Chapter 6

Painted Faces and Long Hair

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies. Cause if I did, I'd own Piggy. And no one wants to own Piggy. (No offence to those few and far between Piggy fans)

A/N: It's official. Aerona is terribly stressed. Hey, come on! O Levels next year, right? But the teachers are acting like they're next week or something. AAARGH!!!!!!! The more immediate stress is squash nationals. Oh no oh no...

Jack was running. He had left Kitty at the stream, and he pounded through the forest towards the shelters, the green shadows of a new day flashing across his bare back.

So he was chief now, was he? Well, he'd soon put some things straight, things that Ralph had been too frightened or too weak to do himself. Jack grinned. Somehow he'd been hesitant about taking the leadership before securing the vote of Kitty, the founder of the conch. All that was over now. The conch was his, for a little while at least, and he would leech all that he could out of the delicate spiral before he had to step down.

As Jack ran, the rhythm of his feet directed his thoughts. Then again, he thought, will I have to step down? If the others see how bad Ralph is as chief against me, will they want him back? If it comes to the worst, we could vote again. The choir'll side me, I know they will, and some of the others. Except that, in the choir, Simon'll definitely side Ralph. So will Kitty.

Somehow, obscurely, Jack felt that Kitty's vote would carry weight. Well, we'll see about that, he thought, as he burst through the bushes and stumbled, panting but triumphant, onto the beach. The others were just beginning to wake up and the beach was scattered with sleepy, yawning forms. Striding over to the shelter that housed Ralph, Jack picked the conch up from the sand and, propping his spear against the sun-drenched pink of the platform, put his mouth to the small hole at the very point of the shell.

He had watched Ralph blow the conch umpteen times; but Jack found that there was a world of difference from watching it done and doing it himself. His breath was coming in short gasps and this impeded his progress, but finally his first, soundless efforts gave way to a strident blast that roused all those sleeping or hovering between sleep and wakefulness; Simon's tousled head and upper body appeared from inside the shelter. When he saw who was blowing the conch his sleepy expression changed, and he crawled, frowning, out of the shelter.

"Jack? What's going on? You'll wake Ralph -"

Jack ignored him. Now that he had mastered the conch he gained a fierce pleasure from the noise he was creating; also from seeing the other children coming across the beach towards him, gathering obediently around the conch. The choir, roused from their slumber, crowded around their leader like a guard of honour.

Piggy had stumbled up from his place on the sand. Wiping his glasses on the tail of his grubby shirt, he jammed them onto his nose and regarded Jack squarely through the scratched lenses.

"What're you blowing the conch for? We don't need no assembly now!"

Jack took the conch away from his lips, red-faced from exertion but grinning, triumphant.

"Shut up, Fatty! I'm chief now, see? And I'm calling an assembly!"

Piggy's mouth opened and closed in righteous recrimination. Colour rushed to his cheeks. Jack, secure in the conch and the prescence of his hunters, paid him no more attention.

There was muttering among the boys as they drew closer to the platform, and surreptitious glances at Simon as he stood, immobile and silent, by the shelter. The sunrise was like a spill of blood on the sky. Jack hefted the conch, drawing confidence from the embossed whorls of the shell. Simon's silence and pinched, white face disconcerted him.

A rustle in the last reaches of the jungle took on form as a dark-haired shadow that was Kitty detached herself from the last clinging creepers and came across the beach towards them. Like Simon, her face was pale under the tan and she kept her head low, looking at her shoes as they scuffed the white, fine sand. Her raggedly-cut hair fell over her face, marking it in shadow. Jack clutched the conch closer. His knuckes whitened on the translucency of the shell.

Kitty crossed over to the shelter and stood beside Simon. The younger boy was stirred out of his immobility and turned his head, lips moving in an indecipherable question. Kitty did not look at Simon, rather down and a bit to the side, as she answered in one or two words. At her reply, Simon was startled out of his composure; outrage and something very like fear distorted his features and his voice rose out of the softness as a meaningless mumble that Jack, listening through the mixed mutters of the others, could not interpret. Kitty's expression did not change greatly; a close observer could have noticed a slight tremble about the mouth and an excess of blinking, but that was all. She deliberately turned away from Simon, instead fixing her eyes on Jack, waiting for him to speak.

