Night Beach (39 page)

be.

When
she
leaves,
we
share
a
hard
hug,
but
she
sounds
matter-‐of-‐fact
when
she
says

she’ll
give
me
a
call
that
night.

I
walk
with
her
to
the
foyer
and
before
she
goes
out
the
door,
she
stops
once
more
and

says,
‘Are
you
sure
you’ll
be
all
right?’

‘Yep.’

She
gives
me
a
look
to
make
sure
I
really
mean
it,
and
then
she
goes.
And
I
know
that,

like
me,
she’s
probably
relieved.

Not
in
a
bad
way,
but
because
there’s
only
so
much
of
the
heavy
stuff
you
can
deal
with

before
you
need
some
regular
life.

I
head
back
into
the
house,
take
a
shower,
dry
my
hair
and
get
dressed,
looking
at
the

view.
The
wind
has
stopped,
but
it’s
still
overcast.
Cold.
I
look
like
shit,
I
feel
exhausted,

and
I’m
absolutely
emotionally
drained.
At
the
back
of
my
mind
is
the
thought
that
I’m

going
to
have
to
ring
Hollywood
today.
I
don’t
want
to
lose
him.

And
I
want
to
take
a
look
at
my
painting,
because
I
think
it
might
help
me
make
sense
of

what
happened
to
me
last
night,
and
of
what
might
be
still
to
come.

But
before
I
do
any
of
that,
before
I
can
even
think
about
anything
else,
I’ve
got
to
talk
to

Kane.

Kane.
Always
Kane.

It’s
about
seven-‐thirty
when
I
head
downstairs,
and
I’m
listening
the
whole
way
down

the
stairwell,
but
I
can’t
hear
anything
to
suggest
Kane’s
moving
around.
His
ute’s
out

front,
so
he
hasn’t
gone
anywhere.
Surely
he’s
not
still
asleep?

But
Kane
is
still
asleep.
I
stand
in
the
doorway
to
his
room,
gaping
at
him,
trying
to

calculate
exactly
how
long
it’s
been
since
I
saw
him
awake.
Definitely
more
than
forty-‐

eight
hours.

I
wonder
if
I
should
be
more
worried
about
him,
if
I
should
have
said
something
to

Mum.
He
looks
perfectly
healthy.
Just
fast
asleep.
He’s
shifted
position
since
last
time,

now
lying
flat
on
his
back
with
one
arm
crooked
over
his
face.
And
for
as
long
as
I
stand

there
looking
at
him
–
both
directly,
and
with
my
peripheral
vision
–
I
can’t
see
any
sign

of
the
shadow.

Then
I
remember
what
Matty
Kenda
said:
The
smoke
thing
can
only
ride
one
of
us
at
a

time.
That’s
the
rules.
.
.
if
Marco
and
me
are
gettin’
better,
it’s
’cause
the
smoke
thing
is

riding
Kaney.
So
what
proof
do
I
need
that
it’s
left
him?

I’ll
know
when
he
wakes
up
–
if
he
wakes
up.

‘Kane!’
I
grab
hold
of
his
arm,
pull
it
away
from
his
face,
and
let
it
flop
onto
the
bed.

At
first,
nothing
happens.
But
then
he
frowns,
making
a
groaning
sound.
‘Twice.
That’s

all.’

Hearing
his
voice
makes
me
jump,
but
then
I’m
relieved.

The
only
thing
is,
his
eyes
don’t
open.
And
from
the
loud,
jar-‐ring
way
he’s
said
the

words,
I
realise
he
might
be
talking
in
his
sleep.

‘What’s
twice,
Kane?’
I
say.

To
my
surprise,
he
answers.
‘You
can
only
go
there
twice.’

‘Go
where?’

A
moment
later
his
soft
snoring
resumes.
I
think
that’s
it,
and
I’m
wondering
if
I
should

try
prodding
him,
or
pouring
cold
water
over
him,
but
then
he
gives
a
sort
of
snort,
and

makes
smacking
noises
with
his
mouth.
‘The
weird
place.’

I
get
goose
bumps.

‘What
weird
place?’
When
he
doesn’t
answer,
I
try:
‘Who
can
only
go
there
twice?’

‘Abbie.
If
she
goes
three
times,
he’ll
keep
her.
That’s
the
rules.’

My
hands
close
on
his
arm
again.
‘Kane?
Are
you
awake?’

He
twitches,
but
his
face
is
slack
with
sleep.

‘What
do
you
mean?
Who
will
get
to
keep
her?’
I
ask,
but
I
think
I
know.

‘
Shh.
It’s
coming.’
He
frowns,
taking
a
quick
breath,
his
eyeballs
moving
rapidly
behind

his
eyelids.
I
have
the
feeling
he’s
reliving
something,
but
then
I
worry
that
maybe
he’s

experiencing
something.
Maybe
this
is
how
I’ve
looked
when
I
was
on
the
night
beach.

Maybe
I
never
went
anywhere
physically,
just
thought
I
did.

‘Kane,
are
you
all
right?’

His
body
twitches.
‘Shoulda
told
it.’

I
get
a
crawling
feeling
over
the
skin
at
the
back
of
my
neck
and
ears.
‘What?’

