I am sinking into the sand

It was colder than average for last day of May. The wind was strong enough for the kite surfers in wetsuits, but too strong for sun bathing or swimming or for children's holiday water fun. There were still a number of people on the beach at Brancaster, children and adults, though it was now getting to end of the days sunlight.

The boy jumped off the push-bike just before it stopped and let it fall into the foothills of the sand dune and idled a few steps himself before collapsing into the bank of sand. One of many that divided the beach and sea and from the golf course, marshland and village of Brancaster. Boy and bike lay backs to each other like previously co-joined twins now estranged after an argument.

The bike had twisted so the front wheel faced back into the sand hill. The boy too lay half twisted on the sand like one of the sand sculptures at the more popular tourists destinations like Brighton or Southend or Margate. He looked out to sea. If he had been paying attention, he would have seen the tantalising white horses of the waves. The familiar orange and yellow kite-boards cutting through surf pulled by the equally brightly coloured leading edge inflatable kites that threw up the kite surfers over and off the waves like ski jumpers, but then hanging them in the air, the extra lift from the wind taking them to the adrenalin rush that he too he knew very well.

The boy was distracted though, with the thoughts that wouldn't desert him and that filled his head constantly. That tormented him and tore at his memory and inner core. Leaving a sickening ache in his stomach. He had slept only fitfully and dreamt of blood. His own clothes constantly oozing blood. The school team football shorts and a surf top and a old hat and scarf. Now the boy was wearing blue faded jeans, with holes in the knees and thighs. Deliberate and self inflicted, the jeans did not have these white edged knife slashes when they were in the shop in Kings Lynn just three week before. He wore a faded orange short sleeved t-shirt that bore a yellow, green and red logo of a kite-surfer above a wave. The t-shirt was too cold to be worn on this day alone. But today he was oblivious to the days coldness.

The boy pulled himself laboriously to his feet and stumbled forward shuffling up the sand bank away from the sea that would have in more normal times drawn him to itself with his own board and kite. Not today, not yesterday not for the last week. Not since Jamie's body had been found on this very beach. In a seaside rock pool of his own blood. One single knife wound through the stomach and up into the chest.

The police had questioned the boy and asked if Jamie was into drugs. This area was well known for drug dealing they said. The boy knew Jamie had nothing to do with drugs, but as to why he would have been up here at night he really had no idea and he told them so. He had gotten angry at their questions and had to be calmed down. He'd wanted to swing for one of them. The aggressive one, the bully. He had seen enough American crime TV shows to know what he was doing. He still wanted to hit him “the fucking shit”.

Either the pile of sand was higher and steeper than it appeared or the boy was more sloth-like than boys of 16 usually are as he laboured up the sand drift to the summit and over. On to the golf course side of the sand dunes.

The boy laid himself down back to slope away from the gusts of the wind. He adjusted himself in the sand as his trousers had caught on a tuft of grass. A small amount of sand crept down the back of the jeans and in between his white pants and pale skin. Maybe he would find this stowaway sand later that night as he got ready for bed. The boy laid his head back onto the grain and gentle moving his head from side to side created a head shaped dimple. His hair was not a dissimilar colour to the sand, mousey they called it. It felt more comfortable. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the earth beneath him. The boy concentrated on the sounds. The constant rumble of the wind. Why was it a rumble he wondered. Where did the word rumble come from? Who first used it? What was Jamie doing here at night? Alone?

He thought of Jamie's body lying up here on the sand, getting colder and colder through the night. The police said he had been attacked at about 11.30 and was found by a man walking his dog the following morning. Jamie's body alone and cold all-night long. Dead in the sand.

For a moment he thought it was raining. He could feel what felt like rain drops. But no they were too fine. He could hear the sound of what sound like raindrops tickling both him and an old beer can half in-bedded in the sand next to him. The boy opened his eyes and now could see that a fine dusting of sand was being pick up by the gusting wind and although he was mostly sheltered from it, the sand was drizzling across him. He closed his eyes again.

