by Lucy Clarke
“Neither did she.”
“Ed been out to meet you?”
“He came to Australia.” She hesitated, pressing her lips together. “Actually, we’ve split up. I found out about him and Mia.”
“Oh … ”
“Mia talked to you about it, didn’t she?”
“Yes, just once.” He sighed. “I’m so sorry. You’ve been through hell.”
“Hasn’t been my best year.”
“How are you feeling? Really?”
She considered the question. At first, she’d been crushed by her breakup with Ed. But now, she no longer felt the sharp ache in her chest when she thought of him. In fact, as the weeks passed, she had begun to feel a strange sense of relief. “I think I’m okay. Perhaps Mia did me a favor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ed and I, we weren’t right for each other,” she told him openly. “What happened forced me to see that.”
“So it was a sort of shock-therapy-type favor?”
She smiled. “Exactly.”
“Now you’re out in Bali alone?”
A moped fired down the street and she breathed in the tang of its fumes. “Yes.”
“You’re being careful? Looking after yourself?”
“Yes.”
“How are you finding traveling?”
“Tough. Lonely. Exhilarating.” She had an urge to tell him how much she missed him, but she stopped herself. Instead, she said, “It’s been interesting going to the same places as you and Mia.”
“What did you think of Western Australia?”
“Beautiful. Barren, of course, but still incredibly beautiful. The space is overwhelming. On the bus we’d drive for hours without passing another vehicle. It was eerie, almost.”
“And what about Bali?”
She looked up. The night was closing in and she felt a low stir of anxiety. Perhaps for her, Bali would always be a map of Mia’s last few weeks. “I’m not sure yet,” she told him. She smoothed her hair with her free hand. “Anyway, tell me about you. How have you been?”
“Truthfully? Not great. Some days I still can’t believe she’s gone. I walk down to Porthcray and imagine that any moment she’s gonna come running up behind me.”
She thought of the surreal March day they’d buried Mia, remembering the biting wind twisting beneath her coat as she’d stood outside the church. She pictured Finn in his navy suit, his face tanned, but drawn.
The phone line began to crackle. “Listen, Finn, my connection is going bad. I called because I wanted to explain something … ”
“Go on.”
There was so much she needed to say, but she wasn’t sure where to begin. “Mia’s journal—it’s helped me understand some things.”
“What?”
“I know why she went to Bali now.” She paused. “You didn’t leave her.”
“No. She left me.”
“I never gave you the chance to explain. I’m so sorry for what happened at the funeral—”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly, the lightness in his tone vanishing. “Mia was my responsibility. I should have told you that she was in Bali.”
“No, Finn—”
“She should never have gone there alone.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
His voice was flat, toneless. “Wasn’t it?”
The line buzzed with static and cut out.
*
Katie searched out a quiet restaurant where she ordered noodles and sat with her elbows propped on the table, watching them grow cold. Occasionally, she tossed them with her fork and they squirmed, shiny and bloated.
Finn filled her thoughts, warm memories from their past planted like kisses: the light popping of soap bubbles on her fingers as they kissed for the first time; the sound of his humming as he cooked; the touch of his lips against her forehead when he left her sleeping in his bed. But then other images barged forwards: Mia’s body poised above Finn’s as they made love on the rocks; the grins on their faces as they hugged in the red dust while parachutes bloomed above them in the sky; the swing of Mia’s hair as she turned and saw Finn at Perth Airport, waiting for her.
A waiter approached her table in tired black shoes that had been polished thin. Glancing at her plate, he asked, “Everything okay for you, madam?”
Not wanting to cause offense, she swallowed several mouthfuls, the strong spices sticking in her throat, then paid and left.
She walked with confident, purposeful strides as she always reminded herself to do in London after dark. As she reached the entrance to the hostel, she passed an old man with milky blue eyes dragging a cart by a rope tied around his waist. His shoulders were hunched and he shuffled forwards with short, wheezy steps. The cart, lit by two lanterns, was stacked with treasures made from shells: polished clam bowls, shell-fringed mirrors, pearlescent candleholders, wind chimes dripping with conch and tusk shells.
A necklace caught her eye and she paused. Hundreds of tiny white shells had been pierced and threaded together on a loop of string. In the center of it was a single pearl. Hairs rose on the back of her neck: it was almost identical to the necklace Mia had been wearing when she died. Did you stand here, like me? Did the necklace remind you of the hours we spent together searching Cornish beaches for shells? Was Noah with you? Were you happy then?
She paid for the necklace and fastened it at her throat. The shells were cool against her skin and she pressed her fingers gently to the pearl, warming it.
Entering the hostel, she skirted the noisy crowd in the reception area and drifted up the stairway. Through the thin walls of the corridor she heard swearing, followed by a sharp thud, as if a table had been kicked. She would lock her door from the inside tonight, she decided, pleased she had her own room and wasn’t sharing a dorm.
She stopped suddenly. A door off the corridor was wide open and there was a dark gouge in the wood below the lock. She spun around, checking she hadn’t taken a wrong turn, but there was no mistake: it was her room.
Her heart began to pound. Tentatively, she stepped forward. “Hello?”
There was no answer. She reached a hand just inside the door frame, fumbling along the wall for the light. It flicked on. The curtain flapped in the breeze and a cockroach scuttled into a corner.
She scanned the floor, the bed, the table. Empty.
Her backpack was gone.
A single thought sliced through everything: Mia’s journal.
Behind her a door slammed and she jumped around. A boy with a shaven head glared at her. “You, too?” he said in a gruff Northern accent. “The fuckers!”
The corridor trembled as he stormed along it.
She turned back to her room, rubbing a hand across her eyes as if she could wipe away what she was seeing. But the picture was the same: she’d been robbed.
She backed out of the doorway, then turned and bolted down the stairs, her necklace bouncing against her breastbone.
“My backpack! It’s gone!” she cried.
The woman behind the reception desk tutted deep into her cheeks. “Yes. Yes. Police come. Six rooms they break open,” she said, gesturing to the people standing around in reception. Two girls with puffy eyes stood with their arms wrapped around their middles, a man was gesturing wildly as he spoke into a cell, and an older woman with gaunt cheeks was writing a list on the inside of a book jacket. “We are sorry. Very, very sorry. But not hostel fault.”
“Who did this? Have the police found them?”
“Many people come here. We not see every face. Police will find.” She tapped a piece of paper resting on the desk. “Number for police, yes?”
Katie looked at the slip of paper on which seven digits were written. “This is all? This is all I have?”
The woman shrugged, then turned away.
No, she thought. No! I cannot lose the journal. It would be like losing you all over again.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. She struggled to catch her
breath, her throat closing. Her vision began to narrow—and suddenly she was fighting her way through the crowd, staggering from the hostel. Her foot caught against something and she stumbled, falling forwards onto the dark street. Her knees burnt as they smacked the pavement.
There was a light tinkling noise, like rain falling. She looked at the ground; her necklace had snapped and the tiny shells and pearl had scattered, every piece spinning away from her.
20
Mia
(Bali, February)
The taxi roared along the dark street and then ground to a stop. “Here it is,” the driver said, yanking the hand brake. “Only hostel in Nyang. Two minute walking to waves.”
The sign announcing the Nyang Palace was propped on a plastic chair. Paint peeled from the cracked exterior wall and a fluorescent light flickered above the doorway, attracting a cloud of mosquitoes. Mia hoped it was the place Noah had ended up at. She paid the fare and then stepped onto the pavement, pulling her backpack over one shoulder.
The air felt heavy and close, the day’s heat trapped by the high walls of the surrounding buildings. She smelled spices and something sweet, like burnt honey. Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned to see an elderly man pulling a cart filled with shell decorations and jewelery. Sensing her interest, he paused.
She moved to the cart and was drawn to a necklace strung with white shells and a single pearl. She picked it up. It felt light and delicate in her hands. “Did you make this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
His face bloomed into a toothy smile. “Yes, very beautiful. Thank you. Shells from Bali beaches.”
She remembered beachcombing with Katie when they were girls, searching for shells and sea glass. Autumn was the best season, when the big storms would stir up the seabed and wash in limbs of driftwood, bleached rope, and stones polished smooth by the waves. On cold evenings when the light had been swallowed by four o’clock, they’d sit cross-legged in front of the wood burner, making necklaces from their loot of shells. Whenever she had worn one of those necklaces—even if it were tucked beneath a scarf and coat—it would feel as though she was carrying the sea with her.
“How much is it?”
“Fifteen thousand rupiah.” He smiled again and nodded.
It was the equivalent to £1. “I’d love it.” She pressed double the amount of notes into his lined palm, then said, “Have a good evening.” She walked into the hostel with the necklace swinging from her hand.
The reception was a scratched wooden desk in front of the entrance to the owner’s living room. “Hello?” she called out.
A side door opened and a woman in a worn nightdress sloped out.
“Sorry it’s late. Do you have a room?”
She was shown to a poky room furnished only with a bed, mosquito net, and frail bamboo desk. Before the woman left, Mia asked, “Is there anyone staying here called Noah?”
“Terrace,” she said, pointing her finger to the ceiling. “People party on terrace. Or beach. Lots of beach fires for travelers.”
Mia dumped her backpack down. There was no mirror, but she ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles. She hadn’t any makeup on, so licked her lips and blinked several times to moisten her eyes, which felt paper dry from the flight.
She left her room and followed the windowless corridor to its end, where a heavy fire door led to an outside staircase. The metal steps clanked as she climbed and she held on tightly to the railing.
Music and laughter rose from the terrace and she paused, listening. It was difficult to tune in to the wash of voices, but she was certain Australian accents were among them. Her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Noah. Despite her hurt at the way he left—Mia, it was too easy for him to leave—she hoped he’d be pleased that she’d come.
She’d been careful not to let Finn enter her thoughts, but now the image of him waiting for her at the airport rushed forwards. She had heard him call out her name and she’d turned, seen him standing with a hand half lifted in a wave. She knew she should have said something, at least tried to explain, but everything she felt was knotted so tightly that the words became lodged in her throat. Instead, she had smiled with her lips pressed together, her eyes stinging with tears. Thousands of smiles must have passed between them over the years—smiles of joy, of collusion, of encouragement, of relief—and she knew Finn understood the meaning of this one: it was an apology for what she was about to do.
All the muscles in his face had loosened, fallen slack with disbelief. She had made herself turn and walk on. If she had glanced back, even for a second, she could never have left him.
Now she took a deep breath and climbed the final steps, which delivered her to the edge of a cramped roof terrace. She could smell coconut oil and marijuana. An old stereo was balanced on an upturned crate, blaring Bob Marley into the night. A group of people were crowded round a low table covered with beer bottles, a splayed deck of cards, tea lights, and an overflowing ashtray. Surfboards were propped against metal railings, beyond which Mia could see the headlights of cars several streets away. She imagined that if she turned, the sea would be behind her, dark and watchful.
A man with thinning dreadlocks was saying, “They’re clamping down. That Kiwi did three months, no shit, for weed.”
Opposite, a girl with a bare midriff was arching backwards, laughing at something the person beside her was saying. When the girl straightened, Mia saw that it was Zani.
A voice snapped her attention to the edge of the terrace. “Look who it is.” Jez was leaning against the railings, one ankle crossed in front of the other. He was holding a bottle of beer loosely at its neck. “Come to find lover boy?” he said, stepping forwards and drawing everyone’s attention to Mia.
A flush crept up her neck. She forced herself to look him in the eye as she asked, “Is Noah here?”
He glanced around the terrace. “I don’t see him.”
The flush spread into her cheeks, turning them deep red, which she hoped would be masked by the darkness. “Is he staying here?”
“How about I take you to his room?” Jez said, crossing the terrace towards her. As he passed, they stared at each other for a moment and she was disarmed by how similar his dark eyes were to Noah’s. She tried to read his expression—resentment? anger?—but he moved past her.
She hovered for a moment, reluctant to go with him, but the thought of seeing Noah pushed her to follow.
Jez ran his beer bottle along the handrail as he clunked down the steps. At the bottom of the stairway he stopped and turned to face Mia. It was dark away from the lit terrace and there was no space to pass him.
“Tell me, Mia.” He stretched both syllables of her name, as if the word were a kiss. “Why are you here?”
“To see Noah.”
He took a slug of his beer. “You’re what, in love with him?”
“That’s none of your business.” The track that had been playing on the terrace must have ended. Silence expanded between them.
“I’m going to offer you some advice because I like you.” He leaned close to her ear and she could smell beer on his breath. “Walk away.”
“I’d like to, except you’re in my way.”
He laughed.
A new song drifted down the stairway, pulsing into the night.
“If you don’t, Noah will. Maybe not now, maybe not for months, but eventually he will. He’s good at leaving.”
Yes, she thought. I know.
Jez opened the door into the corridor and they were flooded with light again, the conversation finished. She tried to imagine Noah and Jez as young boys kicking a football on a beach, or skimming stones over the backs of waves. She wondered, had a football ever been angled at a face or a pebble raised in anger? She didn’t understand their relationship. It seemed as if neither of them wanted to travel with the other, yet something was binding them together.
Over his shoulder, Jez said, “I’m guessing
he doesn’t know you’re coming.”
“No.”
“It’s a helluva long way back if he doesn’t like the surprise.”
“He will,” she said with more certainty than she felt.
“You’re about to find out.” He stopped outside a door and rapped hard with his knuckles. “Special delivery.”
As he left, he whispered, “I warned you, Mia.”
*
She had forgotten the impact his physical presence had on her. He was taller than she remembered, his broad frame filling the doorway. His face looked deeply tanned against a white T-shirt that was threadbare at the collar. She wanted to place her mouth on his neck, taste his skin.
“Mia?” He brought his hand to his jaw, the dark tattoo stretching over the veins on the underside of his forearm. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in Bali. Thought I’d look you up.” She smiled casually, but her stomach was dancing with nerves.
“Where’s Finn?”
She shifted in the corridor. “I came on my own.”
She saw his Adam’s apple move as he realized the enormity of her action: she was here for him.
He stepped aside to let her enter, careful not to touch her. She felt the heat of his body as she passed.
A small lamp lit the room and a ceiling fan whirled, circulating warm air. She recognized his belongings: a tired green bag at the foot of the bed, a pair of dark board shorts drying on a curtain rail, a surfboard leaning in the corner with a leash wrapped around its fins. She saw the imprint of his body in the creases of the bed, and a book facedown on the pillow. She tilted her head to see the cover: The Old Man and the Sea. He was reading it.
There was nowhere to sit except the bed, so she moved to the window and looked through her reflection to the dark alley below. She heard the click of the door shutting and then the low thud of his back leaning against it.
When he spoke his voice was low. “This is a mistake.”
She turned. “Don’t say that.”
“Finn knows it. That’s why he’s not with you, isn’t it?”
Tears stung the back of her throat. She couldn’t bear to think about what she’d left behind; she could only focus on what she’d come here for. She lifted her chin. “You emailed me, Noah.”
