The Sanctuary

Abi Pillai

Daphne Island: May 2023

Daniel Dacres places a hand on the wall of volcanic rock within the cave, steadying himself. White fungus bubbles within the cracks. Mushrooms spiral outwards in clumps of milky, wiry stalks, seeking light. The cave is dark and cold. A rhythmic dripping sound plucks from within the black expanse. Then – the stuttering tap of a darting rodent. 

A minute more. He rests his cheek on the cratered rock, eyes flickering shut. 

He had not thought the weekend would end in death. 

Perhaps he had been naive. Death is, after all, ever-present on the island. It is by his design that carcasses slick with blood and nutrients are thrown into the carnivores’ cages. And just last month – the langur monkey that perished by night. Her stiff, furred limbs caused a young employee to scream during the dawn feed. 

This though – this death means failure. Blame. Journalists and photographers crowded around the ferry. Police. Soon – headlines.

His life’s work has been mangled by the mighty weight of his guests’ idiocy. No. He relaxes his jaw. Anger is to be exhaled.

All that remains is now. Here. The cool of the cave’s walls. What did he learn in Nepal, whispered before the gong? The body is material: a snake’s skin to shed. 

With effort, he stands upright. He moves, noticing it all. The bending of the knees, the gaseous smell in the cave, the slanting light.

  One step into the world.

Sun and air. Shifting lines of the tide, the grey-black residue on the Scottish beach that lifts from planes of flat sand to jagged rocks. Sky fringed by thin reaching trees.

Down to where the sand gives way. 

He takes off his shoes – loafers crafted to resemble alligator hide. Custom-made. He leaves them pressed together on the beach. Removes his socks, rolls up his trousers to reveal the white of his ankles, the dark of his leg hair. He hears a siren from beyond the shore – the sound that rips through cities violating his island. 

Stones cut into the arches of his feet till he reaches the sea. The saltwater burns and cleans. He looks back. His Daphne. Her hair is mottled brown wood, leaves erupting in green. Her eyes are somewhere by the lions’ den. 

  He is waist deep in the North Sea. 

Beside his ankles, a flash of luminescent white, the clouded head of a jellyfish, her legs in tendrils beneath her.

One breath. 

London: April 2023        

Ms Citrine prides herself on her light. Not symbolic, though maybe that too. The light fixtures she arranges on her desk that ensures colours come out just right. The gold of her chain needs to shimmer against the dark of her skin, the pigment of her jewels contrasts with the burgundy velvet she lays them on. Ms Citrine knows that black is too harsh: colour needs colour. Black velvet would flatten the hue. Most of all though, Ms Citrine prides herself on her following – unlike other female influencers, her ring light is for the beauty of the scene, not just her own face. Ms Citrine is followed for her wisdom.

  True to her namesake, she wears a chunk of raw citrine, threaded onto gold, around her neck. The jewel is a faceted, clear orange, matching the shade of her almond-shaped acrylic nails. Ms Citrine pairs her jewels with life advice and music. Today, she settles a large, dark garnet onto the velvet, angling the light beside it. She presses play on the camera and relaxes her face into a smooth, expressionless calm.

         Hi Truth Seekers, today is a special one. Before we begin, I want you all to look within with honesty and compassion.

         She touches a curl, pulling it from behind her ear and takes a deep breath before she continues.

         If you’ve watched me for a while, welcome back. If you’re new here, welcome in. My truth today isn’t an easy one. My truth to tell, is that I’m being stalked. As you know, I work in a school and last year a teenage boy groped me. Yesterday, I saw him on a bus. No big deal. I still live in Peckham; I see ex-students all the time. He didn’t look like he clocked me. Hood up, music on, he could be anyone.

         Her heartbeat increases, breath hitching. 

         Anyway, long story short, I saw him again this morning, but this time, I saw him on my street. He walked past me, deliberately not looking, brushed his fingers against mine and just walked on, like it didn’t happen, like I’d just been in the way.

         A tear gathers in the corner of her eye.

