Chapter 44I Miscounted

The flag keeper’s right hand closed round the rope.

The wind came from the north, carrying salt, and it was cool on the face. Out on the sea the waves came in row after row, each row first standing up beyond the rocks, then breaking on them.

Andrew stood outside the line, three paces in front of the chair; if he turned his head he could see the northernmost pole. The hem of his coat was wet, from where it had dragged on the sand just now. The white rope ran from beside his feet all the way across, pressed into the surface of the sand, section after section, each section the same length.

Behind him was the sea wall. A concrete wall, its seaward face covered in black mussels, row upon row, struck by the waves many times over. There was no one on the wall. The drain at its foot was spitting water out, very slowly.

Looking up, he could see the crown cage. White poles reached out from the rim of the tower top and drew together towards the sky, woven into an opening. The needle stood in the middle, a single bead of red at its tip. In the middle of the crown cage there was something very large that did not move, below the needle. He did not look at its shape.

Andrew saw the hand first. The fingers closed one by one. The thumb was still pressed on the whistle, pressing, not letting go. Then, for the first time, the thumb let go. The whistle sprang out of its pressed mark and back onto his chest, swung once at the end of its white cord, and was still.

Of the white poles on the line, the one nearest the chair had the oldest flag cloth at its top, bleached the whitest by the sun. The flag keeper’s left hand gripped the pole and lifted. The concrete at its base split along a crack, and the white pole came up out of the sand without a sound. On the root of the length that came out hung a lump of grey concrete the size of a fist, its broken face new. A small hollow was left in the sand, and the sand at its rim slid in grain by grain, and soon filled it level. The flag cloth hung down against the pole, utterly still.

Once the pole was out, the wind changed direction. It blew from the far end of the line, passed over the small hollow, paused, and blew on towards the sea.

The flag keeper stood up. The chair’s four legs pulled out of the sand with four very dull sounds. The roll book slid off his knees and landed on the seat, its page edges curling. On the pole beside the chair the white ring buoy still hung, its rope dangling, and when the wind blew it swayed a little.

The flag keeper said, “I planted the flags. I can pull them up.”

The words fell on the sand. The wall did not send them back, and nor did the sand. The same as every line just now.

His left foot lifted, crossed the line, and came down outside it. The sand outside the line was darker than the sand inside; it sank a finger’s depth, and he did not stop. His right foot followed, and crossed the line too.

Seen from outside the line, he looked the same as ever. The grey vest, the letters on its chest bleached to pale grey by the sun, only a trace of their outline left. One of the vest’s ties had come loose and hung at his waist. The wind blew, and that one moved.

On the line the white rope lay pressed against the white rope, and there was no telling which was the flag line and which was the one Andrew had brought. The flag keeper’s right hand did not search; the one it took hold of was that one. The rope was wet, and carried salt. He lifted it off the line and wound it round his wrist, turn by turn, and at the second turn he stopped.

On the sand outside the line lay a rescue board. Its edges were worn round, its paint flaked to grey, the lettering on its face bleached away by the sun, with only a handle left. The flag keeper went over and tied one end of the rope to the handle. He did not lower his head as he tied it; his fingers moved fast, one knot, then another. The knot was an old one, one turn pressed over another, the same as the way the coil of rope in the steel box had been folded. Both knots were tight. He pulled once more, to make sure it would not come loose.

He dragged the board to the edge of the sand slope, lifted its tail and gave it a push. The slope was slanted, and the board slid down it; its tail sank into the sand first, then was lifted by a wave. The board struck into the waves, a row of waves lifted it, and it glided outward. The handle at its tail touched the surface of the water with a very soft sound.

A long drag mark was left on the slope, running from the edge of the line all the way to the water’s edge. The wind came from the north, and the edges of the drag mark slowly flattened.

The rope pulled straight on the sand. One end was tied to the board, the other in Andrew’s hands. The weight bore down along the rope and pressed into his palm. The screw in his palm dug in, its ridges pressing one by one into the flesh, pressing out a white mark, and he did not change hands. His left knee cracked first; he did not look at it. He drew a length of rope in towards his body, and the sand under his feet sank, and he trod it firm again. His palms sweated, the rope slipped, and he tightened all five fingers.

