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‘No. No … you can’t.’ Hannah wanted to be strong, but she felt like the wind might knock her over.
Steve shook his head. ‘We’re set up for seals and dolphins. We don’t have refloat equipment for whales. If the tide is high enough in the next day or so, we might be able to dig a channel, and get the healthy adults out. But the highest spring tide is what deposited them here …’ He shrugged. ‘Emotion can’t get in the way. We’ll do what we can, but in the end putting these whales down may be the kindest thing we can do.’ He looked deep into her eyes. To see if she got it. To see if she’d be a pain about this.
‘That’s it, is it?’ she said, looking past him, at Little One She felt anger rising like a tidal surge. ‘Dig a ditch, see if the whales swim out, and if they don’t, kill them?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Steve, through his teeth.
‘Why? You don’t want people knowing the truth?’
‘Hannah, sweetheart,’ Dad appeared at her side, getting a hold on her arm, trying to pull her away.
She twisted her arm out of his grip. ‘Don’t “sweetheart” me, Dad.’ She turned back to Steve.
‘You don’t have the equipment, right?’
‘No.’
‘Who does?’
‘Sorry?’ He gasped, exasperated by her naivety. He waved at one of his team and held a finger up. A sign: One minute. Soon as I get rid of this girl.
Hannah leant over the fencing and poked him in the chest.
‘There’s a team in Massachusetts, north-east USA, who rescue stranded pilot whales all the time. Their pontoons will be big enough for the smaller orcas. Get them.’
‘Get them from America? You have no idea …’
‘Get their equipment too.’
‘That would take days and cost thousands.’
‘How long can we keep these whales alive?’
‘Forty-eight hours. Seventy-two at the outside. After a couple of days on land their internal organs will start collapsing. Their bones will start breaking. You can’t get that equipment here that quick. Even if you did, it would probably be too late. And we don’t have that kind of money.’
‘How much?’ Hannah folded her arms, staring at her old teacher.
‘Ten thousand. Twenty if we had to charter a plane. Even if we could manage it, even if the whales didn’t die before the team got here, in all likelihood the calf is the only one we could refloat and it would probably still die. No one’s going to fund that.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘She’s a juvenile, not a calf. She might join another pod. One of the others might foster her. It’s happened before. North Vancouver. San Juan Islands. I’m calling Paul Rocca. He’ll know.’
‘You know Dr Rocca?’
‘Yes. I’m one of his interns. Now, you going to let me in?’ Hannah was making a powerful nuisance of herself. It felt good. It felt right.
Steve shrugged, sighed.
‘Go home, make your calls. But you’re wasting your time.’
Hannah looked at Little One again. A girl was slowly pouring water over the whale’s back. Hannah had a strong, sick twinge in her gut. It was concern for the whale, but also a pang of jealousy. She wanted to care for Little One. She had found her on the beach. They’d found each other.
‘I want to see Li— the whale,’ said Hannah. ‘Can I?’ Not forceful now. Pleading. ‘Steve … please?’
‘No. And you know why. No emotional attachment. It doesn’t help.’ Steve looked to her dad for help. Dad took Hannah’s arm and pulled her gently, but firmly, away.
Jake
JAKE STOOD OUTSIDE Ned’s house. He checked his phone: another message from Hannah. Shit. He turned it off. He’d call her. Right after he got this sorted.
Ned’s workshop was in his garage.
Above the main garage door, Ned had once painted a graffiti pic of Little Red Riding Hood holding a basket of spray cans, with the words: ‘Fear makes the wolf look bigger.’ But he’d painted over it now. Maybe it was a bit attention-grabbing for a weed dealer.
Jake knocked on the door. The rap music blasting out was so loud, he guessed Ned couldn’t hear. So he walked in.
A long rack of surfboards lay against one wall. Against the opposite wall were shelves filled with foam blanks, rolls of material and sanders. The equipment of a dedicated board shaper.
