The girl from the beach. Lucy. He had watched her, often. Being blown across the sand. She did not seem to mind. She would walk slowly back to the shoreline, fighting the wind, picking things up as she went. Shells or stones, he had thought.
She never looked around, but she did stop often and look out to sea. She was very still at these moments and he recognized that she was remembering something, thinking about past times. Had she lost something in that sea? Would he find himself in her? Whether they were good memories or bad he could not tell. But he knew she was thinking about something sad. It was the way she stood. Not caring if she got cold or a seagull took a shit on her head. Not caring about the cold wind that tore at her hair. Not caring if she was blown across the beach. Not caring how she looked. She didn’t care. She was beyond caring. So Ax knew, he knew she was sad. Ax could see she had something going on inside. She looked like he thought he must look.
Lucy, on these days, was not there. She was with her child, her little brat, in her imagination. The sea, the vastness of the sea was the only thing that could console her. Her pain seemed smaller in comparison to the huge emptiness of the sea, so full of life, her child.
And then one day she had suddenly turned and looked straight at him. Did she know he was watching her? Yes, she had known for ages that someone was watching her. She could feel it. He could see it. How the fuck did she know that?
Did she know what he was thinking? How he felt, watching her, thinking like that? He put his hands in his pockets and tried a smile. His lips came together and he realized it had been a very long time since he had attempted a smile. He wanted to walk up to her. But he could not.
She cocked her head, twisted up her lips, stood like that without moving an inch, for maybe a whole minute he thought. Then she made a funny smile and walked right up to him. He had watched her coming, direct and without fear, her eyes never leaving him. She stopped about one meter from his face, and stared.
Right at him. Right in his fucking face. People did not do that. Not to him. Not to a man like him, he thought.
‘Are you looking for something?’ she asked. It was more of a statement than a question, more of a challenge than an invitation. Her accent was foreign, French, perhaps?
Instinct. She was aggressive. He took his hands out of his pockets. She took a step back. She could feel his violence. But she was not afraid. Not afraid to die, he thought.
‘I’m sorry, ‘ he said, ‘I was wondering what you think when you stop and look out to sea. Shit, he had just admitted that he had watched her, that this was not the first time.
She did not answer. He could feel her. No fear. None at all. He was not used to this.
Was she stupid? Or, perhaps just dumb? No. Not dumb. She had stepped back. Careful.
She was careful.
And then another thought crossed his mind. Maybe he was getting better. If she had no fear like that then maybe he was getting better.
And then she spoke, surprising him.
‘I was wondering why you are following me,’ she said. Again, she cocked her head to one side, and just waited. Again, she did not smile.
Ax just stared at her. Awkward moment, he thought.
He shoved out his right hand. ‘Alex,’ he said.
“You were following me, non?” she said. French, thought Ax.
The girl took a long moment, just standing there, looking at him. Again, he could feel no fear in her. Strange for a girl alone with a stranger on a beach. Then, after a moment, she too stuck out her hand and grasped his. She had a strong hand. Her long fingers wrapped around his hand and he felt trapped.
‘Lucy. You should not follow girls who are alone on the beach.’ Definitely French, he thought.
They shook hands, then, and for both it was like an old remembering. From the grip into the shake. How very strange, they both thought. He knew this kind of feeling from guys he’d met on his journeys through madness, the guys like him who had no fear of death, guys who watched how the world turned and who were at the wheel, guys other people ran from. But this woman? She was a good person. He could feel it in her. It was in the feeling of the touch of her hand. The strong hand not afraid to grip, not afraid to show itself. For Lucy it was like being dragged into a warm room from out in the cold and being given a bowl of hot soup. She could feel the strength in his hand. He tried to hide it. To hide his strength. But she could feel it.
To both of them it felt natural, as if they already knew each other. Worlds collided, past stories merged, each killed the other. They dreamed the dream of the dead, the dream of life. Their eyes met but neither gave anything away to the other. They just watched, like wary animals sniffing out dangers unseen. Boys creeping through the streets of Glasgow late at night, ever aware of the dangers that lurk in that darkness. Girls alone on beaches in France. In that stillness they knew each other, remembered each other, was this possible?
Lucy had, indeed, grown up in France. There was not the same danger of attack as there was in Glasgow. Still, one could not call it “safe.” There were bridges under the Seine in Paris, dark passageways under the clock in La Rochelle. There were dark places everywhere.
He suddenly wanted to kiss her. To hold her, embrace her tightly to him and ask her for forgiveness. For what, he thought. He knew what he was, had been. But her? Then he knew. The thing. She was hiding, like he was. Something.
For the things she will do, for the things she has done, she ,too, must ask for forgiveness a voice told him. And you must ask forgiveness for the things you will do to her, continued the voice.
And at that moment his look changed. He looked harder. He watched, looked, deep inside of her. Felt her strength and frailty and again wondered just who she was.
“Who are you?”, he asked.
“Me? I’m little Miss Nobody, Sir, “
Fuck. The way she had waited, waited to say Sir. Loaded with “Fuck You,” Sir.