Chapter One
In the Sandhopper bar on Porth beach, Priddy sat admiring ahandsome young man.He could only see him in profile—salt-curledblond hair brushing his shoulders, long tanned legs in cut-offdenim shorts.Typical surfer, but none the less attractive forthat.A little bit too thin for his height.Wearing a T-shirt withthe legend, written out backwards for some reason,Weeverfish Southwest Tour 2010.
That wasodd.Priddy had that same T-shirt himself.It was one of hisfavourites, a souvenir from six years ago.He wondered if the ladon the barstool across from him wore it for the same reasons hedid, in memory of better days.
Priddydidn’t want to be caught staring.He returned his attention to thebeach.The bar was open at the front in this blazing June weather,the shutters rolled up and only the framework of the verandadividing the interior from the single-track road that ended here,and beyond it the sand and the rolling Atlantic surf.Late August,high season in full swing.The lifeguards were out in force,buzzing back and forth on their quad bikes, making sure theboard-riders stayed between the wind-fluttered safe-zone flags andout of the ferocious rip.It was a perfect summer scene, sea-glassgreens and Mediterranean blues, and all the dancing, jingling,ruffle-sailed beach-bum charm that drew kids down by their hundredsin Volkswagen buses and every other refitted make of vanimaginable.
Mostwere content to obey the lifeguards’ rules.Not all, though.Asalways, a few hardy souls who thought they knew better werestraying beyond the flagged boundaries, waiting for the monsterwaves that humped up over the sand bar and curled into deliciousblue tunnels before exploding with glorious power on thebeach.
Their arrogance had angered the sea god.Poseidon createdhimself out of the crystal Cornish waters, a barrel-chested gianttaller than the Porth Bay cliffs.He looked a hell of a lot likethe Harryhausen masterpiece fromJason andthe Argonauts, the guy who’d risen from thewaves to hold the clashing rocks apart for the Argo.He raised onemuscular arm and began to poke at the errant surfers with histripod.
Priddyfell off his barstool.The blond boy took fright too and did thesame.Priddy didn’t blame either of them, but nobody else seemedconcerned.The lifeguards continued their casual surveillance.Thebartender checked his watch, went to the door and glanced irritablyup and down the promenade.He raised an eyebrow at Priddy, thenstrolled back behind the counter as if nothing waswrong.
Andnothing was, of course.Poseidon dissolved into glittering foam.Priddy tried to give the other boy a sympathetic grin, but couldn’tquite see him from this angle.Nice to know he wasn’t the only poorsod around here who sometimes saw things that turned out not to bereal...
He scrambled upright.The Sandhopperhadno other side: just one mirroredwall to make the place look bigger, and a second mirror mountedover the bar.The two reflections had conspired.Priddy was the boywith cut-off jeans and blond curls.Now he had identified himself,his attractions blew away like dust: the real Priddy only lookedtired and bemused.He hitched back onto his stool, sheepishlybrushing himself down.
Ascooter roared to a halt on the sand outside.The rider dismountedand opened the carry-case on the rear, then ran up the wooden stepsof the veranda.Priddy smiled, recognising his best mate fromchildhood upwards, Kit.Like most of the Rosewarne Cove lads whohadn’t made the A-level grades for university, Kit was scraping aliving from patched-together part-time jobs: driving a deliverybike, taking the odd shift in his grandfather’s lighthouse atHagerawl Point, even finding time to do lifeguard duty during thepeak summer months.Priddy himself had once been one of thosesun-gods down on the beach, sober and responsible by day, by nightpartying hard with the surf bunnies.Not anymore.
Kithadn’t seen him.He deposited a box of bulk-buy peanuts on the bar.The barhop gave him a high-five, and they fell into conversation.Clearly they knew each other.Kit still went to places, talked topeople, made friends, did things.Priddy felt like a satellite,orbiting coldly a million miles out.
Kit tookhis signature pad back from the bartender.They finished theirbusiness and Kit turned away, heading back to his bike.He stoppedmid-stride, eyebrows rising in surprise.“That you over there,Priddy-boy?”
“Yes.”He wasn’t wholly sure.Maybe the boy in the mirror hadreally fallen off his stool, and Priddy was the one who’ddisappeared into oblivion behind the mirror’s blank eye.It wasnice to see Kit, though, and he braced himself to look and soundnormal.“Hi, Kit.How are you doing?”
“Pretty much the same as when you saw me yesterday.Er...whatare you drinking?”
Priddy squinted at the hand-scrawled menu.“Apparentlyit’sa long, slow sea-blue screw upagainst the boathouse wall.It’s probablymy round, though.Let me get one for you.”
“Prid, I’m not offering to buy.”Kit hitched himself onto theneighbouring barstool, blocking the bartender’s view.He loweredhis voice.“I mean what the bloody hell are you drinking, and whyare you doing it here?I thought you had a jobinterview.”
Thememory popped back into Priddy’s head with buoyant force.He waspleased to be able to confirm Kit’s good opinion of him.“Ido!”
“Come with me a minute, mate.Come on.”
Kit putout a hand.Priddy took it willingly.He’d known Kit since he wasfour years old.They’d stumbled hand-in-hand through hundreds ofchildhood hazards.He didn’t resist when Kit towed him off throughthe saloon-style doors of the trendily unisex bathroom.“Here,” Kitsaid, turning him to face the mirror.“Let’s get you sorted out.Take your T-shirt off.”
“What?Why?”
“Because if you put it on backwards, your potential new bosswon’t see the Weeverfish logo on the front.And if you take myshirt and sling it on over everything, you’ll look good.Hip butcasual.Pity about your jeans...I’d swap, but you wouldn’t holdmine up anymore.”
That wastrue.Priddy examined their reflected differences.Kit was stockyand dark, starting to pack weight on in a way that suited him.“It’s okay.I’ll do, won’t I?”
“Almost.Shirt?”
Priddypeeled it off over his head.He didn’t like to see himself likethis.His sun-kissed swimmer’s six-pack had melted away torib-bumps.Quickly he flipped the T-shirt round and dived back intoit.“Sorry, Kit.Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Bothering you.Being a nuisance.”
“You’re not.Here, put your arms back.”Kit helped him shruginto his clean white shirt.He ran his fingers through Priddy’shair, tidying at first, then soothing, drawing the tangled curlsback.“Where is this interview, anyway?”
“It’s...”Priddy paused until the caressing fingers hadstraightened out enough of his thoughts.“It’s here, actually.Sothat’s okay.”
“What time?”
Priddyglanced up at the shell-encrusted clock on the wall.Why there wasone in here and not in the main bar, he didn’t know.He connectedthe position of the hands—one of them a surfboard, the other agrinning great white shark—with the bartender’s trip to the door,his impatient glance along the road and promenade.“Half an hourago.Shit.”