The rope was taut, pressing a straight line into the surface of the sand. At the end of the straight line was the water. Andrew could not see the board, only the place where the rope went into the water, and there the waves broke row after row, and the broken water ran down along the rope. The soles of his shoes stood on wet sand, and the water in the sand seeped in through the sides of his shoes, and he did not move.

White foam turned round and round on the rope; when the wave drew back, the foam broke up.

Above his left forearm, the thin line came round to its second turn, lit once, and dimmed again.

All the while, he counted. He counted waves. One row, two rows. The third row was the biggest, much whiter, and struck the rocks with a muffled sound. The fourth row came slowly, and broke slowly too. As the fifth row went past, the rope ran out a whole arm’s length. He kept the number in his head, and said nothing.

Each row of waves that came in, the rope ran out a length. Each time a wave drew back, the rope was hauled back in a length. His hands went with it, one step, then a stop.

His right foot braced backwards, braced in the sand, and the sand slid out from under his heel.

The rescue board reached Kai. Kai’s hand caught the edge of the board at once and did not let go. Kai was still in the water; he spat out two mouthfuls of water and gripped tighter. His white board stayed in the channel, turning on the water, its tail knocking again and again against the foot of the rock, one very dull knock after another. The tail tipped up and fell back. Later it drifted away.

The water in the channel was flat, with no foam, like a cloth pressed flat, drawing slowly outward. Kai was carried by that pull, further and further from the shore. Kai’s legs kicked once, then stopped. The pull of the channel was stronger than the pull of his legs, and he did not kick again. The rope drew the rescue board back in, its body bumping against the sand as it tipped upward, with a muffled sound.

The rope pulled straight and drew the board towards the rocks. Kai was dragged along, out of the channel, inch by inch, onto the sand at the foot of the third rock.

The friend on the sand rushed into the waves, the water up to his knees. His shoe sank in the sand; he tried once to pull it out and could not, so he kicked it off and rushed in. His trouser legs were wet to the thigh. He pulled Kai off the edge of the board, and the two of them fell onto the sand together. The friend threw the bottle aside; it tipped over, and the water ran into the sand. The friend cupped both hands to his mouth, his mouth open, but no shout came out. Kai coughed once and did not get up, his hands still gripping the edge of the board.

Kai’s hands were still gripping the board; the friend prised at them, very slowly.

The board glided back again. This time it glided very slowly, and the rope was slow too.

The other one’s head was still in the waves, rising and falling, the furthest out. Each time it came up, the head turned half round towards the shore, then turned back. Each time it came up lower. The board glided up to his hand. He caught hold of the rope, with one hand, gripping it very hard. That hand was cold, the knuckles all white. Even after he had caught hold, he was still slipping down.

The flag keeper stood at the edge of the sand and did not go forward. He bent down, reached his left hand to the water’s edge, and closed it round Dean’s wrist.

The rope pulled Dean, an inch, then another inch, nearer and nearer the sand. The knee brace dragged in the water and caught on a corner of the rock with a clunk.

Both of Andrew’s hands were on the rope, the right in front, the left behind, drawing it in towards his body little by little.

The time on the comm jumped to eleven minutes past midnight.

Pull. Dean’s head came out of the waves, his mouth open, and he coughed up a mouthful of water. His fingers slipped on the rope, then caught it again. The knee brace was still soaked, dragging on his leg; he was pulled up onto the sand. Dean’s knee scraped along the sand, and he did not cry out.

All at once the rope went a length lighter, and he did not let go.

The water dripping from the rope fell on the sand, drop by drop, and was soon gone.

On the steps of the Esplanade, two people came running down, one behind the other. One wore an apron; the other was barefoot. The one in front still had an empty bucket in his hand. They did not come down onto the sand. They stood on the bottom step, holding the railing, and the railing was white, its paint flaking.

One of them had his apron blown up by the wind; it fell back down and slapped against his legs.

Dean lay face down on the sand and coughed for a long time. His shoulders shook, again and again. One hand still held the rope and did not let go. His knee brace was askew; the strap at the third notch had come loose a length and hung on his leg. His two shoes were still on the sand at the water’s edge, one on its side, one standing, their openings facing the sea. The water on the sand drew back, layer after layer.

※

The flag line was gone.

The white rope on the line had vanished, and the spaces between the poles were empty. The white poles on the sand did not fall; one after another they vanished from the sand, leaving only their concrete roots showing above the surface, the white paint flaking, one beside the next, in a straight line. The flag cloths were gone too. The broken faces of the white poles’ roots were grey, darker than the white paint.

