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Children skipped carelessly along the lakeside path as their parents watched with only half an eye. A group from the local day care group dawdled and were pushed unsteadily over to feed the ducks, the carers relieved to be out of the stifling heat of the centre. Dogs pulled their owners and owners pulled their dogs, some more excited than others by the prospect of squirrels in the woods at the end of the lake.

Just another lazy day at Roath Lake, sun shining, ice-cream van generator whirring, sea gulls flapping.

In the depths of the lake the shadow rested, underneath this summer’s crop of algae. It peered through the ripples on the lake, its attention caught by a fleeting burst of red on a child's coat, or the glint on the frame of a wheelchair. Silently and with only the hint of a sinuous flick of its body, it slid over to the submerged base of the world famous Roath Lake Light house memorial to Captain Scott. This was a safe spot, but also favoured by ducks who made a quick and easy snack for the lake leviathan, like a Greggs sausage roll for monsters.

The ancient creature was always hungry, always gliding the lake bottom scrounging what it could in amongst the detritus of old broken life belts, oars and Clarks Pie wrappers. In the end though, first class protein was required, all wrapped up in a juicy coating of saturated fat.

It was late afternoon, the sun was low and the trees that edged the lake threw long shadows across its surface. Wearing waders and standing at the quietest part of the lake, was a man operating a remote controlled model boat. Playing just to his side was his 8 year old son, splashing about in his red bug eyed wellies. The man was concentrating furiously on getting the boat to do a 360 spin, showing off for some passers bye. Only the eagle eyed seagull saw the massive shape move under the water and approach the child. The seagull screeched, not for the sake of the child, but out of self-interested fear and panic. With only the barest splash the child was gone. Pulled beneath and taken to the light house, stripped of its flesh before the father even realised what had happened.

Unknowingly imitating a scene from Jaws, the man stood in the lake, looking helplessly around for his son, with nothing but a torn piece of red rubber to show where he had been.

Dame Shirley Road walked past a little later, as the emergency services tended to the father. She heard the bewilderment, the desolated faces of the frog divers, the shrugs of the scene of crime officers. She thought perhaps she could approach the father and offer him some explanation, she did at least know what had happened. Then the familiar tightening in her gut, the pressure in her chest as her ire rose. How many times had they warned people, “Don’t leave your children unattended near the lake”? Too often had this sad scene been played out and yet no one ever listened, they mocked, they ridiculed, they ignored, and then they cried. Too bad she thought as she dropped a hunk of battered sausage amongst the algae bloom near the lighthouse.

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It wasn’t him, it was her. After what happened with Mark; the pain of that breakup. She just wasn’t ready for another serious relationship. Not this soon. But give it time and well, maybe.

With the carrot of hope dangling, she looked at him.

Many, many things to say, but he merely looked back at her. She sipped at her wine, looking at him through those big bright eyes across the top of her glass. When she set it down her lipstick left an angry cherry red weal along the rim.

He said, ‘Okay then.’

The way he sat, the way he held himself, he had the look of a man about to say something else. She waited once more, but he said nothing. Just sat and looked back at her.

She drank again, an angry gulp, then set down the glass hard enough that the liquid made a slopping sound.

‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say? God! You’re so passive. Show some emotion. A wobble in your lip. Come on! Something.’

He said, ‘Uh…’ and began to smile, self-conscious in the light of her fierce glare. She did that thing where she closed her eyes, and that shake of her head to show her disdain. She looked at him once more, blew some air through her lips to show her contempt, took another gulp of the wine then began to shimmy her way from the booth.

She reached back for handbag, stood, and then perched on the end of the bench.

She said, ‘This is why it can’t work. You’re like an iceberg. Actually, no. You’re like the man on the Titanic who wouldn’t take a lifejacket just in case some kid came along who needed it.’

‘I thought you said it was you, not me.’

‘Yeah, well. It’s seventy me, thirty you. You’re like that guy in the Arctic, in that stupid film you made me watch. They were going to starve to death, but instead of crying about it, like any normal person, he just went outside. He didn’t even say goodbye to them, for God’s sake.’

He said, ‘Would crying about it make any difference?’

Another headshake, another sigh of disdain, and she was gone.

It was him, not her. Clearly.

Don’t want a serious relationship? Well, how about taking it easy, like they had been?

They went out, they had fun. They went home, they had even more fun.

Her eyes when she looked back from the pillow at him, and he loved them best last thing at night sparkly free of all that makeup goo. Okay, so the naked body beneath those eyes was a bonus, but it was the eyes he was thinking about. How could they be so warm and tender one moment, then the next be rimmed with rage, like the evil eyes of the seagull that liked to torment his cat?

It was sweet, the way she insisted they watched art house films that she didn’t get.The way she said huw-mus, not huh-mus.

Don’t forget the jealousy. No reply till morning. What were you doing? What was her name?

He finished his pint. He took both glasses to the bar.

The barman nodded thanks. ‘Lucky escape there, mate.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘Yes. I think you’re right.’

