by Rosie Rowell
I-di-ot. I-di-ot – as the distance between me and the deck grows I start to feel calmer. Then I remember challenging Spook to a game of darts. I told him I was a regional junior champion! I don’t think they found my dart.
Ahead of me a freshwater stream carves a shallow path down the sand. I jump it, airborne for a second.
Sometimes when I run I picture a circus master, perched on a stool in the middle of a circus ring that sits inside the cavity of my stomach. The faster I run, the faster he spins, around and around. When I’m running properly, he spins without stopping. His outstretched whip is held perfectly straight by the momentum of his rotation, of my running. I cannot stop; it would see the whip come crashing down. But I’ll never stop. The tip of the whip is millimetres short of the inside walls of my ribs. I feel it tickle the air between us. Faster and faster, so that now his red coat becomes a whirl, a smudge, and still I have more to give.
My lungs expand. As they fill with air they lift me, gently at first. I am free and wild. I am weightless. I can fly. I hold out my arms, and just for a second close my eyes.
Spook is stretched out on the sofa. His arms are folded across his chest, thumbs tucked into his armpits. He has a frayed leather bracelet around one wrist. Mercifully he appears to be sleeping. His body seems to fit the sofa perfectly, as though I am the stranger creeping up on him. At the same time, there is nothing strange about seeing him there. His familiarity makes me feel uneasy. I play with the idea of creeping around to the kitchen door to avoid having to walk past him. Oh my god, he’s old! He must be at least thirty. This is bad. It’s worse than the time I kissed the prison warder. At least that ended at the club.
‘What happened to you?’
He’s awake? Has he been watching me watching him? ‘I fell.’
‘Down a mountain?’
‘Over some rocks.’
He raises an eyebrow. As I pass him, he reaches for my unhurt arm. ‘You need to clean out those cuts.’ His hand closes easily around it. The warm pressure makes me jump. I look down at the parallel lines that tear the skin where I’d tried to stop myself falling. Sand and dirt are lodged in the bloodied skin of my palms. The cuts, which I’d barely noticed, now start to sting unbearably. Tears mass threateningly behind my eyes.
‘I’ll be fine.’ I’d made myself carry on after the fall. Otherwise it would have been a waste of a run.
‘They need cleaning with Dettol or they’ll get infected.’
‘I don’t think –’
But Spook is off the sofa. I’m staring at my sarong, which has come loose around his waist. I jerk my head away but not before I catch him grinning at me. Everything I do around him makes me feel stupid.
‘I’ll grab my kit from the car.’
Of course – the car. In my rush to get to the beach I must have missed it. The Toyota Cressida with the surfboard strapped to the roof and clothes scattered across the back seat. I feel blindsided by these disjointed images of last night. What else did I do? I sink into the sofa, still warm from his body. By the time he returns, I’ve started shivering.
‘Shock,’ he comments.
I suck in my breath as he starts dabbing at the cuts. It stings so much that I have to clench my bum not to say anything. I try to remove my hand, but his grip is too strong. He works methodically, ignoring my attempts to make him stop. As the silence stretches out, and the shock wears off, I begin to feel embarrassed. ‘What kind of a name is Spook?’
He looks up. ‘A nickname.’ He drops one hand and starts on the other.
‘Obviously,’ I mutter.
‘My old man gave it to me. I used to sleepwalk. My real name is Luke.’
‘I prefer Luke,’ I say.
‘I prefer Spook.’
I bite the inside of my cheek and concentrate on the bookshelf across the room, picking out the Jo Nesbos and multiple copies of Fifty Shades, as well as what looks like the full set of Asterix. The two bottom shelves are stacked with puzzles and Monopoly and Risk, a few packs of cards bound together with elastic bands and a well-used Boggle set.
‘Do you surf?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘I told your friend Brett I’d show him a surf site today.’
‘You may regret it. He’s probably the most accident-prone person you’ll ever meet.’
Spook smiles. ‘You all been friends for a while?’
I shrug. ‘They’re a couple now, obviously.’
Spook is trying to scrape loose a splinter of shell wedged into the gash in my palm. His fingernails are stubby.
I screw up my eyes.
