Night Beach (55 page)

And
I
turn
to
face
him.
Because
I’m
not
overly
brave,
nor
overly
stupid.

Greg’s
face
is
flushed.
He’s
so
intimidating;
such
a
big
man.

But
then
I
remind
myself
that
I’m
a
small,
young
female.
He’s
probably
scared
shitless.

‘Did
he
get
my
message?’
Greg
demands.
‘Lives
at
yours,
doesn’t
he?’

I
know
what
he’s
talking
about.
The
retaining
wall
on
the
other
side
of
the
lagoon
now

reads:
BOOM!
You’re
Dead.

‘I
don’t
think
so,’
I
say.
‘He
hasn’t
surfed
here
for
a
while.’

‘Well,
you
tell
him
something
from
me.
You
tell
him
I’m
waiting.
You
tell
him
the

moment
he
turns
up
here,
he’s
gone.’

‘He’s
leaving.’

Greg
sucks
air
through
his
teeth,
looking
me
over.
‘Yeah?
And
why’s
that?’

I
could
tell
Greg
that
Kane’s
signed
a
fat
new
contract
with
Dark.
I
could
tell
Greg
that

they’re
not
only
going
to
use
him
as
a
team
rider,
but
he’ll
also
be
trained
up
in
the

marketing
department
because
they
think
he’s
good
for
branding
–
whatever
the
hell

that
means.
I
could
tell
Greg
that
in
order
for
Kane
to
take
advantage
of
all
this,
he’s

moving
back
to
the
Gold
Coast
where
Dark
are
based.

But
what
I
say
is,
‘Because
he’s
gutless.’

Greg
enjoys
that.
He
gives
me
a
sharky
grin
as
though
I’m
not
so
bad
after
all.

Then
I
say,
‘I
miss
your
dog.’
And
he
drops
the
grin.

I
walk
off,
taking
the
concrete
path
that
runs
along
the
front
of
the
clubhouse
building.
I

know
Greg
won’t
follow
me.
None
of
the
Committee
go
that
way
anymore.
Not
since

Hollywood
locked
that
surfboard
inside
the
cage.

I
don’t
think
they
like
it.
They
don’t
know
what
it
means.

43

The
calling
sea

When
I
finally
go
downstairs
that
night,
Kane’s
door
is
open.
I
stand
in
the
middle
of
his

bedroom,
taking
in
the
stripped
mattress,
the
bare
wardrobe
and
empty
drawers,

feeling
like
I’ve
been
punched
in
the
stomach.
I’m
drinking
beer
–
and
I
don’t
even
like

beer.
I’m
only
drinking
it
because
it
was
the
last
taste
I
had
of
him.
That’s
about
all
that’s

left.

I
stay
in
there
for
a
long
time,
but
eventually
I
can’t
put
it
off
any
longer,
and
I
head
into

the
second
bedroom.
The
easel
is
the
way
I
left
it:
facing
the
window.
With
Kane
staying

away
at
nights
–
I
think
to
avoid
me
–
I’ve
had
plenty
of
time
to
work
on
it,
and
that’s
all

I’ve
been
doing.
But
tonight
I
feel
nervous.
Tonight
I
want
to
finish
the
thing.

What
will
I
do
when
I
haven’t
got
this
to
focus
on?
Leaving
my
beer
on
the
table,
I
wipe

my
hands
dry
on
my
jeans,
and
when
I
turn
the
easel
around,
I’m
actually
shaking.

‘Well.’
I
say
the
word
out
loud,
surprising
myself.
It’s
the
start
of
something.
Because
I

feel
like
I’ve
come
out
of
the
fog
I’ve
been
in,
and
I’ve
seen
the
work
clearly
for
the
first

time.

Right
then,
I’m
not
hurt,
or
angry,
or
bleak,
or
ripped
off,
or
bitter,
or
any
of
the
other

things
that
I
have
been
feeling
lately.
I’m
curious.

I
want
to
know
what
it
will
look
like
when
it’s
finished.

Maybe
that’s
what’s
left,
I
realise.
This
stupid
urge
to
paint.

You’d
think
it
would
be
easy
now;
all
the
big
stuff
is
done.
At
this
stage,
I
spend
more

time
stepping
back
than
at
the
canvas,
and
I’m
only
making
minute
changes
–
adding

more
light
in
places,
glazing
to
adjust
some
of
the
tones.
But
to
me
there’s
more
at
stake.

Those
changes,
as
small
as
they
are,
determine
whether
the
whole
thing
works
or
not.

Whether
it
will
stop
being
wrong
and
start
being
right.
I
have
to
force
myself
to
keep

going
and
it’s
painful.
But
eventually
the
work
takes
over
and
I
get
to
that
beautiful
state

of
unselfconsciousness
that
might
be
the
whole
point
of
creating
something.
When
it’s

going
well
it’s
a
song;
and
what’s
singing
is
your
soul.

Then,
and
only
then,
do
I
turn
my
attention
to
the
girl
in
the
mirror.
She’s
the
last

unfinished
thing
in
the
painting.

Written
on
the
sheet
of
paper
she’s
holding
in
her
left
hand
are
the
words:
Love,
Hope,

Loss,
Wonder.
But
up
until
now,
the
piece
of
paper
in
her
right
hand
has
been
blank.

Tonight,
I
know
the
words
that
need
to
go
there.
The
words
that
balance
things
up.

Grief,
Acceptance,
Change,
Fear.

