Night Beach (16 page)

Still
standing,
I
flick
rapidly
through
the
pages
until
I
find
the
more
recent
entries.
They

are
great
blocks
of
dense
text
about
the
place
–
the
food,
the
boats,
flying
fish,
the
call
to

prayer,
the
mosques.
He’s
even
dutifully
recorded
the
population
and
the
number
of

islands,
and
seeing
that
hurts.
Because
I
didn’t
expect
it
from
him.
It
makes
me
realise

how
lucky
I
am
to
have
travelled
so
much
already,
thanks
to
parents
who
could
afford
it.

But
then
the
travelogue
gives
way
to
the
group
of
them
getting
pissed
and
trying
to
get

laid,
and
I
get
a
sick
feeling
in
my
stomach.
It’s
the
bile
that
comes
when
you’re
face
to

face
with
what
being
one
of
the
boys
is
all
about.

Marco
chatted
up
this
German
chick.
Had
a
friend.
Lena.

Sarah.
Hot.
Up
for
it.
Back
to
the
room.

Hollywood’s
right.
These
guys
are
arseholes.
I
know
that.
And
I
feel
scorn
for
all
their

stupid,
testosterone-‐blown,
misogynistic
bullshit.

But
I
can’t
put
that
journal
down
and
walk
out
of
the
room.

Because
when
the
big
south
swells
roll
through,
and
a
rip
like
a
river
flattens
out
the

break
so
that
only
the
south
bank
is
working,
and
each
line
shutting
down
makes
a

sound
like
God’s
hands
clapping,
I
have
seen
Kane
take
off
on
waves
so
big
my
stomach

has
dropped,
seen
him
silhouetted
at
the
crest
like
someone
about
to
fly,
before
driving

his
way
forward
into
pits
so
deep
I
thought
he
was
going
to
pay
hell
a
special
visit.

It’s
that
part
of
him,
whatever
it
is
that
means
he
can
do
that,
which
has
infected
me.
It

would
be
easy
if
there
was
some
way
of
getting
him
out
of
my
system.
That
transaction

would
probably
be
straightforward
enough
–
if
he
took
me
seriously.

But
the
sad
truth
is,
I
don’t
just
want
him,
I
want
him
to
like
me.
And
I
might
act

desperate
and
do
weird,
stalkerish
things,
but
I
couldn’t
bear
to
be
just
another
name.

Ridiculous
really,
when
you
think
that
I
come
from
a
broken
home
and
I
probably
have

low
self-‐esteem.
But
the
way
I
see
it,
people
who
go
around
spending
themselves
easily

don’t
have
low
self-‐esteem.

They
have
really
high
self-‐esteem.
If
someone
like
me
tried
to
live
like
that,
there’d
be

nothing
left.

I
don’t
know.
It’s
complicated.
The
girls
who
roll
with
guys
like
this
are
gorgeous.

Somehow
that
makes
them
immune
to
being
reduced.

Heading
outside
to
ring
Lauren
and
TA
asks
me
if
she’s
on
FB.

Said
he
wants
to
friend
her.
Wanted
to
fucking
kill
him.
Forget
his
shit.
He’s
messing
with

you.
It’s
what
he
does.
Remember?

I
have
to
widen
my
stance
because
I
feel
like
the
floor
is
starting
to
roll
again.
The

sensation
is
making
me
sick,
but
I
don’t
stop
reading
because
I’ve
reached
the
last
entry.

Marco’s
trying
to
organise
the
trip,
but
having
trouble
getting
any
of
them
to
take
us
to

the
island.
Supposed
to
be
home
to
a
jinn
or
some
shit.
They
keep
saying
–
You
no
respect,

you
drink,
you
titty
mags.
Marco
won’t
drop
it.
Been
there
before
and
reckons
the
right
is

awesome.
TA
sick
of
the
waiting
around.
Good.
Hope
he
pisses
off.

And
that’s
it.
That’s
all
there
is.

I
want
more.
I
want
to
know
what
happened
on
the
island.

Kane
is
different
since
he
came
back
and
I
want
to
know
why.

I
want
to
know
if
the
shadow
is
real.

Feeling
thwarted,
I
flex
the
book,
letting
the
remaining
pages
flick
past
my
thumb.
As
I

do
this,
the
floor
seems
to
heave,
and
I
lurch
sideways,
before
straightening
up,
ignoring

the
sensation
because
I’ve
found
something
else.
It’s
written
on
one
of
the
last
pages.

The
handwriting
looks
nothing
like
Kane’s,
though.
Frowning,
I
read,
finding
it
hard
to

concentrate
because
the
vertigo
I’m
feeling
is
getting
stronger.

a
sailor
went
to
sea
sea
sea

to
see
wat
he
culd
see
see
see

and
all
that
he
culd
see
see
see

was
the
botum
of
the
deep
blu
sea
sea
sea
I
bin
down
to
the
botum
of
the
sea
and
I
sed
who

is
this
who
wants
to
cum
down
the
botum
with
me?

who
is
this?

A
B
C
no
no

A
B
E

Abbee

Helow
Abbee

12

The
unexpected
legacy

I
hover
in
the
doorway
to
the
study,
feeling
flustered
and
probably
looking
guilty.
At
the

back
of
my
mind
is
a
list
of
things
that
Mum
and
Brian
might
have
found
out
about,

which
includes,
but
is
not
limited
to,
what
I’ve
been
doing
downstairs.

