The Proxigean Spring Tide - 1. The Proxigean Spring Tide

A cormorant swoops down towards one of the secluded coves along the Devonshire headland, its dark silhouette skimming over granite and sand below. Both body and shadow pull away just before they collide punctuated by an ugly, guttural croak, barely audible above the surf.

Two human figures lay unmoving in the sun trap created by the cove, while, wave upon wave, the sea reaches toward them. One brave swell spreads like pooling blood beneath a pair of trainers arranged at the end of a beach towel and carries them to the breakers.

Offshore, a huge wave, a mountain among foothills, moves with slow deliberation towards the sleepers.

***❍***

Carey sat on the hardwood floor inside the cottage, knees tugged up beneath a red and black striped rugby shirt, back straight against the arm post of the leather couch. Television images flickered between his bare feet, reflected in the polished walnut floorboards. His head tilted back a fraction, he allowed his mother to rake her fingers through his hair and along his scalp, something she had done throughout his childhood. No matter how familiar and relaxing the caress felt, of late adolescent embarrassment bubbled somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

"Listen to that," she said. "Thanks goodness we stayed in."

Seconds earlier, the gentle arrhythmic drip on the cottage window had become the percussive clatter of a downpour. Reclined along the settee behind him, she propped herself on cotton cushions and pillows gathered from her bedroom. Every few minutes she snapped pages of a magazine over with a saliva-moistened thumb.

Three weeks before, she had booked the fishing cottage in Marlicombe from a holiday rentals website recommended by a colleague, enchanted by photos of the nautical blue and white facade. On their slow walk up from the town—to her surprise as much as his—the cottage had presented a far more attractive exterior than the advertising shots: the photographer clearly having no appreciation of the beautiful untamed scenery framing the structure, of chalky cliffs and rough grass. A short-lived respite, however, when the interior turned out to be a blight of modern décor and conveniences; pinewood self-assembly furniture, stainless steel kitchen appliances and a flat screen television fixed into the original flint wall of the living room. Defiantly unruffled, his mother had put this minor setback behind her almost as soon as they had dropped their bags and closed the front door.

Marlicombe had been the holiday destination of her youth and, each afternoon after lunch, she arranged half-remembered hikes around the cliff tops, to walk off the meal and savour the algae-scented air, insisting on pointing out selected flora and fauna and trying to recall both English and Latin names. He agreed to accompany her only because she would be more likely to snooze in the afternoon, allowing uninterrupted time for him to revise his advanced level exams.

That day, however, as colour drained from the sky, they had agreed to stay in and watch an old black and white murder mystery film on television—The Cat and The Canary—entirely fitting the mood of the day.

"You've got your grandfather to thank for your hair and eyes," she said, stopping to twist a lock of hair between her fingers. "Blond and blue like the Norse God, Thor. Did you know that?"

Why she felt the need to attribute anyone’s features to favoured family members, he had no idea. He always treated these questions as rhetorical—social white noise—and only ever responded with a nod or a grunt if pressed. In any case, he looked nothing like Thor, at least not the muscled hero from the comic books and movies. At school, a couple of girls referred to him as 'scarecrow' because of his slight build and pale complexion. If he got any paler he'd become invisible, one student had teased him.

"And you've got your grandmother's brains. Did I ever tell you?"

Prompted by her failing memory, these repetitions no longer irritated, they had simply become a part of who she was. Of late, though, he had noticed subtle changes such as her insistence on stopping during particularly steep walks to admire lacklustre scenery, or forgetting names, or her firm denial about dozing off in the armchair each afternoon. Although he accepted these as symptom of her age, in some elemental ways they had begun to frighten him.

"Thankfully, you got nothing from your father," she muttered, punctuating the final word by snapping over another page of her magazine.

In an effort to redefine familial history after her divorce, she had voiced this kind of inaccuracy so often that he had almost begun to believe her. In the few remaining photographs of the house, Carey's father—Terence Raleigh—had wispy blond hair; thinning, but unmistakably the same hue as Carey's.

"Who's the actress?" Carey asked, in an attempt to derail her. On screen, the woman’s skin appeared almost translucent.

She stopped stroking his hair and glanced up from her magazine. "Paulette Goddard, I think."

"She's beautiful," he said, genuinely marvelling at how directors of the day chose to film up close to extract every tiny flicker of emotion from the actor's eyes and face.

"She's dead, dear." On screen, the woman lay on top of her bed, her pale eyelids closed. Behind her in the headboard, a panel opened. "In real life, I mean. They all are."

A clawed hand appeared from within the space and hovered over the woman's face for a second. Behind him, he sensed his mother watching as the reedy soundtrack built to a terrifying crescendo.

Both of them gasped in unison at the loud banging on the front door of their cottage.

***❍***

Framed by the doorway, all that was visible beneath the hood of the banana-yellow sou'wester was a grinning line of broken teeth and dark stubble. Without invitation, the bulk took one stride onto the front door mat inside the cottage and a hand as callused as the hull of a fishing boat flipped back the hat, spraying droplets onto both Carey and his mother.

"Broomleigh, the owner." His tangle of salt and pepper hair dripped as wild as stormy froth-tipped ocean waves. He thrust out the huge hand. "How do's. Weather for seals, eh? You must be Mrs Scott."

His mother recovered quickly and after a moment's hesitation, inserted her hand into the man's. "Ms. Scott. I'm divorce—"

"Thought I'd stop by, see how you're settling in." Broomleigh, a man clearly used to speaking unchallenged, continued without acknowledgment. "Managed to get the television working them? Had to call my young 'un to explain the remote control to me. Everything else working okay?"

“Yes, we’re fine. We were just—"

"If you do need any help, I've left my telephone number by the phone. We're down on Pebble Lane behind the bakery. Mermaid Cottage. Ask any folk in town, they'll point you right. To be frank, s'unusual to have renters in October, usually too late in the season for most of you city folk.”

