Night Beach (50 page)

‘Hmm.’
Jackie
scratches
the
side
of
her
nose.
There’s
nothing
she
can
do
to
stop
me,
but
I

feel
on
edge
just
the
same.

‘All
I’m
going
to
say
is
this,
Abbie.
If
you
do
need
us
for
some
reason,
don’t
let
waking
us

up
be
your
reason
for
not
calling.

Deal?’

‘Deal.’

Then
I’m
out
the
door,
running
headfirst
into
a
northerly
wind
that
makes
me
feel
as

though
I’m
going
the
wrong
way
up
a
one-‐way
street.
When
I
reach
my
car,
I
shove
the

candle
holder
into
the
glove
box,
and
I
realise
the
doorknob
is
still
in
there.
I’ll
have
to

get
rid
of
it
later.
Maybe
it
doesn’t
even
matter
anymore.
Then
I
throw
my
backpack

onto
the
back
seat,
and
I
gun
the
motor
and
turn
the
radio
up
loud.
For
once,
I
drive

properly,
taking
the
gear
changes
like
a
set
of
stairs.
And
if
there
were
cops
around,
I’d

lose
my
licence
for
sure,
because
I
speed
the
whole
way
down
there,
hurtling
through

the
night.
To
him.

When
I
turn
into
the
clubhouse
car
park,
I
do
a
slow
loop
around,
looking
for
Kane,
and

when
I
can’t
see
him,
I
do
another
loop,
dithering
over
where
to
park.
There
are
no
cars

on
the
ocean
side,
only
on
the
street
side
–
the
cars
that
belong
to
the
people
who
live

across
the
road.
I
end
up
parked
in
amongst
them,
not
wanting
to
be
too
conspicuous.

Then
I
turn
the
motor
off
and
wait,
winding
my
window
down
just
a
tad.
The
swings
in

the
playground
are
moving
back
and
forth
by
themselves
in
the
wind,
a
lone
drink
can

rattles
along
the
empty
bitumen
in
the
boardriders’
lane,
and
it’s
so
creepy
that
I
check

my
door
is
locked.
But
I’m
more
scared
about
what
will
happen
when
Kane
arrives.

I
told
him
I
probably
wouldn’t
be
leaving
until
around
ten-‐thirty,
and
he
said
he’d
meet

me,
but
we
didn’t
agree
on
a
specific
time.
Maybe
I
should
text
him
to
let
him
know
I’m

early.
But
then
I
get
nervous
and
decide
against
it.
The
problem
with
texts
and
phone

calls
is
that
you
don’t
know
who
else
might
intercept
them.

Across
the
road,
squashed
between
a
café
and
a
modern-‐looking
house,
is
a
three-‐storey

red-‐brick
apartment
building.

Matty
Kenda
lives
in
one
of
the
apartments
there,
and
that’s
where
Kane
was
when
he

called.
There’s
a
car
park
out
the
back,
but
Kane
said
to
wait
for
him
here.
I
know
why.

For
what
it’s
worth,
he’s
protecting
me.
Because
the
guys
Kane
hangs
around
with
–

they’re
a
lot
different
to
me.
When
I
was
on
the
phone
to
Kane,
I
heard
Matty
Kenda’s

voice
in
the
background.

Is
that
Marco?

No.
Now
piss
off.

What?
You
got
another
chick
already?

Even
if
Matty’s
pulled
himself
together
since
the
last
time
I
saw
him,
I
don’t
want
to

come
to
his
attention
again.
Especially
not
as
the
person
Kane
sneaks
out
to
meet
up

with.
The
thought
makes
me
feel
sick.

Those
guys
are
arseholes,
Abbie.
Yeah,
well,
Hollywood
was
always
right
about
that.
Kane

probably
doesn’t
even
know
you.

And
he
might
be
right
about
that,
too.

But
it
doesn’t
change
a
thing.
I’m
here,
because
I
am
not
able
to
stay
away.

But
when
Kane
arrives,
what
happens
then?
The
thought
gives
me
vertigo.
I
don’t
have

an
answer.
And
if
he’s
right,
and
everything
really
is
okay,
I
don’t
know
what
comes

after
that
either.

Cars
pass
back
and
forth
on
the
road,
and
I
wait,
the
stampeding
wind
doing
nothing
for

my
nerves.
Each
minute
is
too
slow.
It’s
completely
different
down
here
at
night.

Nothing
like
the
social
hub
it
is
during
the
day.

And
then
another
vehicle
pulls
into
the
car
park,
the
lights
from
its
headlights
sweeping

across
my
face
as
it
makes
the
turn.
I
twist
around
to
watch
it,
kneeling
and
hugging
the

back
of
my
seat.

It’s
a
four-‐wheel
drive,
one
I
recognise:
maroon
paint,
roof
racks,
no
hub
caps.
I
see
it

down
here
all
the
time.
The
vehicle
pulls
up
on
the
ocean
side,
in
one
of
the
spaces

closest
to
the
Committee’s
bench,
and
I
start
to
feel
uneasy,
wondering
who
it
is,
and

what
they’re
doing
here.
Irrationally,
I
want
to
know
if
Kane’s
inside.

The
passenger-‐side
door
opens
and
Greg
Hill
gets
out.

Oh
shit.

