Storms. Chris Vick

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СКАЧАТЬ Jake said. He was laughing, though. He couldn’t help himself.

      ‘I’m sure her mum’ll give you the money, for a special payment.’ He winked and rocked his hips.

      ‘Shut up!’ said Jake.

      ‘See. You’re laughing. Better already. Fancy a can?’

      ‘Bit early.’

      ‘Too late for sleeping, too early for beer. You want to be careful with these rules, Jake. You’ll end up like Lancaster.’

      ‘No chance of that,’ said Jake.

      Goofy went and got a beer. Jake slurped his tea. They watched the distant wall of cloud out to sea. Jake sank into arms-folded silence.

      ‘A storm like this churns everything up,’ said Goofy, clearly trying to change the subject. ‘All sorts come out the water. I seen it back ’ome in Wales too. Old wrecks, dead dolphins. A live one once. You’d be amazed what I’ve found down coves. A crate of beer. A life jacket. A container full of top trainers, once. Offerings from the sea gods, like.’

      ‘Where was that, then?’

      ‘Oh, you know, various surf spots.’

      ‘No. Where was “back home?”’

      ‘Here. There. Moved around a bit, I did.’

      That was Goofy. Dodging the question like always. Jake knew better than to push it.

      ‘Look at that storm brewing,’ said Goofy, pointing to sea.

      Jake loved an autumn storm. The best surf all year. But he couldn’t feel hunger for it now. He was gutted, too worried about not getting on that plane.

      ‘You gonna surf it tomorrow?’ said Goofy.

      ‘Maybe.’ He doubted it. He needed to talk to Hannah. He’d arrange to meet. He’d break the news.

      Unless he could find a way to get the money.

       Jake

      IT HAD BEEN light for an hour, but it felt like night out there, with the sky caked with cloud, and the wind screaming.

      Normally he’d lie in bed with a cuppa, listening to the storm batter the window.

      Or go surfing.

      But today he needed to talk to Hannah.

      They were supposed to meet up for a walk, but what could he say?

      So far he didn’t have any ideas about how to get the money. Not even bad ones.

      Maybe a surf would help him think.

      ‘What the hell.’ He poked an arm out from under the quilt, found his phone and texted:

       Hi Gorgeous. Weather no good 4 walking. Give yrself lie in. Going qk surf. Best in ages. Meet up later, yes?

      He snoozed, waiting for a reply. When none came, he crawled out of the sack and tiptoed downstairs. He made a steaming coffee, thick as soup, and ate an energy bar. He put his wetsuit on, got a board from the shed and headed out.

      It was cold. The wind and rain had bite. They meant business. It was more like winter than the end of summer. The wind was so hard he had to hold the surfboard tight under one arm and steady the front with the other, just to stop it taking off.

      Ten minutes later he was there. It didn’t look good from the cliff. Great white horses were rising out of the sea, raging and disappearing. Huge waves, bouncing and twisting with wild energy. Impressive, but no good for surfing. Maybe he’d wasted his time. He played with the idea of heading back. But then again … he couldn’t see the cove, and the forecast website had said:

       It’s going to be special today, guys. It’s going to be wonderful … if you know the right spots.

      Wonderful. That was weird. Jake had never seen that word on a forecast before.

      If it was bad: Pony. Blown to shit. Or: Flat as road-kill.

      If it was good: Cracking. Thumping. Off the scale.

      Something like that. But wonderful?

      Wonder-ful. Full of wonders. An offering from the sea gods.

      There was a steep path, tucked into the cliffs, leading past a boulder and by a stream. No one used it apart from brave dogs and nudey sunbathers in summer.

      Jake took that path, chasing a promise. Except the path and stream were now a river. He waded and climbed, slipped and swore.

      He almost fell into the surfer coming the other way. A short, craggy-faced bloke he’d seen at Praa Sands a couple of times. The dude was climbing through the waterfall.

      ‘Wass it like?’ said Jake. He always asked surfers coming back from a break, checking their faces for glassy eyes and stupid grins. ‘Is it wonderful?’

      Crag-face headed past, without saying a word, or looking at him. Maybe he hadn’t heard Jake? Or maybe he didn’t want to let on how great it was.

      Only one way to find out. And it would give him thinking time. Surf could do that. Wash all your worries away. Clear your head. Just for a bit.

       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 СКАЧАТЬ