"Yes, well, my editing contract came to an end and I—"

"Old place used to belong to my mother, see. Weren't sure whether to sell it when she passed on, but Tilly—the wife—persuaded me to turn her into a rental. Needed a bit of sprucing up but my eldest, Tim—he’s a bit handy, like—did the decorating and fitted some mod-cons, and now she’s—“

"As I was saying." His mother interrupted, projecting her voice like the primary school headmistress she used to be, precise and commanding. "I needed time for rest and recuperation."

Broomleigh's eyes widened, startled to silence as though someone had just undressed in front of him. Carey couldn’t help but smirk at his mother’s bravado.

"I've been working non-stop over the summer and needed to get away. Carey, my son, is in the sixth form, so he can comfortably skip school for a couple of weeks."

This time Carey’s grin dissolved at another of her convenient misunderstandings. The lectures at the beginning of autumn term often reflected the topics covered for the mock examinations in March. However, he had agreed to come knowing his classmate Christie would be happy to share her notes with him; she'd be happy to do anything for him. The thought of her cheered him; she was his confidante, the one friend who helped him feel equal in the upper stream of learning. He wished she were with him to share in his boredom.

When his mother paused and smiled, Broomleigh faltered, unsure whether she had invited him to speak. She softened her tone.

"The kettle's on. Would you like some tea, Mr Broomleigh?"

"No, no." Confusion turned into an uneven smile. "No. I'll be on my way. As I say, if there's anything you need, my number's by the telephone. I'm off to the Lobster Pot. Down in the harbour. You should give the place a try one night."

He flipped on his hood then turned and stepped out into the rain. Two steps down the path, he hesitated for a moment before turning back.

“Ah. There was something else. I wondered if your lad wanted to join me and mine tomorrow. We're taking our boat out past Bracken Point to do a spot of mackerel fishing. Weather'll be fine, by all accounts."

"Carey doesn’t sail. He’s frightened of the water."

"Mother!"

She glanced at him briefly and shrugged. "What? It's true. But I'd love to come, if you don't mind having an old woman on board. I used to be a Navy Wren in my twenties and I've never lost my sea legs."

Broomleigh paused in the downpour chewing over her words. Carey wondered if he would find a way to retract the invitation and almost felt sorry for the man.

"What about your boy?" he said, finally.

“Don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine. He should be revising for his examinations, anyway."

With little choice, a confused Broomleigh agreed to pick her up the next morning. Carey and his mother stood on the threshold and watched until his form was lost in the rain.

***❍***

Cloudless optimism greeted them the next morning. Broomleigh arrived at exactly six thirty flanked by three bored youths around Carey's age and whisked his mother away. Carey agreed to wake early and breakfast with her, a small price to pay for peace and personal space. Even as she disappeared out of sight, he continued to lean against the cool doorframe and make a mental plan. Once he had showered, he would spend three hours on revision then reward himself with a solo outdoor exploration.

By eleven o'clock, the October sun shone uncharacteristically hot, softened only by a constant, comfortable sea breeze. Carey, togged out in woollen shorts and football shirt, jogged alone on the coastal path that climbed from their cottage to the cliffs along the bay. His mother had refused to take this steep route because—in her own words—there was nothing worth seeing. Standing on the highest part of the path, gulping deep breaths of sea air, he felt triumphant.

At the cliff's edge, he bent over to retie the lace of a track shoe. Satisfied, he rocked back to sitting in the undergrowth, hugged his knees and surveyed the scene. Marlicombe town, grey and insignificant, of slate roofs and flint-cobbled lanes, huddled in shadow between the cliffs farthest to his right. Beyond, and spreading across the panorama, the sombre blue of the Atlantic stretched out serene, occasional white tipped waves testifying to the presence of wind. The sky by contrast met the ocean with an unblemished azure. In the distance, a tanker inched across the horizon while, nearer the shoreline, a lone swimmer, the dark head a pinprick in the blue, drifted back to an unseen beach.

Jogging a few hundred yards further on, as the path began a gentle decline, a sudden gust lifted an overgrowth of bracken and revealed a narrow trail that appeared to descend towards the shore. On further inspection, the track meandered in a criss-cross pattern amid rough grass, bushes, and spiny gorse sloping towards the sea.

He stepped carefully, taking his time, marking out each footstep and checking back occasionally to see how much ground he had covered. When the trail came close enough, he jumped the final few feet and sank into the damp sand of the beach.

Waves, distant and shallow, played safely out of reach. Tiny rock pools, a microcosm of sea life orphaned by the tide, thrived with tiny silver fish, anemones and other minute aquatic life.

He clambered across the low boulders that created a natural boundary between each recess and discovered a stretch of smooth sand, free of debris or litter, a private haven. Over the next rock wall, he spied a more disappointing hollow littered with ugly seaweed and slabs of broken rock.

"I wouldn't go too much further. We're due a spring high tide."

Carey spun around to see a man standing naked. In his mid-twenties—self assured and careless to the world—he stood in the open sun before the rock wall and towelled off his long dark hair. Tattooed onto one muscular arm near the shoulder two Chinese characters sparkled with droplets of seawater.

"It'll probably start to turn early afternoon."

Carey stared at the man's torso; a good four inches taller he had a muscle toned body with hairy muscular thighs, his penis hanging from a thick patch of dark pubic hair. Embarrassed and confused not only by the sight, but by his body’s instant arousal, Carey wrenched his gaze out to the ocean.

"I'm s-sorry."

His voice trembled; he hoped the stranger hadn't noticed. On instinct, he began to turn and head back the way he had come. Humour tempered the man's response.

"Sorry for what?"

Carey stopped walking but still faced away.

"I'm invading your privacy."

"Nonsense. Beach is public property." Carey watched as a lone gull circled across the water and flapped its wings wildly before alighting in the sea. "You on holiday here?

"Yes. With my family."

"In the fishing cottage up on Seacliffe Road? With the blue front door?"

"Yes," Carey almost turned, but stopped himself. "How do you know?"

"I've seen you. It's okay, you can turn around,” came the deep, humoured voice of the man. “I’m decent now.”

When Carey turned, the man had donned white baggy cotton trousers and shouldered the towel. In one movement, he dropped cross-legged to the sand. Once seated, he began rifling through an oatmeal cloth bag.

