The blue tub has fallen from a boat. It must have. Simon guesses it’s come from a fishing boat, lost overboard in rough seas. It probably once contained bait. Chum. Chopped up bits of rubbishy fish that fishermen with accents threw onto the surface of the water, with the sole purpose of attracting some much bigger and better fish. The ones with the chainsaw for a nose or great whites. There aren’t any great white sharks in the sea around Jersey. The water’s too cold but Simon had seen a report about global warming which warned that it was only a matter of time.

The sea is kinda rough now. He hears it collapsing onto the pebbled shoreline behind him. He’s facing away from the sea and standing with one leg straight and behind him, for power, the other one bent and in front of him for control. Think of fencing, with the swords. He needs to stand like this for balance because he’s on a slope of rounded stones that the sea has pushed forward to form a small, steep hill. He’s looking at the tub. It’s on top of the hill of pebbles. The tub is, in size, somewhere between a barrel and a bucket.

“Chum bucket,” says Simon and he looks left and right, to make sure nobody has heard him on this completely empty beach. He only really needed to look right. That’s where people would be coming from if they were walking a dog, or even walking without a dog. Nobody would be coming from the left. Just rocks that way. Right is also where the wind is coming from and he squints a bit when he looks that way. He looks back at the tub. Behind the tub rises a near-vertical wall of trees and undergrowth. 

Simon wobbles and the pebbles beneath the soles of his trainers clack and shift against each other, and he slides down the pebbled hill a bit. Just a bit. A few centimetres. If you weren’t used to standing on a hill like this you might think that once you begin to slide you won’t stop until you get to the bottom. You might flail your arms for balance. Simon doesn’t. His hands are occupied. Sure the stones are jammed against each other, he’s set. He rolls the ball bearing between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Just a little. If he rolls it too much he’ll drop it and it would be gone. He’d lost a few ball bearings that way. The first few times he’d actually bothered to look for them after they’d clinked somewhere near his feet. He’d never once found one after it’d been dropped. You can’t dig down through pebbles. You can move a few, the top ones, but they get bigger as you go deeper. The bearings he’d dropped would never be found. Never ever. It had been quite exciting for him to realise that. That the ones he’d dropped would probably never ever be found. The sun would go out and the Earth would freeze before they were found. Probably. Who knows? Anyway, the point is he’s careful not to drop the one he’s holding. It’s inside the loop of elastic from the catapult which is in his right hand. His hands are linked together through these two hoops – the circle his thumb and forefinger make holding the ball, and the length of elastic which goes through that hole.

The catapult had come with a big bag of ball bearings. A nice surprise because there’d been no mention of the big bag of ball bearings on the Amazon listing. He still had more than three quarters of them. Sometimes he just fires pebbles. But when there’s a target, like the tub, out come the bearings.

The catapult originally came from China, via Amazon. Simon’s mum couldn’t believe it was legal and you could just buy one and they deliver it. She just couldn’t believe it. It is a bit of a surprise when you see this thing. I don’t know what you’re thinking of while you’re using your imagination to picture this catapult Simon is holding on the beach, but think again buddy! You’re not even close. This thing isn’t a rudimentary Y-shaped piece of metal with brown elastic. You can get those, of course, and they’re about £4. Nah, this thing is pro and has an angled grip like you’d find on a gun. A bracket which you can adjust and which stabilises the catapult on your forearm, and the elastic is orange. It’s a weapon. It’s what they hunt with in China and it cost £18. Ammo included.

Graham had giggled when he’d had a go in the garden. Giggled more when he’d jokingly pointed it at Simon’s head. His mum had sworn at Graham from the kitchen window for doing that, even though Simon was pretty sure Graham had only been joking. She was going to take it, but Simon promised her to only use it when he couldn’t even see another living thing. Now, on the pebbly beach, Simon can hear some oystercatchers. He could see them, if he looked, but they are a long way away, and so he feels that he is, you know, complying with the basic sentiments of his mother’s wish.

That was exposition. You found out a bit about Simon’s life there and it was seamless. Wanna know more about him? He’s got long hair.

Simon flicks his head to get his hair out of his face and raises his right arm straight out in front of him. His left hand follows loosely, it has to, the elastic goes through his loop of fingers with the bearing still carefully pinched, but now nestled gently against the small leather pad which is in the middle of the elastic. There’s probably a name for that part of a catapult. Simon doesn’t know it and nor do I. He pulls his left hand back a bit. Deftly moving the ball, just going on feel, so it’s in the middle of the leather bit, and he pulls his left hand back further. As his hand draws back he instinctively pinches the ball tighter. You can’t teach this stuff. It all comes from experience. The wrist stabiliser does its job and presses against his right forearm. 

There’s a sweet spot. With a catapult you don’t just pull it back as far as it will go and twang it. That’s what a complete idiot would do. An idiot would probably drop the ball before they even got that far, but then they’d try and pull it back as far as they could, thinking that would increase the power of the shot.

