They are digging around in the red stuff when he feels it grab his arm. He recoils, screaming, from the flayed bowels of the submarine, falling down onto the wet sand below. A thing, a red thing, the size of a heart and carapaced like a woodlouse is stuck to his forearm. It squeezes with a grip that threatens to crack bone. His comrades gather. He screams for help. Why won’t they do anything? Why won’t they help? But there is no helping now. It’s too late. They are gathered only to mourn someone who is lost but doesn’t yet know it.
Paddy Dobson
16th July 2024