"You want some tea?"

With a smile of success, he prised out a metal flask, which he shook from side to side. Carey noticed that only one side of his mouth crinkled when he smiled. Carey’s heart raced seeing the man’s eyes glistened with playfulness.

"Nothing better after a bracing swim," said the man.

With his casual coordination, the effortless way he moved and spoke, he appeared as much a part of the beach as the sea and sand. Carey hesitated for a moment until the man rifled through his bag again and yanked out a plastic cup.

"Freshly brewed this morning,” he said, and held up the white container. “I'm Archer, by the way."

Carey relented, smiled back and introduced himself as he took the cup. The man called Archer patted a spot near him but Carey chose to sit a few feet away. Marking his space, he thumped his rucksack down onto the sand and then followed suit, sitting cross-legged. After few moments, while the man unscrewed the flask, Carey spoke without thinking.

"I don't swim," he said, and then immediately wished he hadn't.

"Don't or can't?" asked Archer, curious.

Leaning in to close the distance, he poured tea into Carey's cup then filled the cap of the flask for himself. Carey sipped the sweet tea and stared out to the ocean. Why on earth he had said anything, he had no idea. He hated talking about his particular weakness, which never failed to evoke a pang of shame, and inevitably cause derision.

"Both, I suppose," he replied.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sorry?”

“If you don’t, it means you can, but you choose not to. If you can’t, it means you’ve never learnt.”

“I can’t swim.”

Mixed with ripples of embarrassment, and the fact he’d muttered the last response, he suddenly remembered having packed a couple of muesli bars and fished them out from the side pocket of his pack. Without quite meeting Archer’s eyes, he offered one to Archer who accepted with a simple nod, quickly scanned the small print on the wrapper, then ripped the top off with his teeth and spat the wrapping into his open bag.

"Swimming is freedom,” said Archer, between mouthfuls, back on the topic Carey hated. He used the half eaten bar like a baton to punctuate his words. “More than that, you're unchained from the land, from your thoughts. I swim out to that rock island every day—come rain or shine."

Crumbs fell to the sand as he finally waved his oatmeal bar towards a spiteful outcrop frosted with breaking waves. Thoughts of fathomless dark water, cold and smothering, filled Carey with dread. When he turned, he realised Archer had been studying him, a gaze measured yet intrigued.

Carey sipped tea and swatted an imaginary sand fly away. "I prefer to jog. That’s my way of clearing my head."

"Of what?"

Carey felt himself redden. “You know; things, worries."

"At your age? What are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

“Nineteen. And didn't you ever take exams?"

“Yeah, of course. Sorry. You poor sod. I’m twenty-five, so exams are a dim and distant memory for me. Is that what you've got in there?"

He nodded to Carey's laden rucksack.

Carey smiled a world-weary smile and nodded. “I’m afraid so. ‘A’ level retakes next June. And I need to get good grades.“

“Got a university in mind?”

“Brighton. I want to study applied psychology and criminology.”

“Interesting, Mr Holmes. That’s where I’m based, by the way, Brighton. Just down the coast.”

Carey sipped his tea and leant back into his rucksack, staring back out to the rock island. Strange how his yearning for solitude had melted away and how he found himself enjoying the simple companionship of Archer.

"How can there be a spring tide in October?" he asked. “You said we’re due a spring high tide.”

"Common misconception." Archer threw the remains of his tea into the sand and screwed the top of the flask back into place. "Spring tides have nothing to do with seasons. They happen when there's a full or new moon, when the gravitational pull of the earth, moon and sun combine. The one we're due around now is what's called a spring high tide or a proxigean spring tide, if you want the technical term."

"Are they dangerous?" He mimicked Archer, emptying his tea into the sand and handing back the plastic cup.

"Can be if they're accompanied by strong winds and storm surges. Most seaside towns like Marlicombe have flood defences, sea walls or the like. Even so, back in 1953 the North Sea claimed over two thousand lives when all those elements combined."

"Looks so peaceful."

"She can be, but deadly powerful, too. That's the beauty of nature."

"Scares the life out of me."

A silence fell between them. Carey stared out to the horizon again, but could feel Archer's gaze scorching him.

"Didn't you ever want to learn? To swim, I mean?”

"I suppose. But I have this—thing—about water. So I choose not to."

“Where fear is concerned the only choice is in deciding whether to face and overcome the phobia or not. Whether to control the fear or to let it rule your life. I could teach you, if you like?"

Out in the sea a trawler drifted slowly beyond the rock island. Indistinct figures huddled around the prow. For a second Carey wondered if the boat belonged to Broomleigh and his mother sat among them.

"I should be getting back," said Carey.

"Something I said?"

"No, no, But my mother..." Carey turned to Archer and realised from his eyes that the man had been teasing him. "Thanks for the tea, Archer."

"My pleasure, Carey. See you tomorrow?"

Carey grinned back at Archer as he left, but said nothing.

***❍***

His mother's face, aglow with sunburn except around the eyes where huge sunglasses had provided protection from the sun, resembled a panda bear.

Excited tales about the day's fishing buzzed around the Broomleigh family's kitchen table, mainly centred on how his mother had almost caught a sea bass off the back of the boat. Carey stared at his plate, happy to sit quietly and let the noise wash over him. Conversations concerning sea fishing, Broomleigh family history and the Marlicombe Friday night disco did not interest him in the least.

Mrs. Broomleigh, a tired woman in her mid-fifties, served food in silence, deaf or impervious to the raucous laughter and chitchat of her men. Carey had expected plain food to be served and was more than a little surprised when the pot of steaming mussels—caught locally—landed on the table, the aroma of butter, tomato and garlic filling the air. Served with slabs of French bread and a leafy salad, Carey enjoyed every mouthful. By the time the main course appeared, of roast pork and apple sauce, with garden vegetables and fries for the boys, Carey felt already full. For dessert, Broomleigh brought out a cheese board and proudly named each of the regional cheeses. Carey’s mother usually preferred port or red wine with cheese, but Broomleigh insisted that she had to sample them with another locally produced beverage.

