The man in the suit negotiated the last few steps along the dry wooden path – old slats protruding like broken ribs in the dirt path – and sank his dress shoes into sand. He paused there, lifting his gaze to the open seas and sky in front of him.
Call him overdressed, perhaps. Slightly hot under the collar too. But it is a good day for business, he thought, so fuck it! He was a free man and could enjoy that fact whichever way he liked.
He rattled the chain he held in one hand and tugged it.
‘C’mon matey,’ he said.
The man behind him stumbled forward. Under the weight of the heavy iron ball he carried, he fell to his knees.
‘Come on!’ the suited man said cheerily. ‘We’re here.’
The other closed his eyes. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Does it matter? Of course it does. We’re at the beach!’
The suited man turned and strode out onto the sands. A few seconds later, the one with the iron ball found a way up, back on his feet, struggling against the pain of the cuffs at his wrists and the links around his ankles.
‘It’ll be great fun!’ the suit called over his shoulder. ‘Look how good the weather is! Why, if you’d like, you can even go for a swim.’
Matt Jackson
Copyright: text Matt Jackson; photo Rossella Venturi.
This SSOA writers' blog is made possible by grant assistance from the City of Sydney.
"old slats protruding like broken ribs in the dirt path" 😊