Night Beach (14 page)

subtext
of
that
is.

10

Art
by
night

There’s
a
colour
plate
of
the
mystery
and
melancholy
of
a
Street
by
Giorgio
de
Chirico
in

a
book
I
have
about
the
Surrealists.
It’s
a
cityscape,
and
the
buildings
in
it
seem
to
be

looming
over
a
little
girl
who’s
all
alone,
rolling
a
hoop
before
her
as
she
runs
along.
But

what
makes
you
uneasy
are
the
shadows.

They’re
at
odds
with
the
light;
much
darker
and
deeper
than
they
should
be.
And
what

makes
you
worry
for
the
little
girl,
what’s
sinister,
is
that
ahead
of
her
there’s
a

strangely-‐shaped
shadow
thrown
by
something
or
someone
you
can’t
see.
You
get
the

feeling
it’s
waiting
for
her.

Sitting
cross-‐legged
on
my
bed,
with
my
doona
wrapped
around
my
shoulders,
the
book

laying
open
in
front
of
me,
I
study
it
until
my
neck
is
sore.
But
the
painting
doesn’t
give

me
any
answers,
just
holds
me
in
suspense.
I
want
to
know
what’s
throwing
the
shadow.

I
want
to
know
if
the
little
girl
will
see
it
when
she
goes
further
up
the
street.

I
don’t
think
so.
Just
like
if
I’d
walked
towards
Kane
downstairs,
before
he
switched
the

light
off,
I’m
not
sure
that
I
would
have
seen
anything
to
explain
that
strange,
dark

shape
spilling
over
the
tiles.
Tonight,
I’ve
stopped
thinking
that
shadows
are

accountable.

Because
I
remember
now.

Before
Kane
punched
Greg
Hill,
I
saw
a
shadow.
It
was
directly
behind
Kane,
almost
like

a
double
image,
and
I
might
have
thought
it
was
just
my
eyes
blurring
except
for
one

thing.

It
moved
first.

Once,
there
was
this
rainy
night
when
I
was
in
the
car
with
my
dad,
and
a
van,
two
cars

ahead
of
us,
suddenly
spun
out,
sliding
across
the
road.
That’s
what
happened.
And
I

saw
it.

But
to
me,
the
van
appeared
out
of
nowhere
on
the
other
side
of
the
road,
a
driver

making
a
hazardous
U-‐turn,
causing
cars
in
both
directions
to
stop.
I
watched,

disgusted,
as
the
driver
turned
around
slowly
and
drove
off
ahead
of
us.

‘What
a
dickhead.
He
must
be
drunk,’
I
said
to
Dad,
wondering
why
the
other
drivers

weren’t
riding
their
horns.

‘Poor
bastard.
He
probably
hit
an
oil
slick,’
Dad
muttered,
gripping
the
steering
wheel

tightly.
‘Or
maybe
his
tyres
are
bald.
You’ve
got
to
be
so
careful
in
these
conditions.’

He
was
reacting
to
what
had
really
happened.
And
his
words
caused
a
vague,
flitting

memory:
the
spinning
blur
of
red
and
white
lights
as
the
van
slid
across
the
bitumen

like
the
road
had
turned
to
ice.
It
was
the
first
time
I
realised
that
your
mind
can’t

always
be
trusted.
If
it
can’t
make
sense
of
what
you’re
seeing,
it
will
come
up
with
an

alternative
scenario
for
you.

After
that
I
got
heavily
into
Magritte
for
a
while.
He
said
it
was
useless
asking
of
his

paintings,
‘What
does
it
mean?’
because
that’s
not
how
mystery
works.
He
said,
‘What

one
sees
in
an
object
is
another,
hidden,
object.’
When
I
look
at
Kane,
am
I
sensing

something
hidden?
Is
that
what
that
shadow
is?
Is
it
showing
me
the
difference
between

what
I
think
I
see,
and
what’s
really
there?
Magritte
would
ask
whether
it’s
the

manifestation
of
the
hidden
in
Kane,
or
the
hidden
in
me.
I
don’t
know.
When
it
comes
to

Kane,
I
never
know
what’s
real.

1.43
AM.
I
wish
I
could
sleep.
Escape
the
thoughts
that
have
been
going
round
my
head

for
hours,
like
race
cars
on
a
freaking
track,
making
me
feel
more
and
more
frustrated.

I
wriggle
down
the
bed,
retreating
further
under
the
doona,
and
then
pick
up
my
pencil,

considering
the
pad
in
front
of
me.
I’ve
been
sketching
ideas
for
Ultramarine,
my
new

and
improved
Visual
Arts
project.
But
the
excitement
I
felt
at
the
Clarkes’
has

evaporated.
Nothing
is
working.
All
my
ideas
are
stupid.
Especially
this
one
–
me,

standing
on
the
shore,
looking
at
the
moon
rising
out
of
the
sea,
my
relics
washed
up

like
driftwood
on
the
sand.
Now
that
I’ve
started
sketching
it,
I
can
see
it’s
not
enough.
It

captures
the
ending
sadness,
but
that’s
about
what’s
been.
I
also
want
it
to
have
the

fever
I’ve
got
for
things
that
have
never
happened.

