Out of Towners (18 page)

The beach is about sixty metres down. It's half the height of Bellevue Point, but it's still a major trek. A path zigzags right, then left, then right again, disappearing into the darkness. Long slanting steps are cut into the slope, held in place by rough-cut blocks of wood like railway sleepers.

Straightening up, I look around. Determination is written on everyone's faces.

“Ready?” I ask.

They all nod.

I take a breath and start to lead the way downhill.

Although the steps are man-made, nature has been doing its best to reclaim the landscape. As we come round the first corner and cut back in the other direction, the path is already getting dodgy and dangerous. Some of the railway sleepers have fallen away and the ground is uneven and worn. Overgrown weeds and brambles are curving overhead, forming a tunnel. The air is filled with the scent of night-flowering plants and moths are whirring about.

I've been counting the steps, but by the time we're halfway down, I've given up. My mind is wandering. I'm clinging to the hope that George is still alive, but guilt is gnawing at me. How could we have let him down so badly? Big George. Mother Hen. The one who always looked after everyone. Where were we when he needed us? What have we done to him? If the worst comes to the worst, what can we possibly say to his mum and dad?

We're getting near to the end of the climb now. The path is still swinging from side to side, but there's no definition to the steps at all. We're shuffling and sliding, stumbling through the dark, holding on to one another, trying to keep up a good pace. The closer we get to the bottom, the louder the sound of the sea, rushing inland. We cut down to the right one more time and then there's a sharp fork to the left.

The final ten steps to the beach are almost vertical. It's like descending a ladder. I jump the last three rungs and land with a thud. Robbie and Steph are right behind me. Dylan starts to help Nikita and Gemma down.

Seaward Cove is weird. It's not like the coast around the pier and it's not like the bottom of Bellevue Point either. Instead of pebbles or smooth chalk, it's filled with white boulders, stuff that must have fallen from the cliffs over the centuries. All sorts of things have been washed ashore. Bits of smashed boats, broken machinery, ropes, what looks like a whole ship's cargo of hundreds of yellow planks scattered everywhere. The moon is lighting up some parts of the beach and leaving others in shadow. It's like a giant stage set.

Just to the left, there's a pile of mangled metal. It's the remnants of a heavy spiked fence. I suppose it was up at the top of the slope at one stage. I grab hold of one of the rusty poles and wrench it away from the rest. It's about three foot long, solid iron, flat at one end. I swish it around. Something about the weight of it in my hand feels reassuring. I don't know why.

Dylan, Nikita and Gemma are down now, so we press on. There's no discussion. We know what we need to do.

It took us about ten minutes to get from Bellevue Point to the top of Seaward Cove. But that was across flat grass. Down here we're weaving through lumps of chalk and heaps of debris, diving across rock pools, trying not to slip on the glistening seaweed. We're cutting through patches of blackness and patches of light. Everyone's totally in the zone, silent and grim, lost in their own little world.

The tide is coming in fast, racing across the beach, whooshing between the boulders. Up ahead, waves are starting to nudge a section of cliff wall sticking out further than the rest. In a night of horrible thoughts, another one has occurred to me. What if the sea gets to George before we do? What if he's survived the fall, but ends up drowning? I keep driving on, faster and faster.

The further away from Seaward Cove we get, the higher the cliffs are towering above us. There's no turning back. I'm way beyond cold. I'm numb. Utterly numb. If you took a sword and ran it through me, I wouldn't feel a thing. The cuts on my hands and knees, the lumps on my head, they're all forgotten about.

We're going as fast as it's possible to go across this ground. But however quickly we go, the sea is quicker. A minute ago it was splashing our feet. Now it's swirling around our ankles. We're not running any more, we're wading. My jeans are saturated. They're heavy, clinging to my legs. There's still no sign of the car, but nobody's panicking. Panicking is no use.

We come round another chalky outcrop and finally the car comes into view. It's fifty metres away, already surrounded by water. It's up to the tops of the wheels and waves are starting to crash across the mangled bonnet and in through the shattered windscreen, carrying on to buffet the base of Bellevue Point.

My body is filled with the burning sensation again. The coldness, the numbness has got me this far. But now reality kicks in. This is life or death.

