The Island of Lost Things by Vivien Teasdale

‘What the hell are those umbrellas doing there?’ I spoke out loud, despite being alone. Sitting up, I banged into the nearest one. It lurched away, fell over and knocked into the brolly behind. That keeled over too and so on, ad infinitum, dropping one by one until they lay like a necklace, round the bay. A black necklace. Why are they always black? No-one ever leaves a bright colourful umbrella anywhere.

I got up, carefully this time. I thought back to the party, eventually recalling a woman offering me an unbelievable deal on this sunny island. Then everything went black and I woke up … somewhere in the Pacific, I think.

Staring round, I noted the beach, strewn with jackets, handbags, out-of-date sandwiches and a cockatoo staring forlornly at me from its rather cramped cage. The rocky shoreline made the place picturesque, with the tide splashing in a flurry of white horses against it. The tide coming in?

‘Move, you idiot,’ I thought and ran, grabbing the parrot on the way. Waves were hot on my heels, or rather, cold on my heels as I scurried up over the boulders to relative safety.

Trust me to get a bad deal. Stranded on the Island of Lost Things and it turns out to be cold and wet, not the tropical idyll I was expecting.

From the top of the rocks I could see … nothing. Up here, I was away from the menace of the tide, but now had to contend with mist and the drip, drip from the trees. I blundered on, straight into an overcoat. Handy, but already sodden.

Next was a fur coat. I had no doubt that had been left, not lost, given the state it was in. I also found a nice little lacy thing that was neither use nor ornament. So much for the millions I was going to earn by taking over this island. That’s what I’d been promised, I remembered. Well, maybe not millions, but a good return. Based on what I could sell. At this rate, it will be a wage of omission, instead of commission.

Then I fell, heavily, and tripped over a kid’s go-kart. Still clutching the cage, I now clutched the kart, too, as it slithered straight down the hill. Faster and faster, skidding round the corners. I had found the road, and every pothole, every speed bump. It was a cobbled road, which made it worse.

Go-karts, abandoned go-karts anyway, are not made for that sort of thing. The rear wheel bent and the kart wriggled sideways round the next bend. Then the wheel came off completely. It didn’t slow me down, just created sparks that arced over my shoulder. Over both shoulders when another wheel came off.

Somehow I dragged the front wheels round and zig-zagged into the bushes at the side. I noticed, as I sailed over them, that they were a pretty shade of pink. Then I hit the ground, not running but bleeding. The cage door flew open and the cockatoo flew off, perching on the nearest bush with an expression of startled sadness. Or perhaps it was just giving its opinion of my intelligence.

I noticed, as I licked off the pink juice running down my face and arms, that the bushes had thorns. Mixed with blood, it tasted ok. Rather nice in fact.

I licked off some more, before grabbing a fruit and eating it. That tasted even better, but the world was beginning to spin a bit. Concussion, I thought and ate some more. With nothing to prevent me, I went with the flow and spiralled down a rabbit hole for the rest of the morning.

That was how it started. They all come here now. It’s the only place in the world that the pink gin plant grows and I have a monopoly.

Oh, I do a nice little side line in selling lost property, too. Especially, black umbrellas.