The Wave at Hanging Rock: A Psychological Mystery and Suspense Thriller (13 page)

“Three packets?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think so. Like I say, I don’t keep the car clean.”

“Would you be prepared to make a statement to that effect? This could be important.”

“Yes.”

“You’re very sure about this Natalie? You told me ten minutes ago you were sure you didn’t have tablets in your car. It’s strange that you’re now changing your mind, do you realise that?”

Natalie felt her face beginning to burn, but something made her continue.
 

“Yes. I’m sure. I was surprised when you told me and I forgot, that’s all. I’m sure.”

DS Venables looked at her for some time saying nothing, but eventually turned away.

“OK. I understand,” she said.

eighteen

IT WASN’T MUCH of a consolation, but the surf got good while John was seeing Cara. Really good. The way it works around here, you sometimes get a run of low pressures that come in from the Atlantic, one right after the other. Big swirls of isobars full of rain and the wind that builds up the waves. When that happens it’s like the swell comes in on a conveyor belt. But more often you get the opposite, a big fat high pressure that just sits out there doing fuck all. If you get that it’ll be flat for weeks. But when John and Cara were together we had the swell, and for once we got it with good weather too. It was sunny, the wind stayed offshore, sending us the waves and leaving them smooth and clean. The way I remember it, Darren and me went surfing every weekend around that time, most nights after school too.

By then though, the bay was getting crowded. The regular gang had expanded quite a bit already, and we were seeing more and more people driving in from the town inland and from further south. They only bothered to come when the swell was good enough for Town Beach, but it pissed off us locals. They’d leave us alone when the surf was crap, but as soon as we got some decent waves, they’d all be there, parking up right in front of the campsite, ten, fifteen, twenty cars sometimes, each with two or three guys in it. And that was just during the week. Come the weekend it really got silly. The problem was that surf forecasts were getting easier and easier to read. Any idiot these days could see if a good swell was coming, and if it was, everyone round here knew that our beach was the one to head for.

The campsite didn’t help of course. It had got a reputation for being popular with surfers, they liked its basic facilities. It meant we had more money coming in, but it all added to the numbers paddling out when the waves were good. And the bay was small remember, it worked OK with just us locals, but add another thirty, maybe forty guys in the water and you started to get real issues with people dropping in, more than one rider on a wave, that sort of thing.

Like I said, I grew up surfing with crowds. I could have lived with it really, but Darren suffered. He was a strange one really. He had this really nice style when he was surfing, and he wasn’t scared of any waves, but he really didn’t like crowds. He still preferred to sit on the edge of the pack and wait for the waves that came in where no one else could catch them. It worked fine when the beach wasn’t busy, but when the pack got too big, if you sat on the edge you were too far away to catch any waves at all.
 

One Saturday during that time, this really big group of surfers turned up when Darren and me were out there. They arrived in two minibuses with the name of the university up the coast stencilled on the side. They had a small mountain of boards strapped to the roof, and even a fucking kayak perched on top. We watched them from the water and you could see everyone out surfing was watching too, hoping they’d stay in the whitewater, the smaller waves that break right onto the sand, where the kids play. But of course they didn’t. We watched as they snapped themselves into wetsuits and paddled out right where we were all sitting, shouting and joking to each other as if we weren’t there.
 

Normally old Gwynn was the friendliest bloke you could imagine and he’d shout out encouragement as people caught good waves even if he didn’t know them. And with us guys he knew, he’d always be asking about how you were and stuff in-between waves. Like for example he knew all about John and Cara, in fact he thought it was hilarious that John hadn’t been surfing for weeks even though it had been really good, he’d been laughing about it before the students turned up. But even he stopped smiling when these guys started dropping in and ruining wave after wave for everyone. Pretty soon the whole atmosphere had changed. Partly because of the arrogant way the students were surfing, but also just because there were too many people in the water. But then he had a reason to be pissed off.

