Chapter 2

“It’s a bit early in the year for it,” he said, instead of his other possible retort, which was that cove is my land and I haven’t given you permission. Strictly speaking, people didn’t need permission from the landowner to use a beach between the high-tide and low-tide marks, - it wasn’t sensibleto camp there. Particularly in weather like this. And Kevin didn’t mind people camping for a night or two in the cove, so long as they were sensible and didn’t leave it like a sewer or a skip.

“Yeah, I had some free time suddenly open up,” the man said. He held out his hand. “Webster,” he said. “Paul. But people call me Webster, or Web.”

Kevin took his hand and shook it. Firm, warm handshake despite the cool of the March evening, calluses on his fingers that spoke truth to his being a mechanic or at least, a practical man. “Kevin Davies,” he said. “Of these parts and owner of a very sick Ford Fiesta.”

Webster nodded. “Come on then, Kevin Davies. Let’s get going before we lose the light.” 2: Web

WEBSTER DIDN’T KNOWwhat had possessed him to invite the young man to walk with him. Or foist himself upon him, he supposed, given that the poor bloke was simply walking the fastest route home. Bad luck about the car. Hopefully the garage could sort it for him in the morning.

He settled his pack and looked at his companion. “All set?” he asked.

Kevin nodded, retrieving a messenger bag from the back seat and slinging it across his body. He was a nice-looking bloke. A bit younger than Webster’s own thirty-nine, mid-twenties, maybe? Difficult to tell...he had long, preternaturally grey hair twisted into dreadlocks and pulled back tidily to his nape with a band. Heavy, fair brows, a straight nose, full lips. Tired looking.

“Bad week?” Webster found himself asking, as they hit the footpath that climbed the headland in a comfortable matched stride.

Sometimes it was easier to talk to someone you didn’t know about your shit. God knows, Webster knew that. And God knew why he’d asked. He really wasn’t interested in the problems of random strangers he’d met at the beach and would never see again.

“Work shit,” Kevin replied. “I’m a veterinary nurse, these days. Sometimes...” He trailed off and stopped. Webster didn’t interrupt. “I help at the RSPCA sometimes. Mostly it’s great. But...I hope I never stop being surprised at how badly people can treat animals.”

Webster nodded. He could understand that. He could understand wanting to spend a bit of time somewhere like the beach before going home. Somewhere to put that stuff down, rather than carry it into your living space.

It was what he was doing himself, after all.

He sighed.

“You too?” Kevin asked, as if he’d read his thoughts.

“Little bit,” he said. “I’ve just come out of the army. Thought I’d take a bit of time before I decide what to do with myself.” That was sufficiently anodyne. Saying “I couldn’t bear it any longer and felt like I was suffocating, and I got drunk and fell down the stairs and broke my hip and now it’s a desk job or nothing and nothing seemed better and anyway, I’d been in twenty-two years,” seemed a bit much when they’d only just met.

But...strangers were sometimes good people to talk to. So he added, tentatively, “I didn’t like it much, toward the end.”

Kevin nodded, accepting what he said, not asking for anything else. He didn’t have the right, after all.

They strode along in silence for a while, wind blowing in from the sea in the twilight. It was getting harder to see the path, although the coast path was turf at this point, springy underfoot as it crossed the headland. He allowed the rhythm of his tread to settle his mind, pulling the salt on the wind into his lungs and breathing the hot, sharp confusion out, tamping it down, letting it drain away. His hip ached with the constant low grind he had become used to. He ignored it.

He was going to miss the service, there was no doubt about it. You couldn’t do a twenty-two year stretch at something and walk away and notmiss it. Not possible. It wasn’t like there was any real reason to be torn up about it though. He hadn’t come out in a dramatic flurry of medical or dishonourable discharge. He’d just reached the end of his stretch and retired, bad hip and all.

It was the first time in two decades he had to make decisions for himself about where he was going to live and what he was going to do with himself and it was freaking him the fuck out. Notwithstanding that he’d been exhausted with it.