When they’d got up close as the family paused to look at some tourist souvenirs, it was obvious the girl was nothing like the one in her dream. She was chubbier and her hair wasn’t anywhere near long enough and she had no scar. Lucy wondered how she’d convinced herself otherwise. As she’d fought her disappointment she’d kept a grin fixed on her face and leant into Michael’s hot arm. His skin was pink from too much sun but he hadn’t complained.
They went back to the hotel and dived into the cool pool rather than the salty ocean and she tried to wash the craziness away doing handstands and tumbling in the blue.
The water made her feel good and she kept focused on Michael to stop becoming distracted by the flashes of women’s hair as young couples strolled by. As much as the little girl fascinated her and filled her with dread, it was the women from her dreams that haunted her most. She missed them with an ache in her belly that she didn’t understand. If only she could find them, if only they existed, then things would be better. Things would start making sense. But that was crazy thinking and this holiday was all about ditching the weirdness before someone locked her up in a loony bin.
It was all psychosomatic. It had to be. The dreams, the thirst, the little voice that kept telling her the tears were coming; she’d made them all up in her stupid, crazy head. She was determined to ditch them in the sun, sea and sand. Her thoughts were tiring her and needing a break from them, she dragged Michael back up to the room and drew the shutters down, closing out the bright sunlight and leaving them in a pleasant sultry gloom.
After they were done, Mike dozed off in the warm afternoon and Lucy felt a small wave of relief. She watched him for a while as his chest rose and fell and resisted the urge to touch him. She loved him; she was certain of that even when she thought she might be going mad and barely knew who she was herself, but she also needed her quiet time and it seemed they had been together twenty-four seven since they’d stepped off the plane. She pulled on her cut-off denims and bikini top and crept out into the bright lounge of their suite.
The pale curtain billowed outwards where they’d slid the patio door open that morning: the sails of a lost ship. With a bottle of Coca-Cola from the small fridge under the TV cabinet in hand, she went out into the warm air and pulled one of the chairs up close to the railings, resting her feet on top. The metal burned the soles of her feet slightly and for a brief moment she felt a weight on her back. She refused to acknowledge it.
On the beach below, people dashed in and out of the surf and watching them Lucy found it hard to believe it was Christmas Eve. Back in London the freezing streets would be filled with people rapidly losing their festive spirit as they battled to get the last presents they needed before facing the crush of motorways and trains out of the city. Here everything was so much calmer. The sea air tingled on her face.
The water stretched lazily beautiful out as far as she could see. Maybe it went on forever, just liquid and tranquility with no land or people to mess it all up. She imagined getting lost in its depths. What a wonderful feeling that would be. Just the silent liquid closed all in around, nothing below or above to distract her. It would be perfect.
She was still staring out at the ocean, her Coke untouched and her soul lost somewhere far under the horizon, when Michael woke up two hours later.
‘Happy Christmas, gorgeous.’
Lucy had slept with both the window open and the air-conditioning on: the sound of the huge mass of water only a few hundred yards away a soft lullaby that had sent her into a deep, natural rest. She could have slept all day.
She yawned and stretched as Michael placed the tray carefully down in the middle of the big, rumpled bed. The pile of croissants and rolls alongside the orange juice and plates of eggs and bacon made her stomach growl loudly.
‘Merry Christmas to you too,’ she said. ‘Although if we eat all that we’ll never manage our turkey.’
Mike smiled. ‘Well, I was thinking we’d work up a bit of an appetite between the two.’ He pulled a small package out of his dressing gown and handed it to her. ‘But not until after our presents.’
From the drawer of the bedside table she pulled out her gift for him. They swapped over the boxes and smiling like children peeled off the ribbons and paper. Lucy’s breath caught as she pulled out the bracelet. Diamonds sparkled like water droplets in the slim silver band. For a few moments she was lost in its cool clarity. He couldn’t have picked something better for her.
‘Oh god, Mike. It’s beautiful.’
He smiled proudly. ‘You like it?’
‘I love it.’ She slid it over her hand and looked at his unopened watch box. ‘I hope you like yours.’
He lifted the lid, and she could tell by the quick flash in his eyes and the twitch at the corner of his mouth, that he did. They knew each other well.
The pink burn of the previous day was turning to a light tan, and against it the stainless steel of the watch shone. She wanted to feel that arm pin her down. He was her man. Having gone a night without dreaming, she felt almost normal. She reached for the rest of the croissant.
‘You’d better get some of that food inside you,’ she said. ‘I want to get on to the workout.’
* * *
The normality collapsed when they finally ventured downstairs to join the other guest for a Christmas dinner outside. The pool glistened flirtatiously in the centre, surrounded by tables covered in white linen and silver cutlery. At the sight of the water, Lucy felt her first pang of extreme thirst. Her throat constricted tightly and she dry swallowed. There was sand and desert and dust choking her. She forced a deep breath. She couldn't panic. Not now. Not all thirst was sinister.
Still, as she followed Mike to their table her stomach felt unsettled with a sensation somewhere between unease and excitement even though there was no reason for it. Around them families and couples chatted and laughed, each enjoying their own festive day despite being in the company of strangers. She sat down under the shade.
