Night Beach (26 page)

unrelated
to
the
objects
in
the
room,
they
sway
in
a
noiseless
rhythm.
And
for
some

reason,
it
doesn’t
bother
me.
I
take
note
of
the
fact
that
they
all
stem
from
the
base
of

the
locked
door
with
a
kind
of
polite
interest.

The
locked
door.

Damn.
I’m
going
to
have
to
check
the
stupid
thing
or
.
.
.
Or
what?
I
don’t
know.
But
to

stay
safe,
I’ve
got
to
check
it.

I
make
my
way
across
the
concrete,
towards
the
source
of
the
shadows,
feeling
like
I’m

in
a
stop-‐motion
film.
When
I
reach
the
steps,
I
stop.

There
are
dark
blotches
smearing
the
edges
of
the
door.

As
I
peer
at
them,
straining
to
see
in
the
flickering
lighting,
my
scalp
starts
tingling.
At

first
I
think
it’s
fright,
until
the
sensation
strengthens,
becoming
something
pulling

gently
at
my
hair.
I
duck
down,
gasping,
batting
at
my
head,
looking
above
and
behind

me.

But
there’s
nothing
there.

It’s
my
hair.
Rising
from
my
head
of
its
own
accord.
Panicked,
I
clamp
my
hands
to
my

scalp,
trying
to
contain
it,
but
it
spills
through
my
fingers,
falling
effortlessly
upwards.

With
a
final
buzzing
noise,
the
light
comes
on
properly,
and
in
the
silence
that
follows,
I

see
that
the
blotches
around
the
edge
of
the
door
are
cobwebs,
and
each
and
every
one

of
them
is
ultramarine
blue.
Every
single
strand.
Not
like
they’ve
been
sprayed,
but
like

they’ve
been
formed
that
way,
glistening
in
the
light.
And
if
I
once
thought
of
those

cobwebs
as
seals,
well,
they’re
broken;
their
tendrils
unfurling
in
the
air,
electric,
vivid,

seeming
to
pulse
with
their
own
energy.
Swaying.
It
seems
familiar,
and
I
realise
what
it

reminds
me
of:
the
way
seaweed
moves
underwater
in
time
with
the
swell,
the
ocean’s

breathing.
And
as
I
become
aware
of
this,
I
feel
the
gentle
stretch
and
give
of
my
hair,

swaying
in
time
with
those
webs.
Swaying
in
time
with
the
shadows.

There
is
the
slightest
stirring
in
the
cold
air
of
the
storeroom.
I
feel
it
on
my
face
first.

Warmth,
like
a
breath,
bringing
with
it
the
smell
of
sand
and
humid
salty
air,
and
the

faintest
scent
of
white
peaches.
There’s
a
lull,
a
gentle
drawing
back,
and
it
blows
again,

stronger
now,
streaming
out
of
the
ventilation
holes
in
the
door,
like
some
strange

music
from
far
away.

Then
the
night
music
stops.
The
light
goes
out.
My
hair
falls
down.

I
hear
a
grating
noise,
and
although
I
can’t
see
a
thing,
I
know
what
it
is.

The
door
is
opening.

And
as
it
does,
it
draws
air
back
with
it,
sucking
through
the
doorway
with
the
strength

of
a
breeze
at
first,
and
then
a
wind,
and
then
with
a
force
pulling
at
me
so
strongly
I

stumble
forward,
unable
to
fight
it.
I
trip
and
fall,
my
arms
outstretched,
but
I
don’t
hit

the
ground.
I
fly
headfirst
through
the
air,
my
ears
feeling
the
change
in
pressure
as
I

pass
through
the
doorway
and
out
the
other
side.

18

The
night
beach

When
I
open
my
eyes
again,
I
know
two
things:
it’s
night,
and
I’m
lying
on
sand.
The
air

is
warm
and
sweet;
the
scent
of
white
peaches
stronger
now.
I
get
to
my
feet,
brushing

myself
off,
noticing
that
the
stretch
of
sand
continues
on,
curving
gently
into
the

distance.
And
it’s
surrounded
by
water;
little
waves
collapsing
on
both
shores
with
a

short,
washing
noise.

Apart
from
that,
all
is
silent.
There
is
no
surf;
the
night
ocean
becalmed.

Night
ocean.
Not
an
ocean
at
night,
but
the
night
ocean.

Why
would
I
think
of
it
like
that?

Because
it
seems
so
hard
to
imagine
the
sun
shining
here.

The
sand
is
luminous,
glowing
in
the
night,
which
makes
me
look
up
at
the
sky
for
the

moon.
And
I
see
a
shape
that
resembles
the
moon
directly
above
me.
But
it’s
not
the

moon
at
all.
It’s
too
close.
Too
big.
It’s
.
.
.
Hardly
aware
that
I’m
even
doing
it,
I
start

drawing
in
the
air.
And
with
each
stroke
of
my
fingers,
the
white
crescent
becomes

more
definite,
and
I
see
that
its
edges
are
irregular
–
wavy
–
the
whole
thing

shimmering
like
a
mirage.
As
though
it’s
not
real.

And
that
makes
sense,
I
realise.
Because
it’s
not
real.

It’s
a
reflection.

The
whole
night
sky,
or
what
should
be
the
sky,
is
moving,
rippling.
What
I’m
looking
at

is
the
same
view
I
might
get
if
I
looked
at
the
ocean
from
a
plane’s
window
on
a
moonlit

night.

