Storms

by Chris Vick

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  HarperCollins Publishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  The HarperCollins website address is:

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Text copyright © Chris Vick 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photographs © Aleksandar Nakic/Getty Images 2017

  Chris Vick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008158354

  Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780008158361

  Version: 2017-03-17

  For Julia, Lucy, Steve and Janine. You know why.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: Before the Storms

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Part Two: September – The First Storm

  Jake

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Part Three: Between the Storms

  Jake

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Jake

  Jake

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Jake

  Hannah

  Part Four: Storms

  Jake

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Jake

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Part Five: After the Storms

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah

  Jake

  Hannah and Jake, Jake and Hannah

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  Books by Chris Vick

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  BEFORE THE STORMS

  www.Eye-Sea-Surfcheck.com

  Forecast

  Winds: light-variable

  Conditions: calm

  Waves: clean, fun, 2ft

  Blue skies, calm seas.

  No major swell, people. A few 2 or 3 ft peelers on the more exposed beaches.

  But hey, it’s summer. The sky is blue.

  Enjoy the balmy weather.

  Get on a longboard.

  Drink beer.

  Have fun.

  Jake

  THE PLAN WAS to get to the beach for a sunset surf, then sit round the fire with some other idiots and their girlfriends, talking shit and sinking beers. When he’d had his fill of it, he’d fall on his sleeping bag, drunk. After a few hours’ kip, he’d be woken by the dawn, and the crash of waves.

  Surf. Party. Dawn surf. Home for Mum’s fry-up. That was the plan. Not falling for some girl.

  *

  He got there late. People were already arriving for the party, lugging blankets and cases of beer across the sand to the nook below the rocks. There were surfers in the water, getting some half-decent waves.

  ‘Bastards!’ Jake dumped his gear on the rocks, changed quickly and pelted into the water.

  The surf was good. Summer-small, no more than chest high, but clean and peeling nice, giving long, smooth rides, with a fast, steep wall before they died on shore.

  He surfed till he was out of juice and it was near-dark. At the back of the beach, tucked in a crescent of rock, a large bonfire was burning, with a smaller fire nearby, for cooking. Gangs of people stood around them. Fag and spliff-ends lit the dusk like fireflies. The air was filled with laughter, music, the sizzles and smells of fish and burgers cooking. It was going to be a good night.

  As he walked over the sand he saw a girl. She was sitting by the smaller fire, taking mackerel out of a cool-box. Her blonde hair hung down, hiding her face.

  ‘All right?’ he said, as he walked past.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, looking up. ‘Good surf?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ In the light of the fire he saw her eyes. Oval sea-pools. He reeled, like he’d been thumped. The girl’s eyes had delivered the punch. Those eyes, and her sunshine smile.

  He climbed on the rocks, in the near-dark, to find his gear, thinking, What just happened? No girl had ever done that. Not with one look, one smile.

  Jake watched her from the shadows. He felt like a stalker, but he couldn’t help it. She had freckles, a tan, silky straight hair. She dressed plain. Jeans, hoody, a T-shirt, flip-flops. She had a slim, tight bod. She was gorgeous. Some girls wore prettiness like a new dress, like they knew what they had and needed to show it off. Not this one. She looked a good sort too. Kind. Could he tell that just from how she looked? Yeah, maybe.

  He forced himself to stop bloody staring. Hung his suit on a rock and towelled his hair.

  He should have gone over and said hi. That would be normal. But he didn’t feel normal. He felt nervous. Like he might fall over, or say something stupid. Or, worse, nothing at all.

  He thought he’d best think about it a while. Get the courage up.

  Or …

  Set about necking beers. There was Goofy, by the fire. Exactly the guy to drink with. Goofy, with his bird-nest hair, copper tan and crazed blue eyes.

  ‘All right,’ said Jake.

  ‘All right, you daft fucker,’ said Goofy, putting an arm round Jake’s neck and squeezing him tight. It still seemed odd, to hear a gruff Welsh accent come out of Goofy’s mouth. He didn’t look Welsh (whatever Welsh looked like). He looked like a caveman.

  ‘Too dark to surf, eh?’ said Goofy.

  ‘Yeah. Got a beer?’

  ‘Always, man.’ Goofy let Jake go, grabbed a bottle, cracked the lid with his teeth and handed it over. Then he dived into a story: ‘Some daft tourist put pics of Eagle Point on Instagram. Place’ll get rammed now. Reckon I’ll not surf it till September, when waves are bigger and crowds thin … Oy!’ He slapped Jake round the back of the head. ‘You listening, man?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What you staring at?’ Goofy scanned the crowd. ‘Oh, I see.’ Goofy winked. The blonde girl was near now, handing out food, shining that super-beam smile on everyone she talked to. Getting closer. ‘That’s Perfect Hannah. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes they call her. Rough press if you ask me. Folk are jealous cuz her family’s loaded. She’s dead nice, really.’

