The sand is gritty and damp between my toes as I pace the beach. It’s late afternoon but the sun is still high and people are swimming, fishing, huddled in groups under beach umbrellas. I’ve always felt a tidal pull towards the sea. A water baby, Mum used to call me. I feel it now, the pull, as though the ocean is calling to my blood.
I spent many summers on the coast with my parents before they disappeared. It’s hard to believe that was five years ago. Something inside me has always known they’re not coming back. Not now, after all this time. And yet I watch the families at play, and hope lingers. Hope dies last, Doctor Sarah says. But that’s not why I’m here, it’s really not. I’m here because I have to be. Doctor Sarah says so.
The ocean is a different colour each day. Today it’s grey-brown, the colour of a puddle after rain. The storms have stirred things up, clouding the water with seaweed and sand. The humid air is ripe with something, perhaps anticipation, another storm on its way, and I’m edgy, unable to shake the feeling I’m being watched.
I push on, forcing one foot to follow the other, ignoring the prickles on the back of my neck. If I don’t do this, I’ve already failed, and I can’t afford that. Doctor Sarah says it’s a measure of my control over my anxiety. If I can manage a walk each day, I’m doing okay. I can feel proud of something. An achievement. Because there’s not much else I’m proud of at the moment.
Children are shrieking and splashing, their browned, skinny bodies darting in and out of waves. A man stands nearby, motionless, facing the sea. Their father, I suppose.
There’s movement in the fir trees lining the surrounding parkland, but when I look, it’s only the branches quivering in the breeze. I close my hand around the device in my pocket. It’s become a comfort thing, clutching it tight, running my fingers over the small, round buttons. It’s a personal alarm, one that cost a small fortune, but it’s worth it. I’ve had it since Aunty Anne started worrying every time I left her sight. Bringing it with me is another of her ‘conditions’ for me moving out. One press of a button and the nearest law enforcement is notified of my location. Someone will come straight away. You can’t put a price on peace of mind, Aunty Anne said. I’m with her on that.
Walking clears my head and most days, after the initial fear, I enjoy it. But today something’s off. I check my phone: no messages. I watch people going about their business: surfers bobbing on the waves, teenagers in school uniform eating burgers and fish and chips outside the kiosk, people strolling after a day’s work, families squabbling and playing. How do they do it? How do they carry on each day, taking care of business, of their families, of themselves? I used to be able to do the same. I went to school, worked weekends at the local café. I had a family …
I plug my mouth with a finger and bite down until I feel the familiar pain. Step after step, breath after breath, I come to the curve in the bay where the water is shallow. This is the spot. A few more metres and I can turn back, my day’s quota done.
A heavenly beam of light has burst through the low clouds, illuminating each wave and ripple on the water’s surface. There’s a houseboat floating a few metres from the shore, a dilapidated-looking thing, mostly wood with peeling white paint, a blue stripe around its perimeter, little round windows in the cabin below its bow. I must have seen it before; those little windows seem familiar. I imagine peering out of them, watching the waves roll past. What would it be like to live on the sea, sailing away whenever you please?
My throat feels dry and I recall the bottle of wine I sneaked into my room last night. It’s about time to replenish, so I opt out of walking the last few metres and head back to the apartment.
In the kitchen, Cat’s washing up and sipping from a glass of wine. Perfect. I’d forgotten it’s Friday – there’ll be no hiding tonight.
She smiles at me over her shoulder. ‘Hey, you! Nice walk today?’
‘Yeah, it was fine.’
Cat nods at her wine glass. ‘The rest of the bottle’s chilling in the freezer. Mine’s warm, I’m afraid. I couldn’t wait.’ She grimaces as she sips.
‘Bad day?’ I open the freezer and help myself to the wine.
‘You have no idea. Gia’s been bawling to me again and I’m like, I already told you! Ben’s just not …’
‘Ben’s just not what?’ a voice says from behind us.
Cat winces but then breaks into a giggle as Ben stands in the hallway, scratching the hairy, tanned flesh exposed between his shorts and T-shirt.
‘Have you been napping this whole time?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. Have you been talking about me this whole time? What am I “not”?’
Cat exhales through her nose. ‘Gia thinks you two are dating and I keep telling her you’re not interested.’
‘Who says I’m not?’
‘Um, you do. You say it all the time!’
‘I’m interested in certain parts of her …’
‘Ugh. Ben, you just …’
‘I was talking about her brain!’ Ben laughs. ‘I’m just not … you know. Into her like that.’ He turns to me and grins.
‘Then you need to fucking tell her, you idiot,’ Cat snaps. ‘I’m sick of her just showing up here.’
Watching them, I feel suddenly tired. I pick up my glass and go to the couch, start scrolling through my emails. There’s a Facebook notification from a name I don’t recognise. Jake Morns.
Without thinking, I click on it.
I will find you.
My blood turns to ice. The wine glass trembles in my hand as the familiar panic rises. I set the glass down on the coffee table and bite down hard on my lower lip. What was I thinking? I should have known better than to believe blocking Mark’s email would work. This is him, it has to be. There’s no picture, of course, just the little blue thumbnail with a blank face. Jake Morns. Yup. I rearrange the letters … Mark Jones.
Saliva sticks in my throat. I close my eyes, and Mark’s face appears. And then another image comes, as clear as day.
Mark’s mouth, a gaping black hole, open in a scream. Eyes like brimstone under the street lamp, a voice yelling ‘Run!’ and a name, but I don’t catch it. The waves are growling in the background, it’s hard to hear. I’m on the ground near a low wall, shivering though it’s not cold. Mark’s crouched on the ground. He’s holding something, something with sharp edges. Something wet and gleaming.
A bloodied brick.
‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary. What are we going to do with you?’
The room reappears around me, white curtains, early evening light. Birds are twittering.
‘Mary?’ Cat’s standing by the counter, pale-faced, her brow knitted.
Ben’s staring.
My stomach turns over and I stand and run, just making it to the bathroom in time.
Afterwards, I stare into the vomit-specked basin, feeling numb.
‘Mary?’ Cat’s voice calls from behind the door.
I don’t answer and she lets herself in.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Mark,’ I say, my voice devoid of emotion.
‘What’s Mark? What’s he done?’