Free Long Lankin: Stories by John Banville

the corners of their eyes and on their lips. Under their hands the rubber of the grips on the handlebars grew moist and sticky. Flies came and buzzed about them. They lowered their heads and pushed the awkward black machines to the crest of the hill. Below them now was the sea, warm and blue and glittering with flakes of silver light. A cool breeze came up over the sandy fields, carrying a faint bitterness of salt against their mouths. A stirring beside them in the ditch. A hoarse voice. Panic stabbed them. They leaped into the saddles and careered off down the hill, while behind them a ragged, strangely uncertain figure stood dark against the sky, querulously calling.
    The air whistled by their ears as they raced along the pitted road. The sea was coming to meet them, the dunes rose up green and gold, sea salt cutting their nostrils, the sun whirling like a rimless spoked wheel of gold, sea and dunes rushing, then abruptly the road ended, their tyres sank in the sand and they toppled from the saddles.
    For a while they lay panting, and listened to the sea whispering gently on the shore. Then the girl raised her head and looked back up the hill.
    —He’s gone, she whispered hoarsely.
    The boy sat up and rubbed his knee.
    —I hurt myself.
    —I said he’s gone.
    —Who is?
    —The fellow up on the hill. He’s gone.
    The boy shaded his eyes and gazed back along the road. He pursed his lips and murmured vaguely:
    —O yes.
    She caught his wrist in her bony fingers.
    —Did you hear what he was shouting? Did you hear what he called you?
    —Me?
    —He was shouting at you. He called you mister.
    —Did he?
    —Didn’t you hear him?
    He did not answer, but stood up and brushed the sand from his faded cord trousers.
    —Come on, he said, and grasping her hand he pulled her to her feet. The tide is up. We’ll leave the bikes here.
    He walked away from her, limping slightly. She stared after him for a moment and then began to follow. She scowled at his back and cried:
    —You’re a right fool!
    —Come on.
    Through a gap in the dunes they passed down to the beach. The sea was quiet, a bowl of calm blue waters held in the arms of the horseshoe bay. Lines of sea-wrack scored the beach, evidence of the changing limits of the tide. They walked slowly toward the pier, a grey finger of stone accusing the ocean.
    —I’d love a swim, the little girl said.
    —Why didn’t you bring your togs?
    —I think I’ll go in in my skin.
    —You will not.
    —If I met some fellow swimming underwater wouldn’t he get a great shock?
    Giggling she tucked the hem of her dress into her knickers and waded into the sea. She splashed about, drenching herself. Her cries winged out over the water like small swift birds. The boy watched her, then he turned away and moved on again.
    —Wait for me, she cried, and came thrashing out of the sea.
    At the end of the pier a bent old man was sitting on a bollard, his back turned toward them. The girl ran ahead and began to dance excitedly around him. The boy came up and stopped behind the old man. He put his hands into his pockets and stared out to sea with studied indifference, softly whistling. A distant sail trembled on the horizon.
    —And did your auntie let you go? the old man was asking of the girl, mocking her. He had a low, hoarse voice, and he spoke slowly, as though to hide an impediment.
    —She did, the girl said, and laughed slyly. It was such a grand day.
    —Aye, it’s a great day.
    He turned his head and considered the boy a moment.
    —And who’s this young fellow?
    —That’s my brother.
    —Aye now? he said blankly.
    He turned back to the sea, grinding his gums. The boy shifted from one foot to the other. For a while there was silence but for the faint crackling of the seaweed over on the beach. The old man spat noisily and said:
    —Well, they’ve took him out anyway.
    The girl’s eyes flashed. She looked at her brother and winked.
    —Did they? she said casually. Today, eh?
    —Aye.