Night Beach (10 page)

or
not
I
should
go.
Our
street
feels
like
the
top
of
the
world.
Seeing
the
lights
of
the

houses
below,
the
oil
slick
of
moonlight
on
the
ocean,
makes
me
want
things
I
can’t
even

define.
It’s
like
straining
to
hear
a
whisper.

Some
kind
of
promise.

‘So
your
home
boy
slipped
one
to
Greg
Hill,
hey?’

I
focus
on
Hollywood,
thrown
by
the
sudden
change
in
subject.
‘What?’

‘The
biff.
Today.’

‘Kane?’
Why
is
it,
when
you
like
someone,
you
feel
caught
out
just
saying
their
name?

‘Did
he
say
what
it
was
over?’
Hollywood
asks.
‘Was
it
to
do
with
the
boardriders’

thing?’

‘What
are
you
talking
about?’

‘Greg
blackballed
his
membership
nomination.’

I’m
not
surprised
that
Hollywood
knows
this
–
a
surf
break
is
a
small
town.
But
what

does
surprise
me
is
that
Kane
wanted
to
belong.
Although
I
suppose
it
makes
sense.

Boardriders’
clubs
are
the
veins
of
Australian
competitive
surfing.

Anyone
up-‐and-‐coming
has
been
pushed
through
them,
honing
their
skills
at
monthly

comps.
But
they’re
not
like
other
sports
clubs,
where
little
Johnny
can
just
sign
up
–
at

least
not
down
at
Walls.
It’s
second-‐generation
surfers
from
around
here
only;
the
ones

with
the
right
dads.

‘Kane
should
watch
out,’
Hollywood
says.
‘You
know
what
Greg
did
to
that
other
guy
last

year.’

‘What
guy?’

His
top
lip
curls
and
he
puts
more
nose
into
his
voice,
giving
an
uncanny
impersonation

of
Greg
Hill.
‘So
he’s
in
the
car
park,
wetsuit
pulled
down
around
his
ankles,
like
he’s

getting
ready
to
take
a
shit
or
somethin’,
busy
dripping
metho
into
his
ears,
the
soft
.
.
.

And
I
say,
“Hold
still
a
second,
mate,
you’ve
got
something
on
ya
face”,
and
he
stands

there
waiting
for
me
to
brush
it
off,
the
faarkin’
idiot,
like
I’m
going
to
fix
his
faarkin’

hair
or
something.
But
what
I
do
is,
I
get
my
lighter
and
–
flick,
flick
–
I
light
that
bastard

up
like
a
faarkin’
birthday
cake.’

Hollywood
pulls
over,
and
I’m
staring
at
him,
shocked.

‘Are
you
serious?’

He
nods.

My
grandad
used
methylated
spirits
for
every
medicinal
purpose
known
to
man,
and
a

few
he’d
invented,
so
I
know
all
about
putting
a
couple
of
drops
in
your
ears
after
you’ve

been
swimming
or
surfing
to
stop
ear
infections.
Would
burning
an
ear
drum
like
that

send
you
deaf?

‘Who
was
it?’
I
ask.

‘Dunno.
No
one
from
around
here.’

It’s
then
that
I
notice
Kane’s
ute
parked
out
front,
spotlit
by
the
Audi’s
headlights,
and
I

get
this
beautiful,
heady
rush.

Maybe
he
hasn’t
gone
out.

Hollywood
is
saying
something.

‘Sorry,
what?’

‘I
heard
you
went
home
with
him.’

‘Kane?
We
live
in
the
same
house.’

‘Isn’t
he
with
that
Lauren
chick?’
Hollywood’s
voice
is
flat
and
now
he
doesn’t
sound

stoned
at
all.

I
shrug.
I
could
tell
him
they’ve
broken
up,
but
that
would
be
answering
to
him.
‘What’s

your
point?’

‘Those
guys
are
arseholes,
Abbie.’

He
means
Kane
and
the
guys
he
surfs
with.
But
what
I
hate
is
the
way
he
says
it.
There’s

this
hard
note
in
his
voice,
like
I’ve
turned
out
to
be
a
disappointment
and
he’s
glad.

‘Definition
of
irony,
Hollywood.
You
worried
about
my
virtue.’

‘Yeah,
that’s
funny.
Look,
are
you
staying,
going,
or
what?’

Once,
he
never
would
have
talked
to
me
like
that.
Without
saying
anything,
I
grab
my

bag
and
get
out
of
the
car.
Then
I
pull
my
bike
out
of
the
back,
and
close
the
tailgate
with

a
loud
KER-‐THUNK.

And
he
just
drives
off.
Drives
off
without
another
word.

Wanker.

The
bottom
level
of
the
house
is
in
darkness.
When
I
see
those
black
windows,
I
get
a

horrible
tight
feeling
in
my
chest.

Crushing
disappointment
is
hardly
a
rational
reaction,
but
Hollywood’s
got
me
all

churned
up.

Even
if
Kane
were
home,
the
chances
of
me
seeing
him
would
be
less
than
zero.
It’s
only

in
my
fantasies
that
he
climbs
onto
the
balcony
and
taps
on
the
glass
door
to
my
room.

In
reality,
he
doesn’t
even
remember
Christmas.
And
today?
He
was
just
messing
with

me.
Laughing
at
me.

Hoisting
my
bike
higher,
I
make
my
way
down
the
steps
at
the
side
of
the
house,
the

security
light
throwing
a
long
shadow
in
front
of
me.
I
flick
the
switch
in
the
storeroom

and,
when
the
light
finally
makes
up
its
mind
and
stays
on,
I
wheel
my
bike
inside
and

leave
it
resting
against
the
wall.

