Jim Crace - Being Dead

Here were people to be robbed. They might have cash and jewellery, and good wristwatches, binoculars, perhaps, a camera, some lunch, some cigarettes. Anything of theirs would be better than anything of his, that was certain. Even the laces from their shoes. He’d help himself to everything, and wouldn’t be opposed; they could not defend themselves. They were like rabbits, too weak and mesmerized to run or hide, too soft to fight, too rooted to the spot. He wouldn’t try to threaten them. He’d be tongue-tied. They’d possess more words than him. He wouldn’t even use his fists. The flesh-on-flesh of fists was far too intimate. But robbing them would be the simplest thing, if he were armed.

The man searched the scrubland near the track for something hard and heavy. A broken branch might do. A length of driftwood. A strip of fencing. There was a piece of displaced builder’s granite in the undergrowth. Pink, grey and white, an untender joint of veal, with gristle silica. It fitted in his hand. The perfect friend. He tested its power and rehearsed what he could do with it, swinging his arm, with the granite weighted in his palm, chopping at the unresisting substance of the wind, and cursing at his spectral enemies, the rich, the old, the educated and the loved, the fed, the wordy and the well-laced, whom his shadow boxing made as thin and helpless as the air.

He took deep, energizing breaths, like a weight-lifter, to inflate himself: squat, thrust and strike. He punched the air — a prize-fighter, a champion already, the hero of an unmade film — and smacked the granite down on his thigh to feel how dangerous and bold it made him. The first blood to be drawn would be his own. He was the vanquisher and the comrade of pain. Even so, despite the self-inflicted bruises, it would not be easy to be truly enraged by the man and woman until he was closer. Then, prompted by some detail of their clothes or faces, he would find the fury to engage with them, to embrace them with his energy. He could be (he’d done this twice before) as unembarrassed and as open with his violence as, say, a fox or rook would be. A lion. They took such careless pleasure in their savagery. So would he.

By the time he had left the track and set off to stalk and rob them, the couple had dropped out of sight amongst the dunes. He could no longer see the man’s grey head or spot the woman’s flapping scarf. But he had noted roughly where they’d disappeared and all his hunting senses were provoked. He’d not have trouble finding them, he thought. He ran along the shore at first, looking for an easy way into the dunes.

Baritone Bay was not a bay in any geographic sense. Besides its honorary name, it had only the sand and salt dunes of a bay. The sea had not scooped out a wide-mouthed recess in the coast, an arc of beach, two headlands standing sentinel. Instead, the grey-black coast protruded here into the sea, like a delta. Here was an oddity, well worth a visit for students of earth sciences if unattractive for the rest of us, a tidejutter almost an hour’s walk from end to end, twenty minutes deep and protected from the haulage of the sea by a horseshoe of submerged rocks a hundred metres from the shore, which broke the power of the waves and left the dunes impervious to everything but the stormiest weather. The coast at Baritone Bay, naïvely unaware that water was more powerful than earth, had scooped out a wide-mouthed recess in the sea.

The bay, of course, was subject — famously — to the wind. There was a constant drift of air that ran along the coast, west — east, so that the dunes were sculpted and aligned like resting seals. Most days the dunes would hum as the wind hugged scarp and dip across the bay. Sometimes there’d be a timpani of scratching lissom stems or the rattle of a sea thorn or a lisping a cappella from the waves. But nothing sang. No crooning baritone, so ecstatically described by guidebooks as ‘the operatic coast’. It took clear weather, temperatures near but above 16° centigrade, moist but contracting sand, a consistent and exact westerly, and the catalyst of something moving for the dunes to sing their single aria. There was clear weather that afternoon, fine and sunny, with a hugging offshore breeze, but the temperatures were rising still and the wind was misdirected by ten degrees at least. Nothing — not even an operatic sense of drama — could make the bay perform.

The man had reached the outer sea curve of the shore. He was not singing either. He was as quiet and careful as a stalking cat. He was a noble beast. This part was the most enjoyable, the chase and the surprise. He wasn’t nervous for himself. He was in charge. Robbing them would be as easy, to use the childhood phrase, as shitting on a rug. He’d startle them. Even if they saw him coming, what could they do except presume that someone with a piece of granite in his hand would only bring misfortune? If they cried out for help, there’d be no help. No one would come to rescue them. There’d be no miracles. This was both the quiet part of the week and the quiet part of the coast. No builders yet. The dunes of Baritone Bay were — as he was now discovering — a long diversion from the track, hard going, and worth the detour only to those who relished aching legs, and sand and chaff inside their shoes. Walkers took a firmer and a safer route. Someone could die out on the dunes and not be found except by gulls.

It took him almost half an hour to find the couple at their picnic spot, cushioned by the lissom grass. As soon as he had climbed up off the shore into the slopes, he’d lost his way amongst the dunes. One dune, close up, was like any other. The wind had made them so. Their scarp and dips were matching, shape for shape. Twice he came between two dunes to find himself back on the shore again. He almost threw his granite rock into the waves and let the couple keep their cash and sandwiches. The weather had become too hot for him. His trousers had been soaked with spray by running waves. His shoes were wet. His thigh, which he’d struck so theatrically with the block of granite, was bruised and stiffening. Less than an hour’s walk away — if he left now — there was a car park below the visitors’ centre, which might provide easier profit. He could smash some windows and help himself to the coats, bags and radios inside. But then he heard a wind-snatched voice, the woman’s, followed by a laugh, the woman’s again. He had only to walk towards the sound to find their tracks, and the slippages in the dunes where the couple had displaced the sand with their fine feet. He was so happy he was humming to himself. A humming cat.

He discovered Joseph and Celice in a shallow dell, protected from the wind, which now was blowing off the coast more forcefully. They were sitting where the lissom grass was at its greenest and its thickest on the landward-facing slopes, up-wind from him. Two lovers on the lawn.

He crouched behind them, hidden by a ridge, but only watched them for a moment, to check that they were unprepared and vulnerable, that his rock was sitting firmly in his palm, and that he had the strength and will, the inspiration, even, to see this drama through. This was no paltry thing. A thief needs inspiration like any other artisan; he needs some grand and swelling muse, some driving shudder of disgust and ambition to help him bring the granite down. He has to find the fury that links all living creatures, the wildlife in himself, which could destroy in order to create. Where was the pleasure, otherwise?

The muse obliged the man. He took his four long, descending strides towards their backs. He dared not wait. This wouldn’t take a moment, anyway, if he was purposeful.

At first, it wasn’t obvious that Celice was naked below the waist and that Joseph had discarded all his clothes. It was too fast to notice anything, except the crown and white roots of the woman’s hennaed hair. The target for his blows. The detail that he’d chosen to inflate his anger: her white roots.