Storms

by Chris Vick

  Ned was a different story.

  Hannah

  THE CLOCK ON the kitchen wall told her it was an hour since she’d made those calls. And so far, nothing. She paced up and down the kitchen, biting her nails.

  ‘Hannah!’ said Dad. ‘Darling. Why don’t you sit down? Take your coat off.’

  Mum and Dad were sitting at the table. At one end, Mum had laid breakfast: china cups, a rack of toast, a bowl of freshly boiled eggs. At the other end, Hannah had piled up blankets, a bucket, a camera and a notebook. Beano sat at the door, watching her, unsure if he should go and lie in his basket, or if they were off for another walk.

  ‘Hannah, sit down,’ said Dad.

  ‘The whales …’

  ‘The whales will wait till this marine-rescue chap calls, or arrives. There’s nothing you can do yourself, is there? It’s best to wait here.’

  She hated Dad being right. She hated his self-confident, knowing-he-is-right-ness. Hannah wanted nothing more than to pelt down to the beach. To see Little One. To try to comfort the young whale. That much, at least.

  ‘Hannah, please eat something,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she snapped. Then quickly added: ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, darling. I’ll make up a packed lunch.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You pamper that girl,’ said Dad.

  The phone rang in the hall. It hadn’t rung three times before Hannah answered.

  ‘Hannah Lancaster? This is Steve.’ She could barely make out his voice through the crackle and shrieking wind. She put a finger in her other ear.

  ‘Our people are down here now,’ he said. ‘Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I’ve come off the beach to get a signal.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Great. I’m coming down.’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘We don’t want crowds – they get in the way. We need to keep the media away too, as long as possible.’

  ‘I’m coming down. I can help,’ she said.

  ‘We have all the help we need. But if you want to come and watch …’ Steve’s voice drowned in white noise. ‘You’re breaking up …’

  ‘How are the whales?’ The line was dead.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ said Dad. He was right beside her. So was Mum.

  Hannah dodged past them, grabbed the bucket, shoved the blankets and notebook and camera inside it, and left.

  ‘Wait,’ Dad shouted through the open door, holding Beano by the collar. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  Hannah

  HANNAH STOPPED RUNNING and stood on the sand, watching.

  The whales were the same. Limp, giant statues. The sea had retreated to mid-tide, as though it had dumped the whales and run off, leaving them to die.

  The rain had stopped. Two girls in hi-vis orange jackets stood inside a fence of yellow netting that had been erected round the whales. Outside the cordon, a small crowd watched as rescuers in waterproofs poured buckets of seawater on to blankets and towels that had been laid over the whales’ bodies.

  Hannah counted. Three with towels and blankets draped over them, and four without. That meant three alive, four dead.

  Little One was one of the three. Hannah’s heart sang. She ran to the cordon and dropped her bucket, ready to climb over, to go and see the young whale. But a young woman stepped in front of her.

  ‘Sorry, Miss. Marine-rescue team only.’

  ‘I’ve done training, I’m not qualified yet, but … is Steve here?’

  The girl pointed. Steve stood behind the whales talking into a brick of a radio phone. Hannah waved. He gave her a quick smile. Hannah looked at Little One. The whale’s head moved, slightly, its eye rolling around, and – she was certain – seeing her. Its tail lifted and dropped. The whale moaned. A low cry of despair that reached inside Hannah and tore at her heart.

  She stepped towards the fence, ready to climb over.

  ‘Hannah,’ said Steve, walking over.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ she said.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Steve. His face was pale, his forehead creased with stress.

  ‘Can I come in? I want to see the young one. When I found them I knew they weren’t all dead, because she cried out to me.’

  ‘You understand how this works, right? How serious this is.’

  She did. She understood too well.

  An older, serious-looking man was examining the whales. He had a stethoscope and a large oilskin case. He was a vet at a stranding, there to sort the living from the dead, the healthy from the sick, the ones that had hope from the ones that didn’t. Inside the bag would be vials, some full of vitamins and minerals, others loaded with poison ready to be injected.

  Hannah swallowed hard. She wanted to be a marine biologist. She’d see plenty of dead, and dying, whales in years to come. She had to get used to it.

