People run fast when they’re scared.
Two children come first, dodging the artworks, racing over the shingle, followed by their pink and flustered mother.
‘Is this it?’ says Eric, peering past with his binoculars. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘That’s because you’re looking the wrong way,’ says Jacob. ‘Flippin’ heck!’
I turn to see what Jacob’s looking at.
Three angry deckchairs are stumbling over the sand, mashing the sculptures and sending people running. Alongside them, a small parasol charges at a man and smacks him on his backside. It tires of hitting him and moves on quickly to a woman and does the same to her.
‘Oh no,’ I say, watching the beautiful sand house mangled by a furious windbreak. It dances and stamps and thwacks until the house lies pulverised, then it paces over to a carefully constructed miniature helter-skelter and dashes it to the ground. Briefly occupied by the destruction of the remaining fairground it’s wrestled to the ground by a family and trussed with a yellow bikini. The deckchairs, on the other hand, are now encircling a group of screaming toddlers, slowing down and looking altogether more menacing.
‘What are we going to do?’ asks Eric, looking as if he’d quite like to run from the beach too.
‘We’re goin’ to mash ’em,’ says Jacob, struggling to his feet.
‘With what?’ shouts Eric at Jacob’s back.
But Jacob doesn’t hear. He’s charging directly at the deckchairs. I catch up easily and try to get a sight on them, but I can’t shrink the deckchairs without shrinking the children. ‘Jacob!’ I shout. ‘Be careful, the children.’
‘Help!’ From behind us comes a voice that sounds awfully like Eric’s. ‘Tom! Jacob!’
My legs keep running but I turn my top half. Eric’s pinned to the ground by a deckchair. All I can see are arms and legs. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ I shout to him, almost overtaking Jacob.
A flash of fire leaps from the ends of Jacob’s fingers – I don’t think anyone else sees; I think they’re too busy running from the chairs – and strikes the nearest deckchair. It twists, and if a deckchair can glare, it glares at Jacob. As if they could communicate with each other, the deckchairs leave the toddlers and form a line in front of us.
I raise my hand – this time I can shrink them. I form an O with my thumb and forefinger.
Click.
At exactly the same moment Jacob unleashes a cloud of sparks that shower the chairs. I look into my hand immediately after the shrinking to find a collection of tiny writhing burning things while around us the beach falls suddenly calm, filled with nothing more than a puff of smoke and some confused people.
‘HELP!’ comes a strangled cry. I stuff the chairs in my pocket and we reach Eric at the same time as Albert Fogg, who grabs the chair and wrenches it off Eric’s chest. It takes all four of us to pin it to the ground and it doesn’t go down easily, snapping its wooden jaws and trapping our fingers.
‘Ow!’ says Jacob, his eyes flashing red as he emits a random cloud of sparks.
‘Jacob,’ I hiss. ‘Don’t, not here.’
We stand on the four corners of the chair while it squirms beneath our feet.
‘Well,’ says Albert Fogg, taking his battered blue hat from his battered brown head and wiping his brow. ‘That was one hell of a gust of wind.’
‘Wind?’ says Jacob. ‘Wind?!’
‘You can get some shocking squalls along here – fair take your breath away – and those deckchairs present a big face to the wind.’
Beneath our feet, the deckchair quivers. Mr Fogg leans over and slips a leather belt round the wooden structure and tips it on its side. ‘Anyway, thanks, lads,’ he says, and he wanders off along the beach dragging the chair behind him.
I reach into my pocket to have a look at the tiny singed chairs. They’re lying flat, folded and peaceful.
‘Have you got a crisp packet or something, Jacob?’ I ask. ‘For these.’
Jacob searches his pockets while Eric stares at my catch. Jacob hands me an empty bag of Super Cheese Crunch Puffs and I pop the deckchairs inside.
We sit back on the sand next to our mound, which has survived intact. Even Barbie’s hair is untroubled.
The arty couple next to us return and fiddle with their fibreglass, which was flattened by the deckchair furore, arranging it completely differently but looking quite pleased with the result.
We sit in silence, staring, thinking, listening.
‘Gosh, what a shock that wind was,’ says a woman.
‘A gale – all of a sudden,’ replies her husband.
‘I’d call that a storm,’ says another.
‘Always thought this was such a sheltered place – perhaps we should try Bywater Regis next time, they do jet skis there too.’
‘Oh yes, Bywater Regis is very nice. Faces south too.’
Some people pack up their things and leave the beach. Others rebuild their sculptures and sit nervously staring out to sea.
‘There’s no way that was a gust of wind,’ I say in the end.
‘No, well, we know it wasn’t, because of old clever clogs here,’ says Jacob.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but what I’m saying is that Mr Fogg can’t possibly think it was either. He’s already had three incidents on the beach. He must have seen them all.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Eric. ‘Perhaps we need to talk to him – subtly, you know.’
And then the ice-cream van arrives.