‘There’s those holes again,’ Morrie says. He leans back against the bench and puts his hands in his coat pockets.
‘They weren’t there yesterday,’ Fran says. She watches a gull that is watching her. The concrete under the bench is sandy. There are bits of dry seaweed and cigarette butts that roll in the wind.
‘It must have happened in the night.’
‘That’s when it usually happens.’
A woman walks towards them speaking into a phone. They stop talking and tilt their heads until she’s gone past.
‘There’s a lot of them this time,’ Morrie says. ‘They’re right across the beach.’
‘Down to the water.’
‘The sand’s been flung everywhere.’
‘Look how deep that one is.’
‘Look how deep that one is.’
‘You could climb a ladder down that one.’
Their eyes follow the holes across the sand.
‘Apparently there’s a pattern,’ Morrie says.
‘Is there?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I heard it.’
‘What pattern?’
‘It’s systematic.’
They look from left to right along the sand, then from the top of the beach to the bottom. The gull edges closer and Fran claps her hands. The gull stops, but still watches them.
‘The tide will come in soon,’ Morrie says. ‘It’ll cover them over.’
‘It’s halfway in now.’
They look out at the sea. Small waves surge. There is a deeper, darker line of water where a current moves. The shadows of clouds skim across like boats.
Morrie sighs and rests his hands on his stomach. ‘Then he’ll come back with his spade and dig more.’
Fran zips her coat up tighter. ‘That’s what he always does.’
‘Listening.’
‘Digging.’
‘Listening.’
The waves break then drag back across the stones. The stones clatter as they turn.
‘He didn’t always hear it,’ Morrie says. ‘He was just going along, doing what he always did.’
‘Listening.’
‘Finding things out.’
‘He knew everything around here.’
‘About everyone.’
‘You couldn’t tell him anything – he’d already heard it.’
‘Who stole that statue.’
‘What happened to Lonnie.’
They fold their arms and hunch against the wind.
‘He had to know everything,’ Morrie says.
‘He did.’
‘He always had to know more.’
‘He did.’
‘Then he started thinking about the cables.’ Morrie leans back and stretches out his legs. ‘How they come in under the beach. How they’re passing by, right under his feet. With all that information. All those communications.’
‘I heard it’s telephone calls.’
‘I heard it’s emails.’
‘Financial transactions.’
‘The stock exchange.’
‘Internet searches.’
‘Messages.’
‘All of it.’
‘Everything.’
‘Right here, under the sand.’
They look out across the beach. The gull takes a few running steps forward, then stops and sidles back.
‘He couldn’t stop thinking about it all.’
‘He wouldn’t stop thinking about it all.’
‘Coming in every minute.’
‘Every second.’
‘Then, one day, he heard buzzing.’
‘It was only faint at first.’
‘He hardly noticed it,’ Morrie says. ‘He told himself it was just a fly, or machinery in the distance.’
‘Like when someone’s vacuuming in another house up the street.’
‘Or you walk past the tattoo place.’
‘Or when a bulb’s about to go.’
‘It was faint. But it carried on. After three days he went and got checked. He thought it could be something inside his ears.’
‘Maybe it was.’
‘They said there was nothing wrong.’
‘Maybe there wasn’t.’
‘But then it started getting louder.’
‘How loud?’
‘Like a lawnmower.’
‘I’d have said a Strimmer.’
‘He started hearing it every day. It would suddenly start up when he was at the pub, and he’d glance around, seeing if anyone else could hear it. He’d shake his head and rub over the top of his jaw. Gradually it would fade and he’d tell himself he was imagining it. Then, later, when he was walking down the street, he’d notice it again.’
‘What about at work?’
‘I heard he doesn’t work any more.’
They stop and their heads slowly tilt. Two people walk past talking quietly to each other.
Fran looks back at the road. There is sand, fields, a few scattered houses. ‘He lives somewhere up there, doesn’t he?’
‘He does now.’
‘By himself?’
‘He is now.’
Fran sighs and shakes her head. The gull walks a bit closer, then stops just out of reach of their feet. It stares at something.
‘He couldn’t sleep. He stopped reading the paper. He stopped watching TV. You’d be trying to have a conversation with him and he’d just be staring out towards the beach.’
‘I wouldn’t like that,’ Fran says.
‘He put earplugs in. He walked around with his hands over his ears. It helped at first, but then the noise changed.’
‘How did it change?’
‘It got closer. It was very close, like it was inside the ear itself. It was more high-pitched, a sort of rushing sound.’
‘Constant?’
‘All the time.’
Fran sighs again. The tide presses in. Water and sand pour into one of the holes. When the wave pulls back, the hole is full and level again with the beach.
‘I heard he’s got maps,’ Morrie says. ‘Where he thinks they come in. The different beaches. Working out where to dig. How to get to them.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I heard it.’
‘They must be deep.’
‘They’ve got to be deep, cables like that.’
‘And he reckons he can hear them?’
They lean forward slowly. There is the wind and the low beat of the waves. The bench creaks under them.
‘I can’t hear them,’ Fran says.
Morrie leans further forward. ‘I don’t know if I just heard something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Something.’
Fran tilts her head and frowns. ‘Maybe I heard something too.’
‘What?’
They listen. The sand blows lightly over their feet. The gull scrapes one of its claws against the concrete and tenses.
‘What if you did start thinking about it?’ Fran says.
‘All of it.’
‘Everything.’
‘Passing you by.’
‘Every minute.’
‘Every second.’
They glance at each other, then sit upright on the bench. The gull rushes forward, grabs a cold chip from between Fran’s feet and flies away.
Morrie leans back. ‘I don’t think I can hear it any more.’
‘Neither can I.’
They watch the tide fill in another hole. The waves break then drag back against the stones. The stones clatter as they turn.
Morrie shifts again on the bench. ‘Did you hear about what happened with those neighbours?’
‘The ones with the ditch?’
‘The ones with the ditch.’
Fran reaches down and brushes the sand off her shoes. ‘I might have heard something about it,’ she says.