At the table beside them a little girl with dark hair sat on the grass surrounded by torn paper and gifts. She was struggling with the wrapping on a large box; obviously her final and main present. Her mother reached down to help her, but the little girl waved her away, fixated on the task.
‘I’ve nearly got it open!’ she said..
Charmed by her, Lucy looked down and smiled. The little girl raised her head. Her dark eyes reached straight into Lucy’s.
‘Look. I’ve nearly got it open.’ There was no hint of Christmas excitement and her voice plunged deep into Lucy’s soul, taking her to caves and burning buildings and winds of sand and all the tears. Lucy couldn't breathe. The little girl held up her hands and in the sunshine they were coated with bloody wax. She stretched her fingers wide. ‘It’ll be open soon. No time at all. And then the tears will come.’
Lucy's heart hammered in her chest as the sounds of the surrounding conversation and laughter dulled and blurred in her ears. The world brightened. Wasn’t anyone else seeing this? Couldn’t anyone else see her hands? How could they not notice? Her thirst raged, not limited to her throat, but scratching inside her skin as if her body had been sucked dry.
She looked back down and a hiss of breath escaped the thin gap between her lips. The little girl whooped with delight as she pulled the large teddy bear free from the garish paper. Her chubby hands were pale and clean. No red. No blood. No scar. Just a child and a bear.
Lucy stifled something that she thought might be a giggle. Maybe she was going mad and her body and mind were just tired of fighting it. This little girl was nothing like the one in her dream. But Lucy had seen the dream girl anyway. And she’d heard her speak. And if that wasn’t madness, then what was?
‘You getting broody?’ She looked up and found Michael watching her thoughtfully.
She laughed aloud at that, at the sheer absurdity of it, but he smiled as if he thought he’d hit the nail on the head.
The afternoon dragged on into evening, the sun co
oling in the dusk. Lucy drank far too much wine, but barely touched her food. She claimed to be still full from the huge breakfast they’d eaten and Michael believed her because under the table cloth her fingers made tracks on her thighs and she did her best to seem happier than they she had in ages.
She glanced over to the table beside them and the little girl who was curled up asleep in her mother’s lap, the huge bear tucked under her arm. She was just a normal little girl. Lucy refused to look at her any more. There was no point. It didn’t change anything.
That night, in the caress of the surf's whispering song, she dreamed an echo of horses; their hooves thundering in time with her heart.
* * *
Dawn was breaking when Lucy woke on Boxing Day. She stared at the red and purple streaks stretching across the clear, endless sky. Michael’s arm was heavy across her and it vibrated as he snored. She wanted to smile, but her stomach wobbled with the first wave of sudden nausea. Her head spun and a clammy sweat gathered on her forehead. She sat up on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. It was weird. Her head was clear and for once her mouth wasn’t dry. She didn’t feel like she had a hangover, even though by rights she should have. She just felt sick. Very, very sick.
Goosebumps prickled up over her skin. She shut her eyes, hoping that the moment would pass. It didn’t. She swallowed hard. She was going to be sick; there was no doubt about that. Maybe it was the Christmas dinner. Perhaps some of it had been reheated. You never could really tell, no matter how many stars the brochures give it. A sharp pain gripped her gut and with the first gag hitting the back of her throat she ran to the en-suite bathroom, shoving the door closed behind her before tumbling to the marble tiles and clinging to the toilet bowl.
The first heave shook her. Liquid gushed upwards in a warm rush and splattered into the toilet. Lucy stared. There was no food, only bile. At least she thought it was bile. As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she groaned slightly. Her stomach lurched again and her gullet opened, releasing a waterfall of green-blue water. She heaved until she thought she’d pass out from lack of breath, and then finally the rush of water stopped.
Past caring about the possibility of germs, she rested her chin on the seat and tried to get her breath back. The nausea had passed and her insides felt clean and washed through, but the back of her throat burned. Not with acid, but salt. Her head spun as her thoughts cleared and reached the only logically illogical conclusion. She’d thrown up litres and litres of salt water. She peered cautiously back into the toilet and bit back the tears. Sea water. She’d vomited sea water. Dread chilled her insides. What the hell was this? This wasn’t insanity. Towers burned behind her eyes as Juliet carried Romeo, her star cross’d lover, through the raging furnace. Women called to her. The child laughed. She saw it all in the slimy water poured from her body. None of it made sense.
The door opened and she jumped slightly, her hand reaching quickly for the flush.
Mike crouched beside her. ‘You okay?’
His hand felt soft on her hair and she forced a smile. That was one thing she seemed to have got pretty damned good at recently.
‘Maybe just one or four glasses of wine too many.’
‘The older you get the tougher the effects of the booze get.’
She sat back on her heels. ‘You're such a charmer.’ The nausea had passed as suddenly as it had arrived. She felt okay. Different, but okay.
Outside, the sun had beaten back the night and a breeze came through the bathroom window.
‘Let’s go to the beach.’ She said the words almost before she’d thought them.
‘Are you sure? It’s only seven-thirty.’ He helped her to her feet. ‘What about some breakfast?’