Power is nothing without control. Simon had heard that, possibly on an advert, and it was true. You need that sweet spot between power and control. Simon’s hands are cold but it doesn’t bother him. He’s focused. There’s the ghost of a label on the tub. A white square about ten centimetres across. Simon aims at it. The centre of it. He aims at the centre of that square by aiming at the very top of the middle of the tub, and pointing the catapult down slightly. This, Simon knows from experience, compensates for stuff. If he does it like this then the ball will usually go more down there. He sucks his lips into his mouth and tastes the salt, and lets go of the ball. There’s a certain way you have to release the ball. You don’t just let go of the ball as quickly as you can. It has to be controlled. Thumb and forefinger moving at exactly the same rate. This allows the ball to fly straight. Simon releases the ball in a controlled manner. He feels the leather flick the tips of his thumb and forefinger and at about the same moment he hears the ball twack off the side of the tub. That’s right, twack. It doesn’t thwack. It twacks. 

He misses the square this time, but he won’t the next. His hand dives into the left pocket of his lopsided anorak and feels around until he finds the opening in the clear plastic bag. His thumb and forefinger enter the bag and pinch for another ball. Simon hasn’t altered his stance nor taken his eyes off the tub. Getting the ball inside the elastic loop is where he’s apt to drop it, and so he’s super careful, breathing slowly. Inside the loop of elastic he pinches the ball again and rolls it slightly, then pulls it against the leather thingy.

It’s probably not even real leather.

Again he raises his right arm straight in front of him. This time he’s aiming at the square by aiming slightly above the rim of the tub. And a fraction over to the right. He finds the sweet spot and holds his breath. He’s gripping the handle as tightly as he can, it’s shaking slightly but the stabiliser bites into the sleeve of his anorak and then… release. Twack.

Bullseye! Simon smiles, squinting and nodding. “Yeah,” he says quietly and looks around.

The pressure off him, he quickly loads another ball. “360 no scope,” he mouths and spins, and while sliding down the hill he fires and hears metal on metal, then feels metal on tooth. His blood pressure disappears and he drops the catapult and begins rubbing at his face while chanting “Fuck.” He rubs his mouth. His teeth. He rubs his teeth with his hand and with his tongue. He rubs his tongue with his hand as the panic overwhelms him. His hand, his fingers, are just dabbing at his face as his tongue darts around his mouth looking for something sharp. A tooth could be gone and he wouldn’t find it, not like that. He needs to calm but he’s panting as he runs the back of his hand against his teeth. Calm. He closes his eyes and slowly runs his fingers across his upper front teeth, then presses his tongue against the back of them. They all seem to be there. They all seem to be intact. Nothing seems to be amiss. He checks again. The tooth which, after ricocheting off the frame of the catapult, the ball bearing had hit is still there. Simon grips the tooth and tries to shake it. It feels a bit numb. “Fuck.” He presses it from the bottom. Presses it hard while he tilts his head down. It’s definitely a bit numb, he thinks. It’s going to fall out. It’s dead. He presses his tongue on the back of it. Have I killed it? Is it going to go black and fall out? My mum will… He presses it up with his thumb again, then looks at the indentation it has left on his thumb. The dent on his thumb isn’t raggedy. That’s good. He purses his lips and sucks, then presses the tooth upwards with his tongue. It definitely feels a bit weird. “Shit,” whines Simon.

It’s time to move. He picks up the catapult and puts it in the right pocket of his anorak where it only just fits. It doesn’t balance his coat out. The bearings are heavy and weigh down the left side of it. I couldn’t wear a coat like that but Simon doesn’t seem to mind. He turns from the tub and walks and slides down the tumbling pebbles, which sounds like the bin man doing the glass collection in slow motion. The beach levels out. He’d planned to go the long way home, across the rocks towards Noirmont. He’d planned to go that way because when he’d announced he was going out Graham had wanted to know what time he would be back, and when Graham asked him what time he would be back it meant don’t come back soon. Experience. He’d said he’d be back at dinner time, and Graham had given him a thumbs up and nodded. This was before Simon had nearly smashed out all of his teeth. He will apologise to Graham for coming home sooner than he’d said, but it just can’t be helped, he needs a mirror. Just to check.

Simon hasn’t made much progress when he sees the five kids on the black rocks ahead of him. They’re a long way away but recognisable. To get to the next bay, which has the steps up to the village, you have to climb over an outcrop of rocks. Only if the tide is in, you have to. If the tide is out you can avoid these rocks and walk around them on the beach. The tide isn’t out, it’s in, and there are people on the rocks and they’re heading this way. They are spread out and being careful, and they’re not adults. It’s not easy crossing over the rocks as there’s a big gully in the middle of them. Until last year there had been a small metal bridge that crossed the gully, but a storm had destroyed it and it hadn’t been replaced, so now you have to do a bit of climbing to get here, or back over there. It puts people off. Not these people though, and so Simon turns. He’s going the long way home after all. That means climbing over a lot of rocks. A mile or two of rocks before there’s a lane which leads up to the road. 

