It’s the last train to arrive on the day, or night as it is now. Down the hill are ships lit up on the sea. The jetty and Marine Terrace twinkle with laughter and glasses catching the streetlight. Dreamland is closed. The bones of rides are shadows in moonlight. The Art Deco cinema, dark for decades but for the marquee readograph’s backlit words, tonight saying SCREAM IF YOU WANNA. I want to.

I drop from the promenade to the beach, walking towards the low tide, on sand more compact the damper it is, until it dips into a sea-water layer, then becomes clear again until the encroachment of waves. I’m unsure if they’re going out or coming in. I pick a spot to watch, losing it when my concentration ebbs, remembering Shelley’s line, ‘Lift not the painted veil which those who live call life.’

The seaweed stinks, like I’d imagine a decomposing body does, but the wind changes, carrying instead the smell of burning charcoal from further up the beach. You wave and beckon me. I wave back and go to you, watching your swollen face appear in firelight. Sparks spit. You shiver in the flames. Your outline fades and wavers, like a watercolour or the flicker on a movie screen. The veil trembles and the fire has no heat for me. You ask where I’ve been and I tell you, it wasn’t me that was gone but you, and we’ve just minutes left before I’ll want to scream again.