The Boy from the Sea

by H L Macfarlane

  I looked up and gasped.

  How had I not noticed that Dylan was sitting two seats to my left on the opposite side of the table? In all honestly I didn’t even know if he’d been sat there before I arrived. Either way, I promptly lost all desire to work as my brain went into overdrive about how I currently looked: no make-up, hair pulled back into a half-hearted ponytail, terrible posture as I slouched inside the fluffy jacket I hadn’t bothered removing. I sat a little straighter and fiddled with my hair in response, willing it to not look like I’d tried and failed to sleep on it.

  Dylan, by contrast, looked great in an unassuming way, dressed in a grey jumper with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His messy hair tumbled over his forehead and threatened to touch his eyelashes as he frowned in concentration at his drawing.

  Should I move? I wondered. I wasn’t sure if Dylan had noticed me. He was so engrossed in his blue biro dancing across a lined piece of notebook paper that I reckoned he wasn’t aware of any of his surroundings.

  I focused on the paper to work out what he was drawing. A dark, stormy sea, crashing against a shelf of rock whilst a gull flew overhead. In the foreground I could make out a collection of shells and broken mussels, and when I narrowed my eyes I thought I could see a crab.

  Every line Dylan drew seemed full of intent. The waves were powerful and disastrous; the delicate, pretty shells at the mercy of that power.

  It felt as if I watched him draw for hours. I could have watched for hours.

  “That’s beautiful,” I said, covering my mouth when I realised I’d been so entranced that I’d stupidly spoken out loud. Dylan’s eyes darted from the paper to my face in an instant. This is it, I thought, certain. If he didn’t know before that I’m a stalker then he definitely knows –

  “Thank you.”

  I blinked, too shocked that Dylan had responded to take in what he’d said. His lips curled into the smallest of genuine smiles, and when he didn’t immediately return to drawing I took it as a sign that it was okay for me to speak again – intentionally this time.

  “Do you…do you like the sea?”

  Dylan’s expression changed slightly, though I had no idea what the look on his face meant. “I think that might be an understatement.”

  “Is that why you’re studying marine biology, then, Dylan? Because –”

  “Lir,” he interrupted, in hushed tones that felt like he was telling me a secret. “My name is Lir.”

  There was a moment of silence as I processed this. Lir was his middle name; I hadn’t heard anybody use anything other than Dylan to refer to him up to this point. I dared to believe that I was the first to learn this about him.

  I tried the name out. “Lir.” It felt good on my lips, as if it belonged there. “Lir. I like it.”

  The way Dylan’s – Lir’s – face lit up was like seeing the sun in the middle of the night. I could hardly stand to look at his luminous smile; his wide-eyed delight. I recalled that my first impression of his face was that there was an innocence about it. Now I could see why.

  “So is that why you’re studying marine biology?” I asked again, not knowing what else to ask – though there were countless other questions rushing a mile a minute through my brain.

  “Yes,” he said, as if that was all there was to it. I supposed that was enough. But then Lir elaborated. “I feel…more myself…when I’m in or near water. I don’t feel right trapped inside a city.”

  It was my turn to smile. “I’m exactly the same. I grew up in –”

  “Largs. I remember.”

  The fact Lir had remembered such a small, inconsequential nugget of information about me from a group conversation in the lab weeks ago did strange things to my stomach. Well, lower than that. It told me he deemed me worth his notice. Worth his brain retaining facts about me.

  Fuck, I had it bad.

  “Yeah, Largs,” I said. “I spent most of my summer out sailing and fishing with my dad. What about you? Your name is pretty Irish but you don’t sound that Irish.” It was only in saying this that I consciously processed what Lir’s voice was like. There was definitely an Irish twang in it, to be sure, though not enough to know from where it originated. But it didn’t matter; his voice was beautifully low and lilting. Like a storyteller, I thought, weaving impossible tales by firelight.

  Lir ran a hand through his hair and replaced the lid on his pen before replying. “I lived in Ireland until I was six in a tiny place called Bundoran that nobody’s ever heard of. Then I moved to Campbeltown.”

  “Campbeltown? Of all places, why there?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You seem to find that funny. Why?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not – okay, it’s funny,” I admitted, “but that’s just because I grew up surrounded by folk making fun of the place. Campbeltown is really lovely though, even if it does take forever to reach, what with it being in the middle of nowhere and all.”

  “Which is exactly why I like it,” Lir said, returning to his heart-melting smile. “The surfing’s good there.”

  “You surf?”

  “As often as I can.”

  “Ah, so it’s not always open water –”

  I stopped myself from finishing my question, horrified that I’d almost revealed I’d asked Max for information about him. “Do you like swimming outdoors, too?” I asked, instead, to cover my tracks.

  “Far more than in the pool, though I imagine you probably surmised that already.”

  The way Lir eyed me up told me he already knew I’d been asking people about him.

  I was mortified.

  “I’ve seen you in the pool sometimes,” he added on when I didn’t reply. “You’re not bad, though your back stroke could use some work.”

