Raw Blue (13 page)

‘Where are you going?’ Danny says too loudly, and I tell him to
shush
.

I peer in through the window. I’ve got this horrible feeling that Marty’s dead, overdosed or something. But he’s asleep, mouth open, snoring. He’s in his work clothes, his white shirt unbuttoned and crumpled. Underneath it is the same T-shirt he was wearing the night he took me down to Harbord. When he wakes up he’ll be bleary-eyed, and he will have been like that before he went to sleep, too.

Danny pushes past me and peers in through the window. ‘Do you reckon he lives in his car?’

‘He might now. I don’t know.’ I overheard Marty telling Emilio the other night that he’d had a fight with his brother.
Got kicked out, eh? Uptight bastard
. He was on day shift today, so he won’t be working tonight.

Since that night at Harbord, Marty has avoided me and I’ve avoided him. The couple of times we’ve passed at work, he’s said,
How’s it goin’, Carly?
and his eyes have looked right through me, in the same way he looks through Kylie. At first I was worried he might tell. The thought of Georgina and Golden-Staph Adam knowing that Marty nearly had me on a beach made me panic.

But I didn’t have to worry. Marty’s just blanked it out and he’s blanked me out. It’s this game I don’t know how to play: the how-not-to-feel-anything game. It’s not as though I still like him or anything, that’s all gone. There’s no mystery left, and the thought of him touching me again makes me cringe. I think he feels the same way. I’m sure he does. I didn’t help him and he didn’t help me. All that failure.

‘Who is he?’ Danny asks, staring through the back window at the pile of clothes and boots on the back seat.

‘Never mind. Let’s go.’

I’m silent the rest of the way to work. Marty’s crashing. He’s not crashing the way I want to – he’s just closed his eyes and let go. Not seeing, not feeling, not caring. And seeing him like that hurts; puts little paper cuts in my heart. Because what I feel for him is not the same as I feel for the others: a sudden surge of hatred that washes over me like a red wave.

My throat gets tight and I take an enormous breath, stealing a glance at Danny. His hands are talking to each other and he’s looking at people on the Corso with open-faced interest. How can he just trust me like he does? He doesn’t even know me. Doesn’t he know that you’ve got to be careful with people?

I think of Ryan, his pale, freckled skin and rain-coloured eyes, but I’m only tracing the perimeters of him. I’m not sure what’s inside. It’s dangerous. Thrilling, but dangerous.

Danny wanders into the kitchen and stands behind Roger, holding a load of dirty crockery.

‘Where do you want this?’ he asks.

Roger grunts. Danny hesitates for a second then deciphers it to mean on the floor. Then he comes over and collapses onto the bench beside me.

‘Hey, Danny? When you’re behind people, you say “Behind” so that they know you’re there. So they don’t step back into you and make you drop what you’re carrying.’

‘Behind?’

‘Yeah.’

His face scrunches up in a giggle and he points to Roger’s bum crack, visible between the sag of his trousers and his apron ties. ‘
Behind?
’

Emilio dings the bell and looks through the window at us. ‘Danny, you can take a break now.’

Danny pulls his cap off and his thick black hair reasserts itself.

‘You get fifteen minutes,’ I tell him. ‘Go outside, take a walk around.’

‘Nah.’ He pauses. ‘Can I take my break when you take yours?’

‘No, sorry. I don’t usually take one.’

‘How come?’

‘Too much to do.’

‘Huh.’ He pokes one of the eggs poaching in the pan on the back hob.

‘You right there, bacteria fingers?’ I don’t really mind though. There are major differences between Golden-Staph Adam and Danny.

He pokes it again. ‘How come so many people eat breakfast at night-time?’

‘They’re all back to front. Do you want something to eat? I’ll make it for you.’

‘No.’

‘Just stand back for a sec.’ I pull a pan of mushrooms off the heat.

Danny sways backwards and slumps against the pass, holding onto it as though he’s too weak to support his own body weight.

I plate up: toast, eggs, mushrooms and a handful of snow pea sprouts over the top to get stuck in people’s teeth.

‘I’ll take it,’ he says.

‘But you’re on break.’

He shrugs. ‘So.’

I check the docket. ‘Number twenty-two. Thank you.’

There’s a lull in orders then so I mix up a batch of pancakes. We pre-cook them and microwave them on demand.

Danny comes back in and spies the jars of cinnamon and ginger on the prep shelf. ‘Hey! These are the colour of Lara.’

‘Who? Oh, that girl you like.’

‘Yeah, these browns are good. They’re spot on.’ He says it with the intensity of a mad scientist.

I start making walnut butter – it goes with the pancakes.

‘Can I do stuff?’ he asks.

