Night Beach (43 page)

His
flat
voice
confuses
me.
I
don’t
know
if
he
means
it
literally,
or
the
other
way.

‘No.
I’m
just
heading
back,’
I
say.

Max
is
saying
something
in
the
background.

Hollywood
says,
‘We’re
gonna
go.
See
you
later.’

Max
says
more,
raising
his
voice.

‘Yeah,
righto,’
Hollywood
says,
directing
the
words
at
Max,
sounding
irritated.
To
me,
he

says,
‘We’re
gonna
hang
out
after
this.
At
mine.
Don’t
worry
about
it
but,
if
you’re
busy.’

‘No,
I’ll
come
over,’
I
say.
And
I’m
being
a
user.
Because
if
things
were
different,
I

wouldn’t
go
anywhere
near
Hollywood
right
now.
Not
when
he’s
like
this.
I
should
be

giving
him
space.
But
the
thought
of
staying
home,
not
knowing
when
Kane
will
turn
up,

and
what
will
happen
when
he
does,
makes
me
afraid.

Hollywood
says
nothing,
as
though
expecting
more.

The
best
I
can
do
is:
‘I
want
to.’

He
makes
a
noise,
which
isn’t
quite
a
laugh.

‘Hollywood,
I’m
really
sorry.
I
wish
it
wasn’t
.
.
.’
I
try
to
find
the
right
words.
But
in
the

end
he
must
decide
they’re
not
worth
waiting
for,
because
he
cuts
the
call.

I
was
expecting
things
to
be
bad,
but
nothing
can
prepare
me
for
the
job
Greg
Hill’s
done

on
Kane’s
ute.
I
complete
a
slow
circuit
around
the
vehicle,
taking
it
all
in,
avoiding
the

patches
of
shattered
glass
and
plastic
on
the
bitumen
because
I’m
still
barefoot.

The
tail-‐lights,
brakelights
and
one
headlight
are
smashed.

There’s
a
hole
punched
in
the
passenger-‐side
window,
as
though
Greg
used
the
end
of

the
club
lock,
and
the
remaining
glass
is
so
badly
shattered
it’s
sagging
inwards
and

needs
kicking
out.
He
hasn’t
managed
to
break
through
the
glass
on
the
windscreen,
but

he
tried
–
there
are
three
craters
of
cracked
glass.

That
ute
is
the
only
object
of
any
value
that
Kane
owns.

In
fact,
he
doesn’t
even
own
it
–
he
let
this
slip
to
Brian
once,
who
then
let
it
slip
to
Mum

and
me,
mainly
because
he
was
shocked.
Why
on
earth
would
you
borrow
money
to
buy

a
depre-‐ciating
asset?
I
don’t
know
how
else
Kane
was
supposed
to
get
to
work
and
his

contests.
Fly?
Growing
up
the
way
I
did,
I’ve
been
lucky.
Because
I
know
that
some

people
live
in
houses
with
views
and
have
good
safe
jobs
where
questions
to
do
with

money
aren’t
about
making
it,
they’re
to
do
with
allocation.
But
thanks
to
Dad,
I
also

understand
what
it’s
like
when
you’re
coming
off
a
low
base
and
everything’s
a
chicken

and
egg
situation
–
you
need
money
to
make
money.
What
it’s
like
to
scramble.

I
don’t
know
if
that
ute
is
the
chicken
or
the
egg.
Either
way,
Greg
Hill’s
broken
it.
The

only
good
thing
is
that
he
forgot
to
do
the
tyres.
Everything
under
the
hood
is

untouched
as
well,
so
Kane
will
be
able
to
drive
it.
But
it’s
going
to
cost
a
bomb
to
get

the
glass
and
panel
work
fixed.

This
place.
When
I’m
not
here,
I
feel
like
I’m
missing
out.
And
not
all
of
it
is
to
do
with

the
ocean.
Everybody’s
bitten
the
same
way.
Even
the
old
wave-‐drunks
like
Vince
and

Waldo
–
they
like
to
check
it
every
day,
but
it’s
hardly
about
the
surf.
It’s
them
loitering

around
the
car
park,
waiting
for
something
to
happen.

For
the
first
time
ever,
while
I’m
looking
at
that
ute,
I
ask
myself
if
I
could
give
the
place

up.
I
start
to
think
that
maybe
Hollywood’s
right.
Maybe
we
should
all
just
get
a
life.

34

Tumbleside

Hollywood’s
place
is
on
three
hectares
at
the
back
of
Tumbleside,
which
is
about
as
Wild

West
as
it
gets
around
here.

I
turn
off
at
the
Rural
Fire
Service
building,
fly
down
a
dip
and
hit
the
dirt
road
with
a

whump.

I
brake
too
hard
and
the
car
fishtails.
A
truck
hurtles
towards
me
and
I
close
my
eyes
as

it
rumbles
past.

Hollywood
will
be
okay.
We’ll
sort
it
out.
The
fact
that
he
still
cares
enough
to
ring
and

check
on
me
has
given
me
hope.
Things
will
get
back
to
normal
after
a
little
while,
and

then
I
can
convince
him
and
Max
that
we
should
go
out.
Or
maybe
we
can
just
hang
at

the
Woods’
place,
watch
movies
or
something.
Either
way,
I
need
to
crash
there
tonight.

It
shouldn’t
be
any
big
deal.
Max,
Petey
and
I
have
all
stayed
over
before.
The
main
thing

is,
I
can’t
stay
at
home.
If
she
goes
three
times,
he’ll
keep
her.
That’s
the
rules.

