Night Beach (29 page)

And
it’s
behind
me.
Waiting
for
me
to
look.
Waiting
for
me
to
see.

When
I
won’t,
hands
clamp
down
on
my
shoulders,
turning
me
around,
digging
into
my

skin,
so
that
my
knees
buckle
with
pain
and
I
open
my
mouth
to
scream,
but
no
noise

comes
out.

‘Abbee,’
it
says.
‘
Helow,
Abbee.’

‘Abbie!’

I
hear
Kane’s
cry
and
find
myself
falling
backwards,
before
landing
flat
on
my
back.

I
squint
at
the
sky,
trying
to
suck
air
into
my
lungs,
feeling
dazed.
I
am
here
in
the
world,

and
I’ve
just
fallen
down
on
the
grass
outside
my
mother
and
stepfather’s
house.
But

that
wasn’t
.
.
.
What
just
happened?
Something
is
folding
in
on
itself,
hiding
away.

I
close
my
eyes,
because
there
was
more,
I
know
there
was.

My
right
palm
is
tingling,
and
I
stare
at
it,
almost
able
to
–

‘Abbie?’

My
name.
My
name.
Abbie.
Abbee.
Helow
Abbee.

Kane’s
standing
over
me.
Any
trace
of
tiredness
has
been
wiped
away.
Now,
he
looks

startled.

‘What’d
you
fall
over
for?’
he
says.

‘You
pushed
me.’

‘Nah,
you
just
misjudged
it,’
he
says
this
too
quickly,
too
loudly.
‘Lost
your
balance.’

I
blink
at
him.
‘No,
you
pushed
me.’

I
don’t
care
that
he
did
it
–
I
just
need
something
about
what
happened
to
be

established.

‘You
lost
your
balance,
that’s
all.’

He’s
lying.
Everything
he’s
doing
is
a
lie.
He’s
shaken,
too.

But
why?
What
just
happened?
Why
can’t
I
remember?

There’s
a
burning
smell
hanging
in
the
air.
Someone
must
have
a
fire
going.

Kane’s
voice
softens.
‘Here,
come
on.
Get
up.’
I
let
him
pull
me
to
my
feet,
and
he
puts
an

arm
around
my
shoulders
and
squeezes.
‘You
right
now?’

‘Yep.’
My
face
flushes.
‘Are
you
okay?
You’re
the
one
who’s
not
good.’

I
can
still
feel
the
fever
under
his
skin.
And
it’s
him
giving
off
the
burning
smell.
Not
that

I’d
say
that.
Not
after
last
time
when
I
thought
he’d
been
smoking.
Although,
the
smell

isn’t
really
anything
like
the
aftermath
of
cigarettes.
He
smells
like
fire.

‘Nah.
I’m
right.’
He
does
seem
steadier
now.
He
lets
go
of
my
shoulders.

Not
knowing
what
else
to
do,
I
pick
his
wetsuit
up
and
hand
it
to
him.

‘Ta.’
He
slings
it
over
his
shoulder.
‘Okay,
see
you
later,
hey.’

As
Kane
walks
around
the
ute
towards
the
carport,
he
glances
across
at
the
Mirage,
and

he
must
clock
my
board
because
he
asks,
‘You
going
for
a
surf
now?’

‘I
don’t
know.
Maybe.’

‘Well,
have
fun,
baby.’

‘You
hate
that
word.’
I
don’t
even
know
why
I
say
it.
It’s
out
of
my
mouth
before
I
think

about
it.

Kane
stops,
turning
to
face
me,
but
I
ignore
him,
acting
like
nothing’s
wrong.
I
get
back

in
my
car,
close
the
door
and
start
the
motor.
And
the
whole
time
I’m
telling
myself,

don’t
look
at
him,
do
not
look
at
him.
But
I
have
to.
Because
I
need
to
know
the
damage.
I

need
to
know
if
Kane’s
realised
how
I
know
that
about
him.

Kane’s
eyes
are
narrowed,
his
head
tilted
to
the
side,
and
his
attention
is
a
sharp
point

that’s
aimed
at
me.

He
knows.

21

The
gloaming

Brian
closes
the
door
behind
him
softly
at
the
top
of
the
stairwell,
and
then
turns
to
face

Mum
and
me.

‘Kane’s
sleeping,’
he
reports
with
some
satisfaction,
his
voice
echoing
in
the
tiled
space

of
the
foyer.
‘Couldn’t
raise
him.
I’d
say
he’s
out
for
the
count.
Jet
lag.’
He
looks

questioningly
at
Mum.
‘Right,
are
we
ready?’

‘Yes.
Time
we
got
going.’
There’s
strain
in
her
voice,
probably
because
she’s
trying
to

keep
a
lid
on
everything.
She’s
still
in
the
jacket
and
skirt
she
wore
to
work,
but
she’s

taken
her
red
hair
out
of
its
braid
and
is
wearing
it
loose.

Mum
picks
up
Brian’s
laptop
bag
and
his
suit
bag,
and
I
take
a
suitcase.
It’s
one
of
those

wheelie
ones
–
useless
on
the
wet,
slippery
paving
in
the
courtyard.
It’s
spitting
again.

Cold.

Mum
and
I
huddle
together
in
the
carport
while
Brian
loads
everything
in
the
Beamer

parked
in
the
driveway.
Now
Mum
is
actually
faced
with
Brian’s
departure,
she’s
stoic.

And
the
good
news
is
she
seems
to
have
defrosted
towards
me.

‘Depending
on
traffic,
I
might
not
be
back
until
seven
or
eight.
I
think
we’ll
just
have
a

scratch
tea,
don’t
you?’
Mum’s
low
voice
makes
each
sentence
a
state
secret.

