The Wave

by Virginia Moffatt

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, but Margaret is already asleep.

  I let her go of her hand and am about to turn off the lantern when my phone flashes with a text from Harry Found a boat. I reply immediately Are you coming back? If I can, he replies. A few seconds later, he adds I love you. An afterthought, as usual, but it reminds me that he can be kind. Maybe Alison was right, maybe I should have gone with him. But at least he hasn’t forgotten me. Perhaps this will be the time he surprises me, perhaps he will come back for me, perhaps he will be my knight in shining armour after all.

  Instagram

  LisaLuskOfficial

  Image: Unnamed man

  THREE HOURS AGO

  LisaLuskOfficial Am out of my mind worrying about him. A friend says he texted he was leaving but that was hours ago.

  Lisasbiggestfan Praying for you.

  AllieSimpson4 Hopefully he’s nearly at Plymouth? Perhaps his phone needed charging.

  LisaLuskOfficial You’re probably right. I can’t stop thinking that if we were still together, I’d be down there too.

  AllieSimpson4 Well, that’s something to be thankful for.

  WonderWoman2018 Can I ask, is Never Leave Me about him?

  LisaLuskOfficial Yes. I never normally talk about him, but he was the Love of my Life. I’ve never got over our break up.

  StevenSmith5 Hope he’s on his way home and back to you.

  Jenny5001 We’re all rooting for that to happen.

  LisaLuskOfficial Never Leave Me, Never Leave Me/Believe me when I say to you/ James, my darling James/ I’ll never ever be leaving you. xxxx

  Facebook Messenger

  Seren Lovelace to Andy Jones.

  2.00 a.m.

  Are you still up? Am freaking out. She’s just messaged me.

  Andy Jones to Seren Lovelace

  2.02 a.m.

  I’ll call you.

  2.05 a.m.

  News n’ Truth

  The website that never lies

  Image: A smiling woman sits on a beach drinking.

  An eagle-eyed citizen has spotted this rather surprising image on Facebook. Margaret Anderson, the woman who created the tsunami crisis, at Dowetha Cove earlier this evening. It is indeed ironic that she will be a victim of her own misguided actions, but here she seems to be celebrating the fact. Do the brave souls on that beach know they are there because of her? Perhaps someone should tell them?

  Facebook

  Dowetha Beach Live

  30 August

  Image: A smiling woman sits on a beach drinking.

  Ten other comments

  Tommy Fairbanks: Do you know who this is? Margaret Anderson, the woman who caused the tsunami. You should make her pay.

  Jay Palmer: Drown the bitch.

  Hannah Samuels: How dare she sit there like that? All that suffering. You ought to kick her out. Let her die alone.

  Facebook

  Poppy Armstrong

  30 August 2.15 a.m.

  I can’t sleep. I tried earlier, while others went for late night walks, I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with exhaustion. But the minute I lay down, I found myself wide awake. All day long I have acted as if tomorrow is something that I have accepted, come to terms with. I have been the cheerleader for our little group, trying to create a party atmosphere, bring people together, have stimulating conversations, swim, chat, surf. I have comforted and encouraged, and behaved as if the world isn’t just about to end for all of us. I’ve always been a good hostess, and I think tonight I have played my part well.

  But now, as everyone has drifted off to bed, or for late night walks, perhaps even for romance, I cannot hide how alone I feel. I tried to sleep, but I can’t. I am scared, really scared. I have only a few hours left, until the wave comes. Even as I write it, I can’t think that it is really true. It still feels as if this is some horrible hoax conceived by some stupid joker who will reveal all tomorrow. I still find it hard to believe I am going to die. And yet, if I chose I could spend the rest of the night looking at the images which are hard to avoid. I am trying not to click on them, but they keep popping up on my timeline. The long line of cars fleeing coastlines everywhere, the moment the volcano erupt spewing burning orange lava from its summit. And the worse moment, when the mountain collapses in on itself, splitting in two sending tonnes and tonnes of stone into the water, creating, the wave that is right now crossing the Atlantic towards us. There is no way out. I cannot escape it. That moment has long passed, if it ever existed in the first place.

