Chapter 3

It was a bright sunny morning; too sunny for me really, the light hurt my eyes. I'd left my shit-hole of a room the moment I could see straight. Hey, you probably remember how the song went.

Well, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt, and the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert. Then I fumbled in my closet to my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt and I washed my face and combed my hair, then stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.****

Yeah well, it wasn't a Sunday — I don't think — but that was just about my usual morning routine anyway. Only when I hit the street I had a mission; I headed for the local supermarket where I purchased my usual two six packs of the cheapest beer they had in stock. It wasn't a social cheque day, so the pub was out of the question.

Then I headed towards the seafront and took my morning constitutional along the promenade.

They had rules in town that you couldn't drink alcohol on the streets — or on the beach - so I was heading for the sand dunes at the edge of town. I had my usual spot there where I could settle down and drink the day away in peace.

It was still illegal to drink there amongst the dunes. But the local police were a little reticent to actually approach me by then. We had a sort of understanding, I didn't create any scenes, kept myself to myself and usually out of sight; they pretended that they never saw me or even knew I existed.

The only time I'd spoken — civilly — to one of the local police. Had been the day I'd pulled the young holidaymaker from the surf. Apparently she'd taken a clout on the head from her surfboard or something; I'd spotted her little brother struggling — unsuccessfully - to hold her head above the waves. It was pretty obvious that he had little chance of pulling her from the water.

I'm not sure what made me drop my beers and rush into the sea to drag her to safety, but I did.

Then I was confronted with the problem that she was no longer breathing and — besides her little brother — there was no other bugger about to resuscitate her. Well, no shit who came forward to assist anyway!

I have no idea what the little bitch made of it when she eventually opened her eyes to find a scruffy — soaking wet — tramp, who smelt of stale beer crouching over her. But a young copper arrived about that time and took over, so I never did find out.

I did discover that some bastard had nicked my bleeding beer whilst I'd been occupied though; so I weren't in the best of moods as I made my way to my spot in the dunes, to sleep away a dry day.

A little later that morning, the young copper arrived at my hideaway and handed me some clean — dry - clothes. A guy who came with him was carrying two six-packs of half-decent beer that he handed to me. Then he thanked me for saving his daughter's life and even offered me some cash, but I refused it; I hadn't sunk that low that I took money for saving someone's life.

For the rest of the day, the young copper — and one of his oppo's had hung around on the beach not far away from my squat. I think they were there to head-off any reporters who tried to approach me. The local police were well aware that police officers and reporters weren't on my list of favourite people.

Anyway where was I? I've digressed; got a nasty habit of doing that lately. Yeah, I got my usual two six-packs and made my way down to the beach. It was pretty busy that morning, what with the sunshine and all. Not that anyone — even the holidaymakers - would trouble me once I reached my little hideaway.

Having dug up and filled my old galvanised bucket with water from a farmer's trough in the field at the back edge of the dunes; I dropped my cans in the water to keep them cool-ish. Cheap beer is one thing; hot beer — because the sun was blazing down that day — would have been a whole different ball game.

Whatever, I shed my shirt, downed a can or two; then stretched out to have a doze.

As the sun rose higher I was forced to cover my eyes with an old newspaper I'd picked up along the promenade. The sun on my eyes was preventing me form falling asleep. Mind, I think I probably downed another can before I did so.

I have no idea what time it was when I became aware of someone standing above me. He'd arrived silently and it must have been his shadow falling on my naked torso that alerted me to his presence.

"Fuck off!" I said, I sticking to my usual greeting, not even shifting the newspaper to see who'd trespassed on my solitude.

But the bugger didn't go away, whoever it was just stood there.

"For fucks sake, will you get out of my bleeding sun?" I eventually said, pushing the newspaper aside so I could see who'd invaded my private world.

I might add, that my free hand had surreptitiously slid beneath the sand and made contact with the eighteen-inch length of galvanised iron gas pipe that always lay hidden there, just in case it was required.

There were some cheeky little shits, who sometimes hung around in the dunes; and who - on occasion - had been known to think that they were tough-guys. By then I'd taught most of them that they didn't fuck with me, no matter what their aspirations. But, there was always the possibility that a new one — who didn't know any better - would show up.

The sight I beheld as I pushed the newspaper from my eyes was of a stranger. A big man, - obviously at least six foot tall and looking even bigger from my prone position — and built like a brick shit 'ouse as we used to say when I was a kid. He really did look as broad as he was tall from my perspective.

For a few seconds — whilst I sized the bugger up - he said nothing. During those seconds I chose his right knee as the prospective target for my gas pipe. That should at least have cut the bugger down to my size.

Yeah look, besides the little teenage shits who hung around the sand dunes. Sometimes there was the odd weirdo. You know, the sort who seek out places where the little children like to play hide and seek and the like; do I really have to spell out why? And of course to spy on the courting couples who came to the dunes for their own nefarious reasons.

Anyway, part of my unofficial deal with the local police, was that I discouraged that kind from hanging around the dunes. All the local children — and young courting couples, I might add — knew that providing they stayed well out of my little corner, they could play safely amongst the dunes. They also were well aware that a shout - assistance - would bring me to investigate the disturbance. I'd often arrive at my hidey-hole to find the odd can of beer or lager left as an offering to placate the Dune God (read guard).

Who this guy was and what he was doing there, I didn't know; but I had to be prepared for just about every eventuality.

"Mr Elks?" the man eventually asked with a thick European accent.

"Who's asking?" My stock reply.

"Mr Elks, I am friend of your wife Nada. You call her Cassandra, yes?"

"Oh yeah, well how come I don't recall seeing you before?"

"I not live in this country, Mr Elks. I only come to England to help Nada."

"So, why are you here on this beach?"

"Nada is not well Mr Elks, she has no memory. The doctor, he say that she needs you to help her. Why you not go to her?"

"Cassandra walked away from me four years ago. I'm afraid her disappearance killed the person she married. Look at me, what use can I be to anyone now?"

"You're still her husband, Dan; and whatever you've gone through Cassandra needs you." A voice said from behind me.

I turned my head a saw a trim a woman of about forty standing there with a smile on her face.

"My names Helen Carpenter, Mr Elks. My husband and I have been working with Peter Fox in finding out what happened to Cassandra; we found Dmitar some time ago. We believe that it was seeing him again, with his son in that restaurant that triggered Cassandra's loss of memory. He came all the way from Croatia to try to help her find her past, and you can't come fifty miles up the road?"