SUNK

by Fleur Hitchcock

  She never says if I have it.

  ‘It says here,’ I say, ‘it’s the power of entering into another’s personality.’ I drop my voice to super-quiet. ‘How are we going to get to use that microscope?’

  ‘Shape-shifting?’ says Jacob.

  ‘No – more like climbing into another person’s skin and feeling what they feel from the inside,’ says Eric. ‘We need a diversion.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ says Jacob, screwing his nose down towards his mouth.

  Eric shakes his head and I say, ‘Yes, a really good diversion. That keeps Mr B out for at least ten minutes.’

  Which is when Jacob’s eyes light up as if some kind of electrical impulse has passed through his brain. ‘Leave it to me,’ he says.

  * * *

  ‘Sir, Mr Bell, sir – can I go to the toilet?’ Jacob stands with his legs crossed, looking desperate.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Mr Bell.

  Jacob trips out of the classroom.

  ‘So, role play. Now I’d like you to imagine you are someone else in this room. Don’t tell us who, we can guess …’

  Jacob soon trips back into the room, grinning and winking and generally looking as subtle as a thunderstorm.

  People are shuffling uncomfortably. ‘Sir, can I be you? Is that allowed?’

  ‘I don’t want to be anyone else.’

  ‘I don’t get this – what does he want?’

  ‘Can I go to the toilet, sir?’

  ‘Sir, what’s the point of empathy?’

  It feels like it could all go horribly wrong. The chatter gets louder and Mr Bell’s voice rises to foghorn level just as someone lets out a really long, really high-pitched scream.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrghghghghghghghghgh!’

  We all go completely silent and look around.

  ‘There!’ shouts the screamer, pointing at Mr Bell’s cardigan.

  ‘What?’ says Mr Bell.

  ‘Spider,’ whispers the screamer.

  There’s a second’s massive silence.

  Mr Bell leaps to his feet and jumps and twitches and yells. He rushes out of the classroom still screaming, to yell and jump and run about in the playground, followed by the entire class, laughing and screaming.

  ‘Very effective,’ says Eric.

  ‘Quick,’ I say. ‘The microscope.’

  ‘Good, eh?’ Jacob says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Eric, pressing a big red button that says ‘ON’.

  ‘Can I just ask,’ I say, checking from the window that Mr Bell is still writhing in the playground surrounded by our giggling classmates, ‘what happened?’

  ‘Well,’ says Jacob, reaching into his pocket and finding something covered in fluff, which he then thrusts into his mouth. ‘It was that word, “empathy”. I thought what it would be like to be Mr B. What it would be like to stand in his shoes. And then I thought: what does Mr B really not like? And then I thought about spiders and then I remembered that there was a particularly large spider in the locker in the PE store. So I went to get it. Empathy, see?’

  ‘It’s not really what empathy means,’ says Eric, peering through the lens on the now humming XX900 Macrocaster.

  ‘But you said you had to imagine being someone else.’ Jacob sounds puzzled.

  ‘You do – but not usually like that,’ I say.

  ‘Oh,’ says Jacob. ‘So scaring Mr B wasn’t empathy?’

  By the microscope Eric lets out a long loud sigh.

  ‘It’ll help us find out what’s wrong with the deckchair,’ I say.

  ‘So on balance, it’s probably OK?’

  I nod. Eric shakes his head.

  ‘Good,’ says Jacob. ‘Good.’

  8

  Like a Zombie

  ‘So what did you find?’ I ask Eric on the bus home.

  Eric puts his copy of Maths Daily back into his satchel. ‘Well – I had such a short time to look, but there was definitely something wrong with it. The cell structure had changed.’

  ‘Not just because I shrank it?’ I ask.

  Eric shakes his head. ‘No, the cells were smaller – but they were also … alive?’

  ‘How do you mean “alive”?’

  Eric shrugs and stares out of the window until I wonder if he’s forgotten that we’re actually having a conversation. ‘It seems fanciful, but alive, like animal cells. Not like plant cells,’ he says eventually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But that’s terrifying.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Eric. ‘It is. Oh look, here comes your dad.’

