The Body on
the Beach
by
Jane Seaford
The body lay flat on its back, legs together,
arms by its side, long blonde hair spread out on the sand. Greg bent to look
more closely. He reached out but as his hand came close to the pale, still
face, he shuddered and drew back. Above him seagulls whirled and clouds
scudded. The beach stretched empty and the sea made a sudden sucking noise as a
wave receded. Greg turned and started to run back home. After a while, a
griping pain in his middle stopped him and he bent over almost sobbing as he
caught his breath.
He slammed the door which swung open again, so he banged it hard. It
clicked shut and he stumped into the kitchen, took the water bottle from the
fridge and gulped most of it down.
‘So,’ Mum said. She’d come into the kitchen as he was drinking. She
pulled on her cigarette and sat at the table. ‘Nothing to say for yourself?’
she asked.
Greg shook his head, not looking at her.
‘Lost the power of speech?’
‘No.’
‘Well then perhaps you can explain why you’re home when you should be at
school.’
‘I….’ Whatever he said would be wrong. ‘I… There’s a body on the beach,’
he blurted. He’d not been planning to tell. Didn’t want to answer questions,
perhaps have the police suspicious, his mother fussing, accusing.
‘What?’ She stubbed her cigarette out in the saucer that served as an
ashtray and ambled over to the window. She peered out. ‘Can’t see anything.’
‘It’s a bit away, near where the river comes out.’
‘What were you doing there?’ She turns: her face sharp. Once she’d
laughed a lot, played with him and his brothers, gave them treats, told them
stories, put them to bed with kisses. ‘Well?’ she asked when Greg didn’t reply.
‘Went for a walk.’
‘Instead of school.’ She shook her head and came towards him. She
gripped his arm, squeezing it hard. ‘You’re the eldest. I should be able to
rely on you.’ Her mouth was screwed up tight. She let go and sighed. There were
tears in her eyes.
Greg left the kitchen, pushed into the bedroom he shared with Alan and
Rob and lay face down on his bed, head buried in his arms. He was twelve years old, too old to cry.
Gritting his teeth he began telling himself the story of leaving home, finding
work, making friends, buying a surfboard, a mountain bike, an I-pad, writing
home, sending money…
‘Greg.’ He dreamed he was in a workshop, running a big drilling machine,
his mother outside calling for him. ‘Greg,’ she called again, louder, he moved
out of the dream and turned over.
‘The police are here.’
He said nothing; put a hand on his stomach where pain had lodged.
‘Come on, hurry. They want to speak to you.’
He sat slowly, still groggy with sleep.
Mum leant down and grabbed his arm, pulling him up. ‘The body on the
beach,’ she hissed. Greg rubbed his face, remembering. ‘Or I suppose you’re
going to tell me now that you made it up. Another of your stories.’
‘No. It was… there.’
He led the policeman and woman along the beach to where the body was.
Mum had stayed behind, sitting on the kitchen step, smoking.
‘It’s too far for me, not in the best health,’ she had said when the
policewoman had asked her to come with them. The policewoman had shrugged.
‘Can you describe what you saw?’ the policeman asked.
‘A body…. A girl.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘Pink jeans and a blue top. Black boots.’ The questions were making Greg
sweaty. He scratched at a bite on his neck.
‘Age?’
Greg shrugged.
‘Older than you, younger?’
‘Dunno. Bit older I suppose.’ She’d had breasts, little ones. Greg
scratched some more and the bite started to bleed.
In the distance he could see the stream of water that came across the
beach from the mouth of the river. He narrowed his eyes, looking for the body.
‘Well?’ said the policeman. ‘Are we nearly there?’
Greg nodded. But. He should be able to see it from here and there was
nothing. He carried on trying to ignore the pain in his stomach.
They came to the place where the body had lain. It was not there. Just
footprints coming and going. Greg stared down at where the body had been.
When the police had left, Mum grabbed Greg and shook him so hard he
could feel his teeth rattling.
‘It’s time to stop,’ she said when she’d finished. She was breathing
heavily and her hands were shaking ‘No more lies.’
‘It….’
‘And no arguing either. Now get on to the shops, I need bread, milk and
a tin of beans for your tea. And I know
exactly what it all costs.’