  Steve got close, so no one would overhear. In the low tone of a doctor delivering bad news he said, ‘That animal is not in good shape. Even if we refloat it, it won’t leave its mother, who is dead. And if it did, it wouldn’t survive out there,’ he pointed at the raging sea.

  ‘No. No … you can’t.’ Hannah wanted to be strong, but she felt like the wind might knock her over.

  Steve shook his head. ‘We’re set up for seals and dolphins. We don’t have refloat equipment for whales. If the tide is high enough in the next day or so, we might be able to dig a channel, and get the healthy adults out. But the highest spring tide is what deposited them here …’ He shrugged. ‘Emotion can’t get in the way. We’ll do what we can, but in the end putting these whales down may be the kindest thing we can do.’ He looked deep into her eyes. To see if she got it. To see if she’d be a pain about this.

  ‘That’s it, is it?’ she said, looking past him, at Little One She felt anger rising like a tidal surge. ‘Dig a ditch, see if the whales swim out, and if they don’t, kill them?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Steve, through his teeth.

  ‘Why? You don’t want people knowing the truth?’

  ‘Hannah, sweetheart,’ Dad appeared at her side, getting a hold on her arm, trying to pull her away.

  She twisted her arm out of his grip. ‘Don’t “sweetheart” me, Dad.’ She turned back to Steve.

  ‘You don’t have the equipment, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Sorry?’ He gasped, exasperated by her naivety. He waved at one of his team and held a finger up. A sign: One minute. Soon as I get rid of this girl.

  Hannah leant over the fencing and poked him in the chest.

  ‘There’s a team in Massachusetts, north-east USA, who rescue stranded pilot whales all the time. Their pontoons will be big enough for the smaller orcas. Get them.’

  ‘Get them from America? You have no idea …’

  ‘Get their equipment too.’

  ‘That would take days and cost thousands.’

  ‘How long can we keep these whales alive?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours. Seventy-two at the outside. After a couple of days on land their internal organs will start collapsing. Their bones will start breaking. You can’t get that equipment here that quick. Even if you did, it would probably be too late. And we don’t have that kind of money.’

  ‘How much?’ Hannah folded her arms, staring at her old teacher.

  ‘Ten thousand. Twenty if we had to charter a plane. Even if we could manage it, even if the whales didn’t die before the team got here, in all likelihood the calf is the only one we could refloat and it would probably still die. No one’s going to fund that.’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘She’s a juvenile, not a calf. She might join another pod. One of the others might foster her. It’s happened before. North Vancouver. San Juan Islands. I’m calling Paul Rocca. He’ll know.’

  ‘You know Dr Rocca?’

  ‘Yes. I’m one of his interns. Now, you going to let me in?’ Hannah was making
a powerful nuisance of herself. It felt good. It felt right.

  Steve shrugged, sighed.

  ‘Go home, make your calls. But you’re wasting your time.’

  Hannah looked at Little One again. A girl was slowly pouring water over the whale’s back. Hannah had a strong, sick twinge in her gut. It was concern for the whale, but also a pang of jealousy. She wanted to care for Little One. She had found her on the beach. They’d found each other.

  ‘I want to see Li— the whale,’ said Hannah. ‘Can I?’ Not forceful now. Pleading. ‘Steve … please?’

  ‘No. And you know why. No emotional attachment. It doesn’t help.’ Steve looked to her dad for help. Dad took Hannah’s arm and pulled her gently, but firmly, away.

  Jake

  JAKE STOOD OUTSIDE Ned’s house. He checked his phone: another message from Hannah. Shit. He turned it off. He’d call her. Right after he got this sorted.

  Ned’s workshop was in his garage.

  Above the main garage door, Ned had once painted a graffiti pic of Little Red Riding Hood holding a basket of spray cans, with the words: ‘Fear makes the wolf look bigger.’ But he’d painted over it now. Maybe it was a bit attention-grabbing for a weed dealer.

  Jake knocked on the door. The rap music blasting out was so loud, he guessed Ned couldn’t hear. So he walked in.

