Night Beach (15 page)

But
it’s
not.

I
switch
off
my
reading
lamp,
moving
stealthily
now,
afraid
to
make
a
noise.
I
don’t
open

the
blinds
on
the
side
window,
instead
I
split
them
with
a
finger
and
peer
through
the

gap.

Dogs.
They
are
in
the
darkness,
on
the
concrete
below,
between
my
bedroom
window

and
the
shaft
of
light
thrown
by
Kane’s.
Some
are
lying,
some
are
standing,
but
all
of

them
are
watchful
and
waiting.
And
each
and
every
one
of
them
is
black.
A
pack
of

shadows.
One
moves
forward,
claws
scraping
the
concrete
–
the
scratching
sound
I

could
hear.
The
dog’s
head
dips
as
it
follows
a
scent
trail
to
the
base
of
the
steps.

Then
it
stands
there,
body
neither
tensed,
nor
relaxed,
but
ready,
staring
expectantly
up

at
me.

My
heart
has
stopped.
The
sight
of
them
is
so
strange,
so
terrifying,
that
it
is
very
nearly

beautiful.

And
I
don’t
know
what
it
means.

11

Helow

Sunday
is
well
underway
–
I
can
tell
by
the
light.
I
don’t
like
sleeping
in
at
Mum
and

Brian’s
because
I
feel
guilty;
I
always
get
the
feeling
from
them
that
I
should
be
up
doing

something
purposeful.
But
I’ve
done
it
now,
so
I
might
as
well
lie
here
a
little
longer,
put

off
having
to
go
and
say
good
morning.
My
eyes
are
scratchy
with
tiredness.
I
went
to

sleep
so
late
–
it
was
after
three
in
the
morning.

Then
I
remember
why.
The
dogs.
And
I
sit
up
straight.

Last
night,
the
whole
thing
was
dream-‐like.
The
dogs
were
phantoms,
signs
and

superstitions
come
to
life,
representatives
of
the
moon.
But
sunlight
burns
the
memory,

leaving
only
a
residue
of
its
mystery,
and
I
look
for
explanations.
They
were
there,
I

decide.
They
were
real
–
although
probably
not
all
of
them
were
black,
they
just
looked

that
way
in
the
darkness.

Grandad
used
to
talk
about
packs
of
dogs
roaming
around
this
area
when
he
was
a
boy.

The
back
of
the
Heights,
and
most
of
Tumbleside,
is
made
up
of
semi-‐rural
lots
and
huge

tracts
of
undeveloped
crown
land.
Maybe
there
are
still
packs
of
dogs
roaming
around.

Maybe
the
old
lady
used
to
feed
them.
Like
people
feed
rainbow
lorikeets,
or
pigeons,
or

ducks.
And
the
dogs
keep
returning
because
they
don’t
know
she’s
dead.
That
might
be

right.

Hmmm.

After
a
while
I
get
the
feeling
that
Mum
and
Brian
aren’t
home.
Kane
either.
It’s
because

the
house
is
making
so
much
noise;
ticking
and
creaking
as
it
stretches
in
the
sun.
Acting

like
a
house
does
when
nobody’s
around
to
see
it.
It
must
have
forgotten
about
me.

Mum
and
Brian’s
room
is
dark,
the
heavy
rust-‐red
curtains
blocking
all
light.
When
I

push
them
aside,
I
see
that
Brian’s
Beamer
and
Kane’s
ute
are
missing.
Then,
like
a

starter
pistol
has
gone
off,
I
bolt
back
to
my
room
and
grab
Grandad’s
binoculars
off
the

shelf
above
my
desk.
I
focus
them
on
the
clubhouse
car
park,
standing
with
my
legs

astride
because
I’m
having
the
same
kind
of
vertigo
attack
as
yesterday,
when
I
felt
like

the
house
was
moving.

Kane’s
green
ute
is
down
there,
but
not
in
his
regular
spot.

It’s
at
the
head
of
the
line
of
cars
in
the
lane
leading
to
the
clubhouse.
Only
boardriders’

members
park
there.

Who
cares.
I’m
already
out
the
door.

Downstairs,
all
of
the
windows
are
closed,
and
the
blinds
are
drawn
–
the
place
is
as

cold
and
silent
as
the
inside
of
a
fridge.

Worried
about
not
hearing
Kane
if
he
comes
home,
I
open
the
window
in
his
bedroom

slightly.
There’s
the
smell
of
something
singed
in
the
room,
so
the
fresh
air
is
good.
I

grab
a
handful
of
the
T-‐shirts
littering
the
floor
and
bury
my
nose
in
them.

There’s
smoke
in
the
cotton.
There’s
also
the
warm
skin
smell
of
him,
and
the
deodorant

he
wears,
and
I
feel
drunk.
His
bed’s
unmade,
the
doona
cast
aside,
the
top
sheet
twisted

into
a
vine,
and
what
I
do
is
lay
down,
burying
my
face
in
one
of
his
pillows.

Would
anyone
else
understand
what
I’m
doing?
I
silently
argue
my
case
before
an

invisible
jury.
I’m
saying,
imagine
there
is
someone
you
like
so
much
that
just
thinking

about
them
leaves
you
desperate
and
reckless.
You
crave
them
in
a
way
that’s
not

rational,
not
right,
and
you’re
becoming
somebody
you
don’t
recognise,
and
certainly

don’t
respect,
but
you
don’t
even
care.

