Night Beach (18 page)

Of
course
I’m
going.
What
else
would
I
do?
Stay
here
going
mad
in
my
room?
I
need
to

get
to
the
ocean.

‘Okay.
But
you
don’t
have
to
pick
me
up.
I
got
my
car
back
today.’

‘Well,
that’s
good
news,’
Max
says.
‘For
insurance
companies.’

He
scores
a
laugh.
‘Shut
up.
Are
you
saying
I’m
a
bad
driver?’

Max
would
know.
One
night
when
we
were
on
our
way
to
pick
up
Hollywood,
he
let
me

drive
the
Audi
on
some
of
the
empty
roads
at
the
back
of
the
Heights.
I
drove
it
very

badly.

And
it’s
an
automatic.
So
there’s
no
hope
for
me,
basically,
because
the
car
Mum
and

Brian
gave
me
is
a
manual.
Only
way
to
learn
how
to
drive,
according
to
Brian.

‘When
will
you
guys
be
down
there?’

‘Give
us
twenty
minutes.
I’m
at
Hollywood’s
now,
but
by
the
time
he
puts
his
make-‐up

on
.
.
.’

I
hear
Hollywood’s
voice
in
the
background,
‘Who
are
you
talking
to?’

Max
ignores
this
and
says
to
me,
‘We
can
still
come
by
your
place.’

Hollywood
says,
‘Is
that
Abbie?’

I
say,
‘Are
you
worried
about
me
driving?’

‘Yes,’
Max
says,
killing
two
birds
with
one
syllable.

‘I’ll
be
okay.
I
need
the
practice.’
I
look
across
at
my
purse,
which
is
on
my
bedside
table,

hoping
my
driver’s
licence
is
in
it,
even
though
I
have
a
bad
feeling
it’s
probably
not

somewhere
that
logical.
‘I’ll
meet
you
–
Oh
my
God.’

‘What’s
wrong?’
Max
asks.

‘Is
she
coming?’
I
hear
Hollywood
ask
Max.

When
I
don’t
answer
him,
Max
says,
‘Abbie?’

‘Uh,
nothing,’
I
say.
‘I’ll
see
you
down
there.’

Then
I
cut
the
call,
not
quite
believing
what’s
right
in
front
of
me.

Someone
has
been
through
my
relics.

The
cup
of
secrets,
the
candle
holder
and
the
jewellery
box
are
still
there.
But
the
blue

pouch
that
once
held
all
of
the
odd
little
treasures
my
grandad
gave
to
me,
all
my

wonders,
is
lying
flat
and
empty.

At
first
I’m
too
gobsmacked
to
do
anything
more
than
stare.
But
then
I
think
to
check
my

purse,
which
appears
untouched.
Nothing
else
in
my
room
has
been
disturbed.
All
the

main
stuff
is
there.
My
laptop.
My
camera.

My
camera.

I
turn
it
on,
wanting
the
shot
I
took
last
night:
Come
to
me!!!!
I
never
got
around
to

transferring
it
over
to
my
laptop.

When
it’s
on
the
screen,
I
zoom
in
on
my
relics.

I
can
see
the
blue
pouch
is
full.
Which
means
its
contents
were
stolen
sometime

between
then
and
now.
The
thought
that
it
might
have
been
when
I
was
asleep
makes

my
skin
crawl.

14

Vulnerable

A
car
pulls
up
out
front
while
I’m
heading
down
to
get
my
wetsuit
and
towel.
I’m

expecting
it
to
be
Hollywood
and
Max,
even
though
I
said
I’d
meet
them
down
there,
so

I’m
surprised
when
I
see
Kane’s
green
ute.

His
door
slams
shut
as
I’m
going
down
the
steps
at
the
side
of
the
house
and
a
beat

starts
up
at
the
base
of
my
throat.

He’ll
know
I’ve
been
in
his
room
as
soon
as
he
looks
at
me.
But
now
I’m
wondering
if

Kane
has
also
been
in
my
room.
Could
he
have
taken
those
relics?
I
didn’t
tell
Mum
and

Brian
that
things
had
been
stolen,
so
there’s
the
proof
that
I
suspect
him.

Once,
I
would
never
have
suspected
Kane.
If
I
had
to
give
a
reason
why,
it’s
because

every
now
and
then
I
see
a
flash
of
an
eleven-‐year-‐old
kid
standing
by
his
mother’s

shoulder,
bristling
and
proud.
The
first
time
I
ever
saw
him,
Kane
and
his
mum
Vicky

had
come
down
from
the
Gold
Coast.
Everyone
was
sitting,
but
he
stood
there
like
a

bodyguard,
trying
to
protect
Vicky
from
Brian
and
Mum’s
judgement,
looking
around

distrustfully
at
their
posh
furniture.
But
this
Kane.
The
one
who’s
come
back.

The
one
who’s
different.

The
concreted
area
is
shaded
and
cold,
the
sky
a
sliver
of
weak
blue
between
the
two

house
roofs.
This
is
where
the
dogs
were
last
night,
but
there
are
no
traces
of
their

presence,
nothing
to
prove
they
were
real.
I’ve
reached
the
clothes
line
now,
and
I
can

hear
Kane
padding
down
the
steps
behind
me.

As
I
turn
to
face
him,
I
realise
how
tense
I
am.

Kane’s
still
in
his
wetsuit,
which
is
pulled
down
to
his
waist,
and
there’s
a
towel

wrapped
around
his
neck.
He’s
not
carrying
his
board;
he
must
have
left
it
in
the
back
of

his
ute.