"C'mon Dot.” Carey smirked to himself whenever Broomleigh used a nickname his mother detested. Even his father had been forbidden from using any shortened form of Dorothy. “A small glass of natch never hurt nobody."

"What on earth is it, anyway?” she asked.

"Natural dry cider." Tim Broomleigh, the eldest son replied. "It'll knock your stockings off!"

The three Broomleigh boys all had the same features and build as their father. Jamie, a few years younger than Carey, had acne that bubbled like a virus across his cheeks. Of the three, he came across as the least friendly; bored bordering on surly. When Carey turned up earlier and nodded a welcome to him, the boy scowled and turned away. After that, Carey decided not to bother. They’d be gone in a week anyway. Tim and Bobby, both older and significantly friendlier, sat either side of Carey's mother.

"So what did you get up to today, young fellow-me-lad?" Broomleigh brought him out of his reverie. "Caught a bit of sun, I see?"

"Not much. Did some revision first thing, and then I jogged up along the path above the beaches on the east coast. After that, I spent the afternoon revising again.”

“Wanna watch yourself," said Jamie. “Dole bums and queers hang out over by Westfield Point." Like the rest of the Broomleigh boys, he had the same West Country twang as their father.

"In't there a nude beach down there somewhere?" said Tim, smirking.

"No, that's in Pendleton, dick-brain," said Bobby.

"And just how would you know that?" laughed Tim.

"Yes, okay, that's enough lads," Broomleigh scolded his sons, and then added, "but our Jamie’s right, we do get a lot of social security layabouts down here during the summer months. Petty crime shoots up; people getting stuff pinched or an increase in cases of shoplifting. Our local bobby had to take on extra help last year."

Carey wanted to change the subject. "So what other places are worth visiting around here?"

"Depends on what you like. But most of it involves the sea. If you like sightseeing, there’s the old castle down in Port Lansdon. Also trips to the lighthouse, but you’d need to get in a boat to get there.”

“I really enjoyed jogging and hiking along the cliffs, especially on a day like today. The airs really fresh and the weather was fine.”

“Then sounds like you got everything you need right here. Lucky lad. My youngsters can’t wait to get away from the town.”

“Well I have to admit, it’s beautiful here except you could do with some better shops,” said Carey’s mother. “That little supermarket in town is good for basics, but there’s much of a selection of anything, is there?”

“If you need a hypermarket, there’s one in Southport. In fact I was going to do my weekly shop there tomorrow. You can come with, if you like. I normally catch the seven o’clock bus, if that’s okay with you?“ The usually quiet Mrs Broomleigh seemed genuinely animated by the idea. “Tell you what, we’ll even stop off on the way for a nice breakfast in Devonpoint. It’s a pretty little town, historic too, if your boy wants to join us.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You could always hang out with our Jamie,” said Broomleigh.

When Jamie’s gaze swung to Carey, he appeared almost as horrified as Carey about the idea of them spending time together.

“It’s fine, thanks. I really need the quiet time to revise. But thank you for the thought.”

On their way back to the cottage, laden with leftover food and a bottle of local cider, Carey held his mother’s elbow mainly to keep her steady. For most of the way, he had let her rattle on about their day out and only as they climbed the steeper path towards the cottage, did she gradually become silent.

“Why can’t you try to make friends, Carey? The youngest is near your age.”

“Jamie? He doesn’t like me. Could barely look at me.”

“At least make an effort to make friends.”

“I have friends,” he said, and for a moment considered telling her about meeting Archer on the beach that morning. At the last moment, though, he decided against the idea. “Plenty at school. I don’t need any more.”

“Honestly. Sometimes you’re as stubborn as your father.”

***❍***

Carey stretched along the beach towel flat on his stomach. With his head nestled in a tee shirt scrunched up into a pillow, he stared through sunglasses out to the ocean. The midday sky, dappled with cloudy paw marks, permitted spells of uninterrupted sunshine.

With nervous excitement, he had reached the cove to find Archer there again; alone and sunbathing. His new friend had brought along his smartphone and a Bluetooth speaker that oozed gentle jazz, barely audible above the surf. Somehow, when Archer thumbed the play button on the device, Carey had expected to hear something different.

"My mother's gone on a day trip to Southport.”

That morning she had overslept—a symptom of too much sunshine the day before—and barely heard the urgent banging on the front door. Carey had answered the call while his mother hastened to dress. It was only after she had hurried out of the door with a fleeting goodbye that he noticed her cash purse sitting on the sideboard by the door. Fortunately, she carried her ATM and credit cards in a side pocket of the handbag she kept with her at all times. Still, this addition to her failing memory nagged at him.

"She wanted me to go with her, but I used my revision as an excuse to stay."

"Oh, you did, did you? So where are your books?" Archer nodded at Carey's empty rucksack.

Carey smirked feeling comfortable around the older man, who chatted with him like an equal. Bare-chested today, his friend wore a pair of baggy white shorts and squashed himself between two smooth boulders. His speaker sat on the rock behind.

"I didn't want to lug them all the way down here again. I'll catch up this afternoon." A cloud moved before the sun, the shadow cooling Carey's back.

"Just as well I brought an extra cup then." Archer fiddled in his cloth bag. "I had a feeling you'd be back."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Carey mimicked. Behind him he heard Archer's soft chuckle followed by a gentle rustling.

"Lay still a minute." Carey felt Archer's presence in the sand beside him. A faint smell of coconut mingled with the sea air. "Otherwise you’re going to end up looking like smoked trout."

Carey flinched as Archer straddled his backside and again as he felt cold suntan lotion squirted onto his back. The sensation was unexpected. Not only from the sudden chill of the liquid but also from the hands, warm and strong that massaged expertly, up his spine then out along his shoulders and the pressure of Archer, his thighs clenched tightly around Carey's buttocks.

"You want to watch those moles." Archer stopped to poke spots on Carey's back before the hands came down either side of the flank, ending with thumbs circling a point either side of the base of his spine. "Especially with your fair skin."

Carey closed his eyes and said nothing; just allowed the sensations to overwhelm him.

