The Wave Read online

  James

  I have never thought much about death before. I’ve never really had to. I never knew Dad’s parents and I was quite young when Mum’s parents died. They were far away in England, so I don’t really remember them. One or two of my friends have lost a parent and one, a cousin. Such events have been so outside my experience, I just haven’t known what to say, apart from an inadequate ‘sorry’, before they, or I, have moved the conversation on. Death has never featured in my life before now. But now it is looming so large, it is all I can think about. Now I know there really is no escape, underneath the casual chatter, every moment is drenched in thoughts of mortality. I stare into the glowing flames of the campfire, joining in the conversation automatically when required, amazed how this strange social situation is following the norms of human behaviour. We’ve talked comedy programmes, guilty pleasures (I’m rather glad Yan had gone when I admitted to my sneaking admiration for Twilight), our first kiss, last kiss, pet hates, pet peeves, as if we are just a group of friends hanging out on the beach. On the surface, everything feels peaceful, but underneath, I can sense surges of panic if I allow myself to think about tomorrow.

  Before dinner, I stupidly checked my Facebook page, and immediately wished I hadn’t. There were over forty comments in response to my post, most of them from people I barely know. ‘Friends’ with whom I share Trump and Brexit memes, music videos or rant with about how crap the X Factor is when I’m drunk. All of them, suddenly, full of concern at my situation, which was touching, but only served to underline the hopelessness of my predicament. The direct messages were the worst. They were from real-life friends, horrified by what was happening. Tony and Jim, from uni, an old flatmate, Sue, Helen, from my days in the City – people I hadn’t heard from in years. Shit – are you OK? Sorry to hear the news. Anything I can do? Multiple variations on the same theme. All of which spelt out, in black and white, that I am going to die and no one can help, that no one could prevent it from happening and no one could be besides me. And what could I say in reply? Doing as well as can be expected. Thanks for the thought. Thanks for being there. Meaningless bullshit to make them feel better, to give me the illusion that I was coping with it. When all the time what I really wanted to do is let out a scream of rage that could be heard from here all the way to Aberdeen. And all the time, the one person I wanted to hear from – Lisa – was the one person not to get in touch.

  I’m way too English to do anything so embarrassing as shout about my feelings, so I put my phone away and took myself down to the seashore, where I pushed my feet through the sand, watching the indentations I made fill with sea water, over and over again. The relentlessness of the incoming tide always infuriated me when I was a kid. I used to stand, Canute-like, yelling, ‘Go back, go back’, furious that the waves would never obey me. Standing there, I realized it infuriated me still and I found myself kicking sand at the tiny breakers that rushed towards me. All of a sudden I didn’t care how stupid I sounded. ‘Go back’ I yelled. ‘Go back.’

  A hand touched me on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’ It was Nikki, who had come upon me so quietly, I didn’t hear her.

  ‘Facebook messages. They made me want to—’

  ‘Scream?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’ve had a few of those,’ she added. Much to my regret she took her hand away, before asking, ‘Have you spoken to your parents yet?’

  ‘Sort of … Mum cried, Dad was gruff. We said we’d speak later. Difficult to know what to say in the circumstances. And they’re in Lusaka, so the connection wasn’t great. You?’

  ‘They’re on the plane now. They texted from Lagos airport before they boarded. They said that even though the coast won’t be that badly affected, everyone is still leaving the city, including my grandparents. Mum and Dad were happy because they thought I was on my way to safety, God knows what I’m going to say to them when they land. How am I going to tell them I didn’t make it?’

