On following the coast - wet sandals leaving wet kidney prints on the concrete sea wall - he heard a woman screaming in the distance. The sun was white and naked against the dry swarthy sky, and a woman was screaming on the shore line. He pushed forwards against the steel railings to squint in her direction. (The metal under his hands was scolding hot) He could just make out the woman in the wavering air, a man leant over her, both were thrashing in the fine sand. Was he beating her? Had he the nerve, this larrikin to give his mistress a larruping in plain view amongst the fine sand?
He was having none of it. He kicked off his sandals, and kicked in his spurs towards the man, the woman and her plaintive, tortured cries. Down the steep declivity of the sea defense, and hopscotching over the fiery dunes, he closed on the scene; the man leaning over the woman turned to face him, his face blanched and horrified, and as he did so, the bellowing woman came into full view.
The man breathed:
'She's been attacked in the water. She's been attacked by a shark.'
He rushed forwards, and both men danced helplessly around the woman and her dolorous cries - her left leg was missing below the knee, and the calf was hanging loosely from her right. The last life pumped out into the shore, the soul cotterdamed for maintenance in the fine sand. And she was dead. (The stunted shadows of the men squirmed under the high sun)

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