Jack blew one last, strident blast on the conch, making most of the assembly jump. The boy noticed that Kitty hadn't been startled with the others; instead she stood as still as Simon had been, dark eyes still regarding his face, her own drawn. Simon had moved to put some distance between him and Kitty; now Piggy on her other side leaned over to speak to Simon. When he received an answer, he too edged away, so that there was a clear space of sand around the girl.

With irritation and a vague disquiet, Jack turned back to the others.

"All right - listen. You all know what's wrong with Ralph, don't you? Well, the way I see it, we need a new chief. Not for always," he added hastily as the mutters peaked. "Just until Ralph's all right again. We need that, don't we? A chief?" Jack stopped, acutely aware that he was talking in circles and that last statement had sounded painfully like a plea.

Roger, seeing his leader's discomfort, stepped up and laid a hand on the conch, yet not quite taking it out of Jack's arms.

" I say that we need a chief. Jack's right; Ralph can't be chief like that. He's sick, he's not even awake most of the time! How's he going to be chief then?"

Everyone was shocked by the normally taciturn Roger's speech. Jack, sensing the support, regained his confidence.

"That's what I said. It's decided then, I'm chief. I didn't tell you before, but this was Kitty's idea."

Everyone turned to stare at the girl, who tilted her chin defiantly, not meeting anyone's eyes but Jack's. With her scrutiny the boy's uneasiness returned; quickly, he directed the children's attention back to the conch.

"So I'm chief. And now we're going to do things differently. Now we're not going to have everyone taking turns at the fire. Samneric, you two'll be up there all the time."

The twins detached themselves from the mass and began to protest. With their vocalisation the rest of the children surged around Jack and Roger, giving voice.

Jack had to shout over the noise.

"Shut up, shut up all of you! Samneric, you haven't got the conch! Listen to me! I say that both of you'll be up there by the fire all the time, because me and the others'll all be hunting. And that's another thing. I've said it before; I'm going to say it again. We need meat - now more than ever, because the fruit's all fallen from the trees and it'll be all rotten by now. So apart from Samneric up by the fire, all the others will be hunting. We're going to have a thin time of things anyway, with not much fruit. We need meat before some of you littluns eat the wrong thing and end up like Ralph."

Simon jerked at the mention of their erstwhile chief. Stepping forward into the centre of the ring, he stretched a hand out for the conch. Jack did not relinquish it, however, and Simon's hand fell back to his side.

"What about the shelters?" The fair boy's voice was just on the safe side of accusative. "We need them too, you know. How're we going to help Ralph if he hasn't even got a proper shelter to live in?"

Jack scowled. "You haven't got the conch, Simon, so shut up. I was just going to say - anyone who wants to stay and build the shelters can. The rest of us will hunt. We'll take a vote now. Who's for hunting?"

The hands of the choir shot up immediately; as did most of the other boys. Samneric, looking disgruntled, slouched at one side of the circle.

Jack counted.

"All right then, we'll hunt. Now, who's going to stay?"

Simon and Piggy raised their hands. Kitty, in the breath of silence after the vote was noticed, raised her arm slowly into the air. The ranks were very silent.

Those who were near Jack heard a breath being let out, almost inaudibly. He looked up from the conch and squared his shoulders as he faced the assembly.

"All right then. I'm chief now, just till Ralph gets better. The choir're the hunters, but the others can hunt as well. Roger's my second-in-command. You've got to listen to him as well as me."

The dark boy stirred as Jack spoke; and looked up. He had not been burnt noticeably, because of his swarthiness, but in stages, so one was shocked at the change in skin tone if his first day-self was used as standard. Roger's black hair had grown longer, and swept even lower over his eyes so that he had to brush it back now and again. The choir cap was still there, and pulled down over his forehead as of old, but now Roger, like Jack, went barechested, wearing nothing but a pair of tattered shorts, cloak forgotten.

Jack continued; tremulously, but his voice grew stronger as he felt them hanging on to his every word.

"Now that's decided, we'll hunt right away. Hunters - all our spears're scattered around - we need new ones. So now, all of you go off into the jungle, comb the beach, anything, but get some good branches, all right? Then bring them back to me to sharpen. Samneric, you two go straight up to the mountain and get the fire going. Take Piggy's specs with you; you may have to wait a while, the wood'll be wet. I want to see the smoke by this evening."