  We stood in silence for a short while, a happy silence, the kind of silence that in normal circumstances would have made me think anything was possible between us. Then she said, ‘I nearly forgot, Poppy asked I’d sort the campfire out, but I’m a bit rubbish. Could you help?’ That had to mean something I thought, as I followed her back to the camp, that she’d sought me out, understood, asked for my help? There was something too sad about it if I thought too hard about it, but as we laid the firewood out together, occasionally bumping arms, or smiling in encouragement at each other, it felt for a little while like we were a team. A thought to keep the dread at bay …

  Now, though, the conversation has lulled, and there is nothing to stop the panic from swelling inside me. Conscious that I’m about to make a fool of myself – and I really don’t want to do that, particularly not in front of Nikki – I do what I always do when I’m feeling tense. I pick up my guitar and begin to sing. I start with an old favourite by Green Day. It is only when I begin ‘Tenerife Sun’ that I become aware that Nikki is looking at me. I know, then, that I haven’t misread the signs: she is reading the meaning in the words that I intend. I throw everything into the music, am glad of her smile of appreciation when I finish. I sing another, and another, before picking up ‘Chasing Cars’. By now I am 90 per cent certain she understands; she holds my gaze and I’m sure her smile is just for me. I could keep singing like this for ever, reaching out to her anticipating her response, when I am conscious of voices on the path. Yan and Margaret are back. I finish the song and put my guitar down, with a final glance at Nikki, as we rise to welcome them back.

  ‘There are four tents, and seven of us,’ says Poppy, ‘So, me and Nikki, James and Yan, Shelley and Harry, and Margaret on your own?’

  That makes sense to all of us, except Harry. He has spent the last hour in intense whispered conversations with Shelley and now he says, ‘This is ridiculous. You’re just going to go to sleep like normal, wake up and drown? What is wrong with you? Why aren’t you trying to escape?’

  ‘I tried,’ says Margaret. ‘It was no good.’

  ‘There was no way out of Penzance,’ I say.

  ‘No way by road or rail, maybe. We should be looking for a boat,’ says Harry.

  ‘But that didn’t work either,’ says Shelley.

  ‘We’re wasting time here.’

  ‘Help me with the tent,’ she says. He looks like he is about to refuse, but thinks better of it.

  ‘We’re going to need rocks to pin down the tent pegs,’ says Poppy, taking the lead as usual. It’s impressive how she’s kept us together – it helps to have someone calm and authoritative to follow in these circumstances. Nikki offers to get the stones. I think of joining her, but it feels a bit too obvious, so instead, I start gathering tent poles, trying to pretend this is a normal summer night, camping out on the beach. The others join in and before long we’ve formed into teams. Me and Yan, Poppy and Margaret, Shelley and Harry.

  I’m glad to have the chance to work with Yan. It’s not just because he knows what he is doing and I don’t. It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to spend time with him since Nikki and I got here. I want to let him now that I’m grateful for telling me about the beach, for making us welcome, for not gloating, but I don’t quite know how to. We’ve never been very good at communicating our feelings to each other. As always, it’s easier just to focus on practical matters and assume he’ll understand. We’re halfway through when Nikki returns with the stones. She hands them over to Poppy before walking down the beach again. I’d like to watch her, but the wind is building up and Yan needs all my help to hold the frame upright as he piles rocks on the guy ropes and places. It is only when we are finished that I can gaze in Nikki’s direction. I can tell by the way she is sitting that the conversation is intense. She looks like she might be crying. I want to cry too. This is all so—

  ‘Fucking pointless!’ shouts Harry, as the tent he and Shelley are trying to erect falls over for the fifth time.

  ‘Want some help?’ Yan asks. />
  ‘I’m fine,’ says Harry. He looks a long way from fine, but he makes it clear we are not needed, so we return to the fire. Poppy and Margaret are already there, engaged in an intense discussion about the Catholic Church. As I sit down, Nikki approaches us, so I wave at her to join me. She slips beside me, leaning against me as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Her hair smells of wood smoke, her skin of coconut cream. For a second I hesitate to put my arms around her because it feels like I am betraying Lisa. But then I remind myself that Lisa left me and I am a free agent. Whatever this is, I deserve a chance to take it where it leads. I put my arms around her and it feels as if I have held her always.

