Sea Change Read online

  "Yeah, I know. They told you. That's why I got invited up here all of a sudden, isn't it, get me out of myself a bit."

  Laura looked hurt. "Not just that, John, do you think I've not wanted to have you up here before now? Just to have you here?"

  John shrugged. "It's been over a year." His hurt was in his voice, he'd been saving this up for a long time. He'd always been so close to Laura when she'd been at home, stuck up for her when she went to live with Steve, argued the toss with mum and dad to defend her on anything, everything.

  "Yeah," Laura said. "It has been a year, don't I just know it." All of John's indignation crumbled and he felt sorry and stupid, and wishing that you could unsay words that had been said.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I was being selfish."

  Laura turned away, brushed a hand across her face as if to move her hair from her eyes, although John knew that it was not. "S'okay," she said.

  "No, it's not," John said. "I wasn't thinking. Stupid."

  "It's not that I didn't want you to come up. I've been looking forward to this for so long. But I didn't want you to be here if I wasn't...if I hadn't...I needed time. To get myself back. To be me again. After Steve. I wouldn't have wanted you to see me like that, I wasn't good to be around. I'm sorry love, but that's taken a year. A year out of my life."

  "I'm sorry too," John said again, only this time he wasn't talking about what he had said, he was talking about everything and both of them and the way the world worked and always would.

  #

  By the time John left the house the sun had come out. Little stray fingers of fog still clung to the streets and sneaked around corners, but they were fighting a losing battle. He stood outside the cottage for a moment, and then decided to head off up the hill, get onto the cliffs above the village, have a look around, and then work his way down to the harbour. From there he could walk round the harbourside, and find the road that led back up to Laura's shop.

  The road was steep, and soon John was forced to slow down by the burning feeling in his legs, and the panting of his breath. If nothing else, he thought, I'm going to be fit by the end of my time here. As he thought the words he felt a wash of sadness, then muttered crossly to himself. It was his first full day here, he was here for weeks, and he wasn't going to spoil it by thinking about the day when he would have to go back home again.

  He trudged up the road, and the houses spread out, the jumbled bustle of the lower village being replaced by space: house then garden then house then small field, another house, then nothing but fields. John found a narrow path that led off towards the cliffs.

  The path led up to the cliff top, and then ran alongside it, a safe couple of metres away from the edge. John ventured off it once, stepping cautiously to within a couple of paces from the edge, but the grass gave way to the yellow of freshly crumbling rock, and the beach below was covered with loose lumps of cliff, so he returned to the path, having performed the ritual of demonstrating to himself that he was brave.

  As he got further from the village, John took in the great sweep of the bay. He could still see the red roofs of the houses in the upper village, clinging to the slashed gap in the rocks like limpets in a sea-washed rock pool. Out at sea, the waves moved in towards the land in relentless rows, like an invading army. On the opposite cliff, John could see lines of orange tape fluttering in the breeze around a raw scar in the earth.

  The horizon seemed a long way off, and the world was bigger than the one that John was used to. I don't mind that, he thought. I could stay here, where it is open and wild on the cliff tops and close and reassuring in the village, and be happy. Then he his mood crumbled, because he knew that was just hiding away from his problems, and then he wished that he had not thought about hiding, not thought the word at all, because suddenly he was back in the corridor, staring into his locker, the smell of floor polish and sweaty clothes all around him.

  "Where you been hiding then?" He would remember the exact sound of Parker's voice, always.

  "Not hid well enough though, has he." Stevens' excited whine, sucking up to Parker as always, desperate to impress and keep on impressing and flattering and wheedling in case the violence ever turned on him. "What you hiding from, loser? How comes you’re not with your freak friends?"

  John stared in front of him, into his locker, the door still swinging to and fro on its hinges. He thought of running, but then remembered that the door at the end of the corridor was locked, and that the only way out was through the swing doors. Parker and Stevens stood in the way, and probably two or three more of Parker's little disciples, the pilot fish swimming around the great white shark, looking for scraps. John held on to his English book, stared at the red and white pattern on the cover as if it was very important.

  "You've left something in your locker, Johnny." Parker said.

  John shook his head, made a vague gesture with his book, no thank you, this was all he needed.

  "Oh, I think you have. Can't you see it? It's at the back there." Sniggers. John continued his stare at the grey metal. He knew what was coming. After a while, nothing was new. The back of his locker was damaged, the grey surface peeling away from the rusted metal underneath. On the little shelf was a screwed up packet of Polos. I don't remember bringing those in, John thought, I don't even really like Polos. When did I bring those in? Then there were hands on him, and he was being pushed face first into the locker, pushed hard into a gap that was far too small for him, the sharp corners of the metal pressing hard into his skin, the pain nothing compared to how he felt inside, the feeling that this was all there was, this was all that there would be, this was all that he was worth. But then, something happened that made the hands release him. Something that in the end, was far, far worse.

  When the village was completely out of sight, hidden by the land that swelled in great waves of rock, John decided to turn back. There was still all the village to explore, and the morning was fast disappearing. He followed the path back until it became the track again, and then the track until it became the road again. This time though, he turned off the road well before Laura's cottage, taking the first turning that he passed.