The children scattered; chattering excitedly. The storm had passed, the sun was shining again. Those who felt hunger pangs went into the smashed fringes of the jungle, picking what they could from the mass of pulped fruit that carpeted the ground. The flies had also found them; and a black buzzing cloud surrounded the sweet mess, falling; settling, lifting. Finding the runnels of the children's sweat a succulent addition to their diet they alighted, stinging until the children slapped and scratched in vain. The remainder of the fruit that had been too unripe to fall stayed in the high branches, and all their combined efforts were not enough to bring them down. The biguns were hesitant about eating the overripe, sticky mess, black with flies, but there was nothing else, and the littluns had no such compunctions. Soon several of them began to complain of stomach aches, toddling off into the dripping forest to do their business.

After Jack had dismissed the meeting Kitty and Simon crossed the beach towards the only standing shelter together, not out of companionship but out of a conviction that they had nothing else to do. Both children ignored each other, looking at the sand.

Simon gathered his wits; turning to the passive, expressionless Kitty beside him. What passed his lips was not the comfort he wanted, but accusation.

"You shouldn't have done that."

Kitty's face twisted; she almost lashed out at the younger boy, instead keeping her fists clenched by her sides, digging her bitten nails into the palms. Her voice came out almost a sob.

"Simon, you tell me, what else could I do? Ralph's sick, we're all in a mess, who else was fit to take over? Maybe you wouldn't have chosen Jack, but - what else could I have done?"

Simon looked away from her. Turning his head towards the calm sea, he whispered, " You could have been chief yourself."

Kitty gave no sign that she had heard.

Ralph was no better when they reached the shelter. He was still sleeping peacefully, but the sweat was pouring off him and when Simon put a hand on his forehead the heat made him draw back. By now, a tacit agreement had grown up around Simon and Kitty to mention nothing of the day's events. They were ignoring each other, not acknowleging the other's presence, but their eyes kept flicking to the other's face.

They went through the motions of forcing a little water through Ralph's parched lips, then cleaning him up a bit. Ralph slept on, not waking even when the salt water seeped into his wound, by now beginning to scab over the crusty sand. Kitty hung around the shelter, restlessly moving here and there; finally she could not stand the sight of Ralph's white, still face and the quiet, gentle figure of Simon as he bent over the prone boy. Scattering sand as she moved fast, before she could change her mind and stay, Kitty scrambled out of the entrance to the shelter.

The beach was almost deserted; the hunters were off collecting spears and what was left of them were gathered into a tight knot around Jack and Roger on the sand. Samneric were off up to the mountain, and Piggy, torn between making the trek and being divested from his glasses for an indeterminate period, had joined them. The littluns were playing in the debris by the water's edge.

Kitty wandered across the shore and gradually became aware of the fact that her stomach was empty and was aching with hunger. Deviating from her meandering course, she set off to the orchard and the fruit trees.

Fruit that had been blown down carpeted the ground; she could see the marks where the other children had rooted around in the yellow pulp. Small animals had gathered around the carpet to eat; and at Kitty's arrival scuttered into the deep recesses of the jungle.

Feeling the weight of her stiff, dirty clothes and the useless tangle of hair, the girl knelt on the muddy ground and regarded the unappetising mass. The black cloud of flies rose with her movement; buzzing angrily, then settled impartially onto Kitty and the mashed fruit. The girl brushed them away impatiently, only to have them settle the moment she stopped. Finally, she gave up, steeled herself, scooped up a chunk of filthy fruit, wiped as much of the clinging mud away as she could, and gingerly took a bite.

The mouthful was slimy and over-sweet, with an underlying rotten taste. Kitty crushed it with her tongue quickly and forced herself to swallow the juices that ran down her throat, not thinking about what else she might be swallowing. She chewed the fibrous pulp until it was soft enough to choke down, then, before she could change her mind, she grabbed another chunk and made it follow the way of the first.

Her throat rebelled and nearly threw up the slick morsel, but Kitty swallowed fast and hard and soon the rotten fruit was gone. The exertion after the night of tribulations left her feeling light-headed and exhausted: reeling, she leaned her weight against a tree trunk. The black flies erupted for a moment around her and then settled back down to their relentless buzzing.

Grimacing at the claggy fruit covering her skirt and knees, Kitty got to her feet. There was a dribble of juice running down from one corner of her mouth and she brushed it away, dully. Then she walked off into the forest, away from the deserted, forlorn orchard where the stinging flies whirred in concerted motion, settling over everything like a black snowfall.

