Another hole in the beach
by Bill Kirton
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: It's almost time for the final escape, but the planning has to be perfect.
____________________________________________________________________
I’ve finished. Took longer than I expected in fact. But I had to make it pretty deep. There’s plenty of room there now. Must be 5 feet down easily. About 6 feet square at the top, sloping to about 4 x 3 at the bottom. I’d have liked more room but that’ll be enough. I can sit in there curled up with my stone. The sand’s all piled on the seaward side of course. I suppose it’ll act as a sort of dam at first and the water’ll come round the sides and down the hole, but it won’t matter by then anyway. Actually there’s a fair amount of water seeping in already and the tide’s still well out. That’ll be a bit uncomfortable. Still, if I have a few swigs before I get in, maybe a couple of the tablets... No, better not. Don’t want to drop off here on the beach right beside the hole. That would be a bit absurd, wouldn’t it? Floating about the ocean in a coma. No, I’d better make the best of it. Put up with the wet and set to with the drinking to take my mind off it.
Not a soul. Anywhere. Bloody great beach like this. Even bigger today. Spring tides. Yes, although I do say it myself, my planning is immaculate. There’s a touch of the artist there all right. Nobody’s going to find me for a while. None of your “he only did it to be noticed”. They’re not going to drag me back from the edge like all those other poor bastards. Next low tide, this time tomorrow – well, an hour later, – the water will have gone back out there off a virgin beach. No hole, no scratchy marks, not even a little indentation. Just the same acres of impacted sand, hanging onto all the things it’s absorbed. Something pure about it really. Flawless surface and me curled up and held tight and unsuspected beneath it. Oh, I’ll come up eventually I suppose. Least, I hope so. I wouldn’t like a kid to come across me with his bucket and spade. No, that would be a shame. Bugger up the whole thing really. Still, the sea’ll take care of all that. Bound to.
It’s nice here now, with nobody about. Worth dying for.
Thank God I won’t have to go back amongst that lot again. Christ, just think what they’ll say when they find out. I’m well out of that. All these years I’ve been in the aspic of their conversations – here, that’s not bad. I mean it though so I’ll indulge myself. The occasional flourish won’t hurt. It’s not being marked. Nobody ever understood when I said it to them straight, so I might as well be extreme now, tart it up a bit if I feel the need. Yes the aspic of their conversations, jellied about in the postures they chose. Well, not any more. None of their demands lancing into me. I’ll just occupy my silence – simple as that.
You’d have thought, wouldn’t you, that one of them would have made sense, got in a bit of quiet contact? I mean, sitting here on this beach, wide-open spaces, air, peace, no stress, no urgency, no need for parade or diversion, just sitting here, you’d think that I could say to somebody “Nice isn’t it?” And they could say “Yes” and that would be that. But it’s a sure bet that they’d turn out to be a meteorologist or ecologist or some other bunch of commitment. And if I just said “No, I mean it’s just nice” they’d fancy I was a poet or dyslexic. If only she’d... Oh no, there you go. That really is bloody ridiculous. At your age. A romantic. Christ, you’ve read your Beckett, haven’t you? On the other hand, why not? If I deny it I’m only doing exactly what I’m accusing them of. So yes, why not? She could have prevented it after all. If you could have been wrapped up in her warmth, her arms, her person, it would have been better than several thousand tons of soggy sand. Only for a while maybe, but be honest, she’s the one that finally put you here. But then again not really. That’s only me slapping my bit of aspic around her. She’s got a right to her hole in the beach too. Yes, I was right in the first place. Well, you don’t get this far without being pretty sure of your ground, do you?
I wonder if it’s education that does it. I mean, you get a sense of yourself from that, don’t you? It wouldn’t hurt if we didn’t know it hurt, if you see what I mean. Through all those years you drag a gradual mind and it begins to collect all sorts of responses around itself, focuses everything. Then, when it’s managed to become a throbbing little hub of informed awareness, you drop it into a bucket with all the rest. And what happens to the poor little sod’s focus then? How much identity does a chip have in the kitchens of the Dorchester?
My father was a good man. Really good in all the senses. I couldn’t have done this if he’d still been about. And my mother. They really loved each other. Always kissed like lovers, right to the end. That’s a bad example to set, isn’t it? Thoughtless. I mean, loving... Well, it doesn’t help, does it? Up in that little flat of theirs, never going out, just the two of them, all peaceful, self-contained. No, they were lousy parents. Life just washed right over them. Hang on, that sounds a bit symbolic. No, can’t be. No, it’s not that simple. No. Of course not. Me on my beach by my hole – an isolated phenomenon. Arbitrary. Well, except for her, arbitrary. Yes, be honest, it’s your last chance, the tide’s coming in. Except for her then. A little warm thought of her I’ll take down the hole with me. Might as well go out on a rampant fantasy. Slow motion shots of us running through the long grass. Eyes full of understanding. “I love you.” Yes, why not? Tanned skin, full breasts and toothpaste. Ah, that’s the death. No. Wouldn’t work. It’s all very well expecting love to rescue you from all the rest of it, but your minds sag just like your bodies. What a travesty, trying to remember how to say “I love you” just to push it out through a set of gums. Not much geriatric passion about. Doesn’t sell cars I suppose.