He walked slowly up the narrow lane to the town, telling himself the
story of leaving home, clutching tightly the dollars Mum had given him. For a
moment he thought about using them to get the bus to the nearest city and he
opened his fist and looked at the note, the two coins. Might be enough for the
fare but not for anything else. Maybe he should go anyway. Knock on doors and
offer to do odd jobs for a small payment. Or maybe for food and a bed for the
night. He’d go to the big houses. Be polite. Get asked to stay and given a
regular job.
When he got to the town centre he saw the bus pulling out, heading away
from him. He felt both regret and relief. Reaching the supermarket, he leant
against the wall before going in.
As he came out, clutching the shopping bag in one hand, the twenty cents
change in his other, he saw a girl at the end of the street: long blond hair,
pink jeans. He blinked and the girl had gone. His head playing tricks on him.
He was trembling and when he reached a bench he sat, feeling sick, slouched
down, staring at the dirty pavement. If he didn’t get back soon Mum would shout
at him. He wished he wasn’t here, wished he was back in their proper home, Mum
singing as she hung out the washing, yelling at him and Alan and Rob it was
time for tea, cuffing them on the backs of their heads as they came in, but
gently, not intending to hurt, telling them they could have freshly baked
chocolate cake once they’d eaten their sausage and mash.
‘Going out for a quick ciggie. Don’t tell your Dad,’ she’d say and leave
them eating. She’d come in crunching on a peppermint. Now she smoked all the
time and inside, too. After Dad left, she didn’t do much at all. Stared into
the distance, telling them to shut up if they talked to her. Since they’d shifted to the run-down shack
that used to be their holiday home, she hardly ever did housework. Once Greg
had loved this place. They’d stay for four or five weeks every summer. As they
drove down the lane he and Alan and Rob would strain to be the first to see the
sea. Dad would park the car and they’d scramble out, running onto the beach,
shedding their shoes, splashing into the water. Rushing back to fetch their
togs. It didn’t matter that the house was a bit cramped and didn’t have much
furniture. A few mornings Dad would do repairs, whistling as he hammered or
painted, stopping for a beer break at lunch time. He would return to the city
for a few days to run his business and then come back for another week or so
before driving them all home.
Greg looked up to see Dad walking towards him. He jumped up, started to
run, stopped and turned, his face burning. He’d nearly thrown himself at a
stranger. Perhaps Mum was right; he’d not seen a body on the beach, just his
head playing tricks.
Next morning Mum, for once, dressed before breakfast.
‘I’ll walk up the lane with you,’ she said as the boys fetched their
backpacks ready for school. As they reached the town Greg felt the familiar
knot of tension tightening inside him. The day stretched ahead full of
potential trouble. Like being asked a question by a teacher and not even
understanding what was being asked, let alone knowing the answer, or one of the
older boys sneering at him calling him smelly. Some days nothing bad happened
he tried to comfort himself. Once he’d been clever, had friends, enjoyed
leaning – not that he’d admit that to anyone except Dad. But now he lived in a
fog, couldn’t hear clearly, couldn’t see clearly. Nothing meant anything
anymore.
He saw her again at morning break. Same pink jeans, long blonde hair. He
turned away, closed his eyes, clenched his fists.
‘She’s haunting me,’ he whispered to himself. When he turned back, she’d
gone.
At lunch time he couldn’t avoid her. She was walking towards him, not
looking at him, but coming closer. He stood watching, eyes wide open, waiting
for her to disappear. She didn’t and he swallowed. She stopped, turned her head
so that she was looking straight at him, started to walk again and now she was
standing in front of him.
‘What you staring at?’ she asked.
He swallowed and bit his lower lip.
‘Lost the power of speech?’ she asked. Exactly like Mum.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You were dead.’
‘You’re a weirdo.’ She turned.
‘I’m not. I saw you. On the beach. Yesterday.’ If she said she’d not
been there he’d know he was crazy. Really truly crazy. But… if she hadn’t been
there how had he recognised her when he saw her yesterday and again today?
‘I wasn’t dead.’ Scornful.
‘You looked it. You weren’t breathing.’
‘Holding my breath. Pretending. Practising.’ Her lips trembled, she was
almost crying and Greg winced. ‘You can’t possibly understand.’ She sniffed and
Greg felt a strange need to take her hand, to comfort her. He shifted his feet,
uncomfortable.
‘Maybe I could understand,’ he said, his voice hoarse, deeper than
normal.
