217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
Harry's eyes jerked open. His heart was beating hard. Before he could catch hold of it - whatever it was - it had evaporated.
Unsettled, he lay there alone in the bed. Reaching over to the beside table, he pulled out a tissue to wipe his eyes. The digital clock beside the gold-framed photo of their grinning daughter Sophie said 11.07am: he had slept for four-and-a-half hours.
Margaret was sitting in her armchair, pillows all around her, still in her dressing gown and blue nightdress, looking out of the window. She smiled at him when he entered the front room, then turned again to gaze downwards at the beach. "Busy night, love?"
"Not bad. Not bad."
When the kettle boiled, he filled two cups with instant coffee and brought one to her, then perched on the side of her armchair beside her. His arm around her shoulders felt the bone beneath her skin. It seemed to be shrinking, pulling her whole body inwards. She reached up, squeezed his hand.
She was watching the wool-capped man below, pacing slowly over the shingle, sweeping his metal detector in a methodical arc before him. Occasionally, as always, he would stop, pause, hold the device still for a second, listening through his headphones, then move on again.
"Has he found it yet?" Harry asked.
Margaret shook her head. "Not yet," she smiled. "Not yet."