  Okay, if I was mortified before I was even more so now. I hung my head in shame, mumbling an, “I hate back stroke,” in response.

  To my complete surprise Lir burst out laughing, eliciting a shh from someone several tables away. He simmered his laugh down to a gentle chuckle. “Hey, Grace,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

  I’d never heard him say my name before. I had no choice but to look at him.

  Lir’s grey eyes were soft and commanding in equal measure. “It’s all fine,” he told me. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I absolutely had. Hearing Lir say otherwise only made me more ashamed of myself. “Uh – thanks, I guess,” I said after a while, no longer able to hold his gaze. His face was too honest; I couldn’t stand to look at it right now.

  A long, uncomfortable silence stretched out between us. Perhaps Lir was waiting for me to say something. Perhaps he’d said what he needed to say and was content with our one and only conversation ending where it ended. Either way, I didn’t break the silence, though I desperately wanted to.

  Then, after five minutes, Lir packed up his belongings and stood up. “I hope I’ll see you around,” he said, before walking away so silently I had to turn my head and watch him leave just to make sure he wasn’t standing right behind me.

  “See you around,” I mouthed.

  I had no idea when that would be.

  It seemed, however improbable it may have been, that Lir very much did.

  Chapter Five

  One morning in late February, which at first appeared to be just like any other dreary winter morning, I received an email that changed everything for me.

  It was from my PhD supervisor, handing me a blessed opportunity for paid work that he knew I so desperately needed. I had nothing but a rapidly-depleting savings account acting as a buffer between me and homelessness as I forced out my thesis, so any kind of paid work was a god send. This particular work, however, seemed like a literal miracle.

  The email read:

  Hi Grace,

  Figured you could do with the work. Professor Reynolds, who runs the marine and freshwater biology degree, needs an extra pair of hands for the group’s upcoming Millport trip in March. The students spend a week gathering research samples and do
ing wet lab work in prep for their final year projects, so you won’t be doing anything complicated. She said it’s basically glorified babysitting, and since Sophie told her the marine students got on well with you in the molecular methods lab she thought you’d be a good fit. Would you be interested in helping out over there?

  Let me know what you think,

  Mark

  I had to read the email over three times before what was written before my very eyes sunk in. A week with the marine and freshwater biology third year students.

  With Lir.

  I hadn’t seen him since our conversation in the library, which felt entirely like a dream rather than a real thing that happened a mere week ago. It had been so late, and the tenth floor had been dark and silent all around us. Since then I’d become a ball of nervous, manic energy, especially because Lir told me he’d see me around. But, seven days later, I hadn’t laid eyes on him even once.

  I emailed my supervisor back saying yes.

  The Millport trip was in two weeks. Fourteen days to prepare my heart and my nerves, as well as write as much of my thesis as I physically could. Something told me that if I didn't do much of it now I would struggle to get back into the swing of things when I returned.

  I certainly wasn’t going to do any of it in my parents’ house, that much I knew for a fact. No, I’d spend my time eating all the food in the kitchen, soaking in the bath (which had jets), and watching anything and everything on their surround sound, fifty inch television whilst taking up all the space on their expensive corner sofa.

  After all, what else was a poor student supposed to do when faced with the simple luxuries in life that came from spending the week in a nice house right on the promenade of a tourist town? Not work on her thesis, that much was for sure.

  So I pulled my head out of my ass and locked myself down in the library day after day, only pausing from writing my thesis in order to exercise in the gym – which, for once, I wasn’t doing simply to catch Lir. Well, I suppose I was doing it to catch Lir’s attention once we were in Millport; I was now in the best shape of my entire adult life.

  By the end of the two weeks I only had a final results chapter and a closing discussion left to write. When I sent all the work I’d done to my supervisor he responded with surprise at my burst of productivity, which I’d expected. I was pleased with myself. When left to my own devices I tended not to be all that dedicated to deadlines until the literal night before said deadline.

  Perhaps I was finally growing up. Maybe this was the beginning of me becoming a responsible, forward-thinking adult, who could talk to people that she liked and socialise with large groups on a regular basis.

  “One thing at a time,” I said as I carefully packed my bag for a week in Largs. I’d originally intended to pack almost entirely pyjamas and lounge wear, but now everything had changed. I needed to bring pretty clothes, hair curlers and make-up.

  One thing at a time, then another and another. I had to finish writing my thesis and pass my viva before anything else could happen with my life. And, before that, I had to work out if Lir was interested in me the way I was interested in him. It certainly seemed that way in the library and – I gulped at the memory – when we’d been in the steam room at the gym.

  I had goals. Small, manageable goals. That was good. I didn’t feel so anxious when I broke down what I needed to do like that.

  After I packed I checked my Facebook account for messages. I’d uninstalled all social media apps from my phone to stop them distracting me whilst I wrote my thesis, so I cringed in anticipation of a deluge of missed conversations.

  To my relief there weren’t many. I had several messages from David, which included a gif of a cat and a video of a fainting goat. I responded to the video, apologising for being terrible at messaging for the last fortnight. He replied almost immediately saying he was looking forward to seeing me again during the Millport trip. To this I merely said me, too, and left it at that.