‘You have no meat on these poor bones. I thought I was going to break you last night,’ he adds without looking up.
This takes my mind off my hand. That’s what else happened. Jesus, Grace! More flashes, but still no solid memory.
Spook raises his eyes and looks at me. ‘A guy likes a bit of padding.’
‘Maybe you should stick to women your own age.’
Spook laughs. ‘But if you remember it wasn’t me doing the chasing.’ He looks at me closely. ‘You don’t remember.’
I turn away, to find Louisa leaning against the wall, watching us. She is wearing sleeping shorts and a vest top. Her arms are crossed over her chest; she isn’t wearing a bra.
‘Morning, lovebirds,’ she croons. I glance at Spook and catch him cringe slightly. Is that because of me? I yank my hand away and stand up, as if I’ve been caught doing something naughty.
‘What did you do to my friend?’ asks Louisa, seeing the first aid kit.
‘Nothing! She threw herself over some rocks, apparently.’
‘Hmm, she does that from time to time.’
I glare at Louisa in an ‘I’m right here!’ way but she’s enjoying herself and won’t catch my eye.
‘If your friend ate a bit more she wouldn’t need first aid every time she tripped.’
‘Grace doesn’t believe in eating. It’s only us mortals who suffer from that need,’ Louisa replies.
Spook packs away his Dettol kit and heads out the door.
I look at Louisa.
‘What?’ she says. ‘I was being friendly.’
A noise, similar to that of an elephant stuck in a sculpture gallery, comes from the kitchen. A few moments later Brett appears holding a box of cereal. He is dressed in baggies and a T-shirt that looks as though he found it scrunched up in a hole in the ground. He loads his mouth with a handful of muesli and looks at me. ‘Where’s your dad, I mean boyfriend?’
I’m saved from having to reply by Spook coming back inside.
‘Ready?’ he says to Brett.
‘Almost,’ says Brett. He dumps the box on the table and walks out to the deck. ‘Mother Ocean is calling. I’m coming, Sweet Lady, be gentle today!’ he shouts.
He peers back inside with his wetsuit over his shoulder. ‘Maybe we can pick up a crayfish on the way home.’
‘Do you have a permit?’ asks Spook.
‘Nah.’
‘Bro, don’t you read the papers? You don’t want to be caught with a mussel shell at the moment, let alone a crayfish.’
‘You’re getting old, dude. Fearful of life.’ Brett shakes his head.
Spook laughs and steps into the waiting boots.
‘What are you doing later?’ Louisa asks him.
‘No plans.’ Spook empties his keys and scuffed wallet onto the table, then takes off his watch. It seems such a comfortable, ‘at home’ thing to do.
‘Do you live around here?’ I say.
‘Nope.’
Louisa and I exchange a glance. ‘So you’re just here for the weekend?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugs.
‘Would you like to run a police check on him, or can we go surfing now?’ says Brett from the door.
Spook laughs. ‘Laters,’ he says and follows Brett outside.
At the sound of Brett’s car starting up I turn to Louisa. ‘Does that mean he’s going to hang around?’
‘I tho
ught you liked him.’ Louisa shrugs.
‘He must be at least thirty!’
Louisa turns back towards her bedroom. ‘What was it you said last night? “Loosen up”, Gracie! You only live once.’ She looks back and flashes me an angelic smile.
I lie on my bed and listen to Louisa moving around in her bedroom, then the sound of the shower. My palms sting. I haven’t fallen this badly since I was a little girl. Questions rush at me from the four corners of the empty room – what did I say to him last night? What exactly did we do? He’s not my type. I like tall and lean, short dark hair. Mysteriously fucked up. Spook is way too straightforward to be attractive, but he has a nice smile. The other thing that I like about him is that he would totally freak Louisa’s mother out. And my mum? The thought makes me laugh. Spook would make her shudder. He is the kind of guy my aunt Julia would fall head over heels in love with – she’d sell everything she owns, and follow him to Morocco.
Despite Louisa blaming Helen for us ending up in Baboon Point, it is actually down to her mother that we are here. For months Mrs Cele would not hear of an end-of-school week away. ‘I didn’t go away after school,’ was her argument. This made Louisa roll her eyes and mutter, ‘That’s because you lived in a fucking hut!’ under her breath.
