meal since I left Sydney.    I sit on a table with a group of strangers. We go round the table introducing ourselves. A woman who says she's from she'll say Wembley because people know it, but not Wembley. Someone from Birmingham. A man in a blue shirt from east London. Our eyes meet. He will be the father of my child. I push the thought out of my mind. He is overweight with an oafish face. I do not want him.    After we've eaten we drink and dance. Somehow I lose people and I'm standing on my own by the wall. Perhaps I should leave. I don't remember the way back to my hostel. I am afraid of wandering the dark streets of a strange city alone.    I need a man to take me home with him.    I see the man in the blue shirt. He is talking to a woman I recognise from the bus. She is clearly not interested in him,...

  February to March 2003 I arrive in Airlie Beach. The done thing here is to spend three days on a boat exploring the Whitsundays. After my sickness in 1770 I don't think I will manage three days. I book a day trip and cross my fingers.    I book the trip that includes ancient aboriginal cave paintings but when I turn up they tell me that trip has been cancelled and I will have to go on the other trip. They make a concession that we will see some cave paintings.    'These paintings won't be like any aboriginal cave paintings you've seen before,' the man says.    I nod and try not to look like someone who has never seen any cave paintings before and has no idea what they're usually like.    I feel queasy on the boat but it's bigger than the one in 1770. I stare at the horizon and manage not to be sick.    We put on wet suits to snorkel, to protect us from jellyfish. The one they give me flaps around my body.  I want to lose myse...

  February 2003 The hostel in 1770 is friendly and relaxed. There are hammocks in the courtyard. On the evening I arrive everyone is sitting at picnic benches chatting.    In the morning I join a walking tour of the beach. The guide talks about the plants and animals. We get to a place where the beach is covered in clay-like mud. The guide tells us it's good for the skin, good for sunburn. We should all put it on.     I swipe a thin layer over my burnt legs, tentatively, not liking the texture. The guide scoops mud up in his hands.     'You need more than that.' His hands are on my upper thighs, rubbing it in. I want to jump away, tell him to stop but I can't move. My bikini is loose around my legs. His fingers slip under it for a second.    'That's better,' he says, stepping back, looking at my legs.    I look at the others in the tour group. They are staring at me in silence.    Back at the hostel I'm in my dor...