Raw Blue (10 page)

I turn off Pittwater Road into Rickard Road where the houses are small and made of fibro. There’s a slight hill and a curve then a long straight stretch with cars parked bumper to bumper either side. The remaining bitumen is so narrow you breathe in to pass anything coming the other way. I floor it. Three cars pass me and I don’t slow down, blinded by the glare of their headlights, feeling my way through rather than seeing anything. It’s like something’s pulling the car, making it go faster and faster.

At the end there’s a sharp turn where the road climbs steeply and I lose it on the corner. The Laser swings wide into a glare of headlights. I brake with my eyes closed, hearing a horn blast. When I open my eyes again, I’m alone on the road, red brake lights in my rear-view mirror. By some miracle they swerved in time.

15

Salsa

‘I’m sorry I’m late but work was really busy.’ My voice is terse.

Hannah doesn’t seem bothered. There’s Latin American music blaring out on her stereo and she stands in her doorway doing some sort of dance step. Salsa, I guess.

‘Don’t worry about it, Cookie, mate! We are gonna party tonight. Have a shower, get changed.’

She’s wearing her black dress, the one that buttons up the front and only barely covers her backside. No glasses. Her hair looks good, feathery.

I go down the side steps, carrying my bag. I put my black shirt back on in the car, otherwise Hannah would have asked me why I got changed. She notices everything except the big things.

I shower quickly and get dressed: jeans, a black top and gold hoop earrings. It’s the standard uniform I have for going out. I leave my hair to drip dry and put on some mascara and lip gloss. Nothing else. My skin’s too brown for my old foundation now and I’ve never been big on make-up. I tuck money, ID, a lighter and some cigarettes into the pocket of the white denim jacket I use instead of a handbag, then I head up to Hannah.

Marty seems like a long time ago. I don’t feel anything.

The salsa club is hell, but with cold beer. The beer is unbelievably cold as a matter of fact, kept in tubs full of ice and water. I buy two San Miguels and sit on a stool at a bar-table watching Victor and Hannah and the other dancers. Guys keep trying to cut in on Victor. It’s incredible really, how many guys want to dance with Hannah. I don’t know if it’s the dress or because she looks excited and sparkly. She really gets into the dancing, even if she’s a little bit stiff. Victor doesn’t let anybody near her. He just wraps her up in his arms whenever someone taps him on the shoulder. He looks really seventies, reminds me of the lead singer from Hot Chocolate. Although maybe he doesn’t look anything like him and it’s just that he’s black and shaves his head.

Hannah saw him as soon as we arrived and dragged me over to meet him. She was so excited, and I was afraid for her. There was something at the back of his eyes that I didn’t like. I’m Hannah’s neighbour, her only decent friend in this country; he should have looked carefully blank when he asked me:
So are we going to see you back here then, Carly? Going to get you out dancing a little bit more?
But he wasn’t blank. The question was loaded with an offer if I was interested.

The song, some frenetic Latin American mix, ends. Victor nibbles on Hannah’s neck and she laughs. She glances over at me and pulls away from him. He drops his arms, doing the big dejected act. But as she’s walking my way he’s watching me not her. It’s predatory and I hate it. I focus on Hannah.

‘Hey, Cookie, mate!’

I smile at her, handing her the other beer.

‘No, no, I’m driving. Oh to hell with it, just a little bit then.’ She takes a sip of beer, holding the bottle neck between her thumb and forefinger. ‘But you’re not dancing?’

‘No, I’m on the bench tonight.’

‘But you have to dance!’

She pulls me off the stool and onto the floor. The song playing is some sort of favourite because everybody’s up for this one:
Yeah, baby! I like it like that
.

Jesus Christ. Hannah’s holding my hands and doesn’t stop clucking at me until I follow her lead and do a salsa three-step. She turns me under her arm then turns me back the other way.

‘Yes, Cookie.
Go vaginas!
’

And it’s all surreal to me. I’m in a bubble. Inside my bubble the music’s too soft, the beer tastes stale and my thoughts are too loud. Hannah’s movements seem pixilated. She doesn’t realise I’m cut off from the night. All I have to do is smile and nod.

Victor moves in behind Hannah and wraps his arms around her waist, tucking his face in against hers. She leans her head back against his shoulder, watching me with happy eyes. Oh Hannah.

She straightens up and grabs at both of our hands, trying to pull us in towards each other. ‘Victor, you dance with Carly. Go on, Carly, Victor will show you the steps.’

