Night Beach (25 page)

for
me
in
the
courtyard,
near
the
steps
leading
down
to
the
side
of
the
house.

‘When’s
garbage
day
again?’
he
asks.
He
sounds
tired.

‘Wednesday,’
I
say,
surprised
by
the
question.
‘Why?
Is
it
full
already?’

‘No.
I’ll
take
the
bins
out.
Brian
will
be
away.’

‘Oh.’
I
pull
my
hair
back
from
my
face.
He’s
between
me
and
the
house,
silhouetted
by

the
glare
of
the
security
lights,
and
I
can’t
really
see
his
face.
I’m
spotlit
for
him,
though,

and
I
wish
it
were
the
other
way
around.

We
stand
there,
looking
at
each
other,
the
night
running
wild
around
us.
I’m
shivering,

hugging
myself,
but
he
doesn’t
seem
to
be
feeling
the
cold,
wearing
only
a
T-‐shirt
with

his
jeans
and
thongs.

His
shoulders
are
slumped.

After
a
while
he
speaks,
his
voice
low,
his
face
stern.
‘Look,
I
want
you
to
know,
if
things

get,
uh.
.
.
like,
if
anything
happens.
I’m
sorry.’

‘Okay,’
I
say,
uncertainly.
Then,
worried
the
moment
is
closed
and
I
didn’t
understand
it

at
all,
I
say,
‘Do
you
mean
what
happened
before?’

I’m
so
stupid,
I
mean
Christmas.
But
as
soon
as
I’ve
said
it
I
realise
I’ve
got
it
all
wrong.

He’s
not
talking
about
that:
he’s
too
serious.

And
now
he
seems
irritated.
‘Before?’

‘Um,
down
at
the
clothesline.’

‘You
know
what?
Forget
about
it.’
He
clears
his
throat.

‘Anyway,
I’d
better.
.
.
See
you
later,
hey?’

‘Kane?’

He
turns
to
back
to
look
at
me.

‘Did
you
see
what
was
up
on
the
wall?
About
Greg
Hill?’

Kane
shrugs.
‘What
of
it?’

‘Well,
just.
.
.
you
should
be
careful,
that’s
all.
He
might
think
that
it
was
you
who
–’

‘Believe
me,
Abbie,
Greg
Hill
is
the
least
of
my
fucking
worries.’

With
that,
he
disappears
down
the
steps
at
the
side
of
the
house.

Mum
is
watching
television.
Grand
Designs.
I
stop
to
say
hi,
making
a
big
effort
to
refrain

from
shivering.
I’m
so
cold
I
think
I’ll
need
a
hot
shower
to
get
warm
again.
Mum’s
in
her

special
seat,
the
one
that’s
shielded
from
the
world
by
the
lounge-‐room
blinds.
She

swivels
to
look
at
me,
and
does
it
in
a
way
that
makes
it
seem
as
though
she’s
sitting
in

the
most
uncomfortable
position
you
could
imagine.

‘How
was
work?’
she
asks,
looking
at
me
over
the
top
of
her
glasses.
I
want
to
remind

her
that
I’m
not
the
hotel
maid,
but
her
daughter.

‘Hey,
that’s
funny.
I
never
really
think
of
it
as
work,’
I
say,
smiling.

‘Well,
you
look
after
their
child.
They
pay
you.
Ipso
facto.’

‘Sorry?’

‘
Ipso
facto.
By
the
fact
itself.
If
you
perform
a
service,
and
are
paid
for
it,
ipso
facto
it

must
be
work.’
Her
tone
is
clipped
while
delivering
this
lecture.

‘Oh,
okay.
I’ve
always
wondered
what
that
meant,’
I
say,
nodding
rapidly.

She
looks
at
me
for
a
beat.
Blankly.

‘Where’s
Brian?’
I
ask.
It’s
a
stupid
question
–
I
can
hear
noises
coming
from
the

direction
of
their
bedroom.

‘He’s
packing
for
Melbourne.’

I
start
nodding
again,
as
though
she’s
just
told
me
the
most
important
thing
in
the
world.

‘Oh
right.
Yeah,
I
guess
he’d
have
to
get
organised.
It’s
tomorrow,
isn’t
it?’

‘Your
dinner’s
in
the
fridge.’

‘Great.
Thank
you.
I’m
pretty
hungry
actually.’

Mum
turns
back
to
face
the
screen,
and
I
realise
I’m
still
nodding.
Anxiety
Girl
in
action.

She
has
the
power
to
nod
until
she
makes
the
connection
she
so
desperately
needs,
or

until
her
head
falls
off,
whichever
comes
first.

I
wonder
if
what
Mum’s
feeling
right
now
is
her
equivalent
of
the
ending
sadness.

Brian’s
leaving
tomorrow,
which
means
the
world
will
get
in.

12.52
am.
Mum
and
Brian
are
asleep.
I
know
because
I
can
hear
Brian
snoring,
and

there’s
no
way
Mum
would
allow
that
if
she
were
conscious.
I
think
Kane’s
asleep,
too;
I

haven’t
heard
a
noise
from
downstairs
for
hours.
Knowing
I’m
the
only
one
in
the
house

who’s
still
awake
makes
me
feel
even
more
alone,
if
that’s
possible.

If
Kane
was
awake,
I’d
go
down
there,
I
swear
I
would.

I
want
warmth
from
another
person’s
skin
so
badly.
Not
just
anyone’s
–
I
would
give

anything
to
be
held
by
him
tonight.

