Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
French artist of landscapes and maritime battle scenes. Why do battle scenes need to be conveyed? Discuss bias in point of view.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
‘Callie!’ Johnny yelled at her rapidly retreating back. ‘You can’t go over there, it’s too dangerous. Let me go, Jamie, I need to go after her.’
‘Johnny, you can’t. It’s not safe. Wait until the coastguard and the others arrive. The storm’s getting worse.’
Johnny shook him off and ran after Callie. Ducking around several people who were wisely retreating, he lost sight of her yellow coat. The wind threw another gout of rain at him, making him stagger and then a clap of thunder reverberated around the bay, bouncing off the cliffs in the east.
He leaned against a beach hut, hands clamped over his ears.
It was so violent it sounded like an explosion.
The explosions he’d battled through in Iraq.
The thunder echoed through his chest, into his head until he couldn’t think.
His heart felt as if it was going to erupt into his throat.
Squeezing his eyes shut he focused on his breathing exercises.
It seemed ridiculous to try them out here in the middle of a storm, but it was all he had left.
Somewhere in the storm was a frightened young woman and her mother. Callie.
He didn’t have a clue what had spooked Frida, and it was none of his business, but it must have been something serious.
Callie might, at this very moment, be putting herself into danger hunting for her daughter.
Yet here he was, frozen. This was why he’d left his job.
Not so much knowing he wouldn’t cope in a situation like this, or where flashbacks made any kind of movement or rational thought impossible; it was the fear of letting someone down.
The baby’s body, broken and lifeless, swam into his vision.
He’d been too late to get her out. It hadn’t been a bomb which had brought the building down on top of her, it had been an earthquake, but the end results had been the same.
Death. Destruction. Sorrow. He’d seen too much.
The recent long conversations with Verity had helped a little.
She wasn’t a trained counsellor, she’d explained, but a good ear.
It had been good to talk. Just talk. Drink endless cups of tea and get it out of his system.
Verity had made him promise to book some sessions with a specialist. Had encouraged the breathing exercises.
She’d been right. They were calming him down, allowing him to think more clearly.
A spike of lightning daggering across the churning black sea brought him back to the present. Talking to Verity had eased some of his worries but he still wasn’t sure he could do this. Maybe he should have listened to Jamie? He owed the guy an apology. Best leave it to the emergency services.
A man shouldered past him carrying an enormous cool box.
‘I’d get out of here if I was you, my friend,’ he yelled over another thunderclap.
‘Reckon the retaining wall’s got a good chance of coming down.
Right on top of the end beach huts. Weight of all the water that’s draining down.
Once the services are here, they’ll block off access, I reckon.
’ He shook rain out of his eyes. ‘Tis a tragedy. All folks’ stuff. ’
Johnny squinted through the rain, in the direction of where the man had come.
The white lights strung along the seafront were swinging wildly, disorientating him.
He needed to find Frida and Callie. Get them to safety.
‘Have you seen a woman?’ He grabbed the bloke by the arm, gesturing with his hand.
‘About so high. Wearing a yellow waterproof.’
The man shook his head, impatient to go.
‘Or a girl in her twenties.’ Johnny fought his memory. What had Frida been wearing? ‘Red dress. Dark hair. Pretty.’
‘Oh yes. Seen her all right. Up at the end. Last but one beach hut. The white striped one. Careful of that wall, mate. When the coastguard arrives, I’ll tell him where you’ve gone.
’ More thunder made them flinch. ‘Never seen a summer storm like this one.’ A hut caught a gust of wind and slid, toppling over the low wall and onto the sand, splintering like matchsticks.
The man dropped his cool box and ran, shielding his face as a part of a roof headed his way.
Johnny pressed against the hut which seemed to be surviving.
Then he saw why. It had been blown into the supporting wall separating the two levels of the promenade.
It had crumpled into half its size. If anyone had been in there they would have been crushed.
And, if the wall collapsed on top, they’d have no chance of getting out.
