Night Beach (37 page)

‘
Him?’
There’s
something
disingenuous
about
the
way
the
shadow
thing
says
this.
As

though
it
wants
more
information
and
is
playing
dumb
to
get
it.

‘Kane.’
I
point
at
the
piece
of
paper
it’s
holding.
‘The
one
I
like.’

I
see
a
glimpse
of
something
taking
shape
in
the
shadow,
and
I
have
to
look
away

because
I’m
suddenly
full
of
dread.

‘
See.
Abbie.
Seeeeee.’

It’s
motioning
with
its
claws,
as
though
entreating
me.
I
realise
it’s
pronounced
my

name
properly.
So
it’s
learned
that,
too.

‘No.
Tell
me
about
Kane.’

‘
Kane?’
There’s
a
slyness
to
the
way
the
thing
says
his
name.
‘
He
came.
Over
the
sea.
He

came
to
me.
’

‘What
are
you
doing
to
him?
Let
him
be.’

‘
He
is
my
doorway.’

‘Your
doorway
to
what?’

‘
To
you.
And
I
am
your
doorway.’

‘To
what?’

‘
To
here.
To
knowing.
Stay
with
me,
Abbie.
See.’

I
want
to
ask
it
where
‘here’
is,
but
I
realise
it’s
a
stupid
question.
This
place
doesn’t

have
a
name.
Or,
rather,
it
has
lots
of
names.
The
night
beach.
The
Beyond.
The
other

place.

I
ask
what
I
should
have
always
asked.
‘What
do
you
want?’

The
shadow
thing
moves
its
claws.
It
wants
me
to
draw
it,
to
fill
it
in,
but
if
I
do.
.
.
if
I
do.

.
.

I’m
suddenly
panicked
by
how
solid
it’s
become
in
the
time
we’ve
been
talking.
‘I’ve
got

to
go.
How
do
I
get
home?’

Can
a
shadow
show
displeasure?
This
one
does.
It
clacks
its
beak,
and
I
momentarily
see

rows
of
sharp
teeth
and
a
red,
red
tongue.

It
squashes
the
paper
it’s
holding
into
a
ball,
and
throws
it
towards
me,
hissing
the

words
so
viciously
it
sprays
something
like
spittle.
‘
Like
sweets!
You
eat.
All
of
them.
’

Then
it
stills
itself.
It’s
unnerving.
A
shadow
turned
to
stone.

Eat?
I
lean
forward,
picking
up
the
piece
of
paper.
All
my
hopes
for
Kane.
Simple
enough,

really.
He
remembers
Christmas,
so
that
part
at
least
came
true.
As
I
pop
it
into
my

mouth,
Hollywood’s
words
come
back
to
me:
If
he’s
got
nothing
better
on,
he
might
fuck

you,
Abbie,
but
that’s
about
it.
And
the
paper
suddenly
becomes
terribly
bitter.
I
chew
it

furiously,
wanting
that
taste
out
of
my
mouth,
then
I
swallow
it
down.

I
gather
up
the
hopes
I’ve
already
read
and
crunch
them
together
in
a
ball.
They’re
easy

to
eat.

Then
I
pick
out
another.
And
while
this
piece
of
paper
is
just
a
tiny
scrap,
it
feels
heavy.

Why
can’t
she
just
love
me?

Because
she
loves
Brian
and
Restavit.
You
and
Anna
scare
her
for
some
reason.

While
I’m
eating
that
hope,
I’m
reaching
for
another,
but
I’m
having
trouble
swallowing

because
my
mouth
is
full
of
the
ending
sadness.
That
sweet
melancholy.

The
shadow
has
come
back
to
life.
Now,
it’s
squatted
down,
watching
me,
intently.
And

the
skirt
it’s
wearing
has
split
in
a
way
that
shows
me
what’s
underneath.
While
my

noticing
its
manhood
is
strictly
anthropological,
I’m
alarmed
–
more
evidence
it’s

becoming
real.
I
quickly
stuff
hopes
in
my
mouth.

I
want
that
board.

Three
kilograms
by
Christmas.

Lara
and
Belinda
will
stop
being
such
bitches.

Eating
these
is
okay.
They
are
light
and
dissolve
easily,
like
wafers.

But
some
of
the
hopes
are
harder
to
swallow,
feeling
prickly
in
my
mouth,
or
swelling

until
they’re
almost
impossible
to
chew.

Please
don’t
let
the
baby
change
things.
Make
sure
they
come
back.

Stop
them
using
us
to
get
at
each
other.

I’ll
be
myself
around
M
and
B
instead
of
trying
so
hard.
Such
a
stupid
good
girl.

Mum
will
stop
ignoring
me
–
I
don’t
even
know
what
I’ve
done.
Why’s
she
so
hostile?

I’m
shocked
by
how
many
of
the
hopes
are
related
to
my
mother;
me
worrying
about

what
she
thinks.
How
little
that’s
changed
over
time.

As
I
work
my
way
through
the
box,
it
gets
worse.
My
handwriting
changes
from
the
lazy

scrawl
of
high
school,
to
the
eager-‐to-‐please
roundness
of
primary
school.
Each
hope
is

worded
differently,
but
they’re
all
saying
the
same
thing:
I
hope
we
can
be
a
family

again.

These
hopes
hurt
the
most.
They
are
so
simple
and
stupid
and
unrealistic,
but
eating

them
is
killing
me.
My
chest
and
throat
feel
swollen
and
sore.
Each
one
is
like

swallowing
a
stone.
And
I
am
drowning
in
the
ending
sadness.

