The thought of what Macca is about to do to Alan Shearer forces me, gasping, to my feet at the same moment that the lighter flares up, and almost instantaneously a much bigger flame whooshes up from the pool where the jar had spilt. No more than a second later, and the sleeve of Macca’s jacket is alight. To begin with, he glares at his burning sleeve angrily, and then he’s laughing. Not a funny laugh though; more a sort of crazed cackle.

With a desperate effort, I lunge forward at the rockets and push them out of the way, and at that moment I see a green shape in my peripheral vision heading fast towards us. The Lean Mean Green Machine is heading straight down the path, and misses the curve, instead hurtling on to the promenade, Pye’s face frozen in silent, open-mouthed fear.

Pye is careering directly towards Macca, who is still cackling and waving his flaming arm around. One side of his hair is alight now, and he can’t see Pye heading towards him. In fury at his cruelty, I push Macca hard, away from me, and he staggers towards the seawall edge. Holding the rockets and the toilet roll, I roll out of the way and Pye and the go-kart smash into the back of Macca’s legs.

At the moment of impact, I’m facing the ground, and I don’t actually see them enter the water, but I hear the splash as they hit the sea. There’s no scream, no big noise, just a fairly small splash, and then a big booming crash as another wave hits the seawall.

I’ve run to the edge of the seawall now, just as the biggest wave slams into the concrete with another slap and smashes the go-kart in two. Carried up on the wave is Macca, his face contorted with terror, and then he’s down again, over the back of the wave. I’m looking for Pye, but I can see nothing but boiling white surf, and then I hear a cry. Not “help!” as you might expect, but just “Aaaaa!” and it’s Macca again, much further out now and waving with one hand. It has only been about ten seconds since they hit the water and already the combination of the waves and the current have carried him far from the shore.

I’m still trying – desperately – to see Pye, but there’s nothing. In fact, I haven’t seen him since the blur of the go-kart entering the water. For a moment I wonder if he’s been washed up on the beach further along, and I run towards the tiny strip of sand that’s being pounded by the waves.

“Pye! Pye!”

I’m soaked with the sea spray, hair sticking to my forehead, and I’m screaming.

“Dad! Dad!”

Nothing.

“Daddy!”

The waves continue to bash, and the wind dies down a little and it’s ages before I think about the lifeboat even though I know it’s useless. All I can do is just stare at the spot where the kart, and Macca, and Pye entered the water. Two or three people have gathered on the clifftop and they’re looking and pointing at the same place.

At one point I think I see Pye’s head, but I can’t be sure, and then another minute goes past and I’m sure I see Macca’s arm waving, but he’s way, way out by now. And then I’m just staring, staring at the pounding grey-black sea.

I slump to the ground and pick up Alan Shearer, and I might have stayed there forever but a couple of the people on the top of the cliff have started scrambling down towards me, so I start walking back the way Macca had come, back along the promenade, and my walk gets faster and when I’ve rounded the corner I start to run. I run and I run and I daren’t stop, because if I do I think I’ll start to sob, and if I start crying I really don’t think I’ll ever stop so I’d better keep running. Looking back I see the flashing blue light of a police car so I keep running till I’m staring down the long stretch of beach north of Culvercot that goes on for about two miles, and I want to run along that too but my chest is hurting and my legs are aching so I just sink down on to the sand beneath an overhang of cliff where I can’t be seen.

Then I hear the maroon flares go off, summoning the Culvercot lifeboat men: two loud bangs in the air.

That’s when I start to cry. I don’t know how long for. Between sobs, my gaze is drawn out to the wild sea again and again, and I blink through the tears, hoping (I think) that Pye will suddenly be washed ashore on one of the waves. But really, I know he won’t.

Eventually, I stop. It’s like all my crying has been done and I’ve used it all up. There are no more tears left and it feels safe and dry in my little semi-cave. I hear more police sirens on the road above me but I just sit there on the damp sand staring out at the grey and white breakers, still trying to see a head or a raised arm in every movement of the sea,

And I sit.

And I stare some more.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Maybe for hours. Eventually I give a huge sniff and pull on my red T-shirt and spare jumper in case someone recognises me as the kid who was running away from the scene, and I head back to the school.

 

 

 

 

The Grandfather Paradox

Some very clever people have said that time travel cannot be possible because of the grandfather paradox.

This states that if you go back in time and murder your own grandfather, before he has even fathered your father, then that means your father never existed, which means YOU cannot exist.

And if you cannot exist, then you cannot travel back in time to murder your own grandfather.

Therefore time travel cannot exist.

You know what? Not so long ago I would have said that made sense. Time travel can’t exist because it’s logically impossible.

But now I know that some things don’t add up, yet exist anyway.