"I'll kill you if you hurt mummy again!'' The words were shocking coming from a little boy who could not have been more than 5 years old.

He stood there, a small stick held in his right hand, looking at a man, passed out on the sand in a drunken stupor, his bare feet and rolled up trousers being lapped by the breaking waves. Several cans of beer and an empty J&B whiskey bottle lay spread around him.

`Mummy' sat a few feet away, in the shelter of a rocky outcrop at the west end of the beach, with a large beach towel round her slim body, looking small and forlorn.

I recognised `Mummy' as a young, pleasant, Hispanic lady who I had seen occasionally while shopping at the Marketplace in Hamilton. I never knew that she had a child. I did not expect to see her here, in fact I did not expect to meet anyone, at this time of year on the beach.

It was a pleasant Bermuda evening, a week before Christmas. A slight breeze was blowing off the South Shore on Elbow Beach. I suppose it would be considered cool by native Bermudians, but to me, coming from Canada, it was almost swimming weather.

Elbow Beach is where I go for a walk whenever I need to be alone with my thoughts. I especially enjoy the beach when the tourist season is over, and often have it all to myself.

My wife had gone to Toronto to spend Christmas with our daughter and her family, and on that day I was feeling rather sorry for myself My first instinct was to keep on walking and mind my own business, but there was something in the intensity of the boy's look and his violent words that made me stop. The serious little boy had not realised that I was there, so intent was he on defending his `Mummy' from the unconscious man on the sand.

Hello'', I said, "what's the matter?'' Startled by my voice, he raised his little head with its shock of black hair towards me. I could see there were tears in his large, deep brown eyes. He looked at me for an instant, then turned and, still clutching his stick, he ran towards his mummy.

By now I felt committed, and I walked up to her. "Hi!'' I tried to sound cheery, "I couldn't help overhearing your young man defending you! Has that man been bothering you?'' She stood up, gathering the towel tightly around her shoulders. I could see she had been crying, and was rather embarrassed by the situation. I suddenly felt as if I was intruding. She said nothing.

"My name is John, John Graves, I believe I see you at the Marketplace sometimes. I was just walking along here when I heard your little boy threaten that drunk there! Has the man been bothering you? Do you need any help?'' I was repeating myself.

She spoke, almost in a whisper. "No, thank you. It's all right. He's my husband.'' "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't know. I heard your boy ... and assumed....'' I left the sentence unfinished. "Well then, sorry I intruded, I'll be on my way.'' As I turned to go she touched me lightly on the shoulder.

"Please, do you mind staying for a while,'' she said.

My head strongly suggested I leave, but my heart prompted me to stay, and my heart won out. We sat down on the sand. She introduced herself as Teresa Cartwright. The boy was watching me carefully, stick at the ready. She smiled at him. "Pablo, come and say hello to Mr. Graves.'' The boy came up to me. He was solemn beyond his years. "Hello, Mr. Graves. Will you help mummy?'' he asked. Teresa intervened quickly, "Go and play now, Pablo. We'll soon be going.'' Pablo picked up a little bucket and went to play at the water's edge.

We watched him in silence as he filled the bucket with sand and attempted to make a sandcastle. "Can I be of help then?'' I asked again. Teresa looked away. The only reply I got was a sudden outburst of deep sobbing.

"What's the matter?'' I asked. I realised I was getting myself embroiled in something I didn't need, but now I couldn't just walk away. "I know it's not my business,'' I said "but if you need help, you have to tell me.'' She continued to cry silently, looking at her little son playing by the water, and occasionally casting a glance at the prone figure of the man sleeping face down on the sand, the water now up to his knees. Then she turned to me, and her fears and frustrations came pouring out. "He beats me. I've had four years of hell with him.'' She removed the towel from her shoulders and rolled up the sleeves of her light sweater. Two, large irregular red marks on her upper arm were turning blue. "If I didn't have Pablo I would have killed myself. I do my best to give my son all he needs but that beast there,'' and she spat towards the man, "spends all our money on liquor and beer! It's a miracle he has not beaten Pablo yet, but I feel it's only a matter of time.'' Her anger scared me, but her vulnerability, the desperateness that moved her to open up to me, a stranger, made my heart go out to her. "But why don't you leave him?'' I asked.

