Running Towards A Place
The wind was rising, sending clouds dancing wildly across the dark sky. Rain struck his bare skin like bullets, a relentless assault of the senses. Thunder flashed, illuminating the suddenly alien world around him. Undaunted, John B merely grinned, letting the waves toss him to and fro. Hurricane Agatha was well and truly making her presence felt. He grabbed his board, making to climb upon it again. Pope had claimed the waves weren't surfable but he begged to differ -
A sudden burst of white made him blink. Shaking the spray out of his eyes, John B bobbed amidst the churning water, not quite believing what he was seeing. A small white craft was being flung back and forth on the far horizon. It disappeared in and out of sight, the waves tossing it up and down like a cat with its prey. It appeared to be unmanned, but he couldn't be sure. Had it been torn loose from its moorings by the wind? Or had some idiot been insane enough to sail out this far during the storm, an idiocy he was currently guilty of sharing.
John B swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware of his surroundings; of the danger he was slowdancing with. Maybe… maybe coming out here to catch some cranking waves hadn't been his brightest idea after all. Not that he would tell Pope this. Pope was the brains behind the Pogues, but John B didn't like to emphasize this too much, the knowledge feeding his own inferiority. He glanced around for Pope, only to see him making for the shore, board in tow. Cursing, John B set off after him, pissed at Pope for not even bothering to tell him he was calling it a day.
"What the fuck, Pope!?" John B yelled, throwing his board onto the sand, the wind ripping the words from his mouth.
Pope whirled around, brow furrowed. He cupped his hand around his ear, gesturing he couldn't hear a word John B was saying.
John B stalked over to Pope, a sudden blast of wind nearly knocking him over. "Why didn't you wait the fuck up, man!?" he demanded, shoving Pope hard in the chest.
"Hey, I spent five solid fucking minutes trying to catch your attention!" Pope retorted, shoving him back. "When I wasn't nearly being drowned that is. I think I seen my life flash before my eyes one too many times for my taste. You know I don't like repeats!"
"OK, OK, OK," John B said, backing down, seeing Pope was even more pissed than he was. He supposed the guy had a right since it had been his insane idea to come out here in the first place. "Sorry, I just got the wrong end of the stick out there. Freaked out, to be honest."
"Look before you leap, right?" Pope said sagely, face suddenly philosophical, making John B repress an eye roll. "But I don't blame you for freaking out, man, I was doing the same" – Pope froze, becoming distracted by something behind John B, his brow furrowing again.
John B turned around, confused. A girl was standing further down the beach, staring out at the wild water with unseeing eyes, her unearthly stillness unnerving him. He glanced over his shoulder at Pope, relieved to see he looked as rattled as he did at this sudden apparition. The beach had been empty when they'd hit the waves, but now here was this chick who seemed to have just appeared out of thin air. "Do you think she got the memo a hurricane is about to hit!?" he said sarcastically, impatiently pushing the soaking hair out of his eyes.
"Nope, don't think" –
The girl suddenly collapsed onto the sand, falling into a dead faint, like a puppet with its strings cut. John B leapt backwards in shock, crashing into Pope, who clutched at him in panic. "Shit!" he cried, grabbing Pope in turn. "She's dead!"
"What do we do now, man!?" Pope demanded, shaking John B by the shoulders, making the teeth chatter in his head. "What do we do!?"
John B forced himself to focus, getting a grip. The girl wasn't dead. She couldn't be. But if she was… "I don't know, bro!?" John retorted, shoving Pope off him.
"We – we need to check, man."
"Check what!?"
"That she's actually dead!"
"What good is that gonna do!?"
"What if she isn't dead!?" Pope snapped. "If we leave her here, she might as well be then!"
John B ran his hand down his wet face. "No, you're right," he said, nodding almost manically, "I'm not thinking straight."
"I can see that," Pope said defensively. "Just leave the thinking to me, bro."
"When don't I!?" John B retorted. "I just don't wanna be done for a murder I didn't commit, OK?"
Pope held his palms up in silent surrender. "We'll get the girl and the boards," he then said, struggling to keep his voice steady, "and then we'll just get the hell out of here, agreed?"
"Agreed."
Give me the eyes that I may see
The good in my people and the trouble in me
Give me the hands that I may lift
The weight of another who's starting to drift…
John B booted the door open, arms straining under the girl's weight, feeling like he was carrying a giant grouper. The girl was slender; small too, barely pushing five feet, but she sure didn't feel like it. Even with her dark hair plastered to her head and a ravaged face, he could tell from ten paces she was a Kook or close to it, her delicate features bearing the same high-browed beauty Sarah Cameron possessed. He called it the Kook Look. JJ had scoffed at his theory, pronouncing it as bullshit, whilst Pope was still pondering it. Kiara had turned her nose up at the idea, precisely proving his point, not that John B would ever dare to tell her that. Kie also had that same haughty hauteur that got him hot under the collar. He guessed he had a type then, but as he glanced down at the girl in his arms, all he saw was another problem he had to solve on top of everything else.
Panting, he made to dump the girl down on the sagging sofa, kicking aside various items of junk along the way. The howling wind rattled the roof, making him flinch violently, knowing the Chateau could now collapse around him at any time. Running his hand through his wet hair, he stared down at the still unconscious girl, wondering what the hell to do next. Getting her warm and dry was the obvious answer, but that meant taking off her clothes, the thought making him flinch again. If Pope was here, he would have dumped that particular job on him, but the traitor had bailed, leaving John B jonesing.
