Pegged Out

2003 - Gordon Message

Loneliness does strange things to a man, the mind wanders. He tried to concentrate. Rubbing his eyes he yawned. He stretched, desperate to stay alert, but careful not to move too much.

Again he scanned the beach. The shadows, harsh and short in the dunes, became shimmering ghosts on the foreshore. A movement leapt into his consciousness but it was only a trick of the light, a flight of gulls amplified by the mirage. He hunkered down trying to keep covered, out of the sun, out of sight.

He must have dozed. The shadows, longer now, fell across his face. Too late for his skin, it was already raw, sanded, salted and roasted. He was worried. Had he been lucky? Had they gone past and missed him?

It was easer now to see the beach. The golden sand boasted a fresh watermark but no tell tale writing, no imprint, no visitors. It was a clean sheet. Behind him was salt marsh edged with shingle. A million castanets ready to announce an unexpected arrival.

Would they come?
No, when would they come?
He had little doubt that they would be looking for him soon.

His escape had been easy. The truck had left early but the day was already hot. It made the guards lazy. Loading had been sweaty work. Box after box, heavy stuff, and the others useless, no strength left. He had been anxious to get going. The ride too uncomfortable to relax but breezy, it cleared his head. He made his plan.

At the beach he worked hard; took his loads down to the waters edge faster than the others. Got out of synch, coming when they were going and then his chance. Someone slipped, called out, a commotion near the truck and he slipped into the water.

He had been the undisputed champion at Aldershot baths. Best of all he could do two lengths underwater and a bit more besides. He was away unseen into the mangroves but he couldn't swim for ever. Once around the headland into the next bay he left the water. Scrambled out over some rocks and along a shingle spit. No tracks. He had dug under the scrub waiting for dark.

He was stiff and needed to move. Something held him back. Agony of realisation as the chords cut into his wrists. The pain reminded him that he was alive, just. The riffle butt found another soft spot and he retched. "Perhaps I'll drown in my own vomit", he thought as he choked for breath.

"Perhaps you'll drown", an echo ran through his head. "It depends on the tide".

He blinked; the sand scratched his eyeballs as he tried to focus on the voice. A blur of uniform towered over him and then suddenly sprang back out of site as a rush of water washed over him. The first wave was cool and cleansing. The salt water stung but it cleared the dirt from his mouth and the sand from his eyes. Now he could see.

He twisted his head sideways. Above and to his left was a line of dirty sand, seaweed and assorted debris. It was the same to the right. His arms and legs were staked. He was spread eagled with his head a few yards from the morning's high tide mark.

In a panic he realised that was a few feet down, below, under …. Another wave boiled over him. Filled him up, choking, spluttering, he fought for air.

"It will be interesting to see if you can escape this time by holding your breath". The uniform was back. "Enjoy the waves".

They came again and again. Mostly around him but sometimes right over, each time a little higher up the beach. There was a pattern, every seventh wave was bigger. He counted and guessed, held his breath as best he could.

He was lying in water now, just a few inches but it was always there. Each new wave splashed his face. Then he got it wrong. After six splashes he held his breath. The tide was turning and the seventh wave was late, didn't come as expected. He could hold out no more, made a quick gasp just as it arrived. With a lungful of water his body heaved in a desperate attempt to get air and the stakes pulled free. The wet sand was too weak to hold him.

The watching soldiers took him away to dry out. A week in a tin box desiccated his soul.

He scanned the beach and noted that the sea was closer. Despite the heat the sound of a crashing wave made him shiver and he started to choke. He heard the rasp of his own pipes as he fought the waves again. His lungs were shot but he got himself under control. Keep calm, keep still, keep counting, and keep breathing.

A dozen waders danced in the foam, turning stones with their long bills. Suddenly as one they took to flight. Someone on the beach, weapon held low, sweeping around. The shingle orchestra burst into life. All at once they were on him. He lashed out but they were too quick. He was pulled down and held across the tide line.

He struggled. It was no use, he had lost count. Another crash and the wetness washed over him. He floated away.

Spirits should have been high after such a glorious day but the bus was subdued. Whispered conversations sloshed back and forth.

"Poor Mr Jones, if only we had brought his nebulizer down from the bus".

"He slept in the sun all day, happy as Larry. Then suddenly he's gasping for breath"

"Why was he all wet?"

"The children splashed water over him when it was time to go".

"What was he doing on his own up in the dunes?"

"Said he didn't like to get too close to the water".

"Funny that, a war hero and all, perhaps he was he frightened of the waves?"