Mrs Cele was obsessed with keeping Louisa away from Plettenberg Bay. She was convinced Louisa would spend a week accepting lifts from drugged-up drivers and having her drinks spiked, and return home a deflowered junkie. Little does she know Louisa’s ‘flower’ has been potpourri for three years already, quite apart from the six-month-long lurve fest that’s being going on with Brett. Louisa’s mum is so much in denial about that relationship that Louisa and Brett can actually be messing around upstairs while she is downstairs in the kitchen. It would be unthinkable that Brett were anything other than Louisa’s ‘little friend’. Brett is not boyfriend material, he does not figure in the plan Mrs Cele has for Louisa’s life. It’s not only that he still looks weirdly pre-pubescent at the age of eighteen; his biggest fault is that he isn’t ‘going places’. I’m not going places either, but I don’t pose the same threat to her daughter’s future success.
Helen, on the other hand, is going straight into a business degree and a flat in Oranjezigt owned by her dad. Mrs Cele also approves of Helen’s big breasts and curves and is altogether too influenced by anything Helen says. As for Theresa – Mrs Cele refers to her as ‘the Beauty Queen’. Whenever I’m at Louisa’s house, Mrs Cele makes a point of asking after ‘Helen and the Beauty Queen’.
When Helen told Mrs Cele she was going to her parents’ house at Baboon Point instead of Plett, Louisa’s mum sprang into action. Suddenly she had booked a house for us, ‘prime position, right on the beach, so you can be near all your friends,’ she beamed, looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
Louisa screamed at her for half an hour but at school the next day she announced that there was no way she was spending her first week of freedom being herded around Plett in parent-sponsored minivans or marquees complete with first-aiders and Christians handing out coffee.
Louisa sits down next to me, sipping from a mug. ‘Let’s go to Lambert’s Bay.’
‘Was I awful last night? I say, scratching at a blister of paint on the wall.
‘Not awful, just, you know …’
No, I don’t! I want to yell. I don’t remember a bloody thing.
‘Spook is probably a little surprised today. You were quite into him last night. You insisted on him coming back.’ Louisa laughs. ‘It was cute.’
I squeeze my eyes shut. After a while I sigh. ‘Did you have a good time?’ I turn over and look at her.
‘I was looking after you.’ Louisa hesitates. ‘You gave Theresa a huge hug near the end, you know.’
‘Jesus,’ I mutter as I experience a whole new level of shame.
I feel Louisa bristle. ‘I don’t know why you’re so hard on her.’
‘How are we going to get to Lambert’s Bay?’ I ask to change the subject.
‘We’ll take Spook’s car.’ Louisa opens her hand and jingles the keys Spook dumped on the table.
I sit up. ‘Are you sure? Stealing a car and underage driving? It’s only Day One. We don’t have to break every rule today.’ We both know I’m simply playing for time. This is payback for last night.
‘I know what I’m doing.’
The day has warmed up. Apart from a thin layer of white cloud above the horizon, the sky is clear. There is no wind today, which is unusual for this time of year. When a tourist site calls this area a ‘kite-surfer’s paradise’, you know it’s going to be windy. I think back to this morning, seeing Spook leaning against the railing; that horrible feeling of being surprised but not.
Louisa stops to lock the kitchen door.
I’m not convinced that stealing Spook’s car for a joyride to the next town is such a great idea, but openly disagreeing with Louisa is pointless. Nothing puts her in a better mood than a loud argument. She always wins. ‘The police will remain vigilant and on high alert at all times over this holiday season,’ I read from the local paper I picked up in the cafe yesterday.
‘That just means one of them is planning to turn up to work.’ She leads the way down the stairs. ‘I don’t know who was worse last night – you or Brett.’
Her words are like that feeling of chewing on a mouth ulcer.
‘Have you ever noticed at a certain point he becomes a maniac? Out of control.’
‘He’s eighteen, Lou.’
‘One day he’s going to hurt himself.’
‘You sound like your mother.’
