Storms

by Chris Vick

  ‘I think … that’s why they were searching. It’s why they waited offshore, Jake … I think one of those whales is Little One’s mother.’

  There was a chorus of clapping and cheering. Hannah looked up. She was surrounded by smiling, exhausted faces.

  Mum, Phoebe, Bess, Jake, Goofy, April, Sean and Hattie.

  The crowds disappeared, slowly, into the darkness. The show was over. There was nothing left to see. Just the aftermath of scattered equipment, piles of tabards, and heaps of shovels and buckets.

  And the dead whales.

  They’d be taken away and either buried or towed out to sea and sunk.

  Some of the rescue team went home to get changed. Others stayed, keeping watch. Hot tea was handed out. Sandwiches too.

  Many of the team stood, or sat alone, away from the rescue scene. One girl was crying.

  Hannah sat with Jake on the shore, above the empty pool at high tide, watching the sea.

  Mum came and sat beside her.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We need to get you home.’

  ‘Not yet. They may come back, you see.’

  She couldn’t go home now. It would be tempting fate. She couldn’t imagine getting that call, just as she crawled into bed. It would be near impossible to get up again. Though she would, if she had to.

  She waited, with Jake holding her, kissing her, telling her how proud he was.

  The dawn came. Creeping, soft and grey.

  Hannah scanned the metal-blue waves. The bay was chaos. Churning waves. White horses riding, right to the edge of the world.

  Yet still no whales.

  Hannah felt a flood pouring over her. A tidal feeling.

  A feeling of peace.

  Hannah

  THE ORCAS WERE safe.

  The pod could re-strand. But, somehow, Hannah didn’t believe that would happen. She had seen Little One glide into the water, stronger than waves and tide. Carving through grey and green before vanishing into the deep.

  Little One was with her family. She was home.

  *

  Hannah was home too. Jake had left her at the gate. She walked through the door with Bess and Phoebe, smelling the smoke from a real wood-fire, and leek and potato soup.

  Mum appeared from the kitchen, wearing her apron, a wooden spoon in her hand.

  ‘Look at you, girls. Drowned rats, the lot of you.’

  Hannah and Phoebe and Bess stood in their wellies and wetsuits and Henri Lloyds. They were coated in sand, their hair dripping water on to the flagstone floor.

  Hannah stared at her friends and laughed. There was no make-up now. No fancy clothes. Just them. Sodden and ruddy-faced. Exhausted and happy.

  ‘Food, shower, sleep, in that order!’ Mum ordered. ‘But first … well done, Hannah.’ Mum’s lip wobbled. She fell forward on to Hannah, wrapping her in her arms. ‘I’m so, so proud of you, my love. You did it.’

  ‘We all did it, Mum.’

  ‘No,’ said Bess. ‘You did it.’

  ‘Okay. Emoshy-moment warning!’ Phoebe shouted. ‘You did it, Hann. You saved them. Group hug, group hug! Come on, Bess, get involved.’

  Hannah was surrounded and squeezed and kissed. She closed her eyes against the stinging daylight and tears of joy.

  They stood, hugging and crying for a while, then went to the kitchen and had soup. It burned Hannah’s mouth. But she felt a need for it, even greater than the desire to shower and – finally – get dry. Afterwards, she stumbled up the stairs, using the bannister to pull herself up.

  Phoebe and Bess came too, the plan being that they would all shower and rest. Phoebe went first. Hannah stripped off her wetsuit, peeling and pulling, the rubber sticking to her. She barely had the strength she needed, and had to get Bess to help her.

  Once in the shower she leant against the wall, the water blasting her head and neck. She felt grateful for it. The force and heat washed the salt water away.

  It was a release and relief.

  But still … the questions about Jake niggled away in her mind. She couldn’t feel the joy she should; couldn’t let the promise of dry sheets feel as final and warm as it should. She was like a boat in the storm that hadn’t quite made it to harbour.

  There were too many questions. Why had Jake been distant and strange before the rescue, and how had he got some of the money? The rescue had blocked out all those thoughts. Only now, here, alone, the doubts were there again. Refusing to be pushed away.

