Night Beach (8 page)

awkward,
as
though
I’m
taking
her
daughter
away
and
should
apologise.

But
in
a
blink,
she’s
back
to
normal,
dragging
Honey
outside,
and
picking
her
keys
and

purse
off
the
top
of
the
fridge.
I
follow
her
out
to
the
front
door.

‘So
who’d
you
say
he
is
again?’
she
asks
casually.

I
give
her
a
look.
‘This
bikie
guy.
He’s
forty.
After
you
leave
he’s
going
to
come
over
and

I’m
going
to
drink
and
do
drugs
and
neglect
your
daughter.’

‘I’m
living
vicariously,
sweets.
Okay,
have
fun
and
ring
if
you
need
anything.’
She
shuts

the
door
and
a
moment
later
I
hear
her
footsteps
on
the
driveway.

I
wander
back
into
the
lounge
room.
It’s
only
when
I
look
out
the
window
and
see
Jackie

leaning
on
the
open
door
of
her
Honda
staring
up
at
the
house
that
I
give
a
start,

grabbing
Joey
off
the
floor
and
standing
her
on
the
couch.

‘Quick,
Joey,
wave
to
Mum!
Wave!’

Joey
waves
furiously,
face
pressed
up
against
the
window,
and
Jackie
waves
furiously

back,
smiling
so
much
it’s
a
wonder
her
face
doesn’t
split.
And
while
I’m
watching
them

the
ending
sadness
bites
me
hard
and
without
warning.
I
think
it’s
because,
no
matter

how
hard
I
try,
I
can
never
imagine
this
scenario
with
Mum
and
me
in
it.

6

See

After
it
gets
dark,
and
Joey’s
had
tea
and
a
bath,
we
do
a
bit
of
drawing.
Joey’s
drawings

are
fantastic.
They
have
this
energy.
My
favourite
is
the
one
she
said
was
of
all
the

things
that
I
like
best:
her,
Honey,
the
ocean
.
.
.
and
some
elbows.
Go
figure.

Hanging
out
with
Joey
means
I
get
to
see
the
world
her
way,
with
everything
brand
new.

But
being
around
her
has
shown
me
what
I’ve
lost,
too:
whatever
it
is
that
lets
Joey
see

Pinty.

Jackie
asked
me
once
what
it
is
that
I
love
about
art.
And
when
she
said
it,
I
was

surprised,
because
the
question
didn’t
seem
to
apply
to
me.
I’ve
been
thinking
about
it

ever
since.

About
why
what
she
asked
me
was
wrong.
It’s
not
love.
It’s
an
obsession.
And
it’s
not

art.
It’s
a
way
of
seeing
things.

A
way
to
see
the
things
that
aren’t
there.

Tonight,
we’re
working
with
crayon,
sprawled
on
our
stomachs
on
the
lounge-‐room

floor.
Joey
confers
with
Pinty
every
so
often,
but
I
hardly
notice.
I
sketch
Kane’s
face

with
a
black
crayon,
but
I
try
to
avoid
being
too
pathetic
by
quickly
turning
it
into
a
kind

of
tribal
mask.
Then
I
doodle
along
for
a
while
before
I
realise
what
I’ve
drawn
is
Greg

Hill’s
dog,
standing
to
attention
as
though
she’s
staring
out
at
sea.

Weird.

I
turn
the
page
upside
down,
select
ultramarine
blue,
and
start
on
a
crayon
reproduction

of
Whiteley’s
Thebes
Revenge,
the
painting
I
love
most
in
the
world.
I
block
in
the
ocean

and
the
night
sky,
leaving
a
circle
for
the
full
moon,
and
then
trace
the
curves
of
the

waves.
The
shade
is
still
nothing
like
a
real
ultramarine
blue
–
and
I’d
know;
I’ve
got
this

fascination
for
it
that
goes
way
beyond
saying
it’s
my
favourite
colour.
They
used
to

make
ultramarine
blue
from
crushed
lapis
lazuli.
But
I
actually
like
the
synthetic
version

better.
It’s
that
pulsing
electric
blue
the
sky
becomes
when
the
day
has
ended
and
night

is
yet
to
arrive.
It’s
the
colour
of
the
in-‐between.

Then
I
get
a
sudden
rush
and
all
these
associations
start
sparking
in
my
head
like
a

string
of
firecrackers;
each
one
a
little
revelation,
a
solving.
I
should
use
ultramarine

blue
in
my
Visual
Arts
painting.
Hell,
I
should
call
it
Ultramarine.
That’s
perfect.
So

perfect.
Why
didn’t
I
think
of
it
before?
The
word
‘ultramarine’
comes
from

ultramarinus,
which
means
‘beyond
the
sea’.
That’s
what
I
could
explore
in
the
work:

beyond
the
sea.
Not
the
literal
meaning
–
but
something
other-‐worldly.

Yes,
yes,
yes.
This
is
what
I
should
be
doing.
Finally
I’m
on
the
right
track.

Art
is
a
kind
of
rapture.
Surrender
enough,
you
find
truth.

But
if
I
want
to
really
see,
to
venture
into
the
beyond
–
how
do
I
surrender
enough
to
do

that?

Don’t
they
talk
about
the
sea
of
the
unconscious?
What’s
beyond
that?
What’s
at
the

bottom?

I’m
interrupted
by
Joey
presenting
me
with
her
latest
masterpiece.
‘Yook
Abbie.’

I
blink
at
her,
then
take
her
drawing,
placing
it
on
the
floor
in
front
of
me.
‘Wow,
there’s

a
lot
going
on
here.
Good
stuff.’

‘Pinty
helped.
Pinty
wants
me
to
give
it
to
you.’