Well, I would rather drink bleach. But I don’t say this to her, I shake my head and point vigorously in the direction of the toilets. Then I push my way back to our table, pick up my jacket and escape outside.

The noise of the club is muted out there, replaced by the roar of city traffic. There’s a small crowd of people hanging around the bouncer, talking. They’re moving all the time, doing their steps, and I think that’s cool. Salsa is to them what surfing is to me, I guess. I feel like I’m a long way from the northern beaches. I feel like I’m out of my place.

I lean back against the side of the building and wonder how long we’re going to have to stay. I take out a cigarette and think about lighting it, but it feels weird smoking in public.

‘Here you go.’

I blink and focus on the guy holding a lighter out to me. He’s in his mid-thirties, wearing a black leather jacket.

‘Thanks.’ I take the lighter and look at it.

‘Yeah, watch out. They’re a bit tricky.’

‘No, I just don’t know if I feel like a cigarette or not.’

‘It’ll kill you. And if you’re pregnant it can harm your baby. Or it might even give you a disgusting gangrene mouth. I read my packets. Great reads, can’t put ’em down.’

He’s got slicked-back hair, dark eyes and heavy brows, and a bit of a paunch. Dark chest hair curls up out of the round neck of his white T-shirt.

‘I’m Jacob,’ he says. ‘How about I smoke one with you?’

Seeing as he’s only interested in bumming a cigarette, not in me, I relax.

‘Sure.’ I give my unlit cigarette to him and fish another out of my pocket, light up and hand him the lighter.

‘Have you been in?’ He flicks his head in the direction of the club.

‘Yeah.’

‘Haven’t seen you here before. Gettin’ into it?’

It reminds me of the break.
Gettin’ a few?

‘Not really. I’m here with a friend. She comes all the time.’

‘I probably know her then. I’m here every week.’

‘How come?’

‘I like to dance.’

‘Oh. What do you do? In the real world, I mean.’

‘I’m a builder.’

‘Really?’ A salsa-loving builder?

He shows me his hands. His palms are calloused and cracked.

‘What do you do?’ he asks.

Instead of answering, I show him my hands. They are covered in burn marks and the scars of old cuts.

‘You’re a builder too?’

I smile. ‘No, I’m a chef. Sort of.’

‘All right then, Chef-Sort-Of – you still haven’t told me your name, but it don’t matter to me – let’s finish these and go have a dance.’

I look down at the ground.

‘Now, don’t be like that. It’s hard enough for men these days without all that. Sometimes – and I mean no offence by this because I’m sure you’re a nice girl, and you’re not bad-looking – sometimes, we really do just want to talk to you, not jump your bones. And me? Hey, I don’t even want to talk. I just want to dance.’

He leans against the wall, drags back on his cigarette and blows a plume of smoke up at the stars. My face is flaming.

‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve had a crap night. I’m a bit uptight.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Chef-Sort-Of. That’s a good thing, that’s what the world needs, uh-huh, more uptight people. Come on, come and dance.’

He chucks his cigarette down onto the pavement, leaving it to burn, and waits until I stub mine out. We head back inside, him walking in front of me. He nods at the bouncer.

Jacob dances with me like a male relative would: close, but not too close. His whole posture’s changed, making a frame for me with his body. He’s a good dancer. He uses his hands to steer me. When I baulk at a move he tightens his grip until I’m faced with the choice between completing a turn or a broken wrist. It’s very effective.

While he dances, he stares over my head, singing to himself, completely wrapped up in the music.

A slow song comes on and people pair up to move in a gentle shuffle. I don’t feel comfortable pressed up against Jacob’s paunch, but I’m not exactly panicked either.

‘So this is your thing?’ I shout near his ear.

I pull back to look at him and he raises his eyebrows to show he didn’t catch what I said.

‘This is your thing? Like you work all week and then you dance?’

‘Yeah. This is my thing. Get up at five, work ’til three, have a few beers. Watch the telly, scratch my balls, go to bed. Friday, Saturday, go dancing. Salsa, merengue,
cha cha cha
.’

‘How long do you think you can keep it up for?’

He regards me, frowning. My neck’s cricked back to look at him and I keep stepping on his toes.

‘What do you mean, how long?’ he asks.

‘Like, how long will you keep doing it?’

‘As long as I want.’

‘But how long do you think that will be?’

‘Hey, Chef-Sort-Of, if you sit around waiting to get older, it’ll happen. If you’ve got a thing, do your thing.’

My gaze drops to his salt-and-pepper chest hairs.