All the same, you’d think there would’ve been something. One of the illusions could have held up for a year or two. None of them did though to be honest. Not even “remember what it was like to believe in Father Christmas”. That was buggered up by that French bloke, the Catholic, writing that story about it. Turned out to be his mother, and he suddenly understood – spirit of giving, Jesus, all that. They’ve got no right to appropriate common illusions like that. Dragging you into their hole to admire the double glazing round their souls. Even Sam Beckett had a nice flat in Paris and played snooker on his own table. How could he put up with seeing a black ball fall down a black hole? Yes, they’re no help.
Why am I writing this then? That’s a thought. Who am I talking to? Well, well, caught myself out again. There’s no winning, is there? No comfort, even in denial. How does that thing go? “No, it’s untrue to deny that not many of the arrows didn’t fail to reach the target”. You’re still right Sam. “In the beginning was the pun.” Not a very promising start, was it?
Well, time to go. For the record I’ve got a big stone to put on my lap, a bottle of whisky, 200 sleeping pills, a fantasy (but you know about that), and even, the coup de grace, a large polythene bag to put this note in so that I can blow it up, seal it and let it float away to surprise some Norwegian peasant collecting mussels. (There’s an offshore wind, I’ll be safe.) There’s quite a lot of water down there already. Sand’s crumbling in a bit too. Still, I expected that. Shouldn’t have spent so much time writing this. Still, it passed the time, didn’t it? Cheerio then.
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: It's almost time for the final escape, but the planning has to be perfect.
____________________________________________________________________
I’ve finished. Took longer than I expected in fact. But I had to make it pretty deep. There’s plenty of room there now. Must be 5 feet down easily. About 6 feet square at the top, sloping to about 4 x 3 at the bottom. I’d have liked more room but that’ll be enough. I can sit in there curled up with my stone. The sand’s all piled on the seaward side of course. I suppose it’ll act as a sort of dam at first and the water’ll come round the sides and down the hole, but it won’t matter by then anyway. Actually there’s a fair amount of water seeping in already and the tide’s still well out. That’ll be a bit uncomfortable. Still, if I have a few swigs before I get in, maybe a couple of the tablets... No, better not. Don’t want to drop off here on the beach right beside the hole. That would be a bit absurd, wouldn’t it? Floating about the ocean in a coma. No, I’d better make the best of it. Put up with the wet and set to with the drinking to take my mind off it.
Not a soul. Anywhere. Bloody great beach like this. Even bigger today. Spring tides. Yes, although I do say it myself, my planning is immaculate. There’s a touch of the artist there all right. Nobody’s going to find me for a while. None of your “he only did it to be noticed”. They’re not going to drag me back from the edge like all those other poor bastards. Next low tide, this time tomorrow – well, an hour later, – the water will have gone back out there off a virgin beach. No hole, no scratchy marks, not even a little indentation. Just the same acres of impacted sand, hanging onto all the things it’s absorbed. Something pure about it really. Flawless surface and me curled up and held tight and unsuspected beneath it. Oh, I’ll come up eventually I suppose. Least, I hope so. I wouldn’t like a kid to come across me with his bucket and spade. No, that would be a shame. Bugger up the whole thing really. Still, the sea’ll take care of all that. Bound to.
It’s nice here now, with nobody about. Worth dying for.
Thank God I won’t have to go back amongst that lot again. Christ, just think what they’ll say when they find out. I’m well out of that. All these years I’ve been in the aspic of their conversations – here, that’s not bad. I mean it though so I’ll indulge myself. The occasional flourish won’t hurt. It’s not being marked. Nobody ever understood when I said it to them straight, so I might as well be extreme now, tart it up a bit if I feel the need. Yes the aspic of their conversations, jellied about in the postures they chose. Well, not any more. None of their demands lancing into me. I’ll just occupy my silence – simple as that.
