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Chapters (86)
  1. Title Page
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Love
  4. Before
  5. One
  6. ONE
  7. Two
  8. TWO
  9. Three
  10. THREE
  11. Four
  12. FOUR
  13. Five
  14. FIVE
  15. Six
  16. SIX
  17. Seven
  18. SEVEN
  19. Eight
  20. EIGHT
  21. Nine
  22. NINE
  23. Ten
  24. TEN
  25. Eleven
  26. ELEVEN
  27. After
  28. One
  29. ONE
  30. Two
  31. TWO
  32. Three
  33. THREE
  34. Four
  35. FOUR
  36. Five
  37. FIVE
  38. Six
  39. SIX
  40. Seven
  41. SEVEN
  42. Eight
  43. EIGHT
  44. Nine
  45. NINE
  46. Ten
  47. TEN
  48. Eleven
  49. ELEVEN
  50. Twelve
  51. TWELVE
  52. Thirteen
  53. THIRTEEN
  54. Fourteen
  55. FOURTEEN
  56. Fifteen
  57. FIFTEEN
  58. Sixteen
  59. SIXTEEN
  60. Seventeen
  61. SEVENTEEN
  62. Eighteen
  63. EIGHTEEN
  64. Nineteen
  65. NINETEEN
  66. Twenty
  67. TWENTY
  68. Twenty-One
  69. TWENTY-ONE
  70. Twenty-Two
  71. TWENTY-TWO
  72. Twenty-Three
  73. TWENTY-THREE
  74. Twenty-Four
  75. TWENTY-FOUR
  76. Twenty-Five
  77. TWENTY-FIVE
  78. Twenty-Six
  79. TWENTY-SIX
  80. Twenty-Seven
  81. TWENTY-SEVEN
  82. Twenty-Eight
  83. TWENTY-EIGHT
  84. Eleven Months Later
  85. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  86. Copyright

When I get to the corner I stop and look up. The sky is gunpowder black, the moon a perfect circle of white, as though someone’s taken a knife and cut a hole clean out of the sky. I stand there and stare at it, trying to work out why it doesn’t look right. Then I realise what’s wrong – what’s missing – I can’t hear the seagulls. Usually they’d be squealing and diving down to pick through the bins or waddling about on the pavement looking for scraps.

They’re part of the soundtrack of Brighton, like the push and pull of the sea. But tonight, I can’t hear them. They’re gone and everything is unnervingly quiet. So quiet that I can hear the steady squeak of my DMs as I tell myself to walk faster.

At last, there, ahead of me, is the light of North Street and my hands unclench in my pockets. A bus rolls past, the top deck empty, and when I turn left, every part of me pulses like a fresh bruise when I see the Old Steine. If I could trust my legs, I’d run. So I walk and keep walking, putting one foot in front of the other again and again and again as I tell myself that I’ll be home soon and everything will be OK.

I’m crossing the road when I finally hear it, what can only be described as a shriek that is enough to make me miss a step. It takes a moment for the shock to pass and when it does, I realise what it is – a seagull. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see one, but I catch myself sighing with relief as something in me realigns and everything around me finally feels a little more solid.

The lawn is dotted with them, their white wings tucked in as they pad back and forth, picking at the grass. There are people too. Not many, but enough of them to make me feel safer as I head across the road. Most of them are at the bus stop, shifting from one foot to the next, breath puffing out of them in great clouds as they wait for the night bus. There are four girls on the corner and as I pass, one of them releases a torrent of vomit so violent her friend screams. I scream as well, covering my mouth with my hand and jumping out of the way to avoid the spray as I conclude, with a sob, that this evening hasn’t ended the way I hoped it would.

I don’t realise that I’m heading to the Pier instead of up St James’s Street until I’m there, under the clock. I don’t know if it’s working, but it says that it’s almost 3 a.m. as I head up Marine Parade.