I saw the whole thing really clearly. I’d just taken a wave right to the inside and was paddling back out. Gwynn was right out the back when the best wave all day came in. It was a beauty, a little bit overhead, and peaking and bending around to give this real steep but gradual wall, you could see it was just going to peel perfectly, and not many waves do that in the bay. And it was Gwynn’s wave every day of the week. So he spun around and started paddling, he was in the perfect spot. He jumped to his feet and stepped straight to the nose of his longboard to hang his foot over the front. Big smile on his face, wave walling up beautifully in front of him - he was all set for the ride of the day, lucky bastard.

I guess maybe one of these students thought so too, because he waited until Gwynn was properly up and riding, you know, had a really good look, and then turned around to take the wave as well. There was no way it was an accident, no way he hadn’t seen him. He just spun around and paddled for the wave regardless. Gwynn called him off the way you’re supposed to, but the student ignored him and kept on going, he made the drop, so now there’s the two of them trimming along the wave, Gwynn on the nose of his board and this student flapping around on a shortboard just in front of him.

I heard Gwynn shout out again, “My wave!” He sounded a bit more incredulous now that the guy hadn’t dropped off the back, realising his mistake. And I saw the student turn around to look, but he didn’t pull out, he just carried on, and then, when Gwynn kept going too, I heard the student reply, I think almost everyone out there heard.
 

“Fuck off old timer,” he shouted at Gwynn, then said it again and gave him the finger. Then he dropped down the face and did a couple of turns. He was an alright surfer too, better than most of the kooky students. It closed the wave out for where Gwynn was riding, and he came off the front and took a bit of a beating as the wave went over the top of him.

Gwynn wasn’t having it, not at his break.

“Hey sonny, you don’t do that,” he said when the guy paddled back out. Everyone else was watching them both, warily like, not wanting to get too involved.
 

“Share and share alike,” the student surfer said.

“What?”

The student said nothing, just tried to ignore Gwynn.

“What? What’s that mean eh? Share and share alike?”

The student muttered something that sounded like “fuck off,” but real quiet.
 

“What you talking about boyo? You just dropped in, you don’t do that. Everyone knows that.”

“Fuck off,” the student said a little louder and tried to paddle away a bit.

“Now, where you going?” Gwynn blocked his path with his board. “You don’t do that, you don’t drop in. I’m sure you know that so let’s keep things nice, you apologise and we’ll all still be friends. How about that?” As he was speaking the student was still trying to paddle his board around Gwynn, but Gwynn stopped him by putting his arm out and trying to catch hold of his shoulder. I’d seen a few punches in my day, but this was one of the fastest. The guy just lashed out with his fist and connected with Gwynn’s face.

“Don’t fucking touch me. I said fuck off,” he yelled at the water where Gwynn had fallen in backwards. “You’re taking every set wave on that fucking log. How about you fucking apologise for that? You fucking cunt.”

 
When Gwynn surfaced there was bright crimson on his face where his lip had split.
 

A couple of the other locals had paddled closer to Gwynn and helped him back onto his board, and a couple of the other students who were close by went over to the student guy and tried to calm him down. It looked like things might get proper ugly for a moment, but maybe they were studying law or something and realised the first guy could be arrested for assault if they hung around.

“Hey Graham, take it easy yeah? He’s not worth it,” one of them said. “Let’s go in, get out of here.”
 

And they all paddled back in and loaded up their fucking minibuses and pissed off, leaving Gwynn lying on his back on his board trying to stop his lip bleeding.
 

I might be remembering it wrong, but I think it was that night when we saw John again for the first time in weeks. We were in the caravan, me and Darren I mean, talking about what had happened when the door opened and John just walked in, like he’d never been away.
 

“Alright boys,” he said. “What you up to?” He wasn’t cocky or anything, it wasn’t a triumphant entrance. In fact I got the feeling he knew it was going to be a bit awkward since he’d brought us something. He put his bag down right in the middle of the plastic table. “You want some of this?”

“What?” Darren reached over to open the bag and John watched without sitting down.

