The three of them gathered in the hallway. They looked shattered.
Not Mum looked into the faces of the others. ‘I’m calling it. Agreed?’
After a pause, the other Nots nodded.
She reached for her walkie-talkie. ‘This is Rescue, over,’ she said.
The device in her hands gave out a blare of static.
Someone said, ‘What’s the report, over?’
‘No survivors found. House checked thoroughly. We presume the family perished down in the harbour. There are no coats or boots in the porch and the house is empty. Over.’
Over.
There was a pause, then the static voice said, ‘We’ll circle back. Get ready to leave in approximately twelve minutes, over.’
They moved towards our broken front door. Tall Man rubbed his eyes and hung back. Not Mum touched his shoulder.
‘Ed,’ she said gently, ‘we’ve done all we can. There’s no one here.’
He sighed. ‘I just … keep feeling like we’ve missed something, you know? I have the strongest feeling that someone’s still here.’
Is he talking about me? Can he … somehow sense me?
‘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 skin and the salt tang was still in my mouth. I had that horrible wet chill you get if you’ve worn a damp wetsuit too long. Was that normal? Was I always going to look and feel as I did at my moment of death? Wet and battered and coated with sea salt? Studded with shells like a trinket box from a seaside gift shop?
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, the clouds parted again and bathed the huge object in a silvery light.
It was a shipwreck. Dripping wet, festooned with strings of seaweed, covered with a bumpy skin of molluscs. From its rusting hulk came the briny smell of saltwater and decay.
Oh God.
Had death come for me at last? Had the wave finally realised it was missing a body from its terrible haul and sent this ship to hunt me down and drag me back?
I frowned at the sopping vessel as it came nearer.
Oh.
It wasn’t a ship.
It was a bus.
But it was definitely still a wreck. A double-decker bus wreck. The glass in all its windows had long gone and, despite its creaky yet undeniably forward propulsion, all four wheels were flat. It didn’t even look like there was anyone at the wheel.
And as it lurched its way towards me, like a tipsy grown-up at one of my parents’ parties, I heard, faintly but unmistakably, the sound of children crying and wailing coming from its belly.
Which was obviously, as you can imagine, a really lovely, reassuring sound.
ALL I COULD do was stand and stare as the bus creaked towards me. The moon picked out every unsavoury detail. Its wheels were flaps of shredded rubber that looked like they’d last been inflated sometime around doomsday. There was a row of crabs clinging to the top of the bus, clacking their claws threateningly like stern Spanish dancers. Most of its side panels were clinging on by a nail. All it would take to blow it apart would be one windy day.
And on each deck, like eggs in a box, was a clutch of faces, all turned in my direction.
The wind howled around us.
I gulped. Should I shout for help?
But who would hear me? No one’s left.
The sound of slow, determined footsteps rang out from inside the wreck. A few seconds later, the warped front door flew open with a squeak and a bang. And in the doorway, bathed in the ashen January moonlight, stood a middle-aged woman in a shapeless beige suit, carrying a clipboard. She wore the biggest pair of glasses I had ever seen.
She glanced at the clipboard in her hands and stared at me.
I straightened my shoulders and returned her gaze.
Somewhere, an owl hooted.
A polite cough. ‘Perished in the Cliffstones tsunami of January the third?’ she enquired delicately.
‘Pardon?’
‘Perished in the Cliffstones tsunami of January the third?’
‘Was that what it was?’ I said. ‘A tsunami?’
She sighed. ‘Did you, or did you not, die in the Cliffstones tsunami of January the third?’
A bat slipped out of the mangled roof and shot into the night.
‘I guess?’ I said.
This answer seemed to satisfy her and she put a tick on her clipboard. ‘Frances Frida Ripley?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How’d you know that? Can you help me find my fam—’
‘You’re my last pick-up,’ she said. ‘Time to get on board.’
I stared at her. ‘What?’
Through her glasses two leached, drained eyes regarded me.
‘On board the bus, duckie. For the Afterlife Club,’ she said. Her voice was as flat as the tyres on the bus.
‘The Afterlife Club?’
‘Yes, dear.’ She pointed to the front of the b
us. ‘Read.’
The faded destination sign said: The Afterlife Club, for ages twelve and under. Enjoy death with friends, games and endless days out!
I’ve always been suspicious of exclamation marks and that one was the most desperate I’d ever seen. I eyed it warily, then glanced at the woman. ‘I don’t … understand … What?’
‘According to our records, you drowned when you were eleven years old, so this is the bus for you.’
But I had questions, starting with the faces visible through the windows. ‘Who else is on that bus?’
‘Lots of other children like you, picked up over the years,’ the woman said. ‘We’re quite full now, on account of the tsunami. Had to go down to the seabed for an unscheduled detour. Picked up quite a few new passengers. Bit inconvenient you weren’t down there, as a matter of fact,’ she added, pursing her lips in a way that reminded me of most of my teachers.
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Sorry?’
‘Quite unusual, your corpse wandering away from the site of death. Doesn’t happen very often. Only with the most difficult children, I’ve noticed. Bit of a troublemaker, are you?’ She looked at me thoughtfully.
I was only half listening, too busy with my own thoughts. If she’d been down on the seabed, trawling for Cliffstones children under the age of twelve, then …
‘Is my sister on there?’ I yelled.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Birdie. Well, her name’s Bridget, but we call her Birdie, because she’s constantly whistling. Bridget Ripley?’
My mouth was dry as the woman checked her clipboard.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said finally. ‘No one of that name on the bus. She must have died properly. Younger, was she? Less … trouble?’
I nodded, unable to speak.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said quite kindly.
I took a deep breath and waited for the pain to subside. My thoughts rattled like an out-of-control slot machine. If we were all dead, then …
‘Is this … heaven?’ I asked.
The woman turned and contemplated the barnacled wreck behind her.
Storm Page 4