The water drawing back uncovered row upon row of shells, white, water still clinging to their edges.

When a wave came, the shells were pushed up a little; when the wave drew back, they stayed where they were.

The rope in Andrew’s hands was still wet. He did not put it down.

The lights on the seventy-seventh floor went out ring by ring. Each one first dimmed a little, then went out. They started from the southern stretch and retreated northward, very slowly, like a tide drawing off. The white poles of the crown cage came loose one by one from top to bottom, without a sound, like umbrella ribs when the thread gives. With each one that came loose, a little grey-white sky showed through the gap. The last to go out was the northern stretch. When that stretch went out it was very small, just once, without a sound.

The time on the comm jumped to fourteen minutes past midnight. Andrew stood there, and his left knee did not crack again.

He scuffed the soles of his shoes twice on the sand, scraping off a layer of wet sand.

The white poles of the crown cage were scattered across the sky, far apart from one another. The window bands were still there, band after band, rising to the top, and at the top there was only a single bead of red.

The sea was still there. The waves came in row after row and broke on the rocks, sounding the same as before. The drain at the foot of the wall was still spitting water out, very slowly. Only the white poles on the line were all gone, even the northernmost one, and when the waves struck there, nothing stood in their way.

On the concrete at the foot of the wall there was a wet mark, left by the waves striking it. Each wet mark was lower than the last.

The water spat from the drain had thinned to a very fine thread, and a single drop hung on the thread.

The lifesavers’ patrol vehicle at the south end had already driven off; where it had been parked there were only two tyre tracks, with sand in them. The radio was silent. A few rescue boards still leaned there, the lettering on their faces still bleached away.

Kai’s friend knelt on the sand and lifted Kai’s head. He took off his own jacket and laid it over Kai’s back. The jacket was dark, with sand stuck to it; once it was over him, Kai’s shoulders stopped shaking. The friend’s hand still pressed on his back, pressing hard. The water Kai had coughed up gathered in a small pool on the sand and soon soaked away. The white board had been pushed up onto the sand by the waves, upturned, its white side facing up. On the steps, the barefoot one crouched down, propping himself on the ground with his hands. The friend raised his head, glanced at the top of the tower, then lowered his head to look at Kai again.

The flag keeper stood on the sand.

His knees did not bend; he stood very straight. The water on the sand drew back to the edge of his shoes and stopped. The vest on him did not move in the wind. The wind came from his left, passed over the vest, and went on past his right.

This time he could be seen clearly. His face was grey-white, with an old sunburn line across the cheekbones, his lips dry, his eyes half open, looking neither at the sea nor at anyone. His right hand still kept the shape of gripping the rope, the knuckles bent, not opening.

Where he had walked on the sand there was a trail of very shallow footprints, from the edge of the line all the way to the water’s edge. Their edges had not caved in; each one was clear. Where the line had been was empty, only sand.

The vest on his chest rose once.

It was a breath. Drawn in, drawn in very full, the chest lifting to its highest, and only then slowly letting down. Since nineteen ninety-six, this was the first time the vest had risen and fallen. The tie hung at his waist, and with his chest, that one moved too.

A film of mist formed on the mouth of the whistle. Very thin, slowly clearing.

He said, “I miscounted.”

The voice struck the sea wall and came back, a little lower than the words as he had said them. Andrew waited for it to finish falling before he drew a breath.

In the sky south by east, the disc lost its colour within a few seconds. The pale violet rim faded first, a last wisp of it remained, and then that was gone too. The white clouds in the disc broke apart, drifting off in clumps to every side, until they could no longer be seen. Due south, at the opening, the fine white ring round its edge first broke in two, the break slowly widening, and then it too was gone. The black mouth was the last to go. The stars outside the ring slowly straightened, one by one, straightening very slowly.

That patch of sky was empty. Grey-white, nothing hanging in it. Seen from the sand, that patch was darker than the rest of the sky, evenly dark.

In the middle of the crown cage, below the needle, the very large thing that did not move came into view.

