Chapter Text
December 24th, 1953
Jack remains ill. He’e getting much better, though, and we’ve almost worked more than halfway through Huckleberry Fin. I started doing the funny voices because of how hard it makes Jack laugh.
While I was bringing him a glass of water, he was half-asleep and accidentally called me “mother”. We both laughed like drains and I thought my ribs would explode.
I’ll miss these moments terribly when the Christmas vac is over, when I go back to hiding in the library while the other boys play outside and Jack treating me like I’m scum he found on the bottom of his shoe.
We were playing chess today, in bed. Jack still isn’t allowed to leave the room until he’s completely better, so I’ve been confined here with him for the last three days.
But something has shifted slightly in the air between us. For one, Jack is far more touchy than he’s ever been in my entire seven years of knowing him. Maybe he’s just sick and desperate for comfort. At night he lies directly next to me, with his back pressed against mine, when he used to sleep at the farthest edge to the point he was borderline falling off the mattress. He put his head against my shoulder while I was reading earlier, and I was so taken aback I started stuttering like an idiot. To which he kindly responded, “Shut up and read properly.”
I took out Huckleberry Finn today, fully intending to finish it, when suddenly he said, “read me the other one.”
“What other one?” I asked, confused.
“Your diary.” He said, sitting up on his knees, looking down on me from atop the bed.
“It’s none of your business” I said, with a little more force than necessary. “Besides, why do you care about it so much?”
“Well what’s so bad about it that you can’t show me?” he challenged, getting that dangerous gleam in his eye. The same gleam he got whenever someone challenged him to a race or a rugby game or whenever someone tried taking his spot at the head of the dining table. It was the “you better give me what I want before I take it from you myself” look.
I tried to figure out if I could run to the bathroom and rip out all the pages and soak them in water before he snatched it from me. If Jack read the diary and saw what I've been thinking- about him- he’d have enough material to bully me with until I graduate university. I probably wouldn’t even make it to university because I’d die of embarrassment long before.
“Please, Jack” I tried again. “There’s nothing in there you’d care about.”
“So then let me see it.” He bent over the side of the bed and tried grabbing it off the floor, but I snatched it away just in time.
“You can’t read it” I blurted. “I- I wrote some really stupid stuff. Like girls that I fancied.”
This was about the most horrendous lie ever. For starters, we go to an all boys school, so there are no girls for me to fancy in the first place. Second, all that would do is make him even more eager to read it and humiliate me. Good one, Simon.
For a moment Jack just stood there looking at me, like a deer in headlights. I used this moment of confusion to fling the diary out of the open window. Yes, fling it out the window (which then led to a two hour expedition of me going through the bushes to find it again).
But then Jack burst out laughing so hard he started wheezing. “Good god, Simon. If whatever's in there is that horrible I won’t read it. Christ, you're batty.”
“But wait” he said, getting that sadistic gleam in his eye. “Does that mean you fancy one of our teachers? Because they’re the only girls here.”
He spent the rest of the day horrifically making fun of me, taking every opportunity to make some stupid joke about me being in love with the housekeeper or the English teacher.
But it’s much less embarrassing than who I'm actually in love with.
December 26th, 1953
Today was so wonderful and terrible I can’t even begin to describe it.
I was sitting at my desk doing some grammar practice that had been left behind as an assignment over the break. Jack came up behind me. “What type of loon does homework on holiday?” he laughed. (He’s feeling all better now, and finally has all his energy to make fun of me with back).
He stood there quietly for a few moments while I copied the sentences from the book onto the blank piece of paper.
“Your letters are atrocious” he barked suddenly, leaning further over me. “Is that english or arabic? Your writing is so crooked that I can’t tell.”
Then he leaned fully over me, putting his hand over mine. “You need to hold the pencil properly,” he said, squeezing my hand tighter. Moving it over the page, which honestly made the letters look more smudged than they already were.
I just sat there for a moment in shock, not being sure if I could trust myself to move.
“Do you want my help or not?” Jack cried with exasperation, still keeping his hand over mine. I wanted to say no, I did not want his help, that he was only making things worse for us.
I finally pulled away firmly, gently tugging my hand out of his. “I’m fine” I had said, my cheeks burning. “I know how to write my sentences, Jack.”
He just huffed and stormed out of the room. I’m so, so profoundly confused. What does he want? Why does he keep acting like that? I think he might have gotten so sick it’s messed with his head.
