Читать книгу: «Storms», страница 4

Hannah

HANNAH CHECKED HERSELF in the hall mirror.

Sunset-red Henri Lloyd storm-breaker jacket, brand new. A present from Dad. Black waterproof trousers. Hunter wellies.

‘Sexy,’ she said. A howl of wind rattled the door, threatening to blow it open. Rain hammered on the conservatory roof like a thousand tiny drumbeats.

‘No such thing as bad weather,’ she said to Beano. He was scratching at the door. ‘Only a bad attitude and the wrong clothing. Right?’

Beano whimpered, keen to get going.

‘Hang on, he’ll be here soon.’

‘Morning, Hannah.’ Dad walked down the stairs in his dressing gown. ‘Going out?’

‘Beano needs a walk.’

‘Want some company? I can be ready in five.’

‘No. You’re okay. I’m supposed to be meeting Jake.’

‘Supposed to be?’

‘He hasn’t turned up … yet.’

‘Ah.’ Her dad smiled, raised his eyebrows and walked to the kitchen. As if just that one look said everything about Jake. Just that look. He did it all the time. It annoyed her.

She looked at her phone. Seven thirty. There was a message. He was going surfing.

Hannah smiled. Maybe it was a good thing if she went by herself. She needed to think.

Without saying goodbye to Dad, Hannah headed out along the path down to the village, through the streets and past the houses. When she came round the corner and started on the road to the beach, she got the force of what Jake called the full Atlantic blast. A shock of wind and stinging rain.

‘Jesus,’ she said, and sank her head deep into her jacket as she headed down to the sand.

It was only weeks before she was due to get on that plane. It didn’t seem real. How could she be walking on a howling Cornish beach one day, and not so many later be photographing whales in crystal lagoons?

And with Jake? He wanted Hawaii as much as her. More than anything. Not just for her, but because it was Hawaii, the best surf on earth.

It was his dream too. It was just a different one.

How would it go when they got there? Her working long hours, him surfing. And he hadn’t bought a ticket yet. He kept saying he’d sort it, but he hadn’t. She had money, but if she bought his ticket and had to pay for them both when she got there she’d be stony broke, pretty quick.

She reached the sand and started walking.

What if he couldn’t get the ticket? What if he didn’t come?

It would be months. And she’d miss him, the same as she’d miss the Cornish storms. The kiss of needle rain on her face, and Jake’s kiss when he put a smacker on her cheek. How she’d wipe away the itch of his stubble.

‘Ugh. It’s like being kissed by a badger’s bum,’ she’d say. Complaining, but not complaining. Then he’d kiss her on the lips and it’d almost knock her out. Like the shots of tequila the night they’d met.

‘That’s disgusting,’ she’d said, reeling from the salt, the bitter shot and the sting of lime.

‘You’ll get to enjoy it,’ he’d said, handing her another.

She had too. Hannah smiled at the memory.

How could she go without him? How could she even think it? But …

He’ll drag you down.

She heard the words like they were said out loud. She heard them every day. From Phoebe, Bess, Mum. Dad. He said it every chance he got.

‘Well, sod you, Dad,’ she said into the wind and rain. ‘He’s coming!’

Then she saw something, through the sheets of rain, at high tide, on the sea’s edge.

At first she thought they were rocks. Six or more. Huge, smooth, black boulders. Big as upturned yachts. Bigger.

They were rocks. They had to be. The storm must have stripped the sand off them. But, at the same time, she knew they weren’t. They were too dark, too rounded, too perfect in their shape.

So what were they? Beano ran straight to them, barking.

Only when she got close did Hannah see the white patches like giant eyes, the dorsal fins like great black knives on the creatures’ backs. The tail flukes lying useless and still on the sand.

Orcas. Killer whales.

She ran to the first one, the largest. It wasn’t moving. Its blowhole was closed and its mouth was open, showing a row of perfect, shining teeth. Its oddly human tongue hung out of the side of its mouth, limp and dead. Its eye was human-like too. But there was no light in it. It stared, unseeing, at the grey sky.

She checked the next one. It was half hidden in orange fishing net and seaweed. It was smaller, with a short fin. A female. Also dead.

