Mr. Nobody(7)

In the distance a receding figure, walking away, alone on the empty beach, in no particular hurry.

“I told them on the phone already,” the old man continues. “No way I could stop him, you see. Had to come up here just to get a mobile phone signal anyway. Terrible reception. I told him to wait, someone would be here soon, but he just kept going. Not sure if he even heard what I was saying. There’s something…wrong with him. I don’t know, he’s not in good shape at all. Soaking wet for a start. And on a day like this.”

    The female police officer turns away from the figure on the beach, back to the old man. She takes him in: a smartly dressed early riser on his morning walk, paper under arm, umbrella, raincoat, hat, he’s prepared for the weather. His cheeks ruddy in the cold. “Did you make the call yourself, sir?” she asks.

“I did. I didn’t think anything of him until he got closer. Some mornings there are other walkers out this early, especially on the weekends, but when he got closer I saw something wasn’t quite right. And I thought I should say something,” he persists, “you know, just in case.”

“Just in case?” the female officer asks, her curiosity piqued.

“He needed help,” he clarifies.

The female officer looks down at the tracks in the sand below the dune. A line of bare footprints leading all the way back to the west cove, perhaps two miles, certainly as far as the eye can see. She looks east, out toward the walking figure in the distance. He has no shoes. Then, as if on cue, as if he can feel her eyes on his back, the figure stops.

He stands there motionless, letting the wind roar around him. His wet clothes slapping heavily against him.

And then he drops. Half collapsing, half sitting, onto the wet sand.

The male officer turns to the female officer, touches her sleeve. She gives him a nod, then turns to speak to the old man. “Sir, this is Officer Poole and he’s going to take a statement from you, about what’s happened. Are you okay with that?”

The old man nods.

The male officer retrieves a slim black notebook from his utility pocket, flips it open, and begins.

Officer Poole’s questions fade out of hearing in the wind as the female police officer moves off in the direction of the sitting man.

    A series of thoughts flicker across her face as she walks out across the sands. She depresses the button on her radio.

“This is Sierra Four-Three. We are at the scene. I have eyes on the suspect, IC-One, approximately six foot, dark clothing. East Holkham Beach. Subject has no shoes. I am approaching with caution.” She continues to close the wide gulf between them, the sand twirling in tiny whirlwinds between him and her. There is something surreal about the scene. It makes her think of the past. There is something Gothic about it, she decides, something so expansive. And for some reason the start of Great Expectations springs into her mind. A convict washed up in the marshes.

Without a second thought she pulls her radio up again, depressing the button. “Bravo Seven, this is Sierra Four-Three. Can we run a check on HMP Bure? Anyone unaccounted for, let me know. Suspect may be missing person, over.” It’s just a feeling, nothing more, an instinct, but she knows sometimes instincts are right.

Her radio crackles to life loudly. “Acknowledged, Sierra Four-Three. Running prison check now. Stand by. Over.”

He doesn’t turn at the sound. She’s closer now, she can see his clothes, soaking wet, just as the old man said. His body shuddering, struggling to maintain core temperature and failing. The early stages of hypothermia, she thinks.

“Sir?” she shouts, trying to lift her voice over the howling wind, but the wind throws it back in her face.

Still, the figure does not turn. She is close now, close enough to see the rise and fall of the man’s shoulders, the shallow pant of his breath in the icy air. She pauses.

The radio on her chest bursts loud with static again. “Sierra Four-Three, be advised that is a negative, repeat negative on HMP Bure. All accounted for. Advise. Over.”

The figure before her still does not move, he does not appear to hear, as her fingers fumble to silence the radio.

She moistens her lips, makes another assessment.

The suspect is not responding. He has no visible weapons but could possibly have a concealed one, though where he might be hiding it she does not know. His clothes are loose and wet, clinging to his chest and arms. He could already have hypothermia. He could be in shock. His behavior could be erratic.

    It would be possible for her to overpower him for the short amount of time necessary for Officer Poole to make up the distance across the beach between them, should she need to, in the unlikely event the suspect becomes violent.

She proceeds, with caution. “Sir?”

A movement. His back muscles tense at the sound of her voice. He can hear her, that much is clear.

“Hello, sir? Can you hear me, sir?”

He does not respond.

“Bit of a cold morning for a swim, isn’t it? Why don’t we all head in somewhere warm?”

He remains motionless, his back to her.

“Can I ask what exactly you’re doing, sir?”

The distance between them fills with the roar of the wind and waves.

She makes a decision and moves in a wide semicircle up the beach until she has an angle on his face.

He’s looking out at the sea, his features slack, tension around his eyes, lost in thought.