Night Beach (20 page)

that
means
I’ll
be
all
alone,
and
if
there’s
one
thing
I
can’t
cope
with,
it’s
the
thought
of

having
nobody.
If
anything,
I’m
angry
at
myself
for
so
blithely
cutting
ties
with
the
girls

Petey
and
I
used
to
hang
around
with.

I
lift
the
Mirage’s
tailgate
and
stare
inside,
wondering
if
I
shouldn’t
just
leave
now.

But
then
Hollywood
says,
‘How
are
we,
Abigail?’
And
he
comes
over
to
stand
next
to
me.

‘Got
over
your
cranks
from
last
night?’

I
shoot
him
a
look,
and
he
feints,
jabbing
two
lefts
and
a
right,
then
blows
me
a
series
of

kisses.
It
makes
me
smile,
and
I
suddenly
feel
much
lighter.
Talk
about
an
overreaction.

‘Hello
Abbie.
How
did
you
go
with
the
drive
down?’
Max
asks,
flustered,
but
making
an

effort
to
sound
conversational.

He’s
so
well-‐spoken
–
not
like
most
guys,
who
bung
on
the
Aussie
act
and
drag
their

words
out,
no
matter
whether
their
dads
are
tradies
or
lawyers.

‘Yeah,
okay,’
I
say,
lying.

‘That’s
good.
Manuals
are
hard
work.’
Max
rests
the
end
of
his
broomstick
on
the

ground,
running
a
hand
over
his
straight
black
hair.
It’s
cut
short
on
the
back
and
sides,

longer
on
top;
kind
of
old-‐fashioned.

‘What’s
with
the
brooms?’
I
ask.

‘Bum
polo.
You
drive
along
until
you
see
a
group
of
cyclists
and
then
–’
Hollywood

mimes
taking
a
swipe
at
the
lycra-‐clad
arse
of
a
road-‐hogging
cyclist.
A
lot
of
people

around
here
ride
bikes,
but
everybody
hates
cyclists
–
the
two
things
aren’t
the
same,

apparently.
Cyclists
stream
in
from
the
north
shore,
making
a
point
of
riding
five-‐

abreast,
and
then
clog
the
cafes,
mincing
around
in
their
click-‐clacking
shoes.

Hollywood’s
hatred
is
mythical.

Max
actually
giggles.
His
pale
face
is
flushed
in
patches.

He
changes
completely
when
he’s
around
Hollywood,
and
I
sometimes
wonder
whether

the
manic
energy
he
absorbs
is
good
for
him.

‘So
what
did
you
guys
do
last
night?’

‘Max
taught
me
some
hymns,’
Hollywood
says.

‘I
what?’
Max
asks.

‘So
now
I
can
go
on
a
Surf
Light
camp.’

‘You
can
come
on
a
camp,’
Max
says,
not
very
convincingly.

I
throw
my
wetsuit
at
Hollywood.
‘While
you’re
standing
there,
talking
crap,
maybe
you

can
turn
this
the
right
way
out
for
me.’

‘Only
if
you
swear
you’ve
never
peed
in
it.’

I
grin
at
him.

Hollywood
anchors
my
wetsuit
to
his
chest
with
his
wasted
left
hand,
reaches
down
the

leg
of
my
wetsuit
with
his
good
right
hand,
and
deftly
turns
it
inside
out,
singing,

‘Kumbaya,
my
lord.
Kumbaya.
’

‘What’s
on
your
hands?’
I
ask.
Both
Hollywood’s
hands
are
stained
a
dusty
red.

‘Aw,
shit,
forgot
about
that,’
Hollywood
mutters.
‘Evidence.’

‘Is
that
what
happens?
I
thought
it
sent
you
blind,’
I
say,
earning
a
snort.
He
looks
at

Max,
who
shows
him
his
hands
–
also
red.

‘We
should
try
and
rub
it
off
with
sand,’
Hollywood
tells
him.

‘What
have
you
been
doing?’

‘Making
art,
baby,’
Max
says
in
a
silly
voice.
The
words
are
so
not
Max;
they
have
to
be

Hollywood’s.

‘You
mean
for
Visual
Arts?
What
are
you
going
to
do?’

I’m
looking
at
Hollywood
as
I
ask
this,
because
up
until
now,
like
me,
he’s
done
nothing.

But
he’s
focused
on
Max.
‘Have
you
got
the
gear
or
what?’

‘Why
can’t
you
get
it?’
Max
asks.
His
politeness
does
not
extend
to
Hollywood.

‘Mate,
I’ve
got
a
mong
hand
in
case
you
haven’t
noticed.’

‘Carry
it
in
your
mouth.’

Hollywood
makes
a
whining
noise.
Shaking
his
head,
Max
takes
a
backpack
out
of
the

back
of
the
Audi
and
slides
it
on.

‘Are
you
going
to
do
some
filming?’
I
ask,
my
voice
bright.

If
there’s
one
thing
I’ve
discovered,
it’s
that
I’m
addicted
to
watching
myself
surfing.

Probably
all
surfers
are
the
same;
Max
and
Hollywood
definitely
are.
Petey
normally

films
for
us
–
she’s
our
beach
bitch
–
but
in
her
absence,
Max
must
be
going
to
use
his

tripod.

Before
Max
can
answer,
Hollywood
tosses
my
wetsuit
back
to
me.
‘Here.
Slip
into

something
uncomfortable.
And
hurry
up.’

The
Committee
of
the
Waves
are
in
residence,
six
of
them
clustered
around
the
bench

seat
that
gives
the
best
view
of
the
break.