  Dad climbs onto the bus and immediately starts singing ‘Ten Green Bottles’. I shrink into my seat and watch the steam rise from the top of Tilly’s head.

  ‘And if ten green – join in, everyone – bottles should …’

  Jacob bellows the words along with Dad and most people join in, in a humming embarrassedly sort of a way.

  ‘C’mon, Tom, you can sing too – should accidently fall … Oh and I’ve booked us in for parents’ night.’

  I acknowledge him with a panicky squeak.

  ‘So both of us can come. I said I’d do the refreshments – nine green bottles …’

  Tilly turns to glare at Dad. Her face is mostly white with two angry pink circles under her eyes.

  I reposition myself so that I can’t actually see any members of my family. ‘So, Eric, are you saying that the deckchair is a living being?’

  Eric, who has completed all twenty-seven of the sudokus in Maths Daily in the time it’s taken Dad to reach two green bottles, closes his eyes for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t like to say “living”. I’m not sure it’s really sentient.’

  ‘Are you saying the deckchair is like a zombie?’

  Eric nods. ‘Yes, very like a zombie. And like a zombie that is activated by the sand or seawater or something frequently occurring on the Bywater beach.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, horrified by the words I’m saying. ‘So, to sum up, we have a case of a zombie deckchair and possibly a zombie bucket, zombified by something plentiful and naturally occurring.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Eric cheerfully. ‘That about states the case.’

  ‘What did you do with the deckchair?’

  ‘It’s here. Do you want it?’ says Eric, digging it out of his satchel and handing it to me.

  It’s already larger than it was when I gave it to Eric. And it seems to be moving slowly, lugging itself around my palm. Like a zombie.

  I listen to Dad chanting ‘One green bottle …’ and stare at the rain beating down on the pavement outside and the steam filling up the windows of the bus. I turn the deckchair over and over in my hand and wonder just how to deal with a collection of zombified seaside equipment.

  9

  But, Mum, you CAN’T

  At the model village bus stop I jump from the bus to a dry paving slab, which tips and shoots water up the back of my trouser leg.

  ‘Bye, all,’ shouts Dad, skipping down the step and tripping along the pavement.

  Tilly gets off too and, head bent against the rain, walks dismally behind him. She looks completely furious.

  I wait a decent time and follow. I’m not sure what to do with the deckchair that Eric gave me, so I’m thinking of leaving it in the model village. If it’s really a zombie then presumably at some point it will take off and march back to the beach. If it isn’t, it will grow back to normal size and look like someone left it there for a prank. Either way, I don’t want it in my bedroom.

  I place it by the tiny cricket match. It looks utterly harmless. Perhaps Eric’s completely wrong about this. Perhaps it was some kind of freak wind and he’s been looking through the wrong end of the microscope.

  I head back up towards home, pulling my hood close around my head, but I’m brought up short by the village noticeboard.

  On one side, a handmade rain-smudged politely placed poster, barely covering anyone else’s adverts: IF YOU LIKE DECENCY AND WHOLEFOODS – VOTE FOR COLIN THREEPWOOD. O
n the other, a dayglo-orange big-print banner: SARAH PERKS FOR MAYOR.

  Sarah Perks? That’s Mum’s name.

  A horrible sense of misgiving slides over me. My percentage of happiness sinks from 61 to 0.

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ I say to one of the Dingly Dell elves on the wall of the crazy golf course.

  The elf drips back at me, a horrible fibreglass grin stretched across its face.

  ‘But, Mum, you CAN’T.’ Tilly’s voice greets me before I even reach the front door. ‘I’ll never live it down.’

  ‘It’s not a question of you, Tilly. Or even me. It’s a question of what’s good for the community.’

  Mum’s sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of dayglo posters and a huge pen, writing our telephone number on them all. ‘And I will be good for the community. I intend to wipe out all corruption and run on a ticket of transparency.’

  ‘Community? Transparency? What about me?’ Tilly grabs my arm. ‘Us?’