He
walks
with
his
shoulders
pulled
back,
like
he’s
aware
of
his
body
–
what
it
can
do,
the

space
he’s
taking
up.
Kane’s
so
concentrated;
distilled
down
to
will
and
action,
with

nothing
left
of
doubt.

How
can
he
be
so
sure
of
himself?

‘What
happened
to
the
no-‐wetties-‐in-‐the-‐ute
policy?’
I
say,
trying
to
sound
chirpy,
but

only
making
it
forced.

Kane
lifts
his
chin,
as
though
he
didn’t
hear
me.

‘Nothing.
Doesn’t
matter.
What’s
it
like?’
I
ask,
meaning
the
surf.

He
shrugs
in
a
way
that
suggests
it
is
what
it
is.

Okay,
so
we’re
not
talking
today.
Humiliated,
I
decide
to
salvage
some
self-‐respect
by

collecting
my
stuff
and
getting
out
of
there.
But
then
Kane
pulls
the
towel
from
around

his
neck
and
tosses
it
over
the
clothes
line.
He
rolls
his
wetsuit
down,
revealing
a
pair
of

black
trunks,
and
starts
manoeuvring
it
over
his
legs
and
feet,
and
I
watch
his

movements
in
my
peripheral
vision,
looking
for
a
shadow.

‘Aren’t
you
cold?’

‘Nuh.’
Kane
turns
on
the
hose,
blasting
his
wetsuit
with
it,
and
spraying
me
slightly
in

the
process.
Deliberately,
I
think.

‘Got
your
car
back,
hey?’

‘Yes,’
I
say,
wary
of
where
this
might
be
headed.
Brian
and
Mum
gave
me
the
Mirage
just

before
Kane
went
on
his
trip.
It
broke
down
the
day
before
he
left.
He
arrived
home
as
it

was
being
towed
away.

Kane
turns
off
the
hose
and
throws
the
wetsuit
over
the
line,
right
near
me,
so
I
can’t

help
but
be
conscious
of
his
body,
the
swell
of
muscle,
the
wiry
blond
hair
covering
his

chest
and
arms
and
legs.

He
turns
to
face
me,
giving
me
this
slow,
sly
smile.
‘So
did
they
buy
it
for
you?
That
car?’

I
nod.

‘What’ll
that
cost?’

‘Um
.
.
.
I
think
Brian
said
they
got
it
for
five
and
a
half.’

‘No.
I
mean,
what’ll
that
cost
you?’

Kane
laughs
at
the
look
on
my
face.
A
hard,
false
laugh,
like
he’s
laughing
at
how
he
is,

and
how
I
am,
and
how
they
are;
laughing
because
none
of
us
is
going
to
change.
That

laugh
makes
me
feel
like
I’ve
failed
and,
what’s
worse,
that
it
was
expected.

He
shakes
his
finger
at
me.
‘What
are
you
doing,
Abbie?
We’ve
talked
about
this.’

Which
means
he
remembers.

The
last
conversation
we
had
about
Mum
and
Brian
took
place
downstairs.
I
sat
beside

Kane
as
he
sprawled
on
the
couch,
nursing
a
beer,
his
head
nodding
like
it
was
too

heavy
for
his
neck,
his
voice
slurred,
one
arm
slung
around
my
shoulders,
which
to
him

meant
nothing,
and
for
me
was
bigger
than
the
world.
The
noise
of
a
choir
singing

Christmas
Carols
drifted
down
from
upstairs,
along
with
the
burble
of
voices
taking

themselves
very
seriously,
very
loudly.
Everybody
had
had
too
much
to
drink.

I’d
had
so
much
champagne
I’d
gone
from
being
drunk
to
being
too
sober.
And
I
couldn’t

get
over
the
change
in
Kane.
Up
until
then,
he’d
always
sort
of
blanked
me.
Like
I
didn’t

register
with
him
at
all.
I
wished
he
was
drunk
all
the
time.

‘They’re
never
going
to
change.
You
gotta
get
that
into
your
head.
What
they
did
up

there?
They’ll
keep
doing
that
forever.
You
know
why?
Because
they’re
withholders.

That’s
what
power
is
all
about.
Not
giving
people
what
they
want.
So
you
know
what

that
means?
It
means
you’ve
got
to
stop
wanting.
Stop
wanting
them
to
love
you,
or
be

proud
of
you,
or
whatever
it
is
you’re
after.
’Cause
you’re
not
gonna
get
it.’

‘But
she’s
my
mum,’
I
said
in
a
small
voice.
‘Parents
are
supposed
to
love
you.’

He
laughed
then
–
a
nice
laugh,
as
though
I’d
surprised
him.
‘You’re
so
young.
What?
You

think
people
automatically
turn
good
when
they
become
parents?’

‘But
it’s
like
I
don’t
exist.
Just
Anna,
Anna,
Anna.’

Kane
shook
his
head
impatiently.
‘Okay,
what
if
it
was
the
other
way
around?
If
your

sister
was
here
for
Chrissie
lunch
with
them
and
the
lah-‐di-‐dahs,
and
you
weren’t?
What

do
you
reckon
would
happen?’

I
gaped
at
him
then,
because
everything
I
knew
had
just
ever-‐so-‐slightly
changed

position.
‘You’re
right.
They’d
talk
about
me
and
how
great
I
am.’

Screwing
up
his
eyes,
Kane
finished
his
beer,
not
seeming
interested
in
the
enormous

breakthrough
he’d
made
for
me.

‘Huh.’
I
wiped
my
face
with
the
balled-‐up
tissues
I
was
holding.
When
Kane
had