         That’s all. Stalked is probably too strong. Anyway, I need to re-centre today, so I’ve brought my garnet. An underrated stone, the garnet bears protective properties.

         She turns the stone with her ringed, manicured hands, and a red gleam emanates from the rock.

         Here, you can see the depth of the garnet. It’s not a showy stone. It requires a penetrative glare; a considered gaze for you to see what’s within. Sometimes that’s the way with people. You have to listen to get a glimpse of someone’s true essence. This is for the girls and women watching: sometimes you’ve got to hold your beauty within. Protect yourselves, don’t give too freely.

         Then, the best bit, Ms Citrine raises her guitar, reaches for her white plectrum, and begins to sing.

When she’s done, Ms Citrine leans back into the comfort of her chair. She unties the golden ribbon that adorns her dark curls and lets out a long, slow breath. She hadn’t told the whole truth about Jacob, the boy she’d called a stalker. The truth had wrecked her.

The other truth obscured from her followers; the carefully lit desk that she films from is not in an office in some airy, urban flat. It’s a flat piece of wood slotted into a small alcove in her bedroom. Which is also her living room, often her kitchen, and always her miniscule sanctuary. Ms Citrine is twenty-eight-year-old Zara Seacrest, and Zara lives in a house share. An uncomfortable house share. Scratch that, she lives in a boxy room and scuttles into shared areas, determined to be undetected.

The doorbell rings and Zara leaps into action. It’s here: her latest purchase. A large amethyst geode in a cardboard box nestled in cotton wool. 

*

The squeak of shoes on the shining brown floorboards. The rain from outside shimmying down the children’s bodies and creating pools of damp on the already swollen floor of the school hall. 

Zara feels well-rested and calm. Last night, her sister Evie came over and they watched a film in Zara’s bed and drank wine and Zara almost felt at home. Although, she still jumped at every opening of a door, every whispering footstep. She should really talk to her housemates more.

This morning, all her lessons are planned and she feels ready for the day, like finally things are becoming predictable again.

Zara whispers to a boy in the doorway of the assembly hall, ‘Aiden, take the seat at the back.’

He looks up at her, brown eyes assessing her with a clear, critical lens, ‘What’s in your hair?’

Her hand jumps up to the sequined headband she’d bought via TikTok, instantly self-conscious. Maybe the gold was a bit much. He uses the opportunity to rush past her, sitting, legs askew, next to silent Ben. Two rows from where he should be. 

She sighs and hopes no other teachers have seen this defiance or her own embarrassing vanity. 

Mr Dunne, self-important deputy head, shimmies up the stairs to the podium like a camp priest and flashes his shining teeth at the children until he gains silence.

Zara places herself away from Aiden and towards the girls in her tutor group – let him be someone else’s problem today. She rests her hands behind her arched back and gazes up at Mr Dunne, keen to be noticed. There have been rumours about an imminent Head of Year vacancy. Kelly’s looking suspiciously round-of-belly. It’s not a position Zara particularly wants – she’s seen Kelly transform from a conscientious twenty-something to a prematurely lined disciplinarian. The money would be nice though, maybe, if she found a small studio, she might even afford to live alone… Dreams of her coffee maker and her own cups filling kitchen cupboards float in Zara’s mind’s eye. Her crystals would be placed in auspicious areas of her flat, shrines to her spirituality. 

Freedom.  

Mr Dunne speaks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his polka dot tie splayed across his stomach.

 ‘Year Ten, you will soon be the envy of the entirety of the St Oswald’s community.’ he coughs dramatically, voice rising in volume, ‘Daniel Dacres himself has reached out to our school, offering a lucky few to go to the opening weekend of Daphne Island.’

A couple of gasps from the front row. Even Aiden is silent – faux disinterest in his face betrayed by the roving flicker of his eyes. Zara feels her face heat.

 ‘Dacres admires the work that St Oswald’s, and several other schools, do for our disadvantaged students.’ Mr Dunne continues, back straight and proud, ‘He has therefore requested that we handpick fifteen students from the school for this particular privilege. Your year will represent the school and we are currently compiling a list of deserving pupils.’ 

