Читать книгу Kook - Chris Vick, Chris Vick - Страница 9

BACK UP TOP, beyond the rock we’d climbed around, where we’d left the bikes, was the entrance to the old mine. Another ‘DANGER – KEEP OUT’ sign was stuck on a grille protecting the way in. But they’d cut through the grille then padlocked it back up. Inside they had their own little treasure store: surf kit, piles of driftwood, four-gallon plastic containers full of some brown liquid. Even rugs and a battered old guitar.

One of the gang, a short, wiry kid with sun-blond hair called Skip, made a fire and ran around getting rugs and cushions for us to sit on. Big G – the serious guy with the cow eyes – Jade and me sat where Skip put us. The last of the crew, Rag, brought out two of the demijohn containers. The others were all fit, looked strong, and dressed in jeans and hoodies. Rag was different. He had a gut bulging out from his filthy T-shirt. He wore tartan trousers and finished the look with a Russian fur hat. He looked stupid, but it seemed deliberate.

“My finest batch yet,” said Rag, pouring the beer into mugs. “Guests first.” He handed me one, and poured a little of his own drink on the ground. They all said, “Libations,” and held their mugs to the sky.

“What’s that you’re doing?” I said.

“Libations. An offering to the sea gods.” It was hard to tell if Rag was joking. No one laughed though. Maybe they were just a superstitious lot. I thought it was weird, but I didn’t say so. “Now, Sam, tell me. How is it?” said Rag, pointing at my mug of foaming brown liquid, a serious frown on his face.

I drank, and pulled a squirming face. “This is your best?” I said.

“It’s all right,” said Skip, “you just have to get through the first one. A bit like his songs.”

“Aaah, a request?” said Rag.

“No!” they all shouted. But he fetched the guitar from the mine anyway, and banged out a sketchy folk song while we sat around the fire. He could play and sing pretty well, but he spoilt it a bit when he lifted a leg on the final note and farted loudly.

“Sorry about that,” he said, grinning.

“Liar! You disgusting pig,” said Jade. She got up, and started beating him round the head, while the others fell about laughing.

The dog even barked at him.

We drank. Big G and Rag were smoking roll-ups too, so I didn’t even notice someone had produced a spliff, till it was under my nose. Jade was passing it straight past me to Big G, just assuming I didn’t smoke, and that pissed me off, so I grabbed it and took some. I got an itchy tickle in my throat that threatened to turn into spluttering, but I got rid of it with more of the foul beer. I passed it to Big G, who took a few long drags.

They talked about the day’s waves and their plans for autumn.

“Thank Christ summer’s over,” said Big G.

“I thought you surfers liked summer?” I said, trying not to cough. They shook their heads and smiled.

“Autumn’s where it’s at,” Skip explained, sitting bolt upright. “The water’s warm. There’s no grockles clogging the line up. And we get storms, maybe even a ghost storm.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“A massive autumn storm…”

“An equinox storm?” I said.

Silence.

“What?” said G.

“Equinox,” I explained. “The midpoint between the summer and winter solstices. You get a lot of big storms then, or that’s what’s believed, as the Earth turns on its axis…” I suddenly wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

“You some kind of geek?” said Big G.

“No,” I said, lying. “What’s this ghost storm?”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Big G, pointing at me, sounding just as narky as he had on the shore. “It’s a bullshit myth they put in books for tourists, a load of shit about a storm that raises ghosts from shipwrecks. What is true is that storms come out of the blue. Or a bad storm gets ten times worse for no reason. They’re called ghost storms. They’re violent. They kick up big waves that catch people off guard…”

“Like the one that creamed you today?” said Rag, taking off his ridiculous hat and letting his long blond hair fall out. They laughed. I joined in, but the look Big G gave me shut me up quickly.

“What about you? What do you do for kicks?” said Big G.

“Bit of footy. Xbox.”

This got them shaking their heads. “Don’t get it, man,” said Big G, stroking his wispy beard.

“You think I should be out surfing, waiting for the ghost storm?” I didn’t mean to sound like I was taking the piss, but that’s how it came out of my stupid mouth.

