Lucas (9 page)

Joe Rampton's farm is just across the fields from us.
You can't see it from our house, it's hidden behind a low hill, but if you're standing on the bridge over the creek you can just about see his farmhouse through the gaps in a spindly wood that cuts across from our lane to his …

‘… I mean, they're known for it, aren't they?'

‘What?'

‘Gyppos – they're always nicking stuff.'

‘Are they?'

She didn't answer. She just chewed her gum and scratched her belly, looking around the library as if it was the most pathetic place in the world.

I hated her for that.

We used to come here together, me and Bill, when we were kids. We used to love it. Sometimes we'd spend hours in here, looking through all the books, talking quietly, giggling, enjoying ourselves … God, we used to get really excited about our trips to the library …

Was that so long ago?

I looked at her now. Yeah, I realised, it was. It was a lifetime ago.

‘I've got to go,' I said, glancing across at Dad. He was waiting at the door, clutching his photocopies and gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling.

I stood up.

Bill said, ‘Give me a ring sometime, yeah?'

I muttered something non-committal, and then left.

Dad told me once that there's magic in the wind, and that if you listen hard enough it'll tell you what you want to hear. I don't know if I believe in magic – I'm not even sure it's something you
can
believe in – but as I lay in bed that night I was willing to give it a try.

I closed my eyes, kept perfectly still, and listened. It was
only a very light breeze, and at first it was hard to separate from all the other sounds of the night – the creaks and hums of the house, the occasional sound of a distant car, the faint roll of the sea. But the more I listened, the clearer it became, and after a while I could distinguish the different sounds coming from different trees – a dry rustling from the elm in the back garden, a leafy rush from the poplars along the lane, and from the ancient oak in the field at the back of the house, a tired groan, like the sound of an old man getting up from a chair. I even managed to work out the difference between the sound of the sea breeze and that of the wind coming in from the island. The sea breeze had a soft, effortless feel to it, something like the sound of the sea itself. Whereas the wind coming in from the island was more hurried, rushing through the trees as if it had somewhere important to go.

But no matter how hard I listened, how carefully I listened, the wind in the trees didn't tell me anything.

Maybe I'm just not magical enough?

I was still having trouble working up the courage to go back to the beach, and by Thursday it was really starting to get to me. There was a lot of friction in the house, mainly between Dominic and Dad. They hadn't stopped sniping at each other since the night Dom went out with Jamie Tait. Dirty looks, little digs, sarky comments, frosty silences … and then on Wednesday they'd had a blazing row. I can't remember how it started, I can't even remember what it was about – although I'm pretty sure it had something to do with Dominic's habits. He was hardly ever at home now, and when he did show up, usually late at night, he barely spoke to anyone. He'd stopped shaving, he wore the same dirty clothes all the time, and his eyes
were becoming pale and unfocused. He looked like something out of a Mad Max film.

The row started at the dinner table. Dad had been drinking, and Dominic was doing his best to catch up with him, working his way through a litre bottle of red wine as if it was Coke. They were both smoking like chimneys. A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air and the table was strewn with overflowing ashtrays and unfinished plates of food. I was just sitting there, keeping my head down, pushing a piece of limp lettuce around my plate, when suddenly Dad and Dominic were on their feet shouting at each other.

‘… you and Tait and the rest of that boatyard dross!'

‘Oh, come on—'

‘That's where you've been going, isn't it?

‘Don't treat me like a kid—'

‘Oh, I wouldn't
dream
of it. A fully grown man like you?'

‘I don't have to listen to this. Why can't you just leave me alone? Let me enjoy myself, for Christ's sake.'

‘Is that what you're doing? Enjoying yourself?'

‘Shit – what would
you
know about enjoying yourself …?'

And on and on and on …

I hated it.

