Beach Bodies: Part Two. Ross Armstrong

my name?’

      The fisherman smiles at the group, lost for words. He seems to look older by the second and is currently approaching 50. Justine pinches herself to check she’s not dreaming, such is the departure from reality they seem to have taken.

      Simon closes in on him and grabs him by the strap of his overalls, voice rising with every syllable. ‘How. Did. You. Know. My. Na—’

      ‘Sandra told me it. The producer. When she left, she gave me instructions. And a retainer.’

      Simon drops to a crouch as the others take a step in towards him, Sly getting close enough to give him a manly pat on the shoulder. They have, perhaps, neglected the strains it puts on a man when his job is to keep the strain off them. But none of them will be able to recall this abstract outburst with any ease.

      ‘Sandra told you,’ mumbles Simon.

      ‘Sandra told me,’ affirms the fisherman. ‘To watch over you.’ He leans back down to the package and pulls out a stack of firewood, kindling and firelighters, then takes them to the open fireplace, where he gets to work on them.

      ‘Good, yes. I’m sorry,’ says Simon. ‘Look, I would like to apologise…’

      ‘Fine,’ says the fisherman.

      ‘Yes, well, that’s very good of you. Sorry, to everyone, for my…’

      Simon rises and goes over to the kitchen island where he leans and takes a few deep breaths and is comforted by Dawn in the partial silence. The fisherman strikes three lights within the fire and stands back to fan the flames.

      Roberto crouches too, warming his hands. ‘God, it got cold fast.’

      ‘You should put on an extra layer,’ the fisherman says, drawing all heads his way as he turns towards the stairs.

      A volley of shaken heads behind his back, in reference to the body up there. But none of the Beachers know quite what to say and Simon remains strangely inert.

      ‘We like it down here, you see,’ Lance says. It escapes from him under duress. But at least it makes the fisherman turn.

      ‘Weather turns fast here,’ he says, but all he sees is a roomful of bodies, static and unwilling to make any false move. ‘Why don’t you just go and get—’

      ‘Nah…’ Zack says, a long sound that means little. ‘It’s just… nice to have some cold… after all this… sun. Reminds us of home.’

      The fisherman gives a slow frown. ‘As you wish.’

      He notices not one of them is sitting down, nor have they been the whole time he is here. A couple of them give stiff nods to thank him for his time.

      ‘Well, I should get going—’

      ‘Of course,’ Sly says. ‘Don’t want to hang around with a bunch of melts like us.’

      ‘Black fella, eh?’ says the fisherman, looking Sly up and down.

      ‘Er, yep,’ says Sly.