It all looks slippery and some parts are, because of the spray and seaweed, but it is okay if you take things slowly, which Simon does. Concentrating on his steps, testing his footing and jumping over pools helps to remove the urgency he feels over his dental emergency, and he’s soon in a rhythm. It’s important to move across rocks as freely as you can. Calm. You glide over them, almost. Not stilted. All stilted and you’re going to slip. Fluid. Fast and slow, but always moving. You’ve got to look three or four steps ahead. Maybe five. No more than that, and that’s why he doesn’t spot Gregor sooner. When he sees him he forgets about his tooth completely. He freezes. Let’s leave Simon here.

We’re going back the way he’s just come. We’ll go quicker. We’re not walking. Across the black rocks and pools and seaweed, until we get to the place where the rocks disappear down under the pebbles. Rocks. That’s how you think of them. Rocks. Rocks that separate one bay from another but of course the island is just one big lump of black rock. Most of it’s covered in mud and roads and houses and sand and pebbles. It’s only really around the coast that you see it exposed. The black rock. Big stretches of it or small lumps peeking up. Where the rock goes down, the sea fills it with pebbles and sand and we’re left with a beach. We’re on the beach already, the one with the tub. Occasionally there’ll be a bit of pottery in between the pebbles. A small piece of china with part of a blue pattern on it. Can’t see any now but if you take your time you’ll find some. The first piece is always the hardest to find. You find the first piece and your eyes sort of get attuned to seeing it. Simon thinks it all came from a shipwreck in the 1800s. Maybe he’s right. If he ever sees a good bit he collects it with the vague intention of, at some time, making something from the pieces. A mosaic or something. He doesn’t really know how he’d go about doing that, what would you stick them down with? But there are 27 fragments of china on the drawers in his room, they’re the best bits, there’s also a biscuit tin full of the stuff under his bed. 

The blue tub is about halfway along, at the very top of the pebbled beach. Beyond the tub, the five people Simon saw climbing are relieved to have made it down onto the beach without slipping and fracturing their monkey-tails (coccyxs), and feeling pain and shame in front of the others. 

The five are made up of two boys and three girls.

Glenn is the tallest. He’s actually the tallest boy in year 11, apart from that really tall kid with the developmental issues. Max is also tall. If you ask Max he’ll tell you that he and Glenn are a team. Equals. Nah, that’s wishful thinking, Max. Everybody apart from you understands that you’re Glenn’s sidekick. It’s not fair, really, because all that really separates them is their hair. Glenn’s hair is nice, if you like that sort of thing. It’s like a Premiership footballer’s hair, whereas Max has a weird hairline. It’s just weird. It comes down in a bit of a point in the middle of his forehead and you can’t do anything about that. It’s a bit like Dracula’s hair.

Hierarchy among the girls is harder to ascertain. Amanda is… well she’s… yeah, she’s of average intelligence. And a bit sporty. But more importantly she’s the hot one. It shouldn’t matter, you know? Like, what year is this? But she’s the hot one. Claire is the one everybody is a bit wary of and, annoyingly, the other girl is also called Claire, so when they start talking it’s going to get confusing. Just a warning. The other Claire is quite short but she’s from London, so she’s got that going for her. She only moved to Jersey last summer. Maybe that’s the hierarchy? The order I described them? There must be a reason I did it that way. I guess London Claire might move up when she gets herself properly established.

“We’re not going to get trapped, are we?” asks London Claire. She didn’t enjoy crossing the rocks, none of them did, but she enjoyed it the least. Happy to be off the rocks, she’s already thinking about the return journey.

“No, the tide’s going out,” replies Glenn, not knowing if that’s true.

“It’s going to rain,” says Claire.

“Nah,” replies Glenn.

“This is shit,” she continues. Glenn ignores her. They’re walking in a line. The same order they were in when they were climbing. They look like trendy but tired refugees. “Why are we still walking?”

“We’ll go over there,” says Glenn, looking up at the rocks on the other side of the bay. He’s walking and slipping, not looking behind.

“Why?” asks Claire.

“In case somebody comes,” says Glenn.

“There was somebody over there.” 

Glenn looks up and his right leg slides down so that for a moment he’s cross-legged. “Well, they’ve gone now.”

“Watch this!” shouts Max. He’s left the line. He’s got a piece of driftwood. It’s about half a metre long. “Right in the sea,” he says when everybody is watching. It’s a long way to the sea. A professional driftwood thrower might make it, but Max? Come on. Claire, Amanda and London Claire are sceptical that Max can. He can’t. Not even halfway. Despite his accompanying grunt.

