1
THE MAN
DAY 1
The bright glare of light as the soft skin of two eyelids part.
A body sprawled on the sand.
The fast flutter of eyelashes as awareness blossoms within and, just like that, he’s awake. Consciousness floods through him; he feels the skin of his cheek pressed against the brittle cold of the beach. Confusion.
Sounds of the sea. Waves crash and pull back, the pop andshhh.
It’s early morning in January. A British beach in the depths of winter. Miles of golden-white Norfolk shore with the crisp dawn light throwing everything into high definition.
Wind-borne sand grains blow in architectural ripples across the flats straight into the man’s unprotected face. He squeezes his eyes tight shut against the sting of it.
A hot throb of pain crests sharply inside his skull, and the papery skin around his eyes creases deeper, his forehead puckering, as he flinches from it. The unanticipated pang lengthens, stretching itself inside his head, almost too much to take. A sharp gasp of breath and the pain stabs back, harder. His hot exhale drifting away in the cold sea wind.
He tries to relax into the pain, letting the wave of agony wash through him, over him. And it seems to work; the feeling begins to still within him. He lies there limp on the sand for what seems like an eternity, letting the restless throb slowly quiet.
He hurts everywhere. The ghost of a thought drifts through his mind.
Where am I?It floats gossamer thin in the air, fluttering just beyond his reach.
He takes another cautious breath and tentatively tries to raise his head, careful not to stir the lurking pain nestling in his skull. Damp sand, like candied sugar crystals, sticks to his stubbled cheek as he shifts his weight up onto aching forearms, cautiously testing the limit of their strength as he squints out into the morning light.
How did I get here?
Gulls skip along the sand as he searches the landscape for an answer—but nothing here looks familiar.
What happened?
He takes in the silent forest that backs the beach, its dark canopy beyond unreadable. No clues. No hook to hang understanding on.
Okay. Where was I before I was here?
He looks up at the haunting gray vault of winter sky hanging overhead and wonders if he might be dreaming. If he might be in bed, safe back at home, wherever that might be. But the clouds look back, heavy and full of rain. He shivers.
It is only now that he notices his clothes are wet, their sodden fabric clammy against his skin. He shudders, cold to his bones. He must move, he knows that much, he must get warm, or risk freezing in this weather.
He needs shelter. He looks back toward the trees that skirt the beach. The wind whips sharp needles of sand into his skin, tiny pinpricks against his numbed flesh.
Struggling clumsily to his feet, he begins to process the extent of his injuries as each muscle is asked to move.
Upright, he hesitates. He turns in a small circle, checking the sand around where he lay. A natural instinct telling him to look, nothing more. To look for things he may have lost, belongings left behind, although what those would be he does not know. But then, he must havesomebelongings, mustn’t he?
He thinks for a second before jabbing his numb hands into his wet pockets.
There must be something.
His pockets are empty. He is momentarily flummoxed into inaction.
Wait. What the hell is going on?
He runs a quick hand through his damp hair, trying to grapple back control of the situation, trying to wrangle the logic of it. He must remember something, surely? His hand skims the back of his head, and the throb of agony at the base of his skull washes over him again, pinching tight. He sucks in a sharp breath and whips back his hand to see the dark smear on his fingers.
Blood.