But it didn’t end there.
That night we were in the common area. I was sitting on my stomach, reading a book. Jack was on the couch, lying on his back and throwing a pillow up and down, staring at the ceiling.
“Simon” he said suddenly, turning towards me.
“What?” I said, looking up from my book. He could never leave me in peace while I was reading.
“You won’t tell anyone about what happened,” he said slowly, setting the pillow aside. “About what happened while I was sick. Or else I’ll lock you in the choir closet and leave you there until we graduate.”
“I believe you” I said mildly, keeping my eyes on the book. “I won’t say anything, Jack.”
He seemed satisfied by this answer, looking back at the ceiling before taking one of the pillows and chucking it at my face.
“Jack” I groaned. “Would you leave me in peace for five minutes? It’s like whenever I pick up a book you act like it’s my god-given duty to entertain you.”
But I know that he’ll just keep harassing me until I join in on his games, so I took the pillow and threw it directly at his face. He shrieked with laughter and grabbed another one of the pillows. I ran over and tried wrestling it out of his hands, which led to us both on the ground, me trying to pull the pillow out from under him. Suddenly he flipped me, and his knee was on my chest. We both just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, breathing heavily.
It was that moment that I realised that the way I feel about him is strange. It’s how everyone describes the way you're supposed to feel about a girl- all fluttery and nervous. I had known this for a while now, but it wasn’t until now, under him, that I realised I wanted to curl up next to him forever. I would go along with any game he made us play, go anywhere if it meant I’d be with him.
I think I'll be punished for this someday. For the way I think about Jack, the same Jack I stand with in the church and sing prayers with. There must really be something wrong with me, the way everyone else says there is.
I think Jack must have realised something too, because his cheeks got red. But he didn’t move. He slid down slightly so his knee was off my chest, but kept his hand over my wrist.
“That was nice” he said after a moment. “What you did for me while I was sick, I mean. I never said thank you.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. “It’s nothing.”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but no sound ever came out of his mouth. I felt like we were both close to making a bad decision. I pulled my wrist out from under his hand and sat up.
“I think you should sleep in your own bed” I said suddenly.
“What?” Jack said, confusion spreading across his face.
“It’s just that I don’t think what we’re doing is right.” the words came out of my mouth so fast I couldn’t take them back.
“It’s you that’s doing all the wrong things” he said, his voice becoming hard. “It’s you that’s always looking at me with your creepy big eyes. It’s always you that’s making me-” his voice faltered then, tripping over his words.
Suddenly he got up and ran out of the room. I sat there, confused at his reaction. I clearly must have struck something on accident.
December 27th, 1953
The next morning was awfully awkward. At breakfast it was silent, Jack smacking his food ridiculously loud.
The housekeeper came in, looking between us with her eyebrows raised. “Why are you boys so silent?” she said, "Usually you both are making a racket in here.”
Then she turned to me. “There’s a telephone for you, Simon.”
I felt my heart stop in my chest. I hadn’t been telephoned since the start of break.
Jack looked up from his cereal, and I could see the envy in his face.
It made me sad that the two of us were so neglected that a phone call was enough to make us envious of each other.
My mother was on the telephone when I came into the office. She didn’t say much- just asked me how I was doing. She sounded exhausted.
She told me about Switzerland, and how she was getting me pens to go with my diary. She told me that she missed me, and that she was excited to hear from me after break.
I wanted to ask why she left me here if she cared so much, but I couldn’t speak.
January 1st, 1954
The past week has been awkward, but I apologized to Jack over what I said that night in the common room. The rest of the boys will be back soon, and I don’t want to waste any precious time.
January 4th, 1954
Tomorrow the boys will start to return to where they belong. It was Jack’s last night sleeping in my room, in my bed. He lay curled against my side.
We were so close then, our noses nearly touching.
“Did you have a good Christmas?” he whispered to me in the dark.
“The very best” I said.
And then he did something that I think I'll remember for the rest of my days. His lips brushed lightly against my nose.
I think we had both stunned ourselves, and we sat there in silence until I finally had the courage to whisper, “Goodnight, Jack.”
It was an unspoken rule these things would never be discussed, that it could be chalked up as brotherly camaraderie. That these things would only happen in the dark, and would never be spoken about again. I’m surprised Jack trusted me to keep this secret. Then again, it would be just as bad for me if anyone found out.
But there’s nothing to find out, because there is nothing.