  ‘You know her?’ said Jake, thinking: You know her and you never told me.

  ‘You wanna meet her?’ Goofy waved at the girl.

  ‘No,’ Jake whispered. He elbowed Goofy in the ribs. But his mate had an evil spark in his eye.

 
‘Hannah!’ Goofy shouted.

  Hannah turned and smiled, holding Jake’s gaze as she walked over.

  ‘Hi, guys. Hungry?’ she said, offering a plate of prawn skewers.

  ‘Love one,’ said Goofy. ‘Hannah, Jake. Jake, Hannah … Is that Rob there? Bastard owes me a tenner.’ Goofy sloped off, muffling a snigger.

  ‘Hi, Jake,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Hi,’ said Jake, grinning, nodding like an idiot and wondering what the hell to say. ‘So, er … how d’you know Goofy?’

  ‘He works for my dad now and then. Cottage maintenance, fixing boats.’

  ‘Oh, right. Who you here with?’ he said. Then mentally kicked himself. He might as well have said: You got a boyfriend, or what?

  ‘Some people,’ she said. ‘We’ve just finished our A’s at St Hilda’s. We’ve been locked up studying for months. It’s kind of a celebration.’

  She smiled again. He noticed how close she was. So close the air was thick between them.

  ‘Right. Off to uni, then?’ he said.

  ‘A bit of fieldwork, then uni. Marine biology, specialising in cetaceans … that’s whales and dolphins.’

  ‘Right. Cool. I see dolphins, surfing some of the quieter spots.’

  ‘Really?’ Those sea-pool eyes grew wide. ‘Tell me where. I’m part of a research group. We spend our weekends on cliff tops doing surveys. Bit sad, really.’

  ‘No, that’s cool. I see them all the time. Do you know Eagle Point?’

  Once they’d got chatting, he relaxed. She was so smiley, so damn nice. It was easy to be with her. Really easy. They talked for ages: about dolphins, about surf. It was all good. Right up to when she said:

  ‘So, what do you do?’

  ‘Um … er …’ he stammered. This girl was educated, well-off, going somewhere. Everything he wasn’t. Truth was, he’d already told her what he did. He surfed. A lot. All the work in bars, on boats: it was all to fund surfing. Or help Mum out. He didn’t really do anything else.

  Silence filled the air between them.

  ‘Got any plans?’ she said, trying to help him.

  ‘I’m saving, to go travelling,’ he said. A lie. He wanted to jet off surfing, but he was broke.

  ‘I’m going travelling. With the fieldwork I mentioned. Before uni.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Internship, studying humpies … I mean, humpback whales, in Hawaii.’

  ‘Hawaii! Jesus. Can I come?’ he said. Eager. A joke. Just a joke.

  Hannah weighed him up, looking quizzical, then smiled.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, teasing. He grinned back at her. It was awkward, how much they were smiling at each other.

  Goofy returned with a tray loaded with shot glasses and quarters of lime.

  ‘Fancy one?’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ said Hannah.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Jake. ‘You never did a shot of tequila?’

  ‘Nope. Never did,’ Hannah said, with a shrug. ‘Want to show me how?’

  It was sweet how innocent she was, how keen.

  Jake liked this girl. It wasn’t just her looks. It was how she was.

  He liked her a lot.

  Hannah

  SHE WOKE SLOWLY in the grey light of just-before-dawn. Memories seeped into her head. The lovely boy, Jake. His brown eyes and mischievous grin. His scraggy beard and sun-weathered face. His strong hands.

  The tequila and beer. A lot of it.

  Hannah smiled, waking slowly, softly, still feeling the warmth of the boy and the night.

  She sat up gently, but wished she hadn’t. Her brain sang with pain. Her mouth was sandpaper.

  Happy or not, she had a monumental hangover.

  She was alone, covered by a damp, open sleeping bag and blankets, lying at the foot of a dune.

  Some twenty metres off, was the carnage of the night: Still-smoking fires. Bodies in sleeping bags, like landed seals. A dog licking grease off a grill.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said in a thick voice.

  A vague memory of Bess and Phoebe begging her to leave. Her telling them she’d be fine. Sneaking to the dunes, away from fires and drunks. Making their camp of sleeping bags and blankets. His firm body, and those hands. On her. How they had explored her body. (Had they had sex? No, she’d remember that.) They’d done a lot, though. A lot. She hadn’t been able to help herself. Because he was gorgeous. And kind. And fun. And good with those hands. Really good.

  What a night.

  So, where was the boy now. Run away?

  No, he wasn’t that kind of guy. She was sure of it.

  Still. Where was he?

  Hannah looked around. A bottle of water was wedged in the sand next to the bedding. She grabbed it and drank. No water had ever tasted so good.

  There was a white enamel cup too and, in it, a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  And next to the cup: her flip-flops and clothes, folded. Jeans. Hoody. She was wearing her T-shirt, but … Her hand reached down and found only her bare bum … Where the hell were her knickers?

