Half a Creature from the Sea

by David Almond

  “I’ll do those pics tonight,” he said. “Use night time as a dark room.”

  He touched Mum’s face. He told her she was beautiful. I turned away. They whispered. I think they kissed.

  The man with the fin surfaced in my dreams. I spoke the watery words for “dad”. He spoke the airy words for “daughter”. We swam together to southern seas of coloured fish and coral, to northern seas of icebergs and whales. We swam all night from sea to sea to sea to sea, and when I woke, the sun was up and there were already voices in the garden.

  “Come and see,” said Mum when I appeared at the door.

  Her eyes were wide and shining.

  “Come and see,” said Benn.

  I walked barefoot through the sand. There were photographs scattered on the garden table. Mum held another photograph against her breast.

  “You ever see one of these things develop?” said Benn.

  I shook my head.

  “At first the things in them are seen like secret things, through liquid – like secret creatures glimpsed beneath the sea. They’re seen by a strange pale light that shines just like a moon.” He narrowed his eyes, gazed at me, smiled. “These are the secrets I glimpsed last night, Annie Lumsden.”

  Then he stepped away from us, faced the islands, left us alone.

  I sifted through the photos on the table: Mum and me, the garden, the shack, the islands. Mum still held the other to her breast.

  “Look, Annie,” she said.

  She bit her lip as she tilted the photograph over at last and let me see.

  There we were, Mum and me at the water’s edge. Like Benn said, it was like I was something washed up by the sea, like Mum was reaching out to help me up, to help me to be born. I saw how seaweedy my hair truly was, how sealy my skin was. Then I looked away, looked back again, but it was true. A fin was growing at my back. Narrow, pale, half formed, like it was just half grown, but it was a fin.

  Mum touched me there now, below my neck, between my shoulders. She traced the line of my spine. I touched where she touched, but we touched only me.

  “Nothing there?” I whispered.

  “Nothing there.”

  I traced the same line on the photograph. I looked at Benn, straight and tall, facing the islands and the sea.

  “Could Benn…?” I started.

  “How could you think such a thing?” said Mum.

  I looked at her.

  “So the tale was true?” I said.

  She smiled into my eyes.

  “Aye. The tale was true.”

  And I pushed the photograph into her hand, and ran away from her and ran past Benn, and ran into the waves and didn’t stop until I’d plunged down deep and burst back up again and swum and felt the joy of the fin quivering at my back, supporting me, helping me forward.

  I looked back, saw Mum and Benn at the water’s edge, hand in hand.

  “You saw the truth!” I yelled.

  “And the truth can set you free!” Benn answered back.

  He went away soon afterwards. He said he had a boxer to see in London and maybe an actress in Milan, and there was a war he needed to attend to in the Far East, and… He shrugged. Must seem a shapeless, aimless life to folk like us, he said.

  “You get yourself to the States one day,” he said to me. “You go and see my Maggie.”

  I gulped.

  “I will,” I said, and as I said it I believed it.

  “Good. And you can be sure she’ll know your tale by then.”

  We waited with him for a taxi outside the Slippery Eel. He had his painted rock and his shell mermaid. He held Mum tight and kissed her.

  I held the shell that Mum had given me.

  “Can I…?” I said to her.

  She smiled and nodded.

  “It’s for you,” I said to Benn. “And then for Maggie.”

  He held it to his ear.

  “I hear the roaring of the sea. I hear the whisper of its secrets. I hear the silence of its depths.” He winked. “I know it’s very precious, Annie. I’ll keep it safe.”

  And he kissed me on the brow. Then the taxi came, and the man from America left Stupor Bay.

  Afterwards things were never quite the same. Things that’d seemed fixed and hard and hopeless started to shift. Words stopped being barnacles. Numbers were no longer limpets. I started to feel as free on land as I did in the sea. I fell less and less. Mrs McLintock started talking about trying me in a school again. Was it to do with Mum’s tales and Benn’s photograph? One day I dared to tell Doctor John about the man with the fin. He laughed and laughed. I dared to show him Benn’s picture and he laughed again. Then he went quiet.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “the best way to understand how to be human is to understand our strangeness.”