What
was
that?
What
was
that?

That
was
my
name.

My
name.

Brian’s
seated
behind
his
desk,
reading
a
paper
titled
September
Quarter
Outlook,

holding
it
at
eye
level
because
he
gets
a
cricked
neck
if
he
reads
looking
down
all
the

time.
There
is
a
bank
of
screens
on
his
desk
and
they
are
on
constantly,
displaying
a

series
of
graphs
for
bond
prices,
stock
market
indices
and
exchange
rates.
If
you
go
into

the
study
late
at
night,
as
I
sometimes
do,
mainly
to
nick
stationery,
the
room
is
bathed

in
their
radioactive
glow,
and
the
screens
seem
to
be
freakishly
alive,
scrolling
and

updating
themselves
constantly.

Mum
is
sitting
on
the
edge
of
her
desk,
swinging
her
legs,
looking
almost
girlish.
She’s

wearing
her
red
leather
boots,
jeans,
and
a
black
woollen
V-‐neck
with
a
collared
white

dress
shirt
underneath.
I’m
in
my
spotted
flannelette
pyjamas
and
ugg
boots
and
my

hair
is
sleep-‐mussed,
and
the
digital
clock
above
Brian’s
desk
reports
it’s
10.25
am
in

Sydney,
8.25
pm
in
New
York
and
1.25
am
in
London.

‘Sorry,
I
was
about
to
do
some
painting,’
I
say.
‘I
didn’t
hear
you
calling.’

‘Sit
down,
Abbie,’
Mum
says.

I
perch
on
the
edge
of
the
leather
reading
chair,
wondering
if
they
can
hear
my
racing

heart:
my
name,
my
name,
my
name,
my
name.

‘What
have
you
guys
been
up
to
this
morning?’
I
ask,
trying
to
make
myself
at
least
seem

relaxed
by
putting
my
feet
up
on
the
footrest
that
goes
with
the
chair.

‘We’ll
get
to
that,’
Mum
says.
She
glances
at
Brian,
who
places
the
paper
on
his
desk,
and

focuses
on
me,
pushing
at
his
glasses.
I
take
my
feet
off
the
footrest.

‘Well,
Abbie,
you’re
working
hard
this
year,
at
your
school
work
and
your
babysitting,

and
it
hasn’t
gone
unnoticed.’

‘Yes.
Well
done,
Abbie,’
Mum
says
in
her
low,
low
voice.

They
don’t
know
me
at
all.
Not
to
worry,
it’s
probably
a
good
thing.

I’m
definitely
not
up
to
dealing
with
whatever
this
is
about.
The
last
time
a
conversation

with
them
started
off
this
way
was
when
they
gave
me
a
car.
That
was
a
shock.
A
good

shock.
But
I
don’t
want
any
more
shocks
at
the
moment.
Not
after
what
just
happened

downstairs.

‘We’ve
been
thinking
about
the
next
few
weeks
with
me
away
in
Melbourne,’
Brian
says.

‘Marilyn
will
take
a
day’s
leave
on
Friday
and
fly
down
Thursday
night
for
the
weekend.’

He
pauses.
‘We
wondered
if
you’d
like
to
join
us.’

‘Are
you
serious?’
I
get
up
as
though
I’m
about
to
leap
into
action,
and
then
just
stand

there.

‘A
little
time-‐out
for
you
before
the
really
intense
study
starts,’
Mum
says,
watching
me

with
an
expectant
smile.

I
open
my
eyes
wide.
‘Are
you
serious?’
I
say
again,
this
time
the
right
way.

It’s
amazing
what
I’m
prepared
to
give
up,
how
quickly
I’ll
turn
away
from
myself,
in

order
to
be
the
daughter
they
want.

The
daughter
they
want
is
going
to
smash
the
HSC
and
get
into
Law.
And
in
a
few
years’

time,
she’ll
be
wearing
a
suit
and
sunglasses,
holding
a
stack
of
papers,
meeting
Mum
for

lunch
in
the
city,
drinking
sparkling
mineral
water
with
wedges
of
lime.
I
see
it
all

stretched
out
in
front
of
me,
if
I
make
the
choice
to
be
their
kind
of
daughter;
this
bright,

shiny,
non-‐specific
future,
starring
a
bright,
shiny,
voiceless
me.

And
in
that
future,
there
is
no
Dad
history.
No
ancestry
of
two-‐bedroom
units
referred

to
as
the
old
unit,
and
the
old,
old
unit
and
the
old,
old,
old
unit,
and
so
on,
with
each

‘old’
representing
another
generation
in
the
family
of
places
we’ve
rented.
I
can’t
hear

Anna’s
constant
commentary.
Amazing.

Only
one
hour
and
forty-‐five
minutes
late
to
pick
us
up.
Well
done,
Dad.
And
I
don’t
have

to
listen
to
Dad’s
long
list
of
things
that
have
come
up.
Because
something
always
comes

up.

Then
I
return
to
earth.
‘Oh,’
I
say.
‘I’m
really
sorry.
I’d
love
to
go,
but
I
can’t.
It’s
just
that

I’ve
already
told
Jackie
I’ll
babysit
Friday.
They’re
doing
a
tasting,
and
they’ve
paid
the

deposit.’

The
ridiculous
thing
is
that
I’m
nearly
stammering,
because
I
can
feel
the
atmosphere
in