  She scrambled about under the sleeping bag and blankets with hands and feet. She found her pants, hooked them with her big toe, put her hands down and slipped them on.

  ‘Jesus.’ She cursed herself for the tequila, and maybe also for not leaving when she could have. For going too far.

  What would Dad say if he found out she wasn’t at Phoebe’s?

  Oh God.

  But then … She smiled. After all that studying, all that stress, she’d gone off like a firework. She’d had a good time.

  There seemed to be two Hannahs now. One normal, and another who was – apparently – a tequila-necking hussy.

  Not-so-perfect Hannah Lancaster now.

  She giggled, and realised she might still be drunk.

  Knickers safely on, she got dressed. As she stood, brushing, gargling, spitting, she saw, lower down the dune, scrawled in the firm sand:

  I AM HERE.

  An arrow pointed to the edge of the dunes, to the sea.

  Hannah picked up a blanket, wrapped it round her shoulders and walked slowly down, following the direction of the arrow. She came round the dune and saw the sea. It was high tide.

  And there he was, in the shore break, surfing the waves of a silky milk-coloured sea.

  He was on a wave now, spinning all over it, graceful and strong. Even at this distance, she could see his body, lithe with muscle. Like some animal.

  He came off the wave and paddled out again, but not before he’d checked the shore. He waved. She waved back. Then she walked down, nearer to the sea, and sat on the sand with the blanket round her.

  Her face tingled from the gentle breeze. She shivered on the cold sand. But a warm glow, a soft fire, was growing inside her. Her throbbing head didn’t matter now.

  Beyond the shadow of the land, a sheet of blue approached, reaching to where Jake was surfing. The summer sun rose, slow, in the sky.

  The boy carved the waves. Was he showing off? Probably. From what she remembered, he didn’t do much other than surf. Lucky he was good, then.

  A surfer. She’d fallen for a surf dude. What a cliché.

  As she watched, she wondered about Hawaii and the weeks between now and then. About the boy, Jake. Which was crazy. She didn’t know if they’d have breakfast, let alone a relationship.

  But somehow … she did know. They would have breakfast. They would see each other again. She wasn’t kidding herself. This was quick, but real.

  She wondered what Dad would make of him.

  Jake

  HE LIKED THIS. The girl sitting on the beach, him surfing the high-tide breakers.

  The waves were big enough for him to chuck the board about. But not so big he’d get punished for it.

  He pulled tricks: sharp bottom turns, up the wave, smack the board off the lip, drop back down into the power pocket. Up: float over the white crest, run back on the green. Pump the board for speed. Tuck in a tiny barrel as the wave closed on shore.


  He took a bigger one, got some speed till the wave was almost closing, launched off the top and spun in the air, then tried to stick the board back into the wave. It was crazy to try a 360. He needed onshore wind that wasn’t there. He nose-dived the board in a foot of water, somersaulted and head-butted the sand.

  He stood, spinning.

  The girl – Hannah – laughed. Jake spat sand. He regretted making a tit of himself. Hannah stopped laughing and gave a sympathetic ‘argh’, then clapped and whistled. Her eyes were smiling. She wasn’t taking the piss.

  ‘I don’t know much about surfing,’ she said, ‘but that looked great.’

  ‘Even the wipe-out?’ he said, and winked. He walked up, leant over – careful not to drip on her – and kissed her.

  She stood up.

  ‘My dad says you’ve got to fail and fall. And then get up again. In order to learn.’

  ‘A surfer is he?’ said Jake.

  ‘More of a yachtee.’

  He put the board down. She opened the blanket and closed it round them both.

  ‘I’m soaking wet,’ he said.

  She pushed against him and the warmth of her was like an unmade bed. Her hair was messed, her eyes raw and sleepy.

  God. She was beautiful.

  Her lips met his. Her tongue too. She tasted of toothpaste.

  He wanted her. She writhed a little under the blanket, feeling him there. She unlocked her lips from his and leant back, meaning: Enough. For now.

  He picked up his board.

  ‘So. What happens next?’ she said.

  Did she mean right this second, or something else?

  ‘Um, breakfast?’ he said.

  Hannah looked up at the blue-filling sky.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Early. Won’t be anywhere open yet. Goof might have brekky stuff. Coffee leastways.’

  She frowned. Her perma-smile dissolved.

  ‘I need to get a signal. Send some texts. I wasn’t exactly meant to be out all night.’

  ‘Where you supposed to be?’

  ‘Phoebe’s. In her spare room. It’s no biggy. Just parents, you know. They’ll want to know I’m okay.’

  ‘What will you tell them?’

  ‘That I’m at Phoebe’s. They’d freak if they thought I was out all night. With some boy. Who they don’t know. That’s three big bads. Besides …’ She frowned, and acted a gruff voice, ‘… Pete Lancaster’s daughter doesn’t sleep on a beach.’