  In other news, I’ve contacted my ex. Let’s hope she responds.

  10 Likes

  3 more comments

  Beverley Lewis Hope so. x

  8 minutes

  Andy Carroll Very brave of you, even if she doesn’t it’s the right call.

  5minutes

  LAUDS

  Poppy

  The wind has built up and even with a jumper on, I am shivering. I really should be getting back to bed, but ever since I sent my faltering message to Seren, I’ve been unable to move. I have to see if she replies. Any response, will do, even a negative one. I sit on the bench, willing the message to appear, aware that is getting colder. It is not the ice cold of the winter days that I will never have again, but cold enough to be uncomfortable. I wish I’d brought a jacket, but I’d was hot in my sleeping bag, and when I couldn’t sleep I stupidly wandered up here without it. I could go back to the tent, of course, but my network only seems to get a strong signal up here. Instead I stand up, stamping some life into my feet, and wander over to the wall of the car park, staring down at the beach as I had earlier in the day. All is quiet now, just the ebb and flow of the waves, the tide turning back once again. The moon has risen high in the sky, half muffled by cloud. Earlier, the sky was full of stars, but now only a handful are visible. Down on the beach I can make out the shapes of the tents, huddled against the rising wind. The campfire has gone out and the site looks alone and defenceless; it would probably be kinder if none of my friends woke up tomorrow, probably be better for them to be swept away, oblivious. What have I been thinking of, encouraging people to come here? Harry had the right idea: we should have tried to escape when we had the chance.

  I check my phone. It’s 2.30 a.m. It’s stupid to think that Seren is awake right now, and if she is that she has nothing better to do than check Facebook. Stupid to imagine that Seren might be thinking of me, might remember me telling her how much I love it here. She has no idea where I am, how could she? Even so, the thought that she might, perhaps, still be up; might, perhaps, at least remember how much I love this part of the world and wonder if I might be down here, is incentive to stay up another half an hour just in case.

  I check my Facebook page. Nothing. I check the Dowetha Live page. To my dismay there are loads of messages from trolls. They’ve found out about Margaret and all the bile of the internet has been unleashed. I block every nasty comment. I’m still mad at her for what she did, but no one should be subject to this kind of crap. She doesn’t do Facebook, but all the same, I don’t want these things being said about her.

  It is getting colder. The car has a heater and maybe some toffees in the glove compartment; I decide to sit there for a bit, listen to the radio. It’s a good move; soon I’m feeling warmer, and I find a station streaming, undemanding pop songs of the Seventies – my parents’ era. And I was right, there are toffees in the glove compartment. I take one out of its wrapper sitting back to listen to Karen Carpenter sing of birds and stars and being close to the man she loves. I can still picture Mum and Dad dancing in the living room on a Saturday night after a couple of glasses of wine, all giggly and flushed. We were happy then, even if I hadn’t yet plucked up the courage to come out to them. How would it have been, if they had lived? I was their only daughter, I know they loved me, I hope they’d have accepted me, but it was the Nineties when that was still a big ask. So, I kept my teenage romances far away, hoping that one day I could explain. I never expected sudden death would take them
from me before I got the chance. It wasn’t fair. My whole life has been so unfair.

  I was in my first year at Bristol, in a world that was feeling scary as shit after 9/11. I was a long way from home, veering between loving my independence and missing my parents daily when the police came round. I don’t remember much of what followed. I somehow made it back to Barnsley where Aunty Barbara and Uncle Tim were busily arranging the funeral. The house was in negative equity and I couldn’t afford to keep it, they said I could stay with them for as long as I wanted, but there were six of them in a small terrace, and, besides, we’d never been that close. I went back to feeling depressed and in debt, and spent the next year, eking out a miserable existence on my grant and crappy bar job. When Alisdair, one of my lecturers offered me ‘research’ work, I jumped at the chance. At first, it was just that. Researching student attitudes to the war on terror, Islam, security. But soon they asked for a bit more. Could I keep an eye on this student, or tell me where this one went at night? Was that person a fan of Bin Laden, did the other one mention attending a particular mosque. It was easy money, took the pressure off so I could concentrate on my study. They told me I was helping keep the country safe. And I believed them. The job lasted as long as my course, and when I graduated with my 2:1, I went to London to find my fortune. I thought no more about it until a couple of years after Seren and I got together, when Alisdair came looking for me again …

