the family – but actually, it’s such a beautiful helicopter shot that they’ll find any excuse to show it.
‘And so his son died,’ I say. ‘And the old man survived the storm, then hung himself from this beam?’
‘Correct,’ she says.
‘Yawn,’ I say. ‘I’m not frightened.’
Dad is standing on the edge of the concrete foundations. He is peering down, watching an ongoing grudge match: The Waves versus The Rocks.
‘It’s hanged, not hung. He hanged himself,’ Dad says. He steps back, turns around. ‘Who are we talking about?’
‘The creepy old lifeboat man,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah, that’s true,’ Dad says.
‘Shut up it’s true,’ I say.
Dad looks at me blankly. There is the sound of the waves slapping and butting.
‘He had spent years of his life saving people on the Gower coast and then his son drowned while under his supervision. He hanged himself,’ he says.
‘And now he haunts these shores,’ I say, wiggling my fingers in the air and making a horror face.
‘Oliver,’ he says disapprovingly.
The sunlight is coming side-on: making half his face bright, half of it dark.
‘My fault.’ Mum butts in. ‘I thought it was a ghost story.’
Dad looks at her. ‘Jill, that’s terrible.’
She bares her teeth.
‘It’s true. It happened,’ Dad says. ‘In the eighties.’
‘That is awful,’ she says. ‘Why did I think it was a ghost story?’
I put my head on her shoulder.
‘Because the thought of losing your beloved son – i.e., me – is so terrible that even when you hear about it happening to other people, you have to convince yourself it’s not real.’
I notice that the sun is setting. I do not believe in scenery but still, there it is.
‘It’s an absolutely stunning day,’ Dad says.
The sun dissolving against the horizon like aspirin. A bright, white path of light on the surface of the water.
Mum leans into my arm.
‘You might be right, Oli,’ she says.
I feel a little bit ill at the vastness of the ocean. There are dark patches and lighter patches on the water. The dark patches are shaped like continents.
‘Why are there bits of water darker than other bits?’
‘Maybe something to do with the currents,’ Dad says.
‘Imagine all the mental things that live down there,’ I say.
Particularly those at the deepest parts. Voluminous jelly creatures that could squeeze through a keyhole but have mouths so wide they could swallow a whale. Pressure makes no bones. I consider telling my parents that I want to become a marine biologist; it’s already one of the most commonly proposed career paths among my schoolmates.
The sun is setting. The light is yolky and warm.
‘You know they used ultrasound during the Second World War to detect submerged objects,’ I say.
I am standing in between them, shoulder to shoulder.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Dad says. He is a Welsh historian.
The sun is setting. All the colours are there.
‘How deep is the ocean?’ Mum asks. Her real surname is Hunter. Jill Hunter. The sun is setting.
‘Not sure,’ Dad says.
I like it when my parents do not know things.
Goldfish grow to fit the size of their bowls.
‘The ocean is six miles deep,’ I tell them.
The sun is setting.
And it’s gone.
Acknowledgements
I wrote the majority of this book whilst studying creative writing at the University of East Anglia. I am very grateful to all the tutors and students there for their help and encouragement. In particular, I’m thankful for the expertise of John Boyne, Megan Bradbury, Andrew Cowan, Doug Cowie, Sian Dafydd, Patricia Duncker, Seth Fishman, Paulo Mellett, Micheèle Roberts, Clive Sinclair, Joel Stickley and Luke Wright. Particular thanks to Tim Clare, whose patience, enthusiasm and friendship have been invaluable. Also, I would not have been able to write this book without the Curtis Brown Prize and the assistance of the AHRC.
For energy, support and attention to detail, I would especially like to thank my agent, Georgia Garrett. Hefty thanks also to Simon Prosser, my editor. I’d also like to thank Francesca Main, Emma Horton and everyone at Penguin, Philippa Donovan, Rob Kraitt, Naomi Leon and everyone at AP Watt and Claire Paterson.
I posted the first chapter of this book – when it was just a short story – on ABCtales.com; the response it received had a large part in my decision to write Submarine. I’d also like to thank Lara Frankena; in the chapter Apostasy, the twigs that spell the word ‘help’ are taken from her poem ‘Vipassana Meditation Retreat, Ten Days’ Silence’.
For their support and for living with this book, thank you: Fran Alberry, David Rhys Birks, Ben Keeps Brockett, Simon Brooke, Ally Gipps, Alison Hukins, Matt Lloyd-Cape, Toby Gasston, Gregg Morgan, Alastair O’Shea, Dylan O’Shea, Emily Parr, Ian Rendell, Laura Stobbart, Maya Thirkell, Hannah Walker and Mial Watkins.
To my family, for their encouragement and love: Mum, Dad and my sisters, Anna and Leah.
Table of Contents
Cover
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Dedication
Submarine
I
Triskaidekaphobia
Flagitious
Autarky
Voodoo
Nepenthe
Compunction
Osculation
Zugzwang
Pederast
Quidnunc
Shadoof
Epistolary
II
Diuretic
Devolution
Canicide
Trojans
Decollation
Apostasy
Fastigium
Euthenics
Botanical
Nonage
Llangennith
Delirium Tremens
Pow-wow
Apotheosis
III
Lampoonery
Opsimath
Fustilarian
Indoctrination
Port Talbot
Rhossili
Acknowledgements