I’m
lying
on
top
of
my
doona,
still
in
the
jeans
and
hoodie
I
wore
to
the
Clarkes’,
a
pair
of

thick
socks
on
my
feet,
my
head
on
my
doubled-‐up
pillow,
my
ankles
crossed.
And
I’m

holding
the
doorknob,
running
my
palm
over
it.

Come
to
me!!!!

If
that
was
a
call
to
the
other
place,
then
I
said
okay.
Do
I
want
to
go
there?
Maybe
it’s

not
so
bad.
Could
it
be
worse
than
this?

I
don’t
understand
what
Kane
was
trying
to
tell
me
outside.
What
did
he
mean,
if

something
happens?

And
then,
unwillingly
–
because
just
thinking
about
it
might
invite
it
back
–
I
remember

the
terror
I
felt
when
I
was
in
the
stairwell
with
him,
the
sensation
that
I
was

somewhere
else
and
I
wasn’t
alone.
The
feeling
of
menace.
It
was
similar
to
the
feeling
I

had
at
the
clothesline,
when
he
was
behind
me.

When
I
thought
it
wasn’t
him.

What
if
it
wasn’t
him?
Or
wasn’t
just
him?
He’s
changed.

Maybe
something
came
back
with
him.
What
did
Joey
say
the
first
time
she
freaked
me

out?
It’s
here
now.
The
thing
from
the
other
place.

But
it
wasn’t
Joey
who
said
it.
It
was
Pinty.
Joey
was
only
passing
on
the
message.

My
problem
is
I
have
always
kind
of
believed
that
Pinty
is
real.
If
that’s
the
case,
then

Pinty
could
well
be
from
the
other
place,
too.
The
realm
where
shadows
come
from.

This
freaks
me
out.

Because
if
Pinty
and
the
shadow
I
sense
when
I
look
at
Kane
are
a
fact,
then
they’re
also

evidence
that
the
other
place,
or
the
beyond,
or
whatever
you
want
to
call
it,
exists.

And
I’m
not
sure
I
can
deal
with
that.
Because
that
might
mean
I
really
am
going
there.

A
cold,
blue
electricity
passes
over
my
skin,
making
the
hairs
on
my
arms
rise.
Oh,
stop

it,
I
tell
myself.
Stop
looking
for
links
and
meaning
and
explanations.
What
did
De

Chirico
say?
The
world
is
a
museum
of
strangeness.

I
roll
over,
reaching
towards
the
stack
of
art
books
I
keep
beside
my
bed.
A
book
about

the
Surrealists
is
top
of
the
pile,
and
it’s
the
one
I
want.
Feeling
uneasy
has
funny
side

effects.

I
flick
through
the
pages
mindlessly
until
I
am
startled
by
a
colour
plate
of
Eine
Kleine

Nachtmusik.
Then
I
drop
the
book,
whispering,
‘
Oh
my
God’,
into
my
cupped
hands.

I
know
the
painting
so
well.
I
saw
it
at
the
Tate
Modern
once
when
I
was
visiting
Mum

and
Brian
in
London,
and
I
stood
there
for
close
to
an
hour,
studying
it,
ignoring
the

jostling
of
the
other
culture
gawkers,
amazed
because
I
never
expected
it
to
be
so
small.

I
have
always
loved
it,
but
never
before
has
it
seemed
so
relevant.

Getting
up,
I
grab
my
process
diary
off
the
desk,
and
hunt
around
in
my
backpack
until
I

find
the
crayon
drawing
Joey
did
for
me
on
Friday
night,
shaking
with
urgency.
Then
I

scramble
back
onto
the
bed,
smoothing
out
the
drawing
and
comparing
Joey’s
drawing

of
me
to
the
girl
in
the
painting.
Opening
my
process
diary,
I
start
leafing
through
it
in
a

frenzy.
There’s
an
entry
about
the
painting
in
it
somewhere.
Where
is
it?

I
read
my
own
words
–
words
I
wrote
maybe
two
months
ago
–
feeling
like
I’ve
been

stabbed:
I
think
the
girl’s
hair
standing
on
end
means
you’ve
got
to
open
up
to
the
fact

that
there
might
be
more
than
this.
But
what
about
the
door
opening?
Does
it
mean

something
from
the
other
side
is
going
to
pass
through
to
the
girl?
Or
is
the
girl
about
to

pass
through
to
the
other
side?
I
run
my
fingertips
across
these
lines
with
a
growing

sense
of
shock,
and
then
shift
to
a
kneeling
position.
As
I
do
I
look
at
the
girl
in
the

mirror.

And
I
die.

She’s
kneeling,
too,
but
her
face
is
tilted
to
the
ceiling.
Lips
slightly
open.
Eyes
closed.

Completely
unselfconscious.

Surrendered.

The
storeroom
light
has
been
left
on.
The
glare
from
that
light
reaches
the
windows
of

my
room,
and
it’s
the
kind
of
thing
that
will
bug
me.
I
guess
that’s
why
I’m
down
there
in

the
middle
of
the
night:
to
turn
it
off.
As
I
hurry
across
the
concrete,
I
look
down
at
my

socks
and
wonder
why
I’m
not
wearing
shoes.

The
light
really
seems
to
be
on
the
blink
tonight,
flickering
rapidly
on
and
off
with
a

buzzing
noise.
I
pat
around
for
the
light
switch,
but
can’t
find
it.
Intrigued,
I
step
inside

the
room.
As
I
do,
I
notice
the
way
the
junk
on
the
floor
seems
to
be
moving
in
the

strobe
lighting.
No,
it’s
not
the
junk
that’s
moving.
It’s
the
shadows.
Heavy
and
dark,