  If only my parents hadn’t died, none of it would have happened. None of it. Seren and I would still be together, or at least not broken up so catastrophically, and I wouldn’t be here. My life has just been one set of disasters.Before I know it my face is wet with tears and I cannot stop.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Margaret is tapping on the window. I am about to tell her to leave me alone, when it occurs to me that company might do me some good.

  ‘Get in.’ She climbs in beside me. Karen Carpenter has been replaced by Neil Diamond – ‘Sweet Caroline’ – Mum’s song, I can still hear Dad serenading her at the breakfast table. I cry harder. Sobs that come from deep inside my body and I cannot stop them;, I sob and sob so hard that my whole body shakes. Gradually, I am aware that Margaret is reaching towards me. I find myself leaning on her shoulder, her arm is round me and I sense a comfort I haven’t known in years. At last, after what seems like hours, but is only really a few minutes, the sobs subside, and I sit up and find some tissues in the side pocket.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘A bit. Sorry. I hate crying like that.’

  ‘It’s been one of those evenings.’

  She’s kind. She really is. And I realize that’s why I’ve been so angry with her. That the person I felt I could lean on has let me down so badly.

  ‘I know you blame me,’ she says, as if reading my thoughts.

  ‘If you’d not got rid of that unit …’

  ‘Even if we’d kept it, monitoring volcanos might not have been the priority. It would probably have been focussed on climate change. And there’s no guarantee that the technology would have caught it anyway’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Margaret looks at me. ‘What’s bothering you? I know we’re all

  overwrought tonight, but I was watching you earlier. You seem to have something on your mind.’

  ‘It’s about someone in my past. I’ve tried to get hold of her but …’

  ‘Now it’s probably too late?’ Margaret’s smile is sad. ‘I’ve got someone like that.’

  ‘Have you got in touch?’

  ‘Yes, and she’s replied. Not the answer I wanted, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh.’ That’s not very comforting. Margaret leans over and puts her hand on my knee. ‘I’m still glad I did it though. I’m leaving this world having tried to make amends. Better than doing nothing. This woman …’

  ‘Seren.’

  ‘She may or may not respond. Her answer may or may not be what you want to hear, but at least you will know you tried.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I want to tell her more, but I am afraid that she will judge me, as I judged her earlier. I say nothing as I check my phone. There have been a few more encouraging messages on my page, but nothing from Seren. I let out a big yawn. I can barely keep my eyes open, and my body is aching from the earlier exercise. I need to sleep, even if only for a couple of hours.

  ‘Time for bed.’

  ‘Yes.’ We get out of the car. Yan meets us at the top of the slope, like us, he’s been struggling to sleep

  ‘Have you seen the Facebook page?’

  I frown at him, I hadn’t wanted to mention it for fear of upsetting Margaret

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says Margaret.

  ‘A few trolls,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I deleted some nasty comments already but looks we’ve had a few more.’

  ‘How did they find out?’

  ‘There’s a picture of you from earlier today. It was shared on a website …’‘It can’t have been one of us?’

  I think about it, Nikki and James are too interested in each other, Shelley wouldn’t have, and it’s none of us. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Harry,’ I say. They nod. Margaret sighs, ‘At least my daughter doesn’t share the same name. The last thing she needs is to be harassed online.’

