Exposure (10 page)

She looked coolly at Helene in her skimpy shorts but seemed to take to Charlie who charmed her by noticing pictures of her grandchildren on the mantelpiece.

“I have to tell you,” said the woman when they’d finished talking about her youngest grandson who’d be starting a course in business studies at the University of Hawaii at Manoa in the Fall, “I mind my own business...” sniffing in Helene’s general direction, “but I won’t tolerate drugs in my home. You want to smoke a spliff, go to the beach or to the harbour front but don’t do it here.”

“That’s fine, ma’am,” said Helene. “My drug of choice is chocolate.”

The woman’s face was stony.

“I don’t mind what time you come in at night,” the matriarch continued, “just be quiet about it.”

“We’ll be good, I promise,” said Charlie, smiling broadly. “You’ll hardly know we’re here.”

He handed her the week’s rental in advance.

The woman patted him on the hand, told him that his mother must miss him. Then she led them upstairs with heavy, even steps.

She showed them the bathroom, opened the door of their bedroom and left them alone.

Their room was light and airy, if simply furnished. Too simply: there was just one double bed. Helene looked at Charlie in some alarm. He shrugged, smiling broadly.

“We’re supposed to be a couple. It would look weird if we had separate rooms. Don’t worry: I’ll be on my best behaviour – Scout’s Honour.”

Helene felt irritated but tried very hard not to let it show too much.

“I very much doubt that you were ever a Boy Scout,” she said appraisingly.

Charlie sat on the bed and leaned back on his elbows. He grinned back at her.

“You’d be surprised: there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Helene had no doubt of that. She stood awkwardly before walking to the window to look out.

“Well,” he said, stretching, “time to check out the waves, I think.” He put on a Californian surfer voice: “Hang ten with some of the dudes.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked, pretending to look hurt.

Helene laughed.

“Not particularly, seeing as you’ve asked, but actually I thought I’d just chat to some of the girlies watching their boyfriends display some testosterone.”

She turned her back modestly, gazing out the window, while he put on some surf shorts and a ratty old Tee. She caught herself wondering what that long, golden body would like if she turned to watch, then gave herself a severe talking to for having such improper thoughts. To say that life was complicated enough was rather an understatement. She didn’t need to fuel the look she sometimes caught in his eyes.

Even so, she felt a wave of sadness surge through her; she was filled with something like regret, doubt, desire. And she knew if she let herself go, she’d be lost.

They didn’t go to Waimea straightaway, but hitched a ride to Jocko’s in the back of a beaten up old Chevy truck. Charlie helped her climb into the back and then passed up his battered board bag.

“Why don’t we go straight to Waimea?” asked Helene when Charlie had asked for a ride to Jocko’s.

He sighed, as if she was missing something obvious, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I know
you
think I’m almost perfect,” he said, “but I’m only a reasonably competent surfer. I caught some action at Suse’s,” he paused and smirked, “but those were only summer waves and nothing over five foot. So I’m just being a bit cautious because the heavy swell of Pipeline or Off-the-Wall can get up to 15 feet even at this time of the year. And even though
you
think I’m indestructible, it could do some serious damage.” He shrugged. “Jocko’s is a slower, mellower wave: at least that’s what the guys on the bus told me.

It turned out that he was both wrong and right: Jocko’s could give Newquay’s Fistral a run for its money any day of the week and twice on Sundays. The wave was pumping nine foot of frothing ferocity, a cross-wind making it unpredictable. Thankfully, this wave broke mostly onto sand (at least Helene couldn’t see a reef); if Charlie wiped out, all he’d damage would be his pride. She hoped.

Helene watched him paddle out through the channel: the water glinting around him as he cut through the waves, the muscles in his arms and back rippling silkily under his skin like a beautiful machine.

Suddenly the swell broke unexpectedly in front of him and a tower of white foam roared forwards. Helene felt her stomach tense but Charlie duck-dived through it expertly; in fact, with the calmness and easy grace with which he did everything.