“This is far enough,” says Amanda. Glenn stops and looks around. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says.

“You listen to her,” says London Claire.

Glenn scrambles up the hill of pebbles and takes off his rucksack before sitting down on the plateau of pebbles at the top. Max scouts out the area for washed up things, or just something he can lob at the sea. He finds a broken lobster pot and something he first thought was a raft. He furrows his brow, which draws down his weird forehead hair point, thinking about who would travel on a raft, before he recognises it for what it is. A pallet board. Max hopes the others are looking at him as he scavenges. He discovered that the best way to get attention is to do things. Glenn can get attention just for being Glenn. Max has to do things and so he looks for something that will delight the others. There’s nothing. A bundle of rope. A Gatorade bottle that’s somehow filled itself with sea water. The others aren’t looking at him.

Glenn feels a bit nervous as he opens his rucksack while he sits on the uncomfortable ground. He digs his heels and shuffles slightly so the pebbles under his butt interlock into a more comfortable seat.

“Where did you get it from?” asks Amanda, not yet ready to sit down.

“I know a guy,” says Glenn. That’s a half truth. Although Glenn does know guys, he actually got it from his brother. And he’d had to beg and barter. He opens the tin revealing the small lump of hash.

“Is that it?” asks Claire not from London. 

“This is primo.” He carefully picks it up. Pinching it like Simon had pinched a ball bearing. But whereas Simon is excellently skilled with a catapult, Glenn isn’t quite so skilled with drugs and the accompanying paraphernalia, so he’s nervous about trying to roll the joint in public. He sniffs it and nods to show he knows what he is doing. He doesn’t. He’s not sure what it should smell like. The girls, by their looking around and moving seaweed, make it obvious they’re not as happy just sitting down on the pebbles like hobos, and Glenn wishes he’d brought a blanket. But then he didn’t know they were going to bump into the girls. It’d be weird if it was just him and Max sitting on a blanket. Well weird.

The girls had been sitting in the shelter by the car park when Glenn and Max walked past. London Claire was trying to persuade them to go across the road to Costa and get a hot chocolate when Glenn said, “Hey!” Then it was all, what are you doing? Nothing much. We’ve got some dope. Good for you. You want to share it? Not particularly. I want hot chocolate. I want hot chocolate. Shut up Max. We’ll get hot chocolate after. You’ve really got some? Yeah. Where are you going? Pebbly Beach, and then glances were exchanged. Where’s the Pebbly Beach? Just over there. Raised eyebrows and shrugs and after some discussion between just the girls they were off. Max karate kicked at a big fern by the toilets. It was some kind of plant with big leaves. 

They’d walked around and past the parish hall and then down the Bulwarks, past the boats in the harbour with their masts and cables making, you know, that sound. Not sure how to describe the sound of cables hitting against hollow masts. If you’ve heard it, you know. If you haven’t, well, kinda like a bell. But not really. Then down the steps next to the slipway and onto the Pebbly Beach. They’d walked across this first small bay, which has small pebbles – easy to navigate – and then over the rocks that lead to the next more secluded bay (these rocks once had a bridge. I told you about it earlier). Although there are two distinct bays, particularly when the tide is in, both with different sizes of pebbles, they’re both known as the Pebbly Beach. I hope that’s not too confusing. 

Glenn wishes he’d rolled the joint at home where he’d practised with just tobacco. He wouldn’t have been worried attempting it if it was just Max, but then Glenn doesn’t want this to end with him and Max kissing. He hopes it will end with him kissing one of the girls. Hopefully Amanda. The presence of the girls ramps the pressure right up, and even though it isn’t exactly gale force 10, the breeze isn’t helping. He holds the paper down on the flattest part of his rucksack, which is on his thighs, with his left hand, while he sprinkles the tobacco with his right. Then, this accomplished, it’s time for the cool bit. Drugs aren’t cool, kids. But sometimes they are. The cool bit is heating the hash so it will crumble and he does this awkwardly. His left forearm holds the paper, scattering the tobacco, as the hand on the end of it flicks the lighter.

Max is back with a strand of white fishing line that has a hook on it. Glenn glances at him. “Careful!” he says, preemptively. 

“I might go catch a fish,” he says, smiling. 

Glenn breathes through his nose and leans in closer to the half built joint. He finishes crumbling and puts the nugget carefully in the tin, then gathers the tobacco he’s spilled so it’s down the middle of the paper. He puts the tin on the paper so it doesn’t blow away then rips a strip of the paper’s packaging and rolls it into a small spiral, and positions it at the end of the paper. He glances up. Max isn’t fishing. He’s scavenging again. He looks at the girls. They’re looking at something on Claire not from London’s phone. He looks at the paper. It’s actually about the same size as the mark left by the sticker on the tub. He licks his lips. “What are you doing tonight?” he asks, to show he is both casual and confident.

