Night Beach (36 page)

She
says,
‘The
question
is,
do
you
want
to
go
for
a
ride?’

Then
she’s
gone.
And
I’m
suddenly
in
a
room
that’s
the
mirror
image
of
mine
–

everything
back
to
front
–
and
standing
in
front
of
me
is
a
carousel
horse,
waiting
for

me.

Of
course,
I
look
at
the
mirror,
trying
to
find
my
reflection
again.
But
all
I
see
is
the
back

view
of
me
standing
before
the
horse,
like
in
that
painting
by
Magritte,
Not
to
be

Reproduced.

It
hurts
my
eyes.
I
stop
looking.

I
wrap
my
hands
around
the
gold
pole,
enjoying
the
cold
kiss
of
metal,
and
as
I
slide
on

the
horse,
I’m
looking
east,
the
way
the
house
faces.
But
there
is
no
window,
no
wall,
no

door,
no
balcony.
There
is
no
view
over
the
ocean.
The
room
ends
in
sand.
Luminous

white
sand
stretching
off
into
the
night,
licked
by
water
on
one
side.

27

All
our
hopes

The
horse
moves
in
a
continuous
lurching
circle:
surging
up
and
forwards,
and
then

dipping
down
and
pulling
back
ever
so
slightly,
as
though
collecting
itself,
before

leaping
up
and
forwards
again.
As
a
kid,
I
rode
my
fair
share
of
merry-‐go-‐rounds,
so
at

first
it
seems
completely
natural
to
me.
Then
I
realise
it’s
not
the
real
movement
of
a

carousel
horse
–
which
is
always
a
bit
dissatisfying;
that
stationary
rise
up
and
down
–

it’s
what
you
want
the
movement
to
be:
something
like
a
gazelle
galloping.

The
wind’s
in
my
face,
there’s
a
rushing
noise
in
my
ears,
my
hair
is
streaming

backwards,
and
each
time
the
horse’s
belly
hits
the
water,
spray
shoots
up
in
two

arches.
The
horse
is
travelling
through
the
white
water
just
off
the
night
beach’s

shoreline.
At
speed.
And
unlike
last
time,
when
the
night
ocean
was
becalmed,
tonight

there’s
surf.

I
try
to
remind
myself
that
there
will
be
a
price
to
pay
for
all
of
this,
but
it’s
hard
to
care

while
I’m
feeling
so
alive.
I
feel
great.
This
is
pure
exhilaration.
I
wouldn’t
have
missed

this
for
anything.
The
girl
in
the
mirror
was
right.

When
I
look
across
at
the
night
beach,
I
realise
it’s
changed.

Unlike
last
time,
I
can’t
see
the
other
side.
It’s
vast.
And
everything
seems
lighter

because
there’s
so
much
more
of
the
luminous
sand.
Holding
tightly
to
the
pole,
I
lean

backwards,
my
head
jolting
with
the
horse’s
action,
looking
for
the
night
beach’s

reflection
in
the
sky
ocean.

Tonight,
the
night
beach
is
an
island.
Perfectly
round.

A
full
moon,
not
a
crescent.
And
in
the
reflection,
the
white
water
around
the
edges
of

the
beach
looks
like
hazy
clouds
around
the
moon.
It’s
beautiful.

The
horse
is
following
the
shoreline,
so
we’re
going
around
in
circles.
Just
like
a
carousel

horse
should.
That
makes
me
laugh.
All
I
want
to
do
is
ride.

But
after
a
while
I
realise
something:
as
we
circle
the
night
beach,
it’s
shrinking.
I
can

now
see
the
other
side.
And
as
it
gets
smaller,
the
horse
gets
slower.
The
night
gets

darker.

When
the
horse
has
slowed
to
walking
pace,
and
the
night
beach
is
no
more
than
about

twenty
metres
across,
I
jump
off
the
horse,
and
it
stops
altogether.

I
look
around
for
the
shadow
thing,
but
I
can’t
see
it
anywhere.
I
also
look
for
the

jewellery
box
–
on
the
sand,
along
the
water’s
edge.
It
occurs
to
me
that
the
box
might

be
buried
and
I
contemplate
digging,
but
then
I
get
distracted
by
the
sound
of
the
waves.

What
I
really
want
to
do
is
to
go
for
a
swim.
Tonight
is
all
about
sensation.

Glancing
around
again
to
make
sure
the
shadow
thing
is
definitely
not
there,
I
strip

down
to
my
bra
and
undies,
leaving
my
jeans,
jumper,
socks
and
shoes
piled
in
the

middle
of
the
island.
The
night
feels
balmy,
tickled
by
that
warm
breeze,
and
the
water

is
blood
temperature.
I
wade
out,
and
then
dive
under
the
breaking
waves,
until
I
reach

the
deeper,
unbroken
water,
floating
on
my
back,
feeling
weightless
and
free,
the
lines

of
swell
lifting
and
then
lowering
me.
For
a
long
time
I
enjoy
the
peace
of
it.
But
then
I

get
bored
and
I
spend
what
feels
like
hours
bodysurfing.
Catching
the
tumbling
lines
of

swell
in
towards
the
shore,
and
then
wading
and
diving
my
way
back
out
again.

