Night Beach (27 page)

mine.

My
relics.

These
are
the
sapphires
my
grandad
gave
to
me
when
I
was
seven.
I
kept
them
in
the

blue
pouch.
And
the
way
I’m
seeing
them
now,
is
the
way
the
child-‐me
thought
of
them

back
then.
Amazing,
incredible,
precious-‐beyond-‐all-‐compare.
They
came
from

Madagascar.
Grandad
saw
the
mines
there.
He
said
how
they
were
crawling
with
men

and
children,
working
in
shocking
conditions.

The
shadow
finds
something
else
and
throws
it
in
my
direction.
The
thunderegg.
I
knew

it
must
have
been
around
somewhere.
Unlike
the
gemstones,
it’s
the
same
size
as
it

always
has
been
–
a
perfect
fit
for
my
palm.
But
it’s
alive.
It’s
the
way
I
imagined
a

thunderegg
to
be,
host
to
a
storm.
Lightning
flashes
inside
it,
followed
by
the
crack
of

thunder,
and
I
can
hear
the
noise
of
the
wind,
the
rattle
of
rain.
Sometimes
the
storm

seems
to
get
more
intense,
sometimes
it
dies
away.

Grandad
got
it
in
the
United
States.
Oregon.
I
kept
it
in
the
blue
pouch,
along
with
the

sapphires.

The
shadow
is
throwing
handfuls
of
coins
towards
me
now,
which
splatter
on
the
sand

near
my
feet.
All
sizes,
all
shapes,
from
lots
of
different
countries,
collected
by
Grandad

on
his
travels.
They
are
gleaming,
looking
as
if
they’re
made
from
something
brighter

and
better
than
gold.

Which
leaves
just
the
watch.
The
‘genuine’
Rolex
he
got
from
the
markets
in
Hong
Kong.

As
I
think
this,
I
look
up
to
find
the
thing
observing
me,
and
I
let
my
gaze
slide
away

from
its
face,
because
I
have
the
feeling
its
features
will
solidify
if
I
focus
on
it
for
too

long.
I
also
have
the
feeling
that
would
be
horrific.
Instead,
I
look
at
the
shadow’s
left

wrist.
It’s
wearing
the
watch
–
no
longer
tarnished
but
a
perfect
silver.
What
I
can’t
help

but
notice
also,
are
the
thing’s
fingernails.
They
are
long
and
curving
and
sharp,
and

seem
to
grow
as
I
study
them,
becoming
claws.

With
quick
movements,
it
pulls
the
watch
off
and
throws
it
to
me.
This
time,
I
make
the

catch,
dropping
the
sapphires
and
thunderegg
to
do
so.
And
as
I
turn
the
watch
over,

examining
it,
I
find
that
the
face
is
iridescent,
shining
with
the
lustre
of
a
pearl,
but
there

are
no
numbers
or
hands
on
it.

That’s
not
something
from
when
I
was
a
child.
I
think
it’s
something
to
do
with
the
night

beach.
Because
while
I’ve
been
here,
I
have
been
acutely
aware
of
the
noise
of
the
wash.

The
slow,
steady
beat
of
those
little
waves
lapping
the
shore
sounds
like
the
rhythm
of

an
ancient
heart.
And
I
know
that
this
place
is
old,
so
old
time
doesn’t
matter.

Hearing
a
rustling,
I
look
up
to
see
that
the
shadow
has
drawn
a
question
mark
in
the

sand.
Then
it
looks
at
me,
lifting
its
hands.
Once
again,
my
eyes
are
drawn
to
its
claws.

It’s
mimicking
me,
the
way
I
draw
in
the
air.

‘
See,’
it
says,
its
beak
moving,
its
voice
like
the
whispering
of
leaves.
‘
See
me.’

I
don’t
know
why
I
do
it;
I
think
I
just
want
to
know.
But
I
outline
its
claws
with
quick,

decisive
strokes
of
my
fingers,
and
as
I
work
they
take
shape
and
definition
and
colour.

Then
I
have
to
stop,
bending
over
suddenly
because
I’m
going
to
be
sick,
bile
rising
up

my
throat
and
stinging
the
back
of
my
nose.

Caught
on
its
claws
is
a
mess
of
dried
skin
and
blood
and
hair.

19

The
price
of
love

Mum
and
Brian
have
left
for
work
already.
Their
alarm
clock
says
it’s
6.37,
which
means

I
missed
them
by
about
fifteen
minutes.
They
get
in
there
early
so
that
Brian
can
talk
to

the
guys
in
the
New
York
office
before
they
finish
for
the
day.

I
stand
in
the
doorway
of
their
bedroom,
looking
at
their
neatly
made
bed
with
a
mix
of

desperation
and
disbelief.
But
what
would
I
have
said
to
them
anyway?
How
could
I

explain
the
state
I’m
in?
I
don’t
know,
I
just
want
my
mother.
I
could
have
said
I
had
a

bad
dream.

I
pad
back
to
my
bed
and
curl
into
a
tight
ball
under
the
doona,
trying
to
get
warm.

There’s
a
grey
light
in
the
room,
and
the
window
panes
rattle
with
each
gust
of
wind.
I

slept
lying
on
top
of
my
bed
in
my
jeans,
hoodie
and
socks,
and
my
muscles
are
tight
and

tired.

And
the
dream
keeps
coming,
seeping
through.
Becoming
more
vivid
the
longer
I’m

awake.
That’s
the
opposite
of
what
should
happen.