Sparkles cluster on the edges of Ms Citrine’s vision. For a moment she sees beyond the school hall, beyond the dismal greying light from the morning sky. A cloud of forest green, the sharp whip of sea against rock. A whoosh of cold, Scottish wind strokes the back of her neck, goosebumps lifting on her arms. 

She has heard about Daphne Island; she’s seen countless interviews with Dacres. He’s that smooth-skinned, white-toothed American; son of Delores Dacres, Golden Age Cinema starlet. Last week, an exclusive interview with him went viral. Dacres sat opposite a blonde journalist in an underground bar. He wore a custom-made suit with tiny pink elephants dotted on the blue fabric, his shirt exposing his waxed chest and Californian tan. Alcohol-free beer in hand, he’d described what led to his maverick purchase of an abandoned Scottish island, spoke with tantalisingly sparse detail about his plans for the opening of his grand project. Promising the biggest, wildest animal sanctuary the UK has ever seen.  

When asked who could get tickets to the opening he’d answered seductively: Places are invite only. And invitations are most certainly, not reserved for the rich.

Celebrities, the internet assumed, would comprise the bulk of the recipients. Animal rights activists expressed concern but others were frothing at the mouth for details.

Fuck. The golden tickets are being scattered over St Oswald’s by some benevolent hand above. 

Whispers bring her back, Aiden sinks further into his chair, head shaking, muttering ‘Allow that.’ 

A few seats along, little Serena holds the edges of her chair and blinks at Mr Dunne, behind thick, black frames.

He starts flipping through slides, clearly edited that morning. Flat copy and paste images of tigers, illegible text from the interview with Dacres but she sees a trembling to his fingers, an excitement in the set of his jaw. 

 ‘This is not just a chance for you to explore the greatest beings the world has to offer. No, no, you will be on TV, on Instagram, on TikTok…on what was it?’

Someone shouts, ‘Only Fans!’

  Mr Khalid takes the offending girl outside while she looks behind her, laughing madly.

Everyone else is strangely still. Rain picks up outside and the sound of late students in the corridor fills the hall. Within, silence.

‘Fifteen children will be chosen,’ he repeats his hands together as if in prayer, seeking out his audience, ‘you will be our mouthpiece, our models, our—’ 

Advert, thinks Zara, missing the actual word.

 ‘For the world at large,’ Mr Dunne concludes. He gazes up at the ticking clock, ‘Period one first, Year Ten, and by the end of the day the invitees will be notified.’

He clamps his hands on the lectern and the kids stand, wild-eyed and manic. 

Zara exits through the herd, eyes half on her first lesson, half on her next question: and the teachers?

*

It takes Jason a moment to register the alarm; at first, the bodily shock of consciousness. Then Saraya’s breathing form, outlined in the blue-black dark. Four a.m. She turns as he picks up his phone. Her eyes are shut but she reaches a hand towards his arm, sharp, painted nails pressed against his skin. A protest in miniature, he thinks, looking at the hand and shifting himself away from her. 

He tears open the caffeine and electrolyte sachet from a brand that’s sponsoring him and pours it into the water sitting next to his bed. Saraya moves, a loose curl escaping from her bonnet and a frown lingering on her forehead. She sleeps like a hot cat, limbs stretched, body long and exposed to the cool morning. A purposeful position. His eyes pass over her body, the curve of her ass and for a moment he considers staying. But – he reminds himself – that only adds to the appeal of his journey. He needs temptation to overcome it.

         So, Jason drinks down the water, eats a protein bar from another sponsor – some vegan shit with almonds and seeds. He takes a picture of the bar and the fizzing supplement in his water before he looks in the mirror. He takes more pictures at different angles – each designed to make him look larger and more powerful. Jason is not a big man. Standing at five feet seven, he could be considered small. It’s the single worst thing his followers say to him when they meet him: you look taller online.

         He chooses his best picture: eyes cast down, running shorts and shoes on, brands large and exposed but his muscled upper body is naked and his hair wild. He uploads the image onto Instagram, tagging his sponsor and titling the post: First ultra of April. Hack your body. Be your own King.