The forest was awash with the cries of small animals as they came out of hiding from the rain; Kitty's presence scared them so that they scattered into the crevices of the jungle with barely a movement to show that they ever had been. The girl's original plan had been to make her way to the mat and sit there awhile, trying to sort out her tangled skein of thoughts, but numbness was stealing up her limbs from the exhaustion, so Kitty paused.

She had broken out into a clearing, one of the few empty spaces of the jungle. Normally, the glade, cupped slightly like a bowl with the dip of the mountain, would be a bath of heat, perforated by slanting rays of light: but now in the aftermath of the storm the bowl was half-filled with brackish water over which midges danced. The sun, peering through the canopy, dashed itself to pieces on the surface of the pool. Overhead, a great commotion in the branches made Kitty look up.

A troupe of monkeys, gross silhouettes with spindly, spider-like limbs, was dotted among the treetops. As Kitty watched, the black shapes capered so that they shook the branches and water came pattering down. Their screeching filled the silent forest; cut like a hot knife through the soft, steady humming of the midges.

Kitty shook her head, sending the filthy hair flying. The howling was piercing right through to her brain. She had a headache coming on. Overhead, the monkeys were engaging in a tussle, sending leaves and twigs down to ripple her reflection.

She sat, hugging her knees, at the side of the pool. Aimlessly, she plucked a blade of grass and held it up to the light, contemplating the light shining through the green. Scared by the monkeys, a bird, plumage flashing red, burst through the canopy, fluting its high, eerie cry.

As if triggered by the appearance of the bird, an excruciating claw of pain sliced through Kitty's stomach, making her gasp and double over. The rotten fruit was exerting its influence on her body, and the girl rolled over to a kneeling position, arms wrapped firmly around her stomach as the waves of pain broke over her. She found that she was crying, salt drops oozing from under her eyelids as the hot stab came and passed and came again.

Twisting her body, she turned away from the pool and retched, throwing up a mess of yellow fruit and the remnants of the fish she had had the previous evening. She vomited until only a thin, sour bile trickled out onto the ground, and even then the pain did not stop.

Sobbing now, her breathing coming in fits, Kitty knelt by the edge of the pool.

After Roger had broken down a suitable branch he ventured back to the beach where Jack was. When the choir leader saw him, he impatiently motioned the other hunters who were crowding around him aside. They parted to let Roger through.

The dark boy regarded Jack inscrutably. The tall boy's red hair was plastered down with sweat, and he was smiling, widely. The conch lay on the sand beside him, and Roger did not miss the other boys' respectful glances at the shell.

Jack was eager, beckoning Roger forward, holding out a hand for the branch. Roger sat by his side as the chief began to hack at it. Idly, he trailed a finger over the whorls of the conch.

"Where're Kitty and Simon?"

Jack frowned.

"Simon's in the shelter – there. Looking after Ralph. I don't know where Kitty is."

Roger cupped his hand and funnelled it, watching the sand he had picked up flow back down to the beach.

"Saw her diving into the jungle earlier. Wonder where she is now."

Jack gestured impatiently.

"Who cares? We've got more important things to think about."

He viciously hacked off a chunk of wood.

"Hunting."

Roger looked up through his fringe.

"What about it?"

Jack stopped shaping the spear-point, waving the shaft to make his point.

"I've been thinking. You know when I've tried hunting before it never worked, right? Now I know why. Those pigs, they can see me. I don't think they smell me, just catch a glimpse of me or one of the other hunters. Then they all run."

Roger nodded.

"Well, I've remembered. You know the Army, or Red Indians – they paint their faces so that no one can see them coming. Why shouldn't we do the same? There's plenty of red clay here, and I bet we could find fruit that'd give us some other colours. If we do that the pigs'ud not be able to see us. Then we'd catch one."

The hunters, standing in a rough circle around them, stirred as if in a breeze. Jack's notion excited them. Roger said nothing but sat, working through this idea. Finally, urged by the stares at him and the palpable tension, he spoke.

"That's a good idea."

The hunters relaxed, and Jack's smile widened. Taking special care with Roger's spear, he finished off the point and handed it to his second-in-command.

"There's a bit here –"

Roger held his hand out for Jack's sheath-knife and the older boy handed it to him with only a slight hesitation. Bending his head under the eyes of the others, Roger began to neaten up his spear. Jack waited for him to finish and then stretched out an arm to take it back, simultaneously accepting another branch from Robert to shape. He still had hold of his bright idea.