He tried to imagine what was going through Jamie's mind as he lay there blood seeping from the knife wound. Would he be panicking or would he be calm. Without moving the boy tried to sink into the sand to be more at one with it. He flattened himself. To understand it and to ask it its secrets. What had happened to his friend on that night? 8 days ago. He asked the question in his head of the sand below and to the sides of him. He could hear a small yappie dog bark on the beach probably just in front of his sand dune, his tortured spiritual hideaway and he opened his eyes for a moment and closed them again.

He imagined what it would be like to have your blood at first trickle out of you. To stain the sand around you red. To know that this is it. That you are dying. He imagined blood would feel sticky and wet and that he would put your hand there to try to stem the flow. Or would he? Would he panic or would he just lie there and accept. He wondered at what point would you die from the loss of blood. He knew that the average human body has 10 pints of blood. He had looked it up yesterday and found the answer on Wikipedia. It also said you could lose about 4 pints of blood before you would die. The boy tried again to imagine what that might feel like. Why hadn't Jamie used his mobile to call for help? He still had his mobile on him. The police still had as evidence.

While his eyes had been open he had seen the film of sand that had started to cover his body. The thought of came back to the forefront of his mind. What if it had been windy that night and Jamie had been covered in sand they might never have found him. No one knew Jamie was down by the beach that night. He could have been covered by the sand if it was windy enough. Would a dog have been able to find him then? What were you doing here Jamie?

The boy nestled himself a little deeper into the sand as the wind picked up and the drizzle of sand turn more into a pour. What would it be like to be buried alive in the sand? Perhaps because he knew he could free himself at any moment and rise from his sand made bed that the boy felt abnormally calm and at ease with the growing dusting, then covering and finally mound of granules. He lay unaware of the passing time.

When he did finally become aware of the passing of time and the fact that he now had no idea of how long he had been lying on the beach, he felt as though he could move. He could move his arm, to reach into his pocket and pull out his mobile and press one single button, anyone to illuminate the screen and reveal the time. He couldn't open his eyes, though he knew it was now dark as there was no redness to the inside of his eyelids. But he couldn't open them to confirm this. He knew he could move, do these things physically, but something mentally. Emotionally was blocking him. He didn't know if he was choosing this or if something else was making him. He was still very calm about it all. Almost as if he didn't care, but that was the problem. He did care. He cared too much and that is why he was lying here on the village side of the sand dunes at Brancaster facing towards the 2nd tee of the Royal Norfolk Golf Course.

After what was both an eternity and no time at all the boy began to feel as though he could now move if HE wished it. At first he didn't wish it, or maybe he didn't believe he really could, but then he knew he could and more importantly that he would. His lips felt dry and his first movement was to part them very slightly. Small amounts of sand slipped on to the inside of the his lips and the boy blew air and spittle out of his slightly parted mouth to remove the sand that had told him nothing. That had kept well his and Jamie's secrets. He open his eyes and more quickly closed them again and sand tried to invade here too. Now full movement was restored as the boy lifted his right arm and put his hand to his face to brush away the grains on his face. He felt gentle abrasiveness of the sand as he tried to brush the winds work away.

Now fully fully restored to movement the bot now quickly rose to a seated position, brushing and spluttering and using both hand to brush away the untalkative sand. Once he have cleared the worst of the sand from his eyes, mouth and nose he stood up and dusted the remainder of himself. Time to go home he thought to himself and he hauled himself back up the dune, over and down the other side to where his bike still lay. It too had sunk a little into the sand. It too knew little more about the secret of the sand and Jamie than the boy had discovered. Neither would ever come to learn more than they already knew of what had happen that night 8 days previous.

It would remain the secret known only to Jamie, the person that held the knife into him and the sand.

How to write a note to your girlfriend that you are leaving her

I know! Leaving a note is the cowards way out of a relationship, but I never said I was the hero type, so this is the way it's going to be. I'll write the note, pack up all the stuff I need for a week and be gone before she gets back from work. I can already stay at Steve's place just like I did the last time we had a row. But this time I'm not coming back. I can pick up the rest of my stuff later.

The blank sheet of white paper with faint blue lines looked back up at me and refused to aid me in my difficult process. So, it's all down to me. Now, where to start.

Dear Miche.....

