Night Beach (41 page)

He
goes
down
the
steps
and
I
hear
the
scrape
of
his
footsteps
as
he
passes
beneath
the

window.
A
short
while
later,
a
car
engine
starts
out
the
front.

The
silence
that
follows
stretches
on
for
so
long
that
I
start
to
get
paranoid.
I
think

Kane’s
become
aware
of
my
presence
and
he’s
standing
out
there,
plotting
what
to
do

about
it.

Because
I’ve
heard
too
much.
My
hands
are
gripping
my
knees
and
my
knuckles
are

white.

Then
I
hear
quick
thudding
footsteps,
the
metallic
clinking
of
keys.
The
sliding
door

slams
shut
so
hard
I
wonder
if
the
glass
has
cracked.
Kane’s
ute
guns
into
life
and
roars

like
it’s
the
end
of
the
world.

32

The
underneath

I
take
back
ridge
road
and
I’ve
been
driving
for
ages
before
I
realise
I’m
still
in
second

gear.
My
mind
is
too
scattered
to
drive.
Scattered
into
fragments.
And
when
I
put
those

fragments
together,
what
I
see
scares
me.

’Cause
that’s
when
the
bad
demon
shit
happens.

Did
he
tell
ya
what
happened
in
that
smoke?
How
we
all
got
burned
alive?
Did
he
tell

you
what
we
gave
it?

When
people
think
of
you,
who’s
the
other
guy
they
think
of?

Defiler.

We
did
nothing
wrong.

I
think
that’s
true.
I
don’t
think
they
did
anything
wrong
at
all.
Because
there
was

something
else
on
that
island.
The
shadow.
And
now
it’s
here.
It
came
back
with
them.

Except
not
all
of
them
made
it
back.

Kane’s
parked
his
ute
badly,
the
driver’s
side
overlapping
the
neighbouring
space,
as

though
he
couldn’t
get
to
the
ocean
fast
enough.
If
Kane
was
normal,
you
wouldn’t
think

he’d
head
straight
to
the
break
after
sleeping
for
more
than
forty-‐eight
hours
straight.
If

I
went
for
that
long
without
food,
I’d
be
falling
over.
I’m
not
sure
why
he’s
here,
and
it

worries
me.
He
might
be
here
to
surf.
He
might
be
looking
for
Matty
Kenda.

Either
way,
I
have
no
idea
what
he’s
capable
of.

I
also
don’t
know
who
else
is
here.

I
park
on
the
other
side
of
the
car
park,
which
is
pretty
full
–
four-‐wheel
drives,

traybacks
belonging
to
tradies,
station
wagons
–
so,
plenty
of
regulars
around
today;
the

types
who
fit
work
in
around
the
dictates
of
this
place.
There’s
still
heavy
cloud
in
the

west,
but
the
sky
has
cleared
over
the
horizon
and
the
southerly’s
backed
off.
The
way

some
of
the
guys
here
are
about
the
weather,
I’d
say
their
eyes
flicked
open
at
the

precise
moment
when
the
wind
stopped,
and
they
rolled
out
of
bed
like
a
bunch
of

vampires.

At
first,
I
think
none
of
the
Committee
are
around.
But
when
I
cut
across
the

boardriders’
lane,
I
see
a
small
group
of
them
on
the
other
side
of
the
rubbish
bins.
Two

middle-‐aged
women
in
exercise
gear
are
doing
push-‐ups
on
the
back
of
the
bench,

completely
oblivious
to
the
glares
of
the
displaced.

In
different
circumstances
it’d
be
funny,
but
Aaron
Gant
is
amongst
the
group,
one
hand

pressing
a
mobile
to
his
ear,
the
other
down
the
front
of
his
pants,
and
he’s
staring
at

Kane’s
ute.
When
I
see
that,
I
get
an
airy
feeling
in
my
stomach.
I
think
I
know
who
he’s

calling.
I
stop
near
the
showers,
well
away
from
them,
and
look
out
at
the
break.

The
whole
set-‐up
is
weird.
The
ocean’s
still
griping
about
what
it’s
been
through
–
a

restless
look
to
the
surface,
sand
clouds,
dirty
streaks
of
foam,
scuds
in
the
shore
break

–
but
it’s
starting
to
clean
up
now
that
the
wind’s
dropped
off.
The
swell
is
two
to
three

foot
from
the
southeast,
and
it’s
coming
up
to
high
tide.
You’d
expect
a
lot
of
water
to
be

moving
around
and
there
is.
But
the
swell
should
be
circling:
pushing
into
the
corner,

and
running
back
out
as
a
rip.
Instead,
there
are
distinct
lines
of
backwash
smacking

into
the
incoming
waves
and
causing
them
to
lurch
upwards.
For
the
surfers,
it
makes

the
whole
thing
a
rodeo.

Backwash
is
nothing
new;
I’ve
seen
this
before.
But
usually
when
the
banks
are
clogged

with
sand.
That
isn’t
the
case
now,
though,
not
when
we’ve
just
had
the
massive

southerly
swells
that
always
clean
the
place
out.
It’s
like
the
rip
just
isn’t
working.

Brown
mutton
birds
are
flying
ceaselessly
in
loose
circles,
skimming
the
water’s
surface.

I’ve
never
seen
them
do
this
before.
It’s
like
their
navigational
instincts
have
gone

haywire,
stuck
in
some
loop
over
that
particular
triangle
of
water.
I
pick
out
Hollywood,

paddling
for
a
wave.
He’s
up,
making
his
way
across
backhand,
when
one
of
the
birds

smashes
into
him.
What
follows
is
a
flurry
of
panicked
movement
–
the
bird’s
wings,

Hollywood’s
circling
arms
–
and
he
comes
off
his
board.