Lucy was a blonde-haired, blue eyed angel of a creature, everybody said so. She was the darling of the Seaside Bar and Bistro, with the staff, and the customers alike. Dressed in her yellow mac and blue wellies she was always to be found playing on the shore near the Bistro, with her faithful friend Patch, a mismatched loping hairy brute, who took on all the minor roles while Lucy played the hero.

Today, Patch was Captain Oates as the two of them trekked across the Antarctic wilderness of the summer beach. Evil eyed seagulls served as watchful penguins, and other holiday makers were unknowingly cast as Amundson and co in the race for the prize.

“Isn’t she just adorable,” cooed one American lady over a watery coffee.

“Mmm,” said Lucy’s mother.

“She’s so pretty, a little angel – you must be so proud.”

“Mmm,” said Lucy’s mother again. ‘More coffee, Mrs Asley-Robinson?”

“Please, dear.”

When Patch jumped up and muddied Lucy’s yellow mac with sandy paws she was a picture of childish annoyance, tapping the dog on the nose and scolding him, hands on hips. A collective “aww” rose from the watching diners.

Of course, when she came in later that day for her lunch they all made a huge fuss of her. She smiled and blushed and giggled, chatting to everyone and making them all fall a little in love with her. She reaped a handsome reward for all these efforts: sweets, a handful of shiny coins, even some paper money. She stashed it all in a tin beneath her bed and practiced her curtsies and glances nightly at her dressing table mirror.

“Where’s your little dog today, Lucy, my love?” asked Mrs Astley-Robinson.

“You mean Captain Oates? Oh, he had to go outside, he said he may be some time…”

And everyone tittered and said how clever and pretty she was and Lucy revelled in it.

Just the other side of the cliff, hidden from view was a little caved, tucked into the rocks. And dangling dejectedly by the rock from a length of rope was a large, hairy mismatched dog. His eyes bulged and strained, bloodshot and sightless, his tongue hung limply from his mouth.

He was quite dead.

Meanwhile, little Lucy stood demurely at the Bistro, hands meekly behind her back to paint the perfect picture of childish innocence, or perhaps to hide the harsh red rope burns on her darling little palms…

An old ladies weathered face glared through the porthole. “Little bastards. Dragged up.” Her puckered lips twisted and twitched at the kids running around the pontoon, jumping into the cool flat velvet sea.

“They don’t know how lucky they have it”, a thin cruel voice crooned in her ear. Dark slashes for eyes above a long crooked razor sharp beak. The gull had a presence that cast more than just a shadow. “If they come any closer…”

“Beak and claw, Cap’n. Beak and claw.” The old lady turned back round to the scattered scraps of drawings, papers and maps. “Tonight we’ll find an answer.”

“Don’t mess this up”, the gull threatened. “Im hungry for more than just scraps.”

The moon peaked in and out of the clouds, afraid to look for too long. The boat reared and bucked like a wild beast. The sea drowned itself spluttering and spitting.

“No! It’s too late now, we’re here”, Captain Scott shrieked at the old lady. “There is no turning back.”

Dutifully she lit the beacon and they waited, braced in the angry arms of the ocean. She looked at the one lone picture on the wall; the man she had loved, by her side; sun shimmering. The steel in her heart was forged by her anger, a heat that folded and shaped it ever stronger. And now she would meet the killers, face to face.

The ships radio clicked and buzzed, before a muted call came through. “It’s them”, Captain Scott laughed gleefully. It’s time. It’s time. They’re here. Finally”

But then the call came again. “Mayday, Mayday mayday, this is the Firefly’’, co-ordinates 3461-2858, hull breached and taking on water fast. Any ships in the area? I repeat May..” then more clicks and static.

“Who are these fools, out in this.” Cap said. “idiots won’t make the same mistake again.” He laughs.

The old lady knew how close they were. They could be there in minutes.

“And lose this chance, what we’ve been waiting for all this time? Don’t be so stupid. Is that how you’d repay him? Is that how you get even?” His eyes seemed to rip through her. “I know you. I’ve been there all this time. Tonight is our only chance. And you’d throw it away for some idiots you don’t even know? That’s not you.”

“Enough” she shouted. Knowing he was right. They sat in silence waiting for the boat to meet them.

She thought about wrapping her arms around the throat of the man who killed her husband. She pictured Captain sinking his hooked beak deep into his cheeks. She tried everything she could to push away the image of someone slowly slipping beneath the surface of waves. She tried not to imagine the life jackets beneath her seat. She refused to think of her husbands face what he would say if he was here.

“Your not cut out for rescues.” Came that whining voice again. You’ve only ever been good at hurting and hindering and now is the time for that.” Cap was right. That is what she did. It’s what everyone said. Bitter old harpy. Evil sea witch. Sad, mad and bad. She’d heard that for 20 years and that’s all she was, nothing more. And yet. She softly recalled a time when maybe, she was something more. Under the surface of 20 years of bitter hurt and hate she had wrapped herself in, there was more. And maybe there was a reason her journey had taken her here, or maybe she was just tired of it being so heavy, but something had to change...