I
don’t
think
it
was
a
dream.
I
want
to
discount
it,
I
really
do,
but
if
it
was
only
a
dream,

why
am
I
in
such
awful
pain?

Why
is
the
blue
pouch
still
empty?
Where
are
my
relics?

And
why
am
I
clutching
a
handful
of
fine,
white
sand?

The
grief
I’m
feeling
is
heavy
and
raw,
pressing
down
on
me,
breaking
my
chest
apart.
It

hurts
to
even
touch
the
edges
of
it.
It’s
to
do
with
Grandad
being
gone.
The
loss
of
him,

and
the
loss
of
me.
I
heard
someone
say
once
that
grandparents
are
the
guardians
of
our

childhoods,
and
for
the
first
time
I
really
understand
what
that
means.

‘Yes?
Hello?’
Michelle’s
voice
is
brisk,
annoyed.

‘It’s
me.
Abbie.’

‘Yes,
Abbie?’
Her
tone
is
still
sharp,
and
I
realise
she’s
on
high
alert,
expecting
it
to
be

some
emergency
for
me
to
have
called
this
early
in
the
morning.
Her
thoughts
are

coming
down
the
line
as
clearly
as
if
she’d
stated
them
out
loud:
We
don’t
have
time
for

this
right
now.
There’s
too
much
going
on
already.
The
baby
is
coming,
and
if
we
can

just
make
it
through
this
year,
things
will
settle
down.

If
I
could,
I’d
tell
her
that
things
never
settle
down
with
Dad.
Chaos
is
how
he
rolls.

Sports
clubs
are
always
hungry
–
for
time,
and
energy,
and
commitment
–
and
the
club

always
gets
fed
first.

‘I’m
sorry.
I
know
it’s
early,
but,
um,
is
Dad
there?’

‘He’s
asleep.
They
stayed
back
late
after
the
game
last
night.’
Which
means
they
lost.

Dad
never
stays
back
after
a
win.
‘What’s
wrong,
Nally?’

I
blink.
After
a
moment,
I
manage:
‘Nothing.
I
just
–
Can
I
speak
to
him?’

‘Is
everything
all
right?’

‘Yeah,
I
just
need
to
talk
–’

‘Because
he’s
really
tired.
This
whole
thing
is
taking
a
lot
out
of
him.
I
hope
you

understand
that.’

‘I
do.
It’s
–’

‘Has
something
happened
to
your
mother?’

What’s
that
mean?
That
she
should
be
dealing
with
this?

‘No.’

‘Well,
what
is
it?’

She’s
not
going
to
let
up
until
I
tell
her.
She
won’t
let
me
pass.

When
I
don’t
answer,
Michelle
says,
‘Abbie?’

‘
I
just
want
to
speak
to
my
father.’

It
comes
out
much
harsher
than
I
meant
to
say
it,
and
it
shocks
her,
too,
I
think,
because

she
says,
‘Oh,
I’m
sorry.
Of
course.’

And
because
I
feel
bad,
I
start
blubbing.
‘No,
I’m
sorry.
It’s
about
Grandad,
that’s
all.
I

had
this
dream,
and
I
woke
up
really
missing
him.
I
just
feel
so
sad.
And
I
tried
Anna,
but

she’s
not
picking
up,
so
.
.
.’

So
I
rang
to
talk
to
my
Dad,
but
I
can’t
even
do
that
anymore.

I
hear
Michelle
sigh.

‘Sweetheart,
I
know
it’s
hard.
I
know
you
were
really
close
to
him.
But
he’s
still
with
you,

all
right?
Don’t
forget
that.
And
make
sure
you
remember
something
else,
too.
He
would

be
so
proud
of
you.’

Well,
that
being
proud
shit
was
never
Grandad’s
style.
But
she’s
running
with
it,
because

that’s
what
you’re
supposed
to
say
in
this
situation,
that’s
what’s
supposed
to
make
me

feel
better.
It’s
not
the
truth,
but
she
means
every
word.
Her
voice
is
completely

different
from
the
start
of
the
call;
now
it’s
warm
and
caring
and
everything
I
thought

she
was
going
to
be
when
I
first
met
her.
That’s
what’s
hard
to
come
to
terms
with:

Michelle
is
not
a
monster;
she
just
didn’t
sign
up
for
Anna
and
me.

She
signed
up
for
Dad,
though;
she
really
loves
him.
She
wants
to
have
a
baby
with
him,

build
a
life
with
him.
Wants
to
look
after
him.
Protect
him.

Even
if
it’s
from
us.

She
says,
‘Hold
on
for
a
sec.
I’ll
get
Graham.’

And
I
say,
‘No,
it’s
okay.
Don’t
worry.
I’m
okay
now.’

I
take
a
hot
shower
and
the
shaking
starts,
rounds
of
trembling
that
pass
over
me
in

waves,
getting
more
intense
and
then
fading
away,
but
never
stopping
altogether.

When
I’m
done,
and
I’ve
dressed
and
blow-‐dried
my
hair,
I
sit
on
the
edge
of
my
bed
and

ring
Anna’s
mobile
again.
It
goes
straight
to
message.
Where
the
hell
is
she?
She
didn’t

even
bother
ringing
me
back
yesterday
either.
I
could
ring
Petey,
but
it’s
probably
too

early,
and
even
if
she
is
up,
she’ll
be
with
Jake,
and
she
never
takes
my
calls
when
she’s