‘Let me check downstairs again.’
In the sitting room, I gave it my all. I shouted until my throat ached. But although he heard something – that much was clear from the way he repeatedly stopped and cocked his head – I couldn’t get through. He was plainly a sensitive type – he could feel that I was around, but that was all.
Something made him stop. He picked up the newspaper on the floor. The one Dad had been trying to read until I …
Until I …
What, you want me to tell you twice? It was hard enough the first time.
He rifled through the paper and threw it on the floor again, looking crestfallen.
I hurried over. It had fallen open at a double spread. The headline read:
FREAK EARTHQUAKE ON COAST OF FRANCE KILLS HUNDREDS AND MAY NOT BE DONE YET, EXPERTS WARN.
I peered at it. Next to the headline was a map showing exactly where in France the earthquake had struck: a little town called Omonville-la-Petite. Cliffstones was almost directly opposite it. Only a matter of miles, really, across the English Channel. My eyes flicked back to the headline.
MAY NOT BE DONE
Back in the hallway, Tall Man rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s tragic, really. They had the facts at their fingertips. If only they’d realised what that earthquake would do—’
‘Stop,’ said the other man gently. ‘No use thinking like that. Lots of things should have been done differently. Experts should have issued a warning earlier. It didn’t help that there was a power cut just before it struck, and there’s so little connection here, I doubt anyone would have seen the alerts on their mobiles in time anyway. It’s just horrible bad luck.’
The sound of the helicopter, growling in the sky, grew louder.
Tall Man sighed. ‘It’s just so desperately sad that this family drowned when they lived in the safest place in the entire village. If they’d stayed, they’d have lived. And then the village wouldn’t have been wiped out completely.’
Silently, the woman touched his arm, tilted her head in the direction of the door. The three stepped out of the broken doorway into the roar of the helicopter outside.
I sank on to the hall floor, my thoughts scattering like a flock of seagulls. The full realisation of what he’d said – what I’d done – sluiced over me, just as cold, just as deathly, as the wave.
No survivors. Wiped out completely, he said.
But if we’d stayed at home, we’d have lived.
But we didn’t get a chance to stay at home, did we?
No.
And whose fault was that?
Yep.
Little old me.
THIS IS ALL my fault. None of my family had wanted to go out for lunch! They’d wanted to stay at home by the fire! They only came out to please me, because they were kind and loving. And I’d repaid that love by leading them right into the mouth of a monster that had swallowed us up as casually as a sweet.
I cupped my head in my hands. My battered fingers explored my new dead face. They discovered the open wound next to my right eyebrow, the cut on my nose, grazes down both cheeks: the result of being dragged along the seabed for a couple of hours.
Oh, do you like my makeover? Yeah, I got it from the universe. Why? Well, I fancied a spot of lunch with my best friend, to stop her becoming best friends with someone else, and basically murdered my entire family. You get the face you deserve, so here’s mine, messed up and nasty, just like my HEART.
Guilt, like a million tiny fish hooks, twisted and caught inside me.
A good cry will make you feel better – that was what Mum always said, and I tried to get one going, but proper tears wouldn’t come, because: a) I didn’t deserve to feel better and b) my tear ducts were dealing with a permanent shutdown, because c) I was dead.
The booming helicopters grew quieter, then faded completely. The only sounds in the house were my ragged, dry sobs. I pulled each name out of me with an awful cold sorrow, like counting marbles out of a bag.
Mum.
Dad.
Birdie.
Me.
Ivy, and her family, and my teachers and my classmates, and the woman at the fish-and-chip shop, and the nice man who sang sea shanties on the bench by the boathouse every Saturday afternoon.
Birdie’s best friend, little Emma, who always had slightly crusty nostrils, but we all loved her anyway and …
The man who dropped the milk off and …
Our school hamster.
The white dog who’d tried to warn us.
Everyone. Everyone I’d ever known. My village. My entire life.
When I closed my eyes I saw terrible things, frightened faces and outstretched hands caught for ever like insects in amber.
I was desperate to breathe, to swim to the surface of my grief and take a deep, juddering intake of air, escape the pain. But the sea had stolen my last breath. Instead my mouth opened and shut hopelessly, like a fish that knew its time was up.
Hours passed. I sat in a damp heap on the hallway rug, my clothes still wet, my skin still wrinkly, as the sky darkened.
The gently flickering fairy lights strung on the stairway banisters spluttered until their batteries ran out and then the gloom of the house wrapped its arms around me. And still I sat, and waited for Mum and Dad and Birdie. I was desperate to see them and say sorry. I yearned to hug them, to look into their faces and be scolded, then forgiven. And my brain clung desperately to this flicker of hope, like a raft.
They won’t be much longer. They won’t. They’ll be back. Any minute now.
Any.
Minute.
Now.
MOONSHINE HAD BEGUN to struggle through the clouds beyond the door. Still no one came. What were they doing, coming back via the scenic route?
I peeled myself off the floor, leaving a damp patch behind. There was a wet sheen of moisture on my
