Storms

by Chris Vick

  ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dangerous shit. Drugs. All that. You’re a bit good at it.’

  Goofy kept his gaze on the road.

  ‘I said, haven’t you?’ said Jake.

  Goofy’s mouth twisted into a joyless smile.

  ‘Yep.’

  *

  ‘How bad was it?’ Jake sat deep in the sagging sofa, sipping a beer. Goofy sat in his armchair, skinning up a spliff on a surf mag.

  ‘Bad.’ The word fell out of Goofy’s mouth like a heavy stone.

  ‘What’s your story, mate? You’ve always been a closed book. I’ve respected that. But you’ve got to level. Back there, on the boat, what did you mean ‘for old time’s sake’?

  Goofy took a long slug on his beer.

  ‘I was into it, big time.’

  ‘Taking or dealing?’

  ‘Both. I got a habit, I got out my depth. Then I got clean. I hate that drug, I hate the bastards who make a business of it. It’s evil.’

  ‘It’s not that bad … is it?’

  Goofy shook his head. ‘You really are innocent about all this stuff, aren’t you, Jake? Where do you think it comes from? It’s a trail of total destruction. From the guys who mess up rainforests to make the stuff, to the poor mugs who get forced to mule it. The only folk who benefit are scum. From the coke barons who’ll kill you soon as look at you, to the types who sell it to rich kids in nightclubs. That’s what we’re part of now, Jake. Like I told you before, I came here to run away from that shit.’

  ‘You ain’t the kind to run from anything.’

  ‘Oh yes, I am, Jacob. I had a proper scare …’

  ‘What kind of scare?’

  ‘What is this, man, interrogation? In my own good time, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I come down here to get a new start.’

  ‘You didn’t look like you came for a new start. Not when I found you.’

  ‘Right.’

  They laughed at the memory. The two of them in the water at Tin Mines, a secret spot that worked a treat when the main beaches were blown out. There’d been a run of good days. Overhead waves, clean and powerful. Jake had free time, and a liking for the place, so he’d gone a lot when that swell hit.

  Most days he’d seen the stranger. A wild-looking bloke, surfing Tin Mines like he owned the place. He’d seen him walk in and out the old mine entrance too, and reckoned it was a place to stash clothes and bags while the guy surfed.

  Other locals came and went. They didn’t like a stranger. Strangers tended to advertise secret spots. But they tolerated the wild man because he was always alone, never with a crew.

  Plus his surfing talked for him. He surfed the thumping shallow shore break, and out back, dangerously close to the rocks. It wasn’t just his appetite for surfing neck-breaking waves that impressed. He did solid cut-backs and spun off the lip quick. The way he took the dangerous lefts, because he was a goofy foot, with his left foot at the back of the board. The opposite of most surfers.

  One day, when it was just the two of them out, they’d got talking. Jake asked a few questions, out of curiosity. The wild man didn’t give proper answers, apart from one.

  ‘What’s your name, goofy footer?’ Jake had said.

  ‘That’s it,’ the wild man had replied. ‘Goofy.’

  They’d kept bumping into each other after that. They chatted between sets, waiting for waves. But this ‘Goofy’ clammed up whenever Jake asked him anything direct, like who he knew, where he lived and what he did.

  One day, Goofy hadn’t been in the water. The waves had been good too, so Jake wondered where he was. When he came out of the water, he saw the gate to the mine entrance was open. He peeked inside, and found Goofy lying in a stinking sleeping bag, sweating and shivering. And thin in the face. Nightmare-thin.

  ‘“Come to our house for a beer.” That’s what I said, remember?’ said Jake.

  ‘Yeah. What you meant was a shower and a feed and a bed. But you knew I’d be too proud to say yes to that. Your mum took me in like I was her own. I’ll never forget that, man. Never. You understand? Felt like a home it did. Still does. A family, like.’

  ‘So why d’you come down here, with no money, no clothes? You’ve never told me.’

  ‘Left in a hurry.’

  ‘You didn’t want to go home to your family?’

  ‘No,’ said Goofy firmly.