  John found himself in a world of twisting alleyways and towering walls, houses leaning in towards each other as if they wanted to touch, steps up and steps down, promising passageways leading to blank dead-ends. There were strange baskets propped up outside some of the houses. John thought that they were something to do with lobsters. Or was it crabs? He wasn't sure. After a while, he was totally lost. He enjoyed just walking, exploring, the sense of being alone despite being in the middle of all of these houses.

  John looked at his watch, and decided that he ought to head down towards the harbour if he was going to find his way back to the shop for lunch. A passage sloped up between two rows of cottages, and rather than retrace his steps he headed along it, hoping that at some point it would turn out on to one of the roads that led back down to the sea.

  The passage turned to the right, but ended at the back door of one of the houses. He turned back, and as he did he thought that he saw someone disappear around the bend of the alley. He wasn't sure, as he had just seen it out of the corner of his eye, and the more that he thought about it, the more that he thought that maybe it wasn't a person after all, just a large dog.

  He wandered back to where he had started, and looked both ways, but there was nothing there but the empty alleyways, a couple of hanging baskets swaying gently in the breeze. John looked up at the windows, feeling as if someone was watching him, but no-one was there. He turned to the right and followed the alley along, stopping once, because he thought that he heard somebody behind him cough, a dry rattling rasp, but it did not come again so he walked on. He could not hear the sea, or any sound from the village at all.

  John walked between teetering rows of cottages, brightly-coloured curtains at their narrow, lopsided windows, and then out into one of the small streets of the village, barely big enough for a car to pass along,
but a major highway compared to the alleys. The street ran crossways though, not up and down the hill, so John paused for a moment, trying to decide which way to go, and as he stood there he felt a peculiar sensation, as if someone were standing a couple of steps behind him, staring at him. He turned, quickly, but there was no-one there.

  Had he seen another flash of movement, something or someone ducking into a doorway or around a corner? John carried on, hoping he was heading down to the harbour, as from there he would be able to work out where he was. As he walked, he looked behind him every few steps. There was never anything there.

  At last he turned a corner and he could see the glitter of the sea ahead. John walked down onto the harbour. He was on the southern half of the bay; he could see the road that led to his sister's shop on the other side, across the calm water. A few small boats were tied up in the harbour, bobbing up and down next to the wall, all looking like they had seen better days. They had small cabins, tangles of orange or blue plastic netting on their decks, faded, splintering paint.

  He followed the curve of the harbour round, looking down at the boats, and as his gaze reached the north side of the bay the village suddenly came to life. A small party of elderly tourists ambled onto the harbourside. One of them was pointing at various things: more of the mysterious baskets, old iron rings bolted to the harbour wall, the breakwater. Maybe he had lived here once, John thought, been a fisherman, taken a small boat out of the calm of the harbour and into the choppy danger of the seas beyond the breakwater.

  A man came out of the pub and stood for a moment, jingling his keys in his hand, before disappearing up one of the streets into the village. As John walked towards his sister's shop, a small tabby cat uncoiled itself from the top of a low wall and stretched towards John, its tail raised high, making an almost silent cry. John reached forward to stroke it but something behind him startled it and it vanished in a second.

  John spun around, but there was nothing behind him other than the dull stone of the harbour wall and the endlessly shifting pattern of the waves. It felt though, not like an empty space, but a space that was just empty, like a room when someone has just left it. John felt a hot churn of panic inside, wondered: am I going mad? He took a couple of deep breaths, and clenched his fists tight, turned to walk away towards his sister's shop, and then there was movement and colour, rushing towards him, seen out of the corner of his eye, and he turned in a panic and air brushed past him and there was a squeal of brakes and a shout and the bike came to a stop a couple of metres beyond him, the rider turning an emergency stop into a perfect skid.

  "Hey, you stupid, or what?"

  "What?" John said, still dazed by the sudden rush of normality.

  The bike-rider was another boy, about the same age as John. He wore a pair of grimy jeans, a fleece top, and a beanie pulled down low over his eyes. He pulled white headphones from his ears, let them dangle around his neck. "Deaf as well as stupid, then. It's middle of t'road. If I was a car you'd be splattered all over. You're lucky I'm such a good rider, or you'd be picking bits of bike out of you for the next week."

  "Sorry, I wasn't thinking," John said.

  "I can see that. Got a death wish, then?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Never met anyone who apologises as much as you. Middle. Of. Road. You're still in it."

  "Sorry," John said again, and then cringed. He walked off the road and on to the pavement. The boy cruised round in a lazy circle on his bike, only one hand on the handle bars.

  "You stopping here then? Tourist, like?"

  "No," John said. "Well, sort of."

  "No, yes, sort of. Suppose at least you didn't say sorry this time."

  "Sor—" They both laughed. "I am visiting, but I'm not a tourist. I've come to stay with my sister. She lives down in the village, Coble Street."

  "Coble Street? Who's your sister then?"

  "Laura. Laura Howard. She—"

  "Runs that daft shop selling stinky soap and bits of candles to daft tourists. Aye, I know her. She's all right, she is."

  "Yeah, she's cool."

