Phil Moody crouched beside his daughter as she sat cross-legged on the wet sand, and tucked his coat around his knees. Jeez, he thought, the weather forecast wasn’t wrong about the change.
“What are you doing, love?”
Arabella had her palms pressed flat to the sand, head tilted, as though listening for something underneath.
“Saying goodbye.”
“Goodbye to what?”
“My friends.”
He glanced along the empty stretch of Swansea beach and smiled to himself. Six years old and a head full of invisible friends.
“Which friends?”
“All the little ones. The crabs. The sand fleas. The birds and the insects.”
A gust came off the bay and threw a fistful of sand into his face. He fumbled in his pocket for their muslin scarves, wrapped Arabella’s across her mouth, and slid her goggles down before donning his.
“They’ll still be here tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“No. They’re leaving. Nothing will be here tomorrow.”
He laughed, a little breathless, and stroked her earnest little face.
The wind began to howl. He scooped her up, her thin legs banging against his hip, and made for the promenade.
Behind them the sea had turned hard grey, and sand whipped in low, swirling flurries across the beach. Out in the bay, sailors fought their sails, their boats shying like nervous colts. He frowned and assured himself it was only weather, just a bad front, nothing more.
He shouldered the front door open as a slap of rain caught his back.
“God, what a day,” Cerys said, drying her hands on a tea towel.
“It will get worse,” Arabella said, pulling off her goggles. “We should go now.”
“It’s alright, poppet.” He kissed her damp hair. “We’re inside.”
A plastic bucket clattered against the window. Phil turned. The promenade was being scoured now, white water leaping the railings, and flags ripping loose. A young couple staggered along the pavement, clinging to each other, coats flapping like the pages of an abandoned book. The girl’s feet left the ground, but the boy caught her. He folded himself around her in the lee of a low wall.
Phil went to the door. He shouted, but the wind howled him down. He saw the gust coming; bins, bikes, and barriers lifting in its wake. He watched, mouth agape, as the pair of them lifted; carried out over the railings and down, down into the churning grey.
“Daddy,” Arabella said, her voice a whisper.
He just stood there, shaking.
“Daddy. We really should go now.”
He nodded at Cerys. Her face still.
The back door. The car. He buckled Arabella into her seat. The engine coughed and died. He turned it once more, and it caught.
Reversing into the lane, the car bucked. Rain sheeted across the windscreen. The wipers were useless. He drove anyway, blind, gripping the wheel.
“It’s too late,” Arabella said, her voice quiet.
In the wing mirror he saw the wall of water rise, taller than the houses, taller than anything, and then… everything was gone.
