Nobody says a word. I mean, would you? I push my way into the circle and it widens to let me in then closes in again. The way a puddle pulses out and in out and in when you drop a stone in it. There he is, naked but for the faded yellow swimming trunks and mismatched socks, one brilliant white, one olive green, face down on the sand, spread-eagled, his long dark hair thick with limpets and winkles and thongweed.
Muttering.
Call me old fashioned but I prefer my corpses dead. And silent. But this bloke, well, he won’t shut up. The crowd had gathered by the time I got there. Encircled him, the way it does a belly dancer or a pair of prize boxers or a princess bride. The crowd gives him space, mind. A good four metres so the circle must be eight metres in diameter at least. The safe distance may, of course, be for the smell, not the respect. For he smells, alright. Not so much in a nauseating dry retching sort of way, but more fantastical, out of this world.
Ever wonder what a mermaid smells of? Well this is it. Salt, brine on the spine of the wind, Nori seaweed served up with California sushi rolls, the sugar dusting sweetness from a candyfloss machine several metres downwind. Undertones of arcades, slot machines, of a Scottish summer, of vinegar on chips, of a long sunny beer-riven day that isn’t quite warm enough but taps-aff anyhows.
Muttering.
The circle is silent but for the clicking and burring of camera phones. Can they not leave him alone, the fully sprawled man? A man in one of those swimming dressing gown robes that everyone seems to wear these days pushes a small boy forward. You can touch him if you want, he says, to see how cold he is. The boy shakes his head and purses his lips and buries himself under the robe between the man’s legs. The man tuts and taps something into his phone.
Muttering.
Leave him be, I say. Then louder. Leave him be. The circle shifts and shuffles and studies hands and phones then starts up again, staring and recording and instagramming. A yellow helicopter is hovering down the far end of the beach, buzzing and prancing, apparently searching for a safe space to land amongst the gathering onlookers. The rotors whip up the grey waves and flush them up towards us. Towards the sprawled man. Somewhere beyond the Promenade sirens scream and the beach flashes blue white blue white before dropping back to bleach. A small black and white terrier barks and falls silent. Then barks again. Then digs violently, kicking up sand over the second layer of onlookers.
Muttering.
A young man muscles in beside me. He smells of mint and cucumber and deodorant ordered from a parfumerie. I’m a doctor, he says. Let me through. His hand is cold on my arm. His fingers stiff. I watch the tremor of his wrist. Note his bitten down nails. The purple scar that leers around the back of his neck just below his hairline. Shall I help you, I say, if you need a hand. He shakes his head. Hold them back, he says. Hold them all back. I regard each of them in turn with steady eyes. I am proud of my unflinching. Three seconds is enough to hold their eyes until they drop. Straighten my back and widen my stance. Go home, I say. There’s nothing to see here.
Muttering.
A girl in a navy sweater and red shorts that cling too tight around her thighs blushes. Tugs open her bag and drops her phone into it. Turns away from the muttering man. Come on, Jay, she says to the boy beside her. We’d better go. She takes his hand and leads him up the beach, his head twisting for a final view. They both wear their sneakers tied together and strung around their necks. Two others follow them, and then two more. The circle splits. The splitters trail up the beach for a minute or so then stop, and turn. There they stay. If they are not tall they stand on tiptoe. Tenterhooks. Nothing to see here. Except for a helicopter and flashing blue lights and a man in faded yellow trunks with turquoise painted finger nails that glitter tiny stars and half-moons and a knotted silvery ring on every finger apart from his thumbs. I return my gaze to those intent on staying.
Muttering.
The man who says he’s a doctor kneels in the sand beside the man’s bare shoulder. Places a hand on the square of the pale back. He concentrates, the doctor. He may be counting. Or checking for breath. Can’t he see, the doctor, that the man is muttering. I should tell him, look I should say, listen I should say. The man is muttering. He may have something important to tell. But I don’t say this. I don’t say this because I have just understand, right this minute, that I am the only person who understands the man is muttering.
Muttering.
The man who says he’s a doctor beckons to someone to pass him a coat or a towel or something to cover the man. A woman, too old to be hanging around the beach rubber-necking a corpse, passes him a pale grey cardigan with mother of pearl buttons. The buttons flash and guild. The doctor drapes the cardigan over the man’s shoulders, tucking the sleeves in under his chest. He strokes the man’s hair.
Muttering.
The man who says he’s a doctor twists his neck to look at me. Get rid of them, he says, I can’t concentrate with all that glare. I want to argue with the doctor, tell them yourself I want to stay. Instead I shoo the people. Shoo them with my flapping arms the way I used to with the twin lambs when they tried to follow me home after their bottle feed. Please, I say. You’re not helping here. You need to go away.
It’s alright, the dead man says, I’m used to it now. Let them do their thing.
The man who says he’s a doctor is flushing red. The leering scar cannot stop the flush. Colour leaches up his neck and through his ears and across his cheeks. He pulls the cardigan up over the man’s head. I’m only a student, the man says. In my third year. But I know the man is dead.
SANDERLINGS 