The two men exchange a glance, agreeing that something is wrong, but at this moment there are bigger problems than the strangeness of this cry. The customer starts to pat the toddler on the shoulder, the pads of his fingers barely making contact, and all the time he’s glancing around, talking to the shopkeeper, saying, “Did you see who she was with?” Leonie opens her eyes and screams silently into his face. The soundlessness of it makes it worse somehow than if the scream were deafening. The man stands, snatches another chocolate decoration from a branch and gently takes one of the child’s trembling fists in his hand. He unpeels the small fingers, places the confection on her upturned palm. Her mouth shuts, and she inspects the red Santa figure, turning it over, searching for how to open it. She hiccups once. Snot runs down her chin.

The bell on the door rings as the shopkeeper yanks it open. He steps outside and looks both ways, then up at the darkening sky and finally down, at the handbag spilling its contents. He walks forward, nudges the pile of nappies with a toe, notes the keys, the packet of wipes. He’s looking for a phone, or a wallet with something like ID in it, but there’s nothing. The coin purse contains only cash. He picks up the empty handbag, weighs it in his hand. He finds a pocket at the front and unzips it. Inside is what he thinks is a rock but on closer inspection is a seashell.

One or two snowflakes swirl in the wind, landing on the concrete and making wet speckles. In the distance, the seals call to each other across the waves, making a sound like human screams, but other than a slight jerk to the head, the man doesn’t react. If you live here it’s a familiar sound, the seal song, like that of the waves and the gulls.

The sea sighs as the tide licks the shore, sucking the surface of the beach into new shapes: gentle, curving undulations, different from yesterday’s, that will be different tomorrow and with every tide that turns.

Just out of sight, a small pile of clothes, buried in haste in the sand, is covered up by the advancing water. Gentle eddies loosen the folds of the fabric, so that a parka slowly unfurls like a flower opening in the darkness. Soon the sea will probe further, uncovering the heel of one boot. Later, the clothes will be completely removed from their rudimentary hiding place by the many strong hands of the currents. Later still they will be scattered on seven different shores. The other boot will remain here, wedging itself between two rocks, unseen by anyone until the litter pickers come in the spring.

CHAPTER

2

NOW

Bathwater

Friday, December 21