Night Beach (42 page)

swimming
in,
at
least
not
without
a
wetsuit.
My
keys
make
a
jingling
noise
in
time
with

my
strides,
and
I’ve
got
one
hand
in
the
pocket
of
my
hoodie,
checking
to
see
that
my

mobile
is
still
there.
If
I
can’t
find
Kane,
I
might
have
to
call
someone.
But
who?

Emergency
services?
What
do
you
say
in
this
situation?

I
think
my
friend
went
for
a
swim,
but
I’m
not
sure,
and
now
I
don’t
know
where
he
is

and
I’m
really
worried?

I
can’t
imagine
Kane
drowning.
I
saw
him
swimming
in
for
his
board
once,
when
his
leg-‐

rope
had
broken
on
a
big
day.

He
had
a
smooth,
efficient
freestyle,
with
a
high
elbow
action,
allowing
him
enough
time

to
look
ahead
in
the
choppy
water.

He
caught
a
wave
and
bodysurfed
it
part
of
the
way,
dropping
in
on
a
surfer.

But
my
doubt
is
still
there.
He’s
been
sleeping
for
days.
He’s
got
to
be
weak.
And
then

there
are
the
things
I’ve
overheard.

What
if
he’s
down
here
to
drown
himself
or
something?

I’ve
reached
the
lagoon
mouth,
and
I’ve
started
wading
across,
not
caring
that
my
jeans

are
getting
soaked,
when
I
hear
someone
shout,
‘Oi!’

I
turn
around,
breathing
hard.
It’s
Hollywood.
He
must
have
just
caught
a
wave
across,

because
he’s
standing
in
the
shallows,
pulling
his
board
back
towards
him
by
its
leg-‐

rope.

He
doesn’t
smile,
or
wave,
or
shout
anything
else.
So
I
don’t
react
either.
We
just
stare
at

each
other.
It’s
a
weird
moment.
The
look
on
Hollywood’s
face
is
something
close
to

animosity.
It’s
as
though
we
don’t
even
know
each
other.
No.

Like
we
know
each
other
too
well.

He
turns
away,
sliding
on
his
board,
and
paddling
back
out.
I
start
moving
again.
Then

I’m
on
the
other
side,
picking
my
way
over
flat
rocks,
heading
towards
the
pool.
With

my
arms
out
for
balance,
I
run
across
the
broad
top
of
the
pool’s
wall.
Halfway
along,
I

stop,
looking
back
at
the
headland
behind
me,
just
in
case
Kane’s
somewhere
up
there

instead.

There
are
plenty
of
spots
you
can
climb
up
to
–
good
places
to
be
alone,
where
you
can

watch
the
ocean
–
but
I
can’t
see
him
anywhere.

At
the
end
of
the
pool
I
climb
down
to
the
pockmarked
rock
plateau,
and
make
my
way

out
to
the
edge,
circling
rock
pools,
and
crossing
fissures.
I’m
staring
past
the
bursts
of

spray,
scanning
the
ocean,
trying
to
find
him
out
there,
looking
south
towards
La
Roy,

and
north
to
Stadiums,
the
surf
break
at
the
far
end
of
the
next
beach,
one
that
seems

hidden
away
because
of
the
high
cliffs
guarding
it.
And
the
longer
I
search,
the
more
it

seems
that
I’m
never
going
to
see
Kane
again.
He’s
gone.
Swallowed
up
by
the
breathing

sea.
I
couldn’t
feel
more
desperate,
and
I
don’t
know
what
to
do.

I
take
out
my
mobile.
Hesitate.

Maybe
I
should
climb
the
headland
first.
Take
a
look
from
up
top.

Then
I
hear
a
whistle,
piercing
and
sharp
–
the
kind
of
whistle
guys
do
when
they’re

calling
someone
off
their
wave.

My
stomach
drops
away
and
I
turn
around.
Kane’s
coming
around
the
rocks
on
the
far

side
of
the
headland,
and
like
Vince
said,
he’s
naked
except
for
his
grey
trunks.
They’re

wet.

Maybe
he
swam
to
Little
Stadiums,
the
southern
end
of
the
next
beach.

I
jog
across
the
plateau
to
him.
He
doesn’t
move,
waiting
where
he
is.
As
I
draw
closer,
I

force
myself
to
meet
his
gaze.

The
stubble
he
had
before
he
went
to
sleep
is
now
the
beginnings
of
a
rough
beard
and

his
eyes
are
bloodshot.
Kane
looks
like
he’s
been
worn
down
to
his
bare
essence.
As

though
he’s
running
on
grit
and
nerves
and
will.

The
wounds
on
his
shoulders
are
shocking.
Red,
raw
and
glistening
against
the
brown
of

his
skin.

‘Need
something
else
to
read?’
His
voice
is
brisk,
but
edged
with
suspicion.

Out
of
breath
and
nervous,
it
takes
me
a
moment
to
understand
what
he
means.
His
surf

diary.
Maybe
he
thinks
I’ve
been
going
through
his
stuff
again
while
he’s
been
asleep.
I

don’t
know,
it
doesn’t
even
matter
now.

‘Don’t
go
up
there,’
I
puff.
‘Don’t
go
up
to
the
car
park.
Greg
Hill
and
the
others
are
there.

He’s
smashed
up
your
ute.’

Kane
swears.
Really
badly.
Then
he
rests
both
hands
on
the
top
of
his
head
and
exhales,

looking
up
at
the
sky.
‘Some
days
you
just
shouldn’t
get
out
of
bed.’

