Baner Peran by Nadia Leigh-Hewitson

It was November, a tropical storm had blown in on the gulf stream and the air was unsettlingly heavy. This Cornish guy, Kevin, used to come to the café and drink coffee while he read the newspaper – the West Briton, I think. He was a nice guy, a practical guy.

One morning Kev arrives, he’s in a bad mood. He usually tells these banal stories about his neighbours or something but this morning he takes his coffee silently and goes outside. 11am, and he hasn’t been in, so I go and sit with him on the pier. He’s pale, there’s a thick layer of sweat on his top lip.

He tells me about something that had happened yesterday – walking the coastal path, texting his daughter, and this boy comes running around the corner. The kid’s wearing one of those tacky Cornish caps right down over his eyes, he runs straight into Kev, knocking his phone out of his hand. Then the boy goes to pick it up, and old Kev thinks he’s trying to steal it, so he shoves him, hard - so hard that head meets gravel. The boy’s frightened, his head’s bleeding, Kev reaches out a hand, but the boy runs away.

Looking for the kid, Kev finds a novelty cap in the surf, the white cross of St Pirran brown with blood. He walks up and down the beach, frantic – If the boy’s fallen in the water, then it’s his fault. Kev goes home to his little bungalow overlooking the quay. He’s closing the curtains when he spots something out on the water. At this point I stop him. I tell him he he’s just overthinking and go get him another coffee; but he'd left when I came back.

During the following months he became withdrawn, lost a lot of weight. Sometimes I didn’t see him for weeks at a time.

One January morning Kev’s waiting for me, with a dogged look. He insists we go inside. He tells me he’s seen the boy. I’m relieved at first, ‘I seen him. Sounds funny see, but I seen him in the kitchen sink’. He says the boy’s been after him since November and that he can’t stand it. He can’t bear to go to the beach anymore, he sees the boy’s pale hands clawing through the foam. Can’t sit on the pier, he sees the boy’s face in the swell; puckered, pale, and nauseating. Sometimes a sightless and milky eye stares up at him from his cup of tea.

I was clearly out of my depth with my customer therapy sessions and honestly, I was tired of having to take care of this fully grown man, so I advised that he go home. The following week there was Kev on the front of the paper. “Local Man Drowns in His Own Bathtub”, the report said he was found clutching a child’s hat.

It’s sad and pretty creepy, poor old Kev was obviously disturbed. I only mention it because I’ve started getting these copies of the West Briton delivered, but I didn’t order them, and they’re always soggy.

by Nadia Leigh-Hewitson