MAC
FEBRUARY 2025

When the sun sank, the resort became a museum of dark shadow, and although the night remained warm, the wind gathered strength, scattering leaves and rushing through crevices. Far away, the security gates rattled and other random clinking rang over the empty construction site. My nerves were only slightly calmed by the pounding of the nearby waves, a reassuring white noise.

It was the perfect season for bare-cube living: a raging summer, impossible to be outdoors for more than two minutes without building up a sheen of sweat. The naked floor and walls of my new domain were cooling, and the ocean breeze streamed through the balcony. I paced the area out; it was about five by five metres. The ceiling was high, difficult to know how high, way taller than house ceilings. You might think concrete would be one bland colour, yet it was a variety of patterns and raking, similar to the flat patches of nearby sand. A natural work of art.

With such a blank canvas, I was initially stumped on how to set up. I had bought a cheap inflatable mattress at the hardware store and dropped it smack-bang in the centre of the space, the exact opposite of every other room I’d inhabited. I threw my sleeping bag on top. There was nothing ordinary about this, so why should the furniture arrangement be ordinary?

The lack of plumbing was a problem. There was a secondary room, earmarked for an en suite, with drainage holes and a pipe trailing one wall, but no toilet installed. There was a public toilet by the beach, but using that would mean wriggling under the fence again and taking the dim footpath parallel to shore. It was a long way and another opportunity for me to be spotted – though I still hadn’t seen anyone else. Before I went to sleep, I crept into the corridor, feeling intensely defenceless, as if predatory neighbours would emerge. I’d checked every room on this fourth floor, but I hadn’t scoured the entire site. Anyone could be lurking. My pulse sped as I descended the stairs, the light of my phone only amplifying the horror-movie vibes. The isolation and loneliness of the resort had attracted me here – now I was coming to terms with the implications. I was on my own and couldn’t yell for help if anything went wrong. Sleeping here wasn’t only illegal, it was risky.

Outside, I crouched by a thicket. I reminded myself it was perfectly natural to urinate in the great outdoors, although I couldn’t bring myself to squat too close to the ground, terrified of creepy crawlies creeping you-know-where. After I was done, I ran upstairs. For a few heart-pounding seconds, I couldn’t find my room. When I did, I closed the door and sat against it.

I wondered: was I a genius or a fool? If I was discovered, if this was reported to the police and became public, my friends, family and workmates would find out. It’d be devastating. I imagined my humiliation; the confusion on people’s faces.
What happened to Mac? Did you hear?

Some might find this setup daunting. Nerve-wracking, foolish. Breaking and entering, and sleeping alone on the outskirts of the city. Yet for me, it was worth the risk. Worth it for the independence, the privacy and the quiet.

There was no landlord, no neighbours, no hosts, no creeps. Nobody I was forced to make small talk with. I was in charge.

There were also no locks on the doors. Instead, I jammed a rubber stopper under mine to help secure it. Did it mean my room was impenetrable? No, but what place truly was?

ERIKA
NOVEMBER 2024

Our landlord said she was selling, and gave Mac and me sixty days’ notice. Not having our lease renewed was a shock and disappointment, but I tried to see the situation positively.

‘We’ll probably find an even better place – with neighbours who don’t complain about our music so much,’ I said.

That optimism turned out to be foolish. We were stunned by rental prices; when did they climb so high? We arrived at open inspections to find a herd of other applicants already queued. The streets were choked with cars, we squeezed past others through doorways.

‘Was it this busy when you first went flat-hunting?’ I asked.

‘Nope,’ Mac said. ‘This is nuts.’

We stuck to two-bedroom flats within our price range. We’d hoped to remain near the city centre but were forced to the outer suburbs. A lot of the affordable flats were on noisy main roads, decades old, and in drab, multi-storey blocks. Mouldy tiles, dented doors, stained and rippled carpet.

‘Let’s go for it,’ Mac said during one inspection.

I pulled a face. ‘You reckon?’ The flat was opposite three fast-food stores and the whole neighbourhood smelled like deep fryer.

‘The clock is ticking.’

‘Okay, babe, you fill out the form.’

Our application was declined. I was both insulted and relieved.

Next, we inspected a maisonette in the northern suburbs, sitting in a rabbit warren of treeless streets. Torn wire screens clung to the windows and topless toddlers watched us from the yard opposite. ‘We could get another person for the third bedroom,’ Mac said.

‘It’s a dump!’ I said.

‘We’ll ask for a short lease, and meanwhile we’ll keep searching for something better.’

‘Okay, fine, whatever . . .’

We were unsuccessful again. The letting agent said the home went to an applicant who signed a two-year lease. Two years in that hellhole!

As moving day approached, we made reluctant temporary arrangements. I returned to my parents’ house, not the only kid at home. Of my three older brothers, two were still in residence and showing no desire to move out. It’s why my parents didn’t oppose my return: what difference would another body make?

But I was deflated, feeling like a failure, schlepping my belongings up the driveway and back into my childhood home. Being there would put a dent in my dating life too, just when I was on the brink of asking Theo out. He was a DJ at Horizon, the city nightclub where I worked the bar part time, and an absolute gorgeous god.

Shortly after we said goodbye to the flat, I saw it listed on holiday letting sites. It’d been repainted and a new stove and flooring installed. Shining pot plants lined the balcony – where had they come from?

I sent the link to Mac and called her. ‘That bitch,’ I said. ‘She lied to us.’

Mac groaned. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘She’s asking for two hundred dollars a night!’

‘No wonder she didn’t want to renew . . .’

‘Look at how she’s spruced it up. When we lived there, it took months to fix the leaking tap. Hey, we should stay there for a couple of days under fake names and leave a zero-star review.’

‘She’s not getting another cent out of me.’

After we hung up, I stared at the images a while longer. Mac and I had shared the tiny flat for almost a year, one of the best periods of my life. I was nineteen, studying, and keen to leave home. Mac was twenty-three, had dropped out of uni, was working two jobs and desperately seeking someone to share the bills after her first flatmate left. We cooked for each other, watched shows together, shared chores without any major arguments. Our lives gelled.

At least I had fallback accommodation and a willing family. Mum even baked a ‘Welcome Home’ red velvet cake. I felt bad for Mac, because her homecoming would be very different…