If Frida and Callie were sheltering in a similar position, he had to do something before it was too late.
Sirens penetrated the noise of the storm.
The emergency services were on their way.
But he was here. Now. On the scene. He could do something.
He hadn’t been able to save that little girl in the earthquake, but he had a chance of rescuing Frida.
And Callie. His heart wrenched. She’d drawn away from him lately and he didn’t know why.
But if he stayed here any longer, he may never find out.
Forcing his feet, one in front of another, he clung close to the remaining huts, narrowly escaping another which shot off onto the beach.
Once the wind got underneath the join of flimsy wall and base they lifted up and took off.
Thunder and lightning crashed over him. The storm must be right over them.
It wasn’t moving off. Inching along, he reached the tallest part of the wall and three huts still miraculously remaining.
He just hoped the wall would stay in place a little longer.
What had that bloke said? He thought he’d seen Frida near the hut with the white stripes.
And where Frida was, Callie must be too.
As he approached the striped hut, the door blew open slamming into his face and chest, winding him.
He felt the hot trickle of blood run down his chin.
Clinging onto what was left of the door frame, he staggered past.
‘Johnny!’
He wheeled round. It was Callie. Where had her voice come from? In all the chaos of the storm and rain, his senses were confused.
‘Johnny. Come back. We’re in here!’
Falling into the hut, now missing its door, he tripped over her, landing against the wooden wall. In a snag of lightning he took in that Callie was crouched against a cupboard in its far corner, clutching onto Frida. The girl was ashen and a dark stain of blood ran freely from her thigh.
‘You’ve found us!’ Callie said. Her voice held the edge of panic, but she was holding it together for her daughter. ‘Frida’s hurt her leg. I didn’t want to move her. Was waiting for the ambulance.’ She waved her phone. ‘I rang 999 but I think they were coming anyway.’
He crouched beside her. Resisting the urge to fling his arms around her in relief, he went with putting a hand on her arm. ‘Think something’s on the way. I heard sirens a minute ago. But, Callie–’
‘What?’
‘I need to get you both out of here.’
‘I don’t think we should move Frida. It looks as if she’s already lost a lot of blood.’
Johnny glanced at Frida and then back to Callie. Shuffling nearer he said urgently, ‘There’s a chance the wall behind these huts will come down.’
‘No time to wait for the ambulance?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll lift Frida from the right; you put her arm around your shoulder and grab her around the waist.’ Was it his imagination or could he hear a sludgy slipperiness. A slipping of earth? The image of the broken child flashed back. ‘We need to get out now.’
Callie nodded and stood up. ‘Frida, darling girl, we’re going to get you moving now.’
Frida’s head lolled loosely to one side, but her eyes focused on her mother. ‘Okay,’ she slurred.
Johnny went to the other side of Frida, lifting her under the shoulders and taking most of her weight. ‘Come on, Frida. Just a few steps if you can manage it. I know it’s wet and horrible outside–’
‘It hurts.’
‘I know, my lovely but we’ll get you into a nice warm ambulance and you’ll feel all better.’
Frida flinched violently as she tried to bear weight.
‘Lean on me and try to hop if you can. That’s a girl.’
As Frida leaned all her weight on him, he slipped on the sopping wooden floor. An ominous creaking sounded. ‘Now or never!’
Together they levered Frida out into weeping gale.
A blast of rain hit them square in the face, stinging the skin and Callie gave an involuntary cry.
Johnny saw she’d given her waterproof to Frida and so was exposed to the elements in her silky vest and thin trousers.
In an agony of indecision he didn’t know whether to keep them near the shelter of the huts or force them back along the prom to where, hopefully, there would be help.
In a great sliding, splintering roar, the decision was made for him.
Just beyond where they were standing a section of the wall came down.
Half picking Frida up he grabbed Callie with his other arm and threw them over the low wall and onto the sand below.
The last thing he remembered was something large and hard hitting the back of his head.