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‘Cyrus said you were a fake.’
Cindy looks wounded. ‘Who’s Cyrus?’
‘You tell me. You’re the psychic.’
She puffs up like a peacock. ‘My great-great-grandmother told the fortunes of Tsar Nicholas of Russia and the Princess Alexandra.’
‘More bullshit!’
‘And the Romanov children.’
‘I want my money back.’
Cindy ignores me. ‘I see sadness in you, Evie. A wave of sadness. If you don’t learn to trust people, that wave will drown you.’
‘More lies.’
‘Marcela said you could be close-minded.’
‘She said no such thing.’
Cindy reaches under the table. Moments later, I hear a door open and the curtains behind me are pulled apart, throwing light across the table. A man in baggy knee-length shorts and a sweat-stained vest scratches his crotch.
‘Aw right, love?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. This lass was just leaving,’ says Cindy.
He steps closer. ‘Time’s up, sunshine. Any luck, you’ll make it home in time for Blue Peter.’
I want to tell him that I’m not a child. More importantly, I want to kick his arse. I want to swagger out of here with my chest out and my pride intact and twenty quid in my pocket.
As I reach the front door, his hand touches my backside. I spin around and try to slap his face, but he ducks and grins.
‘Feisty,’ he says.
‘Pervert,’ I reply, but inside I’m screaming, Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. Hateful girl. Loser.
4
Cyrus
A busker is break-dancing on a square of cardboard, spinning on his back and bouncing into a handstand. The crowd applauds, but nobody adds any money to the hat. Who carries coins these days?
The pier is busier now, as people leave the beach, forced off the sand by the incoming tide. A child gets tangled under my feet, losing hold of a balloon, which I manage to grab before it drifts out of reach.
At that moment a woman screams and I fear I’ve done something wrong. I look for the source of the sound. A middle-aged lady is standing on the pier, open-mouthed, pointing out to sea.
Instinctively, I begin to run. I reach the steps and other bystanders have joined her. I follow their outstretched arms until I spy a dark shape rising on a swell about a hundred yards offshore. It disappears and reappears. A seal, maybe, or a dog. No, it’s more human than that.
Another shout echoes along the pier. This time a man is pointing. Beyond the white water, further out to sea, I glimpse another body in the water. And beyond that, another . . . and another.
I’m in the water, swimming against the tide, lifting my head between strokes. Reaching the first body, I grip heavy sodden wool in my fists. It’s a man, floating face down. I spin him over. His eyes are open. Lifeless. He’s bearded and dark-haired, dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater and a cheap orange life-jacket.
I wrap my arm across his chest, holding his head above the water, and begin kicking towards shore. The tide pushes us towards the beach. Others arrive to help me. My feet touch the bottom and we drag the body onto the sand, above the tideline. I tilt his head back. Open his mouth. Breathe into his lungs. Compress his chest. I remember my first-aid training, keeping the beat to ‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees. More bodies are being pushed towards the beach. I swim again and reach another – a woman. I press my fingers to her neck. Dead.
Two lifeguards paddle past me on kayaks. A jet-ski rears over a wave, spouting spray and weaving between rescuers. A lifeboat crew patrols the outer sandbank. All are dragging bodies to shore. Sirens are wailing on the beach, evacuating people from the water, but most have fled already, escaping to the safety of the esplanade and the pier.
The next body I reach is a child, a barefoot boy, no older than four. I carry him out of the water and a paramedic takes him from my arms. The dead are now dotted across the sand, some covered in beach towels and others receiving CPR. I don’t want to count them. I want to save them. It’s too late.