‘That’s
nice
of
Pinty.’
I
pat
the
floor
beside
me.
‘Come
and
explain
it
to
me.’

She
flops
down
and
points
to
an
eruption
of
red,
yellow
and
green.
‘That’s
a
volcano.’

This
period
in
Joey’s
artistic
career
could
only
be
described
as
her
volcano
phase.

There’s
one
in
every
drawing.
I
point
to
a
series
of
circles
on
sticks.
‘Who
are
the

people?’

‘That’s
me,’
Joey
says,
jabbing
the
paper,
‘and
Mum
and
Dad.
And
that’s
Honey.’
She

points
at
a
spectacular
whirl
of
pink
that’s
like
a
mini
tornado
on
the
page.

‘Where’s
Pinty?’
I
ask.

Joey
stabs
at
a
yellow
splodge
with
her
finger.

‘And
what
are
those
things
on
your
dad?’
I
ask,
pointing
to
two
blobs
on
his
legs.

‘His
hips,’
she
says.

I
laugh.

‘That’s
you,’
Joey
tells
me,
pointing
at
a
blue
circle
on
stick
legs
that’s
off
by
itself
in
the

right-‐hand
corner
of
the
page,
and
has
what
looks
like
massive
bolts
of
lightning
or
tall

flames
coming
out
of
its
head.

‘What’s
going
on
with
my
head?’
I
ask,
tapping
the
page.

‘That’s
your
hair.’

‘Cool.
Did
you
draw
it
like
that
because
it’s
long?’

‘No.
Because
Pinty
said.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Pinty
said
to
do
it
yike
this.’
Joey
grabs
at
her
own
hair
and
pulls
it
so
it’s
standing

straight
up.

‘How
come?’

‘So
you
know.’

‘Know
what?’

Joey
drops
her
hair
and
stares
at
me,
gaping
as
though
she’s
said
something
wrong.

‘Aren’t
you
going
to
tell
me?’
I
ask
with
a
smile.
But
it’s
like
Joey’s
slipped
into
some
kind

of
trance.
Not
blinking
even.

The
last
time
I
saw
her
do
this
was
about
a
month
ago.
She
was
standing
in
the
middle
of

the
kitchen,
staring
off
into
space.
I
went
to
the
bathroom
and
came
back
to
find
her

unmoved.

And
then
she
just
burst
into
tears.
It
freaked
me
out
then,
and
it’s
freaking
me
out
now.

‘Joey?’
I
touch
her
face.
‘Hey,
you
feel
really
cold.’
I
pull
her
onto
my
lap
and
wrap
my

arms
around
her,
and
after
a
moment
I
feel
her
relax
back
against
me.
She’s
wearing

flannelette
pyjamas
and
her
slippers,
and
the
heater
is
going,
so
she
should
be
nice
and

toasty.
In
a
moment,
when
I
press
my
cheek
to
hers,
she
is.

Later,
after
I’ve
read
her
three
books
and
supervised
the
cleaning
of
the
teeth,
I
tuck
her

into
bed.

‘Goodnight
beautiful
girl,’
I
tell
her,
kissing
her
forehead.

She
stares
up
at
me,
her
blonde
curls
framing
her
ever-‐so-‐serious
little
face.
‘Goodnight

beautiful
Abbie.’

As
I
turn
off
her
bedroom
light,
she
says,
‘Abbie?
Can
you
yeave
the
yite
on?’

‘Oh.
Sure.’
Switching
the
light
back
on,
I
cross
the
room
and
take
a
seat
on
the
edge
of

her
bed.
I’m
worried.
Joey’s
never
been
nervous
at
night
before.
‘Is
that
better?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are
you
feeling
okay,
sweetie?’
I
ask,
stroking
her
hair.

‘Yes,
I
am.
But
Pinty’s
not,’
she
says
in
that
matter-‐of-‐fact
reporting
voice
that
kids
use.

‘Pinty’s
scared.’

‘Well,
you
tell
Pinty
that
I’ll
be
just
out
in
the
lounge
room.

If
you
guys
need
me,
all
you
have
to
do
is
yell
out.
What
are
you
–
I
mean,
what’s
Pinty

scared
of?
Can
you
tell
me?’

Joey’s
silent.
Her
hazel
eyes
look
enormous.
Then
she
says,
‘Pinty’s
scared
because
it’s

here
now.’

The
skin
on
my
arms
tightens
into
goose
bumps.
‘What’s
here?’

‘The
thing
from
the
other
place.’

‘You
think
there’s
something
in
the
house?’
I
ask
the
question
calmly,
but
there’s
an

edge
to
my
voice
–
I’m
thinking
of
all
those
scary
films
where
the
babysitter
gets
it.

Joey
sounds
impatient.
‘I
don’t
know.
I
can’t
see
it.’

7

Spitting
games

Jackie
and
David
arrive
back
at
eight,
and
even
though
Joey
went
straight
to
sleep,
her

words
haven’t
left
me
alone.
I’ve
checked
every
inch
of
the
house,
including
inside
the

wardrobes
and
behind
the
doors.
There’s
safety
in
the
sounds
of
shoes
being
scraped
on

the
door
mat,
the
jingle
of
keys
and
the
murmur
of
voices.
The
door
opens
and
David

yells
a
quick
hello
before
ducking
into
Joey’s
room.
Jackie
joins
me
in
the
lounge
room.

‘Okay,
we’ve
paid
Junction
Cellars
a
deposit
for
the
tasting,’
she
says,
by
way
of
greeting,

still
very
much
in
work
mode.
‘I’m
telling
you
this
because
I
want
to
confirm
that
you’re