Except,
if
that
were
the
case,
I’d
be
looking
down,
and
what
I’m
doing
is
looking
up.

My
head
hurts.

I
start
walking
along
the
shore.
As
I
walk,
I
think
I
can
see
myself
as
a
black
dot
moving

along
the
reflected
crescent’s
inner
curve.
A
little
further
on,
I
come
across
the
locked

door.

Because
it’s
white,
and
lying
flat
on
the
sand,
I
nearly
don’t
notice
it
at
all.

Curious,
I
push
against
it.
But
nothing
happens.
I’m
locked
here
for
now.
It’s
then
that
I

realise
I
have
only
seen
sand
this
white
and
fine
once
before.
It’s
the
same
as
the
stuff

that
came
from
inside
the
doorknob.

And
there’s
something
else.
Something
glistening
in
the
sand
ahead
of
me,
shooting
out

rays
of
golden
light.
I
draw
the
light
with
my
fingers,
and
it
seems
to
spark
in
response.

And
it’s
then
that
the
magic
of
this
place,
this
night
beach,
gets
to
me.
Because
that

sparkling
thing
could
be
anything.
A
fallen
star,
a
little
buried
sun.
I
feel
like
I’m
a
kid

again.
When
there
was
so
much
to
see.
So
much
wonder.

I
don’t
even
feel
afraid.
I
feel
hidden.
Tucked
into
a
pocket
inside
a
dream.
I’m
not
lonely,

or
worried
about
how
I’ll
get
home.
I
just
am.
I
feel
like
I
did
when
I
was
standing
in
that

cloud
of
luminous
sand.
At
peace.

The
sparkling
thing
is
only
small,
whatever
it
is.
Dropping
to
my
knees,
I
smooth
sand

away
from
it
as
carefully
as
an
archaeologist,
and
then
prise
it
out.
It’s
a
gemstone.

About
as
big
as
a
golf
ball,
cut
and
polished,
golden
in
colour,
but
so
clear
that
I
can
see

through
it.

Then
I
hear
a
rustling
noise
behind
me.
Startled,
I
drop
the
gemstone
and
whirl
around.

I
can’t
scream.
I
can’t
even
move.
But
the
thing,
whatever
it
is,
doesn’t
advance.
Instead,

it
dips
down
in
a
–
yes,
I
think
it’s
bowing
to
me.
As
it
does,
I
hear
the
rustling
noise

again.
The
thing
is
dark,
but
slightly
transparent,
like
a
shadow;
I
can
see
the
sand

through
it.
And
its
form
isn’t
distinct.
As
it
moves,
making
that
rustling
noise,
it
seems
to

stretch
and
rearrange
itself
in
a
way
that
reminds
me
of
a
school
of
fish,
or
a
flock
of

birds
wheeling
in
the
sky.
Rustle,
rustle
–
it
bows
again.

Not
knowing
what
else
to
do,
heart
knocking
against
my
chest,
I
bow
also.

The
shadow
steps
closer,
and
I
step
backwards.
It
holds
up
its
hand,
and
I
realise
that
it

has
hands.
Well,
its
shape
has
hands.
But
they’re
so
indistinct.
Without
thinking,
I
start

drawing
with
my
fingers,
trying
to
see.
And
the
shadow
becomes
still,
like
a
cat
being

stroked.
It
has
a
man’s
body,
but
its
silhouette
is
indistinct
in
a
way
that
makes
me

wonder
if
it’s
feathered,
which
would
explain
the
rustling.
As
I
outline
the
head
with
my

fingers,
my
movements
get
slower
and
slower.

I’m
afraid
of
what’s
taking
shape
in
front
of
me.

Oh
God.

I
think
of
Kane
then.
And
I
wish
so
hard
that
he
was
there
with
me.
Telling
me
what
to

do.

The
shadow
seems
to
look
straight
at
me,
tilting
its
head
to
the
side,
and
there’s

something
calculating
about
the
movement.
I
have
to
look
away.
Then
it
kneels
down,

digging
into
the
sand
and
pulling
out
a
tiny
blue
sun.
Another
gemstone.

One
golden.
One
blue.

It
throws
the
blue
gemstone
to
me,
gently,
like
I’m
supposed
to
catch
it.
I
don’t
move.

The
stone
bounces
off
my
chest
and
lands
at
my
feet,
and
I
stare
down
at
it
with
a
funny

feeling.

The
thing’s
scrabbling
around
in
the
sand
again.
It
pulls
out
another
gemstone.
This
one

is
green.
And
this
time
I
put
out
my
hand.
I’m
not
sure
how
I
know
it,
but
I
am
certain

the
thing
can’t
hurt
me.
Not
while
it’s
like
this
–
a
shadow.

Moving
carefully,
as
though
it
doesn’t
want
to
scare
me,
the
shadow
moves
close
enough

to
drop
the
stone
into
my
palm,
and
then
retreats.
I
don’t
look
at
it
when
it’s
close.
And

at
the
back
of
my
mind
is
the
question:
How
can
a
shadow
hold
onto
things?

Then
I
examine
the
green
stone.
It’s
a
sapphire.
I
know
this
because
I’ve
seen
it
before.
I

pick
up
the
blue
and
yellow
sapphires,
and
I’ve
seen
them
before,
too.
All
three
are