With a final burst, we splash across to the BMW. The windows are gone and the side panels are gouged and scuffed, but all in all it's in amazingly good condition. It's hard to see, but there only seems to be a few inches of water swilling around in the footwells. The speed the tide is coming in though, another five minutes and the whole interior will be two foot under. And if the interior is underwater, the boot will turn into a death trap.

As a big wave hits the front of the car, I head for the back. Robbie and the others are already there, standing with their eyes fixed on the boot. The lid is dented and scratched and covered in fragments of chalk, but it's in one piece. It's taken the impact of the fall without crumpling. It might have saved George's life.

My heart is pounding like a pneumatic drill. I reach out my hand and try to release the boot lock. I pull the lever but nothing happens. I try again. It's no good. The lid is jammed. I step back, blinking, trying to think what to do next.

Dylan barges me aside and starts jabbing away at the lock, pulling and yanking. He gives up and Robbie has a go.

The water is reaching the middle of my thighs now, creeping up the side panels of the BMW. More and more is sloshing inside the car. Time is running out. I look at Bellevue Point behind us, rearing up into the night. Then I look down and see what's in my right hand. A three foot, solid iron bar.

“Out of the way,” I say.

Robbie's still tugging at the lock, but he's getting nowhere.

“Out of the way,” I say again, louder this time.

Robbie doesn't move so I grab his shoulder and push him over to one side. He's surprised and confused but he doesn't resist.

Spinning the iron bar round, I wedge the flat end under the lip of the boot lid and push down as hard as I can. There's a creaking sound, but the metal of the car isn't budging. I try to anchor my feet, get more leverage. It's not easy. My trainers are skidding on the slimy chalk. The iron bar slips out of its groove and I nearly plunge into the churning sea. Getting steady, I try again. This time I work the bar in further, the end disappearing in the narrow gap between the boot lid and the bumper. I push down for a couple of seconds, release the pressure, press for another couple of seconds.

“It's no good,” Dylan howls. “It's not going to give.”

The water is still rising. A couple more centimetres and it's going to be up to the level of the boot. I lock my hands together and force down on the bar with all the strength I've got left. There's a muffled clunk and the lid pops open a fraction. We're in.

The pounding in my chest has gone. My heart feels like it's stopped. I'm holding my breath, but my senses are on full alert. They're registering every last random detail. Every sight, sound, smell, taste, and texture. This is either going to be the best moment of my life or the worst. It all depends on what I see in the next couple of seconds. Whatever it is, it's going to be with me forever. George could be alive. He could be dead. He could be fine. He could be mangled out of all recognition.

But he's none of those things. Because, as I swing the dented metal lid upwards, he's not there.

I stumble backwards, dropping the iron bar, turning to look at everyone. Dirty, freezing water is rushing in to fill up the boot, but no-one needs to go and check. We've all seen. It's empty.

Steph stretches out her arms. I stagger towards her and we stand swaying with the force of the waves as they drag at our legs, backwards and forwards. My jeans feel like lead weights. Dylan and Robbie are looking at one another, eyes blank. Nikita's staring out to sea. Gemma's got a hand clamped across her mouth.

My brain is motoring at a million miles an hour, trying to get a grip of what's happening. My senses aren't on full alert any more. They're completely scattered. I look at my watch. It's stopped. The water is up to my groin now, and as I glance behind me I start to realise something new. We're trapped. There's no way we can make it back to Seaward Cove and the only way up the cliffs here is the chalk stairway we saw from the top. And that disappears twenty feet above where we're standing. But before there's time for this to sink in, I feel something vibrating against my leg.

I loosen my hold on Steph, reach into my pocket and get my phone out. It's ringing. I don't bother to check the caller ID. I just slide it open and press it to my ear.

“Alright?” someone says.

My mouth sags open.

“Alright?” the person on the line says again. The voice is sleepy, thick with drink. “Chris? That you?”

My lips start to move, but no sound comes out.

“Who is it?” Robbie asks, face contorting. “Chris? Who is it?”

“It's George,” I say.

Everyone looks stunned. Absolutely stunned.

