Night Beach (3 page)

Greg
Hill
and
his
smashed
nose
have
disappeared;
he
must
have
been
swept
in
by
that

last
wave.
But
the
surfer
in
the
red
wetsuit
–
his
name
is
Kane
–
remains.
Collected,
cool

as
a
cat,
he
paddles
lazily
our
way,
ankles
crossed,
face
expressionless,
and
everybody

except
me
careful
not
to
look
at
him.

‘I
think
it’s
picking
up,’
Vince
is
saying.
‘Supposed
to
build
to
six
foot
.
.
.’

His
voice
trails
off
and
I
know
he’s
wondering
what’s
about
to
happen.
My
teeth
are

chattering.

Kane
flicks
his
head
at
me.
‘I’m
done
here.
I’m
gonna
catch
one
in
and
head
home.
You

coming?’

2

Compression

Kane
wasn’t
supposed
to
be
back
for
another
four
days.

Why’s
he
back
early?
I’ve
been
imagining
him
everywhere
for
the
last
ten
days
–
second

glancing
every
time
I
saw
someone
who
looked
like
him,
as
if
my
longing
was
strong

enough
to
pull
him
out
of
the
air.
But
then
to
have
him
turn
up
for
real
.
.
.
I
feel

something
close
to
drunk.

I
can
see
Kane
in
the
car
park
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
lagoon,
loading
his
board
into

the
back
of
his
green
ute.
He
drove
the
ute
to
the
airport
when
he
left,
and
took
two

double
board
bags
with
him
on
the
trip;
I
know
this
because
I
watched
him
packing
the

ute,
spying
on
him
through
a
slit
in
the
curtains
in
Mum
and
Brian’s
room,
feeling
like
I

was
being
turned
inside
out.
Maybe
it’s
wrong
to
feel
like
that
about
your
step-‐cousin.
I

don’t
know.
All
I
know
is
when
that
wanting
cuts
through
me,
it’s
all
there
is.

He’s
driving
me
home.
I’ll
be
sitting
in
that
ute
with
him,
which
is
something
I’ve

fantasised
about
because
that
ute
turns
me
on
for
some
reason.

And
he
came
up
to
me
in
the
surf.

Even
that
is
a
first.
I
don’t
try
to
talk
to
him
when
we’re
surfing;
I
learned
my
lesson
the

first
time
I
tried
it.
It
was
late
in
the
afternoon,
and
I’d
caught
a
wave
in
to
go
home

because
I
didn’t
want
to
be
pushing
my
bike
up
the
hill
in
the
dark.
I
was
splashing
my

way
through
the
shallows
when
I
looked
up
and
saw
him,
and
I
got
such
a
surge
of

excitement
that
I
was
probably
giving
off
sparks.
Hey!
You’re
going
out.
I
can
stay
longer

and
get
a
lift
home
with
you.
I
was
thinking
it’d
be
cool
to
surf
together.

He
looked
blankly
past
me
as
though
the
ocean
was
a
television
and
I
was
blocking
his

view.
Nah.
I’m
goin’
out
after
this.

My
face
burned,
but
my
voice
was
washing-‐powder
bright:
Oh,
okay.
See
you
later
then!

Eating
my
own
humiliation.
Forever
and
ever,
I’ll
wish
that
I’d
said,
Well,
bully
for
you,

arsehole.

With
one
sentence,
seven
words,
he’d
drawn
a
line
in
the
sand
between
us:
serious

surfer
on
one
side,
school-‐girl
grommet
on
the
other;
Gold
Coast
housing
commission,

Beaches
white-‐bread;
grade
eleven
dropout,
university
is
mandatory;
twenty-‐one
and

done
everything,
seventeen-‐turning-‐eighteen
and
not
even
started.

Fine.
Okay
then,
fine.
Except
for
the
fact
that
last
Christmas
he’d
been
happy
enough
to

cross
that
line
when
it
suited
him.

I
am
ninety-‐eight
per
cent
sure
he
doesn’t
remember.

It’s
almost
funny
looking
back
at
how
I
thought
things
were
going
to
be
when
Kane

moved
in.
Hilarious.

I
glance
across
the
lagoon
at
him.
Why’d
he
park
over
there
anyway?
It
occurs
to
me

that
maybe
this
wasn’t
Kane’s
first
run-‐in
with
Greg
Hill.

The
fact
that
he
king-‐hit
Greg
makes
me
feel
sick.
Kane’s
new
here,
and
with
one
act
he’s

ended
any
chance
of
fitting
in
quietly.
What
will
they
do
to
him?

I
can’t
remember
the
moment
just
before
Kane
threw
his
punch
now,
and
it’s
bugging

me.
It’s
faded,
in
the
same
way
that
a
dream
disappears
the
next
day.
There’s
a
mystery

in
that.

What
I
remember
clearly
is
everything
afterwards.
Time
sped
up,
things
happened
in
a

rush,
yet
I
can
see
it
laid
out,
accurate
and
perfect,
right
down
to
the
way
Greg’s
head

snapped
back
so
hard
that
the
momentum
pulled
him
off
his
board.
But
the
before,

when
the
world
seemed
to
stop
.
.
.

Without
really
thinking
about
it,
I
use
my
fingers
to
draw
the
moment
in
the
air.
I’ve

been
doing
this
for
as
long
as
I
can
remember;
looking
for
lines
and
light.
Trying
to
see

things
as
they
really
are.
That
might
sound
simple,
but
sometimes
I
think
it’s
the
hardest

thing
of
all.

