Free The Dave Bliss Quintet by James Hawkins

revealed.
    Footsteps on the wooden planking bring his head up as a young woman throws out a towel suggestively close to him, then does a striptease with her dress,revealing a bikini thong that offers virtually no protection against the elements.
    â€œLook at me!” screams the tiny triangle of strategically arranged material.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?” says her face as she catches him, “and what are you writing about?”
    Paradise is not all it’s cracked up to be,
he writes, sensing that the woman is somehow annoyed that he may be writing about her. That, like the naked
indigènes
of other less civilized cultures, she is concerned his writing will steal her soul, or will expose her to her enemies.
    Feeling the weight of her stare he keeps his head down, writing gobbledegook, and debates whether or not she wants him to pay her attention. Should I approach her? he wonders. Let her know I’m not a nutter. But what to say — flattery? I am writing about a beautiful woman …
    What does she expect? he questions, trying to read her expressions and feel her vibes as she swings from inquisitiveness through interest to concern, then annoyance, and eventually outright fury, as she snatches up her towel and storms off along the jetty, the naked cheeks of her bottom clenched in fierce anger.
    What did I do wrong? he wonders, feeling even more dejected as he puts away his pen and turns his thoughts to the malignancy of Superintendent Edwards. The possibility that an old rattan beach mat would solve his dilemmas does not occur to him as he sits on the jetty and winds himself up with worry.
    Watching as the beach quickly fills with the day’s visitors, his eye is caught by a noticeable void in the carefully arranged mosaic of basking flesh. A frayed beach mat lies abandoned on the sand, like an emptyraft amid a sea of floating bodies, yet is accorded more reverence than any sun worshipper.
    â€œMind the mat!” shout worried parents, as playing children blindly rush across the sand in pursuit of balls, kites, and each other, and newcomers give the space a wide berth as they scout for a vacant spot. Near-naked sun seekers, shining with oil, can fend for themselves, but the unoccupied mat obviously demands protection from all.
    â€œGosh — did that swimsuit shrink?” muses Bliss, spotting a V-shaped man whose skinny legs seem incapable of supporting his pumped torso. His chest still bears the breadth of an active youth, but the rest of his body is retreating into old age as he spends his days patrolling the shoreline with the arrogance of an elephant seal beachmaster. The sunbathing beauties instinctively know the trophy he seeks, and at his approach they quickly turn onto their stomachs or grab a towel.
    The beach prowler takes on the question of the vacated mat, standing overly close as he scours the beach, hoping his intrusion on the mat’s personal space will induce the owner to claim possession — hoping the owner may turn into a trophy.
    â€œSee. I was guarding your mat for you,” he will insist, but only if she is worthy; otherwise he will snort loudly and grumble about the inconsiderateness of people leaving unattended mats.
    After five minutes of posturing, the pariah becomes restless at his lack of magnetism and draws upon the strength of surrounding bodies, gathering a small group to infringe upon the mat with him as he leads a deliberation on its fate.
    â€œI zhink we should move it,” he suggests, taking command. “
Ça vous défrise?
” he enquires — any objections?
    The crowd backs away from the edge. “It is nearly midday,” one quickly explains. “He could be having an early lunch.”
    â€œHe?” the beach-master queries, with more than a trace of disappointment.
    â€œ
Mais oui
,” says the other, “it seems most logical to me.
Regarde —
zhere is no bag, no towel, no dress, and no sunscreen. What