to get sunburnt.
Imagine.
Then I find the second offering in the shallows. I pull it out of the water and itâs fat and heavy and streaming.
A black rucksack.
It could be one of the boysâ on the plane, I think. At first it seems to be empty, most of its contents swirled away by the sea. But right at the bottom is a red Nike T-shirt. Itâs XL, which is good. Means Iâll have something to wear at night, and I can hug it over my knees when it gets chilly. Thereâs half a packet of chewing gum and a Lambert & Butler fag packet, containing two wet ciggies. I lay these on a rock to dry. Not that Iâm stupid enough to use one of my last matches to light them. But itâs nice to know theyâre there.
And thereâs something in one of the pockets: a photo, much folded and refolded, and almost destroyed by the sea. I lay it out on the rock and look at whatâs left of it.
Itâs Joker â Kieran. The man thatâs with him must be his dad, because they have the same eyes and teeth. Theyâre both grinning away at the camera and holding up cans of lager, even though Joker only looks about twelve in this picture. His dad has his arm around his sonâs shoulder, loose and easy, and Joker looks happy as hell.
When both the bag and the picture are dry, I refold the photo and zip it back in its pocket. Try not to think of Joker thrashing around on the floor of the plane.
Wonât think of that.
The bikini top is strewn further up the beach, so now I have the full set.
Lucky me.
But next to it on the sand is something much more exciting. A pair of sunglasses. They may be fake Ray-Bans, like something swiped from Brixton Market, and they may have an arm missing, but right now theyâre worth more to me than all the fags in the world.
Well, almost.
I put them on, and it feels amazing, to not be squinting against the harsh sun. I tie my T-shirt over my head so it hangs over my neck, damp and cool from the sea. Then I take two pieces of chewing gum and they burst mint-fierce in my mouth. Make my cheeks ache with drool. Can hardly bear the cold-fire of it, not after so many could-be nuts.
Taking a deep breath, I go to the Red Nylon Bag and take out the little waterproof packet.
Three matches left. Only three.
I take one of the matches in my hand and my handâs trembling now â
blistering pages shrivelling in the heat, crinkling paper, curling, withering, dying
â
and I drop the match in the sand.
Now Iâm panicking as I canât find it; the sandâs covering it. Iâm frantically scrabbling in the sand.
âOh God, no, no,â I moan.
But itâs OK, itâs here, Iâve found it.
Shaking, I pick it up and stare at it.
One match. It only took one match.
Â
Fish Might Fly
Iâm staring at the flying fish when the police come to get me.
Theyâre frozen for ever in flight, but still sort of beautiful; even if theyâll never shoot up into the air; never bounce over the waves.
So Iâm in the Natural History Gallery when Bill the guide taps me on the shoulder.
âSorry, love,â he says.
I know what he means because thereâs two police officers standing right behind him, looking serious.
âThat her?â asks one. Sheâs short and dumpy, and has a Scottish accent. The hairs on her upper lip are pale where sheâs bleached them.
Bill nods.
Iâm cornered, here at the top of the gallery, surrounded by fish and fossils. For an insane moment I think about launching myself over the balcony; perhaps Iâll land on the back of the giant walrusâs neck and slide all the way down his back to land by the ostriches. Then itâs a quick dash out the exit and through the gardens to grab the next bus to Brixton.
Yeah, right.
I lift my chin to face them and turn myself into stone.
âAre you Frances Eileen Stanton of 19A Plover House, Tulse Hill, Brixton?â
Freeze.
âIâll
Imagine.
Then I find the second offering in the shallows. I pull it out of the water and itâs fat and heavy and streaming.
A black rucksack.
It could be one of the boysâ on the plane, I think. At first it seems to be empty, most of its contents swirled away by the sea. But right at the bottom is a red Nike T-shirt. Itâs XL, which is good. Means Iâll have something to wear at night, and I can hug it over my knees when it gets chilly. Thereâs half a packet of chewing gum and a Lambert & Butler fag packet, containing two wet ciggies. I lay these on a rock to dry. Not that Iâm stupid enough to use one of my last matches to light them. But itâs nice to know theyâre there.
And thereâs something in one of the pockets: a photo, much folded and refolded, and almost destroyed by the sea. I lay it out on the rock and look at whatâs left of it.
Itâs Joker â Kieran. The man thatâs with him must be his dad, because they have the same eyes and teeth. Theyâre both grinning away at the camera and holding up cans of lager, even though Joker only looks about twelve in this picture. His dad has his arm around his sonâs shoulder, loose and easy, and Joker looks happy as hell.
When both the bag and the picture are dry, I refold the photo and zip it back in its pocket. Try not to think of Joker thrashing around on the floor of the plane.
Wonât think of that.
The bikini top is strewn further up the beach, so now I have the full set.
Lucky me.
But next to it on the sand is something much more exciting. A pair of sunglasses. They may be fake Ray-Bans, like something swiped from Brixton Market, and they may have an arm missing, but right now theyâre worth more to me than all the fags in the world.
Well, almost.
I put them on, and it feels amazing, to not be squinting against the harsh sun. I tie my T-shirt over my head so it hangs over my neck, damp and cool from the sea. Then I take two pieces of chewing gum and they burst mint-fierce in my mouth. Make my cheeks ache with drool. Can hardly bear the cold-fire of it, not after so many could-be nuts.
Taking a deep breath, I go to the Red Nylon Bag and take out the little waterproof packet.
Three matches left. Only three.
I take one of the matches in my hand and my handâs trembling now â
blistering pages shrivelling in the heat, crinkling paper, curling, withering, dying
â
and I drop the match in the sand.
Now Iâm panicking as I canât find it; the sandâs covering it. Iâm frantically scrabbling in the sand.
âOh God, no, no,â I moan.
But itâs OK, itâs here, Iâve found it.
Shaking, I pick it up and stare at it.
One match. It only took one match.
Â
Fish Might Fly
Iâm staring at the flying fish when the police come to get me.
Theyâre frozen for ever in flight, but still sort of beautiful; even if theyâll never shoot up into the air; never bounce over the waves.
So Iâm in the Natural History Gallery when Bill the guide taps me on the shoulder.
âSorry, love,â he says.
I know what he means because thereâs two police officers standing right behind him, looking serious.
âThat her?â asks one. Sheâs short and dumpy, and has a Scottish accent. The hairs on her upper lip are pale where sheâs bleached them.
Bill nods.
Iâm cornered, here at the top of the gallery, surrounded by fish and fossils. For an insane moment I think about launching myself over the balcony; perhaps Iâll land on the back of the giant walrusâs neck and slide all the way down his back to land by the ostriches. Then itâs a quick dash out the exit and through the gardens to grab the next bus to Brixton.
Yeah, right.
I lift my chin to face them and turn myself into stone.
âAre you Frances Eileen Stanton of 19A Plover House, Tulse Hill, Brixton?â
Freeze.
âIâll
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