by Paul Collins
‘Ellie ...’ Gabe says, finally breaking the silence.
‘Will I see you on the bus again?’
I shake my head. ‘That time I caught your bus was
... an accident,’ I manage to say.
I’m so shocked that Gabe remembers me I can’t even make up an excuse.
‘Oh,’ Gabe says. His eyes find Snow White again. He studies her for what feels like several minutes before he finally goes on. ‘Do you think I could have your ... number ... so I could . . . we might .. .’
Gabe doesn’t finish the sentence, he just hands me a pen and his book. I’m so excited that I might see Gabe again that my hand shakes as I write out my number. When I hand the book back I feel like the whole world has gone quiet, watching and waiting to see what will happen. I look down the hall and notice it has. Steph has stopped laughing with her friends. She’s just staring at Gabe’s book with her mouth wide open.
‘Gabe!’ Steph calls. But Gabe doesn’t look up; he doesn’t seem to hear.
‘I’ll call you,’ he says, slipping my picture into his book and turning to leave.
‘Gabe!’ Steph calls again from down the hallway. But Gabe just walks off in the opposite direction.
That’s when Steph laughs her loudest, most attention-seeking laugh ever and this time Gabe does turn round. But his eyes don’t go to Steph, they rest on me. And once again I see the same intensity I noticed on the bus. But this time I don’t just sense a possibility. Now, I can see the bridge.
The nights Blake spent with Miranda changed everything. He could never forget how cool her skin had felt against his chest as they rode the crest of the black waves together.
Blake hadn’t wanted to go on holidays during term. It had been fun when he was a little kid in primary school, when he didn’t care about school. But now that he was in Year 9, he hated missing the beginning of term.
Caravans, pop-tops and campervans pulled out of the driveway of the Clifftop Holiday Park as Blake’s family parked their caravan outside the front office.
‘Looks like we pretty much have the whole place to ourselves,’ said Dad.
They cruised slowly through the park, past the bouncy castles and the kids’ club corner, past the cabins and the pool and the kiosk and the tracks down to the beach, right up to the top corner where huge fig trees spread deep shade across every site. In some places the grass was completely dead - brown squares where tents had sat all summer, yellow where caravan annexes had been set up for months. Dad picked a site far away from the last two remaining campervans.
Blake had his tent up in five minutes. At least he’d won the argument about having his own space on family holidays. His parents and kid sister, Sophie, slept inside the caravan while Blake had a tiny two man tent all to himself He slipped into his board shorts, grabbed a towel and headed for the beach.
‘Wait for me,’ called Sophie.
‘Don’t you let your sister out of your sight,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t wander off and leave her or let her swim alone. I want you both back here for a barbecue in half an hour.’
‘She’s nearly thirteen, Dad,’ said Blake. ‘She doesn’t need a babysitter.’
‘She needs her brother,’ said Dad.
Later that night, Blake was glad to crawl into his tent. There was nothing much else to do in a semi deserted caravan park after dark and he was bored of playing ‘Spit’ with Sophie. He fell asleep over the pages of a manga and woke in the middle of the night busting for a piss. He grabbed his torch, stum bled out of the tent and walked through the shadows and flat white glare of the caravan park lights to the amenities block.
Even before he reached the green and white build ing, he heard music. It sounded as though someone was throwing a party inside, but when he stepped into the men’s shower block it was eerily empty.
AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ pumped out through the loudspeakers, echoing against the tiles.
When he turned the corner of the amenities block and passed the entrance to the women’s showers, he saw Miranda for the first time. Her long blonde hair gleamed beneath the fluorescent light. She was dancing, flitting past the entrance and back again as she pirouetted across the tiled floor.
The next morning, Blake and Sophie walked down the cliff track to the estuary, where the swimming was safer than the main beach. The water filling the inlet was absolutely still, without a lick of sur(
‘Hey, Soph,’ said Blake, trying to sound casual.
‘Have you seen that girl with the long blonde hair?’
‘What girl? You mean that little four-year-old whose family is next to the bouncy castle?’
‘No, this girl’s about my age. I saw her in the women’s toilets last night.’
‘What were you doing perving on the girls’ toilets?’
‘I wasn’t perving,’ said Blake. ‘I can’t help it if you can see in when you walk past. In the middle of the night, last night, there was this girl with long blonde hair dancing in front of the mirrors.’
‘In your dreams,’ said Sophie. ‘There are no other teenagers in the whole caravan park. Only teeny tiny kids. Trust me, I’ve checked.’
Blake watched the ocean and the line of white breakers beyond the reef Sophie was wrong. That girl had to be staying somewhere in the caravan park. Why else would she be in the amenities block at 2 am? He dusted the sand from his legs, threw the towel over his shoulder and started back towards the road.
‘Where are you going?’ called Sophie. ‘Don’t leave me. I don’t want to hang out here alone.’
Just stay by the estuary and you’ll be okay. I’ll see you back at the caravan,’ he called over his shoulder.