  "Up here for long, are you?"

  "Few weeks, yeah."

  "Right. Simon."

  "Sorry?"

  "Again?" The boy wound around in a lazy circle on his bike. "Simon. Me."

  "Oh, right. John. Me."

  They both laughed. John saw movement ahead, looked up to see the dead-eyed boy from the bus stop the day before, walking towards them, hands in the pockets of his tracksuit, shoulders out as wide as they could go, every step a claim of territory. Simon muttered something, then said, "See you round", and veered away, up the street, standing up in the saddle, pumping hard on the pedals to get up the hill.

  John walked on towards Laura's shop, wondered if he would see Simon about again. He seemed all right. Probably just curious though, John thought, and not interested in some southerner tourist kid beyond that idle curiosity. The pavement was narrow, and John stepped into the road before he could get shouldered into it by the other boy, who walked past him without a sideways look. I know your sort, John thought to himself. Parker. I know your sort. I won't give you the satisfaction. But even so, he hated himself for that one small step, for not standing his ground.

  He helped Laura out for the rest of the afternoon, tidying up the displays of candles that smelt of sandalwood and almonds and cinnamon, making tea in the battered brown teapot on the single ring of an electric cooker that looked like a child's toy, and fetching stock out of the clutter and mess of the tiny back room. Late in the afternoon, John wandered over to the door and looked out. The street was empty apart from a black dog that sat on the pavement on the other side of the road, head between its paws, watching the street. A few minutes later he looked out again, and the dog was gone too, and there was nothing there apart from the street, and the gathering shadows of dusk.

  Chapter Four

  When they got home John sprawled in front of the TV watching nothing in particular, while Laura cooked spaghetti carbonara and garlic bread. While they ate, she talked about life in the village, and the friends that she had made. John noticed that she mentioned Alan, who ran the bookshop, more than anyone else. From the sound of her voice Alan had been very important to her, a rock to which she'd been able to cling while she put her life back together again. She had needed someone like that, John thought. Someone not like Steve. He washed the dishes while Laura settled down at the kitchen table with her exercise book from the shop, a calculator, and box files stuffed to overflowing with letters, and receipts, and statements. He left her in peace, and fidgeted in front of the TV again, not really interested in anything that was on. So when Laura said, "John, will you do me a big favour?" he just said, "Yeah," without even asking what.

  She handed him a brown envelope, addressed to her bank.

  "Would you be a darling, and run and drop this in the post box for me? There's one up in the village that you'll have passed on your way down from the bus stop, or there's one down by the harbour near the Ship Inn, that's probably closer. I won't have time in the morning before opening up the shop, but I really want it to go first post tomorrow, I'm late enough with this as it is and the bank are getting a bit stroppy with me."

  "I'll just get my trainers on," John said.

  He wished that he hadn't been so eager to agree to the favour, but even if he had realised what she was going to ask he could hardly have said no. And so you shouldn't, he thought to himself. Don't be so pathetic. So you got spooked today, seeing things that aren't even there, and now what, you're afraid to go out in the dark? What are you, a baby? Carry on like this and you will end up a weird kid. Like Alex, he thought, and he felt cold inside.

  The light was fading now, and the narrow alleys that led off from the road seemed threatening, the dark bulk of the houses leaning in towards each other as if they wanted to trap him, the occasional warm glowing light in a window no comfort, as the impression of safety within only increased the chill outside. John stuck to th
e main street, even though it took longer, and followed it all the way down to the harbour. He walked along the front, the inky black sea restless beyond the wall, hardly visible but there in sound, the smack, smack, smack of tiny waves breaking on the wall, the sound of spray as the larger waves hit the breakwater. He found the post-box near the cheerful glow and bustle of the Ship Inn, dropped Laura's letter in, and headed straight for home.

  Once, he heard footsteps behind him, but again when he turned around there was nobody there, just a peculiar emptiness that felt as if someone had stepped off the street only an instant ago, ducking into a doorway or side alley just before John turned around.

  Don't you dare run, John thought. Don't run, because you're scaring yourself over nothing, you don't know this place and it's pretty spooky looking, but that's all, that's all, if you run then when you get home safely you'll feel stupid and pathetic for having been frightened by shadows like a five year old. And so John didn't run, but he did walk very fast, so fast that it was almost hard to tell the difference. Then he stopped, stood still in the street, and clenched his fists.

  I will not be frightened, he said to himself. I will not, I will not. And to prove it he walked off the main road, and took the short cut that he had avoided on the way down. After a minute or so he realised that he still had his fists clenched tight together, and he deliberately relaxed them, took a deep breath. See, he thought. Nothing to be scared of. You're in control, John. You're not running away any more.

  He had climbed the short hill up from the harbourside, and was twisting and turning through the last few narrow alleys before he got to his sister's cottage. As he came around one corner he tripped on a loose cobble, and nearly went flying. He put a hand out on the wall to steady himself, got his balance again, and then a voice said, "John," and he was terribly, terribly afraid. The voice was dry, as if the owner had not spoken for a very long time, and quiet, nearly a whisper, a rustle like dried out parchment being slowly ripped in two.