I
can
remember
that
time.
I
remember
lying
to
my
friends
at
school,
saying
Mum
was

away
for
work.
To
me,
the
worst
thing
in
the
world
would
have
been
to
admit
that
my

parents
were
divorcing.
The
fact
filled
me
with
shame
and
fear.

I
wanted
our
family
to
be
normal.
To
be
together
under
one
roof,
just
like
everyone

else’s.

I
eat
one
that
says,
I
hope
Mum
and
Dad
get
married
again
,
and
no
matter
how
much
I

chew,
I
can’t
seem
to
soften
the
paper.
It
hurts
my
teeth,
and
gets
stuck
midway
down

my
throat.
It’s
a
ridiculous
hope,
the
hope
of
a
child.
And
I
feel
terrible
for
eating
it
for

that
very
reason.

By
the
time
I
reach
the
last
message,
I
am
desolate.
The
thing
is
still
watching
me,
and
I

realise
I’ve
been
staring
back
at
it
this
last
little
while.
There’s
a
swell
and
definition
to

its
form
that
wasn’t
there
before.
But
I
don’t
care.

It
wants
me
to
stay
and
maybe
I’ll
have
to.
Because
I
don’t
think
I
will
be
able
to
eat
that

last
hope.
It
feels
so
heavy.

The
shadow
must
sense
me
weakening,
because
it
hisses,

‘
Sssstay,
Abbie.
See.
’

Maybe
I
should.
It’s
peaceful
here.
No.
At
least
read
it,
and
then
you
can
decide
,
I
tell

myself.
It
takes
me
a
long
time,
but
I
eventually
open
the
piece
of
paper,
and
when
I
do,

I’m
surprised.
It’s
Anna’s
handwriting.
She
went
through
a
stage
in
primary
school

where
she
only
wrote
in
capitals,
and
this
is
from
that
period,
each
letter
marked
out
in

her
precise
way.

I
HOPE
ABBIE
WILL
BE
OKAY
.

It’s
a
thump
to
my
heart.
A
message
from
my
sister
shouted
so
loudly
that
it’s
crossed

years
to
reach
me.
She’s
saved
me.

Hardly
aware
I’m
doing
it,
I
let
out
a
harsh
triumphant,
‘
Hah!
’

The
shadow
thing
stands,
making
a
hissing
noise,
and
for
a
moment
I
smell
fire.
But
then

it’s
gone.

I
crumple
Anna’s
message
into
a
little
ball,
and
use
it
to
dab
my
tears,
which
help
soften

it.
Then
I
pop
it
into
my
mouth,
and
chew
it
very
carefully,
savouring
the
taste
–
salty

and
buttery
like
popcorn
–
and
I
swallow
it
down.

Then
I
wait.
What
happens
is
that
sleep
steals
up
on
me.

I
feel
so
full
and
tired.
I
lie
down,
curling
into
a
little
ball
on
the
sand,
using
my
jumper

as
a
pillow,
watching
the
carousel
horse
through
heavy
eyelids,
and
eventually
I
feel

myself
rising
into
the
air,
tilting
and
swaying
as
gently
as
a
feather.

28

Samsara

For
such
a
long
time,
I
feel
like
I’m
floating.
And
it’s
the
soft
settling
that
happens
as
I

come
to
rest
on
my
bed
that
bumps
me
out
of
sleep.
But
it’s
when
I
open
my
eyes
that

the
vertigo
strikes.
I’m
back
in
my
room
and
have
the
disconcerting
feeling
that
none
of

what
happened
was
real.
It
was
a
dream.
A
trick.

And
adding
to
my
disorientation
is
the
fact
that
things
are
different
in
my
room
to
how
I

left
them:
my
bedside
lamp
is
turned
off;
the
windows
and
the
door
to
the
balcony
are

closed.
I’m
lying
on
top
of
my
doona,
fully
dressed,
with
a
blanket
covering
me.

Mum’s
awake.
I
can
hear
her
shower
running,
and
the
light
from
her
bedroom
reaches

my
doorway.
My
clock
reads:
5.21.
It’s
still
dark
outside.

I
sit
up,
switching
on
my
bedside
lamp.
Then
I
look
at
my
bleary-‐eyed
reflection.
This

morning,
it’s
only
me.
The
carousel
jewellery
box
is
still
missing,
though.
And
at
the
end

of
the
bed
is
the
piece
of
paper
I
held
up
for
my
last
photograph:
I
don’t
ever
want
to
be

that
afraid.

I
crumple
it
up
and
throw
it
towards
my
bin.
Then
I
switch
off
the
light,
curling
up
on

my
side
and
pulling
the
blanket
over
me
again.
It
must
have
been
Mum
who
covered
me

and
closed
the
door
and
windows
–
I
can
smell
the
faint
scent
of
Samsara.
I
feel
bad
for

leaving
tissues
on
the
carpet
in
her
room.

She’s
blow-‐drying
her
hair
now.
The
noise
is
muted,
she
must
have
closed
the
door
to

the
ensuite
c.
When
it
stops,
I
know
she’s
getting
dressed,
putting
her
make-‐up
on.
She

doesn’t
eat
breakfast
at
home.
She
gets
coffee
and
fruit
toast
from
a
café
near
the
Bank.

Then
I
hear
the
noises
of
her
gathering
up
her
toiletries
in
the
bathroom,
zips
closing,