Allie meets mysterious Mareno with a secret so painful, even he can't admit it.
Before the end of the week, the bay claims even more lives.
Epigraphs
any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind
From John Donne’s ‘No Man is an Island’
The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself.
Leviticus 19, 34
Remember your humanity, and forget the rest.
The Russell-Einstein Manifesto
Prologue
Day 7 2:08 a.m.
A RARE COMET streaks across the sky. Alien-green, it trails a pointed tail. Lovejoy, they call it, but no one sees it. Not this night. Not with all the commotion right in the middle of the Bay.
Close to the inky water, a helicopter circles, adding its beam to the yellow splodges three lifeboats splash onto the waves.
On dry land, a small group is fixated on these distant lights. A girl quakes so violently, the arm around her shoulder tightens over the foil blanket, yet still she trembles.
What chance do they really have of finding her friend in these hundred square miles of pitch-black sea?
As time rolls on, one boat returns to shore. Later, the others must retreat before the grey tide ebbs. The girl too is made to leave, lie down before she collapses.
Jaded now, the moon is a ghost as orange fingers reach over the horizon. Two more helicopters have joined the first to scour the newly bared Sands. Finally, they too whirr away home.
At last, the Bay is at peace.
The Sands are left to themselves with all their secrets.
In their bottomless depths, so many bones.
And in the bones the why.
Day 1 Seven Days Earlier
'I could have finished the whole story that afternoon;, Alfieri, A View from the Bridge
One
THE BEST THING about a best friend is you can’t lose them.
But I lose Finn after Carnforth Station.
If only it wasn’t to her.
“Here, Finn,” Courtney says. She pats the seat next to her, so he ends up travelling backwards too, and thrusts her phone in front of both their faces. Knowing she’s about to subject us and the whole carriage to one of her weirdly popular TikTok posts, I’m half tempted to duck under the table separating us.
“And now for something different to my usual acting hacks,” she tells her camera. “Me and Finn are off for a week of fun at the seaside.”
Not quite how I’d describe our sixth-form drama trip, I think.
“So, Finn,” she puts her fist to his mouth like a mic, “not long now till we arrive. What’ve you got up your sleeve for our week away?”
“A spot of sea bathing?” He puts on a posh accent.
“Damn,” she says. “Forgotten my bikini!”
I clench my teeth at her toying with him.
“Skinny dipping then,” he says, his knee jiggling in the aisle.
Courtney laughs. “It’s October, Finley. But paddling at the very least! Follow me to find out what—” ironic pause “— activities I’ve got up my sleeve! Hashtag Courtney and Finn’s wild week of fun.”
And me? The rest of the group?
“It’s a wrap, Finn.” She lowers her phone, revealing a toothy grin. “And on a first take.”
“Er, you up for paddling too, Allie?” Finn asks me, sheepish, while Courtney thumbs her phone.
I knit my eyebrows at him. Me and water? “I thought this week was all about writing our script?”
“We—” he starts.
“We’re talking about extracurricular activities,” Courtney cuts in. “You know? Oh, no, sorry, Al-e-the-a, you don’t. FUN!”
Her pebbly eyes give me one of their best scathing looks as she sounds out the syllables of my name, mocking what she assumes is its poshness when my parents picked it for its meaning, apparently one of the few things they’ve ever agreed on.
“Scriptwriting is fun,” I tell her. For me, creating our own play is the highlight of the whole course. Actors are given their lines and moves; you can’t have more control than scripting the drama yourself.
But Courtney’s too busy shoving her phone back under Finn’s nose, so close her black hair spills across his fair curls. He smirks as he watches their reel back. I’ve got to accept my best friend’s just been cast as understudy for Courtney’s sidekick—a role he isn’t cool enough for when her usual mates are around.
I root in my rucksack for the play I’ve brought along.
AS I READ Arthur Miller’s Brooklyn setting for A View from the Bridge, a tragedy, I’m convinced Miss is dead right to bring us somewhere more dramatic than Leeds if we’re to write a killer script this week. Only a few pages in and the dramatist’s set up a tense triangle of characters in this edgy location right on the brink of the sea.
A few minutes later, the train stops again—Arnside, and the first station on the Cumbrian coast. I tug open the window, and fresh, salty air gushes in.
As we set off once more, the track curving around, I get my first glimpses of Morecambe Bay: no sea but a huge, fudgy beach. It’s bathed in orange now the sun’s finally elbowed the clouds out of the way. My body buzzes with the rush you get as a kid when you first catch sight of the coast.
“Finn, look!” I exclaim but the two of them, eyes closed, are sharing a pair of earbuds, leaking an unsettling beat.