Hannah and Victor dance up beside us. Hannah’s gleaming at me. Victor’s watching her. Jacob steers me away from them, over to a less crowded part of the floor where I won’t stand on his feet so much. I think his continued patience in the face of my dancing ineptitude is admirable. He’s still singing to himself, eyes closed, pretending, I think, that I’m someone else.

I shout in his ear again. ‘So you can’t just lay down and die?’

He doesn’t open his eyes, but he nods. ‘You can’t just lay down and die.’

Four-thirty in the morning. Hannah and Victor are going at it upstairs. I’m down on my deck with the lights out, smoking. The sounds they’re making are muted and I don’t feel bad for being out here while they’re doing it. I’m not interested in them; I’m listening to the surf. It’s thundering, which means the swell’s picked up.

My mobile is on the deck beside me and I pick it up and dial the message-bank service again – the third time in ten minutes. I’d left it in the bag I take to work and it was only after we got home from the salsa club that I saw I had a message.

He rang at 9.27 p.m.

Hey, uh, Carly … I wanted to let you know I’ve got a spare board for you if you need it. Mark gave me a couple of demos to use while he’s fixing our boards. I don’t know if you want it, you might already have a spare, but if you do, give me a call.

He recites his mobile number even though he should know it’ll be on my call bank.
It’s Ryan, by the way – the guy you ran into today
. He pauses.
But yeah, you’ve probably figured that out
.

Another pause.
Unless, I dunno, maybe you’ve run into a few people lately. Anyway … See ya, mate.

16

it’s not easy sometimes

I call him the next morning at nine-thirty. Then I think it could be too early, so I cut the call before he answers. I figure I’ll wait until later, midday or something.

I’m sitting on the couch, biting my cuticles, tearing bits of skin off with my teeth and spitting them on the floor. My hair’s all mussed up and I reek of beer and cigarettes – salsa club afterburn. I’m thinking I’ll clean myself up, walk down to the newsagency and buy Saturday’s paper, see what Bernard’s got to say, when my mobile rings. I check the screen and recognise his number. My heart starts thudding.

‘Hello, Carly speaking.’

‘Hello, Carly-speaking. Ryan here. How are you, mate?’

‘Good. How are you? I got your message.’

‘Yeah, so what’d you reckon?’

‘Um, I’d like to borrow it – a board – if that’s okay.’

‘Yeah, no worries. What do you wanna do? Pick it up from my place? Or do you want me to drop it off?’

When I don’t answer, he says, ‘Or, I’ll tell you what – I’m going down now. Meet me there if you want.’

‘You mean at the break?’ It’s Saturday. I’ve never seen him there on a weekend.

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. That sounds good. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.’

He’s parked in the back car park. The car spaces near him are taken so I park further up near the dune. Then I just sit there for a second, feeling nervous.

I’ve got my bikini on under a pair of denim cut-offs and a blue singlet top. I’ve washed my face and dragged a comb through my hair, putting it up in a ponytail, and sprayed on a lot of deodorant. But my eyes are bloodshot and I’m feeling pretty queasy. I should have eaten something – aspirin on an empty stomach is never a good idea. The sun slaps me as soon as I get out of the car.

He’s standing at the back of his Commodore, rubbing sunscreen on his forearms.

‘Watch it,’ he says as I approach.

I look down and see the patch of broken glass – I’m barefooted. ‘Thanks. Sorry I’m a bit late. I went to the top car park first.’

‘Thought you parked down here.’

‘I thought you parked up there.’

He nods, raising his sandy eyebrows, conceding the point. Then I realise I probably shouldn’t have let him know that I know where he parks, what car he drives.

He studies me, eyes screwed up against the sun. ‘Had a big night, mate?’

‘Yeah, sort of.’

He rubs his hands off on a towel and throws it in the back of his car. Then he’s all business. ‘So, I’ve got a six-two here for you. It’s a round tail, bit wider and thicker than your board. Should be all right, though.’

He pulls the board out of his car and holds it up so I can see it, resting its tail on his foot. The nose isn’t too far above the top of his head, which means he must be around six-foot. He doesn’t look that tall, maybe because he’s solidly built.

He runs a hand down one of the rails. ‘Bit more volume than yours. So you might find it’s easier in the small stuff.’

It’s a nice-looking board. Only a few dings. There’s a Hard Cut decal placed diagonally across the deck under the nose.

‘Are you sure this is okay?’ I ask.

‘Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.’

