NIGHT BOAT

Ivo was five pints deep when the orange glow pierced his haze. The low-hanging, mid-afternoon mist crept over from the island, and for a moment, he was the only man on Earth. No sounds disturbed the seamless still of the promenade. No birds, boats, or chinking brasserie glasses. He grunted, dragged his feet through the sand dunes, towards the colour. With as much strength as he could muster, he kicked the boat and staggered back three steps. Untethered. Heavier than he thought it might be. The edge was uncomfortable and dug into the bones of his arse as he sat down on it. He shifted to find a better angle, pushed back too far, and fell backward, knocking himself out.

When he woke it was dark. Two beady-eyed seagulls tugged at the fabric of his trouser pockets, negotiating the diligent theft of leftover crisps from the pub. He heard two people chatting somewhere behind the bushes as they closed up some kind of pop-up van business for the night. A big fisted headache pounded chips of bone from his skull. His mouth was dry and came apart only with great force, like new Velcro as he tried to shout the gulls away. Only a dry croak emerged. It took him a minute to remember where he was, where he'd been. Gloria had left him again.

Picking up where he left off, he heaved his hulking frame to a standing position, lurched out of the boat, dusted the sand from his trousers, and dug his heels into the sand. He tried again, with less force this time. The boat wouldn't move. Now that he saw the surface of the water by night, tinged yellow around the edges, under the harbour streetlights, going for a ride felt less enticing than it had this afternoon. When he'd stopped here, all pissed-up and playful, dreams had felt possible. Ivo's stomach rumbled. He wondered if the chippy up ahead was still open and set off walking. Tesco would be if it came down to it.