Beneath The Waves

(4) Dead Man Talking

Chapter 4

Monday mornings were always hectic for Frankie. It didn’t matter what country she was in, who she lived with; she could safely say that all Monday mornings sucked.

Aunt Moira barked out orders around the kitchen; “Francesca, tie your hair up. Francesca, put the cereal away. Francesca, don’t doodle on your hands. Francesca, shut the dog up, won’t you?”

Tennyson was yapping for attention. Frankie wondered whether he hated Mondays, too.

“C’mon, boy.” She clipped on his lead, which caused him to yap even more and wriggle around excitedly. “No, don’t bark, you idiot, Aunt Moira’ll turn you into a fur coat – come on, outside!”

Tennyson strained excitedly on the leash – until Frankie hooked it around the pole they’d placed in the garden.

“Sorry, Tennyson, no walks right now – I know, I know, you hate me.” She sighed as Tennyson let out a whine, straining to pull away and explore the interesting smells of the street. “It’s not like I want to go to school.”

“Francesca, leave the dog alone – where’s your school bag?” Aunt Moira started to hurry towards her car. “Quickly, or we’ll both be late.”

Frankie stood up, ruffled Tennyson’s velvety fur, and kissed the top of his head. “Be good.”

Uncle Ed was standing in the doorway as Frankie brushed past to grab her school bag. “I’ll take him out once I’ve seen the match.”

“Thanks, Ed.” She managed not to blurt out that the match would be cancelled due to torrential rain. “It should stop raining at around ten.”

Ed stared outside. “It’s not raining now.”

“Give it ten minutes.” Frankie jumped outside. “Bye.”

“How d’you know?” Ed was still squinting up at the sky, as if the forecast had been scrawled in the clouds.

“I read the weather forecast!” Frankie yelled out as she dashed down the garden path. She hoped Ed wouldn’t decide to check it; Frankie’s own Flashes were a lot more reliable.

                                                                                                ***

Frankie’s next Flash was during maths, a subject she wished she hadn’t picked for A level. Technically, it wasn’t the only Flash; she’d had a few little ones throughout the day. She’d known, when she’d seen Brad Johnson and Angeline Peters parading around holding hands, that they wouldn’t last another week; she’d known to use the side door to get into lunch, because some idiot guys in the year below would pass her by and snigger at her frizzy mess of hair; she’d known to sit next to Marcel McDonalds in English, because her pen would break and Marcel would lend her another one. But these were little, everyday ones that Frankie barely noticed anymore.

Frankie stared blankly at the dull white walls while the maths teacher scrawled an equation on the board for the class to copy out. Her thoughts had drifted to Jonathon; she was wondering if he was okay. She wished she knew what was happening to him.

And then suddenly, the Flash appeared in her mind, burning her like a bolt of lightning. A grave stone – made of clean, speckled white marble – fizzled into view. The shiny new inscriptions glimmered in a dull light. Jonathan Rivers, beloved husband, father and friend. Beneath it was a quote that made shivers of foreboding rock down Frankie’s spine. Break, break, break, on thy cold grey stones, O sea!