"So after we're done with the spears we'll go and find clay and stuff to paint our faces with. Then we'll go hunting." He grinned round at the assembly. "My first hunt as Chief. This time we'll get a pig."

There was applause and a few cheers. Roger got to his feet, leaning on his new spear. Saying nothing, his mind working furiously, he walked away along the beach.

The littluns were restructuring their rhythms of play along the tideline as Roger came up; in the midst of rebuilding their sandcastles they paused and regarded him. Roger stopped some distance away from them, watching, absent-mindedly digging a hole in the sand with his spear.

Two littluns, Frederick and Rowland, were squatting down by the edge of the water, and Roger was attracted by their air of deep absorption and the small, squirming live thing that was commanding their attention. Craning his neck, Roger saw that they had a frog, a small, green one, tightly tied by a string around its neck leading back to Rowland's clutching fingers. Mad with fear, the frog strained the leash to its maximum, hopping futilely towards the clear sand beyond where the two boys knelt. Laughing, the littluns created runnels and mounds for it to hop through and over, prodding it with a stick of driftwood they had torn from another sand structure. Frenzied, the frog jumped higher than Roger thought was possible, upwards to the full extent of its string, landing on Frederick's shoulder. The two boys shouted with laughter. Feeling the unfamiliar material of rough, salt-stiffened cloth under its webbed feet sent it even more frantic; it skidded down the littlun's chest and back to the sand, where it was again prodded through the maze.

Roger considered this scene. Absently, he tested his spear-point on the ball of his thumb. Then he made his way forward, straight through the sandcastles. A few more littluns who had been playing in that particular area of sand set up a wail for their ruined game; but Roger paid them no attention, kicking his way through the sand, scattering all the mounds and shells used for embellishment.

He stopped a couple of feet away from Frederick and Rowland, a dark shadow on the bright sand, and waited for them to notice him.

The two littluns saw Roger only after his shadow, moving with the sudden progress of the sun from its noon height, cast across their maze. Then they looked up. Roger, staring down at their game dispassionately from his height, leaned on his spear again contemplatively.

The little frog croaked with the strength of hysteria at this new apparition towering over him, trying anew to snap the cord that held it captive. Rowland laughed again, absentmindedly, and tightened his grip on the string. A sudden jerk by the terrified frog almost tore it out of his grasp, and he shortened the string so his hand was just behind the frog's neck, and the leash was so tight as to almost throttle it.

Roger stared down at the two and something stole behind his eyes that had not been there before. Again, he tested his thumb on the spear, but he applied too much force and the crude point drove into his thumb, sending a drop of crimson blood meandering down his wrist. The boy did not look surprised, instead watched the blood as it flowed down to drip on the sand.

The littluns were watching him, wide-eyed. Roger seemed to notice them anew, eyes wandering to the frog which was hopping frenziedly on the end of the leash. He brought the spear up to bear.

His aim was good - the roughly-hewn spear pinned the frog to the wet, caked sand with one thrust, an inch away from Rowland's fingers. The droplet of Roger's blood that had been running down the spear shaft flowed down to near the end, mingling with the sticky dark blood of the frog. Both littluns looked at Roger for a second, incredulous, then started wailing.

Roger shook the carcass of the frog off his spear. Soon he was but a diminishing figure going off along the tideline.

Kitty's convulsions passed off into mind-numbing exhaustion that had her crouched by the pool, unable to move. Her mouth felt coated with a sticky layer of sour bile that wouldn't move no matter how hard she swallowed. The mosquitoes had found her and latched on, drinking their fill and leaving her with itchy red welts as they departed.

The girl slowly uncurled herself from her kneeling position, cramped muscles protesting. The mosquitoes refused to move even with this upheaval, so Kitty brushed her palms down her arms, wincing as the weals stung.

She felt a sense of lingering sickness looking at the clearing and the pool that she had defliled; the flies that had followed her from the orchard had deserted her for the vomit that puddled on the ground. Standing up, her legs wobbled and she almost fell, so that she half-squatted again, pressing a palm to the grass to regain her balance. Her head was spinning and she swallowed again, to no avail.

Hobbling a bit from the stiffness in her muscles, Kitty walked slowly away from the clearing, shoving the tangle of creepers aside as she went. The pain in her stomach had subsided to a queasy ache that was nevertheless uncomfortable. Once again, the girl noticed how matted her hair had become; wound around a leaf here or a twig there, caked with sand from the beach, and how it continued to flop into her eyes even after the haircut. Ineffectually, she tried to finger-comb the dirt out of it, but only succeeded in pulling out several dark strands and giving herself a thumping headache to add to the other pains.