  She turned the shower off and put on her dressing gown.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Phoebe was crashed on the bed, wearing Hannah’s old-man pyjamas, spread out like a starfish.

  ‘Get some zeds, babe,’ said Phoebe, patting the bed.

  ‘He’s lying to me, Phoebes.’

  Phoebe sat up and rolled her eyes. The look on her face said: Do we have to do this now?

  ‘He’s paying for the rescue, isn’t he?’ said Phoebe.

  ‘How? This whole story about him inheriting money – it doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘You want my advice? When men offer lots of money, don’t ask questions about how they got it.’

  ‘I’m not like that.’

  ‘I know. You’re perfect Hannah Lancaster. Now lie down, sleep.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Hannah stood frozen to the rug, hugging herself, though she wasn’t cold.

  Phoebe lay back down, sighing dramatically.

  ‘I need to go to the Cape,’ said Hannah. ‘To the house.’

  ‘What house? D’you know what? Doesn’t matter, tell me later. For now: Bess is in your spare, I’m here with you. Lie down. Get some kip. I’ll help sort this out. Later, Hann. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. She lay down.

  Her mind whirled. Images of whales. Of Jake. The money. A house on the Cape, where his grandmother had lived. The wind and rain outside, whirling and crashing.

  But soon the images and sounds were drifting away from her, becoming distant and vague, no matter how hard she tried to focus on them.

  Sleep swallowed her. Sent her to dreamless depths.

  Hannah

  LATER, AFTER A few hours’ sleep, Phoebe took her to the Cape.

  Phoebe parked in the car park, just before the headland. It was as far as you could drive unless you lived in one of the houses on the Cape.

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘No, please don’t. Just wait here.’ Hannah got out, with Beano at her heel. The rain was stinging and the wind chilly, but she hardly felt them. She headed down the path, to the headland. To the Cape.

  It stuck out into the Atlantic like a bulging thumb of granite. Almost an island.

  She knew it from summer days, looking for dolphins. It was a wilder place now, the sea and storm raging on all sides.

  There were a few houses here. Some small cottages, and a few larger ones. It could be any of those. But most of them, she guessed, were holiday homes. Their windows were dark. No smoke rolled out of their chimneys. Apart from one – the house furthest out on the Cape. It was big and square, white and bright, somehow shining, even in the grey rain.

  Hannah leant into the squall, and huddled her coat against her body with her arms. She felt that if the wind got hold of her, she might take off.

  Down in the bay was a huddle of upturned boats, sheds and lobster pots. The boats had been hauled up and tethered. The roofs of the sheds tied with rope and weighed with rocks. But these efforts were no match for the storm. One fishing boat had already been ripped off the slipway, picked up and smashed on the rocks. It was half a boat now. The rocks had eaten it. You could see the teeth marks, the splintered wood.

  She watched – hypnotised – as the wind tore at the corrugated iron roofs of the huts. One flapped violently, like a giant hand was pulling at it. It came loose, flipped and spun high in the air, then crashed down, hammering against the rocks.

  A wave rolled up the rocks, surging, rising like a one-wave tide, exploding in white water on the shore, sending
a sheet of spray up in the air. Water smashed into her.

  It seemed there was no tideline now, no line where the sea ended, and no safe place it could not reach. She walked high above the track, on a sheep and rabbit path. The road was too exposed to the waves. Not safe.

  The house – when she got there – was high on the rocks. The waves couldn’t reach it. Not yet at least.

  An orange glow shone from the windows. She walked to the door and paused, her hand a fist in the air, not-yet knocking.

  What was inside? Did she really want to know? She took a step back, feeling nosy, feeling wrong. Like none of this was her business. Like she should run back to Phoebe. But a dog barked, behind the door. Beano’s ears pricked up.

  The door opened.

  The boy looking at her was a bit younger than she was. He had black curly hair, green eyes, and the brown, weathered skin of a surfer.

  He looked a bit like Jake.

  The boy screwed his face up at the weather. Wind and rain rushed in through the open door. He questioned her with his gaze.

