I hurled the stone into the sea.
I could have easily hit the girl with it instead. No one would have seen. If the stone was larger, I might have done so. But it was not big enough. There were no beach umbrellas or bodies lying awkwardly on brightly patterned towels forming a pallid landscape.
Westbay waited for the holiday hoards to awaken. For families with small children to stake their claim on a patch of the beach for the day. For young girls and boys run into the tide and skittle along the surface with boards. For ice cream and sodas to be sold by stands perfectly positioned along the beach front.
I searched for a larger stone. Clutching it tightly, I launched it again at the sea. The girl stood behind me. I never liked the beach, too much sand, shingle and salt. And I never liked the girl. Too loose-lipped, dull and dishonest. The girl moved closer, although the seaweed still separated us.
I moved nearer the groyne and picked up the largest stone yet. I tossed it in the air and caught it with one hand as I looked into the green eyes of the girl. I hesitated.
The girl swallowed and took a step back. I watched the girl shift her weight from one bare foot to the other. The cool damp of the early morning gave way to the rising sun and a boy with red baggy shorts ran towards the sea and shouted, “I’m going to be the first one in!”
The boy lifted his knees high, jumped over the low waves and then prepared to dive into the sea headfirst. He disappeared momentarily only to surface floating on his back and skimming the water with his arms and legs like he was making angels in the snow.
The breaking waves grew louder. And each crash begged me to do it, don’t do it, do it, don’t do it. This stone would do it. The shingle shifted with the girl. I just had to catch the girl off balance. I would be judge, jury and executioner.
The wind picked up creating a tinnitus in my ears, and the girl’s protests were lost. The girl was afraid of the beach and the sea and the girl was afraid of me. As I moved towards the girl something caught my heel. It sliced deep and as I lifted it off of the shingle, blood dripped from my heel and pooled in the crevices around the stones.
‘No!’ A woman screamed running from one of the houses that backed onto Westbay. ‘Where are you?’
She was in her robe and slippers. Her robe was open, and the sheer fabric flapped behind her like angel wings as she ran towards the sea.
‘Where are you? Help!’
I watched her run, immune to the pain of the shingle under her feet, and then stop knee high in the breaking waves. Her robe floated on the water and gathered, tangled, around her legs. The girl ran around me towards the sea, and past the woman screaming and dived into the water.
My heel throbbed and as I moved my foot, I caught sight of the sharp edge of the shell that cut it. I picked it up and threw it over the groyne in anger. I limped towards the sea leaving a trail of blood on the pale stones, cursing the girl under my breath.
I stopped beside the boy’s mother. She was crying. I scanned the surface. The boy was nowhere to be seen. The girl surfaced briefly and then disappeared. The sea dragged my feet with each stinging wave and little swirls of blood oozed around my toes.
The girl did not re-emerge. It was a long time. Too long. The girl. My sister. My twin. I let the large stone drop into the water.
Inspired by Ian McEwan’s ‘On Chesil Beach’.
All pictures and writing are my own unless otherwise credited. Permission must be obtained before any image reproduction and credit must be issued in any image reproduction or quotations.
The Gold Shoe Writer 