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Storms. Chris Vick
Читать онлайн.Название Storms
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008158361
Автор произведения Chris Vick
Издательство HarperCollins
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.
THE CLOCK ON the kitchen wall told her it was an hour since she’d made those calls. And so far, nothing. She paced up and down the kitchen, biting her nails.
‘Hannah!’ said Dad. ‘Darling. Why don’t you sit down? Take your coat off.’
Mum and Dad were sitting at the table. At one end, Mum had laid breakfast: china cups, a rack of toast, a bowl of freshly boiled eggs. At the other end, Hannah had piled up blankets, a bucket, a camera and a notebook. Beano sat at the door, watching her, unsure if he should go and lie in his basket, or if they were off for another walk.
‘Hannah, sit down,’ said Dad.
‘The whales …’
‘The whales will wait till this marine-rescue chap calls, or arrives. There’s nothing you can do yourself, is there? It’s best to wait here.’
She hated Dad being right. She hated his self-confident, knowing-he-is-right-ness. Hannah wanted nothing more than to pelt down to the beach. To see Little One. To try to comfort the young whale. That much, at least.
‘Hannah, please eat something,’ said Mum.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she snapped. Then quickly added: ‘Sorry.’
‘Okay, darling. I’ll make up a packed lunch.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You pamper that girl,’ said Dad.
The phone rang in the hall. It hadn’t rung three times before Hannah answered.
‘Hannah Lancaster? This is Steve.’ She could barely make out his voice through the crackle and shrieking wind. She put a finger in her other ear.
‘Our people are down here now,’ he said. ‘Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I’ve come off the beach to get a signal.’
‘Oh. Right. Great. I’m coming down.’
‘You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘We don’t want crowds – they get in the way. We need to keep the media away too, as long as possible.’
‘I’m coming down. I can help,’ she said.
‘We have all the help we need. But if you want to come and watch …’ Steve’s voice drowned in white noise. ‘You’re breaking up …’
‘How are the whales?’ The line was dead.
‘Is everything okay?’ said Dad. He was right beside her. So was Mum.
Hannah dodged past them, grabbed the bucket, shoved the blankets and notebook and camera inside it, and left.
‘Wait,’ Dad shouted through the open door, holding Beano by the collar. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
HANNAH STOPPED RUNNING and stood on the sand, watching.
The whales were the same. Limp, giant statues. The sea had retreated to mid-tide, as though it had dumped the whales and run off, leaving them to die.
The rain had stopped. Two girls in hi-vis orange jackets stood inside a fence of yellow netting that had been erected round the whales. Outside the cordon, a small crowd watched as rescuers in waterproofs poured buckets of seawater on to blankets and towels that had been laid over the whales’ bodies.
Hannah counted. Three with towels and blankets draped over them, and four without. That meant three alive, four dead.
Little One was one of the three. Hannah’s heart sang. She ran to the cordon and dropped her bucket, ready to climb over, to