  ‘Someone was after you?’

  Goofy nodded. He lit the spliff, took a long drag, then an even longer sup of beer.

  ‘Law or other trouble?’ said Jake. ‘D’you know what, don’t even answer. It’s both. I know it.’

  Goofy nodded.

  ‘At least we don’t have the law after us now,’ he said.

  ‘Yet,’ they said at the same time, and laughed.

  ‘That was a cracking getaway,’ said Goofy fondly, like he was remembering a surf, or a good piss-up. ‘And they have no idea who we are …’ he frowned. ‘Or do they?’

  ‘What?’

  Goofy sat forward, looking serious, even alarmed.

  ‘That day when you first found the stuff, you saw a surfer. You don’t suppose he was one of them, do you?’

  ‘The guy with the craggy face. Shit,’ said Jake. His gut burned. This whole adventure was yo-yoing from dangerous to safe, and back again, too bloody quickly.

  ‘The two guys, this morning,’ said Jake. ‘Did you get a look at their faces?’

  ‘No. One was facing away. Saw the other one side-on. That’s how I spotted the gun under his jacket. Didn’t have a craggy face … I don’t think.’

  ‘Shit. You think the surfer I saw might be one of them? He knows what I look like.’

  ‘Nah. He was just a surfer.’ Goofy sounded too sure to Jake. Cocky. And he was getting both pissed and stoned. The small sack of green buds on the table would take anyone years to get through, even if you toked all day. And now Jake knew Goofy had a drugs problem …

  ‘That a good idea?’ said Jake, pointing at the beer cans, the weed.

  ‘Not really. But it’s not cocaine, is it?’

  ‘You were an addict, then?’

  ‘I am an addict.’

  ‘D’you ever think of rehab?’

  ‘I always thought rehab was for quitters. Thought I could handle it. I couldn’t. I was headed for a cell or a coffin. It wasn’t just coke, it was whatever I could get my hands on. The girl I was with … she didn’t get out. She didn’t want to come with me.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  Goofy shook his head. ‘I don’t know, man.’ He looked to the bay window, to the blue sky beyond the shadow of the valley. ‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s have another beer, shall we?’

  ‘Can’t. Need to go and check in with Hannah. Give us a lift?’

  Goofy nodded at the spliff and the two empty cans on the table.

  ‘Oh yeah. Right,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll borrow your bike, then. Um, you all right, with all this?’

  ‘Watcha mean?’ said Goofy.

  ‘Well, you have just told me you’re a junky. Being straight with you, I’m not that comfortable leaving you with bags of coke.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘I’d trust you with my life, mate. But can you help yourself? I mean, on the boat, you snorted some, right?’

  ‘It was a crazy moment, that’s all. Just … Look … Whatever you’re going to do with this shit, do it quick, for all our sakes.’

  Yes, Jake thought. Very quick. It had all been going all right, had seemed it would go smoothly. But in a short space of time … He made a list in his head:

  Almost captured by guys with a gun.

  Almost caught out by Sean.

  And one of the men possibly knew what he looked like.

  And Goofy – a certified junky – was now in charge of a lot of cocaine. Jake didn’t like what Goofy had told him about the business of cocaine. He didn
’t like it at all.

  Yeah. Sorting this out quick would make good sense.

  Hannah

  THERE WERE THINGS to do before she could go to the rescue. Phone calls to be made and emails to be sent, to check the progress of the rescue equipment and recruit volunteers for a cliff-top survey.

  She worked in her room, sitting on her bed with her laptop. But between the pings of fresh emails arriving, she zoned out. Her eyes had been blasted by salt, sea and sun. Her bones felt as heavy as stones. She needed sleep. But she had to stay awake, to do this, to organise things.

  Mum brought up thick sandwiches and steaming tea. She threatened to sit with Hannah until she’d eaten.

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’

  ‘I’ve started running a bath. Maybe afterwards you should grab forty winks.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Your light was still on at half two this morning. You were up before dawn. You look more tired now than you did during your A’s.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was excited.’ That was true. But she’d also stayed up to do research. By 3 am, she’d reckoned she’d read every paper on stranding on the internet. And watched every video too.