Right?
January 2nd, 1954
In the morning, all his trunks were gone from my room.
The bed was cold where he had lain next to me. The room had never felt more empty.
At breakfast Jack was kind, complaining about all his term classes. He smiled at me and told me that I had made a good holiday companion.
Then, when we were both next to each other clearing the plates, he whispered in my ear.
“And thank you for keeping me warm at night.”
I almost dropped the plate and let it shatter all over the floor, and Jack laughed as he walked away to the kitchen.
But by lunch, he was preparing himself for the arrival of the others. He had returned his trunks to his original room, the one he shared with Maurice. He purposefully and skilfully avoided me, sending a clear message. Our friendship is over. Do not interact with me. Don’t even look at me.
When the first cars began rolling up in front of the gates, and the first boys began rolling their trunks out, Jack spoke to me for the first time all day.
“You’re not to say anything about anything. Understand, Cambourne?”
I just nodded mutely. I had played this game every year, I knew how it went.
But the vac had been different this year.
The sickness.
The kiss.
That night in the common room.
That explained why Jack seemed extra panicked whenever any of the boys, rosy and round from the warmth of home and holiday dinners, came up to me or tried to talk to me. He was afraid of me saying something.
He doesn't have to worry. I’d never dream of taking him off his throne.
And just like that, he turned right back into head chorister Jack. Preening Jack. Princely Jack. Everyone’s favorite, everything a good English boy should be.
He never spoke to me again for the rest of term.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rest of the diary was blank, except for a small portion where Simon had written a reminder for an upcoming quiz, and then a packing list for what he had to bring when they evacuated a few months later. A draft of a letter he planned on sending his mother as soon as the plane landed.
Well.
Jack Merridew was not weak. Jack Merridew had never brushed his lips against another boy. Jack Merridew never got sick.
As he gave Simon’s diary a toss into the fire, watched it burn and crackle under the flames, watched the pages spark and set alight, he knew these were all truths. Because now there was no evidence to prove them otherwise.
The burning of the diary was a transition of student to savage, head boy to hunter. No records of who he used to be existed anymore.
Once the diary was a satisfactory pile of ash, he turned on his heel and began to walk to Ralph’s camp.
The sun was rising in the distance, watery over the horizon and painting the island in gold. Jack trudged through the palm trees and the sand, until he could make out the familiar lines of rock that surrounded Ralph’s camp.
Jack knew that Simon would be up early. And he was right.
There he was, standing by one of the tide-pools. Scooping handfuls of water and splashing it against his face.
A memory came to Jack, suddenly crashing through his brain.
Over a year ago, over the Christmas vac. He remembered laying in his bed, under those scratchy, school issued blankets. He remembered feeling awful, somehow too hot and too cold at the same time.
And he remembered feeling more alone than he ever had before, wishing that there was someone to love him, to care for him, missing his mother more desperately than he had in a long time.
And he remembered Simon, sitting next to him on the bed, book balanced on his knees. He remembered looking up at him, moppy brown hair falling in his face, his freckles and his lovely green eyes. The eyes he always called creepy.
He remembered Simon reading to him, Simon with his arms wrapped around him. Simon’s lips against his head. He remembered feeling more safe and cared for than he had in a long time.
“Simon” Jack called out, trying to deepen his voice and sound harsh.
Simon dropped the handful of water he was holding, his face a mixture of surprise, confusion, and a little bit of fear.
I scare him.
That thought felt less triumphant than Jack wanted it to be.
“I found your suitcase” he said, striding toward him casually. As if they were chums again.
“What are you doing here, Jack?” Simon sounded more tired than fearful now. His bright green eyes lacked the shine.
“I said I found your suitcase” Jack said again, coming closer to Simon.
“I hope that means you found some of my shirts.” He said dryly, looking at the tide pool then back at Jack. “The two I have are awfully damp.”
“No. I found your diary.”
Jack’s words couldn’t have had a better effect on Simon. The boy’s eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening and closing.
“You didn’t” Simon whispered.
“I absolutely did” Jack sneered. “His hair was yellow like the sun, shining like the angels painted on the sides of the cathedral” he quoted, turning his voice high and mocking. “Somthing like that, wasn’t it?”
“Give it back” Simon said, his voice a little more than a whisper, tears starting to gather at the corner of his eyes. “Please, Jack. That was from my mother.”
