Page 61 of The Rising Tide

‘Thanks for being here,’ she says, shaking his hand. Lucy pulls on her crash helmet and fastens it. Noemie climbs on to the pillion seat.

‘No worries,’ Matt tells her. ‘We’re Skentel natives, you and me. Like I told my mum, it’s the least I can do to come out. Last thing any of us expected was your hubby going full psycho. We’ll find them kids, Luce, if it’s any comfort. Whether it’s today or next week, I just know they’ll wash up.’

Lucy stares, appalled. She wipes her hand on her jeans, starts the Triumph. With a blip of the throttle, she gets out of there.

5

She’s unprepared for what she finds outside the Drift Net. Filling the window left of the door is a giant image of Fin. It’s a colour composite, made from multiple A4 sheets. Beneath, in stark black letters, is her son’s name and date of birth. The right-hand window displays an identically sized image of Billie.

Confronted by her children, Lucy starts to shake. She sits on the bike, feet planted, unable to do anything but stare at those larger-than-life-sized pieces of her heart.

Fin’s laughing, Billie too. But their eyes plead for life with an intensity that’s almost physical. A cavity opens inside Lucy’s chest.

‘Christ, I should have warned you,’ Noemie says, climbing off the bike. ‘Bee said she was going to get down here early with Tommo, turn this place into a hub, like you asked.’

Lucy moves her head from left to right.

Fin, then Billie.

She swallows. ‘It’s fine. It’s good, actually. More than that – it’s exactly what we need. It’s … I just didn’t …’

‘I know, hon. None of this is easy. For the foreseeable, you’ll need to be one hard-as-nails bitch.’

Inside, the Drift Net is rammed. Everyone Lucy wanted to see is here: fishing crews, yachting folk, local business owners, coastguard volunteers and uniformed police officers. Conversation is urgent and loud.

Near the bar, eight tables have been dragged together. A huge coastal map has been tacked to it, divided by purplefelt-tip into eight sections coded A to H. Matching lists have been fixed to a nearby wall. Each contains rows of names and telephone numbers.

Behind the tables stands Sean Rowland, the coastguard station officer from Redlecker. With a green pen he’s cross-hatching a section of map. Watching him is Bill Shetland, Skentel’s harbour master, and a female police officer.

The conversation fades as Lucy’s presence registers. On her way to the bar, a hand squeezes her shoulder. Someone else touches her arm. She cringes – doesn’t want their sympathy, certainly not their pity.

But something strange happens as she moves through the crowd: the touches and embraces and pledges of support soak in, begin to fill her up. By the time she reaches the bar, the cavity in her chest has refilled.

Bee is standing with Tommo at the till. Her pink hair’s the brightest thing in the room. She’s wearing another black T-shirt:ATOMS MAKE US ALL MATTER. Tommo’s T-shirt reads:EVERYTHING HAS BEAUTY BUT NOT EVERYONE SEES IT.

‘You’re here, that’s good,’ Bee says. ‘They need to see a figurehead.’

‘You did all this? You put it all together?’

‘Not just me. Tommo helped. And let me tell you – we’re just getting started. We’ll find them, there’s no way we won’t. That guy Sean is organizing the shoreline searches. A lot of the boats have already gone back out. I saw Jake earlier. Coastguard asked him to send the Tamar to the new search area they plotted. He’s got the inshore boat patrolling the coast. From what the radio nerds are telling me, there’s even a navy frigate out there looking. Plus all sorts of craft in the Bristol Channel.’

Bee pauses. Her gaze flickers from Lucy to her boyfriend.

‘What is it?’ Lucy asks.

‘We’re getting lots of questions about Daniel,’ Tommo says quietly. ‘A few nasty rumours starting to fly. There are one or two journalists milling about. We’re just telling you so you’re armed. Have you spoken to him?’

‘Hospital visiting’s from two. I thought I’d come down here first, get things organized. Not that it seems I needed to. You’re both doing an amazing job. I’m going to run off some extra photos. Make sure there’s no danger of running out.’

‘You want some help?’ Bee asks.

Lucy shakes her head. ‘You’ve got your hands full here. Remember – the tills stay closed. We feed these people, get the word out. We make Billie and Fin famous until they’re found.’

Excusing herself, she goes to her office. It’s a cramped, windowless space. A shelving rack bows with the weight of box folders, drinks promos and other detritus. On the desk is her iMac. A screensaver worm crawls across it.

Lucy sits, sweeping a sprawl of paperwork to the floor. She waves the computer mouse, types in her password. The screen changes: an image of Billie. It’s the same one from the front window, pasted into a photo editor. Lucy flinches as if stung.

She resizes the image, adds the one of Fin. Then she opens Safari. It takes a while to find images of theLazy Susan’s immersion suits. She drops the best ones into the photo editor below her children’s photographs. A few mouse-clicks and the printer begins to spit pages.

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