  Mum brushed the hair from Hannah’s face and stroked her cheek. ‘Go and have a bath,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll let you know if a call comes in.’

  Hannah did as she was told.

  Afterwards, she sat on the bed in her dressing gown, waiting for a call from Steve. Would it be okay if she put her head on the pillow? Just for a few seconds.

  She keeled over. Her head sank into the linen.

  ‘Just for …’ She floated on an ocean of sleep. Then was swallowed into its depths.

  *

  The late sun beamed on to her face, waking her.

  Where was her phone? Why was her computer turned off?

  ‘Mum, how could you let me sleep?’ she shouted as she yanked her jeans and jumper on.

  Mum appeared at the door, with her phone. Hannah grabbed it and pushed past, racing downstairs.

  ‘You were exhausted. I’ve never seen you like that, darling.’

  Hannah stopped at the front door, turned and smiled. Mum was standing halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hannah said. ‘For looking after me.’

  ‘By the way, your father’s had good news, about the marina.’

  ‘That’s great. Tell me later, yeah?’ Hannah opened the door.

  ‘I love you, Hannah,’ Mum shouted. ‘I’m proud of you.’

  *

  Whitesands Bay burned orange in the afternoon light. The cliffs stood sharp against a diamond sky. The sea was calm.

  But at the top of the beach, in the car park …

  It was like some alien circus had crash-landed. There was a van with the local TV’s logo on its side. There were yellow floodlights on stack poles. Police in Day-Glo jackets, keeping swarms of people at bay. A small marquee. A truck. A line of people lugging equipment across the sand.

  A digger was on the beach, buried half a metre deep in the sand.

  Hannah ran across the car park towards the shore. She edged through crowds to the police line. Steve was on the other side, carrying an armful of floats.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘she’s with us.’ The police let her through.

  At the end of the line of people carrying floats and nets were the whales, the main attraction of this circus. As they walked towards them, Steve talked.

  ‘There’s a bigger storm on the way. The seafront at St Morwen is ruined. Shops are flooded. They’re bringing in sandbags by the tonne. All villages at sea level are in danger. Even Penzeal. The coast is going to get hammered. We’re more exposed here than anywhere. Everything you see here now will be trashed. And we’re going to stage a whale rescue?

  ‘Even if the tide gets high enough before the storm gets nasty, we’ll only have a couple of hours. It’s a “nine”, headed our way. What happened two days ago will look like Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day. There are three live whales. Two sets of equipment. If we float two, they may come straight back in.’ Steve was nervous. Gabbling. When they reached the whales, he looked at Hannah, and said: ‘This isn’t seals. Not even dolphins. I’ve never dealt with animals this big. What’s the plan?’

  Jesus, Hannah thought. Don’t you know? She stood, hands on hips, trying to look like an authority, like she hadn’t spent half last night on the phone to America and watching YouTube clips of rescues.

  ‘We dig under a whale and place the plastic netting there,’ she pointed down at the sand, next to one of the whales. ‘We roll the whale on to it, till it’s gone over the edge. Then we pull the netting out, so the whale is contained. We attach the pontoons and inflate the tubes.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘We dig a trench …’

  ‘How? The digger’s stuck in the sand.’

  ‘We …’

  ‘Hannah Lancaster?’ She recognised the woman with a friendly face and neat bob of blonde hair as Janet Carter, a local TV news reporter. ‘You found these killer whales, didn’t you? Our viewers would love to hear the story. Would you mind?’

  ‘But the rescue …’ Hannah looked at Steve for help.

  ‘It will only take a few minutes.’ Janet got hold of an arm and pulled her a few metres, to where a man had set up a spotlight on a pole, and was busy fixing up a second. Another man appeared in front of her, carrying a large camera on his shoulder. He pointed it at Hannah. A girl approached, armed with a metal tray covered with powders and creams. She pulled out a brush and started patting Hannah’s face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hannah flinched.

  ‘Don’t want to look like a ghost, do you?’ said the girl.

