Page 3 of Washed Up

‘You don’t have to say it like that. I thought Guernsey was very nice.’ He sipped at the water, wincing at the coldness.

‘Oh, it’s lovely. Of course, it’s lovely. We all love Guernsey. But this is not it.’

‘So where the heck am I, Frankie, if you don’t mind?’ His voice was low. Gravelly. Something about the way he said her name felt a little too familiar.

There was only one thing for it. Frankie took a deep breath and went into full tour guide mode. ‘You are on the island of Herm. It’s about twenty minutes from Guernsey by boat. Population, sixty-five. Number of cars, zero. Number of roads, zero.’

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where doesn’t have roads?’ When she didn’t reply, the laugh died on his lips. ‘Wait, I am still in the UK, right?’

‘Here. Here doesn’t have roads,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And yes.’

Dylan looked at her for a long moment, his forehead creased. Then his eyes grew wide as some kind of realisation dawned.

‘Those absolute bastards,’ he said, jumping out of his seat. ‘I’ll kill them for this.’

CHAPTER TWO

Dylan wrapped his ridiculous waistcoat tighter around him as they closed the door to the little cottage. By the time Frankie had rustled him up some toothpaste and waited while he splashed some water on his face to wake himself up, the wind had picked up so much that, outside, they had to raise their voices just to hear each other.

‘It’s this way,’ said Frankie, pointing him down the sandy path towards the village.

‘What?’ said Dylan.

‘This way,’ she mouthed, pointing. He nodded some kind of understanding and they set off, Frankie glancing at her watch every few minutes.

‘What’s the hurry?’ said Dylan, who seemed to be struggling to keep up with her.

That was a monster of a hangover, thought Frankie. Not sure I’d even be upright. Out loud she said, ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a storm coming.’

‘What?’ said Dylan, again.

‘A storm,’ she shouted.

‘You don’t say,’ he replied.

‘Just come on.’

They stumbled along in silence until they reached a more sheltered section of the path and could finally hear each other. Trees formed a natural arch here over the sandy track. A moss-covered stone wall ambled its way down one side. It was normally one of Frankie’s favourite spots. But today, all she could hear was the wind roaring in her ears. As they rounded the corner onto the coastal path, Dylan gave a low whistle.

‘Woah.’

Frankie flushed with pride. ‘I know.’

Before them lay the reason Frankie loved this spot so much. The view. A wide expanse of the English Channel was spread out before them, and beyond it a large island, Guernsey, with its spread of cottages and shops across the hillside and a harbour jutting out into the bay. Much closer, on this side of the water, was Bear’s Beach, a long stretch of sand dotted with rocks. The tide was out and the sea between the two islands was choppy, waves topped with white foam. The air was misty with rain that hadn’t quite reached them yet.

‘It’s beautiful on a sunny day,’ said Frankie, a little defensively.

‘I’m sure,’ muttered Dylan. His jaw was clenched against the wind, which had a sharp, biting edge to it, and he was breathing heavily.

‘It is. One of the most beautiful places on earth, I think. Shell Beach is just incredible.’ When he didn’t respond she got a bit flustered. ‘But as I was saying, the storm means they’ll stop the ferries. You’ll be stuck here.’

That bit, he heard. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You heard me. You’ll be stuck here.’

Dylan shook his head. ‘That simply can’t happen. I’m needed back over there,’ he said, gesturing to where Guernsey was getting increasingly obscured by rain.

‘It can and it will happen if we don’t get a move on,’ said Frankie.