Cynan Jones - Everything I Found on the Beach

I could go into a hotel or a supermarket or somewhere, there are loads of foreign workers here now. I could find someone who might talk the language. I don’t want to draw attention to myself though. You can’t just go round asking questions of strangers. Stay focused. It doesn’t matter what it means.

The wilderness seemed to gape at him, beckon open-mouthed at him like some great animal. He pictured hurling the rabbits and their dangerous guts into this maw, pictured turning round and heading home. He wanted so much to convince himself this was for some purpose all of his own, so he could walk away from it, lift his eyes up from it. He tried to drag Cara out of the reason for this, tried to disbelieve it was the Polish woman’s fault. Who was she anyway? A criminal’s wife. An immigrant. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t raise the hate.

He thought of the voice on the phone, of the child and of the baby, and he felt very clearly how it would be for them now. Vrooj prosser checkham. He thought of the words, they started to ring in his head again. And he thought of the threat to them that had been made and thought, “No, I cannot throw these packets away now. It’s almost as if they have some kind of life of their own, that they are making a demand.” In his decisiveness, he was trigger finger, barrel, and bullet all, and the ridding himself of these packages came to him only as a fantasy, as a thing possible to a man who had not yet made this decision. “I am doing this thing now,” he repeated. Once you pull the trigger, you are responsible for everything that happens in the path of that bullet. You can get all the way to having something in your sights and you can still back out. But if you do pull the trigger, you’re up. You follow it through. You can’t call the bullet back. “Don’t put this on her,” he said. “Don’t make this some moral thing.” It wouldn’t be a get out to say you’d done it because they had been threatened. “This is part of your choice.” It would make a difference to them though, perhaps, if they knew. If they knew he didn’t just abandon them. That perhaps he was doing something he thought would help things. He ought to give them that.

He got back in the van and sat there. He sat there and looked at his hands on the steering wheel, looked at the raising welt on his thumb where the skin was reddened and had started to gather a small reservoir of pus. “It’s just the ignorance of it that’s scaring you,” he said. “It’s that you don’t know about it. You had your chance to get out just then with the police and you didn’t even really consider it. You just have to stop thinking it’s a cowboy film. Nothing’s going to happen.”

He looked at the rabbits in the bag on the seat next to him and felt as if there was a hum coming from the packets, some sinister, persuasive beat. He thought of the house renewed. He thought of Cara and Jake. Had this picture of them settled. Of dangerous hope. He threw this back like a little mechanism to make himself go on. If you can do this, if you’ve got the balls for this, then you’ve got the balls to say you want her.

“Just don’t lose your nerve,” he thought. “Just hold your nerve, now.”

Grzegorz thought about the details he had solemnly handed the man about his wife and children and tried for hours with the compass until he eventually hurled it into the night and screamed and beat the boat, thinking of his family.

He thought of his wife this morning, the passive tired want in her eyes as he left for work and she queued for the bathroom with the babies. He had wanted to hold her, tell her, but he couldn’t. Not just because he couldn’t tell her of the job he was to do, but from habit too. They had fallen out of the habit of touching each other. He seemed to have grown this shell on himself, but it felt not like something that had grown from within, but like the outside around him had stuck on to him, somehow. Covering him up, like being buried alive.

She just stood in the queue and he left, confused at himself, confused at the faint, exhausted distance to her now. He felt she’d got to a point of carelessness. “I came with you,” she seemed to say. “You promised me things and you didn’t bring them to me.”

It was not gone though. He knew that. Whatever the brittleness between them in the day, there was a sad softness in the night. Something automatic, beyond them. It was the place. The situation was the problem and it had been he who brought them here, brought them here away from her mother and sisters, and she had followed because she believed in him.

“Jest mi zimno.”

“Boję się.”

“Jestem spragniony.”

“Jestem głodny.”

I am cold. I am scared.

I am thirsty. I am hungry.

He thought of her softness and it gave him a great, angry hopelessness.

“ Mam nadzieję, ż e nie gniewasz się za bardzo .”

“I hope you’re not too angry,” he thought again. “I had to try.”

Eventually, he ran out of fuel and partially refilled the tank but did not know he had to prime the fuel through and so the boat just started drifting.

That far out Grzegorz had no signal on his phone. He had not told his wife what he was doing and she did not know where he was. When the drift brought him within a mile of the coast the messages began to come through. Some of them had hung in the air waiting for the phone for days. At one point so many messages came through that the phone seemed to flash. By then, without food or water and with the extreme cold, Grzegorz Przybylski was dead.

Snow still lay in the shadows of the hillcrests but Hold looked down onto the difficult roads and drove carefully, and with focus cut through this rubble and monumental ancientness until he crossed the water onto the sudden flatness of the island, the mountains rising behind him as if they were closing him in to some great amphitheater.

The road opened into an easy dual roadway, seemed to offer movement through the scoured scene powdered with gorse and new lambs. He had the sensation of being cast toward the place, as if let from an open hand after the bunched fist of the mountains. A die rolled onto a table.

As he drove, a beetle worked its way along the dashboard. It was tiny, jewel-like in the light that got through the windshield, itself like some piece of crushed glass.

Hold kept his eyes on the road but all the time they were drawn to the tiny beetle, smaller than his fingernail.

The beetle walked industriously around and traveled down the face of the panel and stopped, sensing the moving draft through the air vent. It turned and headed back up the slope, then opened its wing cases in its mechanical-looking way and it went up into the air with the faintest hum and clicked clumsily against the windshield.

“It doesn’t matter where you try to go,” thought Hold. “You’re in this van now, and you’re going where it’s going, whatever you do inside the space of it.”

The tiny beetle worked along the inside of the glass, and went out of sight.

For a moment his stomach turned at the sign for a vehicle checkpoint until he drove past another saying that the checkpoint was closed, and more distinct in the March light as he approached it, there was the lump of Holy Island. The checkpoint sign had set the word in his head again, checkham, checkham.

As he drove over the causeway to the port a flock of curlews lifted over the wall and cut across above him and disappeared into the thin marsh at the side of the road and he remembered the strangeness he felt on the cliffs. This great split in his life had come within that strangeness, and it was as if they were some sign.