Night Beach (28 page)

with
him.

How
am
I
supposed
to
get
through
this
by
myself?

Yet,
in
the
middle
of
all
this
grief,
I
realise
there’s
a
part
of
me
clinical
enough
to
want
to

document
it.

People
talk
about
artists
like
they’re
these
sensitive,
delicate
beings
who
don’t
use
the

toilet,
but
I
think
the
real
ones
are
something
else.
They’re
users.
They’re
mercenaries.

They’re
hunters.
And
they
don’t
let
anything
–
other
people,
or
themselves
–
get
in
the

way
of
it.

It’s
the
hunter
in
me
who
positions
the
tripod
and
camera,
and
writes
on
a
piece
of

paper,
and
sets
the
timer.

Without
wonder,
you
are
dead
and
I
am
older.
The
girl
in
the
mirror
looks
devastated.

Like
someone
really
has
pushed
a
brick
through
her
ribcage.

Downstairs
is
a
freezer,
one
big
catchment
area
for
the
house’s
cold
air.
Feeling
like
I’m

trespassing,
I
scuff
my
way
across
the
tiles
in
my
ugg
boots.
I
do
a
big
loop
past
Kane’s

room,
glancing
inside,
not
interested
in
snooping,
just
wanting
to
verify
he’s
not
home.

His
ute
is
missing
from
out
the
front;
he
must
have
left
early
for
a
surf.
Then
I
open
the

door
to
the
second
bedroom
and
slip
inside.

I
haven’t
been
in
here
for
a
while,
and
the
last
time
I
came,
all
I
did
was
tidy
up
–

procrastinating
instead
of
getting
stuck
into
my
Visual
Arts
project.

My
easel
is
over
by
the
window.
There’s
a
stool
near
it
and
an
adjustable
standing
lamp.

I’ve
taped
old
sheets
to
the
tiles,
and
there
is
a
stack
of
sketch
pads
and
my
tool
box
on
a

trestle
table
I
found
in
the
storeroom.
There’s
a
milk
crate
that
holds
all
the
stinky

flammable
stuff,
like
turps
and
varnish.
And
there’s
a
cardboard
box
which
holds
just

about
everything
else:
sponges,
foam
brushes,
palette
knives,
old
tooth
brushes,
rags,

and
lots
of
small
jars
with
lids
I’ve
been
collecting
for
keeping
mixed
oil
paints
in,
if
I

ever
decide
to
endure
oils
again.
Near
my
iPod
speakers
are
the
larger
jars
I
use
for

cleaning
brushes,
a
spray
bottle
and
a
pad
of
palette
papers.
There
are
two
piles
of

canvases
stacked
against
the
wall,
used
and
new.
The
ones
I’ve
painted
are
facing

inwards.

The
blinds
on
the
window
are
open,
and
the
room
is
filled
with
light.

When
I
was
living
with
Dad
last
year,
I
had
to
paint
on
the
balcony.
My
bedroom
was
too

small
and
dark.
The
lounge
room
had
light,
but
it
was
designated
as
a
‘clear
from
clutter’

area
for
mental
health
reasons
–
things
like
that
are
important
when
you
eat
your
meals

at
a
table
with
a
laptop
in
permanent
residence
down
the
other
end,
along
with
a
couple

of
years’
worth
of
paperwork.
But
we
also
used
the
balcony
for
drying
washing,
so
I
had

to
pack
my
stuff
away
between
sessions.
I
kept
my
gear
and
canvases
down
in
the

garage,
which
for
us
wasn’t
a
garage
at
all,
but
an
extra
room.

Now,
whenever
I
come
in
here,
and
I
look
at
this
room,
the
light,
my
stuff
–
everything
in

its
place
and
ready
to
use
–
I
get
an
intense
rush
of
pleasure.
Next
time
Anna
asks
me

where
my
babysitting
earnings
have
gone,
I
should
just
bring
her
in
here.

The
canvas
I
intend
to
use
for
my
Visual
Arts
painting
is
on
the
easel,
and
looking
at
it

gives
me
a
tingle.
I
want
Ultramarine
to
be
incredible,
and
it’s
got
nothing
to
do
with
the

fact
it’s
for
assessment.
I
want
it
to
stretch
me,
because
I
need
to
know
how
far
I
can

reach.
I
want
to
do
the
night
beach
justice.

I
pick
up
one
of
my
graphite
pencils
and
begin
sketching
straight
onto
the
canvas.

Mr
Findlay,
my
art
teacher,
would
be
horrified.
He’d
tell
me
to
sit
down
and
do
some

thumbnail
sketches.
He’d
say
I’m
limiting
my
options.

But
then,
Mr
Findlay
also
prefers
oils,
and
I’m
not
the
kind
of
person
who
wants
to
sit

around
watching
paint
dry.

There’s
a
hairdryer
on
the
table
for
a
reason.
I
get
impatient
using
acrylics.

But
I
do
agree
with
Mr
Findlay
about
one
thing:
I
am
desperate
to
paint,
so
it’s
probably

time
to
start.
Because
you
can
plan
all
you
want,
but
most
of
the
time,
the
ideas
come

when
you’re
working.
And
no
matter
how
much
you
try
to
control
it,
you’ll
still
paint
it

wrong
before
you
paint
it
right.

The
main
thing
is,
when
I’m
working,
I
feel
better.
The
rest
will
take
care
of
itself.