  ‘We’ll ask you a few questions,’ said Janet. ‘About how you found them. About the rescue efforts.’

  Janet was friendly. She kept nodding as she steered Hannah to a spot between the camera and lights and the whales.

  The light was blinding. Janet told Hannah to look straight at her. Hannah heard a high squeak, followed by a whistle. She turned. Little One was squirming, trying to move her head.

  ‘The light. It’s in her eye. We have to move,’ said Hannah. But Janet got hold of Hannah’s shoulder and kept her still. ‘This is much better. Our viewers need to see the whale behind you.’

  ‘I don’t care. You can’t distress her.’ She stepped to the side, into the shadow, so the cameraman had to move too.

  Janet was still smiling, but her eyes were hard. ‘This is only a short piece. There’s a merchant ship went down south of Penzeal. Five men had to be rescued. Even the lifeboats were in danger. We have to go and film them. As soon as we can. So if we could get this done quickly, I’d appreciate it.’

  Hannah folded her arms.

  ‘We’ll have to move the lighting rig if you stand there,’ said Janet. ‘You don’t want to be difficult, do you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hannah. She didn’t budge.

  ‘Okay, then,’ said Janet, sighing. ‘Brian?’

  They turned the lights off, and set to moving the lighting rig. The girl came back and started brushing Hannah’s face again.

  It took a few minutes to change things around. The cameraman used the time to take footage of the whales.

  Then, suddenly, too quickly, the camera was on her again. A huge muffle-covered microphone was pointed at her. The light on the camera switched from red to green.

  ‘Hannah Lancaster, whale expert. You found these whales. Now you’re attempting to rescue them. What are the chances of success?’ Janet’s face was serious, and close. Really close.

  ‘Um, well, er, if we can … get them on to the plastic netting, refloat them and get them into water, there’s every chance.’

  ‘These whales are weak. Many are already dead. We hear equipment has arrived, flown in from America at great expense. But is it too little, too late?’

  Hannah’s jaw dropped. She felt floored. Janet had been so friendly. Now it was like she was accusing
her.

  ‘Er … no. The equipment is made for pilot whales some of these orcas are not much bigger. If we can dig a big-enough trench, we have every chance.’

  ‘I understand the digger can’t get across the sand. How will you dig this trench now?’

  ‘Is it broken, or just stuck? … I haven’t been told yet,’ she said, feeling weak and lost. These questions were being fired at her too quickly.

  ‘We understand the sand is too soft, and the digger’s tracks aren’t big enough. What’s your back-up plan?’

  Hannah froze. Her mouth opened. But nothing came out.

  Janet continued. ‘The whales haven’t eaten in days, and they are dehydrated. Why are you doing this, when there is little or no hope? Local rescue experts believe it would be better, perhaps kinder, to euthanise these animals, rather than prolong their suffering. Apparently the weight of their internal organs is causing them pain and distress. What do you say to that?’

  ‘There is hope, there is a chance. Because … because. We have to try … don’t we?’

  But who was she trying to convince? Herself? She sounded like a spoilt child.

  ‘We’ve heard there are more whales out at sea. It’s possible these whales are part of the same pod, or group. What will you do if they strand too?’

  Hannah looked at Janet, and at the black lens of the camera. Like an eye, accusing her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Janet. Her mouth twitched. She was smiling. She moved even closer. Going in for the kill.

  ‘I don’t … know.’

  ‘Well, if that’s … Hey!!’

  A shadow appeared in front of the camera, taking a second or two to come into focus. It was Jake.

  ‘We’re doing an interview, here. Can you move, please? We’ll have to run that again.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Jake. He kissed Hannah on the cheek, rubbed her shoulder. ‘You okay, babe?’

  ‘You’ve ruined the interview.’ Janet was pushing at Jake, trying to get him out of the way of the camera. He turned, looking at her calmly, chewing gum.

  ‘I don’t really give a shit, Janet-off-the-telly.’

  ‘We’ve got enough to edit,’ said the cameraman. ‘Let’s just leave them to it, shall we?’