  ‘Hi,’ she shouted. ‘You don’t know me. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve come about …’ She hesitated. What to say? Your house? My possibly lying boyfriend?

  Blinding lightning exploded above. Thunder followed a second later. Breaking the sky and deafening them.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ the boy shouted. Hannah and Beano entered, and the boy shut the door behind her. A sheepdog, just like Beano, sniffed at Hannah’s leg. The dog and Beano set to play-wrestling on the floor.

  ‘My mum’s not here,’ said the boy. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’ve come about …’ Why was she hesitating? All she had to do was say his name. The boy would know. Ah yes, Jake, about the house, he would say. Hannah took a deep breath.

  ‘Jake Hawkins. He’s my boyfriend. You actually look like him.’

  The boy’s face didn’t light up. It didn’t change at all. It remained stubbornly, worryingly, the same.

  He shrugged. ‘Do I know him?’

  Hannah held on to hope. A lit match in the wind.

  ‘Oh, right. Perhaps this is the wrong house. I’m looking for a house that an older woman lived in. She passed away recently.’

  ‘That was my gran.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. That must have been awful.’ It sounded stupid. But she didn’t know what else to say. ‘She um, left you this house?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked quizzical now. She guessed what he was thinking: What business is that of yours?

  ‘Jake. He’s a relative of yours. Distant, but a relative?’ She gazed into the boy’s face for recognition. She took a deep breath, steeling herself to get to the point, then she blurted the words out: ‘He gets some money when you sell the house. Is that right?’

  ‘Ah. Right. Okay.’ The boy smiled, his eyes widening; knowing. ‘Yeah, ah, this makes sense now. You’ve come about that. Wow. You’d better come into the lounge. I’m Sam, by the way.’ The boy held out his hand. Hannah sighed, feeling relieved and pleased. She wiped the rain off her face, dried her palm on her jeans as best she could and shook his hand. She squeezed hard. Too keen, too eager, but feeling some connection. As if this Sam wasn’t a stranger, simply one of Jake’s family like April, Sean and Hattie. She followed him into the lounge, where a fire was roaring. She sat in a leather chair, but right on the edge, not wanting to soak it.

  ‘Tea?’ said Sam.

  ‘No. Thanks. I’d rather just … talk, if that’s okay?’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’ said Sam, sitting on the sofa. The dogs lay by the fire, squeezing together on the rug like old chums.

  ‘Well, Jake, he’s my boyfriend and … this is so stupid, I feel so stupid. It’s hard to explain why I’m here, really. You see, I knew about the will. Jake told me. But I didn’t know …’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the will. Someone who gets some money if we ever sell.’

  ‘Right, well that somebody. That’s Jake.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘If you say so. We’ve been wondering. The will says we have to pass on a chunk of money to executors. They give it to some relative of Gran’s.’

  Hannah felt confused. Something wasn’t right; wasn’t connecting ‘But he’s … Jake’s been here. He’s talked to you.’

  ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘We don’t know who it is. A condition of the will. We’ve been wondering.’

  ‘Or maybe he hasn’t talked to you. I must have misunderstood. The lawyers – he must have talked to them. You have to give him a portion of the value, if and when you ever sell. But you’re giving him his share now. Buying him out.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘No. I’d know about that. And we ain’t planning to sell. Ever.’ Sam looked above the fireplace, at a large, framed photo of a surfer on a giant wave, in a storm. He smiled. ‘This Jake – you said I looked like him. I wonder what kind of relative he is.’

  Hannah felt the world shift. The story about the house and the will was true. But clearly Jake had never met Sam. And he wasn’t getting any money now or soon. So where had he got it?

  ‘Um, why are you here?’ said Sam. Not rudely, but wondering. He looked at the window, where the rain was drumming loudly. ‘It’s a strange time to come knocking.’

  No words came. She thought she might cry, but no tears came either. She felt empty.

  ‘Who is Jake?’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you. I think I’d better go. Come on, Beano.’

  She stood, and walked to the door, followed by Sam.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’ She turned. This poor guy deserved some explanation, some truth. Just like she did.

