Winterton Blue (28 page)

Sea on the right and sandy cliff-face on the left is all that greets Lewis after Caister. Occasionally, the cliffs above him have crumbled like sponge cake onto the beach, leaving big-mouthed gaps which reveal a caravan park, the red-tiled roof of a last house, sometimes just another piece of sky.

He managed to find out from Kristian how far he has to travel—eight or ten miles, he'd said, depending on the route. He has a fizzing sensation in his chest that is close to happiness. As soon as he was out of sight of the main road, Lewis found a wheelie bin, and opened the lid. He did an inventory one more time, listing under his breath:

Fleece jeans shirts socks pants washbag book of poems—no, no poems—knife beans pouch—and chain. No chain.

He took the black pouch out of his kitbag, considered for a moment, then put it in his pocket: that was all he wanted. He threw his kitbag into the bin and walked away. Now, with nothing to carry but himself, he feels light as the light above him. As he walks further north, the sky turns itself inside out, so the bag of cloud hanging over Yarmouth becomes a silver bowl. He has left every penny he had at the guest-house, but he's hungry and thirsty now. He turns off the beach at the next gap in the dunes, climbing up the rough grass path, and sees the start of a road. At the end of a narrow terrace, just when he's beginning to think there's nothing to be had, he sees a sign: the California Inn is open for business.

Anna throws her head back and has a scream. When she's finished screaming, she hammers her fist repeatedly on the steering wheel, as if that would do the trick. All it does is sound the horn, which brings Vernon running down the passageway at the side of the house. He leans his hands on the garden wall, takes a deep breath, and launches: which is how Anna notices him, falling like Humpty Dumpty on the grass verge.

Go away! she cries, For Christ's sake!

Vernon limps over and pulls open the passenger door. He's smiling but he looks pained.

Are you having trouble? he asks, Only, I could hear that horn in the lounge.

Anna gives him a withering glance.

What do you think? she says.

Vernon considers.

Well, if the horn's working, it's probably not your battery. Pop her lid open, and I'll have a little peek.

It's the neighbourhood, Vernon, she says, trying to keep her voice level, Or haven't you noticed?

She points towards his door. At first, he doesn't understand, but then he inspects the tyres, walking right round the car, shaking his head and tutting. She winds down her window.

All flat, he says, The little bastards.

And they've stolen my badge, Anna says, feeling the tears behind her eyes, Brendan got me that not two weeks ago.

You could always go in my car, says Vernon, If it's so very urgent.

Your car? says Anna, stupidly, You've got a car?

Vernon is almost apologetic.

She doesn't go out very often so I keep her locked up safe. Should you like to inspect her first?

Lewis orders a pint of bitter and a cheese baguette. He's the only customer in the pub, but he stays at the bar. The girl serving him has a child-like, soft look about her: Lewis wonders if she's even old enough to be serving drinks. While he gulps his beer, she disappears out of sight. From the adjoining room, music starts to play, the unmistakable roll and fanfare of electronic noise. Lewis is thinking of finishing his drink, pocketing his baguette, and walking—what would she do, this teenager, chase him down the road? But instead, he follows the sound round the corner. The girl is playing on a games machine, stabbing her finger at the screen.

Any good? he asks, leaning against the side of the box.

Reflected in her face are sharp squares of coloured light. She doesn't take her eyes off the game, but she shakes her head. Lewis moves behind her to get a better view. It's a pub quiz machine, one of the ones Lewis is familiar with; has, in fact, been barred from playing.

Karl Marx, he says, and she hits the screen.

1939.

Rome—no, Florence. Quick!

Her fingers hover over the glass as the seconds tick down to the next round.

What category? she says, looking up at him.

He chooses film. In the next category, he chooses pop music. When they get to the £20 question, the screen freezes.

Aw, she says.

Lewis wanders back to the bar and finishes his sandwich.

Has it done that before? he asks, as she sidles round the counter.

I don't think it's ever got that far before, she says, eyeing him with interest.

It's probably fixed, he says, pushing the empty plate away, Is there a bank round here?

The girl puts her head on one side. She looks like she's heard this story before, but she surprises him with her answer.

The post office will cash you a cheque, she says, bright with her idea, They're always doing it for me. Or further up the road there's a Budgen, you can get cash-back.

Lewis drains his glass and winks at her.