  ‘It’s just a few idiots,’ I say. ‘I’ll put them right in the morning.’ We say good night to Yan for the second time and I follow her back to the tents. It is 3.00 a.m. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch three hours or so. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, giving Margaret a hug before unzipping my tent and diving in. I pull myself into my sleeping bag and lie back, closing my eyes. Pictures form: my parents singing to each other, the day I received the phone call about the accident, Seren’s face when I first saw her at the concert in Hyde Park – and the last time, full of rage. No, this is no good. I can’t sleep with that image in my mind. I think of my mum telling me stories at bedtime, remember the moon on the water earlier, the silver path streaking to the horizon. I think of the star woman and the husband who pursued her to the ends of the earth. I imagine following a silver path across the water, and reaching the heavens to find Seren there, willing to receive my apology and forgive me. The image soothes, me as waves of sleep come, sending me into a blessed oblivion.

  Yan

  It is a hot and sunny day; the sky is blue and cloudless. Karo and I are covered in suntan lotion and wearing hats for protection, but we are not really aware of the weather. We are too busy building a huge sandcastle at the bottom of a red and white striped cliff. We have been doing so all week and today’s effort is the best yet. There are turrets, tunnels, shell escarpments, seaweed flags, a large moat, which we are filling with water, and a drawbridge. When the tide comes in, we will take great pleasure in trying to defeat its passage. We will fight till the very end to block its path up the channel and round the moat, until the inevitable happens – the final wave will overwhelm it and we will watch as it crumbles into the sea, fading away as if it never existed. But this is some time away. For the moment, we are enjoying the sheer joy of working together to complete our masterpiece. The water in the moat has drained away again, leaving a pile of gooey sludge. It is my turn to fetch some more. I pick up the bucket, and wander past my parents, who are half lying, half sitting, watching us play. This is a good day. The best day. The wind is rising as I walk down the beach, but I don’t notice. I am more interested in the tiny spiralled fossils I can see on the ground. I pick up a few and put them in the bottom of the bucket for decoration as I make my way to the water’s edge. I am just intending to fill my bucket, but the wind has whipped up the sea into a white foam, and though Mum always says to wait for her and Dad, I cannot resist, I jump in the water, enjoy the exhilaration of the waves crashing about me. I am drawn deeper in. There is a strong undercurrent and, before I know it, I am up to my waist. It is then that I hear a warning shout from Mum and spot a huge wave coming towards me. Panicked, I try to turn, but the undercurrent is strong and I slip. Suddenly I am under
the water which is trying to force its way through my nose and mouth. I push myself up, sink, push up, gasping, and sink again. And suddenly Mum is there, grabbing me with her strong arms, pulling me out, just before the wave would have come crashing down on my head …

  I wake with a start. That was weird. Though Karo and my dad regularly feature in my dreams, Mum never does. And while I struggle to recall those Karo and Dad dreams, waking only with a deep sense of loss, I can remember every detail of this one as if it had just happened. The beach felt familiar too. Was it a real place? Did we actually go there? I try and think back to family holidays. We couldn’t always afford them, but before Dad left we had two that were particularly memorable – one in Rye, the other in Hunstanton. There was something about one of those places that was a bit unusual … it’s at the back of my memory, something to do with the cliffs … That’s it! The cliffs at Hunstanton were striated, red and white, a mixture of sandstone and clay. Just like the cliffs in my dream. There were fossils there too. Now I think of it, we used to love collecting the ammonites. If the beach was real, was the incident? Did Mum really rescue me from the sea? So much of family life before Dad left is a blur I really can’t remember. Is it possible that I have I forgotten this story? Did it actually happen? Or is it a fantasy I’ve come up with to convince myself she has always loved me?

  Oh, this is pointless. I’ll never know the answer because, when I do call her in the morning, I can’t ask her about it. I’ll have to spend most of the call preparing her for the news that I am going to die and the rest of it dealing with the fallout. I doubt there’ll be an opportunity to discuss whether she actually saved my life when I was a child or whether it is wishful thinking on my part. To be honest, I don’t dare put the question to her; I’m not sure I want to discover it’s all in my imagination. I’d rather leave this world with the comforting belief that there was one day in my childhood, one day when it really mattered, my mother was there for me.