There
are
maybe
twenty-‐five
to
thirty
guys
in
the
water
–
more
than
conditions
would

dictate,
but
that’s
because
it’s
not
the
mess
it
has
been
for
the
last
couple
of
days.

Everyone’s
edgy,
wanting
a
decent
surf.
I
find
Max,
sitting
out
wide
on
the
Right,
but
I’m

looking
for
Kane,
and
I
can’t
see
him
anywhere
there.
So
where
is
he?

‘How
are
we
today,
young
Abigail?’

I
turn
to
look
at
the
speaker,
knowing
from
the
voice
it’s
one
of
the
old
guys.

‘Hey,
Vince.’

Vince
hits
the
button
on
the
shower
and
turns
around,
letting
the
water
run
over
his

bald
head
and
back.
He’s
holding
his
board,
which
is
an
epoxy
monster
–
6'8"
or
6'9",

and
thick
as.
Vince
doesn’t
paddle
so
well
anymore,
but
he’s
not
ready
to
accept
defeat

and
ride
a
mini
Mal.

‘Looks
like
I
got
out
just
in
time,
then.
Before
you
showed
up
to
hog
all
the
waves,’
he

says.

‘Yeah.
Hey,
did
you
happen
to
see
Kane
out
there?
The
one
that
–’

‘You
right
there,
Abbie?
Mr
Personality’s
not
bothering
you,
is
he?’

Vince
frowns
at
the
newcomer.
‘Prostate
hasn’t
killed
you
yet,
eh?
That’s
a

disappointment.’

‘Hey,
Waldo,’
I
say.

Vince
and
Waldo
have
never
liked
each
other
–
that’s
pretty
much
their
standard

greeting
–
so
I’m
surprised
when
Waldo
stops.

‘The
kid
who
owns
that
ute.
He’s
staying
at
your
place,
isn’t
he?’

‘Yeah,
why?’
Waldo
points
behind
me,
and
I
turn
to
look.

‘Oh
shit.’

Greg
Hill’s
Landcruiser
is
parked
directly
behind
Kane’s
ute,
and
Greg’s
standing
on
the

bitumen
beside
it,
holding
a
club
lock
in
his
right
hand.
He’s
asking
the
Committee

something,
gesturing
with
the
club
lock,
and
he
gets
a
jumble
of
excited
male
voices
in

return.
The
black
dog
is
running
back
and
forth
near
the
bullbar,
her
ears
flattened,
her

tail
between
her
legs.

‘So
that’s
the
kid
who
socked
Greg,
eh?’
Vince
drawls
with
mild
interest.

I
wheel
to
look
at
him.
‘Did
you
see
him
down
there?
Kane?’

Vince
looks
taken
aback
by
the
urgency
in
my
voice.

‘What?
Surfing?’

‘No,
parachuting,
mate.’
Waldo
mutters.

‘Yeah,
I
saw
him.
But
he
wasn’t
surfing.
He
walked
to
the
pool,
and
went
right
out
on
the

edge
of
the
rocks.
He’s
not
well,
that
one.
Got
to
be
on
something
funny.
Just
in
his
dacks

and
nothing
else.
By
the
time
I’d
made
it
to
the
dunes,
he
was
gone.’

‘Swimming?’
Waldo
asks,
interested
in
spite
of
himself.

Vince
gives
him
a
flat
look.
‘Parachuting.’

A
loud
cheer
from
the
Committee
makes
us
turn
back
again.
Greg
Hill
is
brandishing
the

club
lock
above
his
head.

‘What’d
the
kid
do?
Break
his
nose?’
Waldo
asks.

Like
a
baseballer
lining
up
to
take
his
shot,
Greg
Hill
steps
forward
and
touches
the
club

lock
to
the
back
corner
of
the
ute.
Then
he
takes
a
swing,
and
I
hear
the
tail-‐lights

shatter.

On
cue,
the
Committee
cheer
again.

‘He’s
really
gonna
get
stuck
into
it,
eh?’
Vince
says,
a
beat
of
excitement
in
his
voice.
He

and
Waldo
wander
over
closer
to
watch,
keeping
a
good
five
metres
between
each

other.

I
go
the
other
way,
running
along
the
concrete
path
in
front
of
the
clubhouse.

When
I
reach
the
dunes,
I
stop
long
enough
to
rip
off
my
runners
and
socks
–
it’s
easier

to
run
in
bare
feet.
In
the
distance
behind
me,
I
can
hear
the
regular
thuds
of
metal

connecting
with
metal
amid
shouting
men
and
a
barking
dog.
When
I
hit
the
hard
sand

near
the
water’s
edge,
I
run
faster,
which
is
good.
I’ve
got
to
find
Kane.
I’m
worried
that

he’s
swimming,
but
I’m
also
worried
that
he’s
not
–
he
might
be
on
his
way
back
up
to

the
car
park,
in
which
case
I
need
to
warn
him.

When
the
Committee
are
in
a
pack
like
that,
you
just
don’t
know
what
will
happen.

A
larger
wave
surges
up
the
beach
and
I
run
through
the
water
deliberately,
getting
the

hems
of
my
jeans
wet.
The
cold
is
a
shock
to
my
feet.
The
sort
of
cold
you
wouldn’t
go