‘I didn’t want to be seen,’ she said. ‘I was on my own.’
‘Sorry,’ Greg said.
‘Why weren’t you at school?’ she asked
‘Why weren’t you?’
‘We only shifted here at the weekend. My dad said I didn’t have to start
school till I felt… like it. After… Sometimes I think he feels I’m safer when
I’m at home.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘Don’t have one anymore.’ Tears ran down her cheeks. Greg felt a wave
of… something he couldn’t describe. A sort of yearning, the possibility of
happiness, but also an almost pleasurable sadness.
She smiled, wiping the wetness of her face with the back of her hands.
‘You know, I like you. Even though you’re only a little boy.’
‘Not that little,’ he said flexing his shoulders, pulling himself up to
seem taller. He was almost the same height as her even though she was older
than him, must be at least fourteen, he reckoned.
She laughed. The bell rang. ‘I’ll see you after school. Here. You’ll be
here?’
Greg nodded. ‘What’s your name?’ He called out as she walked away.
‘Evie.’
He wasn’t sure if she’d be there but she was. He looked down as he
walked towards her.
He heard her breathe out when he reached her and they stood not looking
at each other for what seemed like ages.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said eventually. Mum would probably hit him
when he came home late, but too bad. They moved out of the school grounds and
set off towards the park. She turned in when they got there and he followed.
She took off her backpack, fumbled in one of the pockets and took out two
lollipops. She handed him the green one and pealed the paper off the red one
for herself.
He should say something, tell her something, ask something. A panicky
feeling made him blurt out, ‘What happened to your mum?’
‘She died.’ Evie licked her
lollipop. ‘Mmm… she drowned. Her body was found on a beach. Near where we used
to live.’ Her voice was flat.
‘Is that why you were… there… yesterday?’
about th author
‘Yes. They thought she might have done it on purpose, because…’ She
stopped, turned to look at him. ‘Don’t know your name.’
‘Greg,’ he said.
‘She was unhappy. She thought Dad was…’
‘Had a girlfriend?’
‘Yup. But. I don’t know.’
‘My dad did have a girlfriend. And… he’s a bit mad, too. We don’t live
with him anymore.’
Evie looked at him.
‘What d’you mean he’s a bit mad?’
‘He was… in hospital for a bit. We used to visit him but I didn’t like
it. He didn’t listen anymore. He lost his business. Mum said that was the
problem. But when he came out he wouldn’t come home. Then he went to live with the
girlfriend.’
‘I live with my dad, but I don’t like it. He used to be fun and now
everything is… creepy.’
‘I live with my mum. But my mum isn’t like she used to be and me and my
brothers…’ Greg couldn’t find the words to properly explain.
‘Are you sad?’ Evie asked.
‘Yes,’ Greg said then added. ‘Not just at this moment.’
‘I’m sad, too. But not now. Because… I like you. Most of the time I
don’t like anything.’
‘I know,’ Greg said. And he did, he did. They looked at each other and
he felt as if, at last, he could relax. Just a little bit.
‘Can you wriggle your ears?’ he asked and felt his face heating.
‘No.’ She frowned at him. ‘You’re seriously weird.’
‘You said that earlier.’
‘So? Eat your lolly,’ she said, licking hers.
Greg took the wrapper of the green lollipop and looked at it, turning it
around in his hands.
‘We can be friends,’ he said.
‘And we could run away together,’ she said.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘Anywhere. Actually I think I can wriggle my ears.’ She giggled, pushed her hair back, and
concentrated.
‘They didn’t move, but your nose did,’ Greg said.
‘Ohh.’ She made her mouth round and her lips were sticky. She stared at him and he stared back,
wondering what it be like to touch her breasts. She put her hand on his
shoulder, saying, ‘stop ogling… You want to kiss me don’t you?’
He wasn’t sure if he did. But then he wasn’t sure of anything. He closed
his eyes and saw Evie’s body lying on the sand and wished he were still young
enough to cry or old enough to know how to love a girl.
about th author
Jane Seaford’s books,
‘Archie’s Daughter’, ‘
The Insides of Banana Skins,
’ and other Stories’ have received excellent reviews. Her short stories have succeeded in international competitions, appeared in anthologies, magazines and on RadioNZ. She has sold pieces to the Guardian, the Independent and other British publications.
‘Dead is Dead and Other Half
of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each yearthe aut
