The oppressive heat gave a dreamlike feel to the morning. The purple-grey clouds on the horizon seemed slumbering islands, the motionless sea a broad pane of glass, the people on the beach sleepwalkers.
Half hidden in a rocky cove at the end of the bay, a man of about sixty was digging a hole in the wet sand with a small spade. Progress was slow, the incoming tide hesitant but sufficient to drip into his work. He retreated inside a narrow cave, muttering, ‘Should’ve come earlier.’
A dog poked its nose into where he was digging. ‘Hop it!’ he said. Then a youngish fellow, tall, fair-haired, appeared.
‘Barney. Here!’ he shouted. The dog was watching the digger like a time and motion studier. ‘Sorry to disturb. Come on boy!’ he said to his dog who appeared to be transfixed by something. Then he asked: ‘Worms for fishing?’
The older fellow, a ring in one ear, spiky grey hair, a bald spot on top, and wearing a tee-shirt saying Anarchy in the UK, said: ‘Me dog. Died this morning.’
‘Oh?’
‘Walked Queenie on the beach every day, year after year. Paradise for her this place were. Gonna bury her here.’
‘Right, come on then Barney. Respect for the dead. Let’s be off.’ But the dog remained rooted to the spot.
The hole now completed, sand stacked up at its sides, the punk pulled a dark object from his bag. Barney began growling, quietly at first, then furiously. The punk held in his arms a small black mongrel which he lowered into the hollow, whispering, ‘Good bye old mate.’ He then stood to attention. The youth uncertainly adopted the same posture.
‘Music,’ the punk said. ‘Send him off in style.’ He took out his mobile phone, fiddled with it, and the Sex Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ resounded around the cave. Barney began to bay, a lupine, ear-splitting howl. Both men continued to stand upright like guardsmen until the punk broke briefly into a pogo. When the tune was done, Barney’s howling turned to a growl, then a mumble, then he too was hushed.
The punk began shovelling sand over Queenie, patting it down and levelling it gently. When he was done, he studied the filled hole for a moment, turned on his heels and left.
‘Expect he’ll come here now and again to pay his respects,’ the youth said to Barney. ‘When your time comes, how would you like to sleep here next to Queenie?’ He shook a lead as he walked out into the light, saying, ‘Walkies.’
Barney didn’t budge. Next thing he was scratching the spot with his claws, sand flying everywhere.
‘It’s not a bone he’s buried!’ the youth said. ‘Maybe you know her? Is that it?’
The lead was put on the frenetically burrowing Barney and he was dragged away, baying eerily. They emerged from dark into sunlight. Sleep was still upon the beach and sea. Only the desperate to be free Barney seemed completely alive.
