The Cure

Chapter 46

It had been years since Nate had been to the seaside, and even longer since he had been in winter. Half the quaint little town was shut up, hibernating, the normally-bustling cobbled streets breathing low and even despite the brisk wind threading over the slippery stone.

They had already put their Christmas lights up, and they were flapping dangerously in the wind.

His dad had let him borrow his '69 Ford Mustang for the journey, and his ears rang in the relative silence once he had cut the engine and its lazy, reverberating roar; he had parked down by the water, taking deep gulps of the fresh, salty air, letting it whip away the somnolence of a six-hour drive.

The seagulls were still throwing out their arcing cries, and the port bell clanged and the fishermen in their funny dungarees hauled in their glittering evening's work, and the docked boats rocked with woody plops into the lapping waves.

He stretched his legs along the pebbled beach bracketed by boastful cliffs throwing themselves proudly into the air, his fists in his pockets, affecting the façade of a trouble-free tourist, but his eyes were darting about before November's nightfall came again, scanning the blues and greys for a curling golden waterfall, the red duffle coat.

Mrs. Nicks had given him the exact address when he found the flat empty after his shift; Jules had handed him Lola's phone over the bar with a shrug. He hadn't seen her since the gig the night before.

It was the only other place she could think of. The only place left Lola could be.

But he had passed it twice, and she wasn't there; he had doubted her croaky advice, at first, but the old, weathered façade of the newsagents to one side was just as she had described, even if the cinema had been turned into a chain coffee shop; a house squeezed between businesses, resolute and unmoving, raising its chin into the air.

Night was coming in fast, the sky a remorseless slab of grey, and now that he was too exhausted to panic, his adrenaline supplies drained, he made do with the gut-wrenching pull of dread as he made his way back up the beach, his fingers icy, thankful for his thick Barbour jacket and handknitted scarf that he tucked his red nose into, the wind still teasing his hair about.

'Excuse me,' he interrupted the weather-beaten fishermen as they hauled great plastic crates of flapping flounder up the sloping concrete walk away from the beach and its port. 'Sorry to bother you. Have you seen a blonde girl come past today, five foot six, I guess, red coat—'

'Lola Nicks?'

The perks of a small town; Nate looked with desperate delight at the short, red-faced young man who released the handle of the crate, setting his side to the ground to the grumblings of his partner. 'Do you know her?'

'Went to school with her – she was down here this morning. Haven't seen her in years.'

Another man whistled low. 'She's a beauty, that one.'

'One fine fucking piece—'

'Did you speak to her?' Nate interrupted the appreciative commentary, his brow furrowing before he could stop it.

'Yeah, briefly. She said she wasn't back for long. She went up the cliffs with Matty—'

'Who?'

'Matty. A mate from school. They took his dog up there.'

'Right. This morning?'

'Yeah.'

'Right.' His heart was hammering. 'Thanks. You've been a great help. Thanks.' He took off at a sprint up the slope, along the port and towards the cliffs, squinting his eyes over the darkening grass atop them, as if he would, by some kind twist of Lady Luck's wrist, see a petal of red floating over them as she wandered back from her purposefully nonchalant stroll.

He crossed the tourist carpark and started up the sandy footpath, various spiky bushes pulling at his jeans as he started upwards.

Five minutes climbing; the wind was higher, and icier here, and night had fallen enough that he had to turn on his phone's flashlight, and some hardier walkers were coming back down, with hiking boots and jackets and sticks and bags and small lights on their headbands, looking at him doubtfully as they dazzled him.

'You don't want to go up there now,' one kindly woman advised him, 'it's dangerous.'

'You haven't seen a girl up there, red coat, very blonde—'

'No, love, sorry.'

'—about five – no?'

'No, sorry, love, there's no one up there at this hour.'

He couldn't see further than a metre in front of him, and the wind was so ferocious that water was whipped from the corners of his eyes, turning icy before it had even hit his cheeks. He squinted into the dark, not even far up enough to come out of the high bushes, to see the sea again; it was useless.

He threw a fist into one of the wooden direction signs with a frustrated cry, before picking his way back down.

Had he really thought she'd be up there?

Hell, she could be anywhere. He felt as impotent in his hurry to convey the real urgency of Lola's situation to her, as he did searching for a sign of life amidst the thick black of the cliffs.

Mrs. Nicks had three days left. If that.

She could be anywhere.

He was relieved to close the rickety door of the Ford to find respite from the biting wind, closing his eyes as he turned the engine and the heating on full blast. He pushed his head back against the cracked leather seats as his fingers defrosted, the sensation coming back slowly, then pulsing uncomfortably, burning hot.

And he was exhausted, bitterly, impossibly exhausted, the six-hour drive back to the city an impossible feat; his fingers trembled slightly as he scrolled through the local Bed & Breakfast advertisements for the area on his phone, selecting and reserving one in the town centre.

Nate pulled out of his parking space, the heating finally warm enough to stop him shivering as he checked his wing mirror, ducking his head to check for oncoming cars.

A flash of red.

He braked, squinting.