So I let him chop the walnuts, showing him how to use the knife so he doesn’t cut his fingers off. If it was anyone else, I’d be impatient and get rid of them. Emilio passes through and sees Danny helping me, but doesn’t comment. Roger doesn’t seem to care either, because he goes out and does the bussing run himself.

Danny finishes chopping, leaving the knife with its handle hanging off the bench. I pick it up and place it so that its blade is wedged under the top right-hand corner of the chopping board.

He looks at me.

‘Just to be safe,’ I say. ‘If it’s put up there, it can’t go anywhere.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Um, if the handle’s sticking out you might knock it off the bench by accident and go to catch it without thinking. It’s just a habit to get into.’

‘Yowser.’ He stares at the knife with wide eyes, obviously imagining this scenario, which makes me grin. When he looks back at me I can see this tip on knife safety has somehow earned his respect.

‘What next? No, I know.’ He runs his finger down the prep list up above the bench. ‘Muffins.’

‘Okay, get one of those bowls out.’

I show him how to use the scales, setting Tare to reflect the weight of the bowl. He measures out the dry ingredients, standing on his tiptoes. I mix the wet ingredients together in a plastic jug. When he’s done, I tip them in and hand him a spoon.

‘Danny, do you know a guy in the surf called Ryan?’

‘Rhino?’ He’s focused on mixing, eyes squinted in concentration.

‘Yeah. What’s he like?’

‘Why? You got the hots for him?’

‘No. Hey, that’s enough, don’t mix it too much.’

He lines a tray with muffin cake papers. ‘He’s mates with that psycho, Shane. Rhino’s hardcore.’

‘Because he’s friends with Shane?’

‘No, because he’s been to jail. He just got out.’

I feel winded. It’s a while before I can ask, ‘Do you know why?’

‘Nuh.’

‘So he’s dodgy?’

‘No, Rhino’s okay. He’s talked to me a couple of times and he’s always been all right. Shane’s the dickhead.’

‘I think he’s asked me out.’

‘Shane?’

‘No,
Ryan
.’

‘He’s a good surfer. Old school, but good.’ He’s engrossed in spooning out the muffin mix.

‘I just wondered if you get anything from him.’

‘Like colours?’

‘Yeah.’

A slow smile breaks across his face and he looks up at me. ‘
Oooh
, wouldn’t you like to know?’

I go red. ‘Tell me.’

‘Carly wants to know about Ryan.
Lurr-vers
.’

‘Thanks, Danny. You’ve been really helpful.’

‘You’re welcome.’

I take a load of stuff over to Roger. When I come back, Danny’s started on the second tray. I stand there for a bit, but then I can’t help myself.

‘So what do you think about it?’ I ask.

‘About what?’

‘About him asking me out.’

He shrugs. ‘I think it’s good.’

Driving home, Danny’s got his feet up on the dashboard again and he’s singing along with the radio – Beyoncé, ‘Crazy in Love’. He falls silent when we get to Long Reef and by the time we reach Collaroy his head’s lolling sideways, heavy with sleep.

I drive ten kilometres under the speed limit the whole way. I drive like that because Danny’s in the car and he’s unbelievably precious and I’m terrified I’ll have an accident or something, which is different to thinking I’m going to crash. I’m on the lookout for careless drivers, drunken pedestrians. By the time we get to his place and I wake him up I’m tired from the stress of it.

I’m almost home when I realise that I feel clean. I feel good.

I don’t know about the Ryan stuff. I just don’t know. If I think back to the car park, I remember how concerned he looked when I was going to be sick.

But jail? Jesus Christ. What for? That can’t be good. And he’s friends with Shane and that’s not good either. What did he say? You can’t always pick your friends.

Well, he’s damn right there. I have two friends here: a fifteen year old who sees people in colours and a salsa-mad Dutch woman. I didn’t pick them, they just turned up in my life, and I’m really glad. I think this and I’m suddenly struck down with gratitude for all the things this place has given me. The break, the ever-changing moods of the ocean and the best surfs I’ve ever had. Tonight my world is a bubble. Clear, round, perfect and fragile.

20

Sex

Eight a.m. and the morning is fresh. There is a little nip to the air, a reminder that colder times are coming: wetsuits, blue lips, bloodless feet.

I’m going down there. I don’t know how I feel about seeing him, exactly, but it’s eight so I’m already late. I swing the bathroom door open and shut a few times, trying to suck some of the steam out of the room before I plug my hairdryer in and dry my hair off. In my bedroom I hunt through the mess on the floor for a pair of clean undies and a bra. Then I pull on my jeans, my lime green Stussy shirt and a white hoodie jumper. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, stop what I’m doing and peer closer, thinking: God, when did that happen? My eyes have changed colour. They’re blue, and they used to be green, I swear it. The skin underneath them is sun stained, far darker than my cheeks, because I always wear sunscreen but don’t like putting it near my eyes. I look like I’m sick with a tropical disease. And I’m thinner. I drink my food now: smoothies, fruit juices, soft drinks and too much coffee. Solid food has become repulsive to me since I started working in that kitchen.