"He told me that if I ever did that, he'll find me and kill me and take my son. And I know he will.'' "Don't you have any relatives?'' Her relatives, it turned out, were all in Mexico. She had met Bill, that was her husband's name, when he was on holiday in Gudalajara. They had fallen in love and after corresponding with him for a while he had proposed to her and, against her parents' wishes, had gone to the United States and married him.

They were very happy during their early years together, and had moved to Bermuda just over five years ago, soon after Pablo was born. Bill worked for an insurance company, but his second three-year contract was soon up and it would not be renewed. He planned to return to the US.

Things had started to change soon after they arrived in Bermuda. Bill seemed to resent the attention Teresa gave to their child, and the restrictions that the boy put on his social life.

He started to drink heavily, but he managed to conceal it from his boss.

Still, his work suffered, and he had recently been told that he was going to be let go at the end of his contract. Recently, she said, she found out that he was also doing drugs. Alone in a strange land, she had not confided to anyone, until today, fearing that if she did speak to any of her acquaintances on this small island, Bill would hear of it and would make her life even more miserable.

After a while she fell silent. I felt hopeless. "Why me?'' I thought. I wanted to help her, but how? I just sat there sharing her silence and watching the setting sun and the incoming tide.

Soon Pablo came over. "I'm cold mummy, can we go home?'' "Yes, dear,'' she said, as she pulled out a tiny jacket and wool cap from her beach bag and helped him put them on. When he was dressed, she kissed his sandy cheeks, and said softly, "Wait here, dear, I have to wake up Daddy.'' I noticed that at this, Pablo picked up his little stick, which he had dropped while his mother dressed him. She made to go and wake up Bill from his drunken sleep. Suddenly I knew how I could help her. I reached out to her. "Teresa,'' I said, "you take Pablo home. I'll take care of Bill! Tell me where you live.'' She hesitated, then looked at the prone figure of her husband lying in the sand with his shirttails out of his pants, wet from just above the knees from the creeping water, with the beer cans and whiskey bottle around him. His state must have disgusted her, as much as it did me. She gave me her phone number and her address, a small apartment not too far from where I lived.

"Thank you,'' she said, "but be careful. He can be very nasty when he drinks as much as he did today.'' "Don't worry,'' I assured her, "now go.'' The sun was setting fast. I saw her and her little protector walk up the beach away from the setting sun, following their long shadows. She was going to cut across the Stonington property, I thought.

One time she stopped, as if questioning her action. She looked back to where I was sitting. I saw her look down at Pablo. I waved to her. She waved back at me and went on. She never looked back till they slowly disappeared up the wooden stairs leading to the Stonington Hotel and the Bermuda College at the east end of the beach.

I sat there waiting in the shelter of the rock outcrop where I had heard Teresa's story, looking at Bill. I wondered what I'd do if he woke up, but I felt confident that with the quantity of booze he had consumed, there was little chance of that.

The minutes passed by. I did nothing, but I knew what I was doing. I watched the tide come in slowly but surely. It was up to his chest, and still he did not stir. Some of the empty beer cans were bobbing up and down on the incoming water. I don't know how long I was sitting there. I may even have nodded off to sleep for a while.

All I remember was that I suddenly realised it was very dark, the beach and sea lit only by the merest of glimmer from a half moon. The sea was at my feet, and I was sitting a good fifteen feet away from where Bill was. He was still there, face down, with the waves breaking about him.

In the darkness I made my way to the steps leading to the public road from the beach, where I had parked my motor bike. I did not look back. I saw nobody, and I believe nobody saw me.

When I got home I called Teresa and told her to go to bed and not to worry.

Everything was going to be all right. I went to bed myself. Surprisingly I slept well.

Two days later while having my breakfast I read a news item on the front page of the Royal Gazette about a man found dead on Elbow Beach. The report said that an autopsy found large amounts of alcohol in his blood, and concluded that he had died from drowning. The coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death by misadventure. I finished my breakfast.

The card wishing Teresa and Pablo "A Very Happy Christmas'' was on my desk. I put it in its envelope, inserted the two air tickets to Guadalajara, which I had bought the day before, sealed it, and walked out of the house to mail it to Teresa.

SHORT STORY COMPETITION CPN