The third one had fresh scars on it. They were pink and gaping: the telltale cuts of a whale tearing its flesh to escape netting.

This was what a loose net could do. She imagined the whales, trapped, holding their breath till they suffocated. Struggling uselessly against the nylon nets.

Three hundred thousand whales and dolphins died this way, every year. One every two minutes.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she said. Warm tears, mixed with rain, fell down her cheeks.

She stood, useless and tiny, next to these great, dead whales.

She’d always wanted to see orcas. Now she had.

‘Fuck!’

Beano was standing fast by one of the smaller whales, barking at it, then running away, coming back, front paws and head down, pointing and barking.

‘Beano, leave it alone,’ she shouted. But the dog ignored her, growling and barking ever louder. ‘I said, leave it alone!’

She wanted some dignity for the poor things. She grabbed Beano by the scruff of the neck, and yanked him away. It was a young one, this whale, half grown, maybe a year old. Its mouth was open, its tongue lolling. It was just as dead as the others.

She put a hand on the young whale’s head, stroking the rubbery skin, and felt suddenly ashamed of being human. Of what humans do.

She looked into the whale’s eye. ‘Sorry.’

That black pupil moved. A huge, rolling marble. The eye looked at her, glinting bright and fierce. It set Hannah’s skin on fire, being looked at this way. A loud phoosh sound burst through the wind and rain as the whale breathed out of its blowhole, filling the air with a fishy stench.

Even in that mad second Hannah had a clear thought. This wasn’t like a dog or horse looking at you. It wasn’t like any animal, or human, looking at you. It was something else.

Beano was back, down on his paws, barking.

‘No, Beano. Stay,’ she shouted, letting the dog know to behave. Not to bark and run around. Not to make the whale more scared than it already was.

Then a cry came from the whale. A long, desperate whine. The eye swivelled, looking at the other whales.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Hannah, her voice trembling.

What to do now?

She stroked the whale, blown away by it, gazing at her. Like it was looking into her.

What to do?

She wanted to comfort it, to talk to it.

But that wouldn’t save its life, would it?

‘Come on, Hannah, come on. Think!’

She stood back and checked the whale over, the biologist in her getting to work. No net injuries. A female. Juvenile. It had probably followed the others in.

She reached into her coat for her phone. She’d call Jake and tell him to get help. Then she remembered: he was surfing.

‘Damn you, Jake!’ She’d phone Dad instead.

There was no service.

She’d have to start sorting this herself.

She took some pics with her phone, running around the group of whales, getting photos from all angles. Seven of them in all.

She saw two move, heard their phoosh breaths.

‘Don’t panic, stay calm,’ she said. She tried to fight the tears. They wouldn’t help the whale any more than words.

Hannah searched her mind for what she knew. For the options. The sea was just starting to go out. She could see the tideline. It’d be hours before the sea came back and covered the whales. The tide might free the live whales. But then they might stay with dead or injured family members. Or be so exhausted, so heavy and so robbed of the buoyancy of salt water that their internal organs would collapse.

If there was hope – any at all – Hannah would need people, trained MMRs: Marine Mammal Rescuers. They’d need blankets soaked in buckets of seawater to keep the skin supple. Floats, inflatables, boats. Fish? Would she need to feed them? How would they drink if they were out of the sea? Cetaceans desalinate water. How could they do that on land? There was so much she didn’t know.

Even while she was working out what to do, who to call, what she needed, a part of her was panicking.

Why this? Why now?

Right, she told herself. Get organised. Steve Hopkins, her old biology teacher. He was an MMR. He’d done seal rescues and some dolphins. She’d call him as soon as she got back.

Please don’t die, whale.

She knew people with boats. RIBs, rigid inflatables. Could they get pontoons too? All the rescues she knew about had been dolphins or seals. The young orca was bigger. But not that much bigger.

Please. Live.

Hannah stroked the whale’s head again and looked into its eye.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay.’ It wasn’t, though. Everything for the whale was as bad as it could be.

‘It’s okay.’ Hannah said it anyway. To herself. ‘It’s all right …’

Don’t say it.

‘It’s okay …’

Don’t give it a …

‘Little One.’

… name.

‘I have to go. I’ll be back, Little One. I promise.’ She leant over, above its eye, and kissed it. Then ran, calling Beano to heel.

