fridge.’
‘Thank you, you didn’t have to.’
‘It’s the least I can do. You’ll have to hold the fort tonight. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all. I need some time on my own, in fact.’
‘I know you do. I can imagine you’re not used to this –’ Julia swept her hand around the empty dining room – ‘milling about.’
Alone in the house that night she heard many sounds normally masked by the presence of people; the mechanical chirr of the slender-tailed nightjar, the low scoping cry of an owl, half-strangled sounds of alarm she could not identify.
She awoke – how much later she could not say – and sat up with a jolt to a crisp gunshot sound. She listened intently for a few minutes before she was sure it was only a shutter snapping against its frame, somewhere down the long corridor of the house’s second storey. The house swallowed the wind and funnelled it to the back. The house was an amphitheatre, every sound magnified by its wall-less mouth, open to the sea.
She stood. She didn’t know where she was going, she didn’t care. She had no talent for ambivalence, for inhabiting this in-between place. She had spent all her life on the edge of accomplishment, of finality. She had no talent anymore for process.
She started walking down the long passageway, lined by louvred windows on one side and nut-brown wood on the other. It led to the master bedroom where her uncle and aunt slept. They must have come home at some point before the midnight curfew. At its turn, on an L-shaped bend, was Storm’s room. In the strip of light visible under the door shadows flitted back and forth.
She returned to her room quickly and had nearly closed the door behind her when another opened with a crack. She leaned back into the shadows.
Two bodies emerged. Through the crack in her door she saw them, in the dim corridor as they serpentined down the spiral staircase. When their outlines had disappeared down the stairs she went to stand at the top step.
She could see only a rectangular piece of the living room. In view was the top of Storm’s head. Evan – she knew it was him from his voice – had walked away. She heard the fridge open and shut. Storm sat on the white sofa, his back towards the stairs. A hand appeared and worked its way through Storm’s hair. It lingered on the crown of his head. Storm’s paler hand clasped it, arrested its progress.
She stumbled backwards, hitting her heel on the wrought iron balustrade. She had to breathe in sharply to avoid crying out.
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I heard something.’
Then the padding of feet, coming to the stairs, mounting them, feet that were used to owning the house and the night.
She flung herself into bed. She darted out her hand and drew the mosquito net closed. A crack of light appeared in the door. Then the door shut.
‘It’s nothing,’ she heard Storm say to Evan outside her door, the only sound now the lean palm trees battering their heads against the house. ‘They’re all asleep.’
II
BLACK-BELLIED BUSTARD
A tall, ginger-haired man was coming towards her, striding fast.
‘You alright?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s 44 degrees in the shade. It gets to you here.’ He put a hand on her elbow. ‘You look like you’re about to swoon.’
‘Swoon.’ Silver stars sparked and died in her eyes. ‘I haven’t heard that word in a hundred years.’
‘Well, you look old, but not that old. What are you doing out here anyway?’
She had walked to the edge of the compound to escape camp, its disinfectant smell, the tinny radio that sang with local pop-songs, always, from the nursing station, the scabbed knees of the patients, the issues of the Economist and Prospect on her desk and which she had read so many times their edges had curled.
‘Here.’ The man held out a bottle of Gatorade.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘Alabama, probably, courtesy of the UN.’ The man’s face carved
‘Thank you, you didn’t have to.’
‘It’s the least I can do. You’ll have to hold the fort tonight. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all. I need some time on my own, in fact.’
‘I know you do. I can imagine you’re not used to this –’ Julia swept her hand around the empty dining room – ‘milling about.’
Alone in the house that night she heard many sounds normally masked by the presence of people; the mechanical chirr of the slender-tailed nightjar, the low scoping cry of an owl, half-strangled sounds of alarm she could not identify.
She awoke – how much later she could not say – and sat up with a jolt to a crisp gunshot sound. She listened intently for a few minutes before she was sure it was only a shutter snapping against its frame, somewhere down the long corridor of the house’s second storey. The house swallowed the wind and funnelled it to the back. The house was an amphitheatre, every sound magnified by its wall-less mouth, open to the sea.
She stood. She didn’t know where she was going, she didn’t care. She had no talent for ambivalence, for inhabiting this in-between place. She had spent all her life on the edge of accomplishment, of finality. She had no talent anymore for process.
She started walking down the long passageway, lined by louvred windows on one side and nut-brown wood on the other. It led to the master bedroom where her uncle and aunt slept. They must have come home at some point before the midnight curfew. At its turn, on an L-shaped bend, was Storm’s room. In the strip of light visible under the door shadows flitted back and forth.
She returned to her room quickly and had nearly closed the door behind her when another opened with a crack. She leaned back into the shadows.
Two bodies emerged. Through the crack in her door she saw them, in the dim corridor as they serpentined down the spiral staircase. When their outlines had disappeared down the stairs she went to stand at the top step.
She could see only a rectangular piece of the living room. In view was the top of Storm’s head. Evan – she knew it was him from his voice – had walked away. She heard the fridge open and shut. Storm sat on the white sofa, his back towards the stairs. A hand appeared and worked its way through Storm’s hair. It lingered on the crown of his head. Storm’s paler hand clasped it, arrested its progress.
She stumbled backwards, hitting her heel on the wrought iron balustrade. She had to breathe in sharply to avoid crying out.
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I heard something.’
Then the padding of feet, coming to the stairs, mounting them, feet that were used to owning the house and the night.
She flung herself into bed. She darted out her hand and drew the mosquito net closed. A crack of light appeared in the door. Then the door shut.
‘It’s nothing,’ she heard Storm say to Evan outside her door, the only sound now the lean palm trees battering their heads against the house. ‘They’re all asleep.’
II
BLACK-BELLIED BUSTARD
A tall, ginger-haired man was coming towards her, striding fast.
‘You alright?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s 44 degrees in the shade. It gets to you here.’ He put a hand on her elbow. ‘You look like you’re about to swoon.’
‘Swoon.’ Silver stars sparked and died in her eyes. ‘I haven’t heard that word in a hundred years.’
‘Well, you look old, but not that old. What are you doing out here anyway?’
She had walked to the edge of the compound to escape camp, its disinfectant smell, the tinny radio that sang with local pop-songs, always, from the nursing station, the scabbed knees of the patients, the issues of the Economist and Prospect on her desk and which she had read so many times their edges had curled.
‘Here.’ The man held out a bottle of Gatorade.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘Alabama, probably, courtesy of the UN.’ The man’s face carved
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