I push the mobile tighter to my ear. I can hardly hear anything over the sound of the waves, but I've got the power of speech back.

“George, where are you? What have you been doing?”

“I don't actually know,” George says. “I'm in some little backstreet, trying to find my way to the town centre. I woke up in someone's front garden. I fell over a wall, knocked myself out. There was a concrete eagle lying on the pavement. I must have tripped over it.”

I roll my eyes. It's all starting to add up. George never even made it into the car. I feel disgusted with myself, ashamed again. We were all so busy trying to save our own arses that no-one noticed.

“But you're okay, are you?” I ask. “You're really okay?”

“Yeah,” George says, surprised I seem so concerned. “Bit of a sore head, but other than that, I'm sound. But anyway, I've been crapping myself. Kirkie's gang were after us weren't they? Or did I imagine that?”

I laugh.

“No George, you didn't imagine it.”

I look up. Everyone's mouthing questions at me. I just give them the thumbs-up.

“So where have you got to?” George asks. “Are you all alright? Is Gemma alright?”

I don't know where to start.

“George,” I say. “We're all fine. Well, sort of. But if I told you where we were, you'd think I was taking the piss.”

“Try me.”

I draw a breath.

“We're standing up to our waists in the sea, at the bottom of Bellevue Point, next to a trashed BMW we've pushed off the cliffs.”

George has gone quiet.

“Stop messing,” he says eventually.

“I'm not messing, George. We thought we'd killed you. We thought you were in the boot.”

“Shit,” George says.

I'm struggling for words again.

“George. George, we thought you were dead, man. But you're not. I can't believe it. When I see you I'm going to give you a kiss. A big sloppy one, right on the lips.”

“Eurgh,” George says. “Make sure you brush your teeth first.”

“Look mate,” I say. “Seriously. We're in some proper bother here. We're stranded. We're going to have to call the Coastguard, get the helicopter out. Basically, we've had it. Our mums and dads are going to find out. We're going to have some mega explaining to do.”

“Shit,” George says again. “Is there anything I can do to help? Anyone I can call?”

“No George. We've got it covered. The thing is, we can keep you out of this. If you lie low, get the bus to Letchford and go home this evening, no-one needs to know you were involved. We'll make sure your stuff gets back.”

George is straight in there. No hesitation.

“Don't be stupid. All for one, one for all. I've just passed the police station. I'll head back and let them know what's occurring in case you can't reach the Coastguard. I'll catch up with you some time later today.”

“Yeah, man,” I say. “And then we'll never see each other again. Some hardcore bollockings will be going down. We'll all be grounded for the next five years.”

George laughs.

“Probably.”

“Anyway. Got to go now. We need to get ourselves rescued. See you soon.”

“Right,” George says. “See you mate. Give my love to Gemma. Keep everyone safe.”

“Will do,” I say.

I slide the phone shut. I go to put it back in my pocket, but I can't. My pockets are underwater.

We're starting to get knocked about by bigger and bigger waves now, splashed by the spray. The situation is looking pretty ropey, but you'd never know it. We're all grinning from ear to ear. Robbie and Dylan are high-fiving. Nikita and Gemma are hugging one another. Nobody cares that their clothes and shoes are ruined. Nobody cares that we're in for some serious aggro when we get home. It could be a whole lot worse. I'm getting a sense of relief that's so strong it feels like I'm going to explode.

The thing is though, I need to get a grip on myself. The water around us is rising higher and higher. It's going to be up to our necks before too long. Unless we want to drown, we're going to have to swim for the broken stairway. It's the only place we can be safe. I don't need to tell anyone. We've all worked it out for ourselves.

Holding my phone above my head, I lead the way, sculling across to the cliff face. I drag myself onto the crumbling steps, then start hauling everyone else out of the water. Gemma, Nikita, Steph, Dylan and Robbie. When they're all safely behind me, scrambling upwards, I try to take in the entire scene. Everything that's going on. It's beautiful. The moon's reflection on the rippling sea. The pure whiteness of the cliffs. The sparkling stars. I'm actually feeling fantastic. It's the way I felt getting off the coach at Whitbourne Bus Depot. That was thirty-six hours ago. It seems like a lifetime.