The Incoming Tide

The Incoming Tide.

Newcastle was cold that evening in late July. Andrew leant on a railing on the headland at Nobby’s lighthouse, cigarette dangling from his fingers. On one side the sea raged, pounding waves, not even the surfers would brave that break. The other, the Hunter River churned, a restless animal. Dark and indifferent. Swollen from the winter rains. Waves tossed the ferry around, threatening to pull it under. The sea fighting the river. The Antarctic winds whipped at Andrew, biting through his coat. He played with the tiny box in his pocket, his thick fingers turning it over and over. He rubbed his thumb across it. Her. He told himself Sarah had gone to visit her parents. That she would be back soon. She had to be. But that was so long ago, and for so long he hadn’t heard a word anything. Hadn’t seen anything. Unreturned phone calls, texts. Just a layer of dust coating her room.

He huddled against the lighthouse, the smoke curling and tangling with fingers. Ghostly ribbons, tethering him. Andrew felt directionless. He couldn’t sit still, he’d spent so long in his apartment, it spat him out onto the street. He’d walked, following the old paths through the seedy East End. The night city hummed, crashing and garish colours, promises of love for a few dollars. But he was indifferent to those delights. He found himself at worlds’ end, the raging water on all sides, mesmerized by his swirling, spiralling thoughts. Her. Memory crashed into speculation. Her laugh, her eyes, her furious temper. Intoxicating. An addict’s demise. He could feel her hand brushing him gently, holding him, pulling him close. Her sweet whispers of forever and always. Now silence. Nothing.

He followed his feet to old familiar places. Friendly faces. Warm against the raging night. Rumours drifted to him on beery breath, on smoke. Some said she had won it big. Some said she was with a better man. Others said she was a mother, a child of her own. Some said she’d finally joined a cult. Some said she’d decided to run away to Melbourne, to Sydney. Rumours. Andrew didn’t know what was true. What to believe. But he couldn’t believe that Sarah, his precious Sarah, would have left him without so much as a goodbye. Not even a note. That was an ice pick to his heart. They belonged together. They were one. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw her. He missed her, missed the smell of her, the taste. A drug that pushed him onward. Andrew needed to find her, to bring her home. But he was lost.

The Cathedral sat on top of the hill, watching over the sins of the city. A beacon of floodlights, promising salvation and guidance. Andrew followed them, drawn to the massive gothic building. He looked up at the long steep trudge of Brown Street, and with a deep fortifying breath he started the climb. But as the street dissolved into a maze of stairs and handrails, he found himself crawling more than walking. He stopped. Looked at the Cathedral. No, this is ridiculous. He was looking for warmth, salvation could wait. He slid down the hill and went to a bar. The Crown and Anchor. Never a favourite of his, but Sarah fell in love with it’s trendy décor and trendy clientele. He’d spent many hours in there with her. And many hopeful hours since he’d last seen her. He sat at the same barstool at the end of the bar, watching the people flowing through. False friendly faces lit with pulsing lights. People whose loyalties were a pale reflection of favourable circumstance. A bartender who has both familiar and a total stranger. The bartender told stories that Andrew didn’t remember. Of recent catastrophically drunk nights, where they painted the town all shades of red and scarlet. Trying to distract him. Take him from his purpose. Andrew muttered polite grunts, watching another chorus of cherubic lawyers enter the bar. Proudly displaying their plumage with far too many shots slammed on the bar. Andrew felt sick. His gut churned. His mind reeled. It was a terrible mistake to come here. This was Sarah’s bar. Her hangout. Filled with the kind of people that she wanted to be around. It was a room of her. He would never come here alone. He had to leave.