And
this
person
you
like
is
unattainable.
Except
for
one
thing.

Geography.

He
lives
downstairs.

I
find
the
duffel
bag
on
the
other
side
of
the
bed
–
thankfully
he
hasn’t
unpacked
it
yet.

When
I
kneel
down
to
unzip
it,
I
have
to
stop
still
for
a
second
because
I
get
hit
by
a

wave
of
dizziness
as
the
floor
lurches.
I
wish
the
feeling
would
stop
because
it’s
making

me
nauseous,
and
it’s
hard
enough
just
coping
with
the
stress
of
thinking
I’m
about
to
be

busted
at
any
second.

The
exercise
book.

Where
do
you
belong?
Were
you
in
the
ute
already?
I
sit
on
the
bed,
running
my
fingers

over
the
front
cover,
and
then
start
leafing
through
it.

Kane’s
handwriting
is
scrawled
and
awkward,
tilted
over
like
it’s
scratching
its
way

forward
into
a
strong
headwind,
but
it’s
obvious
pretty
quickly
that
this
is
a
surf
diary.

There
are
a
couple
of
entries
to
a
page,
and
each
entry
is
dated.

On
the
14th
of
March,
when
he
was
still
at
the
Gold
Coast,
he
wrote:

D-‐bah
early.
2ft
E.
NW
wind.
Stu
from
Dark
rang
–
beers
at
Broadie.
New
contract
soon.

He
surfed
at
Duranbah.
The
swell
was
two-‐foot
from
the
east,
the
wind
from
the

northwest.
I
hope
Stu
bought
the
beers.
Most
of
Kane’s
sponsors
just
give
him
stuff.
But

Dark,
his
main
sponsor,
actually
pay
him
a
bit.

Further
in,
I
find
something
scrawled
diagonally
across
the
bottom
of
a
page:

Forget
about
Toby
A!
No
–
use
it.
Use
it
to
fire
you
up.
U
R
good
enough.

These
words
are
a
little
window
into
Kane’s
head.
I
run
my
fingertips
over
his
angry

scrawl,
feeling
the
indentations
in
the
paper.
I’ve
never
seen
him
vulnerable
before.
It

makes
me
ache.

I
start
looking
for
other
asides.
It
occurs
to
me
that
he
might
have
written
something

about
Christmas,
and
I
flick
back
to
the
front
page.
But
the
entries
start
in
February.

There
might
be
something
about
me
in
April,
though.
That’s
when
he
came
to
live
with

us.

On
the
25th
of
April,
Anzac
Day,
he’s
written:
Left
for
Sydney.
Lennox
lunch.
3ft
S.
SE
wind.

Port
Mac
for
night.
Stayed
with
Brad.
RSL
for
beers
then
clubs.
Melissa.

I
frown
down
at
the
page
–
at
‘Melissa’
specifically.
I
think
I
know
where
she
came
in
the

order
of
events:
he
must
have
met
her
at
a
club.
It’s
pretty
obvious
what
you
do
with

people
you
meet
in
clubs.
I’m
stinging
with
jealousy,
but
just
her
name
isn’t
enough.
I

want
all
the
details.
I
want
to
know
what
he
does,
even
if
it’s
with
other
people.
It’s
sick,

this
thing.
My
mouth’s
full
of
spit.

On
the
26th
of
April
he
arrived
at
our
place:
Sydney.
Good
set-‐up
downstairs.
Checked
it

late.
2ft
SE
onshore
and
shitty.
Might
be
OK
early.
Get
into
it.
Tea
with
M,
B
&
A.

He’s
just
seen
me
for
the
first
time
since
Christmas
and
I’m
only
an
initial.
What
did
I

expect?
I
was
pathetic
for
hoping
in
the
first
place.

At
the
start
of
June,
I
find:

Lauren
at
me
all
the
time
with
her
baby
talk.
Can’t
stand
it.

Hey,
baby.
What’s
wrong,
baby?
Why
not,
baby?
Gets
it
from
those
Yank
TV
shows.
My

name
is
Kane.
She
wants
to
come
on
the
trip.

Tinny
music
blares
out
and
I
jump
to
my
feet.
After
a
moment
of
absolute
panic
when
I

think
I’m
not
alone,
I
locate
the
source:
a
mobile
phone
lying
on
his
dresser.
He
must

have
bought
himself
a
new
phone,
I
think,
recognising
it
as
one
of
the
two
mobiles
that

fell
out
of
his
bag.
The
ringtone
is
‘Fire’
by
Kasabian,
which
surprises
me
because
Kane

is
usually
disinterested
in
music.
Curious,
I
peer
down
at
the
screen,
wanting
to
see
if

the
caller
is
identified.

Dad.

I
thought
Kane
wasn’t
in
contact
with
his
dad.

The
phone
stops
and
the
screen
fades
to
black.
Nerves
shot,
I
cross
to
the
window
and

peer
out
cautiously.
No
sign
of
Kane.
I
think
about
going
back
upstairs
to
check
with
the

binoculars
whether
his
ute
is
still
parked
down
there,
but
that’ll
take
time.
In
another

second
or
two,
I’m
going
to
know
if
he
took
the
exercise
book
with
him
on
the
trip.
If
he

did,
it
was
probably
in
the
bag
to
begin
with,
which
means
I
won’t
have
to
try
and
sneak

it
back
into
his
ute.