Chapter 2: During a trip to the beach, Francis Crowley decides to take one last swim. [TW: attempted suicide].
II
So Long and Thanks for Shit
[Brighton July 1958]
It's a cold day in mid-July when the orphanage makes their annual day trip to Brighton. The sun is struggling to crack through the thick layer of clouds settled over the long stretch of sand. A carnival is setting up just down the way and the smell of woodsmoke and popcorn drifts on the cool breeze. Children are milling about screaming, both good screams and bad screams, as their parents hobble after them, clutching their purses and regretting all the decisions that led them to this moment.
Francis Crowley stands off to the side of the group of orphans, looking out at the rough surf.
"Oi. Crowley. Got any ocean pearls at that fancy school of yours?" Gregory asks, surveying the crowd. It is too cold for the ladies to be out lounging in their swimsuits, and the young teen boys are all fairly disappointed. Francis shrugs.
"I could have any girl here." Gregory says confidently. Where his confidence was coming from was anybody's guess.
"I'd like to see you try." Arnold says.
"Watch this." Gregory sets off for the cotton candy stand, buys one, and turns to the girl waiting in line behind him. The boys watch in eager anticipation for Gregory to get a slap in the face. While they are distracted, Francis wanders off.
"You look like you've lost your way." A tall, dark man peers down at him, his eyes glowing yellow in the midday gloom.
"Just looking around. Might fancy a swim." Francis shrugs.
"I wouldn't swim here if I were you. Looks like a storm's coming in." The man with the yellow eyes says.
Francis notices that his hands are covered in intricate tattoos. Maybe his whole body is covered in tattoos. He tries not to let his imagination run with that notion.
"Have you ever had your fortune read? Madame Cynthia is very talented. Can see your whole future right there in the palm of your hand." The man says.
"No thanks. I'm not interested in the future."
Francis knows that sometimes a peek through the crack in the door could be worse than not knowing what's on the other side. He watches the waves crash upon the shore. He turns from the man and starts walking towards the water.
"Mr. Dark! There you are. There's an issue with the carousel." A frantic woman rushes up to the man with the yellow eyes, thoroughly distracting him.
The water flows over his stiff leather shoes, which sink into the wet sand. He trudges on into the surf, the water up to his knees, then his waist, pushing against the force of the tide. The water is cold and clean and the salt lets him float like his body is immaterial, a spare piece of flotsam tossed about, which is what it is, really, when he thinks about it. He paddles out farther and some specks of people started to gather on the shoreline. Some even shout at him and wave their hands. Francis can hear their shouts, and then he can't.
The waves start to relax and the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and suddenly everything is quiet. After a moment of floating there on his back, wishing he had something heavy to weigh himself down with, he sees someone speed by on something very loud and very fast.
"What the fuck was that?" Francis says, trying to spot it. Another one zips by.
"Oh my god. Daniel! There's a kid in the water!" Someone yells.
"What? Jess, what?" Daniel yells back.
"There's a kid in the water! Hey kid! You ok? What are you doing so far out? Wait there, we'll get some help." Jess yells.
The last thing Francis wants is help. He starts to swim back to shore. By the time he reaches the beach, the two people who had found him out there are talking to a third person, who seems to be a police officer, although he didn't look like any police officer Francis has ever seen. The beach is no longer full of people yelling and shouting, and the carnival is gone. So are the kids from the orphanage.
"There he is! You could've drowned out there. Where are your parents, they must be worried sick!" Jess is saying.
"Where are your parents?" The police officer asks sternly. He is a stout man in a crumpled uniform, a thick bristle of hair below his bulbous nose.
"What?" Francis says, sopping wet.
"Your mum and dad." Jess clarifies.
"They're dead."
"Out there?" Daniel points to the ocean, imagining some sort of shipwreck.
"No." Francis frowns.
"This beach is closed for swimmers. You can't swim here. Nobody can swim here. Where are you from?" The police officer asks.
"London."
"You here all on your own? All the way from London?" The police officer frowns, squints out towards the road, then starts fiddling with something in his pocket.
"I was with a group. From the orphanage. Looks like they all left though."
"Orphanage?" The police officer laughs. Jess and Daniel exchange looks of confusion. He sure looks like he was from an orphanage, with his baggy wool trousers, braces, and worn leather shoes. The trouble is, all the orphanages in London have been closed for at least thirty years.