"What the fuck, man?"
John B screamed, making JJ stagger back, crashing into the pyramid of empty beer cans they'd built the previous weekend, bored out of their skulls. The cans crashed onto the floorboards but the girl didn't even stir. "WHAT THE FUCK, JJ!?" he yelled, slapping JJ across the head. "You trying to give me a heart attack!?"
JJ knocked John's B's offending hand aside, only to freeze as his gaze fell upon the unconscious girl on the sofa. "Whoa, this is wrong, bro, like from fifty different angles," he frowned, pointing between John B and the girl.
John B stared at him, confused. "What?" he snapped, shaking the wet hair out of his eyes this time.
"You just don't pick up comatose chicks and bring them back to the Chateau, man," JJ said slowly, looking at John B as if he'd never set eyes on him before.
"I had to, man," John B said tiredly, running his hand down his face. "We couldn't just leave her there, not with a hurricane hitting."
JJ shook his head, now not getting it. "Wait, what?" he said, eyes scrunched up.
"I wanted to catch some crazy waves," John B snapped, now pacing the floorboards, "Pope tagged along but he was getting antsy so we just called it a night. Then this crazy chick just appeared out of nowhere like that kid out of the Ring, just standing there, staring out at the water. Next thing, she fainted. Didn't know what else to do except bring her back here."
JJ nodded, hiding his terrible relief he'd grabbed the wrong end of the stick, his judgement jumping the gun like it always did. In hindsight, he knew John B just didn't do shit like that, which just only emphasized the insanity underpinning JJ's mental processes.
"What the fuck were you harping on about anyways?" John B then said impatiently, still pacing. "After you made the biggest mess known to mankind that is."
"You need to get dressed and dried, bro," JJ said, deliberately changing the subject, not wanting to explain his assumption and wind up with a broken nose.
John B glanced down at himself, realising too late he was only wearing a pair of shorts, his feet bare with grains of sand irritatingly underlining his soles. "What about her?" he snapped, gesturing at the girl. "I'm not touching her."
"Don't look at me, dude," JJ said, backing away, hands held up.
"Well, somebody has to do something!" John B retorted. "Not unless you want her to go into hypo!"
"We should call Kie."
"You can't expect Kie to come out here in the middle of a hurricane, JJ!"
JJ closed his eyes, screwing up all the courage he could muster. "OK, I'll do it," he then said in a wild rush. "You sort yourself out or you'll be the one who ends up with hypothermia."
John B nodded, sagging with relief. "I'll get you some blankets and towels," he then said, trying to shake his hair dry like a dog, before beating a hasty retreat.
As the windows rattled, JJ slowly backed away from the girl, who was now decently dressed in one of Big John's fisherman souwesters, a pair of John B's shorts and some woollen long socks darned to within an inch of their lives. Sweating heavily, he collapsed against the wall, knocking down an old painting of a sailing ship from the 1700s. He just left it where it lay, glancing down instead at his violently shaking hands, the strain of trying not touch the girl whilst having to, taking its toll. He felt like he was trapped in a horror film, the wild weather only adding to the atmosphere. Cleaning up the unconscious girl had been one of the most singularly terrifying experiences of his life. No wonder Pope had bailed, having the foresight to see danger up ahead.
He'd been forced to peel off everything but her underwear, JJ sweating and swearing as he did, hoping in vain she'd wake up and do it herself, only to realise it was better she stayed the way she was, out of it and oblivious since it would only lead to an even worse nightmare. The girl might try to brain him and he couldn't blame her. Then he'd had to dry her from head to toe, JJ trying to do it armslength and without looking. After dressing her, still sweating and swearing, he'd then bundled up in as many blankets as possible, making her look like a human burrito. John B had then returned, dried and dressed, no doubt hiding until the horror was over, wherein he'd haphazardly hung up the girl's clothes to dry, leaving her rucksack lying on the floor next to the sofa.
The rucksack. JJ glanced over his shoulder, John B now nowhere to be seen, even as he could hear him tunelessly singing from the kitchen. Hesitating, JJ weighed up his need to have a cold beer against having answers. Curiosity surprisingly won out. He crawled on all floors to where the rucksack lay, before swinging himself onto his ass, hooking his foot through the strap, too scarred for life to even think about going near the girl again. He dragged the rucksack towards him, hurriedly picking it up. Glancing over his shoulder again, he unzipped it before tipping the rucksack upside down, shaking its scant contents across the floorboards. The clatter made him flinch, but the girl didn't stir and John B didn't stop his crap Johnny Cash karaoke routine.
Recoiling, JJ tried not to touch the girl's personal effects; some make-up and toiletries, a hairbrush and scrunchies, a change of underwear. He frowned at the high-class brands, remembering the designer labels of the girl's wet clothes. JJ then tossed aside a couple of flimsy sundresses, again, both designer labels, only for a roll of greenbacks to fall onto the floor. One glance was enough to tell him there was at least fifty bucks there, but for once, he kept his kleptomania under control. The only other items were a photograph, old map and a coffee-stained postcard depicting the Redfield Lighthouse, JJ passing over them in favor of the photograph, the sight making his brow crease. He didn't recognize the bride or groom, but the best man? That was John B's erstwhile uncle or he was an oar short.