Mike Dixon

In the cool waters of the south, divers stood out at night
and a divemaster could see them once they‟d surfaced. David
turned on the scope and put it to his eye. He usually
had to adjust for brightness but there was no need.
A beam of light was dancing over the sand towards him.
Whoever was stalking them had an infrared torch. David
thought that a bit crude. If he were spying, it would be the
last thing he‟d use. He faced out to sea, pulled at his zip
and returned the scope to his eye. The sea shimmered
green and a giant shadow stretched out before him - legs
apart and peeing.
The beam was pointing directly at him. It was like someone
had him in their sights and was preparing to blast him
away. That was what happened to his father. He was got by
an insurgent‟s bullet when he was on patrol in one of the
Gulf States. David tensed and was relieved when the beam
moved away. He turned his head and saw it settle on Tim,
who was stretched out against a palm tree with a wine cask
balanced on his chest.
He zipped up his fly and sprinted to
the band of vegetation that ran along
the top of the beach. Palm fronds
crackled underfoot when he got there.
He crouched and put the scope to his
eye. The stalker had left the cover of
the bushes and was examining the
Landcruiser.
Illuminated by his own torch the
man was clearly visible – overweight
and wearing a baseball cap. He crept
round to the trailer and lifted the tarpaulin.
Then, apparently satisfied, he left the vehicle and
walked back onto the track.
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