Undertow

He was meant to save them. Now he waits beneath the waves.

They still call him The Lifeguard, though no one remembers his name. Not really. There are rumours—always are—whispers that it was something like "Joanston" or "Tonis", maybe "Guarder". Doesn't matter. He’s out there every summer, perched atop that ancient red lookout, the one welded to rusted scaffolding, bolted into the cracked promenade like a warning.

You might think he’s some relic of a time gone by, a preserved local character, a ceremonial role for tourists. But the locals know. They say he's always watching, even when you don't see him. Especially then.

New Brighton's tides don’t just turn—they shift. Realities blur out here. It starts with the sea, always the sea. The way it hums. The way it remembers.

I. The Red Tower

At first light, the tower buzzed.

Not a mechanical hum, nor a failing fluorescent crackle—but something lower.

Subdermal. Like an infection. Something pulsing in the pipes.

They’d rebuilt it after The Great Retreat, when the Sea Wall finally crumbled and most of the Old Line went under. But it had always been here, in some form. Brick. Iron. Red plastic. Concrete. Red again. It didn’t matter what material they used. The tower came back, over and over.

So did he.

He wasn’t a man anymore. Not really. Some say he was uploaded into the tide charts during the ’39 Resilience Protocols—part of the coastal A.I. response net. Others say he never left after that storm, the one that took 46 swimmers in a single day. Dragged down. No bodies. Only hats and towels left behind, flapping in the wind like prayer flags.

But every morning, he’s up there. Looking down. Mirror shades hiding the void.

II. The Whistle

Children say they hear it in their dreams. The whistle. Short. Sharp. Echoing underwater. Calling them.

Some say it’s a warning. Others think it’s a summons.

It always starts the same. A game of tag on the beach. Sandcastles. Laughter. Then the tide rolls in just a little too fast. Parents distracted. Screens glowing. A sound in the ear, high and reedy. And a sudden pull at the ankles.

The Lifeguard doesn’t move. He just watches. Counting.

It’s said that the whistle was the last thing those 46 heard.

III. The Drowning Book

In the basement of the Lighthouse (what’s left of it), behind a panel in the cracked generator room, there’s a journal. Water-damaged. Red leather. Bound with brass clasps.

The Book of the Watched.

Inside are names. Thousands. Maybe more. Each name followed by a date, a tide level, and a time of disappearance. No death certificates. No news clippings. Just records. Unofficial. Unexplained.

The last page is blank. A single line drawn across it, like a horizon.

People say the Lifeguard updates the book. That it’s linked to his watch. That he knows who’s next before they even touch the water.

IV. Undertow

Once, someone tried to stop him.

A boy. Local. Bright. Good swimmer. Said he’d seen the Lifeguard drag someone under. Swore it. Went up the tower during a red flag day.

He never came down.

The tower door was locked from the inside. When they finally broke it open, it was empty. Just damp footprints spiralling down into the sea. One of the railings bent outward, as if something huge had pushed against it from below.

The boy’s phone was found hours later, washed up near the Black Pearl. The video was corrupted. But the audio played back one word over and over: “Breathe.”

V. The Keeper of Depths

He wasn't always this. Once, he really was a hero. Pulled kids from riptides. Patrolled the sand in high-vis yellow. Ran first aid on jellyfish stings and snapped ankles. He laughed. Had a dog. But the council pushed him too far. Closed his hut. Gave the contract to a security firm from Southport. Cutbacks. Risk assessments. “Drown-proof AI systems” with facial recognition, heat mapping, sonar. No room for people anymore.

He stayed. Even when the pay stopped. When the hut was bulldozed. When the drone systems took over. He remained. Waiting.

He doesn’t guard lives now. He collects them.

VI. The Return

This summer, the tide was higher than ever.

The heat pulsed across the promenade like static. The skies buzzed with ozone and sirens. No one went near the water. But the Lifeguard was there, standing sentinel.

Then the red beacon flared for the first time in decades.

Not a warning. A signal.

The tower lit from within, beams streaking out across the water like a machine awakening from centuries of sleep. Windows cracked. Screens went black. The sea stilled. No gulls. No wind. Just the hiss of ancient systems rebooting.

And from the deep, they rose.

The lost ones. The swimmers. The taken.

Dripping. Silent. Watching.

The Lifeguard raised his whistle. Blew once.

They turned towards the land.

VII. The Reckoning

They say it’s all just folklore. Urban legend for the flood generation.

But everyone remembers the summer the tide never went out. The summer no one could reach the beach. The summer the promenade stayed empty except for a single red figure, high in his tower, watching a dead flat sea like it held all the answers.

A few have tried to pull the tower down since.

None succeeded.

The foundations are deeper than anyone expected. Unmapped tunnels. Old infrastructure. Forgotten military bunkers. Some say the base connects to the Fort. Others claim it’s older still. Roman. Atlantean. Digital.

Doesn’t matter.

He’s still there.

The lifeguard. Watching.

Waiting for the next high tide.

RW