Swimming at Night: A Novel (25 page)

She took a deep breath, then dialed Finn’s parents to ask them for his current number. She hoped his father would answer; if it was his mother there would be too many questions. She cleared her throat and held the phone to her ear.

“Yes, hello?”

His voice was a shock and sent heat flooding to her cheeks. “Finn?”

A pause, then, “Who is this?”

She heard the unmistakable note of hope in his voice. The foreign dialing tone, the slight delay on the line, her voice sounding
so similar to her sister’s. Had he allowed a small part of himself to imagine it could be Mia?

“It’s Katie.”

She caught the disappointment lodged in his sigh. “Katie.”

Would it always be this way, reading into his sighs and tones and pauses, wondering if the man she loved had loved her sister more? She pressed her lips together, allowing herself a moment to compose herself.

“Katie,” he said again, brighter this time. “I’m pleased you’ve called.”

“I didn’t expect you to answer. I was ringing your parents to ask for your number.”

“I’m staying in Cornwall for a while.”

“Oh. I see,” she said, surprised he wasn’t back in London. “What are you doing there?”

“Working at the Smugglers’ Inn again. I’ve been promoted to pulling pints.”

She smiled. It was the village pub near the harbor where Finn had bussed tables during his college exams. “Pulling pints? It’s a big jump. Are you sure you’re ready for it?”

“The empty tips jar suggests not.”

“Is it still the same regulars?”

“Mostly. They all ask after you. Spinney Jackson wanted your address so he could write.”

“That’s kind.”

“I didn’t know what to tell him.” There was a pause. “Where are you, Katie?”

She fiddled with the zipper on her bag, tugging it backwards and forwards with one hand. “Bali.”

“Bali? You’re actually there? I’ve heard about what you’re doing—following Mia’s travel journal.”

“Have you?”

“I was in London a couple of months ago and tried to get in touch. You’ve changed numbers?”

“Yes, a while back.”

“I was worried. I went to your office.”

He was worried about me?
She felt absurdly pleased by the image of Finn asking for her at the office. He’d been there once before to meet her for lunch, and he’d chatted to the security guard by the front desk while she reapplied her lipstick in the reflection of her computer screen before going out to meet him.

“A colleague said you’d quit and gave me Jess’s number. She told me the rest.”

Katie had forgotten how well Finn and Jess used to get on. She liked the image of them talking together. “I’m sorry. I should have told you myself. I left in such a rush, I don’t think I even believed I was going until I found myself on a plane.”

“I didn’t know Katie Greene did planes.”

“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.

(Bali, February)

T
he 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.