A Long List of Nevers - Prologue. Prologue

Keith Harris was a hunted man.

Nearing the huge bonfire on the beach, he forced himself to slow down so as not to stand out in the crowd. He threaded through the people milling yards away from the inferno, frantically looking for a place to hide. He carefully avoided meeting any of the gazes of the people around him, fearful of someone recognising and calling attention to him.

Surveying the more isolated tables on the gentle slope of the dunes, he spotted a table of complete strangers. Perfect, he thought as he quickened his pace.

Keith grunted as his shin hit the edge of a low bench. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he slid quickly into the seat, tucking his legs under the table. He was still panting. He smiled tightly at the startled occupants. He waited for his breath to return to normal. “Hi.”

“Hey.” A camera-toting woman, obviously a tourist, greeted back. Uncertain smiles of greeting flickered on the faces around the table as well.

“So…” Keith began, his mind racing as he thought of ways to get these people to hide him, without them actually realising that they were hiding him.

A shrill whistle blasted from behind him, back from where the revelers were clumped around the bonfire.

Too late, Keith thought. Everyone forgot the intruder on their table as they craned their necks to see what was happening. Keith didn’t need to look. He knew perfectly well what was going on. Looking around in panic, his gaze latched on a man with a rather out of place sombrero resting in front of him. He mumbled an unintelligible plea for permission, then grabbed the hat and plopped it on his own head without waiting for an answer. The owner gaped at him, speechless. Keith just pulled it further down over his ears in response, praying he won’t try and get it back.

“Anybody seen Keith Harris around here?”

The question came from two tables down. Keith cursed under his breath, frantically searching for something, anything, that would make him blend in better. He spotted a tray of apples, hoping to cover his face by chomping into one, he quickly pulled it to him. As he raised an apple to his mouth, his eyes met the person who had originally been enjoying another of the apples.

Keith’s heart sank. It was James, one of the divemasters.

He had hoped he’d picked a table far enough from the main group that he’d be safely hidden amongst the mostly oblivious tourists. It was just his rotten luck that he had picked the table with James.

James knew perfectly well why Keith was trying to hide.

“James… please, mate…?”

With a twinkle in his eye, the traitorous bastard whistled at Keith’s pursuer and pointed at Keith. “He’s right here!”

“Wanker!” Keith shot up, throwing the sombrero and the uneaten apple at the guffawing James.

He bolted off up the beach as he heard a cacophony of whistles break out amongst his pursuers. His sandal-shod feet couldn’t get enough traction in the sand, slowing him down considerably.

He glanced back to see his pursuers: two brawny guys dressed as cops with a rather unconventional twist – instead of pants, both had skimpy red speedos on. They wore boots, also not quite ideal for running in the sand. Not that that made any difference whatsoever. Both men were a great deal fitter than Keith.

He just managed to reach the grass line before he was suddenly encased in an iron-hard embrace and brought down. The guy who tackled him had cushioned him from the brunt of the fall, but Keith’s teeth still rattled with the impact on the soft sand.

His right arm was quickly cuffed.

He was doomed.