It reminded me of the bad times after Mum died, when Dad was close to losing it and Dom was struggling through puberty and I didn't understand what was going on. It reminded me of all the tears and raised voices, the accusations and recriminations, the constant bickering … and deep down I couldn't help thinking it was all Dominic's fault, that if he'd never come back then everything would still be all right.

And thinking that only made me feel worse.

I needed to get out, to walk on the beach, to feel the sea breeze in my hair and hear the rush of the waves on the sand. I needed to look out at the horizon and wonder what lay beyond it, to watch the birds, to feel I was back where I belonged again.

But I couldn't.

I just couldn't face it.

Simon phoned on Thursday night. I was just getting into bed when I heard Dad calling up the stairs. ‘Cait! Phone! I think it's Simon.' I was tired, and I didn't really want to talk to him, but when I crept out onto the landing to ask Dad to tell him I was asleep, I saw the phone dangling against the wall and Dad closing his study door.

I went downstairs and picked up the phone.

‘Hello?'

‘Cait? It's Simon. I didn't wake you up, did I?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yeah. How are you?'

‘I'm all right.'

‘Good.'

I waited for him to say something else but the line stayed quiet. Simon is hard work sometimes.

‘So what have you been doing?' I said.

‘Not much … helping my dad out, mostly. We spent most of the day picking up a load of bonemeal.'

‘Bonemeal?'

‘Well, guano, actually.'

‘Bird shit?'

He laughed. ‘Yeah – it's from the old lighthouse across the bay, the one they demolished last year. There's tons of
it … dead cheap, too. Dad uses it as fertiliser.'

‘I bet that smells nice.'

‘It's good stuff, full of nitrogen. And anyway, it's better than dumping a load of chemicals in the field. Do you know how long chemical fertiliser stays in the food chain?'

I sighed. I didn't mean to be rude, but I really didn't feel like talking about the rights and wrongs of chemical fertilisers. ‘Listen,' I said, ‘I can't talk too long – my dad's waiting for a phone call.'

‘Oh, right … OK.'

The line went quiet again. I imagined Simon at home in his draughty old cottage, sitting on the bench in his gloomy hallway, winding the telephone cord round and round his fingers, his hair flopping over his eyes, his mother listening in from the kitchen …

I heard him clearing his throat. ‘Are you still there?'

‘Yeah … sorry. I was just thinking …'

‘What about?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Oh.'

Deefer came over and sat down beside me. I scratched his head and he flopped down heavily on the floor. On the phone I could hear Simon clearing his throat again, then sniffing, tapping his fingers against the mouthpiece.

‘Umm,' he said hesitantly. ‘Is it still OK for tomorrow?'

‘Sorry?'

‘The posters and stuff – for the festival. I was going to come round, remember?'

‘Oh, yeah, right. Six o'clock.'

‘I'll bring those designs I was telling you about.'

‘OK.'

‘Did you get the paper?'

‘What paper?'

‘You were going to get some A1 cartridge paper.'

‘Yeah, sorry … I didn't get round to it. I meant to—'

‘That's all right, I'll bring some other stuff.'

‘Sorry.'

‘It doesn't matter – really.'

‘OK … well, I'll see you tomorrow then.'

‘About six?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You sure?'

‘Yeah, fine. Six o'clock, tomorrow.'

‘OK … well, I'll see you then.'

‘OK.'

‘Six.'

‘Yep.'

‘Six o'clock.'

‘Six o'clock.'

‘OK – bye.'

‘Bye.'

I hung up the phone and went into the kitchen. The floor was cool beneath my feet. The refrigerator hummed. Through the window I could see a flicker of blood-red light on the horizon, a faint glow reflecting from the sea. The moon was down. It was dark. I didn't know what the flickering light could be – a ship, perhaps? Something in the sea, plankton, fish …? As I stood there gazing out through the window, the light slowly faded away into the darkness.

It must have been my imagination.

I thought about Simon.

(… about the Boy)

I thought about Simon.

(… about the Boy)

I thought about Simon.

