Night Beach (33 page)

parents.
Anyway,
I
keep
thinking
about
it,
and
I
want
you
to
know
we’re
always
going
to

be
family
for
each
other,
okay?’

I
make
a
noise
that
hurts
the
back
of
my
throat.
‘You
know
what?
I
hate
the
way
you

always
bring
it
back
to
the
family
stuff.
It’s
like
a
big
hill
of
history
I’ve
got
to
drag

around
all
the
time.
Why
does
that
always
have
to
be
the
issue?’

‘Because
that’s
the
way
it
is.’

I
cough.

‘Are
you
all
right?’

‘Yep.
Hey
listen,
I’ve
got
to
go.
Hollywood’s
here.
I’m
giving
him
a
lift.’

I
cut
the
call
and
throw
the
mobile
onto
the
other
seat.
I
couldn’t
keep
talking,
because

the
ending
sadness
was
swamping
me
big
time.

Here
are
my
findings
from
this
little
study
I’ve
been
conducting
called
life.
We
used
to

have
a
family
called
Dad.
He
was
ours.
Mum,
we
never
really
had;
she’s
always
been

hard
to
reach.
But
we
had
Dad
–
as
crazy
and
disorganised
and
cluttered
as
life
with
him

was.
And
now
we
don’t,
because
he’s
starting
a
new
family.

And
I
would
love
to
start
a
special
sibling
family
to
replace
that,
I
really
would,
but
I
can

already
foresee
a
problem.
It’s
not
that
I
don’t
agree
with
the
research.
When
Mum
and

Dad
split
up
and
I
started
going
between
two
different
homes
and
being
two
different

people
–
my
mother’s
daughter
and
my
father’s
daughter
–
the
only
constant
was
that
I

was
always
Anna’s
sister.
I
didn’t
even
realise
how
much
I
needed
that
one
fixed
part
of

myself,
until
the
day
she
left
for
uni
to
start
her
brand-‐new
adult
life.

And
that’s
my
problem.
You
can’t
rely
on
anybody
being
around
for
you,
because
things

change.
Specifically,
people
die,
or
something
comes
up
in
their
life,
which
you
find
out

is
actually
quite
separate
to
you.

But
Anna’s
right
about
one
thing:
I
am
sick
of
things
always
fucking
changing.

Maybe
I
am
a
nut
job.
I
made
it
all
up
and
I
don’t
even
know
it.

And
right
when
I’m
thinking
this,
a
dark
shape
slams
against
my
window.
I
scream,

sitting
bolt
upright,
my
knees
bashing
against
the
steering
wheel.

It’s
Hollywood,
his
arms
spread
wide,
his
face
squashed
against
the
glass,
laughing
his

head
off:
ha-‐
har,
ha-‐
har,
ha-‐
harrrrr
.
.
.

He
slides
downwards,
making
the
glass
squeal
and
leaving
a
streak
mark.
‘Little
pig,

little
pig,
let
me
come
in.’

25

Laid
open

‘What
are
you
waiting
for?
Start
it
up.
Get
the
heater
going.
It’s
freezing
out
there,
man.’

Hollywood’s
got
a
black
apron
slung
over
his
shoulder
and
his
white
cotton
dress
shirt

is
already
untucked
from
his
black
trousers,
the
top
couple
of
buttons
undone.
For
him,

being
dressed
neatly
is
a
form
of
torture.
He
leans
forward,
retrieving
a
grey
jumper

from
the
backpack
at
his
feet.

‘Oh
honey,
you
shaved,’
I
singsong.
Then
add
in
a
normal
voice:
‘But
when
are
you
going

to
get
rid
of
that
moustache?’

‘Why?’
He
turns
the
rear-‐view
mirror
so
he
can
check
himself
out.
‘It’s
hot.’

I
make
a
snorting
noise
and
start
the
car,
repositioning
the
mirror.
I
only
realise
he’s
got

his
marker
when
I
hear
the
cap
come
off.

‘Hollywood,
if
I
find
your
name
anywhere
on
my
car,
I’ll
bite
your
good
hand
off.’

He
laughs.
But
when
he
sees
me
watching
him,
he
recaps
the
marker
and
drops
it
back

in
the
bag.
Then
he
pats
the
dashboard.

‘So
this
is
the
beast,
eh?’
he
asks,
in
that
low,
growly
voice
guys
use
when
they
are
being

sensationalist.
‘
The
beast.
That’s
what
we
can
call
it.’

‘Actually,
I’m
going
to
call
her
Tracey,
Tracey
Emin.’

‘What
sort
of
name
is
that?’

‘She’s
this
British
artist.’

The
first
time
I
came
across
Tracey
Emin’s
work
I
had
to
show
it
to
Anna
because
I
felt

winded
and
wasn’t
sure
what
to
think.
Anna
was
impressed.
She
said,
‘I
hope
they
don’t

destroy
Tracey
Emin
for
being
honest.
People
only
want
that
from
their
male
artists.’

After
that
I
used
to
worry
about
Tracey
a
lot.
But
then
I
saw
I’ve
Got
It
All
and
it
made

me
laugh.
She’ll
be
okay.

‘You
can’t
call
your
car
that.’

‘Yeah,
I
can.
And
then
we
can
make
jokes
about
Tracey
Emin’s
glove
box.’

This
is
wasted
on
Hollywood,
who’s
found
something
else
to
pick
on.
‘And
what’s
with

your
park?’