Blake followed a narrow track through the scrub and up to the caravan park to search for the girl. A flock of grey nomads in white rigs were parked in one corner. Camped next to the pool area was a French family with a couple of little kids. Blake picked up his pace and turned towards the far end of the campsite where a row of small tents was pitched overlooking the sea. But there were no teenage girls on those sites either, only three English men sitting in deck chairs, their thin white legs patchy with sunburn, and a couple of Aussie blokes with a litter of tinnies outside their tent.
Blake walked slowly past the cabins, looking for the girl. But why would anyone from a cabin use the shower block if they had a bathroom of their own?
A gentle rain fell as Blake crawled into his tent that night. He was glad to get away from his family. His parents had been furious with him when Sophie came back to the caravan alone. Sophie just shrugged and tried to cover for him but Dad gave Blake a full-on lecture.
Blake drifted off to sleep to the sound of rain on nylon. He didn’t know what woke him. The rain had stopped. He lifted the tent flap and stared out into the night. He could hear music from the amenities block. It seemed louder than the night before. He didn’t really need to get up, but the longer he lay listening to the music, the more awake he felt. His mouth was dry and fuzzy. He reached for his tooth brush and stepped outside.
The girl stood alone, leaning across the bench, staring into the bathroom mirror, studying her reflec tion. As Blake watched, she started to dance, studying her moves in the mirror. Blake hadn’t meant to stare but the girl’s movements made him feel as though he were hypnotised. Suddenly, she stopped midway through her dance and turned to him and smiled. Blake raised one hand to wave and then hurried into the men’s. He stood at the sink nearest the wall. She was just the other side of the breezeblocks.
On the third night, when he woke, it was as if she were calling him. He stopped outside the entrance to the women’s shower block. At first he thought she wasn’t there. Then he heard a door bang and the girl stepped into the light. She stared at Blake.
‘I was wondering if you’d be here tonight,’ he said. ‘My sister reckons I’d imagined you. She
thinks
I’m crazy.’
‘My brother couldn’t care less about me,’ said the girl. ‘You’re Blake, aren’t you? I’m Miranda.’
Blake smiled. ‘Do you want to go for a walk? It’s a little uncool for me to be caught standing around outside the girls’ shower block.’
Miranda hung her head, her long blonde hair framing her face. ‘Someone might see me. I’m not really meant to be here.’
‘Where’s your campsite?
‘I don’t have one anymore. My family went home without me.’
‘You’re kidding? You mean you’re here on your own?’
Miranda ran her hands through her hair and sighed. ‘It’s not so bad, so long as no one else sees me. No one except you. You want to swim? I love this end of summer, when the water’s still warm enough for night swimming.’
‘What? Now? The moon’s not even up yet. It’s pitch dark down there.’
‘Who cares? Haven’t you ever been night swimming before? I love it. I go every night.’
‘My parents will kill me if they find out,’ said Blake, already knowing he was going to follow Miranda.
‘Mine didn’t care what I did,’ said Miranda as they walked through the sleeping caravan park. The white glow of the security lights fell in pools across the roadway. ‘I slept on the beach the last night they were here and they didn’t even notice. Then they left without me. They were only interested in my brother and he was only interested in himself No one wor ried about me.’
As they turned onto the narrow track to the beach Blake could just make out Miranda’s pale hair sway ing in the dark ahead. The moon began to nudge its way over the horizon, a tiny crescent of light, small and sharp as a fingernail. The crests of waves glim mered silvery white against the black water and the night sky was ablaze with stars.
Miranda slipped off her clothes and walked into the surf
‘Follow me,’ she called, as the sea washed around her legs.
For a split second, Blake hesitated. Beyond the breakers, the water was as black as ink. Miranda’s body was swallowed up by the waves. Blake tore off his clothes and followed her into the sea.
Blake slept in late. His head felt heavy when he woke. Miranda. It was the first word that came to him when he opened his eyes.
‘Blake,’ called Mum, from outside his tent.
‘Where’s Sophie?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Blake, covering his head with a pillow.
‘She was waiting for you to wake up. She must have gone down to the beach. I don’t like her going alone, Blake. Can you run down and check on her?’ Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. Always Sophie. Blake jogged down the track to the wide curve of the bay. Sophie wasn’t sitting in their usual spot by the estuary. He shaded his eyes and scanned the water. For a moment, he felt a little clutch of panic. Then he saw her, at the far end of the beach, clambering over rocks. He ran along the sand, cupping his hands around his mouth and calling her name.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ he said, when he finally caught up with her.
‘There’s a cemetery up there,’ said Sophie, point ing up the cliff. ‘I just thought I’d check it out.’
‘Mum was freaking. She thought you’d drowned.’
‘Sorry,’ said Sophie. ‘I just want to see the cem etery. Will you come with me?’
Blake shrugged. What choice did he have? If he went back without Sophie their mother would go berserk.
They clambered over black rocks, searching for handholds, until they found a path carved into the cliff. When they reached the top they climbed over a wire fence. The cemetery was tiny - two small fields of grass with a smattering of low tombstones. Further back, sheltered from the sea winds, was an obelisk with the names of the men from the town who had died in the wars of the 20th century.
‘Hurry up, Sophie,’ said Blake.