See you in ten minutes, he says.

Vernon helps Anna adjust the front seat and the wing mirrors, all the while giving instructions.

She pulls a bit to the left, he says, handing her the key, And she's a bit draughty; I've been meaning to get that window replaced, but parts are a devil to find.

I'll be fine, Vernon, thank you, says Anna, impatient to be gone.

He fiddles with the blanket on the back seat, then searches in the glove-box.

I normally keep a nip in here, for emergencies . . . ah, here it is, he says, shaking the flask, Winter warmer!

Vernon, really, I'll be alright.

The engine starts with a shudder, then settles into a coughing rumble. Over the din, Anna thanks him again. Vernon leans through the window and startles her by placing a kiss on top of her head.

You take care, he says, waving her away.

From the helicopter, the damage is clear. All along the coastline from north to south, the land is crumbling into the sea. At Happisburgh, the pilot points out the church, the bungalows edging towards destruction, the bed and breakfast house
with its garden halfway down the cliff. Sonia leans into her window, shading her eyes from the sun cutting across the cockpit. At this angle, the newly exposed cliff-face looks like a weeping wound, bleeding for miles above the sand. The helicopter rises up and out, over the sea above Horsey, so that the view Sonia has now is like a lost picture of England: the rust and red of the nature reserve rolls away to a wide expanse of green and ochre land. A windmill stands proud above a cut of black water.

It's fantastic, she says, and Alec nods.

It's pretty good, he says, You never get tired of it.

They head inland, flying a wide circle around the wind-farm. On the road into Winterton there's a queue of traffic, tailing half a mile back and disappearing round a sharp bend. At the front is a pale blue convertible. Sonia can't hear the car horns, but she can see the driver making gestures with her arm, instructing the vehicles to overtake. Closer, the wind turbines on Blood Hill form a sleek avenue. Sonia takes photographs from various angles before they arc back out over the village, the painted cottages as small and square as dolly mixtures. Passing directly above Winterton Lodge, Sonia picks out the roof of her Suzuki and that of a dirty white van, before the pilot resumes his course and heads out over the sea. In the distance, the rotors at Scroby wind-farm flicker like candles on a cake.

Fancy a drink back at base? asks Alec.

Sonia puts her thumbs up, grinning with glee. They don't speak again until the landing pad is directly below them and they're touching down. Sonia feels so elated, and so deaf, the tune her mobile plays is like a distant song.

Inside the van, a conversation is taking place. Amongst the empty beer cans, crisp packets, sandwich cartons, Rizla papers, and rolls of cling-film that litter the passenger side, Manny tries to find a place to put his feet. He's had to take a
coach, two trains, and then another agonizing bus crawl to get this far, and now Sonia's giving him earache. He passes the mobile back to Carl, who is making a cigarette. He jams the phone under his chin.

Okay, girl, see you later, he says, Yeah, I will. I said I will—

Carl glances over to his father,

—No, he's alright. I'll bring him over. Yeah, I'll tell him. Haha, you n'all.

As soon as he ends the call, the phone rings again. Carl says two words which are lost on Manny, and hits the button. The phone rings again.

Will you switch that bugger off, for Christ's sake! shouts Manny, trying to grab it, We've got a problem here, in case you'd forgotten.

I don't see a problem, says Carl, licking the paper edge of his roll-up, We'll go and meet Sonia and then you can take the shitting van, I'm done with it anyway. Give us your return ticket and we'll call it swaps.

You can buy your own bloody ticket! And what d'you think I'm going to do with this? says Manny, banging his hand on the dashboard. The glove-box falls open, causing a sheaf of polythene bags to spill out into his lap.

Give it to back to your friend, says Carl, scooping up the bags and shoving them down the side pocket, Wondered where they'd got to.

He doesn't want it. He wants his brother's bracelet, Manny says. And, oh yeah, I nearly forgot: he wants to kill you.

He'll have to join the queue, says Carl, filling the van with thick, sweet smoke, And dad, let me tell you, it's one hell of a queue.

Manny puts his feet down in the debris and springs open the passenger door.

Come on, I'm not sitting here waiting.

Carl jumps out beside him, trying to keep pace as Manny heads towards the lodge.

What you gonna do? Book yourself in for the night?

I'm going to keep one step ahead, laddo. That's what I'm going to do.