Black Sand

Black Sand

“Lives are grains of sand washed by lapping waves, tumbling over and over until they’re impossible to tell apart, entwined then parted again. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, you might find yourself the sand in someone else’s boot.”

Phil Manders

She stepped out just before dawn. The door behind her left open, just a little. Like an unfinished conversation. Her sleep, a stranger, like the empty home she once loved. No alarm clock today. No mug gently steaming. Her soft slippers, silent on warm tarmac. The air laced with salt and summer. She’d never walked out of the house in slippers before. It didn’t matter. Not today.

He awoke around dawn, chest tight, uniform still on. Yesterday’s case playing over in his mind. The bedroom window slightly open, a new day twitching the curtains like the start of a conversation. The air laced with salt and summer. The hours after midnight blurred into one another. Had he slept at all? He rolled onto his side and stared at the bedside clock. A half-empty mug of coffee, slightly warm, stared back at him.

She’d followed this path from the village a thousand times before. Holding mother’s warm hand while she skipped along in tiny Wellington boots. They always had sand in them whenever she took them off. When the world was no more than butterflies and ice cream and that was enough. The sea and sky an endless embrace of blue. Always so blue. The memory made the hint of a smile lift her mouth. It didn’t linger; she brushed it away with the back of her hand. Now her slippers, slick with dew, led her past the sleeping church, tucked up in its graveyard quilt. An owl called to her from the bell tower as morning sun broke the darkness. It lit up the church like a firework.

He was born in this village and, like most here, was raised on the beach. His mum used to say he was made of sand, the amount she used to find in his tiny shoes. He’d sit up front in the police car in the uniform she’d made for him. When the world was no more than toy guns and ice cream and that was enough. The sea and sky an endless embrace of blue. Always so blue. His dad would let him turn on the lights and sound the siren.

The morning sun crept through a gap in the bedroom curtains, illuminating dust mites like tiny fireworks. Somewhere in the distance, an owl cried out.

The days and weeks after the funeral left a hollow reality. Kind faces offering kind words retreated back to their own lives. The warmth of the urn that sat on the mantelpiece faded to a cold emptiness she could not put words to. The squeezed tea bags piled high in a bowl next to the kettle, spilling over the stained worktop; curtains not drawn, flowers wilting in the vase. The darkness slithered into every crease of her body, like black sand filling an empty room. No one noticed she’d stopped buying food at the store, or attending church on a Sunday.

His phone rang at 7.32am. It felt like midnight. The caffeine in his bloodstream long gone.

“Get down to the cove beyond the church,” the voice said. “Someone found something.”

He paused long enough to make fresh coffee, tipping the old grounds into a bowl next to the kettle. So full, it was spilling onto the stained worktop. The house faded in his rear-view mirror. All the curtains still drawn. He took the lane that ran past the store, down towards the church, and on to the cove beyond.

The water felt warm when it touched her ankles. Almost couldn’t feel it at all. Her clothes thoughtfully folded and left on the large rock that jutted from the sand. Her slippers placed carefully on top.

She’d played on this beach a thousand times. As the water reached her knees, a memory flashed through her mind. Three, maybe four years old, playing pirates with a small boy. He wore tiny shoes that were full of sand. They chased and laughed and fell while their mothers sat on a blanket and watched, drinking hot tea from a flask. He was a policeman’s son. He wore a uniform his mum had made.

He parked the car by the ice-cream hut. The sun now warm on his face. He’d played on this beach a thousand times. He made his way to the rock that jutted from the sand. Police tape cordoned off the area. He walked to the water’s edge and stared out towards the horizon, always so blue. The waves gently lapping brought with them a memory. Of a little girl in Wellington boots. Of chasing. Of laughing and falling. Of sand in shoes and ice-creams melting. Of mums on a blanket, watching. The memory made a hint of a smile lift the side of his mouth. It didn’t linger. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.

As the water came up to her chin and over her mouth, she could feel the darkness drowning. Her final thoughts weren't of the urn full of black sand, cold and alone in the house with the curtains shut and the flowers wilting. It was of chasing, laughing, and falling. Of long warm days lying on a blanket, her mother’s hand stroking her hair as the sun went down. The sea and sky an endless embrace of blue.

He placed the clothes neatly in a clear bag, carefully shaking the sand from the slippers as he did so.

He would return to this beach a thousand times. Her body would never be found.

He sat for a while in his car watching the day come to life. A small child skipped past holding her mother’s hand. The mother had a bag over her shoulder, stuffed with a blanket and flask.

Maybe he should call his mum later, he thought. It’s been a while.