Part 1

I thought about pretending I'd strangled it with my own hands but decided against it. Lying for the point of lying isn't very clever when you're living with so many paranoid people. I've decided that a policy of telling the truth – not just not lying – is the best way to go. There might be things that are unavoidable or unnecessary, of course. There's no point in frightening people.

I probably shouldn't have asked the hick and the Aussie chick about Karl and Danielle. I feel bad about showing those bodies to Claire. Even Sawyer didn't like it, and he acts like he's such a big boy. I couldn't help it though. It just hit me. The fear and the violence. I could hear echoes of it, and smelt it, oh god, smelt it, that familiar stench of blood – the metallic smell, that's so much stronger than it is when I get senses like that than it is first hand. It fills my head up, makes things foggy.

There's no point in upsetting people with stuff like that. They get annoying. Besides, it's when you come up with things like that that gets you burned at the stake, isn't it? People hardly batted an eyelid when I brought that boar back. They noticed something odd, of course, but they're so used to freaky-deaky stuff happening on this island that as long as it don't bite or it ain't a dead human they're alright with it. And food's food, right? There's no arguing with that.

I don't know if I'll be able to stop myself though. It fills every sense, and your emotions, something that horrible, something that devastating. Death leads an imprint on a place, but murder, and suicide, leaves a great big flashing neon sign, saying "Violent end here. Free admissions. My cause nausea."

And then you want to know. You want to know what happened, you want to ask questions. I used to get a lot of flack for that. "Questions, questions, questions." I heard that a lot. Too many questions, Miles.

Right now, the question is, who are these frickin' people shooting burning arrows at us? I don't want to end up like those bodies I found, the boy and the French chick. I wont, they were shot. I be burnt up instead. Now, that'd be stinky. I don't want to be burnt. I run faster. I'd been starting to lag. There's a stabbing sensation in my chest. Then I realise that I can't see anyone else and that I don't know how long I've been running. Seconds or minutes? More than ten.

Then that sound comes again, and that light, and I feel like my whole body is being squished into one tiny space and stretched out over space at the same time, and then it's daytime, and I'm back, when? The future. I know the camp will be there, and no arrow people. I start walking back the way I came, and then something catches my eye. I double take and then my foot catches on my a root and I fall over flat on my face.

I groan and say "Just my luck," before I remember what I saw, and look over at her. Claire lies on the jungle floor fast asleep, a few strands of blond hair falling over her face and looking like an angel. I wonder how someone so sweet and innocent looking could leave her baby? How could anyone leave their baby?

I crouch on the floor a few metres away and watch her, remembering what Sawyer said. Ok, he's not around, but I wouldn't know what to do anyway. And I didn't want to wake her – she looked so peaceful. He said not to look her either, but what's the harm in watching to see she's still breathing. I sit there for quite a while, watching her stomach rise and fall, becoming mesmerised by the movement of it. I drift off into a trance and become more relaxed than I remember being in years.

Then she opens her eyes and sees me. She doesn't panic, but looks at me quizzically.

"I'm not allowed to touch you," I explain apologetically.

"That's silly," she says as she stretches. Her accent sends tingles down my spine.