I
very
nearly
don’t
do
it.
I
feel
so
yuck
that
I
couldn’t
care
if
that
door
is
locked,
open,
or

blown
off
its
freaking
hinges.
But
a
compulsion
is
a
compulsion.

And
up
until
then,
the
chill
in
that
room
has
been
sterile.

But
as
I
stop
and
turn
to
look
at
the
door,
I
feel
a
change
coming
through
the
air.
A
pre-‐

storm
electricity
that
sends
a
wave
of
goose
bumps
over
my
skin,
raising
the
hairs
on

the
back
of
my
neck
and
hardening
my
nipples.
I
take
a
quick,
sucking
breath,
alarmed.

The
sensation
grows,
my
skin
tightening
so
much
I
can
feel
nerve
endings
snapping
in

my
scalp.

I
can’t
take
another
step.
I’m
paralysed
by
the
certainty
that
I
am
somehow
about
to
get

what
I
have
secretly
been
wanting.

I
really
think
that
this
time
the
door
won’t
be
locked,
and
if
I
touch
it,
it
will
swing
open.

I
don’t
run.
I
have
to
back
away
slowly,
moving
like
an
old
woman
because
my
legs
are

turning
to
water
beneath
me.

I
hit
the
light
switch
on
my
way
out,
and
it’s
only
when
I’m
through
the
doorway
that
I

trust
myself
to
go
faster.

8

Anxious

One
thing
about
this
house
that
makes
it
different
to
anywhere
I
have
ever
lived
before

–
and
this
took
me
a
while
to
work
out
–
is
that
there
is
no
hallway.
Each
room
opens

into
other
rooms
and
most
of
the
rooms
have
at
least
two,
if
not
three,
doorways.

Also
weird
is
the
pair
of
elaborate
wrought-‐iron
gates
between
the
foyer
and
lounge

room.
They
are
beautiful
but
pointless.
And
there
are
a
lot
of
chandeliers
around
the

place,
including
one
in
my
room,
but
they’re
all
positioned
in
nooks
and
corners,
never

the
central
part
of
the
ceiling.
Again,
beautiful
but
pointless.

Brian
is
braving
the
cold
out
on
the
balcony,
bent
over
the
barbecue,
nursing
a
glass
of

wine.
Seeing
someone
else
helps
dissolve
the
fear
I
brought
inside
with
me.
I
make
a

conscious
decision
to
put
what
happened
in
the
storeroom
out
of
my
mind.

Then
I
notice
that
there
are
four
places
set
at
the
dining
table.
I
clap
a
hand
over
my

mouth
and
grin
into
it.

I
head
into
the
kitchen,
wanting
to
know
for
sure.

‘Hi
Mum!’
I
say,
forcing
myself
to
say
it
confidently.
But
she
doesn’t
hear
me.

She’s
at
the
bench,
pulling
the
cord
on
the
lettuce
spinner
over
and
over
again,
so
hard

that
the
tendons
stand
out
in
her
pale,
skinny
forearm.
My
stomach
starts
to
knot
up.

I
hesitate
for
a
second,
hating
feeling
like
this,
reminding
myself
that
I’ve
done
nothing

wrong.
Taking
a
deep
breath,
I
make
myself
go
up
to
her,
putting
a
hand
on
her
shoulder

and
leaning
forward
so
my
face
is
in
her
field
of
vision.

‘Mum?’

She’s
deep
inside
her
own
head,
stewing
over
something,
sharp
lines
between
her

eyebrows.

I
drop
my
hand.

‘How
was
babysitting?’

‘Yeah,
good.
Is
Kane
coming
up
for
dinner?’

‘Yes.
We
thought
it
might
be
nice
to
catch
up
with
him
after
his
trip.’

Breathlessness.
Sometimes
it’s
delicious.
‘Is
he
home?’

‘I
presume
so.’

‘Oh.’

I
notice
the
way
Mum’s
jaw
is
clamped
and
my
voice
changes,
becoming
eager
to
please.

I
hate
myself
for
it.
‘Can
I
help?’

She
pulls
the
top
off
the
lettuce
spinner
and
pushes
the
bowl
towards
me.
‘You
could
do

the
salad.
That
would
be
good.’

Her
voice
is
so
low
that
I
always
have
to
stop
myself
from
saying
‘What?’
after
she
says

something.
People
lean
in
towards
her
when
she’s
speaking.

She
opens
the
fridge
and
starts
rummaging
around.
I
search
through
a
cupboard
and

find
the
salad
bowl.

‘Use
the
glass
one,’
Mum
says,
her
tone
impatient.

‘Oh,
sorry.’
I’ve
picked
out
the
bamboo
bowl
we
normally
use.
So
I
dig
around
in
the

cupboard
again.
There
are
three
glass
bowls
in
there
and
I
feel
stressed,
which
is

ridiculous
but
that’s
how
I
get
around
Mum.
I
hold
one
up
to
show
her.
‘Is
this
okay?’

‘That’s
fine.’

She
starts
placing
ingredients
on
the
bench
beside
me:
tomatoes,
a
capsicum,
a

cucumber,
mint,
alfalfa
sprouts,
snow
peas
.
.
.

‘So
what
did
you
guys
get
up
to
today?’
I
ask,
glancing
over
my
shoulder
at
her.

‘Don’t
dress
the
salad.
We
can
help
ourselves.’
She
says
this
disapprovingly,
as
though
I