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A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright
Killer Reads is an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Killer Reads 2019
Copyright © Virginia Moffatt 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com
Virginia Moffatt asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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and read the text of this e-book on screen.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
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written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008340742
Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008340735
Version 2019-05-12
In loving memory of Pip O’Neill, and my parents,
Ann and Joseph Moffatt, who taught me
how to face the wave.
‘Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note may yet be done.’
Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Ulysses
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Vespers
Poppy
Yan
Margaret
James
Nikki
Harry
Shelley
Compline
Poppy
Yan
Margaret
James
Nikki
Harry
Shelley
Poppy
Yan
Margaret
James
Nikki
Harry
Shelley
Lauds
Poppy
Yan
Margaret
James
Nikki
Harry
Shelley
Prime
Poppy
Yan
Margaret
James
Nikki
Harry
Shelley
Prayers for the Dead
Poppy
Yan
Margaret
James
Nikki
Harry
Shelley
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
The Divine Office (Liturgy of the Hours)
‘the recitation of certain Christian prayers at fixed hours according to the discipline of the Roman Catholic Church’ before the second Vatican Council (1962-1965)
Vespers Evening Prayer ‘At the lighting of the lamps’ 6.00 p.m.
Compline Night Prayer before retiring 9.00 p.m.
Matins During the night or Midnight
Lauds Dawn Prayer 3.00 a.m.
Prime Early Morning Prayer 6.00 a.m. (the first hour)
30 August 12.00 p.m.
MattRedwood@VolcanowatchersUK 21 s They were wrong about the Cumbre Vieja volcano on La Palma. If you’re in Cornwall don’t even stop to pack. Get out NOW.
BBC Breaking 12.20 p.m.
… Downing Street confirms the Prime Minister has cut her bank holiday weekend short and will be making a statement at 12.30 p.m.
Poppy Armstrong
30 August 12.45 p.m.
I am going to die tomorrow.
Sorry to be so melodramatic, but if you’ve seen the news, you’ll know it is true. It took a while to sink in, didn’t it? The idea that, only yesterday the geologists at Las Palma were so sure the seismic activity they were observing was nothing unusual they didn’t even raise an alert. The revelation that if it hadn’t been for a bored intern noticing that the tiny tremors were building to a huge unexpected one, we’d have been carrying on with life as normal; the knowledge that it took so long for that intern to persuade her superiors that they were about to witness a massive volcanic collapse, there are now less than twelve hours before half the mountain falls into the sea, raising megatsunamis that will hit the American, UK, Irish and African coasts by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. So that I and thousands of others will be killed by the time most of you are getting out of bed. The how, when and why of our deaths making headlines around the globe, before it has even happened.
I’m still trying to think of it as a blessing of sorts. After all, it’s more than most people get – victims of car crashes receive no such warning; the terminally ill can’t know the exact point their disease will overwhelm them; the elderly face a slow decline. I’m lucky, really, to know the precise instant my life will end. It provides me with this one, tiny consolation: knowing how much time I have left means I get to plan how to spend each moment. And I mean to make the most of every last second.
Because … for me, the information has come too late. The authorities have managed to evacuate some hospitals, and it seems that local dignitaries can’t be allowed to drown, but they say there is no time to execute a rescue plan for the rest of us. We will have to make our own way, by road, rail or boat: three million people attempting to leave this narrow peninsula simultaneously. Already, it is a less than edifying sight. The roads are too narrow, the station too crowded, the boats available in insufficient numbers. I do not want to spend my last hours like this, frantic, rushing, out of control, in a race I have no chance of winning.
Perhaps I am wrong, but I have weighed the odds, and finding them stacked so heavily against me, I have made my choice. If this is the remaining time allotted to me, I will spend it doing what I want. The sun is shining, the surf is up. It’s a perfect day for the beach. There’s no point keeping the shop open, so I will pack a bag, bring my tent, and pitch it down at Dowetha Cove, my favourite place in the whole world. If this is to be my last day, my last night, I want to spend it doing everything I love: swimming, surfing, lying out among the stars. I want to make the most of the time left to me.
Perhaps there are some people out there who feel the same. If so, it would be good to have company.
Join me, won’t you?
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15 other comments
Alice Evans Roads not too bad at the moment. I wish you’d come with us, Poppy, but sending you lots of love x
20 mins
Jill Hough Poppy, I just don’t know what to say. Thoughts are with you.
