Night Beach by Kirsty Eagar Page A

I
might
as
well
lie
here
a
little
longer,
put
    off
having
to
go
and
say
good
morning.
My
eyes
are
scratchy
with
tiredness.
I
went
to
    sleep
so
late
–
it
was
after
three
in
the
morning.
    Then
I
remember
why.
The
dogs.
And
I
sit
up
straight.

    Last
night,
the
whole
thing
was
dream-‐like.
The
dogs
were
phantoms,
signs
and
    superstitions
come
to
life,
representatives
of
the
moon.
But
sunlight
burns
the
memory,
    leaving
only
a
residue
of
its
mystery,
and
I
look
for
explanations.
They
were
there,
I
    decide.
They
were
real
–
although
probably
not
all
of
them
were
black,
they
just
looked
    that
way
in
the
darkness.
    Grandad
used
to
talk
about
packs
of
dogs
roaming
around
this
area
when
he
was
a
boy.
    The
back
of
the
Heights,
and
most
of
Tumbleside,
is
made
up
of
semi-‐rural
lots
and
huge
    tracts
of
undeveloped
crown
land.
Maybe
there
are
still
packs
of
dogs
roaming
around.

    Maybe
the
old
lady
used
to
feed
them.
Like
people
feed
rainbow
lorikeets,
or
pigeons,
or
    ducks.
And
the
dogs
keep
returning
because
they
don’t
know
she’s
dead.
That
might
be
    right.
    Hmmm.
    After
a
while
I
get
the
feeling
that
Mum
and
Brian
aren’t
home.
Kane
either.
It’s
because
    the
house
is
making
so
much
noise;
ticking
and
creaking
as
it
stretches
in
the
sun.
Acting
    like
a
house
does
when
nobody’s
around
to
see
it.
It
must
have
forgotten
about
me.

    Mum
and
Brian’s
room
is
dark,
the
heavy
rust-‐red
curtains
blocking
all
light.
When
I
    push
them
aside,
I
see
that
Brian’s
Beamer
and
Kane’s
ute
are
missing.
Then,
like
a
    starter
pistol
has
gone
off,
I
bolt
back
to
my
room
and
grab
Grandad’s
binoculars
off
the
    shelf
above
my
desk.
I
focus
them
on
the
clubhouse
car
park,
standing
with
my
legs
    astride
because
I’m
having
the
same
kind
of
vertigo
attack
as
yesterday,
when
I
felt
like
    the
house
was
moving.

    Kane’s
green
ute
is
down
there,
but
not
in
his
regular
spot.
    It’s
at
the
head
of
the
line
of
cars
in
the
lane
leading
to
the
clubhouse.
Only
boardriders’
    members
park
there.

    Who
cares.
I’m
already
out
the
door.
    Downstairs,
all
of
the
windows
are
closed,
and
the
blinds
are
drawn
–
the
place
is
as
    cold
and
silent
as
the
inside
of
a
fridge.
    Worried
about
not
hearing
Kane
if
he
comes
home,
I
open
the
window
in
his
bedroom
    slightly.
There’s
the
smell
of
something
singed
in
the
room,
so
the
fresh
air
is
good.
I
    grab
a
handful
of
the
T-‐shirts
littering
the
floor
and
bury
my
nose
in
them.

    There’s
smoke
in
the
cotton.
There’s
also
the
warm
skin
smell
of
him,
and
the
deodorant
    he
wears,
and
I
feel
drunk.
His
bed’s
unmade,
the
doona
cast
aside,
the
top
sheet
twisted
    into
a
vine,
and
what
I
do
is
lay
down,
burying
my
face
in
one
of
his
pillows.

    Would
anyone
else
understand
what
I’m
doing?
I
silently
argue
my
case
before
an
    invisible
jury.
I’m
saying,
imagine
there
is
someone
you
like
so
much
that
just
thinking
    about
them
leaves
you
desperate
and
reckless.
You
crave
them
in
a
way
that’s
not
    rational,
not
right,
and
you’re
becoming
somebody
you
don’t
recognise,
and
certainly
    don’t
respect,
but
you
don’t
even
care.

    And
this
person
you
like
is
unattainable.
Except
for
one
thing.

    Geography.
    He
lives
downstairs.
    I
find
the
duffel
bag
on
the
other
side
of
the
bed
–
thankfully
he
hasn’t
unpacked
it
yet.
    When
I
kneel
down
to
unzip
it,
I
have
to
stop
still
for
a
second
because
I
get
hit
by
a
    wave
of
dizziness
as
the
floor
lurches.