  I pull back. I don’t like being caught up in Tilly’s arguments. They can be very unstraightforward.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tilly. You’ll survive.’ A slight look of panic comes into Mum’s eyes and she speaks a little too loudly. I can see that Tilly’s got her worried so she does what I do with Tilly – avoid making eye contact. ‘And actually I can’t just be a stay-at-home mum to please you. I’ve a life to live too you know. I’d like a little excitement before it’s too late.’ She finishes the telephone numbers and reaches for a stack of envelopes and a pile of stickered addresses. ‘Quite frankly, I’d like to see the bright lights once in a while. So put up with it.’

  Grandma crangs down the lid of the Aga and crashes about with saucepans. It kind of fills the gap but there’s still a huge silence in the room.

  ‘Do you fancy a rice pudding this evening, Sarah?’ says Grandma.

  ‘Good idea,’ says Mum, building up a rhythm with the stickers and envelopes. Mum’s new career in politics doesn’t look very exciting to me.

  I glance over at Tilly. It’s as if someone has sucked all the air out of her. Her shoulders are bent and her whole body droops. She scratches her head and pulls her hair down so that it hangs over her face. She draws in a long breath, but instead of speaking she lets it out in tiny bursts of almost sobbing, finished with a loud rattling sniff.

  I wait.

  She breathes in and out again, and the almost sobbing becomes louder and more definite, followed by another sniff. ‘But, Mum,’ she says in a near whisper, ‘it’s child cruelty.’ I risk eye contact and notice that her eyes have changed from narrowed and angry to big and pathetic. She stops, waiting for the effect her words will have.

  Mum goes on sticking stickers on envelopes. Grandma thumps a bag of sugar on the table.

  Tilly sighs, and with a beautifully stifled sob goes on: ‘You’ll be ignoring us, following a career in politics while your children go unshod and unfed, languishing and forgotten.’ She rubs her nose with the back of her hand before scratching her head violently.

  ‘Oh stuff,’ says Grandma, pulling out a pudding basin. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’

  Tilly heaves a huge sigh, the biggest yet. I can actually see a tear dribbling down her cheek.

  ‘I’ll go up to my cold room then, and read a book, and wait until supper time. Don’t worry too much about a pudding – I don’t think I’ll be able to eat one – I’m so … unhappy.’

  She’s wasted as a child. She should be an actress.

  10

  Pineapple Soup

  That sand-dribbling thing is all very well but it gets boring after an hour or two.

  It’s Saturday. The day of the Sculpture on the Beach contest. It was Eric’s idea, and Mrs Mawes’s and Mum’s and Dad’s actually, but at no point was it my idea that I should enter. I don’t like sculpture, I don’t know anything about art, and I don’t much like beaches. Except when they’re empty or with jet skis or something. Not Bywater-by-Sea’s skanky dead-starfish beach, with sunburned families in too-small bathing suits and REAL ARTISTS.

  There’s this tall skinny couple hopping around with seaweed that they’re draping over a broken piece of fibreglass boat. ‘Reminds one of Hockney, don’t you think, Orlando?’

  ‘You’re so right, Sappho. It’s etiolated, and so in the now, of the moment. Genius.’

  To me, it looks very much like a piece of yellow fibreglass with a blob of seaweed. I turn back to my creation. So far I’ve moved a lot of sand from one place to another and found a toothpaste-tube lid and the head of a Barbie doll.

  Eric is, in theory, helping me. In fact, he’s watching everyone with his binoculars and taking notes. He’s doing it from underneath a sheet of black nylon. ‘It’s a fact: black is better at keeping out the UV rays, Tom.’ But I notice that the tiny corner of his elbow that sticks out is already turning red. I move my beach umbrella so that it covers him better.

  I can see that everyone else on the beach had an idea before they arrived. In my case it was last minute. Like, eight o’clock this morning last minute.

  ‘So what I’m thinking,’ said Eric, ‘is that I’ll help you do the Sculpture on the Beach contest and that way keep an eye on things. We can both be on duty as it were.’ Which is why we’re here, unprepared, with a bunch of arty people who actually want to do it.