"There. You're done." Archer's weight lifted from him and he slapped Carey's backside as he moved back to his own towel. "You're already a bit raw, Carey. I'd turn over if I were you."

"I will. In a minute," said Carey, but remained face down.

"Right. Well, I, for one, need to cool off." After another round of soft rustling, Carey heard the soft thump of Archer's soles moving across the sand. Peering up, he watched Archer's naked form bound out to confront an incoming wave and plunge beneath the surf. Bubbles and froth, marking the dive spot, smoothed on the corrugated surface. For a full thirty seconds, Archer remained beneath the wake until Carey sat up with concern. Just then, in an explosion of white foam, Archer burst into view.

Later Carey propped himself up on his elbows, and watched as Archer towelled his naked body and pulled on his shorts.

“Pathetic, I know, but water—the sea in particular—terrifies me."

“Not pathetic at all. Some people carry their phobias around with them all their lives and never deal with them. I used to be scared of closed in spaces until my college organised this orienteering weekend that included caving. When I got down there, I wanted to puke or freak out—or both. Our guide, who was a potholing professional, stayed with me all the way, helped me to find my way, encouraged me when I froze. And you know what? When I reached the surface I felt immortal as though a great weight had lifted. But from that day on I overcame my fear. I actually enjoy caving now."

"I'm fine with potholing. As long as I can see what I’m facing. But with water, moving water like rivers or the sea, you're never sure what's beneath the surface.”

“So what? You're going to carry that worry sack around with you like deadweight for the rest of your life?"

“God knows that I don’t want to. I hate that it's always there, like the memory of a bad dream."

Aside from the ebb and flow of small waves breaking on the shoreline—the gentle breath of the sea—a silence fell between them.

"Come into the water with me,” said Archer.

"I don't…I'm not sure."

"Come on. I'll stay with you."

Carey said nothing. He remembered playing in water as a child in a neighbour's paddling pool. At ten, he had even been to the public swimming baths with his school once but had stayed in the shallows. The experience had been wholly unpleasant, the smell of chlorine and the echoing screams of bathers had made him nauseous. But he had never set foot in the sea.

Archer's stare pierced him, dared him and at the same time gave him courage.

"I won't leave your side. I promise."

“No, it’s not that. I—I didn't bring a costume."

Archer smiled, jumped up and began to remove his shorts.

Carey laughed and began to stand.

"What is it with you and nudity?"

"You need the whole experience. As nature intended. Come on, naked as a baby."

Standing on the shoreline, his feet tingled with the cold caress of infant breakers. Archer led him slowly forward and with each cautious step, iciness swarmed around sucking heat from his body until he almost forgot to breath. They paused twice, once when the water covered his thighs and the other when he was waist deep. The older man kept his promise and stayed alongside. When Carey missed his footing on a submerged rock and slipped, Archer grabbed his shoulders, stopped him from falling under the water. After that, he kept his arm clasped around Carey’s back. When they reached chest height, they remained there, talking and laughing. After a few minutes that seemed like an hour, Carey knew he’d had enough. The coldness numbed him, made him shiver and his teeth chatter uncontrollably. Moreover, some of the waves, although not large, rose uncomfortably near his chin.

"Well done, Carey. Hang on. Before we get out, let's see you float on your back."

“I—I c-can't."

"Yes, you can. Let yourself go. I'll support you."

"I c-can't, Archer."

Carey pressed his elbows and forearms together into his chest and bunched his fists tightly beneath his chin.

"Come on,” said Archer, letting go of Carey's back. "Put your arm around my neck and I'll tilt you backwards."

With his arm clenched in place, Carey felt Archer's hand on the small of his back, pushing him, gently but firmly. In a few seconds, he lay on his back supported from below by Archer's arms, looking up at the cloudy sky. Icy sea clogged his ears and blocked out the noises of the day.

"There. You're free. Floating. How does it feel?"

Sun blazed from behind a cloud and dazzled him. Archer's silhouette loomed over him, attentive, caring. He had been right, the weightlessness felt wonderful but the coldness...

"C-c-cold. C-can we get out now."

When they were ankle deep near the shore, Archer raced ahead to where they had left their things. He dried himself quickly them came back towards Carey, holding out the towel. Carey put a hand out, but instead Archer pulled the cloth back, lifted it over Carey's head, across his shoulders and pulled him into his own body.

"Come on. Let me dry you off, brave little man."

Before Carey knew what was happening, Archer's naked body pressed into his own. While Archer smoothed his back dry, Carey rested his chattering chin against the man's shoulder. Slowly, warmth and feeling tingled back into him as blood circulated freely again and his shivering began to subside. Then, gradually, another sensation took over as he felt himself becoming aroused. Before he had a chance to pull away, Archer pulled him back.

"It's okay," he breathed into Carey's ear. "I know. Put your arms around me."

Slowly, tentatively, he did and felt Archer's body respond. Archer leant his head against Carey's and squeezed him. They stood like this for a few seconds until Archer pulled his head around to face Carey. For once, his playful eyes looked serious, almost sad. He leant in and kissed Carey.

A trickle of falling rock pulled them apart. Both Carey and Archer looked up but saw nobody.

"Can we go back to the cottage?” asked Archer. “You said your mother's out all day."

It was around midday. She would be gone all day and yet he trembled, partly at the thought of taking what they had done any further, partly at the thought of not.

"Okay."

While they hurried back, not a word passed between them.

***❍***

Carey lay on his back in the small bed beaming up into Archer's face. Agonisingly slowly, he trailed a forefinger across Carey's hairline, down the ridge of his nose, along the crease above his lip—the angel’s seal, as his mother referred to the groove—then trailed the digit into his mouth.

Not for the first time that afternoon, the sensation made his whole body shudder with pleasure. When Archer pulled his finger out, Carey said, "You still taste of salt."

Archer lowered his head to lick the boy's stiff nipple and smiled.

"So do you."

With a quick peck on Carey’s lips, Archer threw himself onto the mattress beside him, hands squeezed beneath his neck. After a moment, he flipped onto his side, one arm pushed behind Carey’s neck and the hand resting on his shoulder.