“I can’t. I burned it.” Jack said. Usually he delighted in his own cruelty, calling Piggy fat and beating Ralph. He was good at being mean. But right now he felt nothing but a pit of filth and disgust forming at the bottom of his stomach.
Simon closed his eyes, his face pained.
“Your choir, Simon. You should have come to me. You're a traitor!” Jack shouted, taking a step closer to Simon. “You're nothing but a useless, batty traitor. Even Ralph and Piggy don’t respect you!”
“Like you respect me any more” Simon bit out, his voice choked. “I’ve never been anything but a commodity to you, Jack. Something to use when you're bored. A friend only when it’s convenient. You’ve always been cruel to me, crueler than Ralph and Piggy ever have.”
“So this is your revenge against me” Jack scoffed. “Honestly, Simon. You leave me no choice but to be cruel. It’s your fault for always being so weird! I can’t be friends with a misfit like you!”
Jack was practically screaming in Simon’s face now, a bit of spit landing in the corner of his mouth.
“You had no right to read it” Simon said, somehow remaining calm.
“I had every right,” Jack yelled. “I was basically all you wrote about. How cruel I was. How I was some murderous dictator.”
“That’s not what I wrote about you, and you know it.” Simon’s voice was gentler, as if he were an adult calming down a screaming toddler.
“I wanted to tell you that you had it all wrong. I’m not a disgusting sinner like you. I’m not a- I’m not-”
Say it, Jack. Freak? Fag? There was something wrong with me that winter. I was bored and lonely and confused. I’m not like you.”
These were the words that seemed to hurt Simon the most. He backed away like he had been stabbed.
“I’m here because I wanted to make that clear to you” Jack spat. “And that tomorrow, when I invite Ralph and Piggy to split the meat from the hunt, I don’t want you to come. I don’t want to see your face ever again. That the diary’s gone, and so is whatever we did during the Christmas vacs.”
And then he gave Simon a light shove just for good measure. But Simon did something surprising. He shoved him back.
Jack staggered back in shock. Simon defending himself. Who would have thought?
“I don’t want to see you again either, Jack” Simon said, still maintaining the perfect picture of calm while Jack screamed like a lunatic.
Angelic Simon. Always kind, even when he had no reason to be.
Jack shrugged the thought away.
“I’m sorry that you're upset I picked Ralph and Piggy over you. I really am. But I've realised, Jack, looking at you with all your makeup and your hunters. I don’t want to join in on that. I don’t want to become an accomplice in your cruelty.” Simon took another deep breath in.
“And I'm going to do something I should have done a long, long time ago. I don’t want us to ever speak again, ever. Even after we get rescued. I’ve realised I deserve better than that.”
Jack could feel dangerous, unwanted tears threatening to come out. He had to leave now. But he had to get one last insult in.
“I wish you had died, Simon. I wish you went out with that pilot.”
And then Jack turned on his heel and ran, ran as fast and as hard as he could back to his camp.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Simon watched Jack go, watched him until his long figure disappeared around the bend in the rocks.
Simon knew that he had to realise that the island had morphed Jack into something unrecognizable. A cruel dictator. A cruel boy.
But he knew that Jack had always had this capacity for cruelty in him. His rose-tinted views of him, his adoration for him had hidden that.
And he knew that he had to let go of this boy, this boy who could be so wonderful yet so terrible. Because Jack was morphing into something more dangerous and cruel than Simon could ever realise. That this was not the same Jack that had lain with him in bed, that had bandaged his knee.
It’s time to let him go.
“Goodbye, Jack Merridew.” Simon whispered, before turning and walking back to his camp.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That wasn’t the last time Jack saw Simon, though.
The last time Jack ever saw Simon was on the night of the feast. When he had heard the beast, and his chest had swelled with adrenaline and fear and the prospect of catching it. Of killing it, and hanging it up for everyone to see.
He screamed and stabbed, filled with the joy and gleam and the high of being dangerous.
But the beast felt strange. It felt too fleshy, too soft.
Everything after that felt like an awful dream, the kind of strange nightmares you couldn’t explain.
Like when Jack lifted up his pearl veil and saw Simon Cambourne under his spear.
When he saw those lovely green eyes, glassy and dead.
When he stepped back from the crowd of boys, his mind reeling. His heart beating.
And Jack had gotten what he wanted. The last remaining proof of his weakness, of his humanity, of his softness, was now gone, just like the diary.
Jack’s wish came true, in more ways than one.