  Aside from David I had seven missed video calls from Louisa. And several messages on WhatsApp, Instagram and Snapchat.

  God, I felt terrible. I hadn’t been avoiding Louisa deliberately, since I’d been genuinely working or in the gym, but still. I could have found the time to call her at least once over the past two weeks yet I hadn’t. So I fired over a quick apology, stating that I’d call her when I reached my parents’ house the following day. Hopefully that would be enough to make it up to Louisa and assuage my guilt in the process.

  Things were changing in my life, that much was certain. Good things – great things – felt just within my grasp. But my relationship with Louisa was the one thing I never wanted to change. I had to be a better person and make more of an effort.

  And besides, how could I expect her to like Lir if all she ever knew about him was that I ignored her in favour of him? I was determined that they should meet when Louisa came back from Australia. They had to. I wanted them both in my life, after all.

  I just had to make Lir part of said life, first.

  Chapter Six

  When I was fourteen – perhaps to apologise for never giving me a sibling, though in truth I never wanted one – my parents bought me a kitten. He was an adorable thing, all grey fluff with white-tipped ears, white underbelly and three white socks on his feet. I’d called him Tom, for the cartoon, because I wasn’t all that imaginative as a teen. He followed me everywhere, and when I left for university I cried for days over leaving him. I loved him down to my very core.

  After keeping me up half the night, he was seriously testing that love to within an inch of my life and my sleep-deprived, frayed nerves.

  “Tom, get down here!” I yelled. “Your damn breakfast is ready.”

  The fact that Tom didn’t immediately come skittering into the kitchen the moment I opened a tin of food was telling. He was asleep on my bed, I knew, having exhausted himself exhausting me.

  Tom cried and screamed in the garden whenever anyone came close. His mad behaviour actually saved the house getting broken into on a dark November evening two years ago, when my parents were out and our neighbour, Terry, was keeping an eye on things.

  It was an instinct I should have been grateful for. But, now that Tom was almost twelve years old it seemed very much as if he was starting to go senile. No matter how many times I opened the door to scope out the garden and the street in front of the house there was nobody there, yet Tom just wouldn’t stop yowling even when I locked him up inside.

  It meant I had been blessed with about three hours of sleep collectively, which was at least five hours less than I needed. I’d wanted to be fresh for the lab and reach the ferry that was taking the students over to Millport with time to spare; instead, I was scrambling about knowing that I was cutting it fine to get to the pier before the damn boat left.

  I thumped up the stairs, arms crossed over my chest as I spied Tom sprawled on his back on my bed. “Fine,” I told him, not trying to keep my voice down in the slightest, “sleep the day away and keep me up at night. Talk about love, you useless cat.” Then I grabbed my jacket and left the house, making sure to double-check that both the front and back doors were locked.

  Just in case.

  It was a lovely morning, blustery and sunny. The mid-March air held the promise of spring, though there was still a biting edge to it when I passed beneath the shade of a tree. If I’d not been so tired and running so late I’d have been tempted to get an ice cream from Nardini’s Café for breakfast.

  “For dinner, then,” I promised, stomach rumbling and mouth watering at the mere thought of coconut and vanilla ice cream melting down the cone and onto my fingers. God, it had been too long since I’d been home.

  The ferry was just over ten minutes from my house – I could see the pier from my bedroom window – so though I’d been worried about missing the boat I still reached it with a minute or two to spare. When I boarded and caught sight of the students I couldn’t help but smile. There was an obvious split between the ones
who were excited to be on the boat and those who had already grown uneasy. Though it was a sunny day the water was, as it often was, choppy, with frequent waves causing the deck to shift beneath its passengers’ feet.

  At least the students had an easy morning getting settled into the Research Station and listening to a few introductory lectures. I had a hectic morning of sample preparation and aliquoting reagents ahead of me.

  As the ferry left the pier the original enthusiasm for being on a boat was washed away from many of the students, who were now faced with inevitable seasickness. “David!” I called when I saw the man in question. His eyes were closed, and he had removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “The ferry ride is barely fifteen minutes long. You’ll be fine.”

  True to my promise after the molecular methods lab I had kept up my friendship with David, though at times I felt unsure about his attentions. I knew I only saw him as a friend, but it was becoming apparent that wasn’t all he saw me as. I didn’t want to risk our friendship by calling him out on it: I’d met a lot of men who, when faced with rejection, no longer had any interest in being my friend. I didn't imagine David was that kind of person. However, I had so few friends currently that I had no intention of risking the loss of this one just on a hunch.

  In any case David did not respond to my comment verbally. He shook his head, and that was it.

  When it became clear David was in no condition for conversation I headed to the passenger cabin to check my phone, as I knew my schedule for the day was too busy to check it later. Louisa had sent me a few photos on Instagram, showing me that she was busy fanning herself on the beach whilst nursing a mojito, then playing volleyball on the sand with several handsome strangers. Classic Louisa, I thought, making friends at every turn. I wonder if she’ll even remember their names tomorrow.