‘Well,
I’ve
got
babysitting,
but
I
could
drive
down
and
get
a
barbecued
chicken
or

something
afterwards,
if
you
wanted
to
wait,’
I
say
–
equally
conspiratorial.
When

Brian’s
not
around,
we
eat
a
lot
of
takeaway.
Brian
doesn’t
approve.

Doubt
shows
on
Mum’s
face.
‘No,
I’ll
pick
something
up.’

She
glances
at
the
Mirage.
‘I’m
not
sure
you
should
be
driving
around
too
much
in
this

weather.’

‘I
wouldn’t
advise
it,’
Brian
says,
ducking
back
under
the
shelter
of
the
carport.
‘Actually,

having
seen
you
drive,
I
wouldn’t
advise
you
driving
at
all.’

His
voice
is
jovial.

‘Very
funny.
I
drive
better
without
an
audience.’

Brian
gives
me
a
hug.
‘Take
care
of
your
mother,
won’t
you?’

‘Yep.’
I
hug
him
back
fiercely.
Even
though
he’s
my
step-‐dad,
even
though
he
drives
me

mad
and
sometimes
he
is
a
bit
of
a
wanker,
all
I
really
want
is
for
Brian
to
be
around.

We
pull
away
and
he
pushes
at
his
glasses.

‘Study
hard.’

‘Yep.’

When
they’ve
gone,
I
collect
my
keys,
purse
and
phone
from
my
bedside
table.
While
I’m

doing
this,
I
check
my
relics
are
the
way
I
left
them
last.
All
seems
to
be
in
order.
The

doorknob
is
there,
next
to
the
spoonful
of
white
sand
I
was
holding
when
I
woke
this

morning,
and
I
can’t
stop
myself
from
touching
the
smooth
wooden
ball.

Come
to
me!!!!

Is
that
what
I
did
last
night?
Was
it
real?

A
text
from
Petey
arrived
while
I
was
outside:
Hi
lovely,
went
2
Mindil
Beach
markets
last

night.
The
best
food.
Everybody
so
chilled.
What’s
happening
with
u?

I
send
the
shortest
possible
honest
answer:
I
don’t
know
.
As
an
afterthought,
I
add:

Kane’s
back.

I
listen
for
noises
from
downstairs,
but
there
aren’t
any.

Even
so,
I
don’t
want
to
hang
around.
Kane
could
wake
up
at
any
moment,
and
besides,
I

feel
uptight,
restless.
I
don’t
have
to
be
at
the
Clarkes’
place
until
later,
so
I’m
going
to

sneak
a
surf
in.

I
haven’t
turned
any
lights
on
inside,
and
my
room
is
gloomy
like
a
cave.
Outside,
I
can

hear
the
faint
noise
of
the
wind.
Trees
further
down
the
hill
are
bowing
in
a
way
that

reminds
me
of
the
thing
in
my
dream.

That’s
when
I
notice
the
chandelier.
It’s
moving,
swaying
from
side
to
side.
My
windows

and
the
door
to
the
balcony
are
shut.
The
air
is
still.
Yet
I
watch
it
for
at
least
a
minute,

and
it
doesn’t
slow
or
falter,
just
swings
back
and
forth
like
a
pendulum.
I
know
what

that
swaying
reminds
me
of:
seaweed
and
cobwebs
and
shadows
and
hair.

Freaked,
I
get
the
hell
out
of
the
house.

There
is
only
me
and
a
couple
of
other
desperadoes
out
there.

The
ocean
is
cold,
ugly
and
grey;
the
rip
running
so
strongly
it’s
slashed
across
the
break

like
a
scar.
The
southerly
must
have
turned
southeast
because
there
are
whitecaps
all

the
way
out
to
the
lumpy
horizon.
I
work
the
Right
with
one
other
guy,
sitting
in
close
to

shore,
catching
waves
regularly
to
avoid
being
pulled
out
by
the
rip.
The
red
letters

screaming
out
from
the
wall
are
the
only
spot
of
colour,
and
they
jag
my
attention
every

time
I
look
in
that
direction.
The
other
guy
keeps
looking
across
too,
I
notice.

When
I
head
in,
I
stop
on
top
of
the
dunes
to
watch
the
sunset.
The
sun
is
hidden
by
a

sullen
cloud,
its
rays
splayed
out
like
spokes
on
a
giant
wheel,
and
this
vision
is
reflected

in
the
lagoon.
Cars
slow
down
to
look
at
it
as
they
cross
the
bridge.
It
makes
me
think
of

the
artist
George
Inness.
Aged
sixty-‐nine,
watching
a
sunset,
he
threw
his
hands
up
and

said,
‘Oh
my
God!
Oh,
how
beautiful!’
and
then
he
died.
Death
by
wonder.

Within
such
a
short
time,
it’s
over,
and
I
walk
away
with
a
familiar
sense
of
panic.
It’s

hard
to
explain,
but
it’s
related
to
me
knowing
that
for
every
moment
of
beauty
this

place
gives
me,
I
probably
miss
a
thousand
more.
And
I
want
them
all.

I
swear,
I’d
live
on
the
dunes
if
I
could.
I
was
born
out
of
my
time.
I
should
have
been

around
during
the
end
of
the
eighteenth
century,
when
the
Romantic
Era
kicked
off,
and

writers
and
artists
were
obsessed
with
nature:
the
ocean,
the
mountains,
the
sky.
And

they
believed
in
following
their
own
path,
experimenting,
not
blindly
obeying
rules.
I