Then he saw her. At the end of the bar, all curves and long blonde hair. Tinkling laughter and playful flirting hands. Brushing away hopefuls. Fishing. Successfully in some regard. But the big fish always eluding her. Andrew blinked hard, convincing himself that finally he was seeing her. That she was actually there and not a figment. He stood up, took a slight step towards her. Hope fanning in his chest. Each step growing stronger. As he drew closer, she turned to face him. Claire. Not Sarah. One of her closest friends. Almost her double. Claire always had that sly smile on her face, like she was taking notes for later. She sat quietly at the end of the bar, observing him. A teasing smile flickering across her face. Her calm demeanour made Andrew uneasy. He held on to the bar. Did she know something? Was she here to spy on him and report back? Was she sent here as a temptation, a tease, a test to prove his loyalty? Andrew’s thoughts crashed into each other and he staggered back to his seat. Staring into his glass.

A thought cut clear through the fog. If Claire is here, that must mean she’s waiting to meet up with Sarah. Or Sarah is already here. He waited. And waited. He ordered another beer, maybe three. Hope twisted in his stomach. He imagined Sarah might appear at any moment. Laughing, brushing up against him as if nothing had happened. Everything would be right with the world. But Sarah didn’t come. Andrew just watched Claire batting away the attentions of potential suitors, flicking that sly smile towards him.

Frustration. Pain. Disappointment. It drove him back out into the streets, he longed to be in the rain, getting far away from her. As he stepped outside, a soft feminine hand caught his wrist.

“If you really want to know, she’s at Craig’s apartment. But Andrew, please don’t go” said Claire softly. He froze, eyes narrowing. His head screamed that this was some sick twisted game of Sarah’s.

“Why tell me then?” he said.

“Because this is cruel. And I can’t stand to watch it anymore” said Claire. She gave him a tiny peck on the cheek and disappeared back inside. Andrew stood, watching her perch on her barstool, crossing her long smooth legs to full effect. She’d been expertly fleecing men of their hard-earned all night for a slight smile and an unfulfilled promise. Was this any different? But something in his gut told him that she might be on the level. Against his better judgment, he went. He needed to know.

Andrew dragged himself through the streets, following Claire’s hastily written note. Following dark streets, each step committing him to see this through. He had to know. He had to find her. The apartment building loomed in the night. Tall, dark and foreboding. His pulse hammered against his ribs. Pounding him from the inside, everywhere, all at once. He slipped in the back door, climbed the stairs as quick as he dared. Claire’s note blurred from the soaking, but the numbers were burned into his brain. He climbed, feeling the stupor flowing from him with every step. He reached her floor, pausing to catch his breath. His mind racing with so many scenarios. So many imagined confrontations. So many possibilities. Was she here? Was he finally going to see her again? Be with her again? Would he have her against him? Or had she really moved on? Andrew built his courage. Nurtured it. Made it grow. The idea she might have moved on shrank with every breath. It’s impossible. She always said forever. And with renewed courage and faith, he knocked on the door.

For a long moment, nothing. Then he heard her sweet, singing voice. “Coming!” Andrew’s mind nearly melted, hearing her voice after so long. He didn’t have a chance to compose himself. Sarah answered the door. Swinging it wide open. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even mention why she ghosted him after so long. She simply looked him dead in the eye. She didn’t welcome him in, he half strode, half stumbled into the room. His grand entrance spoiled by a trip. Driven by frustration, rage, loneliness he asked questions. Craving answers without giving her time to speak. Sarah looked at him coolly, a detached amusement. In her arms a tiny baby girl. Then Craig appeared from a bedroom. Demanding to know why a loser like Andrew was in his apartment. Craig - Taller, more muscular, more handsome. A lawyer from the Crown.

Then Sarah spoke the cruellest words. Weaponised. We used to date, years ago. He just never got it through his head that it was over. Kick him out, my love. He’s trash. Sarah turned her back on Andrew, cooing over her baby. Her eyes gleaming evilly. Her words were intended to wound. Precise. Sharp. A piercing blow to his chest. The room seemed to stretch and pulse, his brain felt like it was melting. Pain. Humiliation. Clarity. A heady cocktail. Craig loomed over Andrew, dragging him up to his feet and bundled him out the door. Sending him tumbling down the stairs. Satisfied, Craig watched him bleeding. Don’t come back here, then turned on his heel and returned to his apartment. Throwing out the trash.

