Page 4 of Washed Up

‘So it’s happened before?’

‘Frequently.’

‘Those bloody gits. I bet they knew that as well.’

‘Which gits? What are you talking about?’

Dylan sighed. ‘My bloody band, of course. They must have got me drunk after the gig and stuck me on the ferry.’

Frankie let out a guffaw. ‘That’s pretty funny.’

‘Easy for you to say. You’re not trying to navigate sand in a pair of cowboy boots.’

Frankie looked down at her own outfit, the classic flowing skirt and T-shirt combo she’d worn pretty much daily since she was sixteen. But she did have a coat. And sensible footwear at least. Her Converse served her well on this terrain. Dylan on the other hand was slipping and sliding all over the place. At this rate they were definitely going to miss the ferry.

‘Come on. Let’s go.’

She was practically dragging him now. She hadn’t yet told him they still had to face the walk down the stony steep Rosaire Steps, the second of two mooring points on the island, to meet the boat, and something told her he wasn’t particularly going to enjoy that. She wondered if she ought to phone ahead, actually check it was running.

As if reading her thoughts, Dylan said, ‘Can’t you call them?’

‘Yeah, we can call from the pub, if we ever get to the village.’

‘Don’t you have a mobile?’

‘Don’t you?’ she countered.

‘I do. Mine is. Wait. Where the hell is mine?’ He began patting his pockets frantically. ‘Shit. We have to go back to the cottage.’

‘There’s no time.’

‘I can’t be without my phone.’

‘Well, you’ll have to, I’m afraid. And mine’s at my house. Wait a minute. Did you say band?’

‘What?’ Dylan was frantically patting down his skinny jeans. Frankie raised her eyebrows. There wasn’t much space in those jeans for anything much at all beyond, er, him, let alone a phone.

‘You said your “band”?’

‘Oh. Yes. My band,’ he said absently, still patting away as if his mobile was going to magically appear at any moment.

‘What does that mean exactly?’

Dylan stopped patting and let out a sigh. Rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Look, it’s not that difficult. I’m in a band. We were playing at the festival on Guernsey. After the set we had a few hundred drinks and then we went and sat on the harbour wall. That’s the last thing I can remember. Unless you’ve seen any other musicians lying about the place, I’m guessing they put me on the ferry for a laugh.’

Her eyebrows went higher. ‘You? You’re in a band?’

‘Yes. I’m in a band. I don’t dress like this on a daily basis, believe it or not.’

‘Sure you are.’

‘I’m not kidding.’

‘Uh-huh. So you’re telling me you were performing? At the Guernsey RockFest? Last night?’

He looked exasperated. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. Now where the hell is my phone?’

‘Yeah, right. Which band is this, exactly?’