20

Baby

When
Kane
shows
up,
I’m
in
my
car.
I’ve
been
sitting
there
for
maybe
fifteen
minutes
in

a
kind
of
daze.
I
get
like
that
–
too
absorbed
in
what
I’m
painting
to
function
in
the
real

world.

I’ve
got
my
board
and
wetsuit
in
the
back,
but
I
don’t
feel
like
surfing.
The
southerly
is

still
blowing,
so
the
break
will
be
chopped
up.
Instead,
I
was
thinking
of
heading
north

to
a
spot
Grandad
liked,
where
you
can
park
on
the
cliffs
and
look
out
at
the
ocean
and

recite
Byron
if
you’re
into
that
kind
of
thing.

Kane
doesn’t
notice
me.
He
gets
out
of
his
ute,
still
in
his
wetsuit,
which
is
rolled
down

to
his
waist.
As
he
shuts
the
door,
I
realise
Kane
looks
exhausted
–
his
eyes
are

bloodshot,
and
he’s
moving
too
carefully,
like
he
has
to
think
about
what
he’s
doing.
He

stops,
swaying
slightly,
then
opens
the
door
again
as
though
he’s
forgotten
something.

He
looks
back
over
his
shoulder
at
the
clouded
winter
sky,
and
he
stumbles,
lurching

sideways,
bashing
into
the
door.

I
don’t
even
think
about
it.
I’m
out
of
the
car,
saying,
‘Kane?
Are
you
all
right?’

He
turns
around,
doddering
like
an
old
man,
lifting
his
eyebrows
in
surprise
at
seeing

me
there.
‘Yeah-‐no.
Just
tired,
hey.’

Holding
onto
the
top
of
the
door,
he
reaches
inside
and
retrieves
his
mobile
phone,

which
he
places
on
the
ute’s
roof.

It’s
his
old
mobile
phone,
I
realise,
the
one
he’s
always
used.

Not
the
new
one
in
his
room,
the
one
with
the
‘Fire’
ringtone.

That
phone
isn’t
his.
As
soon
as
it
occurs
to
me,
it
seems
blindingly
obvious.

Kane
squints
up
at
the
western
sky
again.
I
look,
too.

Between
a
break
in
the
clouds,
I
can
see
the
thinnest
slice
of
moon
up
there.
Nothing

else.

His
forehead
is
slick
with
sweat.

‘Are
you
drunk?’

‘Like
I
said
.
.
.’
Kane
goes
to
shut
the
door,
but
his
hand
misses
its
connection,
and
he

lurches
forward,
before
righting
himself.
‘Jet-‐lagged
or
something.
Just
got
crazy
tired

on
the
drive
home,
hey.
And
hot.
Gotta
get
this
off.’

He
fumbles
with
his
wetsuit,
manoeuvring
it
over
his
hips
and
grey
trunks,
and
then
he

collapses
onto
his
bum,
looking
up
at
me.

‘Help
me
out
here,’
he
says,
seeming
to
focus
on
my
face
with
difficulty,
his
breathing

laboured.
‘Give
us
a
hand,
Abs.’

‘Um,
okay.’
I
take
hold
of
the
neoprene,
pulling
the
suit
down
his
thighs,
and
then
over

his
knees,
calves
and
feet.
It
feels
incredibly
intimate,
but
I
don’t
get
embarrassed.
I’m

too
worried
about
him.
His
skin
feels
so
hot;
there’s
steam
rising
off
his
body,
the
way
it

does
after
you’ve
had
a
really
hot
shower.
He’s
feverish.
At
least
it’s
a
cold
day.
That

should
help
him.

When
I
finally
get
the
wetsuit
off,
he
collapses
back
on
the
grass.

‘Kane,
will
you
please
come
and
see
a
doctor?’

‘Nuh.
I’m
right.
Feel
heaps
better
now
that
thing’s
off.
Just
need
some
sleep.’
He’s
silent

for
a
while
and
I
notice
his
eyelids
flickering
closed.

‘Hey.
Hey!
You
can’t
sleep
here.
Come
on.’

Kane
takes
my
outstretched
hand,
and
I
lean
backwards,
pulling
him
up.
But
as
he
gets

to
his
feet,
he
overbalances,
falling
forwards
into
me.
Without
thinking,
I
go
to
steady

him.

My
hand
is
clamped
on
his
skin,
and
it
burns.
Oh
God,
it
burns.
My
eyes
are
closed
from

the
pain
and
everything
is
the
deepest
black
–
but
no,
there
are
mists
of
red
passing

across,
wafting
like
.
.
.

Smoke.

I’m
going
through
the
smoke.
And
it’s
everywhere,
thick,
cloying.
I’m
closing
my
mouth,

not
wanting
to
breathe
it,
but
it
won’t
be
stopped,
it’s
way
up
my
nose,
and
down
my

throat.

It
burns,
it
burns,
it
burns,
until
my
lungs
are
a
furnace,
and
when
I
look
down
at
my

chest
it’s
lit
up
from
inside.

And
then
I
realise
that
there’s
something
behind
me.
Shadowing
me.

I
can
feel
it
there,
I
know
it’s
there,
and
it’s
waiting
for
me
to
look.

I
stop
moving,
stop
breathing,
but
the
smoke
won’t
stop.

It
twists
and
swirls
around
me,
faster
and
faster,
spiralling
now,
and
I
can
feel
myself

being
sucked
down.
And
down
and
down
and
down.

Right
to
the
bottom,
where
it’s
black.
And
I
am
the
only
light.

Oh
God,
it’s
still
there
with
me.
There
is
nothing
else,
just
me
and
it.