After
that,
all
that’s
left
to
do
is
the
varnishing.
To
celebrate,
or
to
mourn,
whichever

way
you
want
to
look
at
it,
I
run
upstairs
and
grab
another
two
beers.
I
drink
half
of
one

straightaway
–
I
don’t
really
need
a
sharp
head
for
the
next
bit.
And
I
turn
the
radio
on.

This
old
song
by
Garbage
called
‘Milk’
is
playing,
and
it
winds
around
the
room
like

smoke,
bringing
with
it
the
ending
sadness.
And
that
makes
me
drink
a
little
more.

I
hit
the
painting
with
the
hair
dryer,
and
when
I’m
sure
everything
is
dry,
I
take
it
off

the
easel
and
lie
it
flat
on
the
table,
selecting
a
wide,
even
brush.
The
trick
with
varnish

is
that
you’re
supposed
to
follow
the
direction
of
your
original
brush
strokes.
But
I’m

not
sure
if
I
can
be
bothered
doing
that,
because
the
‘Use
Shitloads
Method’
also
works

well
for
me.

I
start
brushing
the
gloss
on,
nice
and
evenly,
and
as
I
watch
the
painting’s
colours
come

to
life,
I’m
feeling
a
weird
mix
of
satisfaction
and
regret.

And
then,
out
of
nowhere,
I
sense
I’m
being
watched.

‘You
gave
me
a
fright.’
And
it’s
true.
My
heart
is
thudding.

‘I
said
hello,
but
you
didn’t
hear
me.’

Kane’s
been
drinking,
too.
He’s
brought
the
smell
of
booze
and
cigarette
smoke
into
the

room.

He
nods
at
the
beer
bottles
on
the
table.
‘Been
having
a
bit
of
a
party?’

‘No.
Painting.’
I
sound
surly,
like
a
kid
being
forced
to
give
answers.

He
pulls
a
piece
of
paper
out
of
his
back
pocket,
unfolding
it
and
holding
it
up
to
show

me.
‘Did
you
put
this
shit
under
my
door?’

I
nod.

‘Why?’

‘It’s
a
going-‐away
present.
Thanks
for
everything.’

He
doesn’t
hide
his
disdain.
‘You’re
fucking
weird,
you
know
that?’

‘Yeah?
Well,
at
least
you
know
me
now.’
I
stop,
swallowing
because
my
voice
isn’t

steady.
‘And
if
I’m
weird,
it’s
partly
your
fault.
So,
you
know
.
.
.’

Kane’s
eyes
are
bloodshot,
but
they
don’t
blink.
I
have
to
look
away.

I
study
my
painting
instead,
noticing
the
bristle
that’s
come
loose
and
is
sticking
to
the

varnish.
Frowning,
I
pick
it
off
carefully
with
my
fingernail.
I’m
going
to
have
to
go
over

that.
I
should
probably
dry
what’s
there
first,
though.

He
says,
‘Everything
all
right
here?’

I
answer
by
picking
up
my
hair
dryer
and
switching
it
on.

It’s
noisy,
so
normally
I’d
keep
it
to
Medium,
but
for
his
benefit,
I
turn
it
up
to
High.

I
dry
that
varnish
for
so
long
it’s
a
wonder
it
doesn’t
start
to
crack.
Then
I
revarnish
the

section
that
had
the
bristle,
and
when
I’m
finished
I
blow-‐dry
it
again.

At
the
end
of
all
this,
I
hear
a
sniff.
Of
course
he’s
still
there.
Kane
knows
how
to
wait.

‘So
come
on
then,
give
us
a
look,’
he
says,
and
his
tone
is
the
one
people
use
when

they’re
not
expecting
much.

‘Help
yourself.’

I
try
not
to
wait
for
his
verdict.
I
move
to
the
opposite
side
of
the
table
and
start
cleaning

up,
banging
things
around
with
more
noise
than
is
necessary.
But
after
about
three
or

four
minutes,
I
run
out
of
things
to
bash
together,
and
I
look
at
Kane.
And
I
can’t
help
it.
I

get
a
buzz.
Because
he’s
staring
at
that
painting
like
it
contains
the
secrets
of
the

universe.
It
matters
because
it’s
Kane,
and
I’ve
always
wanted
him
to
notice
me.
And
it

matters
because
it
means
what
I’ve
done
is
good.

‘Abbie.’
Kane
looks
at
me
across
the
table.
‘This
is
awesome.’

He
sounds
like
he
can’t
believe
it.
I
should
be
offended.

He
shakes
his
head,
studying
the
painting
again.
‘You
should
do
something
with
this

stuff.’

I
don’t
know
why,
but
that
does
annoy
me.
I
haven’t
been
waiting
around
for
his

permission.
‘Right.
Well,
thanks
for
the
career
advice.
Me?
Not
so
sure
I
want
to
get
it

mixed
up
with
having
to
make
a
living.
That
might
ruin
it.’

Kane
drums
his
fingers
on
the
table,
and
I
wonder
if
he
thinks
I’m
having
a
dig
at
him

about
surfing.
Then
I
remember
that
I
can’t
afford
to
wonder.
Especially
about
him.
You

get
hurt
when
you
do
that.

‘Shouldn’t
you
get
going?’
I
ask
him.
‘I’m
sure
the
boys
are
waiting.’

He
taps
the
table,
as
though
reaching
a
decision.
Without
looking
at
me,
he
starts

walking
towards
the
door.
And
part
of
me
crumples,
because
I
think
he
really
is
leaving.

But
what
he
does
is
walk
around
the
table.
Comes
around
to
my
side.