Chapter 1

A crab

Goa, India. 2016

The man looked to his right. Three Indian men walked along the sand holding hands, a French couple started to pack up their towels and put various beach objects into an oversized floral bag, and a cow looked out to sea, maybe dreaming of a life which involved grass.

He looked to his left. He could see the rocks where the beach ended. The sun was going down and there was an Israeli man setting up a tripod, holding his camera high to protect the lens from any stray grains of sand that might want to nestle in its cracks. A bit further down an Indian family were playing in the water – the adults fully clothed, and the children fully not.

He saw no sign of her.

He looked right again. One of the Indian men was laughing and pushing one of the others, the French couple were halfway up the beach now, arms around each other, and the cow was still staring, or dreaming, whichever it was.

The man strained his eyes as hard as he could, but still he couldn’t see her.

He looked again to his left. The men in the family were taking it in turns to hold their breath under the waves and the women were chatting among each other and watching their little ones. On the shore, predictably, the Israeli man was rubbing his camera’s lens frantically with his T-shirt and grumbling to himself.

It was no good. She wasn’t there. Just like she hadn’t been there the day before, or the day before that. In fact, she hadn’t been there any day for the past five years. But he always looked anyway. Just in case. Because, probably, one day, she would be there, and he’d hate to miss it.

Regardless of her persistent absence, the man always loved this time of day on Palolem Beach. It wasn’t too hot, but it certainly wasn’t cold, and everyone seemed relaxed. Even the lady who paced the length of the beach all day selling melons eased off on her selling at this time, and she would often find a tourist to sit and chat with. The tourist would always buy a melon afterwards of course, but that didn’t seem to be her aim.

One more check, he thought. He looked to his right. This time he could only see the cow, who hadn’t moved her holy self one inch. The men had gone, and the couple must have made it back to their beach hut. Then he looked to his left. The family continued to play, the cameraman was mounting his camera, seemingly content that he’d saved his lens from a sandy death, and a bar worker was bringing out a sign which read ‘COCK-tails – buy one, get two free’.

The man scowled.

Three girls were climbing over the rocks where the beach ended, back onto Palolem, and the man wondered whether they’d enjoyed their day. He knew where they’d have gone because Palolem was the closest place he’d had to a home in forty-one years.

He knew that over the rocks they’d have found another smaller beach with rocks at both ends. Over the next set of rocks, they’d have found a much bigger beach which would’ve taken them about an hour and a half to walk down. And then, when they’d have reached the end, they’d have found more rocks. Some people would get bored of exploring at this point and turn back, but he’d noticed these girls leave early in the morning, so he guessed that they’d carried on to the next set of beaches and rocks. ‘What an exciting day they must have had,’ thought the man – he used to love exploring.

‘That was awful,’ said one of the girls, and the man sighed.

He was sitting four bars down the beach from the COCK-tail bar, but he still jumped when the DJ played the first thud of music. He wondered whether they’d started playing the music louder or whether it was the direction of the wind. It had definitely been getting earlier – it never used to start thudding until after dark. He sipped his red wine and closed his eyes.

‘Silent disco tonight ladies?’ The man opened one of his eyes to see a young male with ginger hair, an insanely wide smile and a hint of crazy in his eyes next to the three girls. The boy was luminous from the waist up.

‘Another poxy vest,’ the man mumbled under his breath and then re-shut his open eye.

Even with his eyes closed, he knew that the vest would be bending his knees in time to the thudding. His neck would be bobbing along too, and he’d probably have his mouth slightly open. They always have their mouths slightly open, he thought.

The man exhaled loudly and opened both eyes lazily.

‘Yin?’ the vest asked the girls. It was amazing, thought the man, how only when he was speaking, did the vest’s mouth appear to close. What did he mean, yin? The man knew a few languages, but he had never heard ‘yin’ used in this context before. He’d heard of yin, as in the yin usually followed by yang. And he’d heard of Yen, the currency. He even knew the meaning of yìn (a Chinese verb, meaning ‘to print’), but it seemed such an unlikely verb for a vest to be using to sell a silent disco in South India.

‘Yeah, we’re in,’ answered one of the girls, and the man felt silly – ‘Y’in?’ – of course.

The vest, bending his knees in time to the thudding, neck bobbing, and with his mouth slightly open, handed the girls some flyers and watched the three of them walk off.

If the man ignored the music, as he had grown used to doing each night, he could hear the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach, the quiet natter of the melon-selling lady with her chosen tourist, and the sounds of a few birds communicating in their bird way (‘Cacaaa?’ one bird would ask, and another would reply ‘Cacaaa!’ in agreement, and then they would steal some fish from the fishermen). It was getting cooler now and he pushed his toes into the sand below his chair as he drifted off into a blissful sleep.

**********

‘Silent disco tonight, old timer?’ The man awoke and saw a boy with ginger hair, an insanely wide smile and a hint of crazy in his eyes peering over him. He was bending his knees in time to a different, quicker-paced, thudding. His neck was bobbing along, and his mouth was slightly open.

The man stood up and walked towards the shore, ignoring the intrusive vest completely.

He looked to his right. The cow was now wandering up the beach by herself, gently waving her tail and probably looking for grass. The melon-selling lady was finishing her conversation with her chosen tourist and exchanging her last melon for a few rupees.

Then he looked to his left. He could see the rocks where the beach ended. The Indian family were now out of the water – the adults fully clothed and the children fully not – and the Israeli man was packing away his tripod, holding the camera high to protect the lens from any further stray grains of sand.

In both directions, he saw several gatherings of bubbler-crabs, all rolling the sand into tiny balls behind them. That’s what bubbler-crabs do.

Still, the man saw no signs of her.

He made his way back to his chair, past the vest, who amazingly hadn’t moved at all and was still staring at the spot where the man had been sitting originally, as if the man had remained sitting there the whole time. The man sat down, took a sip of his red wine, looked at the vest, and paused.

‘Pardon?’

‘Silent disco tonight, old timer?’

‘Old timer?’

‘Old timer. Y’know. Not like, old timer. But, old timer.’

‘I’m sixty-four!’ said the man, as a small wave washed away hundreds of the bubbler-crabs’ small balls of sand.

‘I said, not like, old timer, but that’s quite old...timer. Sorry. My boss says I’ve got to be friendly. You’re a young man. Just not as young as me. But I’m youuung. Like, really young. Especially to you.’

The man stared at the vest, and the vest stared at the man. ‘My name’s Shakey,’ said the vest, trying to be polite, and then they stared at each other for a few more seconds.

‘Shakey,’ said the man.

‘Shakey,’ said Shakey. ‘Silent disco tonight old t...?’ His sentence trailed off.

The man was making things difficult for Shakey, who was, after all, just doing his job. Shakey had met people like this man before. Another stupid moustache, he thought. He hated moustaches.