Written on 8 January 2019
A stream of orange, dusty sunlight crested the bed sheet covering the window.
Gammon stirred, opening a tentative eye. As per usual, his bladder was full to bursting, so he hopped out of bed, still very much with his sleep, and pissed in the glass bottle that used to contain some sort of BBQ sauce.
He kept one eye shut, and let out a sigh of relief, his black hair tousled and his underwear stained. He sealed the bottle, and flopped back into his single mattress on the dusty floor, pulling the duvet over his head.
But, he was awake. Another day of maddening isolation was ahead of him, and Gammon began running through his limited options. He would go down to the sea, of course, for a wash and a swim. He could rev up the generator and watch a DVD, but he was low on fuel, and the airdrop wasn't going to be for another week.
So, reading and gardening it was.
Gammon gave up on going back to sleep. He walked over to his makeshift wash basin in the corner. The shack was a single room. His bed in one corner, a wood burner in another. He used a gas camping stove to cook, or otherwise used his fire pit. He had his supplies under his bed, and an antique TV and DVD player for when he was going absolutely stir crazy. As safe houses went it wasn't the best. But he lived in complete isolation atop sand dunes. He knew he was in the north sea somewhere, but he didn't know exactly where. He hadn't seen a soul for the 3 months he'd been there.
It was late spring, but still a bit chilly to cook outside, so he fired up the camping stove. Then he picked up his basin and piss bottle to empty. The sun was still coming up. Gammon looked out across the reliably deserted beach. Orange clouds dotted the horizon, and the waves came in and out, calm and peaceful. He was attempting to grow some herbs in his makeshift front garden, so he emptied the basin on top of them, when he heard a child wailing.
There was an adult voice, too. Sounded German. Gammon guessed they were trying to reassure the child. He was trapped between curiosity and fear of being found. He was still clutching his piss bottle.
The head of a young woman, in her late 20’s, came into view as she climbed the dune. She was carrying a little girl, no more than four, in her arms. The girl was screaming. The woman looked petrified, until she saw Gammon. She sprinted up the dune towards him. She waved, still shouting in German, but now aimed at him.
“Deutsche? Deutsche?” She said, stopping just short of his front garden.
“English.” Gammon grunted. He was aware he was still in his underwear.
“English, danke.” She said, trying to work out what to say next. She pointed at the girl's foot, nodding at Gammon. She then wobbled on the spot, waving her spare arm in a pop and lock motion.
“Fish. Fish.” And then she mimed the wobbling again.
“She's been stung by a jellyfish?” Gammon said, croakily, pointing at the little girl. The woman began nodding vigorously.
“Yes. Yes. Jellyfish. Sting. Help?”
Gammon eyed them both, wondering whether they would tell anyone about him being there. He looked down at his hand unconsciously. He was still holding the bottle of piss. He looked back up at the panicked woman and the crying girl. Without another word, he handed over the bottle to the woman, and walked back inside his cabin, leaving her looking a little perplexed, but grateful.