  ‘I don’t understand either, Sam. I’m so sorry.’ She opened the door herself.

  ‘Wait! We’d like to meet him, if he’s a relative,’ Sam shouted. Hannah didn’t answer. She ran with Beano back into the storm.

  As she ran, she thought of Jake. Of his rough hands and brown skin. Of his eyes and voice, deep and soft. And she cursed herself for being fooled by these things. Because they weren’t him. They were just like a mask. Underneath he was someone else. Someone she didn’t know.

  She thought about the girl in the red Audi. And words Dad had spoken so often – Bess and Phoebe too.

  ‘He’s never made much of himself, has he?’

  ‘He’s got no ambition.’

  ‘He’s an easy charmer, Hann, but he’s not boyf material.’

  ‘He’s not Simon, is he?’

  ‘He’s using you. You’re just a passport for him.’

  She climbed into the car.

  ‘Well?’ said Phoebe. Hannah shook her head.

  ‘Let’s go find Jake,’ she said. Phoebe started the engine. The headlights cut through the gloom.

  Jake

  THE AUDI RACED through the lanes, Tasha driving, Jake riding shotgun and Goofy in the back.

  Jake watched the storm through the window.

  In some places clouds rolled and thundered; in others there was nothing but thick darkness. Nearer, curtains of rain swept sideways, blown by the wind.

  The storm was a bonus. No one would be walking dogs today. No one would be driving past, including the police. They’d all be down the seafront, piling up sandbags and helping folk evacuate. There was even a rumour some cliff-top houses were going to fall in the sea.

  Jake tried to watch the storm, tried to focus on it – or on anything but the massive drugs deal they were about to pull off.

  They weren’t going anywhere public this time. Bill had texted the location of a lay-by, off the coast road, near some woods. Goofy reckoned this made sense. The whole public-place thing was about establishing trust. Once that was done, it was best to be away from people to carry out the main deal. This wasn’t a Tesco bag wrapped round a package, swapped for a thick envelope of notes. This was a mountain of the stuff. A rucksack-full. Swapped for twenty grand, and worth God knew how much more. Hundreds of thousan
ds, Goofy reckoned, maybe a million plus. This was bigger in every way.

  They’d do the deal for that. They’d already chucked the rest.

  They found the lay-by and parked. There was no sign of Bill’s Range Rover.

  Fields leading to the sea were on the other side of the road. On the side of the lay-by, a path led into a small wood. Jake knew it. He and Hannah had walked Beano there in June, when the buds were out and the sun shone through the branches. Now the trees and bushes were dense after summer growth, swaying in the wind, dripping rain.

  ‘Go down the path,’ said Goofy. ‘That’s what yer man’s text said. I’ll stay in the car. If he parks here, I’ll make sure he turns up alone, or at least that he goes to meet you alone. As his car’s not here, he’s probably parked somewhere else, any case. Probably waiting for you already.’

  ‘How long to do the swap?’ said Jake.

  ‘Enough time for him to check he isn’t getting bags of milk powder. Enough for you to count the money.’

  ‘All of it?’ said Tasha.

  ‘The money will be in sections, in elastic bands or envelopes. Grab one, at random. Make sure you choose, don’t let him give you one. Take out a few notes and check them. The metal strip and the watermark. This is the only bit you don’t do quick, like. Do a calculation of one part of the money, then multiply it. If it looks roughly the right amount, give him the stuff and head back here.’

  ‘If it doesn’t?’

  ‘Hold him there, keep him talking, till I get there.’

  ‘This is all unnecessary,’ said Tasha. ‘I know Bill. He’s all right.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jake. ‘He is all right. We … Tasha knows him. Why don’t we just do a super-quick swap and get back soon as we can.’

  ‘You think you know him. This is a different level to what he or you are used to. And you have no idea who he is dealing with up the chain. Do what I tell you. You should be fine. Everything you said about this Bill does sound like he’s straight. Still, you never know. I don’t see why you can’t just do it in his car. Maybe he just wants to be private as possible.’ Goofy checked all the mirrors, looked up and down the road.