“Homework,” says Amanda. Glenn nods, almost but not quite appreciating the fact that his mum had made him do his this morning. He doesn’t let on that he’s already done his. He just nods and then picks up the paper in both hands and begins to roll. If he wasn’t holding anything it would look like he was miming a loaded squirrel, you know? That money gesture where you rub your fingertips together, and because his elbows are together it’s a bit squirrelesque. He is holding something though and to his relief it rolls nicely. He licks the paper and carefully rolls and, what do you know? He’s made a great looking joint! He stops himself from smiling and holding it up to the girls. Calm.

He looks for Max, instead. “We’re gonna spark up!” he shouts over to Max, waving the excellent joint at him, and then the four of them who are sitting on the beach look around. There’s nobody. “This is primo so-”

“You’ve already said that,” says Claire, not from London.

“I know, but be careful.” He lights the twisted end then inhales and holds the joint out and looks at the burning end.

“Ganja mon!” says Max, stomping over, halfway up the slope of pebbles, and Glenn coughs out a laugh. Glenn passes it to Amanda who doesn’t laugh and doesn’t cough. Claire from London takes it but just passes it on to Claire.

“What?!” says Max in a high-pitched American sounding voice to Claire from London as he stomps past her.

“I don’t want any.”

“What? Are you more into heroin?” he asks and the other Claire coughs out a laugh.

“Why would I be into heroin?” demands Claire from London. She’s taken it seriously because she thinks that just maybe it’s in relation to her appearance.

“Because you’re from London,” says Max. That all makes perfect sense to Max. “Or meths.”

“Meth,” says Glenn, correcting Max. Max is taking the joint from Claire not from London. 

“What?” says Max before he takes a draw.

“I’m not from London,” says Claire from London. Oh shit.

“What?” asks Max in a voice thick with smoke. He hands back to Glenn.

“I’m from Luton.”

“What?” asks Max. Claire from Luton shakes her head as Max, on purpose, collapses down onto the pebbles and reclines. “I’m feeling that,” he says, propping his head up with a crooked arm.

“I don’t feel it,” says Claire from neither London nor Luton.

“It’s probably an oxo cube,” says Amanda.

“Ha!” says Glenn. “I’ve had some, it’ll kick in in a minute.” He’s suddenly worried that Amanda will pass this time, but she doesn’t. He can’t help watching her inhale.

“There’s someone there,” says Luton.

“Shit!” says Glenn, grabbing the joint from a startled Amanda and throwing it into the undergrowth behind. He then looks around and sees Simon walking along the shoreline. He’s annoyed he threw it away for that. “Shit,” he says again.

“That’s your mate isn’t it?” says Max who then laughs a lot into a cupped hand. They all watch Simon.

“I went to primary school with him,” says Glenn.

“And he was your best friend and you used t-”

“Yeah, alright Max. We get it.” There’s something about the way Simon’s walking which holds their attention. He keeps checking behind and then breaking into a trot for a few metres.

“Freak!” shouts Max into his cupped hand, which he then laughs into. Max isn’t looking down at Simon, he’s looking up at the others.

“Don’t be a dick, Max,” says Glenn. Max ignores him and shouts his insult louder and faster, and then laughs some more. Proper shoulder shaking laughter.

Simon hears somebody shout something. He looks up the beach and sees a group of kids sitting not far from the tub he was shooting at. Then he checks behind to see how far he’s gone. He runs for a moment before deciding that fast walking is just as efficient. He hears another shout. This one seems to be directed at him and so this time he doesn’t just glance, he looks, properly, while walking. He recognises Glenn Stott. Simon knows his surname because they went to primary school together. They’d been friends and then suddenly, for no reason Simon knew of, they weren’t.

“Nice one, you’re such a dick, Max,” says Glenn, holding up his hand because Simon’s staring at him. Keep walking, Glenn’s thinking, projecting. “Shit,” says Glenn when he sees that Simon has altered his course and is now walking towards them. 

“Alright Simon?” asks Glenn when Simon is at the bottom of the hill of pebbles. 

“Alright?” replies Simon. He’s weirdly out of breath and looks at them all in turn very briefly before looking over to his left. He’s standing there, kind of panting, his hands on his hips, things clearly in his pockets. His anorak is hanging off him in an uncomfortable looking way. 

“What are you up to?” asks Glenn.

Simon lifts his left hand off his hips and extends his left forefinger and points over to the rocks where he’s looking. “There’s a body.”

“A body?”

“Yeah. A… a body.”

“A dead body?” asks Glenn. Simon nods. Still looking left. He nods for a while. Glenn looks at Max who is mouthing the word ‘freak’.

“Can I use your phone?” asks Simon.

“Haven’t you got one?”

On the floor in Simon’s bedroom lies Simon’s Moto. The cable plugged into it has green electrical tape where it’s threatening to snap. The screen is cracked.

“Not with me. I need to phone the police.”