  He asked to look at my back. He peeped down beneath the back of my collar.

  “Nothing there?” I said.

  “Yes. There is an astonishing thing there. A mystery. And sometimes the biggest mystery of all is how a mystery might help to solve another mystery.” Then he laughed again. “Pick the sense out of that!” he said.

  He smiled.

  “Come back in a year’s time, Annie Lumsden,” he said.

  And, of course, it was all to do with simple growing up, with being thirteen, heading for fourteen and beyond. And it was to do with having a mum who thought there was nothing strange in loving a daughter who might be half a creature from the sea.

  “The library was a couple of streets away from home: a small branch library, the kind of place we all take for granted, the kind of place that wrong-headed people say has outlived its time. It was close to Felling Square and the Victoria Jubilee pub, where folk gathered around the piano in a side room to sing old songs and tell old tales. And it was just across the street from a patch of grass where I played football as a boy. On one side of the road, as I ran around with Peter, Kev, Colin and Tex, I imagined being a famous footballer. On the other, I dreamed of being a published author. I’d often go into the library at dusk, when we couldn’t see the ball any more. As my footballing dreams receded and my writerly dreams increased, I’d go in wearing Levi’s and Ben Sherman instead of muddy jeans and battered football boots. I remember reading John Wyndham, Irving Stone, Charles Williams, Morris West. I thought I looked very modern and sophisticated when I took books from the Recommended New Novels section, though I often felt rather confused. I recall the exact moment I drew Hemingway’s short-story collection, The First Forty-Nine Stories, from a shelf. I felt a shock of recognition as I opened it and began to read. I’d always known that I wanted to be a writer, and suddenly I had an idea of what kind of writer I wanted to be. This strange serendipitous mixture of discovery and recognition would be repeated in that building as I grew older – the first reading of D. H. Lawrence, for instance, or Stevie Smith.

  For most of my teenage years I was fascinated by the paranormal. I loved the library’s Religion and Philosophy section, skimming past the books about worthy saints and famous thinkers and seeking the barmier books, to plunder them for information about ghosts and spirits, clairvoyance, spontaneous combustion, levitation, spirit writing, human vanishings – and poltergeists. It was said that the most disturbing books about such matters, too dangerous to be allowed freely into the world, were locked away in a secret room over the hill in the central library in Gateshead. One I especially hungered for became legendary to me: The Projection of the Astral Body by Carrington and Muldoon. I never found it. I was also a fan of Hammer horror films, of TV’s The Twilight Zone and of Dennis Wheatley’s weird and terrifying novels, such as The Devil Rides Out and The Ka of Gifford Hillary. I loved The Third Eye by T. Lobsang Rampa. It told of Lobsang’s boyhood in the monasteries and mountains of Tibet, his initiation into ancient mysteries, the operation on his skull that opened up his powers of clairvoyance. I dreamed of being him. I walked through the streets of Felling trying to feel possessed by him. Then it turned out that Lobsang was a hoaxer. He was Cyril Hoskin,
a plumber’s son from Devon, and he’d never stepped foot outside the British Isles. How disgraceful! But it didn’t matter to me. Wasn’t that what writers were supposed to do – make things up, make lies seem like truth, create new versions of themselves? I read a lot about Buddhism, chanted the Upanishads to myself, practised yoga, stood on my head beside my bed, breathed Om Om Om, tried to meditate. I spent night after night attempting to travel in the astral plane, just like Lobsang did. No success. If only I’d been able to get my hands on that book by Carrington and Muldoon…

  The world was striving to be new. All across Tyneside, the old dark terraced streets were being torn down. Estates in bright new brick and pebbledash, like Leam Lane Estate in this story, were spreading out across the open spaces. New tower blocks rose all over the landscape. Politicians talked about a world of white-hot technology; we were about to send a man to the moon; Tomorrow’s World on the BBC told us about cures for cancer, driverless cars, paper pants, self-cleaning clothes, giant carrots, robots, laser beams, jetpacks. What a future was to come!