THE TRAIN MAKES for a narrow viaduct stretching out across the vast Bay in front of us.
Our carriage rattles onto the bridge between two lands, and it’s like we’re off the rails
soaring across a giant’s beach
the sun sparking off spangled sand
laced with sapphire water
all
the way
to the
horizon. This is drama!
Dropping my play onto the table, I shuffle across and press my forehead to the window.
Everything is golden now.
I LEAVE BEHIND Finn and his wild week,
Mum’s parting put-down—
Off you trot, get this drama phase out of your system
And I
fly
ALL TOO SOON, the train reaches the end of the viaduct. The next station is announced: Grange-over-Sands.
I scrabble into the aisle and tug Finn’s earbud out.
“We’re here!”
Grabbing my rucksack, I make for the door. Miss Duffy is already there. My ally. Only last week, she spoke up for me and my UCAS application to study drama while Mum’s insisting on ‘something sensible with a future’. Which is why I’ve got to prove myself to her, go home with a gripping play.
"The view from the bridge!” I say to Miss, holding up my copy. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She smiles, her eyes gleaming. “Spectacular, isn’t it? The Bay’s going to add so much to your drama this week.”
The Sands now appear in
jolty
camera
shots
as
the train
slows,
slows,
finally stops.
I press the yellow button to open the doors, and the shore presents itself once again through tall, arched windows on the platform. Once the ramp’s in place for Miss’s wheelchair, I follow her down, into the week ahead.
Two
“TO THE PROMENADE!” Sir says, rubbing his hands together before leading the thirteen of us back through the short railway underpass.
We’ve just dispatched our luggage to the hostel in their minibus with the centre manager, Mr. Rainer, a gruff man who put me in mind of Charon, the silent guy who ferries the dead across the river to Hades. Now Sir’s keen to orientate us and get on with the geography part of the trip.
BLINKING IN THE bright afternoon sun, we stop dead on the tarmacked prom sandwiched between the railway track and horizontal railings to stop you walking off the edge.
“Where’s the beach?” Courtney demands, her tone outraged. “This is Grange-over-soddin’-Sands!”
What she’s complaining about is the thick fringe of grungy grass between the prom and the sand emanating a briny smell.
“We’ve just crossed several miles of what you’d call beach on the train,” Sir says, bemused but immune to Courtney’s gobbiness by now. “But this is not a shore to walk on, and here’s why.”
He gestures left to the colourful panel of signs at the top of a ramp leading down onto the marsh. In bright-red letters, it shouts: EXTREME DANGER
Below that, alongside yellow warning triangles, are the reasons for the danger:
Beware quicksand
Beware sudden tides
Beware sudden drops
Next to quicksand, in case you don’t know what it can do, a stickman raises his arms in terror as he surrenders to the hungry mud. My scalp creeps. These are sands to be admired only from a safe distance.
“WHERE IS THE sea?” Shafeeq asks, screwing up his nose.
“This is a tidal estuary,” Sir tell us. “The sea will be back soon enough. So, listen up.”
We all look his way. He’s got his serious face on now and we all respect Hey Ho. He’s fun, fair, plus he does the lighting for our plays! Though he’s warned us he might have to stop when his twins arrive around Christmas.
“You’ve seen the signs. None of you will so much as dream of setting foot on these Sands.”
It’s a statement, but he does a sweep of our faces to check.
Finn nods his agreement, blue eyes wide.
“Hey-ho,” Sir says, validating his nickname. “Geographers are coming with me.”
Miss decides to go with them to learn more about the Bay, leaving the five of us with instructions to take some photos and even recordings of the shore before meeting her later.
While Hey Ho leads his group down the prom in the opposite direction to the town, trailing phrases like ‘coastal systems’ and ‘five tributaries’, Lucy’s fixing Shaf over her new, navy secretary specs.
“Bet there’s some great vintage clothes in the charity shops in a place like this,” she tells him.
Under his trademark Yorkshire flat cap, he gives his lazy shrug, happy to go along with whatever makes Lucy happy.
Next thing, Courtney’s making another friggin’ TikTok post. The flame tatt licking up her forearm catches red-hot fire on her dark skin as she holds her phone high so only the marsh is in the background.
“So, turns out, we’re at this la-la land of a seaside with no sea, and sand apparently…somewhere out there! God only knows why we didn’t go to Blackpool instead. So, Finn…” She beckons him.
Enough! I set off down the prom away from all of them.
WELL AWAY FROM Courtney, I stop to take some photos. Leaning against the railing, I allow myself to drift onto the burnished Sands. From here, the viaduct looks like part of a toy train set. A miniature train beetles back across it to Arnside, clear as glass even from this distance. Now I see how the Bay yawns in a giant Y-shape from the viaduct out to open sea.
