The new wave rose like a monster from the deep and exploded spectacularly over them, twice as savage as the previous one. Through it all Danny and Claire held grimly onto each other, their eyes locked into each other’s gaze, looks of solid resolve on their faces as they fought to live, whilst the Irish Sea did its utmost to separate them once and for all.
‘ Don’t let go, don’t let go,’ Danny chanted as much for herself as Claire.
The water whooshed back past them, battering them, trying its damnedest to draw them into the sea and almost succeeding. Had it continued a few more moments, Danny would have had to let go.
Suddenly the water all drained away, leaving them clinging to the edge of the Promenade. Alive. The wind had changed its angle ever so slightly and the tide whipped away to a point further south.
Danny did not hesitate. She knew from past experience just how fickle the sea was — she had pulled four bodies out of it in her time — and this respite would only be brief. They had to make use of it, even though their natural reaction would be to stay put and get their breath back.
‘ Oh God, oh God,’ Claire spluttered.
‘ Come on, we’ve got to move!’ With one last effort, Danny heaved Claire back onto the Promenade. ‘Come on, get up, we can’t hang around.’
Claire was on all fours, coughing and retching up the water which had cascaded down her gullet. Danny yanked her up. ‘Run!’ she shouted.
The howling wind changed again. The sea was about to make another attempt on their lives. The burgeoning swell looked enormous.
‘ I can’t,’ Claire wept.
Danny grabbed her roughly by the collar and hoisted her bodily away from the edge. They reached the comparative safety of the tram tracks just in time to turn and watch the next monstrous wave explode against the sea wall.
Had they been underneath it, they would have been fish food. For sure.
Danny pulled a blanket around her shoulders, brushed her damp straggly hair back from her face and said, ‘Claire seems to be unhappy for some reason.’
‘ I can’t think why. God knows, we give her everything she wants,’ said Claire’s mother, Ruth Lilton.
‘ She’s spoilt rotten,’ her stepfather grunted, a tone of real nastiness underneath the words. Joe Lilton was a big, brusque individual who intensely annoyed Danny. She thought she knew him from somewhere — way back when — but could not quite place him. ‘She’s going through a rebellious phase, that’s all. Needs it knocking out of her.’
And you’re just the one to do it, obviously, Danny nearly said. Instead she ignored him, turned back to Mrs Lilton and commented: ‘Well, this phase seems to be pretty extreme, wouldn’t you say? Shoplifting? Missing from home? Ruth, if you’d like to bring her down to the police station, I could spend some time with her, interview her again, maybe less formally. Perhaps that’d get to the root of the problem.’
‘ That’s a good idea-’ the woman began, but her husband butted in rudely.
‘ There’s no call for that,’ he interrupted. ‘We’ll sort her out. What she’s short of is a good old-fashioned leathering. No need for you lot to be involved any further you’ve done enough. Family matter from now on.’ He seemed to brighten suddenly. ‘Thanks anyway.’
Danny shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ But to Mrs Lilton she said, ‘I’m always available if you need me.’
Mrs Lilton said a quiet thanks.
The three of them were sitting in one corner of the crowded waiting room in the casualty department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. After the fright on the seafront, Danny and Claire had stumbled back across the road to Claire’s parents’ hotel. From there Danny had driven her immediately to BVH because Claire had been creased double with an agonising pain in her chest. Mr and Mrs Lilton followed in their car.
After an interminable wait, an X-ray had confirmed two cracked ribs, caused when Claire had been smashed against the railing post.
Danny herself had been given a swift check-up by a very dishy doctor and been declared fighting fit. He had rather sensuously eased a tubi-grip bandage around her ankle which, from X-rays, was diagnosed as being sprained. All Danny had wanted, though, was a double vodka-tonic and a drag of a Benson amp; Hedges Gold. But she didn’t have any spirits to hand and her ciggies — which had been kept in her jacket pocket — were a sodden mush.
‘ Here she is,’ said Danny, looking up.
A nurse was guiding the still-bedraggled young girl down the corridor towards the waiting room. Claire was shuffling rather than walking. Each step looked painful, because other than the broken ribs, she had suffered a multitude of other bangs, cuts and bruises during her sea-front ordeal.
She looked exhausted and ready to drop. She was in need of a good meal and a rake of sleep.
‘ Sweetheart,’ cried Mrs Lilton. She stood up. Open armed, she went to Claire and embraced her gently.
‘ Little cow,’ Joe Lilton muttered under his breath. He got up and put on a false face of concern. ‘C’mon girl, let’s get you home.’ He rubbed her head with his hand in a fatherly gesture. Claire reared away from him, fireballs in her eyes. He withdrew his hand. His mouth became a hard line.
Danny rose wearily, aware that the tear up the back of her skirt was hanging open like a pair of curtains. She didn’t have the energy to care who saw her knickers any more.
Claire walked up and murmured a meek, ‘Thank you,’ to Danny, who nodded. She could not fail to see the expression of absolute desolation on the youngster’s face as her parents led her away. She looked as if she was going to the scaffold. Danny heard Mrs Lilton saying, ‘The first thing we’ll do is get you into a hot bath and then..’ Her voice faded.
Danny wondered how long it would be before Claire Lilton went on the run again.
The Detective Constable limped into the ladies’ loo. After she had relieved herself, she studied herself in a mirror over a wash basin, stunned by her reflection. Talk about the witch from Hell City. She looked appalling!
Her pretty ash-blonde hair had dried like strands of thick, coarse string. Most of her make-up, which she always took great pride in applying, had been washed away. The remnants of her eye-liner and mascara made her look like the victim of an assault. Her suit was ruined beyond cleaning or repair and she knew there would be no earthly chance of the police footing the bill for its replacement. Her tights had more ladders in them than a board game and her shoes, which had partly dried out, had gone all crinkly.
But worse than that, she looked and felt her age.
She was aching all over, having used muscles that hadn’t been stretched for years when she’d chased and rescued Claire. This must be how an arthritic eighty-year old feels, she thought. And frankly, you don’t look much less than eighty.
It was as if the seawater had scoured away the last vestiges of her youth. She held up her chin and could see the lines of ageing running down her neck, giving her the likeness of a scrawny chicken. There were also deep lines at the edge of her mouth which seemed to put ten years on her and needed filling.
Her shoulders sagged; she experienced a wave of nauseating depression.
‘ Darlin’,’ she said to herself critically, ‘if you don’t watch it, you’re going to become an old slapper.’ She blew out a long breath. ‘Shit.’
Then she stood upright, forced a smile onto her face and tried to be positive. The sea might have revealed the Danny underneath the make-up, but it also showed that her best features couldn’t be washed away — her lovely slanting green eyes which were almost oriental; and her lips, which despite the lines at the edges, were full, soft and very definitely kissable. Nor had the sea done any damage to her figure. She still had firm, beautifully formed breasts which provoked many a second glance from passing men, a slim waist and hips which were only just beginning to broaden.