‘Where does he surf?’
She thinks. Looks down at the cement path in front of her door, as if there is some kind of clue there. ‘Damn my old brain . . . Tallow Beach.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
I sit on the sand and watch him, lit by the full moon. A small shadow rising up a wave. And then I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
Hendrich.
To not answer it would only make him suspicious.
‘Is he with you?’
‘No.’
‘I can hear the sea.’
‘He’s surfing.’
‘So you can talk?’
‘I won’t have long. I’m meeting him later.’
‘Is he sold?’
‘He will be.’
‘Have you explained everything?’
‘In the process. Not everything.’
‘The film of him on YouTube now has four hundred thousand views. He needs to disappear.’
Omai vanishes under a wave. The head rises up again. It seems the perfect way to live. Riding a wave, falling off, getting back on. So much of life seems to be based around the idea ofrising, of building something up – income or status or power – of living a kind of upward life, as vertical as a skyscraper. But Omai’s existence seems as natural as the ocean itself, as wide and open as the horizon. He is on his board again, on his front, paddling with his arms over the swell of the water.
‘He will, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, I know he will. For all our sakes. It’s not just Berlin. There’s a biotech research firm in Beijing and they’re—’
I have heard this stuff for over a century. I know I should be concerned, especially with Marion out there somewhere, but it is just another noise in the world. Like water against sand.
‘Yes. Listen, Hendrich, I’d better go. I think he’s coming out of the water.’
‘Plan A. That’s all you are, Tom. Remember, there’s always a Plan B.’
‘I hear you.’
‘You’d better.’
After the call I just sit there, on the sand. From here the waves sound like breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Twenty minutes later Omai is out of the water.
He sees me and keeps walking, carrying his board.
‘Hey!’ I follow him up the beach. ‘Listen, I’m your friend. I’m trying to protect you.’
‘I don’t need your protection.’