Ned stood in the middle of the garage, leaning over a board on a workbench. His overalls were stained, and his hair was hanging round his face. He was hand-sanding the tail of the board. Blowing on it. Sanding a bit more. Blowing again. Smiling at his handiwork.
Jake waited for Ned to look up. Ned turned the music down.
‘Thought you’d be out surfing, Jakey boy. Getting practice for yer big trip.’
‘Been already. You?’
‘Nah, waiting till it calms down a bit. Got this fix to finish anyway.’ Any talk with Ned started this way. About surf. Often it stayed that way. ‘You here for a board to take to Hawaii?’
‘No. That’s not why I’m here. Is Rag around?’
‘Little Bro? He’s off with his mates.’
‘Sue?’
‘Sue’s history, mate. Gave me the sack, the silly mare,’ he said, grinning and winking. That was Ned. Always grinning, always smiling. He had an easy flow about him. A permanent smile, which might be due to his almost always being stoned.
‘You don’t seem too upset,’ said Jake.
Ned shrugged. ‘Why you asking about Rag and Sue?’
‘What I need to talk about. It’s sensitive.’
‘Oh, right.’ Ned went to the shelf, found a tobacco tin and gave it to Jake. ‘If yer gonna distract me from my work, make yerself useful.’
Jake opened the tin. Inside were papers, cigarettes and a small bag of weed.
‘I don’t really smoke,’ said Jake.
‘Thass all right. Make one fer me.’ He got back to sanding, frowning, focusing.
‘Funny that,’ said Jake. ‘It’s drugs I’ve come about. I’ve got a sort of … business proposition.’
Ned froze for a second before he blew dust off the board.
‘Yeah? Thought persians weren’t your thing?’
‘I need some dosh for Hawaii. Quick. Money doesn’t grow on trees.’
‘Yeah? Whoever said that never tried selling weed.’ Ned chuckled.
‘I’m not talking about weed.’ Jake dug in his pocket and placed a small foil pack on the board, in front of Ned. ‘Can you tell me if this is … any good? I can get more. But I need help selling it.’ Jake carefully opened the foil envelope, revealing the powder inside.
Ned went and turned the music off.
‘How much did you pay for that?’ he said.
Jake’s brain scrambled for an answer. ‘Um. Fifty.’
Ned shook his head. ‘Dude. You’ve been ripped off.’
‘Oh,’ said Jake. ‘Is there not fifty quid’s worth there?’
‘Oh, yeah. Fifty notes’ worth of baby-milk powder, mixed with a bit of speed, probly. But not coke.’
‘How do you know?’
Ned laughed at Jake’s innocence. ‘If that was Charlie, you’d have coughed up more than that. Who sold you this shit?’
‘Never mind. If it’s duff I’ll take it back.’
‘Dealers don’t do refunds, you muppet. Anyway, why’ve you bought coke if you don’t do it yerself?’
‘Can you just give it a try?’ said Jake, trying not to sound impatient.
‘All right, just for you …’ He rooted around his shelves and drawers, till he’d found a roof slate, a credit card and a ten-pound note. He set all this up on the table, next to the board he was working on. Using the card, he carefully scraped a small bit of the crumbly powder out of the foil and on to the slate, and set about chopping at the small boulders and lumps till he was left with nothing but fine powder. He used the edge of the card to form a line. He didn’t snort it, though. Not at first. Ned licked the end of his finger, dabbed it in the end of the line of snowy powder, and tasted it.
Fun drained from his face. He looked at Jake, dead curious. And serious. He rolled up the tenner, leant over, and Hoover-snorted the line of powder. He stood up. Stick-straight, like he’d had an electric shock.
‘Holy shit,’ Ned wheezed.
‘Well?’
‘Holy shit!’ Ned stood up, sniffing, blowing, walking around, like he was too big for the room all of a sudden. ‘Holy shit!’ Ned sucked in deep breaths, one after the other. He clicked his fingers, repeatedly. It was weird. ‘Holy shit.’
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