“There’s a dead… how do you know they’re dead?”

“Well he’s got no eyes,” says Simon, pointing to his own eyes, still not looking at Glenn. He’s still looking to the left. To the rocks. “And his…” Simon paws at his right shoulder.

“He?”

“Gregor.”

“You know him?”

“No. His wallet. He was half in the sea and I had to drag him…”

“What were you doing?”

“Going home.”

“You live up the hill.”

“I was going the long way around and he was just…”

“And you just found him?”

“Yeah.”

“And his name’s Gregorski.”

“Gregorski Kwalski. Something. Starts with a kay and a double you.”

Glenn looks at Amanda. She shakes her head and shrugs.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” asks Max, trying to get some attention. 

Simon looks down at Max. “No.”

“Just asking.”

“Can I have your phone? I need to call the police.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You think I’m making this up?” asks Simon. Glenn nods. “Why would I? I don’t lie.”

“Why would you say your dad had a Tesla?”

Simon inhales deeply. “He did have a Tesla!” says Simon while Max hoots. Simon glances briefly at Max. “The first one in Jersey.”

“He doesn’t. I see him driving around.”

“He had one. Had.”

Okay. Here’s the deal with the Tesla. One day Simon’s dad turned up in his new Tesla and took Simon for a drive. The acceleration was insane. So of course Simon told everybody at school but he was doubted. The next week his dad didn’t have the Tesla. Turned out he’d won a weekend in a Tesla through the golf club. He laughed when he told Simon the truth. Simon didn’t laugh because it wasn’t funny.

“Well you’re not calling the police on my phone.”

“Whatever,” says Simon who begins to walk and slide down the hill.

“Where are you going?” shouts Glenn.

“Parish hall!”

“Is he mental?” asks Luton Claire. Glenn looks at her and thinks. Then he shakes his head and carefully puts the tin on the pebbles then stands up. Not as easy as it sounds on the loose pebbles. 

“Wait! Simon.”

“What?”

“We’ll go look. Then I’ll phone.”

“And you’ll say I found him?”

“Well… yeah, If you want.”

“It’s quarter to four,” says Amanda to the Claires.

“Is it far?” asks Glenn.

“Ten minutes,” says Simon walking past them. Glenn puts the tin in his rucksack then puts the rucksack on his back.

“Is this a fucking weird game or something?” asks Claire. 

“You can wait here,” says Glenn. Max is standing next to Glenn. Glenn’s ready for anything. “It’s ten minutes.” 

The girls look at each other. “We have to be back at five,” says Amanda.

“Ten minutes,” says Glenn. “Or you can go back.”

“I wanna see it,” says Claire. They set off after Simon. 

It took nearly fourteen minutes, though to be fair to Simon, he did have to keep waiting. He could have done it in ten. So let’s give him a break, yeah? 

Gregorski lies in a gully, if that’s what it’s even called. A small valley in the rocks. Above him the silhouette of a kid appears. It’s the kid who dragged him across the rocks. Then there’s another. And another. They’re motionless. Then another silhouette blocks a small part of the white sky, but that one doesn’t hang around, and then two more appear at the same time. A tiny crab exits Gregorski’s empty left eye socket and crosses the folded, swollen grey jelly that used to be Gregorski’s face. It pauses in his moustache that was once under his nose but is now where his right cheek was. And then it’s going somewhere, fast. It kinda looks guilty. The silhouettes can’t see the crab, it’s really small.

“Grim,” says Max, who moments earlier had been having a great time dropping rocks into rock pools. He doesn’t like the dead body. He doesn’t like looking at it but there’s nothing else to do. Claire takes her phone out of her pocket.

“Don’t,” says Simon, looking at Claire even though he doesn’t know her that well.

“Not cool,” says Glenn.

“I wasn’t going to,” lies Claire. She totally was going to.

“Call the police,” says Simon as Claire from Luton continues to make retching sounds on the rocks behind. They’re like hiccups. You keep thinking that maybe we’ve had the last one, but no. At least she hasn’t actually puked.

“You touched him?” asks Amanda.

“Yeah, he was down there,” says Simon, who sees from her reaction that she doesn’t share his opinion that it had been a pretty brave thing to do. She thinks it was a disgusting thing to do. 

“Only his clothes. He was half in the sea.”

“Hi, yeah, we’ve found a body,” says Glenn, and Simon looks at him. He’s on his phone. “Glenn Stott,” says Glenn Stott. Simon stares at him. Glenn looks at Simon. Glenn looks down at Gregorski. He then explains where they are, says, ‘yeah’ and ‘okay’ a few times.

“We?” asks Simon after Glenn puts his phone away.

“What?”

“I found him.”

“So?”

“It doesn’t matter who found him,” says Claire. “Weirdo.”

“You didn’t find him,” explains Simon.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Glenn. It’s very easy for Glenn to say that. He hasn’t been imagining the reaction. Simon has.