Andrew left the building hollow, raw, numb. Leaving his dreams in the apartment above. The pre-dawn streets embraced him, the rain starting to ease. He wandered, not knowing where he was going, not caring. We used to date, years ago. The words bounced around his mind. Years ago – how long has it been? He tried to figure it, but he couldn’t resolve it. He followed his feet. Aimlessly. His mind wandering. Turning over the words. Chewing on them. Until he found himself back at the lighthouse, back at the railing. The seas were calmer now, the surfers venturing onto the beach. Watching the tugboats bringing in a coal ship. Watching the flotilla of tiny fishing boats sliding past, out to sea. He lit a smoke, drawing back, letting the warmth fill him. He watched the smoke curl around his fingers, dissipating in the breeze. Andrew reached into his pocket, closing his fingers around the box. Turning it over in his hands. His thumb caressing the soft cover.

A ring. He’d bartered and bought, spotting it in a pawn shop window. It came with a certificate. But to him it meant more than money. He’d been carrying it around in his pocket ever since. For months. Or was it years? Trying to find the right moment. But then she disappeared. As it turns out, to Craig’s arms in Craig’s apartment. Into the life he dreamed of. Of sharing and building with her. Such a small token. Resting in his hand. He looked into it, dazzled by the sparkle, the tainted promise. Then he closed the box, his fingers trembling. With a deep breath he stood and threw it as far into the river as he could. The splash echoed in his heart. A liberation. The heartbreak, the obsession, the chains – all started to dissolve into the river’s dark embrace. He leant on the railing, feeling the quiet where her voice used to live.

The city was waking, slowly breathing back into life. The sun started to peek over the cannons of Fort Scratchley, the lighthouse gleamed in the early light. Andrew leant on the railing, watching the river flow into the sea. Reflecting on the first fragile light of dawn. Freedom and pain intertwined, tangible and electric. The love, the desire he had for her was a chain. Obsession. Binding him to a past future that would never happen. Her words, cruel and heartless. She’d intended it as a weapon. Craig had intended the tumble down the stairs to assert dominance. But instead, in the light of the early dawn, he saw them for what they were. Closing the door. A finality, an end to it. The chain was broken. The river, calm and flowing clearly now. Smooth, the ferry’s docked easily,

Claire appeared beside him, leaning on the railing. Soft hands. She smoked her cigarette in a terribly elegant way. A teasing smile, eyes distant. “You remind me of someone” she said, her eyes flicking away. She didn’t look at his face. She didn’t touch him as she always did. He leant on the railing beside her, staring into the distance. He didn’t turn his head. If he looked, she might vanish. He thought about her warning, the soft gentle plea for him not to go there. And he realised it wasn’t Sarah’s house she meant. He closed his eyes, drawing in the warmth of the rising sun, feeling the wind gently touching his face. Instinctively he felt in his pocket. Finding nothing. The great anchor sleeping in the watery depths.

Andrew inhaled deeply, drawing back on his cigarette. The smoke curling into the morning light, freely dissipating in the breeze. The sun shone on Newcastle. Battered, bruised, but unbroken. A town of rust and rough patches, but with a genuine love. He looked out. Clear. The mist, the blown away. The Hunter River moved, unstoppable and vast. Smooth, unrelenting, benevolent. Flowed into the sea. Carrying a flotilla of tiny fishing boats from their safe moorings upstream, out into the wide blue ocean. Scattering as the tugboats brought in yet another coal ship. Andrew pushed off from the railing, walking down the hill from the lighthouse. He looked back at the empty railing, no Claire. But that was okay. Sarah was right, we broke up years ago. Andrew followed his feet along the headland. To the rolling ocean. The pristine beach, watching the waves roll in, watching the surfers slash and cut on the face of the waves. He walked along the sand, rolling up his jeans, carrying his boots so the ocean could glide over his feet as he walked. For the first time in years, Andrew felt it: choice. Life was messy, uncertain, brutal. But it was entirely his.