‘Come and see this one,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s so sad.’ Grudgingly, Blake made his way over to the cor- ner of the graveyard. It was the last grave, on the very edge of the cliff top, facing the ocean. A simple headstone with a picture set behind glass embedded in the white marble.
‘This girl was only fourteen,’ said Sophie. ‘Don’t you think that’s tragic?’
A stoneware vase full of fresh flowers had been placed on the grave and beside the headstone stood a figurine of a dolphin rising out of the water.
‘Someone takes really good care of this grave,’ said Sophie. ‘You can tell.’
Blake simply stared at the inscription.
In loving memory qf Miranda, our darling daughter and beloved sister, a fiee spirit. The wind and sea cried out to her and she answered.
Blake felt all the blood drain away from his head. He turned and stared out at the white-capped ocean. The wind whipped his hair off his face. He took a deep breath.
‘C’mon,’ he said, taking Sophie’s hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Mum and Dad were already down on the beach. They looked relieved when they saw Sophie and Blake waving from the cliff path.
‘Sophie,’ said Mum. ‘You mustn’t head off on your own like that. Ever. Wait for Blake.’
‘Blake doesn’t want to hang out with me,’ said
Sophie. ‘He doesn’t care anymore.’
But Blake didn’t hear her. He was already running along the beach, straight back to the caravan park office.
‘Miranda Prosper,’ he blurted at the receptionist.
‘There’s a girl called Miranda Prosper buried in the cemetery on the headland. Was she a local kid? Do you know how she died?’
The receptionist turned pale. ‘It was nothing to do with us. We put up warnings.’
‘What happened?’ asked Blake.
‘If you must know, she drowned. We warn every one about not swimming at night and not swimming alone. She did both. She went down to the back beach at night and was swept out to sea.’
Blake could only nod, as if he’d known all along. That night, as he walked through the darkened caravan park to the shower block, he knew what he had to say to Miranda.
‘Hey Blake,’ said Miranda, smiling and flicking her silky hair over her shoulder. ‘I was hoping you’d come back. It was fun last night, wasn’t it? You want to go swimming again?’
‘No,’ said Blake. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’
Miranda didn’t show a flicker of hesitation as
Blake led her up the cliff track to the cemetery. A crescent moon had risen and faintly lit their way. Blake looked back into Miranda’s upturned face as she followed him. How could she not know? He gripped her cool hand tightly.
When they reached the top he helped her over the wire fence and led her to the grave at the tip of the headland. He’d brought his flashlight but he didn’t need it. The gold lettering of Miranda’s name glit tered in the moonlight. Her face smiled out from the framed photograph. He heard a sharp little intake of breath.
‘But they didn’t care,’ said Miranda. ‘After I died, they just left me.’
‘No, Miranda, they buried you here. Someone comes and tends this grave. Someone lays fresh flowers on it.’
Miranda bent down and picked up the blue dolphin. ‘This was my brother’s favourite. He loved dolphins.’
She turned towards the cliff’s edge and stared out to sea. ‘When I was alive, they never told me how they felt,’ she said. ‘I guess only the living can truly change.’
‘I’m sorry, Miranda.’
‘It’s okay, Blake. Don’t follow me this time.’
She leapt into the moonlight. And then, she was gone.
In the car driving back to the city, Sophie sat looking glumly out the window. She ran her hands through her long blonde hair and sighed.
‘What’s up, kid?’
asked Blake.
‘I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to start high school. I’m scared. We’ll be getting back late and everyone will already be in some cliquey group and no one will want to know me.’
Blake took her hand and held it tighdy. ‘I’ll always want to know you, Soph,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever doubt that. I’ll always be there for you.’
‘Hey, Sam! In here!’
‘Okay.’ Sam walked around the bulldozer that sat in the middle of the lawn and kicked at bits of rubble and guttering from the semi-demolished house. He then picked his way over brick stacks, foundations and random flooring boards.
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
Kon was kneeling in the corner of a room that must’ve once been a bedroom. Maybe Mrs Martin’s. Because the room was now open to all weathers, the pink rose wallpaper was faded and peeling. With a smirk, Kon turned towards Sam and jabbed his finger towards a hole in the floor and then at a pile of short, even floorboards.
Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘So what?’
‘Mate, it’s a hole.’ Kon enunciated the words slowly, as if to a toddler. ‘Note the floorboards have been cut. And replaced.’ His smirk broadened. ‘That is, until I got to them. But, hey, you may ask, why would anyone, especially an old lady like Mrs Martin, do that, eh?’
Sam leaned against the wall and shrugged. ‘White ant treatment?’
Kon pulled a face. ‘That is a such a crap answer.’
‘It is not. We had it done at our place, in the kitchen, and that’s exactly what happens. Next time you’re -’
‘Okay! Okay!’ Kon pushed his palms upwards.
‘But, mate, in my humble opinion, this hole was not cut for any white ant treatment.’
‘So? It’s a hole.’ Sam gave a deliberate, disinter ested yawn. It was obvious to him that Kon had something up his sleeve. His friend was holding back, baiting him. Kon liked nothing better than a bit of showmanship - especially when he was the main act.