No that's not right. She is clearly not that dear to me now or I wouldn't be writing this note.

Michelle,

No, that sounds a bit blunt, a bit cold. I know this is a bit cold and if I wanted warmer I would have waited till she got home and broke it gently.

M.

After what we said last night I think it's best that....

No if I say that, it will open up all old wounds. I just want to stop feeling guilty. Start something new.

I sat pondering the note....

….I looked at my watch, shit I've wasted too much time she will be home in 20 minutes. I'd snuck off from work and shot home. Enough time to pen the goodbye note and get out of there. That time had been squandered by me, the pen and unhelpful paper. I had to act fast. I ran into the bedroom, grabbed the case from the top of the wardrobe. Chucked it on the bed and flipped open the lid. Slid open the cabinet drawers and grabbed handfuls of pants, socks and t-shirts. Next pulling random sets of hangers with trousers, shirts and jackets on from the wardrobe.

I skipped quickly into the bathroom and picked out my tooth brush, deodorant and shaving kit. In the toiletry bag that Michelle brought for last summers trip. Maldives. Swinging back into the the bedroom and tossing it in to the nearly full case. I opened the drawer on the bedside unit on my side and emptied the contents into the case. Shut the lid and whipped the zip round. Done!

I walked back to the lounge trying to calm myself back down to try compose the note again. As I picked up the pen and sat at the table I notice that the red light was flashing on the answer machine. I got up and pressed the play button.

Beep

Sorry Jason I know this is a bit shit, but I'm leaving you... well left actually. I'm not coming home. I did want to tell you myself but I a bit of a coward really. I going to stay with …....

I didn't hear the rest.

I sat back in the chair.

Shit! She's left me.

Post, Papers and Coffee

Like many, I am a creature of habit. Sunday mornings I always lie in till about 10.30. Throw on some old clothes, put the coffee on and take a stroll to the corner shop, still half asleep for my reserved copy of the Observer. Some mumbled and quickly forgotten man banter with Ahmed. Usually sports related. And back to pour the coffee and settled down on the sofa and read.

Today was now thrown all out of kilter. 9.35 the clock said and I was wide awake. My head was spinning with questions and thoughts. I tried throwing my head into and under the pillow to get back to that sleepy, dreamy bed warmth. I couldn't just lie there under the duvet any more. Like a child with a monster or dragon under the bed I had to get up now and going downstairs to the adult world. The world of dreams was gone. At least 'til tonight.

“Morning Ahmed, saw your lot yesterday, luck to get the draw” I throw at him

“Should've had that penalty though, man” Ahmed defended back

Ahmed pulls out my paper from under the counter and laids it in front of me.

“Hang on, man. What time is it. Your a bit early aren't you” See creature of habit me and known for it.

For some reason I opened up more that I usually did. Of guard, unsettled by the call.

“Couldn't sleep. Got woke up by the weirdest phone call. Some woman from Brussels asking me what book she should buy” I offered.

“Weird. Spoke like she knew me. As if she was my girlfriend” I added.

She might be good looking, man. You might be missing something special.

“No, no, no Ahmed. She definitely sounded bossy. I hate bossy”

I had been out all day Saturday and not got back till late. So when I got in just after midnight I had just pick up the post from the floor and placed it on the breakfast counter in the kitchen. Grabbed a glass of water, brushed my teeth and crashed into my bed.

I returned to the kitchen counter and picked up the small pile of post and sieved through. Mobile phone bill! Electric bill! Bank statement! Nothing special or interesting there.

Hang on! I looked again at the Mobile phone bill. It was my address under the shiny semitransparent envelope window. My address, but not my name. Alicia Morgan.

I put my post in one pile and this other envelope separately back on the counter. A fourth letter was an Easter card from my Mum.

Who was this Alicia Morgan? I had moved into the flat 18 months ago and for a time had receive other peoples post. Mainly, a Barry Jeffers who appeared to have left some debts, because I also got some phone calls and a visit from a very wide and tall debt collector looking like you wouldn't want to meet him in that dark alley. He had been surprising nice but still I could imagine he could handle himself in the alley.

