Storms

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 (#ulink_9fded34a-c166-5253-86c2-fd81e0bd5419)

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.