Fiction: Group 4
Leaving
Harrow International School Hong Kong, Caplowe, Eve - 14, Fiction: Group 4
ong Kong grew up out of the sea, spreading its roots into the saltwater and unfurling skyscrapers.
The thing is, no matter how far they stray upwards from the ocean, they cannot sever that
connection.
That’s what I’m thinking, anyway, as I watch the city light up, a spider’s web of neon after sundown. A few
golden rays still linger, and in their wake everything glows. The sky is a soft grey that makes me think of
doves and sad music. Clouds slip through its fingers, caught on a breeze that lifts my hair.
I look away from that distant tangle of streets and turn to the west, squinting as the sun drowns my face in
light. A fish farm squats in the sea, it’s a mess of planks bundled together with nets full of fish beneath the
surface, attached by rope to the blue barrels that keep it afloat. People used to live there, you know. Shacks
stand, crippled, scattered over this expanse. Their tarpaulin roofs are bleached by the sun and ripped by years
of wind, the corrugated iron long rusted away. One man still lives there. Him and the fish and the cats. The
dogs that used to live there have all left, but either the cats wouldn’t or couldn’t. You never can tell with
cats.
We swam over once, with bread wrapped in plastic bags, not quite airtight. I remember standing on a plank
with my toes curled tight around the edge, terrified of falling in. At first glance, the net looked empty. The
water shimmered too much to see the writhing black fish I knew were there. I ripped off a soggy crust and
threw it in. The net exploded, and I felt adrenaline burst through me. The saltwater thrown up scattered and
trickled down my legs. I hadn’t fallen in, but the feeling of relief flowed into my lungs as I breathed deep.
Why did that memory come to me, of all the ones I have of this place? Like right now. A handful of steps
away from the beach is a wild landscape of rocks yet to be beaten into sand. My first playground. Every
weekend, we would run here before breakfast, a tangle of eight arms and legs, and climb as far as we could
before our bare feet lost all grip.
I’m alone today, though. Listening to a noise so ordinary to me it’s almost silence: the sea and the birds and
the wind. Across a stretch of ocean is Dog Island, where fishermen leave their dogs before long voyages. I
watch the birds of prey – black kites, I think. Their feathers lose the golden glint given by the disappearing
sun as they finish they lazily purposeful loops and fly off.
It’s definitely dark now. I should be getting back. I try to shift but my limbs refuse. I give up and sigh. Let
them find me.
I’ve been forced to dress warm – god knows why, it’s only about twelve degrees, but I’m not allowed out of
the house until I’ve shrouded myself in jackets. And I admit, my hands winced when I took them out of my
pockets and wheeled my suitcase to the lift. My brother looked up at me, his mouth forming a question, but
my glare shut him up. I know I’m ruining this trip for everyone but I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I
don’t care. I know my scowl deepened, because my mother shot me a freezing glare of her own. That did
nothing to help my mood. I pressed the button to the ground floor so viciously I managed to draw a frown
out of my father, the only one who really understood why I was so angry.
We’re going on holiday. But that’s not the reason I was stubbornly, silently seething. I jammed my hands
into my pockets, not caring that the lift doors were closing and my family was still outside. I needed some
time by myself. I’ve been needing that a lot lately. ‘I want to be by myself,’ ‘Just leave me alone,’ ‘Get out of
my room, I need to be on my own!’ My family has kept their distance, especially recently, and that makes
me worse. No matter what I’d said, I felt abandoned.
Anyway, we were going to Guangzhou, on the Pearl River Delta. All I knew about the Pearl River Delta
before this was that pollution from it would leak into my favourite beaches. Black silt and decaying orange
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