Careful,
you
might
forget.
The
thought
is
only
faint,
but
it
makes
me
check
my
fingertips,

noticing
how
heavily
pruned
they
are.
How
long
have
I
been
in
the
water?
There’s
no

time
here,
remember?
Careful,
you
might
forget
that
you
belong
somewhere
else.

It’s
as
I’m
wading
through
the
shallows
that
the
jewellery
box
washes
up,
pushed
by
a

line
of
foam.
At
first
I
feel
this
tremendous
relief
at
seeing
something
familiar,

something
from
my
other
reality.
It
helps
ground
me,
makes
it
much
easier
to

remember
that
I
shouldn’t
stay
here.
But
I’m
also
anxious,
because
I
know
it
means

we’re
down
to
the
business
end
of
the
evening.

I
get
dressed,
and
then
sit
on
the
sand
cross-‐legged,
examining
the
box.

It
doesn’t
seem
to
have
changed.
Unlike
the
relics
from
my
grandad,
and
the
horse,
it’s

no
bigger,
or
grander,
or
more
magical
than
it
was
before.
I
flick
the
catch
and
open
the

lid.

Things
are
dry
on
the
inside,
which
is
kind
of
amazing,
and
apart
from
the
missing

horse,
the
contents
seem
to
be
exactly
the
same.
The
box
is
crammed
with
small
scraps

of
paper
that
have
been
ripped
from
notepads,
envelopes,
books
and
newspapers;
each

one
scribbled
on,
folded
up
and
placed
inside.

All
our
hopes.
Some
are
Anna’s,
but
most
are
mine.

Anna
came
up
with
the
idea
when
she
was
ten.
A
book
she
was
reading
mentioned
a

hope
chest
and
she
took
the
term
literally.
The
jewellery
box
had
been
a
Christmas

present
from
one
of
our
uncles,
and
she
decided
to
put
it
to
better
use.

So
write
your
hope
down
on
a
piece
of
paper
and
then
put
it
in
the
hope
chest.

And
then
what
happens?

I
don’t
know.
Maybe
it
comes
true.
Maybe
it’s
just
good
to
know
what
you
want.

That
night
we
solemnly
recorded
our
hopes
and
put
them
in
the
box.
Anna’s
interest

waned
pretty
quickly,
even
before
she
uncovered
the
true
purpose
of
a
hope
chest
and

was
duly
disgusted.
But
I
kept
it
up.
It
was
as
though
Anna
had
endowed
the
box
with

magic
powers.
I
believed.
And
I
loved
the
ritual
of
it.

I
pick
out
a
piece
of
paper
at
random
and
open
it
up.

Scrawled
in
my
handwriting
are
the
words:
Nathan
will
ask
me
out
.

And
another:
Please
let
me
pass
my
driver’s
test
Friday
.

So
far,
so
mundane.
But
then
I
find:
I
want
a
magic,
mystical,
wonderful
life
.
It’s
an
older

hope
–
from
when
I
was
fifteen,
I
think.
Not
very
specific,
though.

A
recent
one
of
Anna’s:
High
Distinctions
for
LAWS2222
and
LAWS2227
.

Typical.
Only
worried
about
her
grade-‐point
average.

I’m
about
to
select
another
one,
when
I
hear
the
rustling
noise.
And
then
the
shadow

thing’s
in
front
of
me,
reaching
into
the
hope
chest
and
picking
out
a
piece
of
paper
with

its
claws.
And
I
shudder,
letting
out
a
gargling
scream
before
I
can
stop
myself.
Its
claws

are
more
solid
than
they
were
last
time,
and
so
is
the
mess
of
skin,
blood
and
hair

caught
up
in
them.
I
screw
my
eyes
tightly
shut,
staying
absolutely
still.

I
can
feel
heat.
I
can
smell
flames.

I
hear
the
rustling
of
it
moving
away,
and
it’s
only
then
I
dare
to
look.

The
beak,
the
feathers,
the
broad
expanse
of
its
shoulders
and
chest
–
it’s
becoming

more
real.
I
think
it’s
wearing
a
grass
skirt
or
something
like
that,
which
I
didn’t
notice

last
time.

But
that
would
explain
the
rustling
noise.

It’s
my
fault.
I’ve
helped
it
become
more
solid.
It
wanted
me
to
see
it,
and
I
did.
I
drew
it.

I
looked
at
it.
So
from
now
on,
I’ll
try
to
view
it
from
my
peripheral
vision
only;
never

focus
on
it
for
too
long.

The
shadow
thing
opens
the
piece
of
paper,
and
has
to
turn
its
head
to
read
it
–
as

though
its
eyes
are
set
more
to
the
side
than
human
eyes.
In
its
usual
hoarse
whisper,
it

says:
‘
I
want
him
to
remember.
I
want
him
to
like
me
.’

It
enunciates
the
words
clearly,
and
has
no
problem
reading
them,
which
seems
weird.

That
hope
was
to
do
with
Kane.
I
wrote
it
not
long
after
he’d
moved
in
with
us,
and
I

wished
he’d
do
something
to
show
that
Christmas
had
really
happened.
It’s
a
harmless

enough
little
hope,
but
still,
I
feel
vulnerable
with
this
thing
holding
it,
as
though
it’s

holding
a
piece
of
me.

‘Is
it
because
of
him
that
you’re
here?’
I
ask.
‘Did
you
come
back
with
him?’