"How did you know? Am I obvious?" Carey asked, turning his head to face Archer.

He still marvelled at the thought of this day of firsts.

“What do you mean,” said Archer, genuinely baffled.

“That I prefer men.”

"I didn’t. And no, you're not, if that worries you. I just fancied you, okay?"

Carey traced his finger on Archer’s arm, picking out the strange hieroglyphs tattooed there.

"What do those Chinese words mean?"

"Harmony. At least I hope so."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't read Chinese so I had to trust the tattooist. But when I was in the merchant navy, I worked with a guy—bit of an arrogant dick, actually—who was visiting Hong Kong and got a Chinese tattoo done that he thought read Courage and Honour in Battle. The tattooist clearly didn't like him, because when translated it read 'I Like to Suck Ass.'"

Carey laughed aloud and prodded Archer's hard stomach.

"Maybe you should have got that one done, too?”

Archer rolled on top of him, pushed his body into a giggling Carey, before shutting him up by bringing their mouths together, pushing his tongue past Carey’s lips. Once again, Carey sighed and felt himself getting aroused, pulling his arms around Archer’s neck, but then Archer withdrew his mouth, and stared deep into Carey’s eyes. After a full minute of this simple intimacy, Carey was the first to speak.

"I used to hate my name, hated the way it sounded. But I love how you say it."

"What, Carey?" Archer raised an eyebrow in amusement with his reply.

"Yes. You say it properly, not carry as in cash and carry but like dairy. I want to record you on my phone and keep the file for eternity.”

"You're a funny little man."

“Is that a good thing?”

“Definitely,” said Archer, trailing his finger down the side of Carey’s face. In the process of doing so, something caught his eye and he brought the wrist closed to his face.

“Crap,” he said, twisting his arm so that Carey could see his watch. “I have to go.”

"I could make us some tea."

Archer had already started to rise, rubbing his hands through his dark locks.

“It's gone four." They had been in the bedroom for over three hours yet to Carey it had felt like moments. "Your mother could be back any minute." Archer pulled back the curtains he had insisted they draw when they hurried into the room, even though in their haste the bedroom door remained ajar. He looked out of the window, to the darkening sky. "And anyway, I need to get home before that storm hits."

“Give me a minute and I'll see you out."

"No, you won't." Archer sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his cotton shorts. "I want to remember you like this, when I'm lying in bed tonight."

He smiled his beautiful crooked smile then leant over and kissed Carey.

“I’d rather be there with you."

"Me too. Maybe tomorrow?"

“I’d like that.”

When Carey heard the front door close, he sprang up instantly and peered through the curtain. Archer sauntered off down the coast lane; his cloth bag slung casually over one shoulder. He wondered why Archer headed back towards the beach, away from the town. Perhaps he lived out that way. Softly shaking his head, he realised he had never thought to ask. Right now he wanted to know everything about the man, this wonderful human being. Carey watched him go, heart thumping, willing him to turn back and look. When Archer reached the corner of the lane, however, he disappeared without a glance and Carey felt an instant pang of loss.

He clambered back into his warmth of the bed where Archer had lain, pulled one of the pillows from under his head and hugged the soft material. An odd perfume of semen and lavender, from the crumpled scented tissues on the bedside cabinet, caught his attention. After lying in the afterglow for half an hour, he decided to shower and get ready for his mother's return.

Hair towelled dry, he headed down to the kitchen to get a drink of juice from the fridge. As he hit the bottom step, he noticed immediately.

His mother's yellow cash purse had gone.

***❍***

Marlicombe had no high street to speak of, only a narrow cobbled road winding down to the port, where fishing boats and trawlers moored. The Lobster Pot, one of Marlicombe's three public houses and the most popular, sat pride of place on the horseshoe promenade. Although there were a couple of decent enough restaurants, Broomleigh had recommended the public house with a bill of fare reasonably priced and generously portioned.

"I really don't know, Carey. I must have dropped it in the coach or something. Everything was such a rush this morning."

They sat at a corner table. Carey stared out of the window at seagulls hovering, frozen in air off the end of an inbound trawler.

"Just as well it was only cash and not cards,” she continued. All through the meal she had been bleating about her carelessness. “But that was all our holiday money. And your digital camera.“

Outside, streetlights around the harbour promenade began to twinkle to life, casting a pretty reflection in the calm sea. Only the darkened sky

"Why did you have to bring so much?" They had spotted a bank cash machine on their way into the town. "Why take seven hundred out in one big lump?"

"I didn't know there'd be an ATM here, did I? The town website didn't mention anything. And we didn’t have that kind of thing here was I visited as a girl.“

“There are ATMs everywhere.”

Carey glanced at his mother. Even though she studied the menu, he could tell she was annoyed with herself. She hated showing any kind of weakness, one trait she had definitely passed on to him. She noticed him watching her and put down the menu.

"What's wrong with you? You've barely touched your food."

Even as he had ordered the steak and Guinness pie, the thought of eating food made his stomach tighten with nausea.

"I'm not feeling so good."

He wished he could start the day over again, wish he'd been less stubborn and agreed to accompany her when she had first asked.

"Carey," she said, running a hand across her menu. "You haven't got sunstroke, have you?"

"I don't know."

All he knew was that he felt wretched.

"I told you not to stay in the sun too long." She reached across and touched his pink arm. "You've got Aunt Marge's skin. Delicate. You best stay in the shade tomorrow."

"Don't worry." Carey took a sip of the bitter drink, and then pushed the glass away. "I'm not going anywhere tomorrow."

On their slow stroll back to the cottage, his mother insisted they stop outside the town’s bank to get some money from the machine. Carey leant against the wall next to the Happy Fish restaurant on the opposite side of the narrow lane and peered inside. Empty chairs and tables filled the space. Towards the back, a small child in a highchair banged a spoon into a plate of food and laughed a toothless laugh of happiness. The mother reached over to wipe the baby's face and nose. Behind the baby, a man approached the table, reached over and took the tissue from the woman to finish the job. She smiled up at him, mouthed something indicating the child as he passed by. He leant in and kissed her on the cheek.