10 mins
Andrew Evans Saw the news couldn’t believe it. Are you really stuck? Useless, I know, but sending love.
Yan Martin We’ve not met but I’ve made the same calculation. See you on the beach.
20 seconds
Poppy
I stand at the top car park, gazing down on the beach below. If I needed any confirmation the news is not a hoax, the silence and emptiness provide it. On a sunny August Bank Holiday, with an offshore wind, the sea should be full of surfers and screaming children diving through the waves. The sand should be crammed with family groups, couples sunning their bodies side by side, pensioners in their fold-up chairs. Everywhere should be movement: parents struggling down the slope with bags and beach balls, their offspring running ahead, shouting in anticipation of the joys to come, people in wetsuits striding towards the water, surfboards under their arms. But the beach is vacant, the air free of all human noise, the only sound the screeching gulls and the ruffle of the wind in the bushes behind. It is as if the world has ended already and left me, a sole survivor, to survey the remains. Normally, the sight of an empty shoreline would fill me with joy – the knowledge that these waves are for me alone – but not today. Today, I find myself unable to move, either to the car to collect my belongings, or to the beach below. Instead, I stand by the sea wall, staring at the yellow sunlight glistening on the blue-green waves, listening to the birds whose calls rise and fall with my every breath …
Years ago, when I was little, I used to stand at this spot, on the last day of the holidays, not daring to go down. Every step forwards was an admission that it was nearly all over, that there was nothing to look forward to but the long journey home and school the week after next. Every year, Mum, perhaps, sensing my emotions, and who knows, maybe even sharing them, would tap me on the shoulder, ‘Come on, I’ll race you,’ she’d say, knowing that my desire to win overtook every other feeling. Standing here, I’m overwhelmed by a wave of longing for her, wishing she was here, issuing me with such a challenge again. A useless desire at the best of times – she has been gone so long, I sometimes struggle to remember her face and voice – but today it seems more pointless than ever. What could she do, if she were here? What can anyone do?
A glance at my watch is a reminder how quickly the minutes are passing. The sun is still high in the sky, but it is moving inexorably towards the west; the surf is at its best now, but that will pass. I need to get down there if I am going to make the most of it. And really I should make the most of, and stick to my plan, otherwise I might as well have gone with the others in the van. I have to be decisive. I return to the car, grab my rucksack, tent and surfboard and walk towards the slope. I will have to come back later for the furniture and refreshments, but it’s still awkward carrying so much stuff. I stagger down the stone path, which gradually gives way to sand, first a light dusting and then my feet are sinking among the hot grains. It is a struggle to stay upright with all the equipment I am carrying, but I force myself forward, sliding down the incline until I reach the firmer sand just above the high tide mark where it is a relief to put everything down. As I am sorting out the pop-up tent, a memory surfaces – another day, another pop-up tent, another beach – Seren and I preparing for our first surfing adventure. ‘It’s not as good as Dowetha,’ I’d said, ‘but it will do.’ I had had every intention of bringing her to Dowetha one day, before everything went wrong between us. I never will now.
Once I have set up camp, I realize I am happy to be alone for once. I appreciate the freedom of undressing with no one watching, the fact that there is no one in my way as I run to the shore. No one to jockey with for the best position in the water. No one to block me as I throw myself into the ocean, drenching myself in the spray and foam. The sea has been waiting for me; I gasp at the cold, as it welcomes me into the rise and fall of its chilly waters.
When I have acclimatized to the shock, I paddle out to the breaker zone, watching for the swell coming from the horizon. I position my board, wait for the right moment, and then stand upright to ride the wave. Soon I am lost in the act of riding through water and foam, warmed by the sun, cooled by the wind, repeated over and over again. I am so absorbed that, at first, I don’t notice the man on the surfboard. It is only when he has paddled to the breaker zone a few yards away from me that I spot him. He is tall, white, with a mass of curly hair. He nods hello and I acknowledge him with a raised arm. I don’t like to talk when I’m surfing. I prefer the silent communication of lying in wait together, rising to hit the crest at the perfect moment, sweeping towards the beach at speed until the foam peters out into tiny bubbles, where we can jump off and head back to our starting point. Over and over again, we follow the waves in the same pattern. Occasionally, I give my companion a smile after a particular good ride, but in the main we are both focussed on the line between the area where the surf forms and the beach. Our world is reduced to this one short journey from sea to shore, over and over again until I have lost count of how many waves we’ve ridden, how long we’ve been in the water.