Simon had imagined himself being interviewed by a reporter on Channel Television. Probably in the car park of the Yacht Club. After he’d given his statement to the police. The police would tell him what he could and couldn’t talk about. Simon didn’t want to say anything that could jeopardise this investigation.

“Were you scared?” the reporter, that woman one, was going to ask. “It must be very frightening to find a dead body?”

Simon would think. “No, not exactly scared. I was shocked but when something like this happens to you then instinct just takes over. I knew that I had to do something, so I just did it.”

“Did you touch it or were you too scared to go near it?”

“It’s a he, not an it. And yes, I dragged him out of the sea. I was worried he’d float away. He might have a family.” 

“What else can you tell us?”

“His name is Gregorski. I think I can tell you that. His wallet fell out and a card had his photo on, and I knew it was him from the moustache. And he had nearly two hundred Euros so he was probably washed overboard from a boat. In rough seas.”

“Were you tempted to take the money? After all, he has no use for it now.”

“No, I wasn’t even tempted. If Gregorski has family I’d want them to have it.” Simon had pictured himself nodding slightly at the camera at this point as the reporter smiled and slightly shook her head. 

“Incredible. Well, I’m sure a lot of local businesses will want to show their appreciation to you. So is there anything you want?”

“Please, just a donation to a charity.”

“Amazing. But if somebody still wanted to reward you?”

“Well, really, charity first but then I wouldn’t mind a Ryzen 7 3700X. I’m building a gaming PC.”

“Sounds like it will be a beast. I’m sure somebody out there might get you one. But really, thanks for your time and I hope you’re going to get a special dinner made for you,” she would say and Simon would modestly laugh and protest that he wasn’t a hero.

So much for that.

“What did they say?” asks Simon.

“We have to wait here.”

“All of us?” asks Amanda.

“I think so.”

“How long are they going to be?”

“I don’t know, not long.”

“And we all have to wait?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“What if they ask us what we were doing?”

“Why? What were you doing?” asks Simon.

“Drugs.”

“Shit.”

“What were you doing?”

Simon opens up his right anorak pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Hunting catapult.”

“Where did you get that?”

“China.”

“Let’s have a go.”

“No. It’s dangerous,” says Simon. “Do my teeth look okay?” he asks, doing something with his mouth that scares Glenn, a kind of grimace. Glenn looks in Simon’s eyes but he keeps doing the thing with his mouth. Glenn glances down and nods and Simon goes back to normal.

“We have to be back at five,” says Amanda.

“You’ve got ages.”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll take them ages to get here.”

“Well…”

“It’ll be dark.”

“I don’t know.”

Nobody notices the inflatable speed boat containing five men in thick orange suits until it’s pretty close. I think they were all expecting help to arrive on foot. Simon, Amanda, Max, Glenn, Claire and Claire watch the boat. Simon wonders if one of them is supposed to help. Grab a rope or something. He just stands there. Two men jump out of the boat and into the water which is, surprisingly, only belly button high. The kids look down at their own feet as they twist and back up to give the men room. They stand and watch as the men help each other up the rocks. The men smile then look down at Gregorski. One of the orange-clad men turns to them and says, “Yuck!” and smiles again and the five kids smile back. The other man is down with Gregor when the man who’d said yuck starts talking into his radio. The kids look at each other. When he finishes he turns to the kids and says, “You can get out of here.”

“Yeah?” says Glenn.

“Yeah,” says the man.

“You don’t need a…”

“A statement?” finishes Simon. 

The man smiles again and looks down at his colleague like he wishes his colleague had heard this. “Nah, I don’t have any paper,” he says, somewhat theatrically patting at his orange suit. “He was just here?” he asks, pointing down.

“Yeah,” says Simon.

“That’s it, then,” says the man, and the kids look at each other again and then start over the rocks. The smiling man climbs down to Gregorski. “Fucking grim,” he says, reaching in the top of his orange suit and finding the pocket. He manages to open it and pulls out his phone. He takes the phone out of its waterproof case and then waves his hand to dry it. “Hey,” he says, “quick.” He unlocks his phone then opens the camera and hands it to his colleague who takes it and checks his footing and backs away. The smiling man crouches next to Gregorski and makes horns with the little finger and forefinger of both hands. He sticks his tongue out. His colleague takes a picture.

They’re walking quickly because in ten minutes it will be proper dark and they still have to get over the last rocks. The ones without a bridge. They’re not talking. Max isn’t even doing things. The girls are in front. Then Glenn and Max. Then Simon. Glenn stops and goes back a few steps and picks something up. He’d seen it immediately but it had taken a few steps to process, so he went back and picked up the piece of china. He holds it up to Simon who is walking the slowest. “Remember when we used to collect this?” he asks.

“No.”

“We had a bag of it!”

Simon pretends to think then shakes his head.