Even
if
I
wasn’t
worried
about
being
pulled
back
to
the
night
beach,
I’d
be
worried
about

being
in
a
house
with
Kane.

Especially
now
I’ve
told
him
what
I
know.

The
Audi
is
already
parked
in
the
Woods’
curving
driveway,
and
I
pull
in
behind
it.
Two

of
Hollywood’s
brothers
are
out
the
front,
loading
stuff
into
a
white
van
with
Jeff
Wood

Electrical
Services
across
the
side
of
it.
The
‘Jeff’
is
Hollywood’s
dad.
He
doesn’t
do
much

fieldwork
anymore,
though.
Mainly
he
directs
the
three
of
his
sons
who
now
work
for

him.

I
get
out
of
the
car
and
one
of
the
brothers
says,
‘Hello
Abbie.’

I
say
‘hey,’
and
the
other
one
says,
‘They’re
out
the
back.’

Hollywood’s
brothers
are
all
in
their
twenties,
and
give
the
general
impression
of
dark

eyes,
bushy
hair,
various
degrees
of
stubble,
tallness
–
I
can
never
tell
any
of
them
apart.

Including
Hollywood,
there
are
five
of
them,
but
for
some
reason
it
always
feels
like
a
lot

more;
the
place
swarms
with
menfolk.

Mrs
Wood
is
small
and
quiet
and
smiles
a
lot.
She
has
her
own
ensuite
bathroom
and

tells
Petey
and
me
to
use
it
whenever
we’re
there.
If
boy
germs
are
real,
she’d
know.

I
cut
between
the
barbecue
area
and
the
sagging
above-‐ground
swimming
pool
to
reach

the
work
shed.
The
roller
door
is
pushed
up,
and
as
I
draw
closer,
I
can
hear
Max
and

Hollywood.
And
I
stop
dead.

Max
is
saying,
‘You
can’t
just
cut
somebody
off.’

‘Mate,
how
much
humiliation
do
you
want
me
to
eat?’

‘She’s
my
friend,
too.’

‘Good.
You
stay
in
touch.
Me,
I
don’t
want
to
see
her
again.
You
shouldn’t
have
made
me

ask
her
over.’

I
turn
to
leave.

‘You’re
right,
love.
Keep
going.
They’re
just
in
there,’
Mrs
Wood
calls
out
from
the

kitchen
window.

There
is
a
sudden
silence
in
the
shed.

‘Thanks,’
I
call
back
weakly.
She
smiles,
waves,
and
disappears
from
view.

When
I
duck
beneath
the
roller
door,
Max
says,
‘Hi
Abbie.’

And
he
gets
up
from
the
milk
crate
he’s
sitting
on,
which
is
this
thing
he
does
–
Petey

and
I
think
it’s
beautiful.

‘Hi,’
I
say,
and
he
hovers
for
a
moment,
looking
at
Hollywood.

Hollywood’s
standing
at
the
workbench,
his
black
marker
pen
uncapped
in
his
right

hand.
A
battered,
yellowed
short-‐board
rests
sideways
on
the
bench
in
front
of
him.

He
glances
in
my
general
direction,
and
says,
‘Abbie.’

Then
returns
his
attention
to
whatever
he’s
working
on.

I
look
at
Max
with
my
eyebrows
raised.
He
makes
a
sympathetic
face
back
at
me.
And

then
we
both
watch
Hollywood,
who
pretends
we
don’t
exist.

There’s
this
sulky
look
on
his
face,
a
total
absence
of
humour,
his
jaw
clenched.

‘Abbie,
I’ve
finished
my
sculpture,’
Max
says.
‘I
used
all
the
things
you
found.’

‘That’s
great.’
I
say,
then
I
sigh.
‘I’ve
still
got
heaps
to
go
with
my
painting.’
I
feel
stupid,

like
we’re
in
an
advertisement.

More
silence.
Hollywood’s
mood
is
poisoning
the
atmosphere.
And
I
feel
totally

unwelcome
–
which
is
what
he
wants.

I
realise
then
that
you
can
never
really
be
friends
afterwards.

I
try,
though.
‘Is
that
for
Art,
Ollie?’

At
first
I
think
he’s
not
going
to
answer,
but
eventually
he
says,
‘Yeah.
I’ve
changed

direction.
The
last
stuff
was
too
naff.
Apparently.’

I
breathe
in
on
that
one.
Exhale.
‘What
is
it?’

He
doesn’t
tell
me.
So
I
walk
over
to
see
for
myself,
standing
beside
him
at
the
bench,

and
he
tenses
as
though
I’m
diseased.
He’s
writing
a
list
of
names
on
the
board’s

underside.

Most
of
them,
I
recognise.
Aaron
Gant,
Greg
Hill
.
.
.
in
fact,
all
of
the
Committee
are
there.

Kane’s
there,
and
so
are
his
surfing
mates,
like
Matty
Kenda
and
Ian
Wilson.
Basically,

it’s
a
list
of
anyone
who
is
anyone
down
at
the
break.

‘I
don’t
get
it.’

‘That’s
right,’
Hollywood
says.

I
look
up
at
the
corrugated-‐iron
roof
for
a
second.
‘Okay,
when
you’ve
finished
judging

me.’

‘I’m
not
judging
you,
Abbie.’

‘Yeah,
you
are.’

But
in
a
way,
it’s
good
that
he’s
being
like
this.
Because
it
relieves
my
guilt.
If
there’s
one

thing
I
can’t
stand,
it’s
the
wounded
male
ego.
It’s
as
though
Hollywood
thinks
I’ve
got

some
choice
in
whether
I
like
him
or
not.
As
if.
I
can’t
change
who
I
am.