Oh, what was taking them so long? Did they need a sign I was here, waiting for them?
I ran to the kitchen. A torch was what I wanted. I’d flash out some Morse code from our back garden. If they were in the waves, they’d read my message and come back.
There was just the tiniest problem. I didn’t know any Morse code.
Make that two problems.
I couldn’t open any of the kitchen drawers to find a torch in the first place. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, my fingers slid off their surfaces. I remembered how my attempts to connect with that man’s backside had failed – my foot had just darted off at the last minute, like the wrong end of a magnet resisting another.
Yet I was able to touch my own body. I could pull shells out of my rubbery dead skin and run a hand through my matted salty hair, lucky me. But I couldn’t physically touch anyone that was alive.
And, it appeared, the same rule applied to physical stuff – bits, glass and wood and metal and other people. Anything outside me, essentially.
I glared at the drawer. Our torch was inside it. I tried to hit the handle as hard as I could, scrabbled at it, banged it with frustration, even resorted to growling at it, but no dice. Getting any kind of grip on the handle remained impossible.
So: I could sit on a step but I couldn’t open a drawer. I could walk up and down the staircase and move through rooms but I couldn’t open a door. I could hear and see people that were alive, but I couldn’t make them see and hear me. Things could happen to me, but I couldn’t make things happen.
So far, being dead wasn’t what I’d call an empowering experience.
Maybe there was one thing. If I was dead, could I …
… fly?
I did try hard. I gave it a good go. By which I mean, I hopped about a bit, flapped my battered arms and hands around, leant forward and strained, frowning, into space. Nothing.
Flightless as an emu.
There was literally nothing cool about being dead at all.
I slapped a hand to my forehead.
None of this mattered.
Why was I getting distracted? I needed to contact Mum, Dad and Birdie before they spent another night out – I glanced through the study window and shivered involuntarily – there. Whether or not I could move through a door or fly was totally insignificant compared to that.
Luckily the front door was still open – swinging off its hinges from being kicked in earlier by the rescue crew. I ran through it and then circled round the house, towards the back garden that faced the sea.
‘MUM! DAD! BIRDIE!’
The night swallowed my words up silently.
I cast them out again.
‘I’M HERE! FRANKIE! I’M AT HOME! PLEASE – COME BACK!’
In the dark, the sea smiled its treacherous wet smile, replete from its feast.
‘I’M SO SORRY WE’RE ALL DEAD! REALLY, REALLY SORRY!’
Out of the silver clouds came a cry. Was it Birdie, calling my name? I held myself still, like a quivering arrow, desperate to hear her again.
But it was just a stupid gull, saying, EEEE, EEEE.
What else could I do to find them? Shouting into the darkness wasn’t enough.
I had to go to the place where it happened.
To the harbour. Right away. Not a moment to lose.
FIRST OFF, BETTER get my coat. I turned back to the house, then stopped. I’d never need to think about putting on my parka again, which was probably just as well. I must have lost it in that giant wave. Some fish was probably wearing it; a gurnard, most likely. They always looked like they were after something.
I ran into Alan the bull’s field. He looked alarmed, his ears pricked up, and then he reared up on his hind legs and went charging off into the distance. It was sort of gratifying and, on this dreadful day, I would take any comfort I could get. Not such a big scary boy now, are you?
I’d just reached the stile at the opposite end when the clouds peeled back, and what remained of Cliffstones was bathed in the moon’s merciless light.
Nothing familiar remained – not the playground, or the half-built village hall, or the little rows of fishermen’s cottages. The wave had slithered over it and smashed it in its wake. And as the gleaming light crept over the village’s remains, I couldn’t help but shiver. I’d perished down there. And now I was planning to go back?
What are you afraid of, Frankie Ripley – dying?
With a bleak grin, I hopped over the stile.
And then something odd happened. As soon as I reached Legkiller Road, my legs stopped working. Instead of walking, they just jerked back and forwards, like a toy running out of battery.
Confusion filled me on the quiet dark road. Would my body begin to shut down now? Perhaps the last twenty-four hours had been an accidental blip of consciousness on my way to proper deadness. Maybe I was like one of those chickens who ran about a bit after their head was chopped off – and if so, how much longer did I have before I died properly?
As these questions ran through me, a large pair of mustard eyes glowed in the darkness, accompanied by a rusty squeaking sound.
I frowned into the shadows. Terror drummed away inside my busted heart. Something was moving up Legkiller Road. Something large. Something crusty and pitted. And it – whatever it was – was heading right towards me.
When it was just a few metres away,