  A long rack of surfboards lay against one wall. Against the opposite wall were shelves filled with foam blanks, rolls of material and sanders. The equipment of a dedicated board shaper.

  Ned stood in the middle of the garage, leaning over a board on a workbench. His overalls were stained, and his hair was hanging round his face. He was hand-sanding the tail of the board. Blowing on it. Sanding a bit more. Blowing again. Smiling at his handiwork.

  Jake waited for Ned to look up. Ned turned the music down.

  ‘Thought you’d be out surfing, Jakey boy. Getting practice for yer big trip.’

  ‘Been already. You?’

  ‘Nah, waiting till it calms down a bit. Got this fix to finish anyway.’ Any talk with Ned started this way. About surf. Often it stayed that way. ‘You here for a board to take to Hawaii?’

  ‘No. That’s not why I’m here. Is Rag around?’

  ‘Little Bro? He’s off with his mates.’

  ‘Sue?’

  ‘Sue’s history, mate. Gave me the sack, the silly mare,’ he said, grinning and winking. That was Ned. Always grinning, always smiling. He had an easy flow about him. A permanent smile, which might be due to his almost always being stoned.

  ‘You don’t seem too upset,’ said Jake.

  Ned shrugged. ‘Why you asking about Rag and Sue?’

  ‘What I need to talk about. It’s sensitive.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Ned went to the shelf, found a tobacco tin and gave it to Jake. ‘If yer gonna distract me from my work, make yerself useful.’

  Jake opened the tin. Inside were papers, cigarettes and a small bag of weed.

  ‘I don’t really smoke,’ said Jake.

  ‘Thass all right. Make one fer me.’ He got back to sanding, frowning, focusing.

  ‘Funny that,’ said Jake. ‘It’s drugs I’ve come about. I’ve got a sort of … business proposition.’

  Ned froze for a second before he blew dust off the board.

  ‘Yeah? Thought persians weren’t your thing?’

  ‘I need some dosh for Hawaii. Quick. Money doesn’t grow on trees.’

  ‘Yeah? Whoever said that never tried selling weed.’ Ned chuckled.

  ‘I’m not talking about weed.’ Jake dug in his pocket and placed a small foil pack on the board, in front of Ned. ‘Can you tell me if this is … any good? I can get more. But I need help selling it.’ Jake carefully opened the foil envelope, revealing the powder inside.

  Ned went and turned the music off.

  ‘How much did you pay for that?’ he said.

  Jake’s brain scrambled for an answer. ‘Um. Fifty.’

  Ned shook his head. ‘Dude. You’ve been ripped off.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jake. ‘Is there not fifty quid’s worth there?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Fifty notes’ worth of baby-milk powder, mixed with a bit of speed, probly. But not coke.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Ned laughed at Jake’s innocence. ‘If that was Charlie, you’d have coughed up more than that. Who sold you this shit?’

  ‘Never mind. If it’s duff I’ll take it back.’

  ‘Dealers don’t do refunds, you muppet. Anyway, why’ve you bought coke if you don’t do it yerself?’

  ‘Can you just give it a try?’ said Jake, trying not to sound impatient.

  ‘All right, just for you …’ He rooted around his shelves and drawers, till he’d found a roof slate, a credit card and a ten-pound note. He set all this up on the table, next to the board he was working on. Using the card, he carefully scraped a small bit of the crumbly powder out of the foil and on to the slate, and set about chopping at the small boulders and lumps till he was left with nothing but fine powder. He used the edge of the card to form a line. He didn’t snort it, though. Not at first. Ned licked the end of his finger, dabbed it in the end of the line of snowy powder, and tasted it.

  Fun drained from his face. He looked at Jake, dead curious. And serious. He rolled up the tenner, leant over, and Hoover-snorted the line of powder. He stood up. Stick-straight, like he’d had an electric shock.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Ned wheezed.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Holy shit!’ Ned stood up, sniffing, blowing, walking around, like he was too big for the room all of a sudden. ‘Holy shit!’ Ned sucked in deep breaths, one after the other. He clicked his fingers, repeatedly. It was weird. ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘Stop saying that, Ned. What’s it like?’