Whenever he asked to see me, it was always the same – there always had to be a
reason
for it: posters, badges, newsletters, petitions about oil-tankers or caravan parks or whatever. He could never simply come out and say – Cait, I'd like to see you.

It should have bothered me, I suppose. Well, maybe not
bothered
me, exactly, but it should have meant something. I should have at least felt
something
about it – annoyance, frustration, anger, sadness – but I didn't. Because, right then, as I stood at the kitchen window gazing out at the night, all I could really think about was the Boy. The boy from nowhere, the boy I'd never spoken to, the boy I knew nothing about …

The Boy.

I
don't think courage is anything to be particularly proud of. It's usually just a case of doing something you don't want to do in order to avoid something else that you don't want to do even more. In my case, I realised that if I didn't make myself go back to the beach I'd have to stay at home for the rest of the summer waiting for my head to explode. So, on Friday afternoon, after a couple of hours staring out of the bedroom window, psyching myself up, I went downstairs, called Deefer, and set about exorcising the memory of Jamie Tait.

It was four o'clock.

As I walked down the lane I could feel a knot of anxiety growing inside me, and the closer I got to the beach, the more nervous I felt. I knew it was irrational, that there was nothing to be scared of, but that didn't make any difference. A sick fluttery sensation tingled in my stomach, and I had that strange feeling you get when you walk a familiar route and everything around you seems unfamiliar. You don't know what it is that's different, you can't quite put your finger on it, but you know that
something
isn't quite right. It's like one of those science-fiction stories when someone goes back in time and steps on an ant or a butterfly or something, and when they come back to the present everything has changed. The changes are so subtle that at first they don't realise anything has changed – but they're still aware that
something
isn't quite right.

There's something
spooo-ky
in the air.

That's how it felt that afternoon. It wasn't exactly spooky, but it wasn't quite right, either. There was a strange scent to the air, that fine metallic smell of rain on a dry pavement. The trees were unnaturally still. The ground beneath my feet felt too hard and too far away. Even Deefer was acting out of character. Instead of running around like a crazed wolf he was just ambling along beside me, barely bothering to sniff at anything, and all the time his eyes were darting around looking at things as if he'd never seen them before.

It was a weird feeling, and I knew there was more to it than just fear. It was the kind of feeling you get when you know that something is about to happen, something you've been longing for, only now that it's finally within your reach, you're suddenly not so sure …

When I got to the bridge over the creek I paused for a while to settle myself. Deefer sat beside me sniffing gently at the air while I took a good long look around, making sure the coast was clear. The air was warm and sticky, and as I scanned the area around the pillbox and then looked out across the sea, I fanned myself with the front of my vest, sighing at the cool breeze on my skin. The beach was deserted and the sea was flat and empty. No movement, no swimmers, just an endless stretch of rippled blue water flecked with jewels of sunlight.

Sometimes, when the sea is so calm, it has a depth to it that makes me think of for ever.

I turned my gaze to the beach.

Away to the west, it was a colourful sight: the red of the cliffs melting into the sky, distant kites flying high above the country park, the lush green of the surrounding fields, the pastel yellow of the sands. The outlying saltmarshes
looked dull and barren in the heat, but there was colour there, too. Thousands of tiny flowers were beginning to bloom, forming a mist of pink that seemed to float in the air above the marshes.

To the east was a different picture.

Here the colours were primitive and hard: the cold grey of the Point, the eternal brown of the mud flats, and beyond the mud flats the twisted darkness of the woods, a lightless thicket of blackened umber and ghost-green. The mud flats shimmered eerily in the sunlight, giving off a dull gleam that stilled the air. They looked almost harmless. And that's why they're so dangerous. To the unwary, they're just a vast stretch of sticky brown ooze. Something to avoid, perhaps. A bit unpleasant … a bit messy. But they're much more than that – they're deadly. One foot in the wrong place and a body will sink down into the airless depths, never to be seen again.