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On the bed, Billie wipes her face clean. ‘White-sided dolphins. They’re social animals, live to their mid-twenties. The mothers nurse their calves for up to a year. They stay together up to five years after that. Jesus, there’s so muchblood. I’m not sure I can do it, Mum. I’m not sure I’m strong enough.’
‘You’re eighteen,’ Lucy says. ‘Nobody’s going to think less of you if you change your mind.’
But Billie’s already shaking her head. ‘I’dthink less of me. I’ve been talking about this for years. It’s my chance todosomething – to finally make a difference.’
‘You can make a difference in lots of ways.’
Billie looks at the screen. ‘I can’t be one of those people who help from afar. I just can’t. I’m not knocking them. But that’s not who I am.’
Now, as then, Lucy knows the truth of those words. ‘Keep her safe,’ she tells the trio of seals. As one, they wink out of sight beneath the water.
4
From Penleith Beach they ride to Redlecker. They stop at every headland where there’s a track, visit every beach they can’t see from higher ground. Overnight, this entire coast has been ravaged. Hard to imagine, witnessing the destruction, that wind and rain alone could be culpable.
On their way back to Skentel they encounter the first search parties: groups in all-weather gear, some with dogs, swarming the inlets and coves.
If the storm washed up Billie and Fin alive, they mightwell have crawled to higher ground. Protected from the worst weather by their immersion suits, they could have kept each other alive by huddling close. The road dissolves as Lucy pictures that. She slows the bike until she can see again.
Her last stop is Smuggler’s Tumble. Its forested switchbacks have taken a pounding overnight, but already someone’s been out with a chainsaw. The gravel parking circle is clogged with cars. Among the civilian vehicles she spots a coastguard Land Rover and a police patrol car.
A thirty-strong group of volunteers stands on the path, listening to a coastguard official. As Lucy climbs off the bike, a few glance over. When she removes the crash helmet, a murmur passes through the crowd. She notices a range of expressions, not all of them sympathetic.
It angers her for a moment, that. Bewilders her. And then she decides it’s OK. What’s important is that they’re here for Billie and Fin.
Nobody moves or says a word. Lucy realizes they’re expecting her to speak. She hadn’t prepared for this, is hardly in the right mind for it. But she can’t let the opportunity pass.
Walking closer, she starts to recognize faces: Luke Creese, the pastor from St Peter’s; Gordon and Jane Watson, the couple from the local pharmacy; Ravinder Turkmish, owner of the Bayleaf, and three of his serving staff.
Her head rings with Jake’s words from last night.I think you need to prepare yourself.
Fuck that.
‘I’m so grateful to see you all here,’ Lucy begins. The wind whips away her words. She tries again, forcing a strength into her voice she doesn’t feel. ‘I know Billie and Fin will be grateful too. And Daniel.’
A few snatched looks at that. Lucy ignores them, but it’s a warning to switch tack. ‘This is still a search and rescue. I know how that sounds, after yesterday’s storm. But Billie and Fin would’ve been in their immersion suits. Daniel would’ve made sure …’
She can’t breathe.
It takes a few moments to fill her chest. Jane Watson, she notices, has tears running down her cheeks. Hard to look at that.
‘The immersion suits will have kept them warm. Even so, if they’ve washed up ashore, we need to find them quickly. Billie’s a gym nut, as strong as anyone here. But Fin …’ This time, as she says her son’s name, it feels like an arrow has punched through her sternum. ‘Fin’s seven.’
Wind, in the trees. Thirty sets of eyes, all watching.
‘Some of you know I own the Drift Net. When you’re hungry, come down and we’ll feed you. When you’re cold, come inside and we’ll warm you up. But please –please– keep looking. The next twelve hours …’
She doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows how that sentence ends. ‘I know you won’t give up. I know you’ll do everything it takes. In the meantime, I just wanted to say thank you. From me, from my whole family.’
In the ensuing silence, it doesn’t feel right just to turn away. There’s an awkwardness, suddenly. A sense of something missing.
Then Gordon Watson puts his hands together and starts clapping. Moments later, the staff of the Bayleaf join in. The applause builds gently, steadily. Witnessing it, Lucy notices something important. The handful of hard looks from earlier have softened.
Noemie’s hand slips around her arm. Together, theywalk back to the Triumph. Lucy swings her leg over the seat, grimacing at the spike of pain from her ribs. Glancing up, she sees Matt Guinness, her old classmate, approaching the bike.
Matt’s shaved off the wispy beard since she last saw him, but he still hasn’t washed his hair. A greasy snake of it hangs over one shoulder of his lime-green cagoule. ‘Luce. Hey, listen. I just wanted to say – I’m sorry for yesterday, at the quay. I was kind of a dick.’ He wipes his nose on his cagoule and offers his hand. ‘At the time, I just thought it was some dumb shit – your hubby not checking his mooring lines.’
Matt’s fingernails are like a mole’s claws, long and curved and sleek. The last thing Lucy wants is to touch him, but he’s here, at least, first thing on a Saturday morning. Another pair of eyes in the hunt.