  ‘Like a fucking rocket, that’s what it’s like. You paid a hundred for this much blow? The dude who sold it hasn’t a clue. But I’ll bet he’s got an endless queue of customers. Where d’yer get this?’

  ‘Do you know anyone who’d want some? I can get quite a lot.’

  ‘At that price? Yeah. I reckon I can find someone … Holy shiiiiiiiitt!’ Ned was twitching, sniffing, shaking his head.

  ‘What if I could get a lot more,’ said Jake. ‘A flour-bag full. Dirt cheap. And we made some money and split it?’

  Ned stopped pacing, getting control of himself, blowing out deep breaths, focusing on Jake. There was no laughing now, no smiling. ‘Listen, mate, I can take some and sell a bit, but I don’t know anyone who could take that much gear.’

  ‘I do.’ It was a girl’s voice. Jake spun round to see where the voice had come from.

  A girl with long brown hair, wearing a biker jacket, was standing at the door. She had dark skin, dark eyes and dark make-up. She was smiling calmly, staring at the powder.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Jake.

  ‘It’s all right, mate,’ said Ned. ‘This is Tasha.’

  ‘You said you were alone.’

  ‘I said Rag and Sue weren’t around. Don’t panic. Tasha’s cool.’

  No wonder Ned hadn’t been upset about Sue.

  ‘You cut the music,’ said Tasha. ‘I figured you’d quit work and wanted to play.’ She strolled to the table, licked her finger, dipped it in the powder and put it in her mouth. ‘Ooh,’ she said. Her voice was soft, sarcastic. And posh. ‘That’s nice. May I?’ She took another dab.

  Jake wasn’t happy about this strange girl’s appearance. But there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He shrugged.

  The girl took another dab, then another. And another, rubbing the drug into her gums each time. She breathed deep. She kept licking her gums.

  ‘Well, um, er, wow. Woooow. You have got something special here, um, what’s your name?’

  ‘Jake.’

  ‘Jake. Hmm, right. Well, Jake. Did you say a flour-bag full? That’s quite a lot of snow. But I might know someone who would be interested … if you can make it worth my … our while. Me and Ned that is. Do you fanc
y a bit yourself? Know what you’re dealing with. Or in your case, just dealing. Or shall I polish it all off?’ She smiled, lopsided, like she knew a secret he didn’t. She grabbed the note off the slate and started rerolling it, then made more lines from the small hill. Jake watched, hypnotised. She offered him the note.

  He took it off her. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even think. He just did it, and held the note in his fingers, looking at it.

  Thoughts raced through Jake’s head. Should he? Shouldn’t he? What was so good about it? What if he liked it? Course he’d like it. People don’t get addicted to shit they never liked in the first place.

  What if he loved it? A lot?

  Same.

  And he had a virtually endless supply. He thought of what Hannah would say, and what she’d do, if she knew what he was doing right now.

  He gave the note back.

  ‘All right, who do you know?’ he said.

  Tasha snorted some of the coke herself, then smiled at him again. There was nothing nice about it. She was like a cat. One that killed a lot of mice and birds.

  Could he trust her? Did he have a choice? And was this actually, in any way, even remotely a good idea?

  Was it?

  Jake looked at the girl, Tasha, then at the cocaine, at Ned, who was still breathing heavily, and twitching.

  He could almost hear the alarm bells. He had a bad feeling about all of this. Goofy had been right. As per.

  ‘I must be nuts,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What’s that, Jake?’ asked Tasha, sniffing. ‘Are you still not going to have some?’

  ‘No. But thanks for helping me get a grip.’

  ‘What?’ said Tasha.

  Jake’s heart sank. Because he knew, in an instant, that he had to let it go now. He had to walk away, even if it meant not going to Hawaii, even if it meant waving Hannah goodbye at the airport. Because this, here, with Ned and the girl and the drugs, was insane.

  Jake went to wrap up the foil, to leave. But Tasha put a hand out, stopping him.

  ‘I’ll need a sample, Jake. For the deal. Something to show.’

  ‘Did you not hear me? D’you know what? Keep it. Sell it. Snort it. I don’t care.’