I sit down on my unmade bed. What will I be going down there for? Is it because I’m bored with being alone? I’m not scared of being alone, that’s different. I’m bored with it, sick to the teeth of it, but not afraid of it. I’m afraid of being with someone. Because the moment they touch my breasts just so, weighing them in the palm of their hands, I’m ripped back through time.
Would you look at that?

I tried to have sex when I was at uni. Just once. He was friends with my flatmate, Matt the pothead, and he seemed so knowing, so sure of himself, I was certain he’d be able to unlock me. Make me like it, make me want it. On the night it happened, Karen, Matt, him and me went to the pub. He and I stayed after the others had gone home, just long enough for him to rest his hand on my thigh so I knew what was on offer. Then we stumbled home after them.

But when it came down to it, when we were in my bedroom and he was lying on top of me, I couldn’t stand it. I pushed him off, told him I didn’t want to. The worst thing was he stayed anyway, just went to sleep on my bed. And I was sure it was because he didn’t want Matt to know he hadn’t gotten lucky. He snored away and I lay there burning up, hating him and, most of all, hating myself.

That’s what I’m afraid of. Sex.

21

the tasman sea swell

COASTALWATCH

Swell size enormous – Swell direction S

Stay on the beach. Don’t even think about going out unless you’re a professional with a jet ski and a team to make sure you come up again …

The top car park is three-quarters full. Everybody’s down there to see the monster swell from the Tasman Sea. Twenty-foot wave faces are predicted for some beaches, around midday.

Yesterday, the lifesavers were on the radio begging people not to go out because they’d only be putting other people’s lives at risk. When I woke up this morning I went out onto my deck and I could hear the noise of it. The rumble was louder than anything I’ve ever heard before, each wave crashing like a baby avalanche.

I park the Laser and walk across the car park, carrying a travel mug full of coffee. There are maybe forty people along the railing, backlit by the morning sun, staring out at the enormous swell. In its slipstream comes cold Tasman air. I rest my coffee on a post and zip my hoodie up. Then I walk behind the backs of the spectators towards the lookout spot.

There are three jet skis out there and three surfers. Two of the skis are parked out the back, their drivers twisted around watching for a signal from the surfers in the water. The third jet ski is sweeping in, towing a surfer in its wake. I stop walking to watch the jet ski whip him onto a mound of swell that grows bigger and bigger as it approaches the land shelf.

The crowd erupts into hoots, hollers and claps. A surprised exclamation –
Augh!
– booms out like a handclap.

The surfer tracks left on the wave, backhand for him, trying to stay up near the top of the peaking slope. At the last minute as the wave begins to shut down, he runs into a bottom-hand turn and uses the speed to kick himself out over the top. He’s in the clear. The jet skier zooms in towards him then has to pull out again as another set rolls in. The surfer starts paddling sideways, trying to get out of its path. He gets sucked up a wave face, but he’s close enough to the shoulder to be able to push through in a duck dive.

I’m blown away. These waves are magnificent, there’s no other word for it. Feeling dazed, I start walking towards the lookout seat. That’s when I see the group of men near the railing beside the showers, surfers all of them – brown skin, faded jeans, T-shirts and old jumpers. I see Ryan in amongst them. The rest of them are staring out at the ocean, but he’s staring at me.

I glance away, feeling a thudding start up at the base of my throat. Am I supposed to go to him? With them there? I can’t. I don’t know what to do. I climb up onto the lookout seat on the far side of a couple of baby boomers from Newport or somewhere further up the peninsula, by the look of them.

The husband is explaining to his wife how the jet skis tow the surfers in because the waves are too big for them to paddle into. ‘Also, I suppose, in case one of them injures himself. Much more efficient for attempting rescue, I would imagine.’

He’s read about it or reasoned it out himself.

The two of them are shielding me from Ryan. When the husband helps his wife down from the seat I’m left exposed. I look north towards the headland, but really I’m trying to see if he’s still watching me. He is. The weight of his stare is like a rope around my neck, tug, tug, tugging me in his direction. I wonder if he thinks I’m playing games. I’m not. I just can’t go over there while he’s with a group of men.

I take a sip of coffee, feeling like a tosser with my travel mug, jump off the seat and hurry down the path to the beach, slipping in the sand. Out front I sit on the pine railing fence in front of the lifesavers’ box. The beach is closed this morning so there are no lifesavers in there but instead a father and his kids.

