Free Mercy Seat by Wayne Price

distant armada of gulls resting on the swells in the bay. Michael was quiet again now and the whole vista, from the far off gulls to the rock under my feet, seemed unnaturally still. I had a sudden sense of being suspended above the landscape, pinned in space by the attention of the women below me. Then Jenny put up her hand to wave and broke the spell, and Christine turned away to the sea.
    Smile, Jenny said when I finally reached her. She grinned, showing me what she meant.
    How far do you want to go?
    She looked over to where Christine was standing; she’d wandered out of earshot from us. I don’t know, Jenny said. I think she’s enjoying it.
    We could go on to the village, I suggested. We could get some food. I wouldn’t mind sitting down a while.
    Is Michael getting heavy?
    A bit, I lied. Really all I wanted was to get my thoughts together. Or did I want to see Christine’s face again, as closely as I saw it when she reached out to touch me?
    Let’s do that then. We could show her the old church.
    I hitched Michael higher, ready to carry on.
    At the far side of the bay two dogs were rushing towards the breakers. A faint bark carried down on the wind. They tumbled heavily into each other and as they rolled apart their owner appeared out of the shadow of the cliffs.
    Give Christine a call, I said. She’s almost at the water.
    I’ll run and get her. You go on and we’ll catch you up. She went round to my back and chattered for a moment with Michael before setting off. I turned once and sawJenny running quickly and lightly as a girl, almost skipping, and Christine, facing her now, unmoving at the sea’s edge.
    The village church stands at a crossroads behind the bay. Eastward the road runs away from the sands and on up the broad valley behind the beach. It’s a modern road, built mainly for a caravan park set up between two sandy bays on drained flatlands. North and south it follows a much older route, linking all the coastal settlements for miles and focusing them on the church. To one side of the crossroads there’s a general store which sells beach toys, newspapers, sandwiches and ice-creams. On the other side a few low cottages cluster round a stone footbridge spanning the brook. The clear, stony spate-stream, just a trickle by the end of summer, is all that’s left of whatever Ice Age torrent once filled the valley. It’s a peaceful place even when the caravan park gets busy in high season. There’s no pub or cafe, and most of the tourists head for town, or for the bigger beach further north where the swimming is safer.
    I bought some filled rolls and tins of Coke from the store and took everything over to a bench near the brook. I eased Michael’s sling off my back but kept him sat in the harness, settling the whole structure against the arm and back-rest of the bench. He seemed happy with that.
    There was no sign of Jenny and Christine so I wandered onto the stone bridge and watched an old man and a little boy fishing in the shade there. The ankle-deep water was very clear and smooth and every piece of gravel on the stream bed was bright as a gem under the currents. It must have been hopeless for fishing, but the old man was humouring the kid, pointing out where he should besteering the bait. I followed the line of his finger and there was the worm, hanging in the flow. It looked bleached out but still had the strength to loop against the hook every so often.
    Keep him tight in now, the man said. There was a wheeziness in his voice, and occasionally he would cough from deep in his lungs and his whole body would shake. It didn’t seem to bother the boy though. He must have been used to it.
    The boy tugged the rod and threadline back and ran the worm back down a fresh strip of gravel, this time closer in to the bank. It trundled over the stones until the line tightened and swung up against the current again.
    Tight in. That’s right, that’s the