At last, the chill of the sea begins to penetrate my wetsuit, my shoulders start to ache, and so I shout, ‘Last one?’ He nods, and we ready ourselves for the next swell. This time, as we mount our boards, the wind builds up and it is harder to stay steady. I crouch down low to avoid toppling off, glancing behind to see a mountainous wave racing towards us. I time it perfectly, catching the crest and pulling myself up. I stand triumphant on its back, enjoying the thrill of the rush to the shore, before I notice something is wrong. The other surfer is not with me, and when I look back I can see his surfboard floating on the water. There is no sign of him. In a panic, I paddle towards it as fast I can, though it’s a struggle in the stronger current and the increased swell. Spray breaks over my head, salt water fills my mouth, causing me to retch. Ahead of me I can see a head bobbing up and down, arms flapping; then he sinks below the surface, a few feet from his surf board. My arms are hurting with the effort, my body exhausted with the battering of the waves, but I cannot abandon him. I cannot. The knowledge that I cannot abandon him, gives me a spurt of energy, shooting me forwards to the spot where I saw him go under. I dive down, eyes smarting, searching for his body in the blur of blue, green and yellow. I can’t see him, and now my lungs are gasping, so I swim to the surface, gulping huge breaths of air. I am about to dive again, when to my relief his head comes back up again. I race towards him, grabbing his torso before he can sink again, holding tight as a large wave rolls over our heads. He is heavy, gasping for breath; it is a struggle to keep hold of him, particularly in these strong currents. His board is still bobbing to the side; his leg has caught on the leash and it is too tight to disentangle out here. I tell him to lie back and he relaxes into my body – which makes it easier to keep hold of him as I backstroke towards the board. As we arrive, he has the sense to grab it and I can push him up. Soon he is lying on top, red faced, worn out from the effort to survive; for a brief second I wonder whether it was worth it, for either of us. Then practicalities intervene: we are cold, tired, we need to get back to land.
Thankfully, once he has a chance to recover his face begins to lose its purple flush; he is able to raise himself to a paddling position. I give him a push in the right direction, before striking out for my own board. I mount it and follow in his wake as he begins to paddle, first tentatively, then with more strength and purpose. At last we reach the shallows, where we slip off, wavelets splashing around our feet. He staggers to the edge of the beach, trailing the surfboard behind him, before sitting in the wet sand. The cord has tightened with the struggle; it takes both of us to loosen it, and wrest the rope off. He is left with an indented mark all the way around his ankle which he rubs ruefully.
‘Thanks. Thought I was going to drown for a minute …’ He grins, ‘Ironic, considering.’
‘Considering.’ I return his grin. ‘I’m Poppy,’
‘I know. I saw your post. Yan.’
‘You’re the one who replied? I thought you might be joking.’
‘It’s like you said … There’s no point hanging around, we might as well make the most of what’s left.’
I am so happy that someone read my post that I smile broadly, immediately regretting it when his returning smile is accompanied by a look I find all too familiar. My ‘puppies’ look’, Seren used to call it, in honour of a long chain of men whose crushes developed within minutes of meeting me. I never quite understood it as I never intended to give them any encouragement. Seren thought it was a combination of having big breasts and smiling too much. Perhaps she was right, but I’d discovered by then that people trusted me when I smiled, and being penniless and parentless, I’d always had more need than she for allies. Back then it was easy enough to deter the puppies with a casual kiss for her and an arm around her shoulder. I have long since lost that defence, and somehow I always find words fail me. I am left with deflection, so I suggest we go back to my car for the rest of the gear. Thankfully, he is happy to agree, and by the time we reach the car park, the doe eyes have gone. Which is a relief. Because now he is here, it is a physical reminder to me that I haven’t imagined this whole thing. There really are only a few hours left. The knowledge is terrifying enough without any of the complications unwanted attention can bring. What I need tonight, is a friend, someone who can help me make it through the dark. Watching Yan lift the furniture out of the car as he chats away cheerfully, I think he might be able to do that, which is a comfort, because comfort is what we both need.