Big G picked up a stick and poked the fire. “Last year two miles off the Scillies,” he said, “there was this tiny island with this old dude living on it. Nothing there but one fisherman’s cottage, a small harbour and a smokery. Ghost storm came out of nowhere. A massive wave swept through, north of the island, ripped open a cargo ship like a sardine can, trashed two fishing boats. Then it hit this little island where this guy lived. All gone. The house, boat, everything. No body found neither…”

“How can water do that?” I said. I was curious. Again, I didn’t mean it to come out like it did. I really wanted to know about it. I had reasons to want to know. Good ones. I knew what water could do. But it sounded like I was having a go.

“You know anything about the power of water?” said Big G.

“No, not really,” I said, lying again.

“I’ll show you,” said Big G. He stood, picked up the near- empty plastic container, and poured the last of the beer into his mug …

Then threw the empty demijohn straight at me.

I caught it, but only just. Drops of beer splashed over my jeans.

“What you do that for?” I said. I looked to Jade, seeing what she’d do, but she smiled, like it was no biggy.

“Easy, right? Nice and light,” said Big G, then he picked up the other full one, with both hands and threw it over the flames. I caught that one too, but I fell backwards, with the weight of it. The others froze. No one spoke for a bit. Jade stared at the ground, embarrassed.

“Steady,” said Rag, “the kid only asked.”

Big G sat back down. “Yeah, sorry, mate,” he said. “Just making a point.”

He’d done that all right. That was four gallons. It was nothing. Even a small wave was hundreds of times heavier than what I’d just felt. But I didn’t like how he’d made his point.

“Maybe we’ll get a storm big enough for the Devil’s Horns,” said Jade, changing the subject. They all got stuck into a long conversation then, about surfing these legendary offshore islands when the big winter storms came. I drank more beer. It seemed every time I was halfway through my mug, Rag would fill it up.

I listened, not really able to join in. But I was fascinated. Not so much by what they said, but by them. They were different from London kids. I’d imagined the Cornish would be right hicks, kind of innocent. But this lot seemed… what? I couldn’t say streetwise. But like they’d seen a few things. Done a few things. As they were Jade’s mates, I guessed they were her age. My age. But they seemed older.

“Do a lot of surfers go to these islands?” I said, trying to join in. Rag disappeared into the mine entrance and came back with a surf mag, which he put in front of me, tapping the picture on the cover.

On the cover was an old black and white photo showing a small island, with a lighthouse on it. And in the corner of the picture, in scrawled writing: ‘Devil’s Horns, 1927’. Behind the lighthouse, rising out of the sea, was a giant wave. A dark tower of water curling and breaking, topped by a white froth. It was about to hit the island. Maybe even swallow it. In white letters, against the dark black of the wave’s face, it read:

“No one’s surfed it,” Skip explained. “That’s the point. It’s like the Holy Grail. There’s this old myth about this big wave spot and all the ships that have gone down there. It’s calm most of the time, but in the right conditions it goes off. But there are a dozen islands it could be. More. And who wants to go looking when a storm kicks in? It’s an old fishermen’s legend, you see. No one knows where it is. So no one’s surfed it…”

“No one’s surfed it and lived,” said Big G. “There were two surfers from Porthtowan went missing two years back. Their car was found in Marazion. Some reckoned they’d headed out to the Horns.”

“And you’re going to surf this place?” I asked.

“Why not?” said Jade. “If we could find it. We’ll film it with GoPro cameras, stick it on YouTube. We’ll be fucking legends. Every surf mag in the country will want a piece of us!” She was all attitude and bravado, laughing like it was a joke, but kind of believing herself too.

“But you don’t even know where it is,” I said.

“Detail, Sam! You kook killjoy,” she said, grinning.

My skin was tingling from the sun and fresh air, and the beer and smoke were giving me this lazy, glowing feeling. It was cool, but when another spliff did the rounds it all piled up on me quick and I began to get dizzy.

“I’m going,” I said, standing, staggering a bit.

“Was it something we said?” said Rag.

“No, just got to get home. I’m in enough shit as it is.”

“Might as well make it worth the bollocking, mate,” said Rag. But I had to go, and Jade didn’t argue.

