Out past the last row of beach huts he keeps walking until the town is lost behind the coast’s slow curve. Sun and cloudless sky, waves against the brilliant sand.

Stops and looks around.

Here.

He takes a white towel from his bag, moving slowly, places it on the sand. Lies down and closes his eyes.

Time slows and stops.

The pale lip of foam at the water’s edge, the dry swell of the land, the man on his back, his bag placed neatly down beside him.

Drifts into a semi sleep. Rosettes against the pink light. Salt on his lips, the whisper of departures.

A tickle at his wrist, then at his temple.

He opens his eyes into the glare, his vision slowly cooling. A fly.

There it is, scudding across his field of vision. Moving around its jagged circuit, slicing shapes out of the day.

No. No.

Even here their emissaries pursue him.