The Deep

They’d been presumed dead for just under sixty years, me Da told me afterward.

And yet, there they stood. Alive ‘n’ well, s’though they hadn’t aged a day.

The pub was dead, and I mean, dead silent. Nobody dared speak. Old Cob didn’t look like he dared breathe, lookin’ at ‘em like ‘e were seein’ a ghost.

Then the bottom dropped out me stomach. One of ‘em was Hetty. His Hetty.

She moseyed over in front of ‘im, like she hadn’t just strode out the sea middle’a fuckin’ thunderstorm. A fair maiden looking at an old man. A husband looking dumbstruck at his wife.

Well, one of ‘is wives. Moved on, didn’t ‘e? Shacked up with that Middlington girl ‘bout three years after Hetty “died”. ‘Ad four kids with ‘er before she died. ‘Course they’re all grown now. Left ‘ome years ago. Cob’s in ‘is eighties.

She didn’t say nothin’ to ‘im. Just stared at ‘im ‘til I thought ‘is heart might fuckin’ pop, then walked back to the bar. Before I’d asked me Da what the piss was goin’ on, and long before he answered, the three of ‘em disappeared upstairs. Took one room between ‘em. Tom recovered fast when he smelled cash. Charged ‘em handsomely, didn’t ask no questions. They musta known ‘e was rinsin’ ‘em, but price didn’t seem much bother. They ‘ad plenty o’ money between ‘em. Fuckin’ weird coins, though. Giant things, size o’ hub caps. Completely smooth, not a mark on ‘em. Tom didn’t give a fuck, though, musta looked real enough to ‘im.

Leighton dragged Cob home ‘bout five minutes later. Old git didn’t even finish ‘is drink, first time in thirty years that man didn’t finish a pint before shifting ‘is arse. Terrible scenes.

Pub was a fuckin’ ghost town after that. No one dared set foot. Eerie. Y’could see the window t’their room from the pier. ‘Course it was draped, but could see the candlelight, always burnin’. Even through the night, though Tom swore ‘e’d only left ‘em a handful of tapers. ‘E usually charged when punters needed more, stingy prick.

Never stopped rainin’ neither. Sea kept churnin’, boats clatterin’ around like spooked mares, as if they was tryin’ t’warn us.

So why didn’t we fuckin’ listen?

Seven nights after they stepped out of it, the sea opened up. A giant whirlpool ‘bout a mile off coast, like someone’d taken the plug out. Stood on the pier on me tip toes and still couldn’t see the bottom. Harbour started drainin’ beneath us. Me Da grabbed me by the wrist an’ started runnin’, draggin’ me like a kipper. “Where we off?” I spluttered.

‘E just said, “we’re goin’”.

Jumped straight in Ba Mason’s wagon. Didn’t even stop to pack a bag. Most o’ the village musta been there, fleein’ for their lives. I could see Leighton, pale as a fuckin’ sheet. “Where’s Cob?” I asked ‘im.

“Dead,” ‘e said, starin’ a thousand miles. “Found ‘im an hour ago. Split naval to chin, guts flung everywhere. Covered in barnacles.”

Asked fuck all after that. Didn’t want no more answers.

Sky was gettin’ darker and darker. Horses didn’t like it neither, took all o’ Ba’s cunnin’ to keep ‘em movin’ forward. Took one last glance out the back as we left. Whole sea looked like it was gone now, could see the pier’s feet, and the three sea witches stood on top o’ the pub, arms spread wide, holdin’ hands, lookin’ t’ward the coast. There were a flash o’ lightnin’, and I swear, I swear somethin’ were crawlin’ out that whirlpool.

Shut me eyes tight for the rest o’ the journey. Wagon were dead silent again, just like the pub that night. Only sounds were the rumble o’ the wheels, the whinny o’ the horses, and me heart beatin’ in me fuckin’ throat.

Even when we stopped, me Da still didn’t say nothin’. I asked ‘im when we was goin’ home. ‘E just said, “keep yer ‘ead down,” and marched to the boardin’ house. Next mornin’ ‘e got himself some work on the dock, ‘n’ that was it. Just started again like nothin’ fuckin’ happened.

Thing is, though, it’s hard to convince people anythin’ did happen. Asked around town for news from the village, nobody ‘ad even heard of it. Said they must’ve. We’d only been in the wagon a couple hours, it weren’t that far away. But no one knew about me village. Fuck all in the papers either, just witterin’ about politics and towny shit, nothin’ about three dead girls stridin’ out the drink, nothin’ ‘bout a drowned village.

Thing is, I couldn’ find any o’ the villagers neither. We definitely all got out the same wagon, same place, but it’s only been me an’ me Da since the day we arrived. Didn’t realise how really fucked it all was until I saw a map. Bought one in the post office, and the village wasn’t even on it. It wasn’t like it had vanished, it were like it never even existed. Chucked the map in the stove and tried not t’be sick.

Me Da never talked about it. Just kept tellin’ me to keep me ‘ead down whenever I asked, then ‘e’d go all quiet and stony-eyed ‘til I changed the subject. We didn’t talk much after that. Mostly shouted. Lived together outta habit. Decided I didn’t wanna live by the sea no more. Got a job in a colliery and fucked off inland minute I turned sixteen.

Never saw me Da again. Kept meanin’ t’go back to see ‘im, see the village, but never got round to it. Somethin’ always came up. Roads’d be shut, bridge’d be up for repair, horses’d be sick. Almost like the world wants me to forget, like everyone else has.

But how the fuck can I?