Night Beach (21 page)

because
there’s
subversion
in
the
air.
And
he
can
smell
it.
It’s
like
the
moment
a
prison

warder
standing
in
the
middle
of
the
exercise
yard
realises
he’s
forgotten
his
gun,
and

then
sees
how
many
prisoners
are
looking
at
his
empty
holster.

For
just
that
little
while,
he
gets
to
see
what
it’s
like
for
the
rest
of
us.
How
much
we
rely

on
going
unnoticed.

Three
different
tracks
lead
to
the
beach.
We
take
the
long
one,
the
one
that
winds
along

the
spine
of
the
dunes.
When
it
connects
with
the
path
from
the
back
car
park,
we
step

over
the
sagging
wire
fence
and
keep
trudging
across
the
top,
because
we
can
see
that

the
couch
is
unclaimed.

If
I
had
to
pick
a
symbol
that
sums
up
this
place,
I’d
pick
that
couch,
abandoned
near
a

bonfire
site,
its
black
vinyl
busted
and
oozing
stuffing,
covered
in
spray
paint:
Locals

Only,
TWR,
Revenge,
Cage
Rage,
BB
is
back
this
summer.
.
.

I
spear
the
nose
of
my
board
into
the
sand,
and
climb
onto
the
seat,
looking
out.

‘You’re
the
king
of
the
world,’
Max
calls,
and
I
smile,
putting
my
arms
out
wide.
The

westerly
is
blowing
my
hair
around
my
face,
and
I
can’t
really
see
anything
except
the

break.
I
feel
like
I’m
clapped
between
two
hands
of
blue:
the
sky
and
the
sea.
I
feel
like

this
is
all
there
is.
The
sandy
fringe,
the
shore,
the
edge.
All
this
wildness.

‘Roll
on,
thou
deep
and
dark
blue
ocean
–
roll!’
I
do
this
in
my
best
stage
voice.

‘Yeah,
baby!’
Hollywood
cries,
doing
a
fist
pump.
He
climbs
up
next
to
me.

‘Byron.
My
grandad
used
to
say
it
every
time
he
saw
the
sea.’

‘Must
have
got
monotonous.
He
was
a
sailor,
wasn’t
he?’

I
laugh,
delighted
he
remembers
that
about
my
grandad.

Everything
in
the
blue
pouch,
all
the
things
that
have
been
stolen,
were
things
Grandad

brought
back
from
his
travels.

He
used
to
work
on
cargo
ships.
All
his
life,
he
lived
to
be
at
sea,
leaving
my
grandma,

and
dad
and
his
two
brothers,
for
six
months
at
a
time.

He
retired
when
I
was
only
little,
but
I
got
the
feeling
Grandad
was
grieving
for
his
old

life
all
the
time.
He
came
down
here
every
day.
In
summer,
he’d
swim
in
the
tidal
pool.

In
winter,
I’d
often
see
him
standing
at
the
very
edge
of
the
rocks
beyond
the
pool,

staring
out
at
the
horizon,
enjoying
the
cold
spray
and
bracing
winds.
You
could
almost

hear
his
big
breaths
of
contentment,
each
one
another
share
in
the
secret.

That’s
what
this
place
is
in
winter:
a
secret.
In
summer
it’s
the
place
to
go,
and

everybody’s
here.
But
winter
sifts
out
the
true
believers.
The
ones
who
can’t
stay
away

from
it,
and
love
it
in
all
its
moods.
People
who
can’t
breathe
unless
the
air
is
salty.

One
of
the
best
surfs
I’ve
ever
had
was
with
Dad
when
I
was
a
kid.
We
went
out
in
a

winter
storm
and
had
to
shelter
from
hail
by
treading
water
under
our
boards.

Grandad
died
ten
months
ago;
September,
last
year.
The
weather
killed
him.
He
always

hated
spring,
because
he
claimed
there
were
more
onshore
winds
than
any
other
time

of
the
year.
Just
makes
me
glad
I
don’t
live
in
Perth,
where
I’d
have
to
put
up
with
that

Fremantle
doctor
every
summer
–
what
a
bloody
awful
wind
that
is.
Don’t
get
me

wrong,
I
don’t
mind
a
good
southerly.
It
can
be
magnificent.
A
freight
train.
And
I
don’t

even
mind
your
summer
northerlies,
especially
at
night,
bringing
me
the
music
from

other
people’s
parties.
But
when
it
gets
that
bit
of
east
in
it
–
just
a
nasty
mess.
Sets
your

teeth
on
edge.

He
was
a
wind
connoisseur.
It’s
thanks
to
him
that
I
know
their
personalities.

In
the
year
or
so
before
he
died,
I’d
noticed
Grandad
getting
really
pissed
off
over
what

seemed
like
small
details:
if
he
couldn’t
work
out
how
to
open
a
packet;
if
the
bus

timetables
changed.

If
the
wind
knocked
over
his
pot
plants.

On
the
day
he
died
there
was
a
screaming
south-‐easterly.

Dad
was
the
one
who
found
him
lying
on
the
balcony
of
his
one-‐bedroom
unit
near
a

series
of
overturned
pots,
which
were
spilling
dirt
all
over
his
tiles.
The
pot
nearest
him

was
upright,
held
there
by
his
body.
He
must
have
righted
it
when
he
had
the
heart

attack.

In
the
photo
I
took
the
night
he
died,
the
paper
I’m
holding
is
blank.
There
were
no

words
for
that.