The hum overhead stopped; it was the sound of LM-1-09 coming free. The sound of the sea was suddenly close. An LM-1 deep-survey ship sat in the hollow crown cage. The needle ran through the middle of its spine, a single bead of red at its tip. The hull was whitish grey, its landing legs drawn up, the roots of the legs buried among the white poles of the crown cage. The bridge was a low, many-sided house with glass on three sides, the glass bronze-coloured, unlit. A thin-lined trim band ran along the belly, from bow to stern. The portholes were set in two rows, and a little warm white showed through them. At the throat by the stern there was a touch of warm colour, very small. Behind were four long cylinders, each with three rings around its forward part, the rings whitish grey. Seen from the sand, the ship was very high up; you had to tip your head back.

There was no name on the hull. Beneath the bridge a number was sprayed: LM-1-09. The figures were grey, a shade darker than the hull.

From a distance, the ship and the white poles of the crown cage were joined as one.

This one belonged to the one who had freed it, which was to say, Andrew.

Andrew raised his left hand and looked at his forearm. The thin line was still turning, a turn slower than before.

Andrew counted the people on the beach. As he counted, his lips did not move. He did not count waves.

On the sand at the foot of the rock, Kai, and his friend. Face down on the sand, Dean. The two who had stopped on the steps, who had not come over. Himself, outside the line.

Six.

The one standing at the water’s edge, he counted in too.

Seven.

His left hand hung at his side, the damp mark of the rope still on his palm.

※

Ten past six in the morning. Dean lay for a while, his ribs hurting. He felt them; no bones were broken, they only hurt when pressed.

He wanted to turn over; his ribs pulled, he stopped, and lay back again.

Outside the window it was grey; the day had not fully broken. The alarm clock by the bed was switched off. Downstairs the washing machine was turning. A towel hung over the back of the chair, last night’s salt still on it, stiff. By the door stood two shoes, which he had carried back himself last night, a matching pair, a layer of salt white on their uppers. On the windowsill was an empty glass; the water in it had dried, leaving a white ring at the bottom.

There was a water stain on the ceiling, running down at a slant from beside the light fitting. He looked at it for a long time, and did not count how long it was.

The knee brace lay on the bedside table. It had soaked up water and dried, leaving a ring of salt white at its edges, and the inner lining, where it had been worn shiny, had gone stiff too. The four straps were laid out from top to bottom. He put it on and pulled the straps back one by one. The second notch pressed on the bone spur; he loosened it and fastened it at the third notch. The bone spur was still there. What it touched was still the same place.

He put on his shoes. The left one: the sand on its toe had already dried, and came off with one tap.

The laces were wet; it took him two tries to tie them tight.

At the ninth stair, he did not stop. The banister was cold.

The iron back door had a patch of paint missing, and its hinge was stiff. He pushed twice before it opened. The wind outside was cool, carrying salt, blowing in at his collar. He pulled the collar up and buttoned it to the top button.

At half past six he went out the back door, crossed the Esplanade, and walked north along the sand. The hose at the mouth of the lane was still connected to the wall, its valve made of iron. He turned the valve down a turn, and the sound of water dropped. In the lane a cat sat on the bin, watching him. He walked past it.

Beside the bin was an empty paper cup; he did not look at it.

The shop across the road was still shut, its roller shutter pulled all the way down, the paper still on it, reading Opens at seven. The old sign was still nailed to the lamp post, the lifesavers’ phone number, the lettering half faded. There were no cars on the road yet; the street lamps stood one, then another, far apart. The palm trees by the road leaned in the wind, then straightened again.

There were a few people on the sand, far off, not looking his way. The sound of the waves was slower than last night. The sand was wet; when he trod on it, water seeped up at once round the edges of his footprint. Sand got into the tread of his soles, and with each step the sand crunched. On the sand was a trail of his own footprints, from last night, already half wiped away by the waves, only shallow dents left.

He did not go round that stretch of shining sand. When the waves drew back, the surface of the sand shone for a moment, then dimmed again. He walked across it step by step, each step on the dark places. He did not stop, and did not look back.

Under the third rock, the white-painted steel box was still open, its lid leaning askew. A coil of rope was missing from inside, and the rubber band round the rope’s end was gone too. Only a white ring buoy was left, lying at the bottom of the box. The painted edge of the box was still very sharp. He did not touch it.