I decided to try to put the whole thing out of my mind, so I poured the coffee which had been bubble away asking to be poured. Grabbed the paper and tap the on and play buttons on the CD player as I passed by. Settled on the sofa just as the melancholic sounds of Things the Grandchildren Should Know by the Eels came on. It's wasn't a usual morning choice but I had been playing yesterday afternoon and hadn't changed it. I was tempted to get up and change it for something else, something more Sunday morning. I couldn't bothered so 'E' carried on his slightly anti-social song.

A few months earlier I had completed a piece on the Postal service and the Law so I knew that opening post was against the law if it was addressed to some one else. But for some reason it didn't feel to be a big crime or even a crime at all. Anyway the top of the envelope was quickly sliced open with the brass letter opener that had belong to my step father. Just about the only thing that I had inherited from anyone. I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for until I found it.

Yes, here it was. My number? Not just once but I counted up 27 instances and the length of calls ranging from 12 seconds to 15 ½ minutes. What was going on here. Who was this Alicia Morgan?

The Best Alarm Clock in the World

Some days are better than others. Some days improve the further you are away from them. And some days, like today, are always going to be weird and you know that from the start. Except I didn’t know it from the start. Else I might have just rolled over and ignored the telephone. If I’d been even a little bit perceptive I would have, but I’m not, so I didn’t. A wonderful thing hindsight, if only it would come along a little earlier.

I remember some program on TV in which they use to show a picture of a household object in extreme close up and you had to guess what it was. It was always too close for me and I’d only get it when they started to pull the shot way back. I bet everyone guessed the answer before me. I bet you’d guess the answer before me too. Today was too close for me to tell what sort of day it was at the time and now the camera has pulled back and I can see today in its fullness it hasn’t improved over the time. Although now that I am further away from it I can see the whole day as it really was. A very rare and strange day indeed.

The telephone rang at 9.31 on Sunday morning. I tried to ignore it but the ring was more insistent and inpatient that usual. I don't like phones, in fact I almost have a phobia of them. Unfortunately answering is less of a problem that making calls. Most of my telephone conversations are on someone else agenda and telephone bill. Caller’s privilege. I could still hear the phone demanding attention from under the pillow. So I answered it.

"Thank god you're up"

"I’m not I’m still asleep"

"Yes indeed, now what book should I buy"

"Err, sorry who is this"

"Don't play games with me Brian, it’s not funny. Now I’m all out of Murakami books I’ve read them all. Well those in English translation anyway. I need some one else to read. I’m standing in the fiction section of English Bookshop on Boulevard Adolphe Maxlaan and I need a recommendation from you."

"Haruki Murakami?"

"Yes stupid, Haruki Murakami I've just finished Sputnik Sweetheart, brilliant, I need something for the flight. You've turned me into a book monster I have to be reading something."

"OK whoever you are, it's Sunday it's early and I was, am still in bed"

"Just give me a book to read and I'll let you get back to sleep darling. You're always so grumpy in the mornings"

"What other books do you like apart from Murakami?"

"Brian stop it! You know I didn't like books at all until you gave me The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, now I know its early for you and this line isn’t particularly clear, but please just give some directions here as to something in a Murakami style."

"David Mitchell - Number Nine Dream"

"D-a-v-i-d M-i-t-c-h-e-l-l. Has he written many?"

"Just two I think, Number Nine Dream is Murakami-esque, and Ghostwritten was his first book. I haven't read it but it is supposed to be good"

"Thank you darling. Not so hard was it. Two books won't last long though. So you'll have to start think of some others"

"I'm sorry but who are you?"

"Yes very funny Brian, wearing a bit thin now though. I be home later. Flight gets in about 8. You can pick me up from the airport can't you? I've got to go darling it's a mobile call. I've missed you loads. Can you take the tomorrow off, we could stay in bed all day and I could make it all up to you. I love you. Bye!"

"What!"

"Bye" Click the line went dead.

"Hello! Hello!"

I sat up in the bed propped up by the extra pillow that I never used, except for propping up. What was that all about? Who was she? She knew my name; my telephone number and that I liked Haruki Murakami. God that phone call was better than any alarm clock. I was wide awake now.