Kane’s
ute
is
crossing
the
bridge,
sunlight
flashing
on
the
windscreen,
and
I
drop
my

hands
when
I
see
it.
He’s
coming
to
pick
me
up
and
nothing
is
more
urgent
than
that.

Kane
pulls
into
the
car
park
and
turns
around,
stopping
just
in
front
of
me,
his
stereo

blasting
out
The
Killers.
He
gets
out,
leaving
his
door
open
and
the
engine
running,

which
makes
me
glance
over
my
shoulder
to
see
if
Greg
Hill
and
a
couple
of
mates
are

on
their
way,
but
there’s
no
one
coming.

Then
I
see
Kane’s
face
as
he
comes
around
the
back
of
the
ute.

He’s
not
worried.
He’s
on
fire.
Humming
with
electricity.
It’s
the
energy
people
have
the

morning
after
getting
it
on
with
someone
they
really
like,
or
when
their
team’s
won
the

grand
final.

Except
that
Kane
didn’t
get
it
any
of
those
ways.

He
sees
me
staring
at
him
and
lifts
his
eyebrows
questioningly.

‘Kane.’

‘Abbie.’

‘What
was
that
all
about?’

‘What?’

‘You
just
punched
the
shit
out
of
Greg
Hill.’

‘Yep.
There’s
that.’
He
starts
unclipping
the
tarpaulin
covering
the
tray.

‘But
–
Do
you
know
what
he
–’

Kane’s
dried
off
and
changed
into
a
pair
of
jeans
and
a
faded
black
T-‐shirt.
Bare
feet.

He’s
got
to
be
freezing
but
he
doesn’t
look
it,
maybe
because
of
all
the
equatorial
sun
his

skin
has
soaked
up.

Kane
has
olive
skin
and
is
normally
tanned,
but
right
now
he’s
the
brownest
I
have
ever

seen
him,
so
sun-‐stained
he
looks
dirty.

‘When
did
you
get
back?’

‘Last
night.’

‘Did
you
go
to
Lauren’s?’

‘Yuh.
Until
she
threw
me
out.’

‘What?
How
come?’

He
rips
the
tarp
back
and
turns
to
look
at
me,
his
face
expressionless.
‘’Cause
I
dumped

her.’

‘Oh
.
.
.
I
mean,
sorry.’
But
because
of
the
way
he’s
said
it,
the
person
I
feel
sorry
for
is

Lauren.

He
stares
at
me,
green
eyes
blazing
with
intensity
as
though
he’s
thinking
about

something
else.
Kane
doesn’t
blink
much.

Then
he
takes
my
bike
and
lifts
it
high,
manoeuvring
it
into
the
tray.
He
lays
my
bike

down
on
a
crumpled
sleeping
bag.
A
couple
of
wadded
towels
there
appear
to
have

served
as
a
pillow.

When
I
see
that,
I
look
across
at
Kane,
frowning.
‘Did
you
sleep
in
your
car
last
night?’

‘It’s
a
ute.’

‘Wha-‐whatever.’
My
teeth
chatter.
‘Where?
Like,
over
there?’
I
point
at
the
opposite
car

park.

He
nods,
turning
the
bike’s
handlebars
so
that
its
front
wheel
is
straight.

‘But
why?’

‘Like
I
said,
Lauren
kicked
me
out.’

‘Why
didn’t
you
just
come
.
.
.
to
your
place?’
I
was
going
to
say
‘come
home’.

He
pulls
the
tarp
up
on
that
side
and
starts
fastening
the
tabs.
‘It
was
late.
Didn’t
want
to

wake
everybody.
And
I
felt
like
getting
out.
Sleeping
in
the
great
outdoors.’

‘You’re
crazy.
It
would
have
been
freezing.’

‘Are
you
gonna
put
that
in
or
what?’

I
lean
forward,
trying
to
make
some
room
for
my
board.

Did
something
happen
over
there
to
make
him
break
up
with
Lauren?
Did
he
meet

someone
else?

‘Here,
I’ll
do
it.’
Kane
walks
around
the
back
of
the
tray,
wadding
a
towel
into
a
ball
and

throwing
it
at
my
chest.
‘No
wetties
in
the
cab.’

He
takes
my
board,
rearranges
a
few
things
in
the
tray
and
slides
it
in.
I
rip
open
the

velcro
tab
on
the
back
of
my
wetsuit.

All
I
can
think
about
is
getting
into
a
warm
shower.
There’s
no
blood
in
two
of
my
toes;

they’ve
turned
fluorescent
white.

He’s
standing
by
the
open
door
of
his
ute
watching
me
in
a
way
that
makes
me
feel
like
a

bug
being
pinned
to
a
display
board.
I
must
look
pretty
glam.
Wet
hair,
nose
running.

Shaking
and
shivering.

‘Come
on,
hurry
up.
It’s
not
that
cold,’
he
mutters.

‘Are
you
kidding?
It’s
freezing.’
Contorting
my
body,
I
roll
the
wetsuit
over
my
hips,

careful
not
to
collect
my
bikini
pants
on
the
way
through.
‘I
hate
wetsuits.’

I
plonk
my
butt
down
on
the
pine
rail
and
start
working
the
wetsuit
over
my
legs
and

feet.
Kane
leans
forward
and
gives
the
wetsuit
a
tug
so
violent
that
I’ve
got
to
lean
back

and
grab
hold
of
the
rail
to
avoid
being
pulled
onto
the
ground.

The
suit
peels
off
my
feet
and
I’m
free.