  I knock the top from my sand dribbling and flatten the site. Even though there’s only an hour left, sometimes things just have to start again.

  ‘How’s Leonardo getting on?’ asks Jacob, appearing behind me, ice cream in hand. ‘Want any help?’

  I look up in surprise.

  ‘I’m doing that empathy thing,’ he says, taking a large lick from his ice cream, which is already flowing freely over his hand. ‘I imagined that what my mum wanted was some soup, so I made her some.’

  Eric pulls the black sheet from his head and stares. ‘You made your mum some soup?’

  Jacob nods happily. ‘Yes. I got a load of stuff from the fridge, stuck it through the blender and boiled it up.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’ I ask, plunging my spade into the sand, and digging a ring around a central pile.

  ‘Oh, you know – onions and pineapple and bacon and yoghurt and stuff she likes. She was so pleased she sent me off with the money to buy myself an ice cream.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Eric, pulling the sheet back over his head. ‘Wow, wow and double wow.’

  ‘So I’m wondering if I can help you now, Tom?’

  Jacob’s feet sink slightly into the sand and his ice cream drips on my trench. I’d really like to send him away but I know, because Eric has told me, that if Jacob is ever to become a better person he needs to understand how much pleasure being nice can give to everyone.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘you could dig this ring for me. I was thinking of something … striking. Something modern.’

  The skinny couple along the beach catch the word ‘modern’ and nod at each other and rub imaginary beards.

  Jacob digs with enthusiasm, much like a dog, scattering sandy blobs over me and Eric and his sheet and even towards the arty couple. ‘So what are you doing, Snot Face? Turning red?’

  ‘I’m watching out,’ whispers Eric.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘More anomalies,’ says Eric.

  Jacob looks confused.

  ‘More things like the violent deckchair and crazed bucket,’ I say. ‘He’s being a kind of lifeguard.’

  The light of understanding comes on behind Jacob’s eyes.

  And we dig.

  ‘Five minutes,’ calls the man with the megaphone. ‘Five minutes to finish your creations.’

  Eric wakes up under his sheet. ‘What? Has anything happened?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘What shall we do with this? Suggestions – quick.’

  We stare at our construction. It’s a mound. Not round, not square, not rectangular, just a mound. Like a termite nest or a pile of gravel. I look across the beach. Stretching away towards the sea are dozens of bea
utifully arranged castles, sand people, shells and creatures made of driftwood, all obviously made by people with more than a gram of art in their bodies. People for whom artistic achievement means more than tracing a badger from a book.

  I look back at the mound and feel about 13% good. It’s not that I want to be good at art. I just don’t want to be laughed at.

  ‘Can we do anything?’ asks Eric, staring across the acres of other people’s efforts.

  ‘I could trash all the others?’ says Jacob helpfully.

  We ignore him.

  Beyond the arty couple, a family have built an enormous sand house with gardens and plants and bridges and tiny people made of driftwood. For a moment I wonder if I should just shrink something to put on the mound. Something that would be unbelievably cute and win us the prize, and then I remember that that would be wrong. I stuff my hands in my pockets and, along with the toothpaste-tube lid, I find Barbie’s head. Pulling it out, I yank her sandy knotted nylon hair straight and jam her in the top of the mound.

  ‘There,’ I say.

  ‘What? That’s it?’ asks Jacob.

  ‘Yup,’ I say. ‘Where’s the entry form, Eric?’

  Eric pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and hands me a pen.

  Buried, I write. And then I put my name and address and skewer it with a seagull feather to the sand.

  ‘Done,’ I say, wiping the sand from my hands on my shorts.

  Which is when it all kicks off.

  11

  A Gust of Wind

  People run fast when they’re scared.

  Two children come first, dodging the artworks, racing over the shingle, followed by their pink and flustered mother.

  ‘Is this it?’ says Eric, peering past with his binoculars. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘That’s because you’re looking the wrong way,’ says Jacob. ‘Flippin’ heck!’