‘Not
me
–
that’s
what
I
told
it.
Not
me,
man.
That’s
what
I
did!’
He
screams
these
words

out,
sitting
straight
up
on
the
bed,
and
I
step
back,
alarmed,
thinking
that
they
are
aimed

directly
at
me,
that
he’s
awake.
But
then
I
see
his
eyes
are
still
closed,
and
a
moment

later,
he
yelps
in
pain,
his
arms
crossed
in
front
of
his
chest,
his
hands
clutching

desperately
at
his
shoulders.

Then
Kane
falls
backwards
as
though
he’s
passed
out.
I’m
breathing
hard,
both
hands
up

as
though
I’m
about
to
fight
something
off,
and
I
can’t
understand
how
you
can
pass
out

when
you’re
already
asleep.

What
the
hell
just
happened?

Is
he
breathing?

Kane
is
breathing,
breathing
easily,
but
through
his
mouth,
not
his
nose.
I
stand
there

watching
him
until
my
heart
slows
down
and
I
stop
shaking.
Then
I
prise
Kane’s
hands

off
his
shoulders.
When
I
do,
I
see
blood
welling
up
from
raw
flesh.

The
skin
on
both
his
shoulders
is
gouged
and
torn.

‘Hello
Abbie.’

I
jump
back
with
a
scream
that
turns
into
a
sobbing
noise.

There
is
a
steady
rise
and
fall
to
Kane’s
chest.
His
eyes
are
closed.
It
was
his
mouth
that

said
the
words.
But
it
wasn’t
his
voice.

But
there
the
night
is
close,
and
there

Darkness
is
cold
and
strange
and
bare;

And
the
secret
deeps
are
whisperless;

.
.
.
and
music
is

The
exquisite
knocking
of
the
blood
.
.
.

Rupert
Brooke

30

Nightscape

I
close
the
door
to
the
second
bedroom
behind
me,
releasing
the
handle
slowly
so
that

the
latch
is
silent.
Then
I
tiptoe
across
the
tiles
to
my
easel.
I’m
wearing
socks,
so
I’m

probably
quiet
enough,
but
my
beating
heart
makes
me
feel
too
loud.
And
I
can’t
seem
to

get
enough
air.

All
of
my
art
things
are
exactly
the
way
I
left
them.
It
means
I
can
kid
myself
into
feeling

that
this
space
is
private
and
I’ll
be
okay
in
here.
It’s
hard,
though.
Kane
–
and
that
thing

–
are
just
in
the
next
room.
I’m
praying
he
won’t
wake
up
until
I’ve
gone.

I
have
to
see
my
painting.

I
need
to
know.

If
you
wanted
to
label
the
piece,
you
might
say
it’s
surreal.

But
I’d
prefer
to
call
it
a
nightscape.

There’s
a
solid
grey
concrete
wall,
and
in
the
middle
of
the
wall,
a
door
has
opened.
It’s

the
locked
door
from
downstairs,
with
its
ventilation
holes
and
lack
of
a
handle.
But

instead
of
being
white,
the
door
is
ultramarine
blue.
Through
the
doorway,
you
can
see

a
full
moon
hanging
low
over
a
restless
ocean,
laying
down
a
pathway
of
light.

There’s
a
cresting
wave
rising
up
in
the
doorway.
Rearing,
really,
because
in
the

darkness
under
the
lip
there
are
markings
that
suggest
the
head
and
neck
of
a
horse,
its

nostrils
flared,
its
mouth
open,
baring
its
teeth.
Among
the
flecks
of
foam
spilling
from

the
wave’s
crest
are
small
scraps
of
paper.

The
ocean
has
spilled
into
the
foreground
of
the
painting,
which
is
a
white
sandy
beach.

A
girl
stands,
looking
towards
the
doorway,
on
the
left-‐hand
side
of
the
beach,
her
face

partially
obscured
by
her
long
dark
hair,
which
flows
upwards
like
she’s
underwater.

White
water
is
surging
around
her
legs,
wetting
her
jeans.
Apart
from
the
jeans,
she’s

only
wearing
a
bra.
She’s
carrying
two
things:
a
candle
holder
and
a
doorknob.

A
few
grains
of
sand
are
still
trickling
from
the
doorknob,
and
they
look
like
dust
motes

in
the
moonlight.

In
the
top
right-‐hand
corner
of
the
painting,
fixed
to
something
out
of
the
frame,
is
a

crystal
chandelier.
It’s
swinging
–
streaks
of
paint
showing
its
motion.
Beneath
the

chandelier,
propped
up
against
the
wall,
is
an
antique
mirror.

And
in
the
mirror,
is
the
girl’s
reflection,
holding
up
two
sheets
of
paper.
On
the
sheet
in

her
left
hand,
words
are
listed:
Love,
Hope,
Loss,
Wonder
.
The
piece
of
paper
in
her
right

hand
is
blank.

Everything
in
the
painting
was
sketched
in
three
days
ago.

On
the
morning
after
my
first
trip
to
the
night
beach.
At
the
time,
I
only
understood
the

significance
of
the
doorknob,
the
mirror,
the
chandelier,
the
girl’s
hair
standing
on
end,

and
the
locked
door.
Things
like
the
horse
and
the
scraps
of
paper
hadn’t
happened
yet,

but
I
drew
them
anyway.
I
knew
they
had
to
be
there,
even
if
I
didn’t
know
why.
And

that
night,
Monday
night,
I
started
painting.
The
same
night
I
kissed
Kane
while
he
slept.

But
I
never
added
anything
new.

I
only
improved
on
what
was
already
there.

So
did
I
bring
that
second
trip
about
somehow?
By
drawing
the
horse
in,
did
I
make
it