The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

22

Batman

I waited patiently for Mister Duck to show up. I knew he was near because in the candlelight I could see blood scattered in the dust around my bed and there was a red hand-print on the sheets. I guessed he was in the shadows at the other end of the longhouse, waiting to loom out and surprise me. But he was the one who was going to be surprised. This time I was expecting him.

Minutes passed. I sweated and sighed. Wax ran down the candle, balling in the dust. A lizard fell from a beam above and landed between my legs.

The lizard from the rainstorm, come back to visit me.

‘Aah,’ I said. ‘Hallo there.’ I reached to pick him up but he wriggled free, leaving a centimetre of pink tail behind.

One of Mister Duck’s games.

I swore and held up the tail, and it flipped around on my palm. ‘Very clever, Duck. Don’t know what it means, but it’s very clever.’ I sunk back on the pillow. ‘Hey, Duck! That’s the kid, huh? That’s the boy!’

‘Who are you talking to?’ said a sleepy voice from deep in the shadows.

I sat up again. ‘That you, Duck? You sound different.’

‘…It’s Bugs.’

‘Bugs. I remember. Hey, let me guess. Bugs Bunny, right?’

There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘That is right.’

I scratched my head. Sticky clumps were matted into my hair. ‘Yeah, thought so. So you’ve taken over from Duck now. Who’s next?’ I giggled. ‘Road Runner?’

Two people muttered in the darkness.

‘Porky Pig? Yosemite Sam? No, wait, I’ve got it…Wile E. Coyote. It’s Wile E. Coyote, isn’t it?’

In the orange candlelight I saw a movement down the longhouse, a figure padding towards me. As it moved closer I recognized the slim shape.

‘Françoise! Hey, Françoise, this is a better dream than the last one.’

‘Shh,’ she whispered, kneeling beside me, her long white T–shirt drawing up around her thighs. ‘You are not dreaming.’

I shook my head. ‘No, Françoise, I am. Trust me. Look at the blood on the floor. That’s Mister Duck, from his wrists. They never stop bleeding. You should have seen what happened in Bangkok.’

She looked around, then back at me. ‘The blood is from your head, Richard.’

‘But…’

‘You hurt it when you fell.’

‘…Mister Duck.’

‘Shh. There are people asleep in here. Please.’

I lay down, feeling puzzled, and she rested her hand on my forehead.

‘You have a little fever. Do you think you can go back to sleep?’

‘…I don’t know.’

‘Will you try?’

‘…ok.’

She tucked the sheets over my shoulders, smiling slightly. ‘There now. Close your eyes.’

I closed them.

The pillow shifted as she leant over. She kissed me gently on the cheek.

‘I am dreaming,’ I murmured, as her footsteps padded away down the longhouse. ‘I knew it.’

♦

Mister Duck hung above me like a wingless bat, his legs gripping the beam, the curve under his ribcage stretched into a grotesque cavity, his swinging arms dripping steadily.

‘I knew it,’ I said. ‘I knew you were near.’ A pulse of blood splashed on to my chest. ‘Cold like a fucking reptile’s.’

Mister Duck scowled. ‘It’s as hot as yours. It’s only cold because of the fever. And you should put the covers back. You’ll catch your death.’

‘Too hot.’

‘Mmm. Too hot, too cold…’

I wiped my mouth with a wet hand. ‘Is it malaria?’

‘Malaria? Nervous exhaustion, more like.’

‘So how come Françoise doesn’t have it?’

‘She wasn’t as nervous as you.’ His outsized jaw jutted out and split his face into a mischievous grin. ‘She’s been very attentive, you know. Very attentive indeed. Checked on you twice when you were asleep.’

‘I am asleep.’

‘Sure…Fast asleep.’

The candle-flame faltered as melting wax began to flood the wick. Cicadas chirped outside. Blood like icy water dripped, made me shiver and twist the sheets.

‘What was the deal with the lizard, Duck?’

‘Lizard?’

‘It ran away. In the rainstorm I could hold it in my hand. But here it ran away.’

‘I seem to remember it running in the rainstorm, Rich.’

‘I held it in my hand.’

‘Is that what you remember, Rich?’

The pool of wax grew too large for the candle to contain. Suddenly it drained away and the wick flared brightly, throwing a crisp shadow on the longhouse ceiling. A silhouette. A wingless bat with hanging claws and pencil arms.

‘Lightning,’ I whispered.

The jaw jutted out. ‘That’s the boy…’

‘Fuck…’

‘…That’s the kid.’

‘…you.’

Minutes passed.