Carey peered back across the road, at his mother struggling with the display on the cash machine and wondered if his family had ever enjoyed one such happy, intimate moment. Nothing stirred in his memory. He had only met his father and new family a few times, usually a formal and embarrassing affair, full of open questions about Carey's studies and plans for the future. The relief for both was palpable when Carey announced his departure, usually placated by an envelope of banknotes and a promise to keep in touch.

When he looked back through the restaurant window, the man had seated himself opposite the woman, behind the booth screen. This time, when he leant forward, his smile was unmistakeable.

Archer.

***❍***

Despite the dreary day, next morning, they went shopping in the village. His mother wanted to buy provisions for the cottage, reasoned that a few home cooked meals couldn’t hurt with their diminished budget. Despite his initial reluctance, she persuaded Carey to come in case she heeded help carrying bags.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" Carey's mother muttered, barely audible, waiting in the long queue at the small grocery store with barely anything in her basket. "You've been like a bear with a sore tooth ever since you got up."

"I'm sick of this place. Can't we just go home? Apart from being short of money, there's nothing to do and the weather's turning to crap."

It was true. The skies looked like granite, heavy with rain.

"I've paid for the cottage until Saturday. Surely you can suffer three more days, can't you?"

Carey didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to be outside in the open, felt too exposed in his guilt and disgust at himself.

"I'm going back to the cottage."

With no desire to take the main route home, in case he bumped into Archer, he found a few smaller and empty lanes leading off the main road. Together with the dark clouds and light rainfall, this clandestine route seemed to fit his mood of shame. One twisted a couple of times but still climbed away from the bay. Every now and then, he glimpsed the main thoroughfare on his left down one of the many alleyways.

When the lane veered to the right, a figure in an olive green Parker jacket with the hood up, shuffled along ahead in an oddly familiar way. Carey watched as the person slowed down and tossed something into an open dustbin outside one of the cottages. When he reached the same point, he stopped and glanced down. Lying on top of a bundle of discarded newspapers was his mother's yellow purse. When he fished the bag out and snapped it open, he was unsurprised to find nothing inside. Clutching the bag to his chest, he hurried after the figure, around the next corner where he found the culprit.

Jamie Broomleigh stood staring into the window of the local electrical shop. Carey approached him and thrust the purse at his chest.

"Where did you find this?"

"What?" Jamie fell back a step, his face darkening. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"I just saw you throw my mother's purse into a dustbin. Where did you get it?" As though someone flicked a switch, the monotonous drizzle of rain became a loud downpour.

"What's it to you, queer boy?" Jamie shouted now, but above the rain none of the passers-by—all trying to shelter from the deluge—could hear a word. But like a tribal mask, the face poking from out of the hood looked threatening, the eyes challenging and dangerous.

"What?" Carey, taken aback for a second, stepped back, further into the cover of the shop awning.

"You heard me. And you'd better keep your mouth shut. Cos I saw you and Gordon, didn't I?"

"Gordon?"

"Yeah, Gordon. Or does he tell you to call him Archer? Don't say it wasn't, 'cause I followed you."

“I—we didn't do anything." Carey stumbled over the words, wondered if Jamie had been the one to make a noise on the cliff path that day, if he had seen the two of them on the beach. "We were just sunbathing. It was nothing."

“Bollocks,” said the boy. “Saw you in the bedroom, didn’t I? And it didn't look like nothing to me."

Carey's mind raced. Archer had drawn the curtains as soon as they entered the room. They had been careful. Nobody could have seen them.

Jamie sneered at Carey's confusion.

"Yeah,” said Jamie, emboldened by the truth and fear dawning in Carey’s eyes. “I saw you both, you queer fuckers. Saw what he were doing to you."

Capitalising on Carey's horror, he pulled back his hood, took a step forward and prodded Carey in the chest.

"It's me dad's place, ain't it? You think you got the only set of keys?"

Carey remembered that Archer had thought he heard floorboards creaking. He looked down at the purse.

"It was you. You stole my mother's money."

“Yeah? And who’s gonna prove it? Anyway shouldn't leave things lying around, should you?"

The smirk remained, insolent. challenging.

"I'll report you to the police."

A brief flicker of uncertainty passed across Jamie's face but twisted into scorn.

"Go on, then."

Through the rain, Carey's anger flared, he wanted to punch the smug face, but there was something in Jamie's unflinching glare that stopped him.

"And what d'you think your mother will say when I tell her what I saw?”

Carey began to back away, but Jamie advanced, matched him step for step.

"You know he's married, don't you? Queer boy?"

This time Carey spun away and sprinted off down the darkened lane into the deluge.

***❍***

Carey lurched forward and fell onto his hands on the path, muddy and slippery with rainwater, but got up instantly and ran on. The headland path was awash in the downpour. He could barely see where he went, driving rain lashed his eyes making them sting and teary.

Come rain or shine.

He found the secret path down to the cove with ease and slowed his pace, stepping carefully amid rain-slick bracken.

Along the shore, waves crashed violently onto the sand, claiming more and more of the beach. He ran to the cove, he had to get there, to see for himself. He bounded over the first rock breakwater and eventually reached their secret cove.

"Bastard, bastard," he muttered under his breath, accompanied by the crash and shush of the incoming tide. The empty beach had almost vanished, leaving a thin line of sand and the jagged cliff. In the recess beyond, the sea already thumped the wall and spat spume menacingly into the air.

Something caught his eye. Light drained from the already dark sky. A wave towered monstrously tall. He stared, mesmerised, watching the wall of water move slowly towards the shore.

"Carey! What the hell are you doing?" Above the sound of the angry sea, he could barely heard the voice. When he turned, Archer stood on the opposite rock wall, must have followed him down. The man ran over and grabbed at Carey's arm, but Carey instantly pulled away.

"Leave me alone, you bastard!"

"Don't be stupid. This is dangerous." This time Archer gripped Carey roughly and dragged him from the rock. Carey struggled back and with the aid his of rain-slick clothing, slid out of his grip.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you? Tell you what?"

