Surtsey’s hand slipped from the rudder. She tried to look behind her but her head was heavy

Donna spoke up. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” she said. Surtsey didn’t turn around. “Just push.” They’d hauled the RIB across most of the beach and were almost at the water’s edge. The soft dry sand was behind them, and it was easier to guide the trailer over the packed sand now underfoot. Surtsey was sweating alcohol from her pores, damp stains under her arms as she pulled the boat towards the sea.

“You’ve had quite a lot to drink,” Donna said. Surtsey felt acid rise in her throat and swallowed it down.

“I’m fine,” she said over her shoulder. “This is exactly what I need, the sea air will sort me out.”

She splashed into the edge of the water, feeling her socks squelch and the cold ripple around her shoes, penetrating the red wine glow. She kept going until the whole trailer was in the water then began untying the boat from the front end.

“Do the knots at the back,” she said. Donna stared at her with a strange look on her face.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Surtsey said. She put on a pompous voice. “I’m an experienced seafarer, don’t you know.”

Frantic

“It’s not that,” Donna said. She still hadn’t touched the ties at the back of the trailer.

“Then what?”

“All the wine.”

“So what?”

“Just, with your mum and everything.” Surtsey stopped fiddling with the rope and looked up. “You knew my mum as well as anyone.”

“I didn’t really, she was a patient, not family.” Surtsey waved that away. “You saw her the other day on the Inch. She was happy, right?” Donna nodded. “She seemed to be.”

“She loved the water, loved the island, loved everything about being out there. I’m the same. This is what I need, Donna, trust me. I need to get out there, get away from all this.”

She waved a frantic hand at the prom, as if it was responsible for her troubles. “Maybe another day,” Donna said. “When you’ve had some sleep.”

“Forget that,” Surtsey said. “Sleep is the cousin of death.”

Her legs felt rooted in the sand beneath the waves lapping at her calves as if she might be stuck forever like one of those Gormley statues people kept trying to save from drowning.

She finished undoing the knots at the front of the trailer and looked up. Donna was untying the back, good, none of this waiting till Surtsey was sober. Surtsey couldn’t imagine being sober long enough to get her act together.

The boat bobbed free of the trailer and Surtsey held the guide rope on the side.

“Get in,” she said.

“I don’t know.”

Surtsey raised her eyebrows. “I’m going out in this thing with or without you.”

Donna looked at Surtsey then out to sea in the direction of the Inch. She turned to look back at the terraces along the prom.

“OK.”

“Get in backwards, it’s easier. Grip the handles at the sides then scoot over on your bum.”

They were both wet up to their knees but Surtsey could hardly feel the cold. She watched as Donna thudded into the boat. She pulled herself in, landing with a flap of limbs in Donna’s lap. She looked up at her, silhouetted by the evening sky, her face in darkness. “Excuse me.” She smiled, righting herself.

Encounter

She clambered to the back and started the engine. Spray kicked up and they were off, heading into the low waves, bouncing with each encounter. Donna looked back. “Will the trailer be all right?” “Tide’s going out, it’s fine.”

Surtsey had no idea if that was right, hadn’t checked the tides. Donna looked around. “Lifejackets?”

Surtsey made a show of inspecting the interior of the boat. “Don’t see any.”

“Christ, Sur.”

It felt strange hearing Donna call her by her nickname, but not bad. Why not, they were friends now.

They were in open water, 200 yards from land. Surtsey breathed salt into her nostrils, but her head stayed foggy. Her legs were heavy. She’d noticed it earlier trudging through the sand, but they felt like lead weights now. She must be drunker than she thought.

Something occurred to her. “We didn’t bring any wine.” Donna shook her head. “You’ve had enough.”

Surtsey made a panting sound, her tongue was furry and felt too big for her mouth. “I’m thirsty.” “You’re fine.”

They rattled along, spray in their faces, the land a thinning line behind them. Surtsey turned the rudder, pointed west towards the Inch.

“What are you doing?” Donna said.

“What do you think?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Come on, Donna, you always knew that’s where we…” Her mouth stopped working for a second. Surtsey frowned and swallowed. It was hard work. She tried to get her tongue into gear. “Where we … were headed…”

Surtsey’s hand slipped from the rudder. She tried to turn and look behind her but her head was immensely heavy, a rock that her neck couldn’t support. She couldn’t swallow either.

She tried to grab the rudder handle again but her arm wouldn’t move, the signal from her brain didn’t reach her body. It was so hard to breathe, her lungs concrete, pressure on her chest.

She closed her eyes and struggled to open them again. Her mind was fog. She tried to think what she’d just been saying but couldn’t remember.

She felt a hand on her chin, raising her head up from her chest where it had slumped. She eventually opened her eyes. Donna smiled at her.

Stench

“You have a little sleep,” she said, easing Surtsey’s body down to lie along the seat. She took the rudder and gunned the engine. “I’ll take things from here.”

She couldn’t breathe, arms weak in the currents, head under the surface, lungs filling with water.

A giant whale came and swallowed her whole, her body tumbling over the colossal tongue and down into its gut, sloshing around, the stomach acid eating at her legs.

The whale’s heartbeat was thunderous making her wince in pain, her bowels shake, reverberating through her body until she thought she might break apart, her limbs floating off, her torso shredded to pieces, her head lolling around in the acrid stench of the place.

The heartbeat kept thudding away as she came round, immense throbs ricocheting from the back of her neck to her temples. Each beat made her clench her stomach and forced air out of her nose at the immediacy of the pain. She screwed her eyes tight and breathed in, concentrated on her lungs, tried to get the rhythm of them going.

Bursts of light and dark danced across her eyelids but she couldn’t get her eyes open. She tried to lift a hand to her head but her arms wouldn’t move. She flexed an ankle, found it was constrained.

More tomorrow.

Fault Lines, by Doug Johnstone, is published by Orenda Books and costs £8.99.