Virginia Moffatt - The Wave

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Killer Reads is an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Killer Reads 2019

Copyright © Virginia Moffatt 2019

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Virginia Moffatt asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008340742

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008340735

Version 2019-05-12

In loving memory of Pip O’Neill, and my parents,

Ann and Joseph Moffatt, who taught me

how to face the wave.

‘Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note may yet be done.’

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Ulysses

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Vespers

Poppy

Yan

Margaret

James

Nikki

Harry

Shelley

Compline

Poppy

Yan

Margaret

James

Nikki

Harry

Shelley

Poppy

Yan

Margaret

James

Nikki

Harry

Shelley

Lauds

Poppy

Yan

Margaret

James

Nikki

Harry

Shelley

Prime

Poppy

Yan

Margaret

James

Nikki

Harry

Shelley

Prayers for the Dead

Poppy

Yan

Margaret

James

Nikki

Harry

Shelley

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

The Divine Office (Liturgy of the Hours)

‘the recitation of certain Christian prayers at fixed hours according to the discipline of the Roman Catholic Church’ before the second Vatican Council (1962-1965)

Vespers Evening Prayer ‘At the lighting of the lamps’ 6.00 p.m.

Compline Night Prayer before retiring 9.00 p.m.

Matins During the night or Midnight

Lauds Dawn Prayer 3.00 a.m.

Prime Early Morning Prayer 6.00 a.m. (the first hour)

30 August 12.00 p.m.

Twitter

MattRedwood@VolcanowatchersUK 21 s They were wrong about the Cumbre Vieja volcano on La Palma. If you’re in Cornwall don’t even stop to pack. Get out NOW.

BBC Breaking 12.20 p.m.

… Downing Street confirms the Prime Minister has cut her bank holiday weekend short and will be making a statement at 12.30 p.m.

Facebook

Poppy Armstrong

30 August 12.45 p.m.

I am going to die tomorrow.

Sorry to be so melodramatic, but if you’ve seen the news, you’ll know it is true. It took a while to sink in, didn’t it? The idea that, only yesterday the geologists at Las Palma were so sure the seismic activity they were observing was nothing unusual they didn’t even raise an alert. The revelation that if it hadn’t been for a bored intern noticing that the tiny tremors were building to a huge unexpected one, we’d have been carrying on with life as normal; the knowledge that it took so long for that intern to persuade her superiors that they were about to witness a massive volcanic collapse, there are now less than twelve hours before half the mountain falls into the sea, raising megatsunamis that will hit the American, UK, Irish and African coasts by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. So that I and thousands of others will be killed by the time most of you are getting out of bed. The how, when and why of our deaths making headlines around the globe, before it has even happened.

I’m still trying to think of it as a blessing of sorts. After all, it’s more than most people get – victims of car crashes receive no such warning; the terminally ill can’t know the exact point their disease will overwhelm them; the elderly face a slow decline. I’m lucky, really, to know the precise instant my life will end. It provides me with this one, tiny consolation: knowing how much time I have left means I get to plan how to spend each moment. And I mean to make the most of every last second.

Because … for me, the information has come too late. The authorities have managed to evacuate some hospitals, and it seems that local dignitaries can’t be allowed to drown, but they say there is no time to execute a rescue plan for the rest of us. We will have to make our own way, by road, rail or boat: three million people attempting to leave this narrow peninsula simultaneously. Already, it is a less than edifying sight. The roads are too narrow, the station too crowded, the boats available in insufficient numbers. I do not want to spend my last hours like this, frantic, rushing, out of control, in a race I have no chance of winning.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I have weighed the odds, and finding them stacked so heavily against me, I have made my choice. If this is the remaining time allotted to me, I will spend it doing what I want. The sun is shining, the surf is up. It’s a perfect day for the beach. There’s no point keeping the shop open, so I will pack a bag, bring my tent, and pitch it down at Dowetha Cove, my favourite place in the whole world. If this is to be my last day, my last night, I want to spend it doing everything I love: swimming, surfing, lying out among the stars. I want to make the most of the time left to me.

Perhaps there are some people out there who feel the same. If so, it would be good to have company.

Join me, won’t you?

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15 other comments

Alice EvansRoads not too bad at the moment. I wish you’d come with us, Poppy, but sending you lots of love x

20 mins

Jill HoughPoppy, I just don’t know what to say. Thoughts are with you.

10 mins

Andrew EvansSaw the news couldn’t believe it. Are you really stuck? Useless, I know, but sending love.

Yan MartinWe’ve not met but I’ve made the same calculation. See you on the beach.

20 seconds

I stand at the top car park, gazing down on the beach below. If I needed any confirmation the news is not a hoax, the silence and emptiness provide it. On a sunny August Bank Holiday, with an offshore wind, the sea should be full of surfers and screaming children diving through the waves. The sand should be crammed with family groups, couples sunning their bodies side by side, pensioners in their fold-up chairs. Everywhere should be movement: parents struggling down the slope with bags and beach balls, their offspring running ahead, shouting in anticipation of the joys to come, people in wetsuits striding towards the water, surfboards under their arms. But the beach is vacant, the air free of all human noise, the only sound the screeching gulls and the ruffle of the wind in the bushes behind. It is as if the world has ended already and left me, a sole survivor, to survey the remains. Normally, the sight of an empty shoreline would fill me with joy – the knowledge that these waves are for me alone – but not today. Today, I find myself unable to move, either to the car to collect my belongings, or to the beach below. Instead, I stand by the sea wall, staring at the yellow sunlight glistening on the blue-green waves, listening to the birds whose calls rise and fall with my every breath …