"Can't you two get enough of each other?" A young voice rose above the clamour. Jamie stood overlooking them on the edge of the sand bank, a nasty laughter on his face, Carey’s digital camera dangling from one hand.

"Shut your mouth and go away, you little shit." Archer's angry stare flashed briefly but returned to Carey. "Tell you what, Carey?"

"That you were married. With a kid?" Carey was crying now. "I saw you last night. In the fish restaurant."

"Come on,” came the high-pitched young voice again. “Let's have a photo kiss for the collection."

Even though Archer hadn’t acknowledged him, Carey saw Jamie pull the camera up to his eye and aim the lens at them both.

"In the...?" Light dawned in Archer's face. He grabbed Carey's shoulders again and shouted above the din. “I was married once, five years ago. A stupid mistake, as it turned out. But that was my sister last night, Carey. My sister and her baby daughter. She’s a single mother.”

"But Jamie said…" Before Carey could continue, Archer's gaze shifted to the incoming wave and when he looked back at Carey, terror filled his eyes.

"Shit! Come on. We have to run! Now!"

When Carey followed his stare, a primeval response, a call for survival superseded every other emotion. He launched himself behind Archer. They managed to gain the first rock wall and had crossed most of the next cove when the massive wave hit.

Even though the surge knocked Carey's feet from under him, he remembered what Archer had taught him, and tried to kick his legs to keep his head above water. But the sheer size and weight of water plunged him beneath the hungry wave. Beneath the turmoil, in an eerie moment of calm, a metallic square like a small block of aluminium floated past his vision, a black cord trailing from the side. Arms and legs flailing, he tried to regain the surface but instead felt a sharp pain when something struck the side of his head and icy cold consciousness bled away into darkness.

***❍***

Already conscious, the hammering pain in his skull had begun to subside. Keeping his eyes firmly closed helped. Now he waited until his breathing and heart rate slowed. Outside the room, voices spoke in hushed tones, one belonged to his mother.

”Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine,” the second voice belonged to an older man, not one he recognised. “He's young and healthy. Just make sure you keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours."

"What on earth do you think he was doing down there? On a day like today. That’s so unlike him. I suppose the police will want to speak to him about the other poor soul."

Other poor soul? Despite his disorientation, a ripple of panic went through Carey.

"Yes, but there'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now, let him rest and make sure he takes these three times a day. He'll be up and about in no time."

"Thank you, doctor."

"Here's my card in case you need to call. There's a round-the-clock emergency number."

"Thank you."

"Lucky this young man was there to pull him out."

"Yes. Thank goodness you were there, Mr…"

"Archer. Just Archer."

Hearing the third voice in the hallway, Carey opened his eyes and let out a sobbed breath of relief. Someone—his mother probably—had drawn the curtains making the room gloomier than usual. Thoughtfully, however, she had also switched on the bedside lamp.

"Can I go in and see him?" Archer's voice sounded small and empty.

“I think he's sleeping at the moment," his mother replied.

"No, he isn't. He's awake." Carey's act hadn't fooled the doctor. "Go on in. But just for a few minutes. And how about some tea, Ms. Scott?"

"Yes, of course. I'll go down and put the kettle on."

Soft footfalls creaked away on the stairs, but the doctor appeared to have remained behind.

"Are you okay, Gordon?” The doctor's voice changed; lost the professional tone and sounded more sympathetic.

"Christ, dad. What a mess."

"It's not your fault. If you hadn't been there it could have been far worse."

"I know, but I should have…"

"You did what you could, son." A moment of quiet passed between them. "Go in and see the lad. You like him, don’t you?”

“I do. A lot.”

“Go and see him, then. I’ll see you at home later."

On this occasion, heavier steps moved on the stairs.

The figure framed in the doorway stood frozen for a moment, obscured in the lamplight. Without volition, Carey felt his body begin to tremble and a loud sob escaped him. In less than three strides, Archer reached the bed and took Carey in his arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Carey’s pleading voice became muffled in Archer’s shoulder.

"Hush."

“Nearly got us both killed." Carey clamped his arms around Archer’s neck and held tight. "But I thought…"

"It's my fault. I should have explained earlier.”

"I should have spoken to you, Archer."

"I know. Hindsight is wonderful thing. But don’t stress yourself now.” After Carey calmed, Archer lowered him gently back to the pillow.

"What happened? How did you know I'd be there?"

"I spotted the Broomleigh kid on the cliff path, trying to work out how to get down to the beach. That's when I saw you."

"He says he took pictures of us together."

"I know."

"Says he's going to tell my mother."

"Christ, Carey." Archer pushed away and stood, rubbed a hand across his forehead. "He's not going to do anything of the sort, okay? The camera’s at the bottom of the ocean. And Broomleigh…“

"What? What's the matter, Archer?"

"I managed to pull you out—I’m a pretty strong swimmer. The I carried you to higher ground, but the sea was insane. That first wave almost dragged you out of my grip. But I got you out and only when I’d cleared your lungs and called for an ambulance did I see Broomleigh’s body in the water. By the time I got to him, he’d stopped breathing, had taken so much water into his lungs.”

Archer’s lowered head sent a chill through Carey.

“Oh my God, he’s dead?”

“No, no. Still alive. But he’s in the hospital. ICU. According to my father, the main concern is that there may be permanent neurological damage. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Carey reached out and took Archer’s hand.

“You still saved us, Archer.”

“If not for me, neither of you would have been there in the first place." Archer sat quietly for a moment and then continued. "When you saw me in the restaurant with my sister, why didn't you come in and talk to me?"

Carey explained about Jamie, about his mother's stolen money and his camera. By the end of the story, Archer's eyes smouldered with silent anger.

"I'm sorry,” said Carey. “I jumped to conclusions…”

"Of course you did. I’d have done the same."

"What happens now?"

"You get better. And the world goes on."

“Archer.”

“Yes.”

“Can we still keep in touch, maybe see each other?”

Archer smiled and squeezed Carey’s hand.

“I’d like that very much.”

“Good. Because I think I’m ready.”

“Ready? Ready for what?”

“I’m ready for you to teach me how to swim. It’s time. I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

THE END