The black mussels at the edge of the rock had been struck by the waves many times over, their edges all worn round. He crouched down and looked at the edge of the channel. The channel lay north of the rock, about two body-lengths from its foot. There was no foam on the channel, no white board; the water was flat, pushing outward layer after layer. The sea was ink-black, the wave crests white, coming in row after row.

He touched a black mussel on the rock with a fingertip; the shell was very slippery, and his finger slid straight off.

Dean did not go into the water. He crouched on the dry sand, the tips of his toes a hand-span from the wet sand, the knee brace fastened at the third notch, not moving.

He stood up, and his knee did not crack. He glanced at the top of the rock: it was dry, with a ring of white salt.

North of the rock, the dark channel was still there. It was not fast; it was still drawing slowly outward. Out on the sea beyond the channel, the ship still hung in the air above the water outside the bay, far from the flagged area, its bay door closed, not coming any nearer.

He looked back to the south. The white poles of the flagged area were all gone. On the sand only sixteen concrete roots were left, their white paint flaking, one beside the next, in a straight line. The flags were all gone.

The white-painted chair of the flagged area was still there, its legs sunk in the sand. There was no one in the chair, and the roll book on its seat was gone too.

Beside the chair’s front leg, the wind had blown a small hollow in the sand; the bottom of the hollow was wet, with a little water still in it.

He turned and walked back. There were no poles to go round now.

As he passed the rocks, the sand underfoot was very hard, left by last night’s ebbing tide.

At half past two he went into the kitchen to start his shift. The water in the vegetable sink was cold; he put his hands in, soaked them a while, and drew them out. The one chopping spring onions was by the chopping board, the knife coming down, again and again, with a crisp sound. The bones in the pot had not yet started to bubble. Today’s rota was taped to the office door; his line was in the middle, and it read DAN. He did not go and look at it. He tied on an apron, the third one; the grease stains on the first two would not wash out.

He copied down the chart by the cool room door once. Inside it was actually two point six; he wrote three. The boxes only took whole numbers; no room had been left for a decimal point. Today’s box was empty, and he wrote down the first three. On the chart, the boxes for the day before were also a row of threes. The corner of the chart had curled; he pressed it flat with his hand.

The head chef poked his head out of the office and asked, “Chart done?”

“Done.”

He put the pen back on the clipboard. A turn of tape was wrapped round the pen cap, and the tape was old.

The head chef drew his head back in.

The lights in the kitchen were white. From the bakery a trolley came through, its wheels rattling once, and a waft of syrupy sweetness drifted in at the door and soon thinned away. He did not look round.

He took the cloth from the chopping board and wiped the water dry from the edge of the vegetable sink. He was halfway through wiping when another drop fell from the tap. He held the cloth under the tap and waited for it to finish dripping.

There was a crack in the porcelain of the vegetable sink; he pressed it with his thumb, and the crack did not get any bigger.

He took his hand back and wiped it twice on his apron.

The cool room door was heavy; he put his shoulder to it, and the door gave a muffled thud. The light inside was cold white, the boxes stacked very neatly. He came out and rubbed his hand once on his trousers.

When the cool room door had closed, a thin layer of frost formed on the door frame. He scraped at it with a fingernail; the frost was hard, and a small flake came away, fell on the back of his hand, and melted.

The chiller stood outside the cool room, third shelf. Its door was open a crack, and cold air came out through the crack, touching the back of his hand, cool. A lamington, wrapped in white paper, one corner of the paper folded over, then opened out again by someone, the crease still there. On the third shelf there was no empty paper bag.

He did not take it. That had to wait until the end of his shift.

The blister on the inside of his left forearm had dried, the skin flat. He rolled his sleeve down and buttoned the cuff.

At twenty past three he came out the back door and stood on the step.

At the edge of the step lay a little heap of sand, blown up by the wind, its edges very flat.

The smoke from the hotplate drifted out of the doorway, and he stepped aside.

A piece of the sky was missing. He looked up once, then lowered his head again to look at the knee brace. The third notch was fastened true.

The top of the tower was above the clouds, visible now. On the needle at the top of the tower, the red light was still lit, lit in the daytime too.

He raised his right wrist. The cold of that hand from last night was still on it. When he had been pulled up onto the sand last night, his eyes had been full of water, and he had not seen clearly whose hand it was.

He did not think about it further. He fastened the strap tight and left. He went by the steps, not by the sand. Behind him, on the needle at the top of the tower, the red light was lit.