Night Beach (6 page)

room
is
warm
in
the
mornings;
it
smells
like
trapped
sunshine.

I’m
going
to
photograph
my
reflection.
Me
sitting
on
the
bed,
and
the
framed
Brett

Whiteley
print,
Henri’s
Armchair,
on
the
wall
behind
me.
I’ve
been
to
Whiteley’s
studio

in
Surry
Hills
seven
times,
and
every
time
I’m
there,
I
watch
a
documentary
about
him.

In
it,
he
gives
his
advice
to
the
young
artist.
He
says:
distort,
as
absolutely,
as
extremely

as
you
can
.
.
.
you’ll
see
something
that
you
truly
have
never
seen
before.
And
that
is
the

beginning
of
yourself.
And
that
heralds
the
beginning
of
difficult
pleasure.

I
love
that.
It
inspires
me.
And
even
though
photographing
my
reflection
rather
than

shooting
myself
directly
is
only
a
small
distortion,
it
does
change
things.
My
reflection

seems
different
to
me.
A
stranger
with
secrets.

I
set
the
timer
on
the
camera
and
sit
on
the
edge
of
my
bed,
staring
into
the
mirror,

clasping
a
piece
of
paper
in
front
of
my
chest.

I
check
the
shot
back
on
the
screen
when
it’s
done.
The
girl
in
the
mirror
looks
younger

than
me.
Her
eyes
are
worried.

Written
across
the
paper
she’s
holding
is:

You’ve
changed.

Then
I
take
Kane’s
condom
out
of
my
bikini
top,
letting
it
sit
on
my
palm
for
a
moment

like
a
sordid
little
sweet.
A
reminder
of
all
the
sex
Kane
has
had;
all
my
dirty
wanting.
I

feel
guilty,
like
I
did
in
grade
six
after
I
tried
smoking
for
the
first
time
in
a
park
with
a

bunch
of
friends,
walking
home
with
a
head
spin
that
got
worse
in
the
hot
sun,
sure

Anna
was
going
to
smell
the
stink
of
it
on
me.

There’s
a
shaft
of
sunlight
cutting
across
the
middle
of
my
bed
and
I
place
the
gold
foil

packet
in
that.
Then
I
take
another
shot,
focusing
on
the
dust
motes
dancing
in
the

sunlight.
The
packet
is
blurred,
and
could
be
something
precious,
or
it
could
be
tawdry,

but
it’s
nothing
everyday.

I
upload
the
two
shots
to
my
laptop,
labelling
the
reflection
portrait
‘32’,
and
the

condom
shot
‘Jealous’.

It’s
only
afterwards
that
my
hands
start
to
shake
and
I
rush
to
hide
the
condom
and

pack
my
camera
gear
away,
have
a
shower
and
get
dressed.

Then
I
hunt
around
in
my
school
bag
for
my
Visual
Arts
process
diary,
and
sit
down
at

my
desk.
Pretending
to
be
good,
even
if
no
one
is
around
to
see
it,
calms
me
down.
It

makes
me
feel
virtuous
and
protected.
Clean
of
sex
stink.

Besides,
better
to
face
the
other
source
of
stress
in
my
life
sooner
rather
than
later.
I’ve

got
two
weeks
of
holidays
stretching
ahead
of
me,
and
in
that
time
I’ve
got
to
go
hard
on

my
Visual
Arts
project,
because
it’s
due
a
week
after
we
go
back.

The
problem
is,
I’ve
got
no
idea
what
to
do
for
it.
And
this
has
never
happened
before.

Not
in
Art.
Art
is
my
thing.
Art
is
where
I
just
know,
and
my
instinct
is
a
massive
rope

that
I
follow
hand
over
hand
until
it’s
done.

I
do
know
I
want
to
paint
something,
and
lately
I’ve
been
toying
with
the
idea
of
doing
a

different
kind
of
self-‐portrait.

One
that
incorporates
my
relics:
the
collection
of
things
I
keep
on
my
bedside
table.
I

take
them
with
me
and
set
them
up
beside
my
bed
wherever
I’m
sleeping.

There’s
the
wooden
candle
holder
Grandad
Young,
my
dad’s
dad,
gave
to
me.
He
said

that
if
I
ever
needed
him,
all
I
had
to
do
was
light
a
candle
and
the
glow
would
be
his

love.

The
candle
in
it
is
already
burned
down
to
a
stub.

There’s
a
jewellery
box
with
a
carousel
painted
on
the
front
and
sides.
Inside,
a
black

carousel
horse
used
to
circle
to
music
when
the
box
was
opened,
but
the
key
to
wind
it

up
is
long
gone.

There’s
a
takeaway
soft-‐drink
cup
from
McDonald’s.
It’s
the
newest
relic.
Scribbled
in

black
marker
on
its
side
are
the
words:
The
cup
of
secrets.
Underneath
that
are
two

signatures.

And
there’s
an
old
blue
pouch
stuffed
full
of
gaudy
treasures.

I’m
not
sure
what
else
will
be
in
the
painting,
but
there’ll
definitely
be
a
candle
holder,
a

jewellery
box,
a
drink
container
and
a
blue
pouch.

A
little
museum
of
me.
Artefacts
from
my
life.

Love,
hope,
loss
and
wonder.