  But the past, and ancient superstitions and religious beliefs, kept reasserting themselves. St Patrick’s Church was packed with people of all ages. I was an altar boy until I was about fifteen, serving at Masses and weddings and funerals. Like most of my friends, I continued to take Communion and go to confession. Every year a plane full of St Patrick’s parishioners flew to Lourdes in France with the priest to see the miracles and healings, and to pray to Our Lady to be healed themselves. Many of my relatives – my grandma, my Uncle Maurice, my Auntie Anne – went on these trips. They came home, their eyes shining, carrying Our Lady-shaped bottles of holy water that we used along with medicines to treat coughs and colds, and much more serious diseases. And there were plaster statues and prayer cards, and garish plastic grottos with lights that flashed around Our Lady and the kneeling St Bernadette.

  Tales and rumours showed how difficult it was for some folk to adjust to the new world. They kept ponies in their brand-new dining rooms and chickens on their balconies. Old women read each other’s tea leaves in Dragone’s. There were tales of weeping statues. Superstitions abounded: don’t walk under ladders, don’t cross on the stairs, never open an umbrella indoors, don’t spill salt, always leave a house through the same door by which you entered… There were tales of ghosts and hauntings in the brightly lit brick and pebbledashed homes. As in the story of Joe Quinn and his poltergeist, a film crew did try to record the ghosts that walked at night and terrified a family in a brand-new house on Leam Lane Estate.

  And, of course, despite the hopes inspired by some of the speakers on Tomorrow’s World, death and sickness didn’t go away. Despite modern medicine and surgery, Lourdes water and prayer, I lost my dad to cancer when I was fifteen. And just like Davie, the narrator of the story, I lost a sister, too. Barbara was only a year old when she died; I was seven.

  So, I’m in Holly Hill Park with Geordie Craggs. We’re watching the lasses play tennis when Joe Quinn saunters through the gate.

  “Pretend we’ve not seen,” I say.

  No good. He heads straight for us. He’s got a packet of coconut mushrooms and he’s holding them out.

  Stupid Geordie takes one. He even says ta.

  “Have another,” says Joe. “Gan on. I’ve got tons.”

  Maria Caldwell jumps high and grunts, and smashes the ball straight into the fence.

  “Prefer a Midget Gem?” says Joe to me. “I’ve got some of them and all.”

  “No,” I mutter.

  “Nowt wrong with being friendly,” he says.

  “I’ll have one,” says Geordie, and Joe smiles and sits down on the grass close by.

  It’s the middle of the afternoon, the middle of the holidays, and hot as hell. The air’s shimmering and you can feel the heat rising from the earth. Josephine Minto wipes her forehead with a towel, swigs from a bottle of lemonade, or something, and gets ready to serve. She looks over to check I’m still watching. She’s the best – it’s obvious. She’ll win easily. The yellow ball’s a blur as it flashes over the net. Maria doesn’t even see it. I want to cheer, but I don’t.

  “I’ve got a poltergeist,” says Joe as Josephine gets ready to serve again.

  “A what?” says Geordie.

  “Poltergeist.”

  I spit. Typical Joe bliddy Quinn.

  “What’s one of them?” asks Geordie.

  “Kind of ghost,” says Joe. “Davie’ll know. Davie?”

  I say nothing.

  “There was stuff flying all over the house the other night,” Joe goes on. “Cups and plates and stuff.”

  “Stuff flying?” says Geordie.

  “That’s what they do, poltergeists. They send everything barmy.”

  Geordie’s mouth dropped open.

  “There’s a window smashed and all, and a door’s hangin’ off its hinges.”

  “Hell’s teeth.”

  “Aye,” says Joe. “Me mam says it’s a sign of disturbance in the spirit world. Or the house has entered some kind of vortex or something.”

  “Vortex,” says Geordie.

  “Geordie, man,” I mutter.

  “I knaa,” says Joe. “Hard to believe, eh? Mebbe you should come and see for yoursels?”

  “Could we?” says Geordie.

  “That is if you’re not too scared.”

  “Course we’re not, are we, Davie? When should we come?”

  “It starts happenin’ round about teatime. So come for tea. Come today. I’ll tell me mam to put some extra chips on, eh?”

  Geordie’s all wide-eyed.