Footsteps draw me back onto the prom. To my right, a lad pauses at the railings too. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the calm green of his T-shirt. One hand shielding his eyes against the sun, he gazes out onto the Sands, scrutinising it almost. Maybe it’s new to him as well.
As if sensing my thoughts, he turns to smile at me, his face tanned and lean. He makes a sweeping gesture in front of him, palm up, a semicircle between us saying, All this!
I smile back and nod. All this space and beauty. We gaze together, the late-October sun surprisingly warm on my shoulders, and a sense of everything being right with this new world washes over me.
A sudden wailing sets up from across the bare Bay like an air-raid alarm. Maybe everything’s not all right after all? It’s definitely warning about something. My shoulders tensed, I turn to Green-tee, but he’s set off down the prom. The alarm stops. I set off in the same direction as him, towards the Leisure Facilities, a sign tells me.
AVOIDING KIDS ON bikes, off-lead dogs and meandering mobility scooters, I pass a play park, a bandstand and now the café where we’re to meet Miss at four p.m. The lad’s disappeared around a corner, so I press on.
THE PROM STRAIGHTENS out, so you can’t miss this huge stone semicircle jutting out over the grassy shore. Where its straight edge meets the prom, through a small window, I glimpse a peeling diving tower looming over a pool of murky water.
NOW, WHEN I look down the prom, I’ve lost the lad. I break into a power walk. Then I see.
The figure out in the Bay.
He’s some three hundred metres away—I can make out the green of his top—not so far from the edge of the grass, standing where sinking sand could suck him down at any moment. What if he hasn’t seen the loud signs? There aren’t any at this end of the prom because there are no ramps. He must have squeezed under the railings, unaware of the risk.
My pulse picks up. No one else is around. Now I make out a faint track trodden through the long grass, which maybe attracted him. It’ll take me two minutes to jog to the end of the marsh and warn him about the danger.
But Sir’s one and only rule for the week echoes in my head:
Don’t even dream of setting foot on those Sands.
I wipe my hand across my face as if I can make it all disappear. My pulse is galloping at even the remote chance of the sudden tide coming in anytime soon.
But what if it does and sweeps Green-tee away? And I could have prevented it?
FOLLOWING MY INSTINCTS, I sink down onto the prom. Once I’ve twisted onto my stomach, I swivel my legs under the bottom bar of the railings, ease my way backwards down the wall.
The drop’s more than I expected—higher than me. Green-tee might have to help me back up. Under my trainers, the bog’s squelchy, unstable. This is sooo not land.
Get a grip, Allie. He’s only three minutes away. Tops.
Trouble is, the lad’s pacing further out onto the Sands almost as fast as I’m jogging. I speed up, going as quick as I can without stumbling on the squidgy surface.
Breathing hard, I reach the end of the grass. Bang in front of me, the Sands are a big step down. And I’m not setting foot on them.
“Hey!” I yell at the back of the figure.
He carries on but then stops and stoops right down.
Now’s my chance. I cup my hands around my mouth.
“Heeyy!”
He straightens up, turns, looks towards me.
I do this weird criss-cross wave with both hands.
“There’s quicksand out there,” I call. “And a sudden tide.”
He strides towards me. Once he gets nearer, he smiles as he recognises me.
“Thanks, but I know this,” he says, his accent precise, perhaps Eastern European, though his skin tone’s more Greek or Italian looking, jet-black hair on his forearms.
“Oh, okay.” I bite my lip. So why were you out there? “I thought you might be new to the place and missed the danger signs.”
He shakes his head, coming closer again. “I live here.”
Where? Who with? I want to ask as he steps up onto the marsh alongside me.
Before I can find a more reasonable question, the siren sets up again.
“What is that?” I ask him. “It warns the tide is coming.”
He points behind him, towards open sea. My stomach swoops. A low wall of water stands on the horizon like a battle line.
“We need to get back!” I say.
But something’s caught his eye beyond me, back towards the ruined lido. I turn.
My heart plummets to the ground.
The sea’s creeping up behind Finn’s back!
Three
"They're from my school," I tell the lad in dismay.
"The tide will be here in three, four minutes," he says.
He starts to run along the edge of the marsh back towards the lido. I race after him. My pulse is racing too, with fear and fury. Telling Courtney not to go on the Sands is THE way to guarantee she absolutely will. But she's dragged Finn after herm and now they're meandering back to shore, trainers in hand, as if they have all the time in the world.
Can't they hear the sea's low growl?