‘Fair enough.’ I smile stupidly. It’s like the first time I talked to him in the surf – he’s got me off balance. One minute he’s calling me mate, the next he’s business-like, and then out of nowhere he’s abrasive.

‘So you want it, or …’

‘Oh, sorry.’ I step forward and he hands me the board.

I tuck it under my arm, feel the weight of it. ‘What’s your board like, the one he lent you?’

He pulls the second board out of the back of his car and holds it up for me to see. ‘Bit bigger. Six-four.’

‘What do you normally ride?’

He glances at me, his lips pressed together in a skewed smile. ‘What? You mean my new board?’

I colour. ‘Yeah, the one that … Look, I’m really sorry about that. Truly. You don’t know how bad I feel.’

He scratches his nose. ‘Oh, I dunno about that. You were pretty upset. I was worried I might have hit you in the head or something.’

‘Yeah, well …’ I look down at the ground and swallow, trying to clear a tight throat.

‘I’m only stirring you, mate. It wasn’t your fault. Just goes to show I can’t turn for shit.’

When I can look at him again my face is flat. I can’t be bothered pretending that it doesn’t matter, because he’s just made me squirm, and that’s what he wanted, so I hope he’s happy.

‘I normally ride a six-two.’ His voice has lost its smart-arse edge.

‘Well, do you want this one then? That’d suit you better wouldn’t it?’ I flip the board so it’s standing on end and push it towards him. ‘Here, take it back. It’s cool.’

He frowns. ‘No, you have it, mate.’

‘No, mate, you have it. I can wait for my board. I don’t need to borrow one.’

‘Hey, hey, settle down.’

‘Well, I’ve told you I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot, all right? I feel like I should never surf here again. But I don’t want to surf anywhere else, do I? So I’m stuck. All I can do is offer to pay for your board when he’s fixed it. Except you said he’ll do it for free, but I’ll give you the money it would have cost anyway. How about that? Fifty, a hundred bucks, whatever. And my board – tell him I’ll pay for it.’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Carly, you’re taking me the wrong way.’ He’s holding up a hand like a stop sign.

‘I’ve got a hangover, okay? So I’m not very … It’s not easy sometimes.’

‘Yeah.’ He gives a flat laugh. ‘I know.’

I feel nauseous. It’s the heat, the hangover and the stuff I’ve just said. No. It’s Ryan. What am I doing here?

‘Here, take it.’ I shake the board at him. ‘I don’t want to owe you anything.’

‘Mate, you don’t owe me. I hit you, all right? So just calm down, take the board and just …’ He shakes his head, holding his palms up.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know, just …
relax
.’

There’s an uncomfortable silence that goes on for a long time.

‘I feel stupid now,’ I say.

‘You’ll get over it. You coming for a surf?’

‘What? With you?’

‘Well, that would be social.’

I start chewing my cuticles. ‘What’s it like? Have you had a look?’

‘Yeah, not bad. Wind’s getting into it a bit. There’s some size, maybe three, four-foot.’

‘What direction is the swell coming from?’

‘Southeast.’

‘What’s the tide doing?’

Amused, he wipes a hand over his mouth. ‘Close to low, I think.’

‘Is that Shane guy out there?’

‘Doubt it. He was at home when I left.’

‘You live with him?’

‘Can’t always pick your friends. You all right, Carly? You’ve gone white.’

I swallow. My throat’s slippery with saliva, an early warning signal that I’m going to spew. Why’s he being nice? What does he want? I thought I could handle this but I can’t. Last night flashes in my mind, the feel of Marty’s dead weight on top of me. And that other night: hands grabbing, tweaking, cupping. Slime between my legs.

‘Carly?’ Ryan’s voice is alarmed.

The world turns to static and I bend over quickly. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Here, come over to the tap. Have some water.’

‘No …’ I breathe deeply and close my eyes, fighting the urge to vomit.

When I straighten up again he’s just standing there, not sure what to do. Ryan’s eyes are grey, but for the first time I notice there are chips of gold in them too. He looks concerned.

I swallow again. ‘I, um … Sorry. I think I should go home.’

‘You right with that?’ He means the board – do I want him to carry it to my car?

I pick it up and tuck it under my arm. ‘No, it’s right.’

‘Maybe getting in the water will help.’

‘No, I just … I want to go home.’

‘Yeah, okay. All right.’

I realise then that Ryan’s disappointed I’m not going surfing with him. I’m not sure why that might be. I can think of reasons, like he wants the guys in the arrowhead to see he’s in with a chance. But somehow that just doesn’t seem like his style.

But then, I don’t know him at all, do I?