After
a
while,
I
put
my
pen
down
and
rest
my
head
on
the
desk,
suddenly
exhausted.
I

can’t
understand
why
I’m
so
stuck
on
this
thing.
Art
is
my
obsession.

But
then,
so
is
Kane.
I
listen
for
a
long
time,
but
I
can’t
hear
any
noises
from
downstairs.

Maybe
Kane’s
catching
up
on
some
sleep.
Closing
my
eyes,
I
finally
let
myself
think

about
the
way
he
stood
too
close
to
me
at
the
ute,
the
look
on
his
face
when
he
did.
I
go

over
and
over
everything
that
happened,
the
moments
flickering
past
until
they
finally

die
away
and
there’s
calm
or
something
like
it.

A
peculiar
heaviness
settles
on
me.
The
light
filtering
through
my
eyelids
darkens,
as

though
a
cloud
has
passed
before
the
sun,
and
ever
so
slowly,
the
world
begins
to
tilt,

first
one
way
and
then
the
other,
giving
me
a
special
kind
of
vertigo;
the
feeling
you
get

when
you’re
drunk,
or
tired,
or
jet-‐lagged.

But
the
sensation
is
not
absolutely
like
that.
No,
it’s
like
something
else.
Something

specific.
I
keep
my
eyes
closed
so
that
it
doesn’t
stop
–
they
might
as
well
be
glued
with

honey,
I’m
so
sticky
with
sleep.

What’s
it
like?

What’s
it
like?

What’s
it
like?

So
tired
.
.
.

It’s
the
rocking
of
a
ship.
Rocking
me
to
sleep.

5

Warnings

Late
afternoon,
the
world
is
bathed
in
a
weak
golden
glow.
That’s
winter
for
you;

everything
dying
all
the
time,
like
those
dead
poets
say.
And
I’m
late.
I’m
supposed
to

babysit
tonight.
How
weird
to
have
slept
for
hours
like
that.

The
carport’s
empty;
Mum
and
Brian
MIA.
But
Kane’s
ute
is
still
parked
out
front
and

seeing
it
there
helps
me
shake
off
the
eerie
feeling
that
I’m
the
only
person
left
on
earth.

Part
of
me
hopes
that
I’ll
run
into
him;
the
rest
of
me
is
worried
I
will.

I
pause
in
the
doorway
to
the
storeroom
while
I
grope
around
trying
to
find
the
switch,

which
I
swear
changes
position
every
time.
I
wait
for
the
neon
light
to
blink
into
life
–

only
one
of
the
tubes
works,
and
only
just,
at
that,
humming
and
flickering
and
never

really
getting
going.
The
house
is
so
quiet
that
I
get
the
unsettling
feeling
that
it’s

listening.

To
me.

It’s
arctic
inside,
a
chill
rising
from
the
concrete
floor,
carrying
with
it
the
storeroom’s

peculiar
dank
smell.
Kane’s
put
my
bike
in
the
wrong
place.
To
reach
it
I
have
to
pick
my

way
through
all
the
junk
on
the
floor:
paint
tins,
a
cast-‐iron
bed
head,
an
old
desk,

mismatched
dining
chairs,
a
tool
box
and
an
old
navy
suitcase
lying
on
its
side
and

covered
in
dust.

Most
of
the
stuff
down
here
belongs
to
the
old
lady
Mum
and
Brian
bought
the
place

from.
Her
kids
kept
hounding
her
to
move
into
one
of
those
retirement
village
places,

and
she
died
two
weeks
after
she
did.

I
carry
my
bike
outside
and
leave
it
resting
against
the
wall,
then
head
back
inside.
I

have
this
ridiculous
ritual.
Before
I
leave
I
have
to
try
the
locked
door
at
the
laundry
end

of
the
room,
which
is
in
an
alcove
at
the
bottom
of
a
couple
of
steps.
I
have
this
unholy

fear
of
the
door
swinging
open
and
need
to
know
it’s
still
locked.
It’s
newish;
the
white

paint
fresh
and
unmarked
except
for
a
row
of
air
holes
drilled
across
the
top
and
the

bottom,
each
one
about
the
size
of
a
ten
cent
piece.
I
have
tried
standing
on
a
chair
and

shining
a
torch
through
these
holes
to
see
what’s
inside,
but
the
light
didn’t
land
on

anything.

This
house
is
huge.
There
are
many,
many
places
to
store
things.
So
why
would
you

need
a
special
separate
lockable
inner
chamber?
What
sort
of
stuff
would
you
need
to

put
in
there?
Those
air
holes
.
.
.
Are
they
for
ventilation?

Or
is
there
something
in
there
that
needs
to
breathe?

The
skin
behind
my
ears
tightens
while
I
hesitate
at
the
bottom
of
the
steps,
delaying

the
inevitable
by
first
checking
that
the
cobwebs
lining
the
top
and
sides
of
the

doorframe
are
undisturbed.
Finally,
when
I
can’t
stand
it
anymore,
I
press
on
the
door,

feeling
it
firm
and
unyielding
beneath
my
fingertips,
confirming
all
is
as
it
should
be.

Then
I
bolt
back
outside
to
where
the
air
is
cold
and
clean
and
sharp,
not
dank
and
dark

and
stale,
shivering
with
the
delicious
thrill
of
escape.

It’s
downhill
all
the
way
to
the
Clarkes’
place.
The
wind
is
freezing,
cutting
across
my