         Once he’s posted, he notices he’s lost five followers and gained one. A man, or a boy really, who looks about seventeen. He has a long, thin physique – rangy muscles and enviably low body fat. He’s posting about his fitness journey. The boy’s amassed a few hundred followers. Jason could teach him a trick or two. Not least – lighting.

         When he’s done, he puts on a vest and gets his recording equipment ready. He films his surroundings as he runs. Some of it he uploads, the rest he keeps for himself. A kind of souvenir, he likes to think. Of everywhere he and his two feet have conquered.

By mile ten, Jason looks at his sports watch and discovers his pace is slowing. His thighs which were moving in synergy have now come to his attention. Aching and developing a kind of tremor. He pauses a moment, taking care to stop his watch so this won’t be recorded.

         The world is that swelling blue that could signify either early morning or the wisps of twilight. Streetlights glare on the unoccupied street. Jason’s breath lightly fogs the air but it’s getting warmer. Summer’s approaching with all its attendant anxieties.

         He’s kept precisely to the route he made. He’s now travelled out of London, traversed a distance most would do by car, so that by the time the sun begins to rise he’s by a lake on the edge of a forest, light reflected in the water. He’s tired. For a moment he thinks of bed. Of Saraya. Then he remembers the last time he felt small. An image interrupts his vision as sometimes it does. The face. The fist. The back of him.

         He decides not to take the gel he packed for this mile. He unpauses his watch and continues, running through the weakness in his legs. Pushing his pace.

         The beauty of running is the pain. The moments where the body’s discomfort quietens the brain; reminds it who’s boss. By mile fifteen, the sun has risen and the world has taken on a soft hazy quality. A reminder to eat: when the colours dim a little and Jason feels like he used to when he was between drunkenness and cocaine-high. He eats and last night comes back to him in images.

         Saraya was passive at first. A half-smile in the corners of her lips, a flatness in her eyes. She was back-lit by the soft bar lights. He hated when she drank. She hated that he didn’t. She was on her second glass of wine and emboldened by it. She recycled the same, goddamn conversation again.

         ‘Do you have to check your phone when we’re out?’

         ‘No, sorry, it was mum.’

He’s sure he hung his head then, slipped his phone into his pocket, praying for peace, not again, not again. An awareness of feeling in his chest.

         She sighed angrily and an ugliness came over her. She looked old. Scolding.

         The conversation went as it did. From that, to ‘why are you always on TikTok?’ to, ‘who’s this girl in a bikini on your follower list?’ to ‘influencer is not a fucking job.’ To more wine and finally, ‘You’re pathetic. Look around you – look at him – yeah, the guy in the shirt – he earns real money and he’s probably married.’

         There it was. Always. Marriage. Family.

He loops back into London, finds himself in Hyde Park, surrounded by casual joggers, mothers with strollers, the odd flash of a green parakeet flitting between trees.

         The dance is familiar to Jason. Has been for months now. Saraya swings between jealousy to veiled truths about her insecurity. And that’s him. He causes that.          

   Last night, she left, walked out of the bar with a sway of the hips and a sly, backward glance. When they were home, she was drunk enough to want to be looked after, the anger transmuted into sadness. They shared a bath and she caressed his blistered toes from the other side of the tub. She was embarrassed. She’d revealed too much. Jason knew what she wanted: a husband and a child. At the very least, the promise of one. Her baby hairs were damp from the steam and she’d looked over at him, brown eyes open and wet. Honest.

         ‘Look, Saraya, it’s—’

         ‘Don’t.’

She’d held up a manicured hand, the soft, lined palm facing him. ‘Don’t.’

         By mile thirty, he can no longer think and the world has become a marble in his hands: he feels his strength, his largeness and the beauty in fragility.

         He approaches the door to his apartment block. Edward is walking out, his tailored suit loose to his form, his tie dotted yellow. Edward works in the city. Edward is married. Edward hates Jason. He nods as Jason moves past him, the smell of jasmine tea emanating from his sustainable keepcup. He laughs inwardly. Pussy.