Yan
Poppy … Poppy … Poppy … A name to march by. A vision of pale beauty on Facebook – slim hips, round breasts, long black hair - that is going a long way to helping me fight off the fear. It’s a fantasy I know, but given I’ve had the shockingly awful misfortune to be trapped here by the floods, I deserve a little luck, don’t I? Poppy … Poppy … Poppy … I walk through the shrubland to the beat of such thoughts. There’s a breeze up, but the sun is strong, and with a tent and food supplies on my back, the journey is tougher than I’d expected. I haven’t been this way for ages, and have forgotten how the land rises and falls, the bushes overhang, their roots throwing obstacles in my path. I stumble frequently. Today is made even worse by the waterlogged soil, which has created bog after bog for me to navigate. Normally the sight of the sea ahead – greeny-blue water glinting in the sunshine – would be enough to motivate me, but today it has lost its allure. It’s not just the thought of the destructive powers that will be unleashed tomorrow – I am thirsty, sweating; my legs ache, my boots are clogged with mud. I can’t help feeling that by the time I arrive at Dowetha I’ll be too tired to appreciate it.
At the stile onto the cliff path, I stop for a break, relieved to remove my burdensome rucksack and hurl it to the ground. I find a bottle of water and a bar of chocolate, plonk myself on my coat to protect me from the damp earth. I sit with my back against the wall, gazing back at the cow field I have just crossed and the standing stones in the distance. I’m hoping that by not looking at the sea, I can quell the panic, and pretend for a short while at least this is an ordinary hike, on an ordinary day, and nothing much is about to happen. I fail miserably. As soon as I stop, the full force of the last few hours sweeps over me like a tidal wave. My mind races through the events of the day, over and over again, leaving me no room to escape …
The news trickled out slowly at first. A twitter rumour followed by a rash of speculation on Facebook. Followed by a breaking news line on the BBC. By the time the first full article was up, their website crashed. Last time that happened was 9/11. Remember that? I was sitting at a computer at York, horrified by the suffering of people thousands of miles away. Today, as my screen filled up with a dizzying array of facts and figures, images, analysis, infographics, it dawned on me that this time the rest of the world would be the appalled bystanders, while I was here, right in the thick of one of the danger zones. And being on peninsula meant this particular danger zone would be more dangerous than most. I’m a statistician; it didn’t take long to make the calculation, to realize there was no hope of getting out of here alive. They were too many people, trying to leave by too narrow an exit. We didn’t have a chance. With the whole of the South East and Welsh coastlines expecting a battering, the government made it clear evacuation efforts would have to be focussed further north. There would be no use relying on the Dunkirk spirit to come to our aid. It’s not that people wouldn’t want to help, but anyone with a boat would be too busy getting themselves to safety, they wouldn’t have time to come down here and rescue us. There was some talk about organising plans, but most commentators agreed that there weren’t enough airstrips, and with the airlines arguing about airspace, the unions about staffing, and the Transport Secretary being too paralysed with doubt or fear to intervene, the wrangling got nowhere. It was clear to me we were on our own. There would be no way out.
I’m not sure how long I sat at my desk, considering my options. Should I cadge a lift from James in the vain hope that we could outrun the water? Hide under the duvet, with a bottle of whisky for company? Pills before bed, so I’d never wake up? None seemed appealing. It was only when I turned to Facebook that I found what seemed to me the obvious solution. The minute I read Poppy’s post, my mind was made up. Making the most of the time left sounded better than sitting in traffic or drinking myself into a stupor. And she was hot, the kind of woman I wouldn’t normally have a chance with. But in these circumstances? Anything might happen. So I gathered my belongings together, swimming trunks, warm clothes for the night-time, kagoul just in case, camping equipment, sleeping bag, tent, food and threw them in a backpack, and because I hate leaving a book unfinished, my partly-read copy of The Humans.
I was just emptying the fridge when there was a knock at the door. It was James, bag over his shoulder, keys in hand, road map at the ready. Oh, James. Ever the optimist. I tried to explain to him he was wasting his time but he wasn’t having any of it. He was desperate to persuade me to join him but I was equally adamant. Story of our friendship. Him half-full, me half-empty. Always leads to arguments in the pub and then days of mutual sulks till one or other of us tries to put it right. Today we took great pains not to go into our usual combative mode. When it was clear we couldn’t agree, we had a rather awkward goodbye on the doorstep and went our separate ways. It was so odd, that goodbye on the doorstep. Five years of propping up the bar, putting the world to rights, and now we’ll never see each other again …