“God, we were lame,” Glenn says and throws it into the sea, then he jogs to catch up with Max. The tide’s out far enough so they can walk around the beach and only have to climb over a few small rocks, and that’s good because it’s actually got dark quicker than I thought it would. They would have had ten minutes from when I said if it wasn’t so cloudy, but it is cloudy. Claire from Luton steps into a massive puddle. Max laughs and the other Claire swears at him because Luton Claire’s eyes are all shiny. 

The village is lit up when they get to the top of the steps at the Yacht Club. It’s pretty. The restaurants along the Bulwarks are all lit up. The lights around the harbour. The parish hall all lit up. It’s nice. Like a postcard. Exactly like a postcard. There are many postcards with just this scene on them, minus the ambulance. There is an ambulance at the top of the slipway. They stop at the top of the steps.

“Do we…” asks Amanda.

“He said we can go.”

“I know, but…”

“Let’s just go,” says Claire, prematurely, because four seconds later a police car pulls in and they all look at each other. 

“Uh-oh, the po-po,” says Max. A policeman’s head appears out of the police car’s driver’s door.

“Are you the ones who…” asks the policeman.

“Yeah,” says Glenn.

“Wait there,” says the policeman who beckons them. They watch as he parks his car next to the ambulance. They go over.

“The boat people said we could go,” says Claire.

“Yeah, well they’re volunteers, so, you know? Just need your names and addresses,” says the policeman who has no intention of leaving the comfort of his seat. The kids line up and give their names, addresses and phone numbers to the policeman. “And what were you doing down there?”

“What were we doing?” parrots Glenn.

“Yeah.”

“Just, like, exploring.”

“Nice to see,” says the policeman. “Can’t get my one off the PlayStation.” Glenn, Simon and Max had each logged over 20 hours on their PlayStations so far this week. Max over 30.

“I saw him first,” blurts Simon who’s been waiting for his moment. He says it a bit too loud, but Glenn nods in agreement. “I pulled him out of the sea.”

“You touched him?” asks the policeman, seriously, and Simon thinks about tampering with evidence and doesn’t blink or breathe. “Gross,” says the policeman and Simon blinks and breathes.

“And we were throwing things in rock pools,” says Max.

“Nice,” says the policeman.

“So, what’s going to happen?” asks Glenn.

“Nothing probably, there might be an inquest. Somebody will phone you if they need you.”

“Cool,” says Glenn.

“Oh,” says the policeman, “and your mental health is okay?”

“Our mental health?”

“They think I might have ADHD,” says Max and Glenn blinks slowly.

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” says the policeman, “but you’re not disturbed after finding… that?”

Glenn looks at the others and then slowly begins shaking his head. The others join in. “No, think we’re alright.”

“Well that’s good, got to ask!” says the policeman who presses a button and his window goes up. Glenn looks at the others.

“Can we go?” asks Claire from Luton, quietly. Glenn looks at the policeman. He’s just staring out to the blackness of the sea.

“I think so,” says Glenn, who starts walking while looking at the policeman who’s only just visible behind the reflection of the Yacht Club. They’re not stopped. They walk along the Bulwarks. It’s busier. People are dressed up and wearing perfume and BO spray. 

“I’m…” says Simon who’s stopped walking. Glenn stops. Simon’s got his thumb cocked towards the lane that leads to the stairs that lead to the hill that leads to his house. 

“Oh yeah,” says Glenn. Simon holds his hand up. “See ya.”

Glenn nods and Max shouts, “Bye!” and Simon’s gone.

Glenn walks quickly to catch the girls. “Only five minutes late,” says Glenn after checking the clock on the parish hall. “Are you getting picked up? Or we could-”

“We’re getting picked up.”

“Because we might go to McDonald’s.”

“We’re getting picked up.”

“That was so crazy,” says Glenn as a car pulls up beside them. It’s a Honda Civic with LEDs underneath it. It’s driving slowly next to them and it makes Glenn uneasy. He elbows Max whose nod says, ‘cool car’. The driver of the Honda presses the centre of his steering wheel and the noise makes them all jump. The girls turn and recognise the car. Some guy gets out of the passenger side. He folds his seat forward while standing there. He stares at Glenn and Max as the girls somehow fit into the back of the small hatchback. Like reverse clowns. The guy puts the seat back but it hits one of the girls’ legs, and so he leans down and slides the chair forward as Glenn and Max stand there. He gets in and Glenn waves at the car, and the guy in the passenger seat waves back while pulling a face. The car pulls away.

“Are we going to McDonald’s?” asks Max.

“Nah,” says Glenn. “I might go home.” Max nods.

It’s only four days later. Just four days. Somewhere between 10:17 and 10:18pm on Thursday night when Simon, Glenn, Max, Claire, Claire and Amanda are all thinking about Gregorski’s ruined face at the same time. It doesn’t happen again after that. Not all at the same time.