  “Aye,” he says. “Alreet, Joe.”

  Joe gets up and walks away.

  “Flying cups!” says Geordie.

  I sigh. Stupid Geordie. Joe turns round and lobs a few midget gems at us. Geordie catches none of them and starts picking them out of the grass. Josephine squeals and yells, “Game and first set to Miss Minto!”

  “Broken windows!” Geordie gasps. “Do you think we’ll really see it?”

  “Aye,” I say. “We’ll see it’s just daft Joe Quinn and his even dafter mother.”

  “Worth having a look though, eh? You’ve said yourself that the world’s a weird place.”

  “But I didn’t mean Joe Quinn, and I didn’t mean bliddy poltergeists.”

  He jams a few gems into his mouth.

  “At least we’ll get some chips.”

  Joe Quinn. What a dreamer. Take his dad, for instance. If he wasn’t a hit man in Arizona, he was robbing banks in China; he’d stashed away a million quid in Chile for Joe’s future; he’d send flight tickets for Joe when he was eighteen and they’d live the lives of outlaws. Turned out he was in Durham Prison for beating a bloke half to death on Newcastle Quayside one Friday night.

  “Aye,” said Joe when we found out. “But it took half a dozen coppers to bring him in, and he only done it because the bloke impugned me mother.”

  “Impugned?” I said.

  “That’s the word. And there’s no way me dad could let that happen to me mam.”

  The mother. She was another one. She’d been on tours with the Rolling Stones; she’d danced for the King of Thailand; she’d dined with Nikita Khrushchev.

  “So what you doing on Leam Lane Estate?” I said.

  “It’s just till I get some education under me belt. And till me dad gets out. Then she says the world’s our oyster.”

  Joe Quinn. He was the one who laughed when my sister died. He was the one who asked what the blubbing was for. I don’t think he even remembers. It was years ago. To him it was just nowt. And now it’s poltergeists. Hell’s teeth.

  Anyway, we go. We wait till Josephine’s got game, set and match. She looks at me and I look at her, and we both hesitate, and I wonder, should I tell Geordie to go to Joe’s himself? But I don’t, and we head off. No need to tell our mams. Mine’ll think I’m at Geordie’s, his’ll think he’s at mine. We pass the new priest, Father Kelly, as we leave the park. He’s standin
g under a cherry tree, in his long black robe, smoking. He waves at us. We wave back.

  We walk down The Drive. We’re parched, so we stop at Wiffen’s and buy some pop.

  “We’re bliddy daft,” I say. “It’s a wild goose chase.”

  “Flying plates, man!” says Geordie. “Smashed windows!”

  He starts on about the ghost they had at Wilfie Mack’s house a couple of years back, the one where the telly reporter and the cameraman stayed all night to watch for it.

  “And they saw absolutely nowt,” I say.

  “Aye, but they said they definitely felt something. And there was that weird shadow. Remember, Davie?”

  I shrug.

  “And look what happened to Wilfie just two weeks later.”

  “Aye,” I say finally and shudder, despite the baking heat.

  We reach the estate and turn into Sullivan Street. Lots of the front doors are wide open. Some of them have got stripy plastic curtains dangling, to keep the flies out. A gang of half-naked kids are playing football further down the street. Their ball comes bouncing at us and they scream at us to kick it back. I do, and back it flies in a dead straight line.

  No sign of anybody at Joe’s. The curtains are closed at the front and the door’s shut. We head down the side of the house. The back garden’s baked mud and clay, hard as stone. It’s dead quiet. Then suddenly the back door’s wide open and Joe’s there, grinning. Mrs Quinn’s behind him with her arms crossed.

  “Hello, boys,” she says. “Why don’t you step inside?”

  The kitchen table’s set. There’s orange squash, tomato sauce and a big pile of bread and butter.

  “Joe said you’d like some chips,” she says.

  She slides cut potatoes into boiling fat.

  “Sit down,” she says. “Could be a while.”

  “That’s right,” says Joe. “Doesn’t just come to order.”

  She laughs, and tousles his hair.

  “Do your mams know you’re here?” she says.

  “No,” we tell her.

  She shakes the chips.