Night Beach (31 page)

‘Oh.
Good.
So
what
happened
with
the
dead
people?’

‘Nothing.
I
just
saw
them.’

‘How’d
you
know
they
were
up
there?’

‘Mum
told
me.’

‘Did
you
see
my
grandad?’

Joey
looks
interested.
‘What’s
he
yook
yike?’

I
don’t
know
why,
but
that
makes
me
laugh.
‘Never
mind.
Any
messages?’

Joey
shakes
her
head.
‘There
was
no
phone.’

She
gets
out
and
I
dry
her
vigorously,
and
then
wrap
the
towel
around
her.
‘Go
into
the

lounge
room
where
it’s
warm.
I’ll
dress
you
in
there.’

She
jumps
off
and
I
collect
her
pyjamas
and
slippers.
Then
I
stop
in
the
doorway
to

Jackie
and
David’s
bedroom,
where
Jackie
is
putting
on
a
pink
frosty
lipstick
that
is

nothing
but
wrong,
yet
looking
sweet
because
of
that
fact.
I
tell
her
what
Joey
just
said.

Jackie
laughs.
‘God,
she
comes
out
with
some
stuff.’

You
don’t
know
the
half
of
it,
I
think.
‘You
look
nice.’

She
makes
a
tutting
noise
and
colours.
In
the
highly
unlikely
event
that
I
ever
end
up

married
to
someone
for
thirteen
years,
I
hope
I
get
that
excited
about
meeting
my

husband
for
a
movie.

After
Jackie
leaves,
Joey
has
her
tea
and
I
read
Where
the
Wild
Things
Are
to
her
in
the

lounge
room.
I
love
that
book.
I’m
hoping
Joey
will
come
around,
but
like
every
other

time,
she
gets
bored
halfway
through.
She
squirms
her
way
off
the
lounge
and
goes
over

to
the
wall
where
she
first
met
her
shadow.

‘Yook
at
me,
Abbie,’
she
says.
‘High
five!’
And
she
slaps
her
shadow’s
palm.

I
laugh.
‘Clever.
Hey,
you
want
to
see
something?’

Joining
her
in
front
of
the
wall,
I
launch
into
that
old
clapping
game,
slapping
my
thighs,

clapping
my
hands
together,
and
then
clapping
my
shadow’s
palms.
And
I
start
to
sing:

A
sailor
went
to
sea,
sea,
sea

To
see
what
he
could
see,
see,
see

But
all
that
he
could
see,
see,
see

Was
the
bottom
of
the
deep
blue
sea,
sea,
sea

I
start
to
sing
it
through
again,
but
then
my
voice
trails
off
as
I
realise
what
it
is
that
I’m

singing,
and
where
I
came
across
it
last.

I
bin
down
to
the
botum
of
the
sea
.
.
.
who
wants
to
cum
down
the
botum
with
me
.
.
.

‘More!’
Joey
shouts,
delighted.

I
blink
at
her.
And
start
again.

‘Are
you
awake?’
Even
though
my
voice
is
timid,
it
sounds
loud
to
me.
‘Kane?’

He’s
lying
on
his
back,
snoring
ever
so
softly.
His
room
is
in
darkness,
the
curtains

pulled
shut,
but
there’s
enough
light
spilling
in
from
the
lounge
room
for
me
to
see.

‘Kane?
Kane,
wake
up.’
When
that
doesn’t
get
a
response,
I
say
the
words
louder,
and

then
louder,
until
I’m
almost
shouting.

Outside,
rain
is
drumming
down.
It’s
the
kind
of
cold
that
eats
into
your
bones.
Kane
is

half-‐covered
by
a
white
sheet,
his
doona
about
to
slide
off
the
foot
of
his
bed
as
though

he’s
kicked
it
aside.
I
came
down
here
to
have
it
out
with
him.

To
make
him
tell
me
what
happened
on
that
island.
It
never
occurred
to
me
I
mightn’t

be
able
to
wake
him
up.
One
more
go,
I
decide,
stepping
forward.
I
must
not
blather
like

an
idiot
if
he
does
actually
come
to.

I
grab
his
forearm
and
shake
it.
‘Kane!
Kane,
wake
up!’

At
least
his
fever
seems
to
have
passed.
His
skin
is
warm,
but
not
hot.
Matty
Kenda’s

voice
starts
in
my
head:
Did
he
tell
ya
what
happened
in
that
smoke?

I
stand
there,
not
sure
what
to
do,
wondering
if
I
have
ever
seen
anyone
so
deeply

asleep.
So
surrendered.
And
a
kind
of
recklessness
takes
hold
of
me
then.
Moving

slowly,
I
kneel
beside
the
bed.
At
first
I
am
afraid
to
breathe,
but
gradually
I
care
less.
If

he
wakes
I’ll
say
I
was
worried
about
him.
Anything.
It
doesn’t
matter.
He’s
not
going
to

wake
up.

I
feel
like
I’m
somebody
else
tonight.

When
I
got
home,
there
was
a
message
on
the
answering
machine
from
Mum,
saying

that
a
few
things
had
come
up
at
work
and
she
was
going
there
after
the
airport.
In
the

cavernous
space
of
the
lounge
room
I
watched
the
crystal
chandelier
over
the
dining

table
swing
in
the
same
steady
way
as
the
chandelier
in
my
bedroom,
hypnotised.
I

wasn’t
freaked
out
at
all.
Rain
was
lashing
the
glass
doors
leading
to
the
balcony,
and

the
wind
pushed
deckchairs
along
the
tiles
in
groaning
stages,
and
I
watched
that
light

swing,
feeling
like
I
was
on
a
ship
seesawing
its
way
through
the
waves.
If
I
went
back

up
there,
the
chandeliers
would
be
moving
still.
And
I
wouldn’t
care.
I
don’t
care.