‘What’s
wrong
with
my
park?
I
did
a
good
park.’
I
don’t
add
that
it
took
me
two
or
three

goes.

‘You
front
parked.
But
what
you
should
be
doing
is
reversing
in,
all
the
time.
Get
it?

Looks
better
going
in,
looks
better
coming
out.
You’ve
got
to
work
on
your
style,
Abbie.

Any
dickhead
can
get
from
A
to
B,
but
not
everybody
can
be
a
getaway
driver.’

‘A
what?’

‘That’s
the
only
way
to
drive.
You
want
to
corner
like
you’re
on
rails.
You
want
to
be
the

kind
of
driver
that
people
look
at
and
think,
“Yeah,
she’d
be
handy
in
a
robbery.”
At
least

you’ve
got
gears
–
I
keep
telling
Maxy
that
automatics
are
for
nannas.
Imagine
Matt

Damon
–
you
know,
in
the
Bourne
movies
–
if
he’d
been
driving
an
automatic,
none
of

those
car
chases
would
have
been
any
good.
You’ve
got
to
make
it
look
like
you
are

driving,
not
just
holding
on
to
a
steering
wheel.

Make
it
look
difficult.’

I
think
about
all
this,
and
then
grin
at
him.
‘Oh,
I
can
make
it
look
difficult.’

‘Well,
come
on
then,
show
us.’

By
the
time
we
reach
the
clubhouse
car
park,
Hollywood
is
leaning
forward
in
his
seat,

bracing
himself
against
the
dashboard.

We
passed
through
rain
on
the
way,
and
I
realise
I’ve
forgotten
to
turn
off
the

windscreen
wipers
when
they
screech
back
and
forth
over
the
glass,
making
the
kind
of

noise
that
sets
your
teeth
on
edge.
This
gives
me
pleasure.
I
leave
them
on.

Hollywood
has
not
said
a
word
for
minutes.
I
can’t
remember
that
ever
happening

before.

There
are
a
couple
of
cars
in
the
car
park
belonging
to
the
people
who
live
in
the

apartment
blocks
on
the
other
side
of
the
road.
I
loop
around
in
a
big
semicircle,
and

brake
suddenly
and
abruptly
when
I’m
near
the
grassed
area.

‘Okay,
so
now
I
reverse
in?’
I
ask
in
an
innocent
voice.

‘No!’
Hollywood
shouts
with
real
panic.
‘Just
–
just
turn
it
off,
woman.
You
can
park
here.

Like
this.
There’s
no
one
around.’

‘No,
no.
You
said
–
looks
better
going
in,
better
coming
out.’

Somehow
I
crunch
the
gears
trying
to
find
reverse,
and
then
I
have
to
stop
halfway,

opening
my
door
to
check
where
the
white
lines
are.
I
can’t
see
any
near
me,
so
I
come

to
the
conclusion
that
there
must
be
one
under
the
car.
Oh
well.

Freed
of
that
constraint,
I
finish
up
with
a
bit
of
speed,
stopping
when
the
car’s
back

tyres
hit
the
kerb.

‘Sorry,
Tracey,’
I
say,
patting
the
dashboard.

Hollywood’s
staring
at
me,
mouth
open,
his
brown
eyes
glassy.

The
wall
has
been
modified
already.
The
words
are
sprayed
in
messy,
uneven
capitals,

above
and
below
Hollywood
and
Max’s
red
letters,
which
have
been
crudely
crossed

out.

‘You
know
what
I
object
to
the
most?’
Hollywood
says.

‘It’s
boring.
That
and
the
three
exclamation
marks.
Over-‐punctuating
cocksuckers.’

There’s
satisfaction
in
his
voice,
though,
so
I’m
guessing
he
wanted
some
kind
of

response.

I
take
a
few
more
photographs,
and
then
unscrew
Max’s
camera
from
the
tripod
and
put

it
back
in
its
carry-‐case,
wrapping
the
case
in
a
plastic
bag
–
even
though
it’s
only

spitting,
and
it
doesn’t
feel
as
though
it’s
going
to
settle
into
rain
any-‐time
soon,
I’m
not

taking
any
chances
with
that
camera.

Then
I
take
a
seat
on
the
couch
beside
Hollywood,
who
immediately
makes
himself

comfortable
by
leaning
back
against
my
shoulder.
The
couch
is
slightly
wet,
but
it’s
a

better
option
than
sitting
on
damp
sand.
I’ve
got
my
hood
pulled
on,
my
hands
in
my

pockets,
and
my
knees
drawn
up
to
my
chest,
trying
to
make
some
kind
of
barrier

against
the
wind.

With
the
moon
and
stars
hidden
beneath
a
thick
blanket
of
cloud,
the
floodlight
at
the

tidal
pool
is
the
only
source
of
light.

I
take
a
big
breath,
enjoying
being
down
there,
even
though
it’s
freezing.
The
prospect
of

having
to
return
to
the
house
is
giving
me
grief.
On
the
one
hand,
I
feel
calmer
after

talking
to
Anna,
and
I’m
anxious
to
get
back
in
case
Kane’s
awake.
I’ve
got
to
talk
to
him.

Make
him
tell
me
what
happened
on
the
trip.
But
if
I
stop
thinking
rationally.
.
.
I’m

scared.
Scared
I’ll
be
dragged
into
another
dream.
My
jewellery
box
has
disappeared,

and
that
means
something.

Maybe
Hollywood
and
I
can
just
hang
down
here
for
most
of
the
night.
He’ll
be
up
for
it.