  ‘Forgive me,’ says Poppy, ‘I do believe in God, sort of, I think. It’s just churches I can’t bear. Why should I go and worship with a bunch of people who think loving women is wrong? Yan cannot hide the startled look on his face. Oh no, poor Yan, did he have hopes in that direction?

  ‘Most church goers don’t think that any more,’ says Margaret. ‘A lot of people in my generation are far more relaxed about sex then you might imagine. And the younger generation are so tolerant, they’re teaching us a lot. Plenty of priests disagree with the hierarchy.’

  Poppy snorts. ‘Paedophiles …’

  Margaret sighs. ‘That’s such a bigoted view.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The assumption that because some wicked priests have sinned, all of them have. It does a great disservice to the many good priests who quietly go about their business, preaching, counselling, supporting their parishioners through crises, constantly in demand, with no life outside the parish door, asking no thanks for it. It’s terrible when a priest is uncovered as an abuser, and I agree, the Church has covered up too many cases, and is not covering itself in glory even now. But it’s not the only institution that’s done that. Look at the BBC, public schools, government, the film industry.’

  ‘Fair point; no women, though,’ says Poppy.

  ‘Another thing I’d like to change,’ says Margaret. ‘But churches can do great things too. All those volunteers in food banks, religious leaders challenging the government – and the Pope, for all his faults, talking about poverty and tackling climate change. That’s got to count for something, hasn’t it?’

  Poppy suggests the Church’s moral failures mean it has no right to lecture others, besides it isn’t the Church’s place to get into politics. Margaret disagrees, and then somehow Yan is involved and off he goes on his soapbox. Things are so mucked up in politics these days that social democratic policies are considered hard left, when actually the centrists are soft right, and the right are getting as bad as the National Front. It’s not that I disagree with him particularly, it’s just his po-faced relentlessness. Every time I say anything to counter his world view, I’m called a Blairite, a neoliberal weasel, or a vassal of the 1 per cent. And the thing that is so infuriating about all of it, is we have more in common then he gives me credit for. He’s so tiresome in this mood – I wish he’d stop shouting and actually listen to me, or anyone else, for that matter.

  Poppy clearly hasn’t seen this side of Yan yet and makes the mistake of challenging him about the economy. When she argues that Labour caused the financial crash, he is red with fury.

  ‘No. They. DID. NOT!’

  ‘I’m sure Poppy’s right,’ said Shelley, as she joins the circle, ‘Isn’t that what you always say, Harry?’ Harry nods. ‘Of course.’

  ‘It was the bankers. The wanking bankers.’

  There is a pause and I think that Poppy has got the message, but the woman is made of stern stuff. Off she goes again, this time daring to suggest that, never mind who was to blame, austerity was necessary, at least in the beginning. At this Yan looks even more devastated then when he realized she is gay. I know him well enough to read his mind right now. A fucking Tory, I fancy a fucking Tory? Luckily, she turns it round, at least for now, when she adds, ‘I do think it might have gone too far, though. My colleague’s mum has had a terrible time with Social Services lately, I think May needs to do something about that.’

  Nikki says, ‘Perhaps politicians should live with people who are on the receiving end of their policies. It might make them a bit more careful.’

  ‘I’d agree with that,’ says Poppy. ‘Politicians on all sides should know what it’s like for ordinary people. It should be a condition of being a politician that you take a day a week shadowing someone at work in your constituency.’

  ‘I’d like them to have to try and apply for benefits,’ says Yan. ‘And live on them for over a week, without any handouts or help from friends or family.’

  ‘Phew, something we can all agree on,’ I say, thinking I will tell Nikki later she’s a miracle worker to have stopped that argument in its tracks.

  ‘I wish …’ says Nikki, ‘I wish we had some time. To do something about it … It’s terrible we don’t have any time.