I
study
Kane,
collecting
pieces
to
wonder
at
later.
Trying
to
understand
what
it
is
that

holds
me.
All
these
things
I
ache
for.

His
shorn
dirty-‐blond
hair.
I
touch
it,
then
draw
my
hand
back
quickly.
Kane
doesn’t
stir.

Emboldened,
I
do
it
again
–
the
softest
of
touches,
no
more
than
a
breath
of
skin.

His
hair
is
thick
and
springy,
slightly
scratchy.

Next,
I
gently
rub
the
stubble
on
his
jaw.
It
scratches
more,
and
I
like
it.
I
wish
that
I
was

scratched
all
over
by
it.

His
thick
eyebrows.
His
Adam’s
apple.
The
hairs
across
his
broad
chest
and
circling
his

nipples.
His
nipples.
I
brush
the
one
closest
to
me
with
my
fingertips,
and
then
blow
on

it
ever
so
gently,
and
it
hardens.
I
sit
back
on
my
heels,
astonished,
wondering
if
I’m

absolutely
fucking
crazy.

I
am
absolutely
fucking
crazy.
I
do
it
again.

And
I
trace
the
path
of
hair
leading
downwards
from
his
belly
button,
but
only
as
far
as

the
elastic
waistband
of
his
grey
trunks.
The
sheet
covers
the
rest.
All
the
grown-‐up

business.

Then
I
cover
him
with
the
doona.

Kane’s
lips
are
slightly
ajar.
Bracing
myself
with
a
hand
either
side
of
him,
I
lean
across

so
that
my
face
is
over
his.
I
breathe
in
his
breath,
and
for
an
instant
I
smell
heat.
Then

it’s
gone.

Don’t
close
your
eyes,
I
tell
myself,
although
I’m
not
sure
why.

Gently,
ever
so
gently,
I
press
my
lips
to
his.
He
owes
me
at
least
one
kiss.
He
stole
some

from
me
at
Christmas.

23

Sunrise
with
sea
monsters

When
I
wake
on
Tuesday
morning,
the
light
is
extraordinary;
I
could
be
inside
a

buttercup.
Then
the
room
shadows
over,
and
I
sit
up
to
look
outside.
Brooding
clouds

have
covered
the
sky
and
the
sun
has
stabbed
through
them
in
places,
columns
of
light

hitting
the
ground
like
revelations.

The
air
has
a
greenish
tinge;
morning
sickness.

The
south-‐easterly
is
still
blustering
and
the
ocean
is
a
blur
of
grey
and
whitecaps.
Even

from
up
here,
I
can
see
the
field
of
white
water
down
at
Walls.
The
surf
must
be

enormous.
I’m
glad.
If
it’s
enormous
then
I
won’t
be
able
to
surf
today,
and
that’s
good

because
it
means
I’ll
paint.

I
don’t
know
what
Mr
Findlay
will
say
–
but
he
won’t
be
able
to
say
this
work
lacks
in

ideas.
Or
that
I
haven’t
thought
about
composition
and
perspective.
Last
night,
as
Kane

slept
on
in
the
next
room,
I
worked
really
hard
on
it,
and
even
though
it’s
still
in
the

early
stages,
I
know
it
has
something
–
atmosphere,
mood,
a
sense
of
mystery.
It
was

giving
me
goose
bumps
every
time
I
stepped
back.

I
feel
satisfied,
the
way
you
do
after
a
really
good
night
out.

Sleek
like
a
seal.
Fat
like
a
cat.
A
text
comes
through
on
my
mobile,
and
I
stretch
lazily,

then
reach
across
for
it,
checking
the
time
while
I
do.
9.27.
I
went
to
bed
at
a
quarter

past
three.

It’s
Petey:
Honey,
I
love
this
place.
We
have
to
live
here.

Yeah,
her,
me
and
Jake.
That’d
be
cosy.

Me:
No
surf.

Petey:
But
there
are
waterfalls
–
Litchfield
National
Park!
Going
there
today.
Jake
says
hi.

Ring
you
later.
xo

Well
I
bet
Jake
didn’t
say
hi.
Jake
doesn’t
even
like
her
calling
me,
which
is
probably
why

she’s
only
been
texting.
I
hope
the
waterfalls
give
him
the
enema
that
he
so
richly

deserves.

I
lean
across
to
place
the
phone
back
on
my
bedside
table,
then
I
sit
up
straight,
stunned,

even
though
this
time
around
I
shouldn’t
be,
because
it’s
not
completely
unexpected.

The
carousel
jewellery
box
is
gone.

And
that’s
when
Matty
Kenda,
and
a
dream
that
wasn’t
really
a
dream,
come
crashing

back
into
my
consciousness.

Of
all
the
relics,
the
jewellery
box
took
up
the
most
space.

Without
it,
the
rest
of
the
collection
seems
paltry.
I
stand
on
my
bed,
as
if
a
higher

vantage
point
will
give
me
some
new
information.
Then
I
scoop
up
Grandad’s
wooden

candle
holder,
deciding
to
stash
it
in
the
glove
box
of
my
car.

I
feel
panicked.
Like
I’ll
be
dragged
back
to
the
night
beach
any
second.
I’ve
got
to
talk
to