I cycled in front, watching the ground race towards us in the cycle light, with Jade following behind. The moon was up, bathing the moors and sea in silver-blue light. There were no cars or streetlights, just this place, with me and Jade whooshing along on our bikes. I can’t remember what we said exactly – I think she was more wrecked than I was – but I know we held this messed up conversation, her bragging about how she was going to surf the Devil’s Horns, and become this famous surfer. Me taking the piss. Then she sang this old Moby song. A slow, haunting tune. Something about being lost in the water, about fighting a tide.

It was like the theme tune of that night. It filled up my head as I raced along, with Jade behind me, the dog following, watching the bike lights eating up the road.

It was pretty perfect, that bike ride to my new home.

Bye, London, I thought. See you later. Or not.

*

When I got back, Mum was on her knees in the lounge, pulling out Victorian cups and framed pictures from a box with ‘ornaments’ written on the side. The place was a mess of boxes and newspaper. And stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. I couldn’t see where it was all going to go.

It felt weird. Seeing all the things from our London flat, but in a totally different place.

A different place. A better place? I didn’t know. But I was beginning to think it could be.

“Good walk, was it?” Mum said, not looking up, slamming a vase down on the floor, then crunching up the newspaper it had been wrapped in and throwing it over her shoulder. Her bundled up hair came loose. She blew it out of her face.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Where did you go?” She sounded sharp.

“The sea.”

She stood up, grinding her jaw. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No.”

My head felt like a balloon that needed to take off. Being stoned and drunk had felt good out there, cycling over the moors in the moonlight. But now I was closed in by this maze of boxes, with no escape from Mum’s laser stare.

“Did it occur to you I needed help?” she said, with her hands on her hips.

“Yes.”

“But you stayed out anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And why did you do that, Sam? With a whole lorry-load of boxes to unpack… We’ve got to go and see your grandmother tomorrow, and you’re starting at a new school on Monday. Do you even know where all your stuff is? Where your new uniform is?”

“Not really.”

“Not really? You either do or you don’t. Well perhaps you might… SAM!”

“What?”

“Look at me.” She stormed up to me. “What’s wrong with your eyes? They’re bloodshot.” Suddenly I was freaked, like I was totally scared but about to burst out laughing at the same time. The maze of boxes was closing in. I felt really out of it. I was thinking, I probably look wrecked too.

“Have you been drinking?” she said, sniffing the air.

“Yes, I had a beer,” I said. There was no chance of the silent treatment – this was going to run into a full rant. I got ready to take it on, already planning my escape route and excuses. But then she turned away and sighed, looking over the sea of boxes and newspaper-wrapped ornaments with this odd, empty look. Like she didn’t even know what those things were. She looked well and truly knackered.

“Just go to your room, and sort out your stuff. And get Tegan to bed too,” she mumbled. “There’s cold fish and chips if you want them.”

I didn’t. I wanted to get away, quick as I could.

Teg’s a good kid for a six-year-old. I love her, but she’s always been a nightmare at going to bed. And especially, it turned out, when she was in a new house. She eventually got into her pyjamas and stood in front of the chipped bathroom mirror practising jerky dance moves instead of washing, or brushing her teeth.

“Mum’s angry with you,” she said.

“I know,” I said, leaning against the wall.

“Jade’s nice. I like her dog. Is she your friend?”

“I dunno. I hope so.”

“Is she your girlfriend? Did you kiss her?”

I laughed. “No, Teg. Now brush your teeth.”

After a lot of begging, I put her to bed and read her a story. A story? The story. The Tiger Who Came to Tea. The one story she’d loved since she was three; the one story that was sure to get her wrapped up in her quilt, and listening. Sometimes she was asleep before I even got to the end. Not this time.

“Can we look at stars?” she said, as I walked out the door of her room.

“Sure, but not tonight. I haven’t unpacked the telescope. Goodnight, Teg.”

“But Sam, there’s millions of them. I can see—”

“Goodnight, Teg.”

*

My room was in the attic. Mum or the removal guy had put the boxes marked ‘Sam’ in there. And there was my telescope in the corner, all bubble-wrapped and Sellotaped, waiting to look at the stars. I didn’t start unpacking. I fell on the bed and listened to the distant white noise of the sea. Through the skylight I could see the stars. Even with the moon up, there were more of them in that sky than I’d ever seen.

When I closed my eyes, I could still see the waves, and hear Jade singing.