the edge

lauren beukes

He should have left it in the car. He can't think why he brought it. He'll have to put it down somewhere and come back for it. There is still something in the bottom - he can feel it in the weight, in the sound it makes, the tinkling sloshing at the bottom as he picks his way over the rocks.

It is strange, because he was sure he'd emptied it. He was sure he'd turned it out as he walked down the many stairs to the pathway, to where the sea crushes itself against the rocks, sending up spray that sounds like a heavy slap and leaves thick cheesy lumps of grey foam between the rocks.

They shouldn't have fought like that. She shouldn't have said those things.

He doesn't want to litter. He will come back for it, for sure. He'll put it somewhere, wedged underneath a rock where the wind cannot catch at it and toss it into the water. It will be safe and he will remember. On his way back, he will retrieve it from under the ledge and take it back to his car. He will not be like those other people, the ones she disdains, who leave rubbish lying about. Who have no thought for throwing a cigarette stompie out of the window, leaving it to skelter across the tarmac in their wake.

And is this how this had started? With a careless cigarette? Metaphorically speaking?

He hopes no one breaks into the car. Her handbag is on the floor next to her seat. The radio face is still in. But no one will … surely? This is a conservation village, the sign said. It is beautiful because it is remote. She told him that houses here sell for R10 million and he remembers expressing disbelief. It seems such a ridiculous amount to pay to be so far away from everything. But there is no one to do any breaking in. They have seen people walking on other days, but not today, and because it is Monday and winter, there are no other tourists out. There have been no other cars, there has been no one to see. Even the houses seem empty, standing aloof and quiet just down the road. But perhaps that is only an effect of the mist, which is not really mist, he thinks, but spray.

He is still carrying the can. It is an Appletiser, which is her drink. But the can is empty, or nearly empty. It's a hassle. He must find a rock to secure it under. He will come back for it.

He must watch out for snakes. This is wilderness here. Yesterday they saw a seal from the house they are staying in, a glossy head that he didn't spot at first. She had to point it out to him. But even then, he couldn't see it, but he nodded and smiled and pretended that he did, so she would be pleased, so she would not think him stupid not to be able to pick out the animal among the bobbing heads of kelp.

There are strands of kelp between the rocks here, not like the beach at the house they are staying at, where it is bunched up in thick rotting tangles that run the length of the strand and the dogs worry at it with their teeth. Here there are only lone tentacles, as if tossed aside, as if they were the dried-out skin of some water snake where the flesh has rotted, leaving only this twisted black husk that is hollow. Puff adders are the ones to watch out for, he thinks, puff adders don't get out of your way.

The ground now is more shells than sand, broken fragments that are mostly a dulled purple, mussel shells and the like. She would like the colour. She buys toilet paper in this colour, which both amuses and infuriates him, because what will their guests think?

He wasn't expecting it. It wasn't on purpose. It was nothing. He can't even remember what it was about. She forgot her handbag.

He has to scramble across the rocks now, using one hand to balance himself, because who knows when it will all give way? The can is too much now. Why is he still carrying it? He must put it down. He must find a place. A rock gives way under him, rolling out from under his foot, tilting him over, so that he stumbles, but catches himself, his shoe scraping in the shells, and he bangs his knee painfully against a rock so that he gasps with it. He has not dropped the can, though. He still has the can.

But there are things between the rock that he can see now, apart from the torn bits of kelp, apart from the dirty foam, like cockroaches, squat and fat, that panic at his footsteps in eddies of motion. He looks properly now to see them and they are everywhere, crawling all over the rocks and over the kelp. They are scurrying in hordes, like an infestation, over everything. And just the word scurry makes him feel sick.

They are coming out of the crevices, flurrying across the striated lesions where the water seeps in between the rocks, despite the advent of his clumsy shoes. How had he not noticed them before? And suddenly he doesn't want to keep looking. Suddenly, it seems better not to find her at all. And he would set the can down and walk away. Only, he can't. It is the only thing he is holding on to.



LitNet: 22 November 2004

Lauren Beukes By day, Lauren Beukes is an intrepid girl reporter, writing on anything from Rwandan refugees to pop provocateurs for the likes of Colors and Dazed & Confused, among others. She has had short stories published in the Laugh It Off Annual 2, Urban 03, Itch, Paperkut, donga and SL magazine. She is finishing off her MA in Creative Writing at UCT under André Brink and recently received a grant from the National Arts Council for her novel-in-progress, Branded, set in a dystopian future South Africa governed by a corporate apartheid system, where cell phones are used for social control and branding is literally addictive. She also writes computer game scripts and has a fiendishly tongue-in-cheek comedy screenplay, Porno, currently in development.

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