When
I
was
twelve,
Anna
and
I
spent
Christmas
holidays
at
the
Gold
Coast
with
Mum

and
Brian.
We
stayed
in
a
high-‐rise,
on
the
twentieth
floor,
and
at
night
I’d
stare
out
at

the
windows
of
the
high-‐rise
opposite,
watching
people,
hoping
to
see
a
murder,
or
at

least
somebody
having
sex.
But
then
they
put
the
funfair
up
in
the
reserve
across
the

road
and
I
started
staring
at
that
instead.
It
looked
so
magical.
All
those
glittering
lights,

people
moving
around,
having
fun.

The
music.
Brian
said
he’d
take
us
and
I
almost
didn’t
want
to
go.
Because
it
was
perfect

from
a
distance.
It
was
anything
I
wanted
it
to
be.

That’s
what
I
want
to
capture
in
my
painting
–
what
that
funfair
was
before
I
got
there.
I

want
it
to
evoke
the
heightened
emotions
I
get
at
night.
My
feelings
are
skyscrapers

then.

Every
thing
is
more
vivid
and
anything
could
happen.

Now
and
then
I
hear
the
faint
noises
of
Kane
moving
around
downstairs:
the
scrape
of
a

chair,
a
door
opening,
water
moving
through
the
pipes.
And
each
noise
is
a
reminder
of

his
presence,
scratching
at
my
nerves.
But
there’s
nothing
to
be
done
about
it.
I’m

trapped
in
my
room.
Shut
off
from
him.

Shut
off
from
the
night.
Trapped
because
I
don’t
know
how
to
be
otherwise.
I
would
give

anything
to
make
myself
go
down
there,
tiptoe
through
the
dark
house
and
down
the

dark
stairs,
knock
on
his
door.

And
do
what?

Tell
him
I
saw
a
shadow?

Ask
him
why,
when
he
said
my
name,
when
he
stared
at
me
across
the
dinner
table,
he

looked
afraid?

I
can
hear
his
laugh
now.
The
kind
of
laugh
designed
to
make
me
feel
like
an
idiot;
a

desperate
idiot.
What’s
worse
is
that
it
would
be
true,
at
least
in
part.
Because
if
I
think

about
him
wrapping
his
arms
around
me
and
walking
me
up
the
stairs,
I
start
to
squirm.

I’ve
had
enough.
I
can’t
stand
this
anymore.
Sweeping
my
drawing
pencils
off
the
bed,
I

throw
my
sketch
pad
onto
the
floor
beside
them,
and
get
up.

But
I’m
a
coward.
What
I
do
is
set
up
my
camera
and
tripod
and
take
another
reflection

portrait.

Come
to
me!!!!

Then
I
screw
up
the
piece
of
paper
with
these
words
written
on
it,
and
throw
it
at
the

bin
near
my
desk.
Miss.
Flop
back
on
the
bed.
Stare
at
the
ceiling.

I’m.
So.
Wound.
Up.

On
nights
like
this,
when
I
am
absolutely
climbing
the
walls,
I
think
about
looking
up
sex

stuff
on
the
internet.

Everybody
does
it.
At
least,
that’s
all
some
of
the
guys
at
school
ever
go
on
about.
But
my

way
is
different
to
that.

I
change
position,
kneeling
on
the
bed,
wrapping
my
doona
around
me
once
more.
And
I

re-‐position
my
reading
light,
angling
it
upwards
at
the
print
on
the
wall.
I
wasn’t
that

fussed
on
Henri’s
Armchair
when
I
first
got
it.
I
picked
it
because
the
studio
was
out
of

stock
of
the
two
prints
I
liked
better.
But
that
changed
when
I
started
looking
at
it,
really

looking,
and
I
saw
the
things
you
don’t
notice
straightaway.

It’s
from
Brett
Whiteley’s
perspective
as
he
sits
in
a
room
sketching.
There’s
a
Persian

rug
on
the
floor,
a
coffee
table,
and,
through
the
windows,
Sydney
Harbour
in

ultramarine
blue.
But
if
you
keep
looking
at
Henri’s
Armchair,
you
notice
the
naked

thighs
of
the
woman
sitting
beside
him.
And
then
you
see
the
mattress
on
the
floor
in

the
far
corner
of
the
room,
and
the
indentations
in
its
pillows,
and
the
painting
on
the

wall
which
shows
what
just
happened.
There
are
spent
matches
on
the
coffee
table.

Those
matches,
they
do
something
to
me.
By
the
time
I
get
to
them,
I’m
biting
my
thumb

really
hard.

Afterwards,
I
get
out
of
bed,
tossing
my
doona
aside,
and
the
cold
is
a
shocking
relief.

There’s
a
half-‐moon
hanging
low
in
the
sky,
and
a
mist
has
crept
onshore.
The

streetlights
are
haloed,
and
so
is
the
floodlight
down
at
the
Walls’
tidal
pool.
It’s
like
a

beacon.
Calling.
I
open
the
window
wide,
and
the
room
fills
with
the
rumble
of
the
ocean

spilling
over
and
drawing
back.

There’s
the
faint
smell
of
something
scorched.
Outside,
a
scratching
noise.
A
loud
thump

downstairs.
On
impulse,
I
stomp
my
foot,
hard,
wanting
him
to
know
that
I’m
trapped
in

my
tower,
going
to
waste,
but
the
carpet
muffles
it.

I
press
my
forehead
against
the
icy
pane,
breath
fogging
up
the
glass,
feeling
dazed,

drunk,
spent.
And
for
a
moment,
I
think
that
it’s
me
panting.