Fran has a tried-and-tested solution for dealing with her problems: run away.
And despite what the self-help books say, it's worked pretty well up until now. "Now" referring to her hiding in the seaside town of Seacombe until the end of summer, and...
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"What?" Fran said faintly.
"I'm really sorry," the woman said again – she must have sensed her desperation, or perhaps her expression had given it away. "There's a serious storm heading inland. It's far too dangerous to send boats across. We've closed the crossing since this afternoon."
For a second, Fran was convinced she'd just heard wrongly. This couldn't be happening. Everything suddenly felt heavy. Her head was hot, dizzy. Her chest felt like it was tearing apart, and there was a painful throbbing in her leg that blurred her vision every time it peaked. She staggered backwards a little, her legs finally too exhausted to keep her upright.
The next clear thought she had was of someone crouched next to her, concern edging their voice. The face of the woman from the counter swam into focus.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "Do you need me to call anyone?"
"I'm fine," Fran mumbled, pushing her away. She didn't feel the pain in her knee as she pulled herself to her feet. The woman shouted something she didn't hear as she stumbled away, back up the stairs that led to the main street. She felt empty, hollow, like something had been ripped out of her soul.
The sky had darkened, the greys deepening to a deep, murky gloom. Her thoughts were a blur. There must be another way. She didn't know why, but she couldn't shake the feeling taking root deep inside her. A renewed conviction overtook her, pushing her onwards. The seafront road led though a park, lit by streetlamps that cast everything into harsh arrays of light and shadow. Dark trees towered around her like menacing figures, casting long shadows along the grass.
She found a platform at the edge of the park: some kind of observation area, perhaps. There was a pay to use telescope and a couple of benches. She heard the ocean before she saw it: a dull roar, the crash of spray against rocks. Fran peered over the edge of the railings. From here there were only rocks and boulders leading down into the sea, some three or four metres below her. Even from here, she could feel spray showering against her face and her fingers as the waves pounded below, shattering against the rocks.
She reckoned she could do it. The descent would be tricky, but the rocks were large enough to give her purchase. As long as she stayed focused, she would be alright. And there'd be a way across at the bottom, she was sure of it. Some rocks she could climb on, or a hidden pathway. She'd never felt so sure of something before in her life.
She eased her way over the railings, eyes fixed on the dark sea, writhing and roaring in the storm. She navigated the rocky pathway, guided by some deep-rooted conviction, hanging on by fine strings of hope, stretched so taut she felt like she'd snap any second. The rocks were treacherously slippery, the wind was somehow louder than at the beach, its screams echoing into the night. She could hardly see where she was going in the darkness, but she still moved downwards, resolutely towards the ocean.
