The Creeping Kelp

July 22nd - At the Beach

Maggie Welsh was in a foul mood and wasn’t slow in letting everybody know about it.

“Kimmeridge bloody Bay,” she said in disgust, for maybe the fourth time since her husband had brought their car onto the car park on the cliffs above. “It’s not exactly Lanzarote, is it?”

Dave Welsh looked at her over the top of his newspaper. His nose and cheeks were liberally splattered with thick suntan lotion, only serving to accentuate the deepening redness of the sunburn on his balding pate.

“What’s not to like?” he said softly. “It’s a beach, it’s the hottest summer in years, and the kids are loving it.”

Maggie was too deeply entrenched in her annoyance to let logic get in her way.

“There’s bugger all to do except sit here and fry,” she said. She was aware that, if they had gone to Lanzarote, they’d just be sitting on a different beach and frying.

But that’s not the point!

If they’d gone to Lanzarote she’d have been able to spend days telling the others in the Hair Salon about the trip—about the toned waiters and the tight butts in swimsuits, about the posh nights out in expensive lounges. Now what was she going to say?

He took me to Dorset and all I got was this lousy tan?

“Denise Shaw is in Mallorca. Have you any idea how affronted I’m going to be when she asks where we went? Have you any idea how much of her crap I’m going to have to put up with?”

He’d stopped listening; his newspaper raised like a bulwark between them. But she wasn’t ready to stop venting yet—she might not be for quite some time. She turned her ire towards the sea, looking for their children.

They’ll be doing something I can shout at them for. I need a good shout.

Their youngest, Mary, paddled around in the shallows some twenty yards away, splashing merrily and singing a song that was almost recognisable as something she’d recently heard on the radio. Zane was further out, pretending to swim, hanging around at the fringe of a group of older boys and trying to get noticed. She sighed as she realised there was nothing to find fault with.

Well that’s just no fun at all.

She looked along the length of the beach. Although it was a warm, indeed very warm day, and the beach was golden, there were relatively few people around; some thirty in total on the beach itself, and the same number again, mostly children, in the water trying to get away from the heat. Further out, two small yachts tacked and veered in what little breeze they could grab, but here on the sand it was almost oppressively calm and balmy. If she hadn’t been quite so keen on a shouting match, she might even start enjoying herself. But the thought of Denise Shaw crowing about Mallorca from now until Christmas was just too much to bear.

Once again, she found her thoughts straying to exotic shores, places where the beaches were packed and there were many more opportunities to pick up brownie points back at the salon. She was so lost in reverie that she didn’t notice when the splashing from nearby took on a frantic tone, and she only looked up when a young voice rose in a high scream.

Out on the horizon one of the yachts she’d watched earlier upended, the prow pointing straight up before it vanished without a splash. The other seemed to be covered in writhing black snakes. Even as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing, the small vessel imploded, crushed to kindling and torn canvas within seconds.

Another scream brought her attention closer to shore.

The sea… it’s alive.

The surface frothed and swelled in a patch the size of a football field, as if something pushed the water upwards from below. She saw Mary standing just at the water’s edge, pointing at a spot further out. Where there had been a group of boys a minute before, now there was only a foaming patch of water. Something dark surged just below the surface.

Shark? Can’t be.

As quickly as it had started, the sea fell calm. A sudden quiet fell all around them. Maggie realised there were fewer children in the water now—a lot fewer children. All along the shore, concerned parents started to head for the waterline.

Zane?

Maggie stood, knocking over her chair, almost falling into Dave’s arms as he too rose awkwardly from the depths of the chair. His newspaper fell to the sand unnoticed as they both looked out onto the calm patch of sea.

“Zane!” she shouted. Then the two of them were running headlong down the beach, kicking sand behind them, shouting at the top of their voices. “Zane Welsh,” she yelled. “You get out of that water this instant.”

But she already knew something bad had happened. There was no sign of Zane… of any of the boys. As they got closer she saw that Mary stood, wide-eyed, thumb in her mouth, looking down at something the waves had washed in. She gathered the girl in her arms, then looked to see what was on the sand.

A dismembered foot lay there, with white bone showing at the ankle where it had been roughly torn from the body. But that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the split nail on the big toe… the same split nail she had stopped Zane from worrying at just fifteen minutes before.

This isn’t happening.

She heard Dave cry out, heard him splash away into the water, but she couldn’t lift her gaze from the foot.

Just wait until I get you home, Zane Welsh. You are in big trouble this time.

Mary started to cry and burrowed her head in Maggie’s neck. She pulled the girl tighter, and that small act of motherhood dragged her back to some semblance of reality.

Zane? Where are you, lad? Mum’s getting worried.

Around a dozen parents, Dave included, were frantically searching for the lost boys, splashing around and parting the water with their hands as if they might be able to open it up and reveal what secrets it kept. A black hump, like a breaching whale, rose up out of the water mere feet from the group. The black hump spread and Maggie was reminded of an old horror movie with Count Dracula opening his cape to enfold his victim. The darkness fell on the parents like a black sheet. Where it touched their skin, they started to scream.

Dave?

The sea was now a roiling mass of thrashing limbs and white spray that suddenly frothed pink. Maggie’s mothering instincts finally kicked in. She turned and fled, with Mary clasped tight at her breast. The screams of the dying rose ever higher behind her, but she didn’t look back. Her gaze was fixed on the family car, perched near the edge at the top of the cliff.

Everything will be okay if I get to the car.

Everything will be okay if I get to the car.

She repeated it to herself like a mantra as the hot sand sucked at her feet and Mary sobbed uncontrollably at her ear. At some point she became aware that the screaming had stopped and that the beach had once more fallen deathly quiet.

Is it over?

She refused to look round to check. The car was closer now. There were mere yards between her and the foot of the steps that led up to the car park.

She put a foot on the bottom step.

Should have gone to Lanzarote.

That was her last thought. By some instinct she turned, knowing something was coming. A shadow sped up the beach, a black wave several feet high. She grabbed Mary tight and threw herself backward towards the steps, towards safety.

She had time for just one scream.