‘Let’s go to the beach first. I’d really like to look at the water.’
Chapter 5
It was a truly beautiful morning, the normal tropical humidity blown out of the atmosphere by the strong breeze coming in from the ocean. Lucy's hair whipped slightly around her head and she breathed in the salty air.
Mike squeezed her hand. ‘You’re looking better.’
‘Isn’t it beautiful out here?’
‘Yeah. Like a different planet.'
'A perfect planet.' All thoughts of vomited sea water and bad dreams were gone and as they walked for a few minutes in silence, the warm sand tickled between Lucy's toes. Maybe she’d been mistaken. Perhaps it had just been wine and bile. Part of her brain tried to argue but she hushed it. It was her birthday. The madness could come back another day.
Although it was still early, they weren’t the only people making the most of glorious day and around them children ran in and out of the glinting blue surf as it rolled and purred on the shore. Tourists and locals alike lay out on the sand or took a stroll on the beach just like she and Mike were doing.
She smiled at a couple coming the other way, swinging a little girl between them, laughing at her shrieks of excitement. It took a moment before she realised it was the little girl from the table next to theirs at dinner the previous evening, the girl that had sent her into such a freakish spin. She paused as they moved on, heading back to the hotel, and watching them Lucy frowned. The little girl was completely different to the child of her dream. Her dark hair entirely the wrong shade and nowhere near long enough.
Warm water lapped at her toes and she let her feet sink into the wet darkness. She was mildly surprised. She hadn’t realised they’d walked so close to the water’s edge. The salty liquid felt so good against her skin and she wondered if maybe she’d subconsciously but steadily steered them towards it. The wind lifted slightly and she stared out to the distant horizon.
‘You okay?’
Michael’s words seemed distant and she wanted to hush him. Instead, she just nodded and felt his hand slip away as he sat down on the sand. This close to the water she felt calm and alive. She didn’t sit with him, but instead fought the urge to spread her arms out and tilt her head back in the gorgeous sea spray. She felt wonderful. What was happening to her? For the first time since all this had started she felt a thrill at the changes that trickled through her. She felt stronger. Maybe that was where she’d gone wrong. Perhaps she just needed to stop fighting it. The wind rose in agreement.
Michael lay on his back and stared up at the sky. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, in the unimportant area of her vision that was land rather than liquid. Ahead, the surf fizzled loudly as if it sensed her excitement. Down in her toes she felt the pulse of the ocean’s heart beat with every lick of water. It was low and loud and endless. The taste of salt filled her mouth.
Michael was talking and on some level her brain listened for an upward lilt in his tone that meant she’d be required to answer, but the rest of her consciousness floated like driftwood. Her eyes closed. Her soul stretched across the ocean and into the earth. In her heart three other sets of feet pounded out a strange rhythm that sang to her. She recognised each one, feminine and strong. And dangerous. They were just like her. Like her but different.
Perhaps somewhere these women were feeling equally changed in three other corners of the globe. Maybe they were fighting the urge to stretch their arms out to reach her. Her mind roared out to them, hunting an answer in the waves.
Michael stood up and grabbed her hand. He tugged at it urgently. She stood firm, not shifting an inch, her feet rooted like marble to the ground. The water caressed her and in its touch she could hear the empty echoes of its depth and the sad song of ancient whales. It was breathtaking and she called it to her, sucking it in, wanting its touch.
Michael pulled her arm again, more aggressively this time, and shouted something. She gripped his hand and held him strong. Her palm was a vice. She wanted him to feel this, to share the ecstasy that shivered through her. Why was he resisting her?
The sand shifted suddenly and her frozen feet dropped five or so inches in a breath. The lower layer was cold as the grave.
The tears are coming.
Her eyes opened. She gasped. The ocean was coming towards them, rising up in a wall of greens and blue, the growl building to a roar. She stared at it. She’d called it and it was coming.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, Lucy. Run!’
Michael’s hand oozed panicked sweat into the lock of her cool palm, and she fought with her muscles to release it. She wasn’t sure whether he was trying to pull her away or pull himself free but either way she couldn’t move. She was lost in the world of the ocean that was coming to love her. It had been calling to her for months. And now the tears were coming and all would be as it should be. Around her people started to scream and panic. A baby cried. Maybe two. It was all just background noise against the symphony of water.
* * *
The first wave took Michael. It ripped him away from her in a jealous rage and with a scream of anger. He was gone is a second as if he’d never existed. She saw his watch though, pulled free of his wrist and sucked past her into the heart of the ocean. Her Michael taken one way, the watch another.
Immune to the power of the huge tidal wave that had folded over and around her, the surface now somewhere far over her head, she stood still and watched the small loop of steel disappear into the murky darkness.
Her heart cracked and she screamed silently into the surrounding water. For a moment the wave withdrew back from the shore and the sun and air burst into life. But the ocean felt her pain and screamed right back at her, a second wave gathering to rise up against the land. She screamed and the ocean raged, its swell becoming stronger with each ache of her soul. The second and third waves rose high above her head as they embraced her and she cried into them, the salt water and her tears becoming one. She willed the waves to crush her.
Apocalypse- Year Zero Page 8