Helene saw him bob to the surface on the far side of the wave and allowed herself to breathe again. She shaded her eyes against the sun to watch him as he continued to paddle steadily towards the line up, just behind the break.

He sat astride the board like a cavalryman about to go into battle, looking over his shoulder every now and again, waiting for a bigger swell to rise up and carry him upwards.

Slowly, a green monster began to raise its head behind the line up. It was the signal. Every surfer was suddenly alert. Charlie lay face down on his board, his back arched, and started to paddle hard, his feet raised out of the water to limit the drag.

The wave rose higher and higher, lifting him upwards. Then just as the wave threatened to break over him, he pointed the nose of the board downwards, sprang to his feet and tore across the face of the wave, the white curl chasing him like an angry sea creature.

He turned the board on its fin, carving brutally through the wave, slashing up the face and hurtling down again. He carved a couple more turns before the wave began to lose its power. Then he pointed the board up the wave for one final time before sailing over the top, catching air, then diving down the other side and disappearing out of sight.

Helene held her breath until she saw him break the water again and paddle back towards the line up to repeat the brilliant, pointless exercise.

After he’d surfed a half dozen or more waves, Helene got bored. She was tired of squinting into the sun, trying to pick him out of the small group of surfers sitting at the line up. She went to get a drink from a pretty shack further up the beach.

She loitered, sipping a freshly-squeezed pineapple juice and listening to the gossip: who was doing what to whom, where and how often; which waves were totally awesome; and where the best parties were to be found. If it weren’t for the fact that she was on the hunt for information, she would have found it tiresome, trivial and depressingly immature. At their age she’d been working for a living and had already visited her first war zone and seen her first dead body. Were these kids just going to waste their entire lives? Was being a happy no-mark slacker so appealing?

When she felt her blood pressure rising uncomfortably, she sat down with her juice and let the scenery sooth her. She was surprised to be joined by several girls and wondered if it were her enigmatic charm; but it turned out it was just the best place to catch some rays and eye up the surfers at the same time.

She let the conversation drift over her as her eyes started to close. She pulled her hat over her face and felt her body relax.

Suddenly she felt drops of water on her stomach and arms. That’s odd, she thought to herself, it’s raining. She pulled the hat off her face and stared upwards. But the sky was perfectly clear and blue. Charlie was standing over her, letting the seawater run off his body and drip onto her.

“Eww! That’s cold!” she said.

Then her eyes opened wide. One side of his face was covered in blood.

“Oh my God! What happened?” she said.

“Don’t freak out,” he said, smiling down at her. “I just wiped out and caught some coral. It looks worse than it is. Head wounds always do.”

“Oh for goodness sake!” said Helene, gasping as her heart restarted. “Are you trying to give me a stroke! Come here – let me look.”

She pulled him down beside her and inspected the wound. Up close she could see it wasn’t too bad – just a small cut – but with blood mixing with seawater, it bled profusely.

“You’ll live,” she said at last.

“Like I said,” he replied, smiling.

Helene pulled an antiseptic wipe out of her shoulder bag and carefully cleaned the wound and wiped off as much of the blood as she could. The bleeding was already stopping.

As she finished, he grabbed her hand and kissed the palm.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her from under his eyelashes.

The look was seductive, which was really annoying.

“No seriously!” giggled one of the girls sitting nearby. “I thought you were his
mom
.”

Helene scowled.

“Ignore them,” muttered Charlie, pulling her to her feet. “By the way,” he said smiling, “did I mention that you look gorgeous when you’re angry?”

“Oh for crying out loud!” she snarled. “Grow up, will you?”

She stalked off up the beach and he watched her, a broad smile stretched across his face.

Helene had walked nearly half a mile before she felt herself calming down. She found a small coffee shop and ordered herself a double espresso. She found caffeine soothing: it didn’t seem to get her wired like it did some people.

It turned out that the coffee bar was a hang out place. People came and went exchanging gossip. Helene tuned into the conversations and realised that all the kids were excited about some big party that was going to be held that night. That could be a good place to try and find out about Bill – if he was into that sort of scene. Whatever: getting to know the locals would be useful.