I
fumble
around,
trying
to
find
my
mobile.
Aaron
Gant
gets
out
of
the
driver’s
side,

slamming
his
door
shut,
and
I
can
hear
their
voices,
but
what
they’re
saying
is
lost
to
me

in
the
wind.
I
think
that
they’re
here
for
Kane.
But
as
I
pull
up
Kane’s
number
and
hit
the

call
button,
Aaron
Gant
is
unloading
stuff
from
the
back
–
a
paint
tin
and
a
couple
of

rollers.
He
tucks
a
can
of
spray
paint
into
the
waistband
of
his
jeans.

They’re
going
to
do
the
wall.
I
have
no
idea
why
they’ve
parked
here
and
not
in
the
tidal

pool
car
park.
Maybe
it’s
because
there
are
always
cars
here,
and
a
lone
vehicle
parked

there
is
instantly
more
memorable.

My
call
goes
straight
to
message.

‘Kane,
it’s,
um,
me.
Don’t
come
across
now.
Greg
Hill
and
Aaron
Gant
are
over
here.

They’ll
probably
be
gone
soon,
but
ring
before
you
leave
to
check.’

Then
I
hang
up.
The
two
men
step
onto
the
grass,
making
their
way
towards
the

clubhouse.
They
each
have
a
roller
resting
over
their
shoulder
and
Aaron
Gant
is

carrying
the
tin
of
paint.
A
moment
later,
they
disappear
around
the
corner
of
the

building.

Something
taps
on
the
passenger-‐side
window
and
I
scream.

I
hear
the
door
handle
being
reefed
a
couple
of
times,
and
then
Kane’s
bending
down,

peering
through
the
window
at
me,
an
impatient
look
on
his
face.
He’s
still
in
the
black

jumper
he
was
wearing
when
I
saw
him
last,
and
he’s
holding
a
beer.

‘Are
you
going
to
unlock
it
or
what?’
he
says,
his
voice
sounding
distant
through
the

glass.

I
can’t
move.
I
don’t
know
if
I’m
frozen
with
fear
or
relief,
but
I
just
can’t
move.
I
gape
at

him,
and
I
get
the
same
feeling
I
had
when
I
was
standing
in
the
lounge
room,
looking

out
at
the
view.
I
feel
like
I’m
cut-‐off,
separate.
And
it’s
not
entirely
unpleasant,
I
realise.

At
least
it’s
safe.

Kane
straightens,
and
I
hear
the
clunk
of
his
beer
coming
to
rest
on
the
roof
of
the
car.
I

see
him
take
hold
of
the
hem
of
his
jumper
and
he
pulls
it,
and
the
shirt
he’s
wearing

underneath,
over
his
head.
Then
he
bends
forward
again,
so
I
can
see
his
shoulders

through
the
window.
He
turns
around,
showing
me
his
back.
While
Kane
pulls
his

jumper
back
on,
I
lean
across
and
unlock
the
door.

The
car
dips
with
his
weight,
he
slams
the
door
shut,
and
then
pulls
on
his
seatbelt,

doing
it
one-‐handed
because
he’s
holding
his
beer
again.

‘Your
skin.’
I
swallow,
unable
to
believe
what
I’ve
just
seen.

It’s
completely
healed.
As
if
the
wounds
there
never
happened.

‘Yeah.
Like
I
said,
everything’s
changed.’
And
Kane’s
right:
everything
has
changed.

Right
back
to
the
way
it
used
to
be.
Because
from
the
look
on
his
face,
you’d
think
we’d

never
met.
‘You
want
to
get
going?
I
don’t
want
to
be
hanging
around
when
Hilly
gets

back.’

39

Mean

I
turn
left
out
of
the
car
park,
and
try
to
concentrate
on
driving
like
a
normal
person.
But

the
silence
in
the
car
makes
me
feel
that
even
my
breathing
is
being
scrutinised
by
Kane.

I
go
straight
through
the
first
two
roundabouts,
but
then
nerves
get
the
better
of
me,

and
instead
of
continuing
on,
I
brake,
turning
left
into
a
side
street
that
ends
in
a
cul-‐de-‐

sac
on
the
edge
of
the
beach.

‘I’m
sorry,
I
can’t.’

‘Can’t
what?’
Kane
sounds
irritated.

The
car
jerks
to
a
stop,
and
I
switch
off
the
motor.
I
can
hear
the
surf.

‘I
can’t
go
back
until
I
know
it’s
really
over.’

Saying
nothing,
Kane
hands
me
his
beer
and
takes
off
his
seatbelt.
He
pulls
his
mobile

out
of
his
back
pocket.
Then
he
punches
a
couple
of
numbers,
listens,
and
holds
the

phone
out
to
me.
‘Here’s
your
proof.’

Alarmed,
I
push
it
away.
‘I
don’t
want
to
talk
to
him.
I
don’t
even
know
him.’

‘No,
it’s
a
message.’
Kane
shakes
the
mobile
at
me,
and
this
time
I
take
it,
pressing
it
to

my
ear.

A
guy’s
voice.
‘Well,
hi
there,
Kane.
Surprise!
Got
a
few
things
to
share
with
you,
bud.
Let

me
kick
things
off
by
saying
that
you
are
the
lowest
of
the
fucking
low.
An
absolutely

gutless
piece
of
work.
Did
you
ever
think
what
might
have
happened
if
that
boat
driver

hadn’t
come
back
to
take
another
look?
And
I
had
to
wait
three
days
for
that.
Do
you

even
know
what
those
three
days
were
like?
Do
you
know
what
it’s
like
to
run
out
of