Jake

WONDERFUL?

Fan-freaking-tastic, more like.

There was no need to duck-dive the waves. There was a conveyor-belt rip current by the cliff that took him straight out, right past the breakers. He got out back, to the side of the break point, then slowly edged into the reef, keeping a careful watch on the horizon. Waiting for sets. Getting in the sweet spot. Paddling like crazy when the right wave came.

They were big. But the power in the water was organised. It was easy surf to predict, easy to catch, the waves seeming slow at first, but walling up fast once he was on them.

Solid glass ramps to rip up.

He made huge, carving turns.

He came off each wave while it was still green, before it closed, then paddled into the rip and out again. A merry-go-round.

He could have surfed it for hours. Happily. Part of him wanted to, wanted to delay meeting Hannah, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. After a few waves, the thoughts and doubts seeped into his mind. If Hannah went to Hawaii without him … how long before she hooked up with some geek biologist? Someone with prospects and a nice tan. They weren’t all going to be gay or ugly.

He mistimed a wave, so it went under him. Then another. His concentration was shot with all this damn thinking.

He’d done a few good waves. Time to get out. Start dealing with stuff.

He got a wave in and walked out of the water.

There was a cave to the left of the beach, tucked under the headland. A deep space filled with boulders, plastic bottles, floats, bits of net and chunks of wood.

The rubbish was always worse after a storm, but now the cave was filled with it. He could hardly see the rocks. It was ugly, but weirdly impressive. A mountain of stuff.

Something caught his eye. Among the orange plastic and old tin cans was a crate.

He remembered what Goofy had said about all sorts washing up. Gifts from the sea gods.

He put his board on a pile of seaweed, and clambered over the rocks.

There was something in the crate, no doubt about it.

He dragged it off the rocks. It was heavy.

He pulled it down to the small pebble beach.

Whatever was in the crate was covered in thick, sealed plastic. He’d need a knife to get inside it.

He didn’t have a knife. Or anything. He looked around, and found a rusted can lid. It wasn’t sharp, and his arms were surf-knackered, but he stabbed at the plastic hard, and after a few goes made a small tear.

Jabbing and yanking, he made the tear into a gash. Underneath was another layer of plastic. He cut again, curiosity driving him. He saw what was inside. Several packages of it. Something white, the size of large books, taped tight.

His mind drew a blank. There was no label, no brand. So could it be …

His heart burned with the answer, before he even thought it.

‘Drugs. Holy crap.’

He got the fear, raw and strong, like seeing a beast of a wave rising out the sea and heading his way. He looked at the path. Up at the cliff. Out to sea. There was no one there. But he felt in the open. Naked.

He cut at one of the packages. White, crystal powder burst out, coating the rusted metal then melting in the rain.

He dropped the can lid and dragged the crate up the rocks and into the depths of the cave. High up. Higher. Deeper. Beyond the tideline, where the rock was light and dry. Where the sea never reached.

He covered it in rocks and rubbish to hold it there. Then he clambered back down, picked up his board, and headed off.

What to do now?

Tell Hannah? Mum?

No, he’d tell the police. Straight away. He’d make the news.

Local surfer finds haul of drugs.

How much? What kind? What was it worth? Jake had no idea. He wasn’t into pills or powders.

Yeah, he’d tell the police, and the local papers and TV news.

Hannah would be well impressed. Plus: brilliant excuse for being late this morning.

Halfway up the cliff path he looked back into the cove. It was dead on high tide. He kept looking. Had he seen something? A broken pole, thick as a mast, poking out of the sea. Had he? The water was a mess of thrashing waves at the shore break. It was playing tricks with him. But … There.

Ten metres out was the broken mast of a boat. It was exposed when the waves sucked back. And, just below the surface, a wreck.

That was where the drugs had come from.

‘D’you know what?’ he said to himself. ‘You could always sell it, dude. Get rich.’ Maybe this was a gift from the sea gods like Goofy had talked about? Maybe it was meant to be. If he sold the drugs, he’d be able to fund Hawaii, easy.

Jake shook his head. He laughed at his own joke.

Hannah

HANNAH HAMMERED AT the front door till it opened.

