On the beach a fence of orange plastic cones keeps the crowd at bay. Nobody surfs the perfect waves. Someone with a mirror shines the sun up to where he crouches on his ledge. We hear that he threw stones, and told the cops that he would stay up there until he died. There is a red fire-engine in the middle of men.
Men shout orders.
A middle-aged man with a megaphone stands six rungs up a ladder wears a helmet, has a shield. A gleaming pile of plastic riot-shields. The fugitive's shins seem grey in this light. He squints back down and shifts his row of stones. The mirrored sun spot jiggles on the cliff.