The
swell
has
faded
since
yesterday,
and
it’s
peaking
in
more
places,
which
means
the

crowd
has
not
only
thinned,
but
is
also
more
widely
dispersed.
Less
epic,
less
hassle.

The
tide
is
going
out,
though,
and
the
lines
are
starting
to
zip
closed
fast.

A
lot
of
the
time
it’s
just
shutting
down.

I
pull
my
hair
back
from
my
face
and
notice
Hollywood
watching
me.
‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

And
that’s
when
I
catch
sight
of
the
wall.
‘Holy
crap.’

It’s
no
longer
an
expanse
of
freshly-‐painted,
council
grey.

Now,
large
dusty-‐red
block
letters
scream
out
a
message.

‘You
did
that?’

Max
clears
his
throat
loudly.

I
shoot
him
a
look.
‘I
wouldn’t
be
claiming
it,
if
I
was
you.’

I
turn
back
to
Hollywood.
‘This
is
what
you
wanted
me
to
help
you
with?’

‘Why?
Wouldn’t
you
have?’

‘No.’
I
blink.
‘Maybe.
I
don’t
know.
But
why
would
you
–’
I
break
off
to
voice
another

thought
as
it
occurs
to
me.
‘God,
Greg
probably
thinks
Kane
did
it.’

Hollywood’s
voice
is
irritated.
‘What
are
you
worried
about
him
for?
Kane
can
take
care

of
himself.’

‘Yeah,
well
I
hope
so.
Because
you’ve
just
dropped
him
in
it.’

‘He
dropped
himself
in
it.
When
he
decided
to
break
Greg
Hill’s
nose.’

It
occurs
to
me
that
Kane
would
have
seen
the
wall
this
morning,
and
I’m
slightly

relieved.
‘Unless
you
signed
it?
Oh
God,
tell
me
you
didn’t
sign
it.’

It
is
a
valid
question.
Hollywood
has
got
a
compulsion
for
writing
his
name
everywhere,

like
a
dog
marking
his
territory.

‘What?
You
really
think
–’
Disgusted,
Hollywood
pulls
out
his
marker
pen
and
writes
his

name
in
the
air,
speaking
like
he’s
retarded.
‘By
Oliver
Wood,
age
eighteen.
Course
I

didn’t
sign
it.
What
do
you
reckon?’

I
ignore
him,
studying
the
wall
again.
‘What
the
hell
is
that
colour
anyway?’

‘Somethin’,
somethin’,
terracotta,’
Hollywood
mutters.

‘Dulux
Special
Effects
Terracotta,’
Max
corrects
him.

‘Like
textured
house
paint?’

Hollywood
grins.
If
there’s
one
thing
I
love
about
Hollywood,
it’s
the
fact
that
he
prefers

you
to
laugh
at
him
rather
than
with
him.
‘Mum
was
going
to
use
it
on
the
concrete
out

the
back
of
our
place.’

I
get
the
giggles.
‘Wow,
that’s
street.’

‘Yeah,
righto.
Come
on,
Maxy.
Clickety-‐click.’

Max
pulls
his
camera
bag
out
of
the
backpack
and
removes
his
hideously
expensive

digital
SLR.
I
covet
Max’s
camera.
He
starts
taking
shots
of
the
wall.

‘You’re
seriously
going
to
submit
this
for
your
body
of
work?’
I
ask.
‘Mr
Findlay
won’t

accept
it.’

‘Mr
Findlay
loves
this
shit.
Remember?
Graffiti
and
street
art
reclaims
public
space
for

political
messages.’

Sometimes
I’m
surprised
by
how
much
Hollywood
retains.

I
always
think
of
art
as
his
token
slacker
subject.
He’s
doing
maths
and
science
streams,

and
he
wants
to
do
electrical
engineering
at
uni.
He
wears
glasses
at
school.
Heavy

black-‐framed
ones
that
he
picked
on
the
basis
of
them
being
sturdy
and
comfortable.

They
make
him
look
like
he’s
playing
dress-‐ups.
I
love
him
in
those
glasses,
just
due
to

how
much
they
don’t
suit
him
and
the
sheer
lack
of
concern
he
has
about
wearing
them.

I
shake
my
head.
‘I’m
sure
it
says
somewhere
in
the
guidelines
that
it’s
got
to
be
legal.

And
what
about
the
size
restrictions?’

‘Look
you’re
getting
caught
up
on
details,’
Hollywood
says.
‘We
take
photographs
of
it.

That’s
how
we
get
around
the
legal
thing.
We
don’t
claim
it.
We
just
document
it.’

‘So
where’s
the
art?’

‘I
don’t
know,
man.
In
the
eye
of
the
beholder.’

‘Actually,’
I
say
slowly,
thinking
about
it.
‘It
could
be
in
the
way
you
frame
the

photographs.
What’s
included
in
the
shot.
.
.
in
its,’
I
remember
Mr
Findlay’s
words,

‘ironic
juxtaposition.’

‘Ironic
juxtaposition,
hey?’
Hollywood
says,
elbowing
me.

‘Like
what?’

‘Like.
.
.
a
little
boy.
Holding
a
foamy.
Walking
past.He
just
wants
to
get
wet
and
have
fun,

and
he’s
completely
unaware
of
all
the
surf-‐wank
about
respect
that
he’s
going
to

encounter
in
a
couple
of
years’
time.’

‘Okay?
So
if
you
see
a
kid
with
a
foamy
walking
around
today,
grab
him,’
Hollywood

instructs
Max.

Max
keeps
shifting
from
one
foot
to
the
other.
The
tips
of
his
ears
are
red.