That’s
what
we
call
them
anyway:
the
Committee.
Sooner
or
later
one
of
them
might

work
up
to
actually
getting
out
there.
Or
not.
The
buzz
of
their
voices
is
like
a
disturbed

beehive
–
faarkin’
this
and
faarkin’
that
–
and
I
wonder
what
they’re
so
stirred
up
about.

I
worry
it’s
something
to
do
with
Kane.

Kane’s
mates
from
around
here
are
in
their
twenties.

They’re
considered
to
be
the
new
crew.
This
lot,
the
Committee,
are
all
in
their
thirties

and
forties.
They’re
a
hardcore
subset
of
the
boardriders’,
harking
back
to
the
eighties.

They
all
look
the
same
to
me,
hands
in
pockets,
legs
astride,
hoodies
and
beanies
pulled

on,
hunkered
down
for
winter.
I
don’t
see
their
faces
until
I
walk
past,
at
which
point

their
heads
snap
around
in
unison,
like
a
flock
of
leering
seagulls.
It’s
only
then
I
realise

that
Greg
Hill
is
standing
in
the
middle
of
them.
There
is
a
white
plaster
covering
his

nose,
and
bruising
around
both
of
his
eyes.
Kane’s
work.

The
group
of
them
look
me
over,
and
then
turn
to
stare
at
Hollywood
and
Max,
who
are

trailing
me,
ugg
boots
clomping,
boards
tucked
under
their
arms,
hands
jammed
into

the
pockets
of
their
dressing
gowns.
That’s
when
I
have
the
first
inkling
of
what
they

might
have
been
doing
last
night.

One
of
the
Committee
growls,
‘And
what
is
that?’
Referring,
I
think,
to
the
dressing

gowns.

‘That,
is
faarkin’
fashion,
gentlemen,’
Hollywood
drawls.
‘Get
into
it.’

I
face
forwards,
spurting
shocked
laughter.
Max’s
giggle
sounds
equally
nervous.
I
used

to
think
Hollywood
was
mouthy
to
the
Committee
because
he
has
four
big,
hairy

brothers,
who
are
all
much
older
than
him.
But
none
of
them
surf,
so
they
can’t
help
him

down
here.
A
couple
of
the
Committee
decided
to
teach
Hollywood
a
lesson
once,
but

only
in
a
half-‐arsed
way.
I
think
Hollywood
was
insulted
that
he
didn’t
warrant
serious

attention.

Ever
since
then,
he’s
been
trying
to
get
up
their
noses.
Right
up.

Hollywood’s
perverse
like
that.

As
we
round
the
corner
of
the
Lifesavers’
building,
out
of
their
view,
he
stops,

rummaging
around
in
his
right
pocket
and
pulling
out
his
habitual
black
marker.
Then

he
scrawls
something
across
the
wooden
double-‐door
leading
to
the
equipment
storage

room.
I
don’t
need
to
look
to
know
what
it
is.
It’ll
be
the
same
as
he
always
writes:
it’s

already
scrawled
on
the
pine
railings
near
the
shower,
on
the
bricks
at
the
corner
of
the

building,
on
the
balcony
glass
of
the
clubhouse
deck,
and
on
the
First
Aid
room
door.

There’s
a
steel
mesh
cage
attached
to
the
far
end
of
the
building,
and
written
across
its

concrete
floor
in
faded
letters:
The
cage
is
about
chest-‐high
on
me,
and
I
think
it
used
to

be
for
storing
lifesaving
equipment.
Then,
for
a
time,
the
boardriders
used
to
lock

grommets
in
it,
when
they
thought
they
were
getting
too
big
for
their
boots
and
needed

a
‘lesson
in
respect’.
But
they’ve
stopped
doing
it
these
days,
and
you
should
hear
the

old
guys
complain
about
it.
Bloody
Occupational
Health
and
Safety
contact
them
or

something?

Last
year,
the
cage
was
brought
briefly
back
into
service
for
Hollywood’s
benefit.
He
was

stripped
naked,
of
course
–
that
being
the
white
Aussie
male
way
–
and
locked
in
there

for
the
night
after
he
dropped
in
on
this
guy,
Aaron
Gant,
on
a
really
good
day.
Gant

works
for
a
tree-‐lopping
company,
which
leaves
him
plenty
of
time
for
surfing,
and
his

good
mates
are
Jack
Daniels
and
Greg
Hill,
in
that
order.
He
also
has
a
tendency
of

leaving
his
inert
hand
down
the
front
of
his
pants
while
checking
the
surf,
as
though
he’s

been
distracted
halfway
through
scratching
his
balls.
So.
Classy.
The
point
is,
Gant
had

dropped
in
on
Hollywood
on
his
previous
two
waves.
So
Hollywood’s
crime
wasn’t

dropping
in.
His
crime
was
getting
even.
That’s
not
the
way
things
work
around
here.

Here,
some
people
belong
more
than
others.

To
really
belong,
you
have
to
be
really
good,
really
tough,
really
psychotic,
really

fearless,
really
misogynistic,
really
violent
–
any
of
these
might
do.
But
loving
it
isn’t

enough.
And
being
nice
is
a
handicap,
unless
you’re
also
an
excellent
surfer,
in
which

case
they’ll
say
you’re
a
top
bloke.
Only
blokes
belong,
of
course,
but
that
goes
without

saying.

What
I
love
are
the
times
when
someone
who
belongs
is
out
on
a
day
when
none
of
his

mates
are
around.
All
of
a
sudden
he
doesn’t
say
boo.
And
he
never
stays
long.
That’s