Darren peeled the canvas of the bag down to reveal a six pack of beers.
 

“Awesome,” Darren said. “Nice one, John.” He grabbed one at once and opened it, but John glanced at me first and I just shrugged.
 

We were still too young to get away with buying alcohol in the village, at least Darren and me were. John could sometimes get away with it.
 

John sat down and pulled out another beer then handed it to me. I didn’t want it, not from him anyway, but I took it cos I didn’t want him to know how much I’d been hurt. It was stupid really. Looking back it’s obvious they knew what I felt for Cara, but none of us wanted to admit it. So officially me and John were still mates, but really at that time I really hated the fucker. John gave me an unconvincing smile and opened another beer for him. Only then did he slide in behind the table next to Darren. And it was him he talked to.

“So what you up to?”

Darren wasted no time telling him what happened to Gwynn and it was perfect for John since it gave him the chance to just slot back in as if nothing had happened. He sat there like a doctor listening to a patient reel off their symptoms.
 

“You know what? We should be more like the Badlands,” John said when Darren had finished. He sounded angry, but to me it was a bit fake. I mean, he wasn’t there. What did he care?

“What’s the Badlands?”

“Are you for real? Everyone knows what the Badlands are,” John said.

“Of course I know what they are,” Darren sounded annoyed at himself. “I’ve just forgotten.”

“You’re full of shit. You don’t know.” John laughed. “How long have you been surfing for? And reading all these magazines?” John pointed to the mess on the floor.

“Well, you don’t really read surf mags do you? You just look at the pictures,” said Darren, which was true really.

“So go on,” Darren continued, “what’s the Badlands?”

John pulled himself more upright before continuing.
 

“The Badlands are this secret bit of the coast down in Cornwall. There’s loads of reefs and little bays, and it’s got some of the most amazing waves in the whole world.”

“So?” Darren’s face was screwed up like it did when he was confused.
 

“So, it’s really close to like Newquay, which is where there’s a million kooks on holiday, and yet none of the kooks dare to go into the Badlands. They all know the Badlands are for locals only.”

“So why is it called the Badlands?” asked Darren.

“Because bad things happen to you if you go there.” This was me. I felt like Darren was making us both look stupid.

“What kind of bad things?”

“You know,” John was beginning to sound pleased with himself. “The locals there won’t let you catch any waves for a start. And if you try they’ll slash your tyres, or rub wax into your windscreen, and if that doesn’t work they’ll just beat the shit out of you. Not just one punch like this dude today. Make proper sure you fuck off and don’t come back.”

 
John took a swig of beer then belched up the gas. Darren’s face was still screwed up.
 

“But if they slash your tyres, then how do you fuck off? I mean, your car wouldn’t go properly. You’d be stuck there.”

John sighed. “Well they only do one wheel, so you use the spare to fuck off. The point is you know not to surf there. That’s the way the locals get to keep their waves for themselves.”

This seemed to satisfy Darren. He finished his beer - he was always a quick drinker - and opened his second, which John had lined up in front of us.
 

“So we’re going to do the Badlands here?” Darren said.

“Yeah, I think so,” John said, like he’d sorted the problem, and that annoyed me.
 

“I think it’s a stupid idea.”

A little colour flushed into John’s face. “Why?”

“It’s just gonna be us doing this is it? Waxing people’s windscreens and beating them up? Or are we gonna get Gwynn involved? I mean he’s just about the friendliest bloke in the whole world. Shall I explain the plan to him or are you gonna do it?”

John looked for a moment like he might punch me. “So you want to let every fucking kook come and take our waves and do nothing about it? Is that it?”

“No. But you didn’t even see those uni students. There were like loads of them, and they were all pretty big. And anyway, it’s not really a problem for you anymore, you’re too busy to go surfing these days.” I hadn’t meant to say the last bit, it just came tumbling out and even to me it sounded bitter.
 

John said nothing at first and when he did his voice was quiet. “Well, I guess it is my problem again if you mean Cara. We broke up.”