Night Beach (19 page)

wandered
downstairs,
he’d
found
me
there
on
the
couch,
having
a
good
cry,
because
at

Christmas
people
are
supposed
to
be
warm
and
loving,
not
talk
to
you
like
you’re
the

hired
help,
or
a
dog.

‘See,
I
know
what
they
think
about
me.
That
I’m
some
project.
And,
yeah,
I’ll
accept
their

help.
But
I’m
gonna
pay
my
way.
’Cause
you
can’t
let
people
like
that
give
you
anything.

They
think
they
own
you
then.
And
you
know
what?
Nobody’s
ever
going
to
own
me.’

Kane’s
eyes
were
hard
while
he
said
this,
but
then
he
gave
a
wheezy
laugh
and
went

weak,
relaxed.
‘’Cause
who
gives
a
shit,
hey?
Who
really
gives
a
shit?’

He
was
very
drunk.

We
were
quiet
for
a
long
time.
Then
he
tipped
his
head
back
so
it
was
resting
on
the

couch
and
looked
sideways
at
me,
giving
me
a
pirate’s
smile.

‘What?’
I
asked.
Embarrassed.

‘I
know
what
I
want
for
Christmas.’
He
patted
his
lap.

‘Come
on.’

That
silenced
me.
I
stopped
breathing,
too,
because
I
didn’t
want
him
to
hear
even
that.

And
I
wished
I
could
hide
by
burying
my
face
in
his
chest.

He
didn’t
say
anything
else.
What
he
did
was
position
me,
so
I
was
straddling
him
on
the

couch,
his
fingers
threaded
through
my
belt,
anchoring
me
in
some
fantasy
he
had

playing
in
his
head.
I
could
smell
the
beer
on
his
breath,
and
I
tasted
it
when
his
lips
met

mine,
and
I
had
my
hands
on
his
shoulders,
bracing
myself
for
the
impact.
But
it
was
the

softest
kiss,
just
a
whisper
at
first,
that
slowly
grew
deeper.
As
though
we
had
all
the

time
in
the
world.
Like
he
knew
exactly
what
he
was
doing,
and
was
taking
pleasure
in

the
details,
sharing
them
with
me.
Passing
time
sweetly.

Before
passing
out.

The
look
in
Kane’s
eyes
now
tells
me
he
remembers
Christmas
more
clearly
than
if
he

gave
me
a
blow-‐by-‐blow
description.

And
another
thing
–
I
can
see
he’s
enjoying
this.
He
knows
I’m
burning
with

embarrassment.
I
take
a
jagged
little
breath,
and
turn
around
to
face
the
clothes
line,

remembering
what
I’m
there
for.
Standing
on
tiptoes,
I
pull
my
wetsuit
off,
and
sling
it

over
my
shoulder,
and
the
whole
time
I
feel
like
I’m
falling.

‘Never
mind,
daughter
of
the
year.
Least
you’ve
got
wheels.’

Without
bothering
to
unpeg
it,
I
grab
the
corner
of
my
beach
towel
and
pull
hard.
The

clothes
line
bucks
violently,
but
the
damn
thing
doesn’t
come
loose.

‘Hey,
I’m
just
messing
with
you,’
Kane
murmurs.
‘Take
it
easy.’

His
arms
bracket
my
body
as
he
reaches
up
to
unpeg
the
towel.
And
a
jolt
passes

through
me,
because
it’s
like
it’s
not
even
him,
but
rather
someone,
or
something,
that
I

do
not
want
to
have
behind
me.

‘Don’t!’
I
rip
the
towel
out
of
his
hands
and
spin
around
to
face
him,
taking
a
step

backwards
under
the
clothes
line,
short
enough
to
stand
there
without
my
head
hitting

the
wires,
clutching
the
towel
and
my
wetsuit
to
my
chest.

I’m
breathing
hard,
adrenaline
snapping
through
my
nerve
endings,
and
it
takes
me
a

moment
to
process
that
it’s
all
right,
it’s
Kane,
it’s
still
him.
And
these
thoughts
make
no

sense
at
all.
They’re
pure
instinct.

Kane
raises
an
eyebrow,
but
not
before
I
see
how
taken
aback
he
is
by
my
reaction.
He’s

rattled.

‘Just
trying
to
help.’
He
places
the
pegs
back
on
the
line
and
his
movements
seem

slightly
out
of
tune.

‘What’s
going
on
with
you,
Kane?’
My
voice
wavers.

‘Nothin’,
mate,’
he
says,
stretching
his
arms
out
and
taking
hold
of
the
first
line.
‘Never

felt
better.’
And
now
everything
about
him
is
flat
and
hard.
Almost
aggressive.
‘What’s

going
on
with
you,
Abbie?’

‘I
don’t
know.’

‘Can’t
help
you
there,
then.’

‘There’s
this
one
thing.’
My
mouth
is
so
dry.

He
nods,
leaning
forward,
his
weight
making
the
clothes
line
dip,
and
I
have
to
stop

myself
from
taking
another
step
backwards.

‘Last
night,
I
looked
out
the
window
and
I
thought
I
saw
dogs
down
here.’
My
voice
rises

sharply
at
the
end
of
the
sentence,
making
it
a
question.
‘A
lot
of
dogs.
And
they
were
all

black.’

He
shrugs.

‘I
just
wondered
if
you
saw
them.
It
was
about
two
o’clock
in
the
morning.’

‘Probably
asleep.’

‘You
were
awake.’

‘How
would
you
know?’

‘I
could
hear
you.’

I
regret
the
words
as
soon
as
I’ve
said
them.
Kane
grins
at
me,
his
eyes
glazed,
and
I

know
he’s
about
to
make
things
ugly.

‘Don’t,’
I
say
for
a
second
time,
and
I
hate
him
right
then.

Because
there
is
nothing
vulnerable
about
Kane,
and
everything
vulnerable
about
me.

Because
I
should
be
glad
I’m
only
an
initial
in
his
book
and
not
a
name.
But
I
ache
for

him,
instead
of
despising
him,
so
you’ve
got
to
wonder
who
it
is
I
really
hate.
Him
or
me?

He
leans
in
so
close
that
I
can
feel
his
breath
on
my
face.

‘You
know
what
you
should
do
the
next
time
you
have
a
bad
dream
and
you
know
I’m

awake?’

I
pull
back
from
him.
‘You
stink
of
smoke.
I
thought
you
hated
smoking.’

Kane’s
eyes
narrow.
‘What?’

Because
it
seems
to
bother
him,
I
give
it
more
venom.
‘You
stink.
Of
smoke.’

He
frowns,
opening
his
mouth
as
if
to
say
something,
but
then
his
eyes
leave
mine
and

he
leans
back
slightly,
turning
his
head
as
though
listening.

I
can
hear
it
now,
too.
That
fire
song.

‘Is
that
your
mobile?’
I
ask,
even
though
I
already
know.

Then
it
occurs
to
me
that
his
forehead
and
chest
are
slick
with
sweat.
I
can
see
steam

rising
off
his
bare
skin.

Kane
whirls
back
to
look
at
me,
and
I’m
shocked
by
the
change
in
him.
His
face
is

drained
of
colour,
and
he
looks
sick,
feverish.
Wild-‐eyed.

‘Shut
up
about
that,’
he
snarls.
‘And
you
can
stop
your
fuckin’
looking,
too.
All
the
time

with
you
–
taking
it
all
in,
checking
it
all
out.
Well
I’m
not
some
freak
for
you
to
look
at.’

Then
he
rips
his
arms
down
and
stalks
off
towards
his
place.

I
stand
there
watching
him
go,
the
swaying
wires
of
the
clothes
line
knocking
against
my

head,
not
sure
what
just
happened.

There
curves
and
glimmers
outward
to
the
unknown
The
old
unquiet
ocean.
All
the
shade

Is
rife
with
magic
and
movement.
I
stray
alone
Here
on
the
edge
of
silence,
half
afraid
.
.
.

Rupert
Brooke

15

Wild
air

The
Audi
is
already
in
the
clubhouse
car
park,
parked
in
a
spot
near
the
playground,

with
its
tailgate
up
and
two
surfboards
lying
on
the
grass
in
front
of
it.
I
manage
to
coast

from
the
turn-‐off,
across
the
bitumen,
and
into
the
neighbouring
space.
Thank
God
for

momentum.

Greg
Hill’s
beige
Toyota
Landcruiser
is
at
the
end
of
the
queue
of
cars
parked
in
the

boardriders’
lane.
It
wasn’t
there
when
I
checked
the
place
with
binoculars
this

morning,
but
he
might
have
arrived
before
Kane
left.
Maybe
they
had
another
run-‐in.

That
might
explain
why
Kane
was
so
angry.

And
perhaps
why
he
seemed
sick.

Maybe.

Then
the
wind
hits
me
as
I
get
out
of
the
car
and
I
feel
myself
start
to
unfurl,
letting
go
of

Kane
and
Mum
and
the
weirdness
of
the
house,
just
glad
that
I’ll
be
in
the
water
soon,

where
I
won’t
think
about
much
at
all.

Hollywood
and
Max
are
having
some
kind
of
duel
with
broomsticks
on
the
bitumen

behind
the
Audi.
They’re
both
wearing
dressing
gowns
over
their
wetsuits,
which
is
this

thing
they’ve
been
into
recently.
Max’s
is
blue
tartan,
and
I
would
predict
that
not
only

did
his
mum
buy
it
for
him,
it
is
something
he
really
uses.
Hollywood’s
is
an
old
brown

velour
number,
which
from
the
look
of
it
used
to
be
his
mum’s.
Somewhere
in
its

pockets,
there’ll
be
a
black
marker
pen.

Hollywood’s
eyes
are
too
bright,
and
he’s
whacking
the
crap
out
of
the
broom
Max
is

holding
up
in
self-‐defence.
Max
is
down
on
one
knee,
laughing,
but
in
the
way
you
do

when
you’re
not
quite
sure
whether
something
that
started
out
as
one
thing
has
now

morphed
into
something
else.

‘Hey,’
I
say.
‘Hey!’
And
then,
‘Ollie,
stop
it!’

Hollywood
gets
like
this
sometimes
–
takes
things
too
far.

Poor
impulse
control
or
something.
He
straightens,
throwing
his
broom
into
the
back
of

the
Audi.
I
wait
for
him
to
look
at
me,
but
he
doesn’t,
his
face
is
so
cold,
he
looks
cruel,

and
I
feel
sick.

What
I
don’t
understand
is,
why
now?
If
he
was
always
going
to
be
a
jerk,
what
took
him

so
long?

Him
acting
like
this
is
a
betrayal.
I
should
be
furious.

But
I’m
not.
Undermining
me
is
the
horrible,
crawling
fear
of
rejection.
He’s
about
to

cast
me
out,
and
I
won’t
be
able
to
hang
around
with
them
anymore.
With
Petey
away,