You’d have thought, wouldn’t you, that one of them would have made sense, got in a bit of quiet contact? I mean, sitting here on this beach, wide-open spaces, air, peace, no stress, no urgency, no need for parade or diversion, just sitting here, you’d think that I could say to somebody “Nice isn’t it?” And they could say “Yes” and that would be that. But it’s a sure bet that they’d turn out to be a meteorologist or ecologist or some other bunch of commitment. And if I just said “No, I mean it’s just nice” they’d fancy I was a poet or dyslexic. If only she’d... Oh no, there you go. That really is bloody ridiculous. At your age. A romantic. Christ, you’ve read your Beckett, haven’t you? On the other hand, why not? If I deny it I’m only doing exactly what I’m accusing them of. So yes, why not? She could have prevented it after all. If you could have been wrapped up in her warmth, her arms, her person, it would have been better than several thousand tons of soggy sand. Only for a while maybe, but be honest, she’s the one that finally put you here. But then again not really. That’s only me slapping my bit of aspic around her. She’s got a right to her hole in the beach too. Yes, I was right in the first place. Well, you don’t get this far without being pretty sure of your ground, do you?
I wonder if it’s education that does it. I mean, you get a sense of yourself from that, don’t you? It wouldn’t hurt if we didn’t know it hurt, if you see what I mean. Through all those years you drag a gradual mind and it begins to collect all sorts of responses around itself, focuses everything. Then, when it’s managed to become a throbbing little hub of informed awareness, you drop it into a bucket with all the rest. And what happens to the poor little sod’s focus then? How much identity does a chip have in the kitchens of the Dorchester?
My father was a good man. Really good in all the senses. I couldn’t have done this if he’d still been about. And my mother. They really loved each other. Always kissed like lovers, right to the end. That’s a bad example to set, isn’t it? Thoughtless. I mean, loving... Well, it doesn’t help, does it? Up in that little flat of theirs, never going out, just the two of them, all peaceful, self-contained. No, they were lousy parents. Life just washed right over them. Hang on, that sounds a bit symbolic. No, can’t be. No, it’s not that simple. No. Of course not. Me on my beach by my hole – an isolated phenomenon. Arbitrary. Well, except for her, arbitrary. Yes, be honest, it’s your last chance, the tide’s coming in. Except for her then. A little warm thought of her I’ll take down the hole with me. Might as well go out on a rampant fantasy. Slow motion shots of us running through the long grass. Eyes full of understanding. “I love you.” Yes, why not? Tanned skin, full breasts and toothpaste. Ah, that’s the death. No. Wouldn’t work. It’s all very well expecting love to rescue you from all the rest of it, but your minds sag just like your bodies. What a travesty, trying to remember how to say “I love you” just to push it out through a set of gums. Not much geriatric passion about. Doesn’t sell cars I suppose.
All the same, you’d think there would’ve been something. One of the illusions could have held up for a year or two. None of them did though to be honest. Not even “remember what it was like to believe in Father Christmas”. That was buggered up by that French bloke, the Catholic, writing that story about it. Turned out to be his mother, and he suddenly understood – spirit of giving, Jesus, all that. They’ve got no right to appropriate common illusions like that. Dragging you into their hole to admire the double glazing round their souls. Even Sam Beckett had a nice flat in Paris and played snooker on his own table. How could he put up with seeing a black ball fall down a black hole? Yes, they’re no help.
Why am I writing this then? That’s a thought. Who am I talking to? Well, well, caught myself out again. There’s no winning, is there? No comfort, even in denial. How does that thing go? “No, it’s untrue to deny that not many of the arrows didn’t fail to reach the target”. You’re still right Sam. “In the beginning was the pun.” Not a very promising start, was it?
Well, time to go. For the record I’ve got a big stone to put on my lap, a bottle of whisky, 200 sleeping pills, a fantasy (but you know about that), and even, the coup de grace, a large polythene bag to put this note in so that I can blow it up, seal it and let it float away to surprise some Norwegian peasant collecting mussels. (There’s an offshore wind, I’ll be safe.) There’s quite a lot of water down there already. Sand’s crumbling in a bit too. Still, I expected that. Shouldn’t have spent so much time writing this. Still, it passed the time, didn’t it? Cheerio then.
About the Author
Bill Kirton was born in Plymouth, but has lived in Aberdeen for most of his life. He’s been a university lecturer, presented TV programmes, written and performed songs and sketches at the Edinburgh Festival, and had radio plays broadcast by the BBC. He’s written four books in Pearson’s ‘Brilliant’ series and his crime novels, Material Evidence, Rough Justice, The Darkness, Shadow Selves and the historical novel The Figurehead, set in Aberdeen in 1840, have been published in the UK and USA. His other novel, The Sparrow Conundrum, is a crime spoof set in Aberdeen and Inverness. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies and Love Hurts was chosen for the Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 2010.
His website and blog can be found at http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk.
His website and blog can be found at http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk.