by Rosie Rowell
My breath catches in my throat the way it did this morning in the sea. Ridiculously, all I can think is that it seems too small to be a real gun. The handle is worn and scratched. The rectangular barrel is smooth, slightly darker than the handle and shiny.
‘That doesn’t look like a joke,’ says Bret.
The rumble of an approaching train grows. It feels oddly comforting to hear it – we may be knee-deep in cash and staring at a gun but the train is still running. Against the screeching steel I ask: ‘Is it a revolver?’
‘It’s a pistol,’ replies Brett. His voice has a weird calm to it. ‘Don’t touch it,’ he says as Louisa bends towards it. ‘It could be loaded.’
The train noises die away, leaving us in uncomfortable silence. Brett stands up. He walks towards the kitchen, then turns back: ‘Fifty grand in a bag? Weird. But fifty grand and a gun?’ He shakes his head. ‘Dodgy. Definitely dodgy. This is your fault,’ he adds, pointing at me. ‘You brought him here!’
‘What?’
‘When Spook realises he’s left the bag behind, he’ll come and get it,’ says Louisa, attempting to adopt a rational voice.
But why would he leave it here? I have a horrible feeling about this. ‘What kind of person has a gun?’ I say, thinking aloud.
‘My dad has a gun at home.’ Louisa shrugs.
‘Seriously?’ I turn to her, momentarily distracted. I’ve slept in that house almost every weekend for the past three years without knowing there was a gun in the house.
‘Come on, Grace, this is South Africa. He’d never use it, of course.’
That seems counterintuitive – why own a gun if you’re not going to use it? Guns belong with drugs and burglaries and random murder. Why would Spook need a gun? And why would he leave it here?
‘What do you know about this?’ Louisa turns to me.
‘Nothing!’
‘What did he say on the beach?’
I blink, forcing my mind back. The beach seems a very long time ago. ‘He said he had to go.’
Louisa has her hands on her hips. ‘And before, what happened when you went out?’
‘We walked to the town centre, then to a bar and had some beers. Then we came home. Why is this my fault? You found the bag.’
‘Hmf,’ she responds and turns back to the bag. Why don’t I mention the phone call and the black car, or the dramatic change in Spook after he spoke to Marvin? Why don’t I mention that the bag is not something he forgot to take with him, that it’s the first time I’ve seen it, therefore he must have left it behind on purpose?
‘We could toss the gun into the sea, take the cash and split. He’d never find us,’ says Brett.
‘That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,’ I say. ‘We should take it to the police station.’
‘That is the dumbest idea,’ says Louisa. ‘We are not going anywhere near the police. If this got back to my parents I’d never be allowed to leave my house again. Phone him and tell him to come and pick it up.’
I look at her. ‘I don’t have his number.’ How strange that I know his mum’s name and all about his dad but I don’t know his phone number.
Louisa thinks for a while. ‘We’ll leave the bag on the deck and go out, and hopefully it will be gone by the time we get back.’
As we’re getting ready to go I walk into the living room to find Brett, wearing the kitchen gloves and holding the gun. He’s facing the sliding door so that he can see his reflection. His arms are outstretched at shoulder height; he’s holding it with both hands, posing like Jason Statham in an action movie. He grins sheepishly when he sees me. ‘Oh come on, everyone wants to know what that feels like.’
‘Put it down,’ I say, with a feeling of dread. ‘Don’t you read the news?’
The bag looks odd sitting on the mat outside the sliding door. We argue about how to place it so that it can’t be seen from below but is obvious enough that Spook won’t bash down the door when he comes back to get it. In the past few hours Spook has gone from being an ageing hippy to a violent outlaw.
Baboon Point is not exactly bursting with options of places to go on a Sunday evening. We take the road that runs behind the crayfish factory. As we round the point I look up. ‘Hey, wait! Stop!’ I roll down the window and lean out.
Louisa looks around, her eyes big. ‘What?’
‘Look up at the rocks. Can you see a baboon’s face?’
‘Grace!’
‘Seriously, can you see the shape of a baboon’s head in the rock?’
Louisa looks up. ‘I guess. Why?’
I settle back into the seat. ‘No reason. Just interesting.’ I shrug.
Louisa and Brett share a look.
Flat rocks, pummelled smooth by centuries of lashing waves, fan out around the point. It would be a perfect place to watch the sun ripen and spill out over the sea. But this evening it seems half the town has brought out their fishing rods so instead we head for a cave Helen had told us about.
It’s a short walk up the side of the hill to the shallow overhang of rocks. The view spans the gentle curve of the white coastline. San handprints cover the rock face at the rear of the cave. The small ochre shapes look more Aboriginal in design than the rock paintings I’ve seen before. I place my hand against one, trying to conjure up the artist.
‘You whites love to connect with your African-ness,’ comments Louisa behind me.
‘Rubbish,’ I say and blush at her perceptiveness.
Louisa chucks a packet of chips at Brett. ‘Seeing as Spook’s left us with his shit it’s only fair we drink his booze,’ she says and takes out the bottle of tequila he requested this morning. She sets about making tequila sunrises. Because Louisa always does things properly, along with the orange juice she’s brought along a teaspoon and some Grenadine.
‘To Spook,’ says Brett, raising his glass. ‘So long and thanks for the gun, I mean tequila.’
‘I wonder where each of us will be this time next year?’ says Louisa, looking out over the sea.
‘If we took advantage of Spook’s little trust fund, we could all be on a beach in Mexico. What did he call it – “the university of life”,’ replies Brett.
It occurs to me how much I hate those two words ‘next year’. If Mum is serious about me not going to university, then I have literally nothing to look forward to. Will the three of us still be having sundowners together a year from now? Will I still know every single piece of clothing in Louisa’s cupboard? Or will we look back at this evening as one of the last we spent together?
Voices and car radios float up from the rocks below. ‘I thought fishing was a quiet activity.’
Brett bursts out laughing. ‘You don’t fish at night, you idiot. Hey, if you had to take all the money, what would you do with it?’
‘Fifty thousand? I don’t know.’ I shrug, feeling the familiar panic at not having a plan: There’s no fucking plan.
Brett laughs. ‘I’d turn to my dad and say, “Fuck you, Old Man, you can keep your money, I’ll pay for my own overseas trip.” He’d never get to hold money over me again.’
‘Ooh, fighting talk!’ teases Louisa. ‘Would you pay him back for that shiny new car he bought you?’
Brett snorts. ‘It’s a red Ford Fiesta, Lou. He can keep the car.’
Louisa takes a pensive sip of her drink. ‘Apart from a massive shopping trip, I’d invest the money.’
Brett and I burst out laughing. ‘You’re not even eighteen years old and you want to invest it?’
Louisa looks at us pityingly. ‘Don’t come asking me for money one day.’
‘I know what I’d do,’ I say, ‘I’d use it to get as far away from my mother as possible.’ I can see it: a beach hut in Indonesia, waking up every day with Spook.
Brett finishes his drink in a gulp. ‘Seriously though, please shoot me if I’m like Spook when I’m thirty-five.’
‘I’ll shoot you before if you like,’ says Louisa, ‘after all, we have a gun.’ She can’t help but flash me a
look.
‘The thing is, he doesn’t strike me as a criminal,’ Brett continues. ‘More a saddo.’
‘I thought you loved his “eat, sleep, surf, repeat” lifestyle,’ I say.
Brett gives me a withering look. ‘Sure, as long as it’s based in my Bantry Bay seafront house.’
I wonder if Spook’s back at the house now, picking up the bag; whether there is any part of him that is disappointed I’m not there. ‘His mum left when he was seven,’ I say. They look at me. As soon as I say the words, it feels as if a precious piece of Spook is now worthless. ‘Not that that explains the bag,’ I add.
Brett laughs but Louisa looks at me for a long time.
The tequila is finished. The sun has slipped behind the horizon. ‘Does anyone else feel very un-drunk?’ asks Brett as we make our way back to the car. The rapidly darkening sky makes it tricky. I trip over a rock.
‘Obviously not Grace,’ says Brett.
I giggle. ‘I can’t see.’
Back in the car Louisa finds a message from Helen. ‘No parties tonight, they’re going to watch a movie.’
‘Movie-shmoovie,’ says Brett. We all know that we can’t go home. The only other option tonight is the hotel.
We are the youngest people there by fifty years. ‘OK,’ says Brett slowly, looking around as we walk in. Louisa giggles. Shiny fake mahogany panels cover the walls. All three occupants of the bar turn and look at us as we arrive.
We choose a table under the mounted heads of two wildebeest. ‘Tonight we drink brandy and Coke,’ announces Brett.
‘Why?’ asks Louisa.
‘To fit in,’ replies Brett, in a stage whisper. ‘Trust me.’
‘Drinks are on me tonight,’ I say quickly. I don’t trust Louisa to order Coke Zero.
Sitting at the bar are two men, watching rugby replays on the TV above the bar. Both of them have their folded arms resting on the counter and a half-drunk beer in front of them. The one closest to me has white hair and a thick moustache. By the time I go back for the second round the rugby has ended and I’m feeling chatty. The man with the white hair is the local superintendent.
‘Is there lots of crime around here?’ I ask, picturing the bag sitting on the deck.
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. Very little,’ he says with a thick Afrikaans accent. ‘There was a spate of trouble a few years back, outsiders committing break-ins and petty theft. But they soon found that here in Baboon Point we have zero tolerance for that.’ He sips thoughtfully at his beer. ‘Now we’re left with the usual weekend domestic stuff. And removing boomslangs from properties.’ He sits back and rests his arm on his stomach as if he were pregnant. ‘Nothing happens here that I don’t know about. That’s the beauty of a small town.’
I nod and return with the drinks to our table.
‘Seriously, Grace, is this age thing becoming a fetish?’ says Louisa, her laugh verging on the hysterical.
‘That’s Superintendent Visser.’
Louisa splutters into her drink. ‘One side of the law to the other,’ she says too loudly. The alcohol has slowed her reactions. I watch as her face suddenly contracts. ‘You didn’t mention –’
‘No!’
The bag is where we left it. A sharp chill has developed in the air. The brandy and Coke is swilling around my stomach, curdling with the orange juice. I feel like a whale. Perhaps I should make myself sick.
Louisa steps over the bag. She sighs like a disappointed parent. ‘Leave it, it will be gone in the morning.’
I feel his hot, snuffly, sleep-heavy breath on the back of my neck. Lying very still, I close my eyes and open them again, just to be sure. A soft breeze from the open window blows life into the air. The night is a perfect warmth.
‘Spook?’
‘Mmm?
‘Why did you go away?’
‘I’m right here.’
His body is so close to mine that he feels more like a protective outer shell than a separate person.
I turn over. We are like two limpets clinging together. The moon is waning but there is enough of it to throw a shimmering light on him. His nose is inches from mine. I rub his stubble with the tip of my finger. It reminds me of a cat’s rough tongue.
His eyes are closed. I picture him hovering, rocking gently back and forth between sleep and wakefulness. Don’t wake him, I tell myself, see if you can catch one of his dreams and ride it with him. I imagine the two of us standing on his longboard, perfectly balanced.
His resting face is so soft, his gently parted lips are so innocent that I imagine myself as his mother, Cornelia Roux, watching him sleep.
He stirs. His hands find my face, his eyes still closed. ‘Gracie.’
‘Let me stay with you, Spook. Please. We can live in a cottage next to the sea; you can surf all day.’
‘I can’t look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after!’
Morning is approaching; I need to get through to him. ‘Wake up!’ I whisper, ‘Look at me.’
‘Shhhh,’ he replies. ‘Sleep now.’
‘No! We met each other for a reason, Spook. I’m your original, remember? This was meant to be.’ But my words are lost in a breaking wave. We are swimming. The water is warm enough to be a bath. He’s lying on his back, his toes peeking out of the water. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I look back at him, he’s gone. Suddenly, hands around my tummy pull me down, through layers of increasing cold.
When I surface, spluttering, laughing, I hook my arms around his neck. He kisses drops of water off my nose. ‘You’re the only person in the world who gets me, Spook, you’re the only one I feel free with.’
‘You are free.’
1. children
2. township
3. Similar to ‘sand dollars’, pansy shells are actually flat sea urchins with a delicate five-petal pattern in their centre.
4. rubbish
5. little devil
6. crying
7. a private security company
8. a square headscarf
9. an expression of commiseration
10. used as a greeting or expression of enthusiasm
11. Beachcomber. The Strandlopers were a nomadic hunter-gatherer tribe of Khoisan people who lived along the West Coast of Southern Africa.
12. Bro
MONDAY
It feels very early when I open my eyes. The smell of the sea is intense and heavy; it has settled itself in the room. I am alone, in my single bed.
The clouds are so low and dense that I can’t see the next-door houses, let alone the beach. From inside it looks as though we have been wrapped up in huge wads of cotton wool.
I pull on a sweatshirt and walk through the silent house, looking for signs of Spook. I can smell him, I can feel his stubble on the tip of the second finger of my left hand. As I reach the locked sliding door and see the rucksack still outside, I have to reach my hand out to the glass to steady myself. No. I spoke to him, I felt his breath on me. I step outside and walk across the deck. Thick wisps of mist swirl about me, through me. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. If it was a dream, how come it feels more true than anything else in my life? Am I going mad?
I knock on Louisa’s door. ‘No nakedness please,’ I say loudly as I push open their door. They are curled up together. I cannot shake the feeling of Spook. It’s not in my head; it’s a physical sensation. Then I remember that amputees feel pain in their severed limbs.
I balance my tray of tea and brownies at the bottom of their bed.
‘I feel ill,’ groans Louisa. She gets out of bed and fishes around in her washbag for a box of Myprodol. Brett turns on his side and pulls the pillow over his head.
‘It’s still there,’ I say, watching her swallow a couple of pills in a gulp of tea. Louisa looks at me, drains her mug and pours another. She gets back into bed. After I’ve moved the tray, I climb under the duvet at the bottom of the bed. Louisa chucks me a pillow. Once I’m settled, lying top to toe with her, I li
e back and close my eyes. What if Spook never comes back? Do we leave the bag here?
‘The other night when we were talking about next year – why didn’t you tell Spook you were going to study Psychology?’ Louisa asks. I steal a glance at her. She is lying back on the pillow with her eyes closed.
‘Because according to my mother I’m not going to any more.’
Louisa sits up. ‘What?’
‘Yup. She’s signed me up for some retarded outpatients’ group instead where I’ll probably have my neck slit by some drugged-up gangster kids. Apparently it’s for my benefit.’ I used to worry so much about Mum dying that I’d spend hours imagining it: the car accident, the phone call, being left all alone in the world. I’d lie on my bed with tears streaming down my face as I pictured the funeral and me walking all alone behind the coffin. I knew it was weird but I couldn’t make myself stop. That Mum disappeared a long time ago.
‘It might end up being a good thing,’ says Louisa, careful not to catch my eye. I notice that she doesn’t say that Mum’s ridiculous or that of course she’s simply making idle threats.
A ‘good thing’ would be to wake up every morning in that house by the sea, watching Spook sleep. In winter we could sit in front of a fire while the wind howled around our little cottage.
The sound of a car makes us both sit up. I strain my ears, hoping to hear the clatter of Spook’s silencer. Louisa peeks out the bedroom window. ‘It’s Helen!’
I rush outside for the bag and dump it under the bed.
A few moments later Helen appears. ‘Morning, my loves!’ She is wearing jeans, a beanie with a pom-pom and her Ugg boots. How much clothing did she bring? I watch her taking in the scene – the three of us lazing in bed, no sign of Spook. She steps backwards and looks up the corridor. Louisa catches my eye.
‘Where’s your guy?’ Helen asks me as she steps into the bedroom.
The mention of Spook brings back my aching for the dream. I rub the tip of my second finger with my thumb. ‘He left yesterday.’
‘We’re going to stock up at the Woolies in Vredendal.’ Helen turns to Louisa, ‘Do you want to come?’
‘Nah,’ Louisa says.
