Jeremy felt an overwhelming surge of apathy and walked past his office block. His programming usually just allowed the cruise-control function to take hold, then after an hour's mundane blur of routine he'd feel himself plummet down into his office chair. Today though, there was some kind of system malfunction. The strong apathy surge must have dislodged something. He kept his head down and hoped not to be stopped by any of his colleagues walking in his direction.
Cruise-control must have been contaminated, infected or tampered with in some way, because just as his feet and hands usually did the things that led him to his office swivel chair, today they led him to the train station. Still his mind hadn't seemed to contribute to the decisions his body was making, he just followed where his feet led.
Barry Island, the departures monitor said, two rows down. Five minutes. Never been there before. Why not? he thought. Swathes of office workers were filtering through and out of the station: some zombified, some possessed by a freakish will that made it look like they weren't dreading the day. But most zombified.
Jeremy moved against the tide, expecting to be caught by someone, shouted at. Nervous and excited (excited! Barry Island, what’s wrong with me? Lots, an answer came), he almost expected interrogation from the man on the other side of the counter. - Young Persons day return to Barry Island please, he’d said. How dangerous, how exotic! Surely he'd be caught? - One pound forty five. Very reasonable, Jeremy thought.
The only person in his carriage, Jeremy trundled slowly out of the city and through suburbs and small, pleasant commuter belts he never knew existed. The cruise-control systems must have to be even stronger for people from here, who worked in Cardiff. Especially for those who drove. A stoned-looking old conductor punched Jeremy's ticket without a flicker of acknowledgement of the person it was attached to, then tottered on down the carriage. He thought his apparent incongruence might have caused a glance here or there - wearing a good suit, posh shoes, collar and tie, on a Monday morning just after nine o clock, on his own, on a carriage destined for Barry Island (there couldn't be a lot of offices there) - but even on alighting and stepping onto the beach, dogs didn't so much as sniff.
Why were people who walked with dogs called dog-walkers? Jeremy mused, walking down the beach. It was a pet muse when he walked aimlessly and dog-less. It wasn't like dogs couldn't actually walk without humans. Why the inequality? Why weren't the pairs ever referred to as human-walkers? Why weren't people who jogged with their dogs called dog-joggers or dog-runners? Why are the dogs or humans in the equation at all? They're all just walkers, surely? Unless they run, or jog, or do that walking fast thing that looks ridiculous - what was that called?
His shiny black formal shoes sank into the wet sand, clinging to the soles and making walking an effort. Sucking and splatting sounds as they plunged in and out. Specs and splodges of wet sand flicked up the back of Jeremy's trouser legs. A terrier scampered past, chasing a ball. Its owner - a sprightly looking middle-aged lady - strode past (dog-strider?) without looking at the suspiciously suited man she was sharing the beach with.
Jeremy reached some rocks where the beach ended and began clambering across them. His footwear wasn't well suited and he looked in fear at the gruesomely draped seaweed, beckoning broken ankles or serious injury of some kind. He precariously wobbled his way around it, not the most elegant of climbers. In ensuring utmost care, he clumsily slumped onto his behind to drop onto the next layer of rocks, when a simple bold step was all that was required. He found a large, smooth rock, only pimpled by the odd limpet, and lay down resting his briefcase under his head. The wind blew with constant steady strength, (inspiring an odd kind of respect, Jeremy thought), the sea lapped, seagulls cried and the now far off terrier barked.
He identified a large vehicle reversing inland by its insistently blaring siren. The cruise-control demons were banished. Jeremy pictured his empty desk, monitor off, chair neatly tucked in, and he smiled. Sunshine pierced a cloud and kissed his face. Barry Island wasn't entirely unpleasant, as long as you didn't look inland or mind brown sea. He closed his eyes.
Something jolted him - he was bleeping. Had he finally found the controlling bug inside them all? Was it drawing attention to itself so the malfunction could be corrected? Would he imminently be set upon by a team of government agents who'd pop a needle in his arm? Or, was... no. The briefcase shrilled under Jeremy's head. He opened his eyes and squinted at the bright sunshine. Sitting forward he un-flapped the case and plucked out his phone. OFFICE - Calling... it told him. Jeremy impulsively threw his phone seawards. It bounced once off a rock and bleeped so abnormally highly that Jeremy actually felt a momentary twinge of regret - like he’d just kicked a dog - then it sank satisfyingly into a rock-pool, which was probably against some toxic waste littering law. Phones and all the stuff inside them were particularly bad for the environment, Jeremy remembered hearing once.
He clambered his way over the remaining rocks to the next beach. A bored looking, grey-haired lady sat on a rock, dreaming out to sea. Jeremy was half-tempted to start chatting to her as he passed - unlock the secrets and skeletons of her long and dramatic life. Or say good morning, at least. But he didn't. And she showed no sign of seeing him. Nor did a young couple who he passed walking across the next beach, enveloped in each other. His feet sank more on this sand, and his shoes clearly showed smears of sand and one deep long scratch from a rock, or perhaps a limpet.
Another thing Jeremy considered, watching a young child run past him chasing a ball, was that he was dead. He could go for days, even in the week when he was at work, without speaking to anybody. At times, he thought it might come as more of a shock to learn he was alive. Even in some minor way. A smile from a stranger, a thank-you to a held open door, an acknowledgement from a polite motorist. Either he was dead; people (or at least all the people he ever came into contact with, without any exception) were generally not very perceptive, caring or humane; or he just might be entirely uninteresting: to look at, listen to, share oxygen with. Now there was a thought, Jeremy thought.
He wound his way back around, over the headland in the direction of the station. Marvelling at the constancy of the sounds, he sat on a bench and looked out at the brown sea. The expanse of beach he'd walked on a few minutes ago looked huge. He must have looked like a speck from up here, as those people down there did then. But he was still a speck up there, to them down on the beach. Always a speck. New terriers buzzed round like radio-controlled cars, the lucky fools.
Leaving his briefcase on the bench, he walked to the edge of the cliff at the tip of the headland. Feeling the three pounds fifty five pence change in one pocket, and his keys and wallet in the other, Jeremy idly rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, toes over the edge. The apathy surged once more and combined with an urgently strong gust of wind, forced his balance further forward. Why not? Jeremy thought, without trying to think of a reply, encouraged by the elements. ‘Timber,’ he casually announced to himself. Just before impact, mid-air, feeling the coins in his pocketed left hand, he realised he'd been short-changed. Bastard, Jeremy thought, finally.
Dogs barked, the wind blew gusty, the sea lapped, seagulls cried and Jeremy's head exploded against limpets and rock with a hollow thud.
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