  And then she lets out a yell, right from the gut. Poppy joins in, followed by Yan, Shelley, even Margaret. Soon everyone is sobbing... Only Harry and I remain silent. It’s not that I don’t want to join them, but I’m all cried out from earlier. I don’t know what Harry is thinking, but he doesn’t seem too impressed. And, when the noise dies down, and Shelley suggests a hug, he doesn’t join, but stands to one side, scrolling through his phone, frowning. I turn away from him, hold on to Nikki on one side and Shelley on the other. Despite everything, we are united by the embrace. The six of us against the terrors of the night.

  Nikki

  I’m almost enjoying myself tonight. As long as I don’t think too much, I can pretend that life is normal. That our diverting chat about films and politics is normal, that tomorrow I will go home as normal and start another day in the crap job, serving horrible people who will be rude or racist or both. I have hated my job all summer, but how I long for tomorrow to be a day where people will be rude to me, my hair will smell of fried fat and my legs and back will ache after a day serving burgers. How I long for people to be rude to me. How I long for that to be possible.

  But that will not be the day I will have tomorrow. That will not be the day I will be allowed. Tomorrow everything ends after breakfast. Even though that still feels impossible. Life still seems to be going on as usual, the hours passing in idle chat, making what I know to be objectively true feel emotionally false. How can we be about to die when we’re sitting around the fire? How can I have no tomorrows when James sang a love song that I was sure was directed at me and I’m feeling something that could almost count as falling in love? Despite the fact that I’ve sworn off white men, his music is slaying me. I know the words he is singing right now are for me, alone; that he wants to lie down with me, just the two of us against the world.

  I stare across the flames at his face, so new, but already so familiar. His eyes are closed, allowing me to study his white, sculptured cheekbones, elegant nose, strong mouth. He looks like Bowie in his Thin White Duke phase, but without the whiff of racism. He opens his eyes as he repeats the line about lying down together, gazing directly at me. When he looks at me like that I want to shout, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ crazy as it is, I want to forget everything but him and lie in his arms even for a short time. Above me, the sky is totally black, pricked with thousands of tiny stars. I can see the familiar constellations: Orion, the Great Bear, the Pole Star, Cassiopeia. And, because a couple of thousand miles away a bunch of rocks is about to fall in the sea, this will be the last night I will see them. And I have to ask myself, is the ‘yes’ I want to shout because James is gorgeous, or because I’m so damned terrified I’ll cling to anyone tonight?

  I do not have the opportunity to answer my question as Margaret and Yan reappear with tents, the song ends, and the mood dissipates. Soon everyone is busy, even me. I volunteer to collect rocks because I’m rubbish with tents. It is quite soothing, wondering among the pebbles, choosing stones that are large enough. And it whiles away the time until my family arrive at Gatwick. But once I have gathered e
nough rocks, I know I can’t put it off any more. I find a spot away from the others and stare out across the water. The air is still warm, the moon is rising above the sea, lighting up a silver path across the water. Mum answers after one ring.

  ‘Are you in Manchester?’ she asks.

  ‘No Mum. I couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Nikki, Nikki, Nikki,’ She doesn’t ask me how I am, but I know that’s what she means.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say trying to be brave, but my bravado disappears quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I tried to leave, but …’

  ‘It’ll be all right.’ Even from a distance, Mum always has the capacity to make me feel better, even though there is nothing all right about this.

  ‘Are Granny and Grandpapa OK?’

  ‘They’re fine, they’ve gone to stay with friends in Ikeja. Where are you?’

  ‘On this beach … I’ve found some people … they’re nice.’

  ‘I’m glad for that. I’m sorry we’re not there.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop me being sorry.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Then, thinking that it will make Mum feel better, thinking that I need to say it aloud to someone, ‘The weird thing is, that I think I’ve met someone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s called James. He works in an antiques shop.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘

  ‘Twenty-nine’

  ‘He’s a bit old.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Though I suppose it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it as top of my important list. Is Dad there?’

  ‘I’ll hand you over.’

  Dad comes to the phone. ‘Hi, Nikki.’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’