She made her way out of the deep jungle to the pool, and sat again. She had thought of getting a drink but succumbed to the lethargy stealing up her limbs, slumping against a tree trunk, a fantastic tree that grew dish-sized, brilliant flowers and plump fruit side by side. The heady scent floated down from the branches and made her even more sleepy. She felt her eyes closing, but as they did there was a stab of pain piercing her side that let her know that the fruit wasn't gone. Kitty groaned and clasped her arms around her stomach.

A faint brush, almost a breeze, wisped across her skin as a movement beside her became apparent. Kitty looked sideways through her hair. Simon was making himself comfortable among the buttress roots.

"Here." The smaller boy held out a coco-nut shell, brimming with water. Stiffly, Kitty uncurled herself and took the shell. Her hands trembled and she slopped some of it down her front, but with Simon's fingers resting lightly on the fibrous coco-nut she managed to get it to her lips and gulp some of the water. The coolness trickled down her throat, mixed with the lingering sourness of bile. Grimacing, the girl took another gulp and washed it around the inside of her mouth, turning her head to spit it out, away from where she and Simon were sitting.

Simon smiled, hesitantly. Though he would never say it, this was the closest he would come to an apology. He knew, as well, that Kitty would never come as close as he was coming now.

Once Jack had turned his idea over in his head once or twice, he liked the sound of it so much that he started off on it without Roger. Speaking hurriedly, excitedly; he dispatched Harold and Rupert to get samples of red and black earth. He was working himself up over how to procure white when Charles spoke up and offered to get a fruit whose milky juice was ideal as paint. Jack came out of his irritation immediately and ordered him to go and bring some, as much as possible.

When the three had gone off into the jungle, the boys milled around for a bit, bored, making sideways glances at their Chief, who was sitting cross-legged on the sand, chin propped up on hand. He looked deep in thought and no one quite liked to make a comment that might startle him out of it.

Their attention was riveted by the arrival of Roger, coming across the beach with the sun behind him so he was nothing more than a formless shadow in the bright air. He strode easily into their midst, using his spear as a walking-stick. Everyone recoiled a little at the sticky red coating it, but Jack was unconcerned. The arrival of his second-in-command jerked him out of the state of pondering that he had immersed himself in, and he became immediately more jovial, patting the sand beside him in invitation. Roger sat.

"We're going to try it out." Jack's voice betrayed his excitement.

Roger propped his arms on his knees, black hair falling over his face.

"What's that?"

"Painting, I mean. I've sent some of the hunters off to get earth, and fruit. After they've come back we'll get started."

"Oh." If Roger felt any anticipation, he did not show it. "Good."

There was a stir in the ranks as the three hunters emerged from the fringes of the jungle. Each of them was holding something in a coco-nut shell; apart from Charles, who carried an oval fruit in each hand.

Jack jumped half-up from the sand; then remembered his dignity and sat back down, signing to the boys to bring their findings forward. They did, setting the coco-nut shells and fruit on the sand. Roger reached out a languid finger to stroke the fruit curiously.

"Interesting."

Jack grabbed the fruit the other boy was examining and ripped it in two, grinning at the white juice that came trickling out. Transferring both pieces of fruit to one hand, he used the pale liquid trickling down his other to dab his face. The white paint stayed on, obscuring freckled, sunburnt skin.

Jack swiped his hand across a cheek and dabbed his fingers back into the fruit.

"Perfect."

Yay. 7 down... 7? or 8? to go. Be patient with me, people. And I'm sorry for the filler-ish chapter, but it demonstrates IMPORTANT aspects of Roger's character (n.b that he's a sadist) and the relationship between Jack and Roger, and also Kitty and Simon.

For all Ralph fans I apologise for his non-appearance.

Part of this chapter was written at a train station while I was waiting for my friend to come so we could GET GOING to our squash match. (The bit about monkeys.)

And I have finally got a account! Yayness! I'm KyrieEleison on there... So the site has to be thanked, cause I have gotten some serious inspiration for fanfic through my Lord of the Flies playlist.

And finally... Next chapter look forward to Ralph appearance again! And also minimal Roger (sorry Roger fans), but it's interesting, I think. I'm quite proud of it, and it's nearly done! Squee!