‘Hannah, darling. Is everything all right?’

She threw herself at Dad, soaking his dressing gown.

‘What’s he done?’ said Dad.

‘Noth-nothing to do with Jake. There’s …’ Hannah forced the words through her sobs. ‘There’s whales. Killer whales. On the shore.’

‘What?’ Dad held her shoulders, looking into her eyes. ‘What do you mean, whales? Why are you crying? Calm down.’

‘They’re stranded. Dead mostly. But there’s a young one, alive.’ She pictured its black, marble eye. She heard its cry, like it was real. Calling to her, above the wind and rain.

‘Come and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea. We’ll phone the coastguard.’

Hannah pushed his hands off her. She went to the hall and called Steve Hopkins. She got his answerphone.

‘Mr Hopkins. It’s Hannah Lancaster …’ She took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling, to put steel in her voice. ‘It’s eight fifteen. There are several stranded whales, orcas, at Whitesands beach. Some dead, at least two alive. One’s a juvenile female … I think. Call me. No … get here, please. I’ll text you some pics.’ She left her number, then used the phone again, punching the buttons with her finger. She got Jake’s voicemail too.

‘Jake. Call me!’

Why wasn’t Mr Hopkins answering? Why wasn’t Jake? Why was Dad doing nothing, apart from offering tea? It was like swimming through treacle.

‘I need him and he’s surfing,’ she sighed heavily, leaning against the wall.

‘Well,’ said Dad. ‘It’s not the first time, is it?’

Hannah didn’t bite. Now wasn’t the time.

She phoned again, punching the buttons with her finger. Got an answer message, again.

‘Call me, Jake. I need you.’

Jake

‘YOU HAVE TO be kidding me,’ said Goofy. He was sunk deep in his sofa, staring at the small jar on the table. It was a quarter full of white powder.

He stood up, went to the kitchenette and came back with a teaspoon, then opened the jar and scooped some powder on to the table.

They both leant over to examine the small mound of boulders and crystal dust.

‘I thought you might know what it is,’ said Jake.

‘Oh, really. Why’s that, then?’

‘I thought you might have … I dunno. I just did. Could you could test it?’

In films, people licked a finger and tasted a dab. Goofy just stared at the powder.

‘I come down ’ere to get away from that kind of shit. I don’t care what it is.’

‘I thought you came here to surf?’

‘Mostly.’

Jake thought of all the things Goofy had said about his past. And not said. Maybe Goofy had run from something as much as to something.

‘Any idea?’ said Jake.

‘Coke at a guess. MDMA, maybe. Smack, possibly. Why’d you want to know?’

‘So I know what to do with it.’

‘You don’t do anything with it. You tell the law. I hate the bastards, but they have their uses. You don’t want some kids finding it, do you?’

‘Any idea how much it’s worth?’ said Jake.

‘If it’s coke, there’s more than a few grams there. A grand? Two, three, maybe.’

Jake sat bolt upright. He thought of the full jam jar under his bed and the crate hidden on the beach. How much money was in there?

‘A thousand quid, plus? For that tiny amount,’ he said.

‘Yeah. For that tiny amount,’ said Goofy. ‘Why, how big is the package it came from?’

‘Big,’ Jake said. The air in the room was suddenly thick, the roaring wind a million miles away.

Goofy stared at him, his eyebrows knotted. ‘You don’t want to worry about this, Jakey. You’re getting on a plane soon.’

‘And how am I going to afford that?’ Jake shrugged, and nodded. Suggesting something. It took Goofy a few seconds to twig what that something was.

‘Oh no,’ said Goofy. ‘No, no, no, no, no. You are kidding.’

‘Imagine it, Goofy,’ said Jake in a forced whisper. ‘All that dosh. Thousands. More.’

Goofy stood up, keeping an eye on the small hill of powder, as if it was a coiled snake waiting to spring up and bite him. ‘This ain’t a bit of weed, Jake. This is ten years in prison. More, depending on … How much is there?’

Jake didn’t want to freak Goofy out. Not more than he already was. Better not tell the whole truth. ‘The package is about the size of a bag of flour. Is that a lot?’

‘No, Jake. This …’ Goofy pointed at the table, ‘is a lot. That’s a small mountain. You’re talking about the entire Himalayas. Tens of thousands, like. More possibly.’

