The water trickled between his shoulder blades. He shifted his head back and let it swill, tepid and briny, over his two-day-old stubble. The stained sleeping bag lay sloughed off on the sandy floorboards. Next to it the precious letter, still in its pristine cream envelope. He imagined the black type inside, jostling and straining against the paper prison. He was Dominic Slater, 29, failed teacher, living in a beach hut. But not for much longer.