For a moment I forget all about Ryan. The waves are even more spectacular viewed up close. When they peel it’s like a line of skyscrapers falling down, structural instability in one section creates a domino effect. It’s completely different to the crocodile snap of smaller waves when they close out on the banks. In between sets there’s a lot of water moving about, giant rivers pushing and pulling in different directions. I’m reminded of the arrows drawn on weather maps to illustrate the flight paths of cold and warm air, the different fronts passing each other. The whole foreground of the ocean is a sea of white foam, like ploughed snow.

Another surfer is up behind his jet ski, the pointed nose of his board carving his path through the water. He enters the wave too far inside and is forced to link a series of turns, trying to build enough speed to make it across before he’s buried by tonnes of water. He reaches the shoulder and executes a slow graceful turn. With his legs so far apart and strapped into position on his board he looks like a toy soldier, feet mounted to a plastic stand.

‘How’re you goin’?’

I jump. Ryan sits down on the rail without looking at me.

‘Good.’

‘Massive, eh?’

‘Yeah it’s huge.’ My voice sounds glassy.

‘See you’ve got your coffee.’

‘I felt like it was an event. Going to see the circus.’

‘It is a circus. Waterworks.’

A prickly pause.

‘I was going to come over …’ I have to squeeze the words out of my throat.

‘Yeah, I was waiting for you to.’

‘… to say hello. I just … You were talking to those guys.’

‘You were put off by them?’

‘Sort of.’

I glance at him, which is a mistake because I get trapped. I want to tell him to stop looking into me, stop reading me. I wonder why I ever thought his eyes were cold. Or maybe they’ve changed. I thought they were metallic the first time I talked to him, but I can see now they’re softer than that.

‘So I’m going to check out Dee Why next,’ he says. He’s talking in a soft, slow voice that I haven’t heard him use before. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘Just you?’

He nods. I say yes, and as I say it I’m worried I’m answering a different question.

As we’re walking back up the path, a group approaches and Ryan stands behind me to let them pass. I don’t know which is more unbearable, him walking beside me or behind me. When we reach the grassed area I keep my head down, but my gaze slides sideways to the group of men. I’m worried they’ll be looking over at us, taking note. They’re not. They’re focused on the water. Ryan’s back beside me now and I notice he doesn’t look at them.

‘Do you want to ride with me?’ he asks.

‘Rhino!’ A male voice, one of the group calling out.

Ryan lifts an arm and waves, but doesn’t stop walking. I’ve got the same sense of vertigo I feel when I’m driving my car and I’ve got to fight from scraping against the guard rail. God, if I’m not careful I’ll just unpeel in front of him.

‘Carly?’ He stops walking, waiting for me to answer him.

My forehead wrinkles. ‘Um, I don’t know.’

They’re watching. You don’t know what he tells them and you don’t want to leave yourself open to that. Next time you’re out there, what will you cop? What’ll they think they can get away with?

‘I could just follow you in my car,’ I say, and once again there’s that glassy quality to my voice.

He scratches his head. ‘Be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it? Two cars.’

‘No, it’s cool.’

‘Parking’s going to be shithouse, mate. They’ll all be out having a look. Be easier with one.’

‘Oh.’

‘Look it’s no biggie. We can take two cars.’

‘Um …’ I tap my teeth with a finger, stare at the ground.

He watches me trying to make up my mind, not impatient, more amused.

We’re strangers on first-name terms. We both surf here, but really that equates to meeting in the street. It’s not the common ground you share when you go to uni together, or work with each other, or meet through another friend. Do I trust him enough to get in a car with him? I don’t know anything about him, except he’s been in jail.

Grinning, he shakes his head. ‘All right then, two cars it is.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. Let’s just … get going.’ He starts walking across the bitumen towards his Commodore.

I feel like such an idiot. All we’re doing is going to Dee Why, why do I have to make such a big deal out of it? He probably doesn’t even like me. Maybe he just feels sorry for me, especially after the way I lost it in the car park.

Except, his eyes – sometimes I feel like they’re considering me. Asking me if I want to consider him.

He looks at me over his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you parked over there?’

Too busy freaking out, I’ve followed him to his car.

‘Listen, okay, well, I’ll come with you. If that’s all right.’

He moves his hands to show it’s fine, business-like now, playing it low-key. He opens his door, gets in, then leans across and unlocks the passenger-side door. The window’s down anyway, so I don’t know why it’s locked.

I walk around to that side of the car and I just can’t get in. I look at my watch. Then I poke my head in through the window. He’s staring across at me and I notice the freckles over his nose, and how his chapped lips have got freckles too.

‘You know what? I forgot I have to work. So I’ll drive – it’s closer from there –’

‘Right-oh, mate. See you there.’

He starts his engine and idles his way out of the car park. He waits for me just past the roundabout. We drive to Dee Why in a convoy.