‘Kane,
where’s
Toby
A?’

A
beat
passes,
and
I
don’t
think
he’s
heard
me
at
all.
But
then
his
gaze
shifts
to
my
face.

His
stillness
unnerves
me.

‘It’s
okay.
Things
have
been
happening
to
–’
I
wish
he’d
blink.
Those
green
eyes
unravel

me
every
time.
Kane
lowers
his
arms,
and
for
some
reason
that
makes
me
as
tense
as

anything.
‘Where
is
he,
Kane?
You
have
to
tell
me.
Is
he
dead?’

Kane
doesn’t
answer.
He’s
stretching
his
neck
out,
tipping
his
head
to
one
side
and
then

the
other,
causing
his
wounds
to
start
weeping,
and
the
whole
time
he’s
staring
at
me

with
this
blank
expression
on
his
face.
And
I’m
freaked.
Because
I
don’t
know
this
Kane.

He
looks
wild.
Like
he
belongs
down
here.

He
reminds
me
of
those
monks
or
hermits
you
read
about
in
stories,
the
ones
who
live

on
top
of
mountains.
No.
He’s
even
more
feral
than
that.

We’re
alone,
I
suddenly
realise.
Hollywood,
the
other
surfers
in
the
break,
the
guys
in

the
car
park
–
they
can’t
see
us;
we’re
shielded
by
the
headland.

Kane
turns
his
head,
and
I
see
the
blurring
in
his
movement.

The
shadow.
He’s
looking
towards
the
edge
of
the
platform.

The
edge,
where
the
swell
surges
forward
with
enough
force
to
send
spray
shooting
into

the
air,
and
there
are
rocks
covered
in
sighing
seaweed,
and
a
space
is
hollowed
out
on

the
underside
of
the
shelf,
its
walls
coated
with
sharp
edges
and
oyster
shells
and

barnacles,
where
the
water
turns
dark,
because
it’s
hidden
from
the
light.

The
edge,
which
is
only
about
ten
metres
from
us.

And
as
I
think
this,
Kane
turns
to
look
at
me,
and
then
glances
back
again,
as
though

calculating
something
for
himself.

I
start
backing
away
from
him,
and
I’m
so
frightened
that
I
can’t
scream
or
yell.
All
I
can

do
is
make
this
weird
keening
noise.
And
I’m
shaking
my
head
from
side
to
side,
holding

my
hands
up
in
an
entreaty.
Kane
watches
me
edging
away,
his
whole
body
tensed,
fists

clenched,
as
though
he’s
trying
to
hold
himself
back
from
springing
at
me.
I’m
sure
at

any
moment
he’ll
give
in
to
that
urge.
And
when
he
does,
from
the
look
on
his
face,
he’ll

knock
me
down,
pick
up
a
rock,
smash
my
head
in,
and
throw
me
into
the
sea.

There’s
a
burning
smell
so
strong
that
the
back
of
my
nose
and
throat
feel
singed.

Then
my
foot
hits
something,
and
I
stumble,
looking
down
to
regain
my
balance.
And

that’s
when
I
scream
and
duck
down,
because
I
hear
Kane
move.
I
hear
his
hoarse
cry.

But
Kane’s
not
coming
towards
me.
He’s
running
towards
the
edge,
where
he
launches

himself
into
space,
diving
into
the
ocean.
For
a
time,
he’s
hidden
from
my
view.
But
then

I
see
him
swimming,
striking
out
for
the
horizon
with
short,
hard
strokes,
swimming
as

hard
as
he
can
go.

33

Corruption

At
first,
I
can
track
Kane’s
progress
easily;
he’s
swimming
straight
for
the
horizon,

maybe
fifty
metres
out.
And
I’m
taking
big
shuddering
breaths,
because
I
feel
like
I
can’t

get
enough
air.

What
just
happened?

It
wasn’t
an
overreaction.
Because
why
didn’t
he
say
anything?
Why
did
he
run
away

like
that?
Why
am
I
still
shaking?

He
was
dangerous.
He
wasn’t
Kane.
He
was
something
else.
The
other
thing.

After
a
while,
the
wind
picks
up,
roughing
the
ocean’s
skin,
and
I
start
losing
Kane
in
the

troughs
and
whitecaps.

When
I
can’t
see
him
at
all,
I
begin
walking
back.
I
think
I’m
in
shock.
Because
when
my

mobile
starts
up,
it
takes
me
ages
to
register
the
music,
and
by
the
time
I
do
it’s
stopped.

I
check
the
screen,
thinking
it
might
be
Mum,
or
Anna,
or
maybe
even
Petey.

But
it
was
Hollywood.
I
ring
him
back,
and
he
takes
the
call,
but
says
nothing.

‘Hello?’
I
say
cautiously.

‘Where
are
you?’
he
snaps.

‘Um,
I’m
–’

‘Are
you
all
right?’

‘Yeah.
Where
are
you?’

‘Car
park.
They’ve
smashed
Kane’s
ute
up.
But
you’d
know
that.’

I
realise
then
that
Hollywood
probably
knows
why
I
was
going
towards
the
headland
–

chances
are
he
saw
Kane
heading
that
way,
too.
‘I
wanted
to
tell
him,’
I
explain
quickly.

‘So
he
didn’t
go
back
up
there.
Are
they
gone
now?’

‘Yeah,
they’ve
gone.’

‘Is
it
drivable?’

‘Not
legally.’
Hollywood
clears
his
throat.
‘So
are
you
with
him
now?’