Helene studied the young people around her: she’d long learned how to read a crowd to work out who would be the most useful to her. As a journalist, reading faces was essential: it helped you to work out which were the important questions, and which answers were only partial – or downright lies.

She honed in on a pale skinned girl who seemed younger and shyer than the rest. The girl looked as if she wanted to join in the conversation, but wasn’t sure how. She was anxiously biting her lip when Helene went up to sit at the table next to her.

“Excuse me. Do you have any sugar on your table?” said Helene.

“Oh… s…sure – here,” she stuttered, seemingly surprised that anyone had noticed her enough to ask a question.

“Thanks,” said Helene. “I’m April.”

“Oh! I’m Jenny. From Cleveland.”

The girl smiled shyly.

“So, Jenny-from-Cleveland, are you here on holiday?” said Helene in a friendly manner, as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. Having asked for sugar she could hardly not use it, even though she hated sweet drinks.

Jenny had never seen the ocean before, any ocean, and was feeling rather overwhelmed by the experience.

She’d been persuaded to come out to the islands for the summer by her boyfriend, Dylan. The plan was to get a job bussing tables and enjoy the laidback lifestyle, sun, sea and surf.

“That’s him over there – isn’t he hot!” said the girl dreamily.

Helene craned her neck to look at the boy pointed out to her, as he slouched into the coffee shop.

He was good looking in a traditional way: square jaw, even features, good body. But his eyes were small and rather mean. And he was already checking out every woman in a halter neck and sarong.

Poor little Jenny Wren: just 18 years old and so in love. Helene felt a sisterly interest in protecting the little fledgling and was inclined to try and open those pretty eyes, but she just couldn’t bring herself to burn the hope that shone within them. Instead she talked to Jenny about her plans for the summer.

Jenny was delighted to have someone seem so interested.

“We’re staying with Dylan’s uncle for a couple a weeks but then we’re going to get a shack on the beach,” she said. “Dylan says they have the showers outside which sounds really cool, don’t you think?”

Helene agreed she could think of nothing cooler.

“We’re gonna find one with a coconut tree outside and we can have fresh coconuts for breakfast. Maybe we can find a banana tree, too. We won’t need to buy any food. Dylan’s gonna go fishing and we’re gonna eat fish stuffed with bananas. I don’t know: do you think that sounds kinda funky?”

Helene agreed that although baked bananas were pretty good, stuffing them in a guppy might be taking it a step too far.

They laughed in a comradely way.

“I’m really glad I met you,” said Jenny shyly. “I was feeling kinda lonesome. I don’t know anyone here – except Dylan – and... and I’ve never been good at making friends. It’s been great talking to you: it’s kinda like talking to my mom. Hey! Maybe you can be like my Hawaiian mom!”

Helene could think of nothing that thrilled her more. Poor Jenny Wren.

“Hey!” she said, her puppy-like enthusiasm boundless, “I could introduce you to Dylan’s Uncle Bill. He’s got this awesome place right on the beach. Maybe he could help you get a place, too. Dylan says he helps loads of his army buddies when they come out here.”

Helen’s instincts and her kindness to the little waif had been rewarded with information that actually interested her. An ex-army man called Bill: it sounded promising.

“That would be great, honey,” said Helene, “but we’re fixed up okay for a place to stay. But, yeah, I’d love to come and see you and meet Dylan’s Uncle Bill. What’s his address?”

After chatting for a while and learning a bit more about Uncle Bill, Helene led her new friend back to Dylan and left her wrapped around him. Jenny gave Helene a hug, begging her to come visit soon. Dylan put a proprietary arm around the girl and steered her away without a backwards glance.

Helene chewed over Jenny’s news. She daren’t feel too hopeful, no matter how well the information dovetailed with what she’d learned about the man they were looking for. But it sounded promising.

She walked back down the beach to find Charlie.

By this time ‘Wes’ had surfed back in and was presently entertaining a pair of nubile bikini-clad twins who had just flown out from New Jersey for a holiday and were hoping to meet some surfer guys; and they just
loved
his British accent.