My Dad loved beachcombing. He said our house should be a palace of natural treasures. Shells and rocks were his main obsessions. I trailed behind, playing on my phone, and let him fill ragged carrier bags to the brim.
But even I was impressed by the shell he found that day. Sky blue and fist sized, it curled like a sea snail, but with a trio of spikes along the top of the whorl. He let me hold our new find on the way home. I assumed the vibrations that ran through my hands were due to the car engine.
Our dinner was quick and basic as usual.
Dad headed through to his bedroom. Said he needed time to study the shell, and I was welcome to use the television. I drifted off upon the sofa at around midnight, a blanket pulled up to my chin. Calming sounds of the sea played over my dreams.
A crash that loud would wake anyone. The noise that followed was sharp and echoey, a crab trapped in a good sized saucepan. I rushed straight over to Dad's room, still wearing the same sandy jeans from the beach.
He was a grey sillouette in the corner of the room. I recognised his pyjamas, but not the lump on his head that covered the skull like a crash helmet.
His eyes were lost behind a wall of shell. But I knew he was looking at me.
