“So,” he says, as we stomp along the beach, “how do you want to play this? We should have a plan.”
He’s right, of course – we should. The sad thing is that I can’t think of one. We drove straight down to the bay, as soon as I explained what I’d found out, and now we’re almost there. It’s nearly five pm, and already the sky is an ominously dark shade of grey. The beach is completely deserted, and there’s a brutal blast of wind cutting its way up from the sea. I’ve forgotten my gloves, and my fingers are so numb they could get chopped off by a passing guillotine and I wouldn’t even notice.
“I know. But at the moment, my plan is to march up to the boat shed, and burst through the doors like something from The Matrix.”
He ponders this, and it seems to be amusing him.
“What?” I say, annoyed, “what are you smirking at?”
“I’m imagining you in a long leather coat, doing body swerves to avoid bullets and running up walls.”
Well, yes. Fair enough. That is quite a funny image. Hopefully there won’t be any bullets, but who knows?
“We could pretend we were just passing …” I reply, narrowing me eyes as I try and picture how that one would work out.
“Just passing and accidentally went into the old boat shed? Why would we do that?”
“I don’t know – because we’re keen boating enthusiasts? Because we’re cold? Because we need a secret place to talk?”
He pulls a face, and I know I’m talking nonsense. But that’s never stopped me before, so I plough ahead.
“We could say we saw a light on, and came to investigate, or … damn, we should have brought Midgebo! We could have blamed him …”
I’m saved further speculation by the fact that we are almost at the shed itself – and as we draw close, I see Martha slipping out of the door. There are two big, wide doors that open enough to presumably let boats out – back in the days when it was in use – and a smaller one cut into one of them, to let humans in and out more easily.
Martha is, as usual, all dressed in black, and she looks like a ghostly shadow in the darkening light. It’s definitely her, though, blowing on her fingers as she walks towards the bike, which is perched against the wooden sides of the shed.
According to Laura, the building hasn’t been used for years, which you can see in the peeling paint and generally slightly haunted vibe it gives off. It would be a great place for a Halloween party, and I’m amazed that Cherie hasn’t thought of that already.
I speed up as I see Martha start pushing the bike away in the wet, compact sand – she wouldn’t be able to do that in the summer, when it’s loose and powdery. She’s heading back towards the village – and, although she hasn’t realised it just yet, towards us.
She’s heading our way, ear buds in, listening to music, living in that completely shut-off world that teenagers can transport themselves to so easily. You see it all the time in Bristol – teens crossing busy roads without engaging at all in any sense of reality, barely escaping death by car, not even noticing when horns are blaring at them. It’s a miracle the human race has survived.
I’m half walking, half jogging, towards her. Cal is right by my side, though he just looks like he’s taking a casual stroll. By the time our paths finally cross, she still hasn’t spotted us. We’re both wrapped up like mummies, and she’s not paying attention, so she doesn’t actually notice we’re there until I physically stand in front of her bike, blocking her path.
I stand there, with my hands on my hips, trying to come up with some kind of snappy comment and failing. There is one very brief, very hilarious moment, where her shock registers. She stares at me, stares at Cal, and glances back at the boat shed. It only lasts a few seconds, that look – but it’s there. It’s the look that says ‘shit, I’ve been rumbled!’
“What are you two doing here?” she eventually asks, pulling her ear-phones out and raising her voice to be heard over the wind that’s whirling around us. It’s a fine recovery, and I’m almost proud of her.
“Looking for you,” I reply. So much for the ‘pretend we’re just passing’ plan.
“Well, you’ve found me … look, I’m freezing my tits off, I’m going to head home, all right?” she says, gripping the bike handlebars and trying to set off again. I move in front of her each time she tries to wheel it away, like some kind of insane dance partner, blocking her escape route. After the third block, she’s getting completely exasperated, and I fully anticipate her ramming me with a full body charge any second. I will be left winded and tearful on the wet sand, bike wheel patterns over my face, like a cartoon character who has just been flattened.
She mutters a few choice words that start with ‘f’, and then yells at me: “What are you doing?”
“I’m stopping you from leaving, until we’ve looked in that boat shed,” I reply, simply. Cal, I see, has already made his way there. She turns round, notices him, and even in the dull evening shade I see her face go pale. Like I said, she’s been rumbled – and nobody likes being rumbled.
“It’s not what you think …” she mutters, dropping the bike to the sand and running after him. “Don’t go nuts, okay? Please don’t go all psycho on me!”
Cal has the door open, the wind blasting it back so it thuds and rattles against the frame, and I jog after Martha.
We all stand in the doorway to the shed, gazing inside. I have no idea what I expect to see – but it’s not a scared-looking teenager, huddled in a sleeping bag, a tattered paperback in one hand and a torch in the other.
For some reason, the first words out of my mouth are: “Why are you reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”
He looks embarrassed, drops the book, and replies: “It’s really funny. I needed cheering up. I’m sorry!”
I don’t know whether he’s sorry for being there, for getting Martha into trouble, or for his dubious taste in reading materials – but he looks terrified. Martha is casting desperate sideways glances at me, and Cal is looking to me to take the lead. Suddenly, I seem to have become the nominated Grown-Up in this situation.
“We can talk about sorry later. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”