They continued walking, and Aleisha finally felt bold enough to let go of her dad’s hand. She could feel her feet sink into the damp sand. In some places, the sand was soggy and moist, like treacle. In other places, it was wet but hard, solid, easy to walk on. The wet sand was darker – on a duller, drearier day she might have called it dirty. But not today. Today it was too perfect to be dirty.
She felt crunching under her feet, and when she looked down, she saw shells. Thousands and millions of shells. Normally, she would have picked them up, collected as many as she could. But it was just right as it was. She didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. As she looked around the beach, she saw figures, people and dogs, dotted along their own horizons. She didn’t look at them for long. They continued to walk; she knew the sea wasn’t far now. She saw a thin layer of water sitting on the surface of the sand, the sun and the sky reflected in it.
She turned around to look for her father, she could see him behind her, a little to her left, on sand she’d left untrodden, untouched. He was standing behind a figure, a blob on the landscape.
She skipped towards him, not minding the detour. She would get to the sea today eventually, though it was probably too cold for her to put her feet in. She could see now he was waving to her, his arm held high above his head, reaching further than the trees.
As she got closer, she realized the blob on the landscape was a seal. She had been told by her big brother that there were seals around here, in Norfolk. And as she got closer still, she saw it wasn’t a perfect seal. It had a hole in its side, flies were buzzing around it, and the sun hit its skin for just a moment, long enough for her to notice the flesh around the hole starting to draw back, weeping with some kind of liquid that wasn’t blood, but wasn’t water either.
She had never seen a seal before. Now she had never seen a seal alive before. She kept staring; she couldn’t take her eyes away. Where had the hole come from? What did it mean? Her father’s eyes were on her, and she could feel her head start to ache. A familiar ache. The one that came before tears, after sadness or anger.
She felt her father’s hand on her shoulder, and she wanted to nestle into his stomach, to block out the seal, the endless sky, the endless beach, and see nothing but black, smell nothing but her dad’s musty coat. Her tears were silent at first, cold and sticky as they crawled down her face. But then came the sobs, and she was embarrassed before they started, distraught when they did, and unable to stop. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being this seal right now. Decaying. Dying. Dead, already. With no one here to watch over it, no one but two strangers, one who didn’t seem to feel a thing.
‘Aleisha,’ Dean said to his 5-year-old daughter. ‘You don’t need to be upset. Things die all the time. It’s not a big deal.’
She wasn’t upset. She wasn’t anything. She looked at her hands. The policewoman was still sitting on the chair opposite her. Her mouth was opening, closing, as though she was speaking – mouthing words like ‘bad news’， ‘found by a stranger’， ‘so sorry’ – but the room was entirely silent. And all Aleisha could think about was that seal – the memory was so distant, like words written by someone else in a novel – and yet she still felt her own heart ache at the memory. How could Aleisha have grieved for a seal, yet feel nothing when her brother, her Aidan, had been hit by a train.
She followed the policewoman into the hallway, let her out of the door, her own face frozen in a surreal, cold, emotionless smile as she said goodbye.
She drifted into the kitchen like a ghost, walked towards the fridge. She looked at Aidan’s Post-it notes, searching for a clue. As she read one, she took it off the fridge, listened to the soft peeling sound, and let it flutter to the floor. One by one. Until she started reading more quickly. Some of the Post-its just said one thing: ‘Beans’ or ‘Bin bags’ or ‘Washing-up liquid’ or ‘Sandwiches for Mum’， and finally one said, ‘Back later, don’t wait up. Love you Leish x’。 She peeled faster and faster; he hadn’t left a new note here. What would it say? ‘I’m heading out. For ever. Good luck.’
She lifted her foot up, and smashed it back down on the pieces of paper, like dead autumn leaves shrivelling on the side of the dual carriageway. She watched them, felt them crease and crinkle. She left them as they were.
There, poking out between the notes, half hidden under the fridge, was a small shard of Aidan’s special plate, with Peter Rabbit’s ever-smiling face.