‘Enough to get us made. For life.’

Goofy started pacing the flat, rubbing his hands together, his voice getting louder. ‘Enough to get you banged up with rapists and murderers till your hair’s gone grey!’ He marched to the door, and opened it, letting in a blast of wind and rain. He looked around, then came back in.

‘Did you see anyone down there? Did anyone see you?’

‘No … Hold on … one guy. Yeah, this surfer. He’d been down before me. Older bloke with a craggy face.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No, why?’

Goofy didn’t appear to hear the question. He walked to the table, picked up the jar, put it just below the level of the table and brushed the powder back in with his finger. He put his hand to his mouth, as if to lick off the white stain. He paused, then licked it anyway. He looked at the ceiling, thinking. Then nodded.

‘That’s high-grade cocaine, Jake.’ He went quickly to the sink and poured the powder in. He put the tap on full, then rinsed the jar out.

‘What you doing?’ said Jake, standing. ‘That’s more than a thousand quid!’

‘Bollocks. I’ve seen what this poison does to fellows. Girls too. It’s not happening to you, brother. Coke is evil shit, Jake.’

He turned and held the clean jam jar out to Jake, beaming.

‘What the hell? Look at us, Goofy.’ Jake stood up and pointed at his mate, then at himself.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Where we headed? What kind of future we got?’

Goofy looked down at his stained jeans, at the rented bedsit with its damp walls and fag-burned carpet.

‘Where we going, eh?’ said Jake.

‘We do okay.’

‘Now. Plenty of surfs, beers, laughs. But in a year. Five?’

Goofy just shrugged.

‘I need to get on that plane,’ said Jake.

‘Hawaii’s not that important.’

‘It is. Hannah is. This is a chance, Goof. A gift from the sea gods, like you said. I’ll get rid of a load of it cheap. Just enough for a ticket, maybe a bit of spends. To set me up. I’ve got it figured out. I want to be a board shaper.’

‘So does every surfer. You have to be good, to get experience.’

‘I am good. I’m good with boats and wood; I’ve shaped a bit with Ned. I know surfing as well as anyone.’ He could convince Goofy. If he’d just listen! ‘I get there, right? I work, for free, with Alan Seymour Boards. Learn the craft. I come back with a rack of boards shaped in Hawaii. Who else round here can offer that?’

‘All right. It’s a good plan. If anyone can pull it off, you can. But you ain’t funding it like this. Not if I can help it.’

‘You won’t help me?’

Goofy folded his arms. He stood, biting his lip. ‘I can’t get involved in anything like that.’

‘Come on, Goofy. I helped you when you needed it.’

Goofy looked at Jake sharply. Jake was reminding Goofy of when he had arrived in Cornwall. A crusty loser, with a surfboard. Who’d needed clothes, food, a place to stay. Time to call in that favour. It was a rotten thing to do, but he was desperate.

‘You helped me get out of shit,’ said Goofy. ‘Not into it. I can’t help. Look, go see yer man Ned. He might help you. He sells a bit more than boards.’

‘Yeah, weed. He’s known for it.’

‘More than weed I heard.’

‘Ned? I never knew.’

‘Well, he doesn’t advertise, does he? Any case, he might know someone. Or someone who knows someone. Good luck.’

‘Thanks, Goofy.’ He opened his arms wide for a bear hug. Jake’s way of saying: We still okay? Goofy hugged him, then held him at arm’s length, keeping a tight grip on his shoulders.

‘I’m telling you about Ned for one reason, so you don’t start trotting into pubs asking random folk if they want to buy drugs. You’d only end up arrested, beat up or ripped off. Possibly all them things. You still might. And be careful. Ned ain’t exactly sensible. Open his head, and there’s no brain, just dozens of tiny monkeys, dancing. I don’t think he knows what year it is most of the time, he’s smoked that much. Now get out of here. Go see that bird of yours. Seeing ’er might put sense in your thick head.’

Goofy slapped Jake on the back as he went out of the door.

The door closed behind Jake with a cold thud.

He was alone. He’d wanted Goofy by his side. No one would mess with him, then. You could rely on Goofy.

Ned was a different story.