Already the overhanging Brazilian Pepper tree has dropped a light spray of its tiny white flowers on Spook’s pale blue car. It looks alarmingly at home. The car has roof racks and a dent in the passenger door. Louisa unlocks the driver’s door and gets inside.
‘Do you remember sitting on Spook’s lap as he drove home?’
‘I did not!’
Louisa laughs. She is trying to pull the seat forward but it doesn’t budge. She ends up sitting on the edge of it in order to reach the pedals. ‘What is that smell?’ She makes a face as she deposits the yellow wheel lock on the back seat.
I sniff. The car smells of damp clothes left in a pile for too long. ‘We could go for a walk instead.’
There is a moment of wheel spinning and gravel spitting as Louisa attempts to reverse up the drive.
‘Mother of God,’ I mutter, grabbing the door handle.
‘Turn on some music.’
The car radio is missing its removable face. I open the glove compartment to look for it, but there’s nothing but a dog-eared logbook and a melted Kit Kat still in its wrapper. When I try to close the door, the catch won’t hold. I bang it repeatedly. In the end I resort to resting my feet against it.
Louisa giggles. ‘We can’t steal the car and break it.’ We set off, jerking down the road. ‘The clutch is crap,’ says Louisa disdainfully. We pass the liquor store and the two tiny cafes.
‘Where are the people?’ shouts Louisa as we drive through the deserted streets. ‘It’s Saturday morning, where is everyone?’
‘They’ve all gone to Lambert’s Bay. Have you never been anywhere like this?’ I ask.
‘Never.’
‘What about when you go and visit your grandmother?’
‘That’s different. There there’s nothing but people. This town feels … forgotten.’
We make our way back to the road we turned off yesterday. A stream of cars and lorries guns past us. Louisa pulls up the handbrake but keeps revving in anticipation of a gap. ‘I want something exciting to happen this week. Something more exciting than Plett.’
As soon as there is a tiny break in the cars, Louisa lurches forward but over-revs so that we stall halfway between the hard shoulder and the lane. A car swerves around us with its hooter blaring.
‘Fuckwit!’ shouts Louisa, as she restarts.
‘Let’s hope that wasn’t an unmarked police
car,’ I say.
This is not my first visit to Lambert’s Bay. There is a restaurant on the outskirts of town that my mum and her book club friends visit on their annual weekend away to see the spring flowers. Although I’ve managed to avoid being dragged along for the last few years, Lambert’s Bay for me is synonymous with watching middle-aged women drinking gallons of red wine and discussing how awful men are. That, and the indescribably foul-smelling gannet nature reserve nearby.
Today the wide, flat streets are surprisingly busy. I don’t remember much more than a few shops and the hub of activity around the harbour, but it seems that since I was last here the town has swelled back from the coastline. As we queue at an intersection, I compare the ‘West Coast Real Estate’ to the ‘Cut Above’ hair salon next door. The estate agency is empty – even the employee is outside leaning against the doorpost and smoking a cigarette; the hair salon is buzzing with Saturday morning customers. ‘Back at home, you never think about these towns,’ I say, thinking out loud. Or the people who populate them. All those dreams and heartbreaks that ultimately end in nothing.
‘Why would you?’ asks Louisa. Louisa’s reaction makes me think about Rory. In Psychology Club he explained how drastically we under-utilise our brains. We are able to absorb every tiny detail of our surroundings, but filter out everything except what we want to see. Louisa’s filter is very fine-tuned.
‘There are all these parallel universes co-existing alongside ours that we never even consider.’
‘Darling, you live in your very own parallel universe.’
We pull into the car park of a small shopping complex. It is littered with the usual self-appointed parking attendants. My mum always tips them because she’s convinced otherwise they’d key our car. Today none of them even glance at Spook’s car.
The complex has a bank, a Cash Converters, a liquor store and a Mr Price clothing store. Next to it is a Spar and a tiny shop called Surf Nation, although apart from a row of board shorts, it seems to cater exclusively to teenage girls. Louisa picks out a yellow maxi dress and disappears to the back to try it on. When she returns she’s also holding a pair of denim hot pants. They’re so short that the pockets stick out at the bottom.