Chapter One
In the Sandhopper bar on Porth beach, Priddy sat admiring a
handsome young man. He could only see him in profile—salt-curled
blond hair brushing his shoulders, long tanned legs in cut-off
denim shorts. Typical surfer, but none the less attractive for
that. A little bit too thin for his height. Wearing a T-shirt with
the legend, written out backwards for some reason,
Weeverfish Southwest Tour 2010.
That was
odd. Priddy had that same T-shirt himself. It was one of his
favourites, a souvenir from six years ago. He wondered if the lad
on the barstool across from him wore it for the same reasons he
did, in memory of better days.
Priddy
didn’t want to be caught staring. He returned his attention to the
beach. The bar was open at the front in this blazing June weather,
the shutters rolled up and only the framework of the veranda
dividing the interior from the single-track road that ended here,
and beyond it the sand and the rolling Atlantic surf. Late August,
high season in full swing. The lifeguards were out in force,
buzzing back and forth on their quad bikes, making sure the
board-riders stayed between the wind-fluttered safe-zone flags and
out of the ferocious rip. It was a perfect summer scene, sea-glass
greens and Mediterranean blues, and all the dancing, jingling,
ruffle-sailed beach-bum charm that drew kids down by their hundreds
in Volkswagen buses and every other refitted make of van
imaginable.
Most
were content to obey the lifeguards’ rules. Not all, though. As
always, a few hardy souls who thought they knew better were
straying beyond the flagged boundaries, waiting for the monster
waves that humped up over the sand bar and curled into delicious
blue tunnels before exploding with glorious power on the
beach.
Their arrogance had angered the sea god. Poseidon created
himself out of the crystal Cornish waters, a barrel-chested giant
taller than the Porth Bay cliffs. He looked a hell of a lot like
the Harryhausen masterpiece from Jason and
the Argonauts, the guy who’d risen from the
waves to hold the clashing rocks apart for the Argo. He raised one
muscular arm and began to poke at the errant surfers with his
tripod.
Priddy
fell off his barstool. The blond boy took fright too and did the
same. Priddy didn’t blame either of them, but nobody else seemed
concerned. The lifeguards continued their casual surveillance. The
bartender checked his watch, went to the door and glanced irritably
up and down the promenade. He raised an eyebrow at Priddy, then
strolled back behind the counter as if nothing was
wrong.
And
nothing was, of course. Poseidon dissolved into glittering foam.
Priddy tried to give the other boy a sympathetic grin, but couldn’t
quite see him from this angle. Nice to know he wasn’t the only poor
sod around here who sometimes saw things that turned out not to be
real...
He scrambled upright. The Sandhopper had no other side: just one mirrored
wall to make the place look bigger, and a second mirror mounted
over the bar. The two reflections had conspired. Priddy was the boy
with cut-off jeans and blond curls. Now he had identified himself,
his attractions blew away like dust: the real Priddy only looked
tired and bemused. He hitched back onto his stool, sheepishly
brushing himself down.
A
scooter roared to a halt on the sand outside. The rider dismounted
and opened the carry-case on the rear, then ran up the wooden steps
of the veranda. Priddy smiled, recognising his best mate from
childhood upwards, Kit. Like most of the Rosewarne Cove lads who
hadn’t made the A-level grades for university, Kit was scraping a
living from patched-together part-time jobs: driving a delivery
bike, taking the odd shift in his grandfather’s lighthouse at
Hagerawl Point, even finding time to do lifeguard duty during the
peak summer months. Priddy himself had once been one of those
sun-gods down on the beach, sober and responsible by day, by night
partying hard with the surf bunnies. Not anymore.
Kit
hadn’t seen him. He deposited a box of bulk-buy peanuts on the bar.
The barhop gave him a high-five, and they fell into conversation.
Clearly they knew each other. Kit still went to places, talked to
people, made friends, did things. Priddy felt like a satellite,
orbiting coldly a million miles out.
Kit took
his signature pad back from the bartender. They finished their
business and Kit turned away, heading back to his bike. He stopped
mid-stride, eyebrows rising in surprise. “That you over there,
Priddy-boy?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t wholly sure. Maybe the boy in the mirror had
really fallen off his stool, and Priddy was the one who’d
disappeared into oblivion behind the mirror’s blank eye. It was
nice to see Kit, though, and he braced himself to look and sound
normal. “Hi, Kit. How are you doing?”
“Pretty much the same as when you saw me yesterday. Er... what
are you drinking?”
Priddy squinted at the hand-scrawled menu. “Apparently
it’s a long, slow sea-blue screw up
against the boathouse wall. It’s probably
my round, though. Let me get one for you.”
“Prid, I’m not offering to buy.” Kit hitched himself onto the
neighbouring barstool, blocking the bartender’s view. He lowered
his voice. “I mean what the bloody hell are you drinking, and why
are you doing it here? I thought you had a job
interview.”
The
memory popped back into Priddy’s head with buoyant force. He was
pleased to be able to confirm Kit’s good opinion of him. “I
do!”
“Come with me a minute, mate. Come on.”
Kit put
out a hand. Priddy took it willingly. He’d known Kit since he was
four years old. They’d stumbled hand-in-hand through hundreds of
childhood hazards. He didn’t resist when Kit towed him off through
the saloon-style doors of the trendily unisex bathroom. “Here,” Kit
said, turning him to face the mirror. “Let’s get you sorted out.
Take your T-shirt off.”
“What? Why?”
