Silent - Part 10: The Journey

Gavin, Saturday May 2019  

9.15am.  Need a plan.  Put aside thoughts of running.  Only cowards do that. We have to rescue Lucy.  
 
Me and someone else.  Jace lives near Lyme House.  He's my age and likes wearing army gear and acting tough, but he's really intelligent and could have gone to Uni if he'd wanted. I haven't seen him for about a year. He texts me occasionally. He'll probably be in bed, but once or twice a month he gets up early to play football.  
 
I ring him on the off chance,.  
 
'Hey, what's going on, man?' he says  
 
'It's Lucy.'  I explain.  
 
Jace swears. 'Do you think it's  connected?'  
 
'I don't know. It could be.'  
 
He swears again. 'I'm cancelling footie. Come up. It will take you about an hour, an hour and a half.'  
 
'Thanks, Jace. Sorry about making you miss the match.'  
 
'No problem. Make sure you come. You'd better.'  
 
'Yeah, I will.'  
 
'Text when you get here, yeah?'  
 
'Steve won't be around, will he?'  
 
'You don't have to worry about him. He's staying with his girlfriend.'  
 
***  
Lengthy journey involving a train and a single decker bus to the Lancashire coast, and I can only just about pay the fares. It takes longer than an hour - more like two and a half.  Windmills and waterways appear straight ahead, followed by a line of tiny aerials and a golf course. Gardens. A model railway.  
 
The scenery changes, and I notice streets of boarded up houses and shops huddled close together. Just like the other time. Finally, the sea comes into view, all filthy and grey, with a gigantic pylon-structure pier. Jace and his mate Steve used to love climbing the structure and pretending to jump off.  
 
The roof of the Grand Theatre is visible from the bus, shaped like a triangular dome. That's where we, the Lyme House students, had our classes.  
 
The sky darkens when the bus gets closer to the coast and the temperature drops for May, reminding me of swooping seagulls and sand blowing about in the wind, the grits getting into my eyes.  A large sign reads: Lyme House, 1m. The driver takes a left, away from the road to the House.  
 
Lyme House, where I first met Lucy. A mile inland, tucked away in a private driveway hidden by trees and hedges. Mostly rich kids attended, but I got there on a scholarship, meals provided. From the start, I couldn't understand why our hosts had chosen such a dismal town when they'd previously held classes at Lancaster University.  I was seventeen at the time and had just completed my first year at Lower Sixth.  I'm eighteen now, and in my first year of a degree. Pretty logical though: my birthday falls in the summer, and I had just turned seventeen when I arrived at Lyme House, so work it out. It's easy.  
 
Approaching the High Street. Chain stores and ninety-nine pence shops. The locals looked stressed.  More shops have closed and everywhere seems dirtier than before. I can already taste and smell the pungent mixture of salt and seaweed, along with something like diesel in the sea. I don't see many tourists.  Mostly kids in hoodies hanging around the benches or summersaulting through the air on skateboards. The bus does a right. One final twist, and we reach the central roundabout.  
 
I step off the bus and text Jace.  
 
I take out some cash from a machine and buy a cold drink.  Row of guesthouses.  Zebra crossing. Traditional barber shop.  I pass a sandwich shop and a store selling cheap SIM cards and watches. I keep my eyes on the ground when I pass three boys kicking a can around at the entrance to the beach and hope they won't make eye contact. The boys mutter among themselves and I feel their stares fixed on me as I keep going across the sand, down to the pier walkway.  I may have met them that other time, at Jace's party on the abandoned fairground.  
 
Today, the clouds are thundery, matching the tone of the sea, and everywhere is silent, even the tide. I look back at the road. The boys are still watching; one gives me the finger. The Grand Theatre towers in the distance. I climb the steps onto the pier and make my way along the empty boardwalk, past soggy benches with peeling paint and boarded up vendor booths covered in graffiti and seagull mess. Crunched up beer cans. Vodka bottles smudged with purple lipstick. Chip wrappings.  
 
The smell worsens, a combination of pickled seafood, rotten fish and sand. When we came here the other time, the developers had already begun their work on the pier, but now only echoes remain. Ghosts and traces of memories. A girl with long ebony hair and loud makeup, walking along the sea railing.  
 
A girl who always dressed in black. Philippa.  
 
My chest tightens with emotion, and I have to shut my eyes for a moment. My Philippa.  The other girl. I loved her so much and she loved me.  We proved that.  
 
The sky's tinged with angry colours, like a bruised arm, and a gust comes straight at me from the sea. I pass the seafront café  - basically, an egg and chips place with an ice cream sign round the front. Inside, a sprinkling of customers sit alone at tables, hunched over newspapers.  
 
The bar on the seafront. Virtually empty.    
 
Amusement arcade. I hear the clatter of coins and the squeal of electronic bleeps from the machines. But only a handful of people in there.  
 
Cigarette smoke. A couple of guys in army-style trousers leaning over the railings, smoking, talking.  
 
Army-style clothing. I turn to go but too late.  
 
One of the guys hears me approach.  
 
Jace.  
 
His eyes widen in surprise when he turns round and he puts a finger to his lips: leg it. He's just threatened some bloke for looking at him. Girlfriend's finished with him.  
 
The other guy turns round then.  
 
Jace's mate Steve.      
 
People say I have mad eyes, but Steve's are even madder.  And his hair's all messy and wild. As if he's out of control.  
 
'Posh Boy,' he says, sneering. 'Oi, what's he doing back?'  
 
'Let it go,' Jace mutters.  
 
'Not letting him get away with anything. He's a grass.'  Scowling, Steve starts to make towards me. 'I want a word with you, Posh Boy. I bet you're the one who burnt Lyme House down, you sick twat. A twat and a grass. Like being a grass, do you?  Make you feel superior?'
 
I back off.  
 
'What're you doing here?  Oi, and don't walk away when I'm talking to you.'  
 
Jace leaps in between us. 'Leave it, Steve.  He had to tell the police what he saw.'  
 
Disappear, Jace mouths to me. I'll catch you up outside the House.  
 
I don't need telling again. A couple of oldish blokes have come out of the seafront bar to watch the commotion. Steve's already dancing around and trying to dodge past Jace to get to me. I make a dash for it, legging it down the steps, onto the sand.    
 
'Grass, filthy grass,' Steve screams after me. 'Watch your back. You're dead, man. Dead. '