         Jason and Saraya live in a large newbuild of flats in Bermondsey. Saraya’s parents bought her the flat when she turned twenty-one. An adored only child of older parents, Saraya’s family spent their hard-earned wealth on securing their precious daughter’s future. A future she’s apparently squandered on an ex-addict and a gym bro.

Beautiful Saraya, with her clean skin and confident, well-loved demeanour. There’s a fracturing to that now: a breaking down. He sees it in the defiant sheen of her eyes – she’s questioning – is she good enough? Why won’t he tell her she’s good enough?

         Jason steps into the lift at the same time as Marie. There’s an awkward kerfuffle as he steps in first, then remembers his manners and motions her in with a swift curve of a hand.

         Marie’s hot. If you like that kind of thing. Thing being: Swedish, blonde ponytail that swings between lightly freckled shoulder blades. She’s been to the gym, Jason observes, looking down at her Lycra shorts that reveal long, slim white legs. A brown mole interrupts the otherwise flawless surface of her skin at the crook of her knee. He finds this impossibly erotic and is forced to look and focus on the buttons of the lift. This is another side effect of running: the testosterone, the need to act.

         ‘Two?’

         She nods and smiles.

When she speaks her voice lilts upwards, ‘Jason, yes? I think you train my boyfriend, Salvatore?’

He does. Salvatore with the furred chest and voice so low, he growls. He’s soft though; a musician on the wrong side of forty, his body acquiring an unpleasant layer of fat. Amazing he’s with Marie. Outstanding work.

She stretches her long, right calf, wiry muscles appearing beneath the white expanse of skin.

  ‘My hamstrings are so tight, any recommendations? Do you massage too?’

Her mouth is serious but her eyes betray her. There’s a sparkle there, a blue awareness.

Dear god. He gives her his number and she disappears into the lit, beige-carpeted corridor of floor two.

Straying is a funny thing. It’s not as clear-cut as women think. Once he and Saraya had settled into a warm closeness with each other, the fucking stopped. Instead, they were doing that ambiguous and less appealing thing – making love. It started when they began to have sex with purpose: it was Jason’s birthday, so Saraya wore lingerie and worked on him with her mouth. It was the proper thing to do. 

Worse, was when sex was a balm for the rest. The fight last week, about home insurance. Saraya had shouted at him: he hadn’t double locked the door and had disappeared for hours. When she returned from work, she was horrified to notice the flimsy slip of the key in the lock. The easy, one-keyed turn. She glowered at him while he stretched in ignorant bliss, scarlet elastic around his thigh. She walked out of the room in a huff, the scent of her hair following her angered silence. 

The quietening was at the kiss of her neck, the touch of her collarbone. Sex closed the gap between them. Muffled, but didn’t silence, the resentments, the fears.

But sex, Jason believed, should be simple. A matter of aesthetic assessment and corresponding want. He was aware that Saraya worried sometimes. She saw beautiful women in the world and questioned Jason on where his eyes landed. What she didn’t realise was what mattered most to him. It was the being looked at; the being wanted. Women who touched his arms, who felt and admired the strength beneath the skin. It was Marie’s blue, wandering gaze that caused the pulse of his blood to quicken. That pained pleasured feeling of being desired.

But that ended in the culmination. The messy, inevitable ending. Really, Saraya is lucky, he thinks. With her, he stays. With her, he cares. Somehow, he knows she wouldn’t take it that way.

  Jason steps out of the lift, opening the door to the flat. Saraya is already gone. The bed has been made and she’s started the coffee machine for him. She’s ashamed. She’s making amends. He stretches, breathes, uploads his run and gets ready to film. He needs to do it while sweating, while this running glaze is most powerful.

         With gleaming teeth and a glittering forehead, Jason starts a live video, waxing lyrical about how his Electric Energy drink helped him zoom beyond the marathon distance.

When he’s done, he scans through his messages. Spam, sponsors, requests for advice. One catches his eye – sent from a real account. How about a new challenge? Go wilder.  

There’s a link attached.