“Because if you put it on backwards, your potential new boss
won’t see the Weeverfish logo on the front. And if you take my
shirt and sling it on over everything, you’ll look good. Hip but
casual. Pity about your jeans... I’d swap, but you wouldn’t hold
mine up anymore.”
That was
true. Priddy examined their reflected differences. Kit was stocky
and dark, starting to pack weight on in a way that suited him.
“It’s okay. I’ll do, won’t I?”
“Almost. Shirt?”
Priddy
peeled it off over his head. He didn’t like to see himself like
this. His sun-kissed swimmer’s six-pack had melted away to
rib-bumps. Quickly he flipped the T-shirt round and dived back into
it. “Sorry, Kit. Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Bothering you. Being a nuisance.”
“You’re not. Here, put your arms back.” Kit helped him shrug
into his clean white shirt. He ran his fingers through Priddy’s
hair, tidying at first, then soothing, drawing the tangled curls
back. “Where is this interview, anyway?”
“It’s...” Priddy paused until the caressing fingers had
straightened out enough of his thoughts. “It’s here, actually. So
that’s okay.”
“What time?”
Priddy
glanced up at the shell-encrusted clock on the wall. Why there was
one in here and not in the main bar, he didn’t know. He connected
the position of the hands—one of them a surfboard, the other a
grinning great white shark—with the bartender’s trip to the door,
his impatient glance along the road and promenade. “Half an hour
ago. Shit.”
“Oh, Prid. Are you having a bad day?”
He
didn’t know. He had felt all right so far, but a memory lapse like
this was hard to square with perfectly organised faculties. “Maybe.
I... think I forgot my meds last night.”
Kit gave
him a shake. “This is no good, mate. You have to remember. Do you
want me to get you one of those little boxes with the days marked
on?”
“I already have one. But it’s white, plastic, boring. It
doesn’t seem to impinge on me.”
“I’ll buy you one that will. Listen to me. My granddad’s going
to need someone to take watches at the lighthouse soon. Would you
consider doing that?”
“What? Is your granda hiring certified crackheads these
days?”
“It’s fully automated. Even you couldn’t do much damage.
Besides, you’re not one anymore, are you?” Kit looked up, brown
eyes suddenly full of grief. “And I owe you, Priddy. You know I
do.”
It was
time for Priddy to set the record straight on this. Long past time,
when he came to think about it. Weeks had flown away like magpies
since he and Kit had hit the clubs to celebrate the end of their
last sixth-form college term. He turned away from the mirror, took
the broad shoulders in his hands. “Listen. I was screwing about
with all kinds of highs, legal and otherwise, long before that
night. And it’s not like you sat on me and held my nose until I
opened my mouth for the bloody stuff, is it?”
“No. I just thought you’d enjoy it. I still could’ve died when
you got so ill. You’re still fucked up from it now.”
“Only a little bit. Only when I forget my meds.”
“Will you at least think about the job, then?” Kit’s voice had
roughened with incipient tears. “You can live in. The salary’s not
much, but that might not be a bad thing for you. And... I don’t
think the old man’s gonna let me go until I find a
replacement.”
The
penny finally dropped. Priddy took a deep breath. “You’re
leaving.”
“Yes. Shit, Priddy—I’m so sorry. I got a place at Northeast
Atlantic to do marine biology.”
“You said... You said you hadn’t got the grades.”
“I wasn’t sure. But—yeah, I scraped through.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You know why.
It was meant to be both of us.”
Priddy
took him into his arms. He clutched at the solid warmth of him, so
real and strong. Hot salt flooded his sinuses, made his sight
prickle and blur. “I’m so bloody pleased for you.”
Kit
manoeuvred both of them into a toilet stall. He banged the door
behind them with one foot, reached to push the bolt home. Priddy
lifted his face to meet his kiss, which had surprised him so much
the first time—the only time—they’d let their long friendship tip
over into sex. Softer than he’d imagined, cloudier, like kissing a
peach. He hadn’t been certain that Kit was even gay, not in the way
he was certain about himself. He pushed his body against Kit’s,
trying to catch the wave of desire. Kit grabbed his buttocks and
lifted, grinding him against the wall. Not romantic, as love-nests
went, but wild west Cornwall had a way of redeeming sordid corners:
the skylight let in a purity of blue afternoon, and gulls
crisscrossed the oblong space, tracing runic symbols on the
sky...
“Priddy?”
“Yeah? What?”
“You okay?”
“Um... Yes. No... Better let me go.”
Kit
obeyed, a touch too willingly for a really ardent lover. Their
tumble in the dunes the year before had been great, but they’d
rolled apart quickly afterwards, suddenly all knees and elbows, and
never repeated the experiment. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. That is...” Priddy gave a pained laugh, tried to back
away and sat down clumsily on the toilet lid. “I can’t, really. Not
since—”
“Your overdose? Oh, shit, Priddy. You’re
kidding.”
Priddy
decided he’d better be. He hadn’t meant to let the last revelation
tumble out at all. Way too much for poor Kit to carry. “Forget it.
You and I are really good at being friends, that’s all. We always
were. Sex can fuck things up.”
“Sex can fuck things up? I ought to get that printed on a
T-shirt.”
“Not before you go to university. I want you to have some fun.”
Priddy grabbed Kit’s belt and pulled him close, only loving this
time, tired and sorry for the fuck-up he’d made of his life. He
rested his face on Kit’s warm belly. “I’ll stay here and take your
granda’s job, if he’ll have me. And you go off to Northeast
Atlantic and be the best fucking marine biologist ever to crawl out
of Rosewarne Cove. Do you promise?”
Kit’s
stomach muscles jolted in a bitten-off sob. “I promise.
Okay.”