Night Beach (11 page)

was
going
to
swamp
the
salad
with
dressing
the
way
that
guys
swamp
cereal
with
milk.

The
fridge
shuts
with
a
soft
smacking
sound
and
she
reaches
past
me
for
a
little
crystal

bowl
filled
with
sea
salt
and
the
pepper
grinder.
I
get
a
waft
of
her
perfume.
It’s

Samsara,
and
the
smell
always
makes
me
sad.

A
moment
later,
I
hear
her
placing
things
on
the
table.

‘Well
I’m
glad
you
had
a
good
day.
Mine?
Oh,
mine
was
fine,
thanks,’
I
mutter
to
myself
–

but
quietly.
When
Mum’s
like
this
she’s
formidable.
A
cold,
white
storm
front.

Mum
returns,
reaching
into
the
fruit
bowl
on
top
of
the
fridge.
She
places
an
avocado

down
on
the
bench
beside
me.
I
slice
it
open
and
separate
it
into
two
halves.

‘No,
no,
no,
no
–’
She
breaks
off,
sighing.

‘Sorry.’

‘Now
it’ll
brown,’
she
says.
‘You
should
have
cut
it
last.

Quick,
squeeze
a
bit
of
the
lemon
over
it.’

‘Sorry.
Sorry.’

As
I
slice
capsicum,
I’m
watching
her
reflection.
She
opens
the
fridge
again
and
stares

into
it,
her
face
grim.
Her
red
hair
is
long
and
thick
and
tightly
curled.
Tonight,
it’s
loose,

tumbling
down
her
back
like
a
flaming
waterfall.
I
wish
she’d
just
let
go
and
live
up
to

that
hair.
Brian
loves
it.

‘What’s
Brian
cooking?’
I
ask,
making
my
voice
bright
again.

‘Swordfish.’

‘With
the
wine
and
herbs?’
When
she
doesn’t
answer,
I
turn
around.
‘Mum?’

I’m
taken
aback
by
the
look
in
her
pale
blue
eyes:
fierce
and
hurting
and
full
of
anguish.

For
a
moment,
we
just
stare
at
each
other.

‘Mum?’
I
say
again,
my
voice
uncertain.
I
step
closer,
wanting
to
hug
her.

She
says,
‘When
you’ve
done
that,
you
might
go
down
and
tell
Kane
dinner’s
almost

ready.’

9

As
cold
as
the
ices

‘Yo!’
Kane
calls
out,
his
voice
muffled.

I
push
the
downstairs
door
open
to
find
him
sitting
at
the
table
in
the
living
area
with

his
back
to
me,
silhouetted
by
the
glow
coming
from
his
laptop.
The
rest
of
the
place
is

in
darkness.
To
my
left
is
Kane’s
bedroom,
which
is
the
only
part
of
downstairs
that
ever

looks
lived
in.
He
keeps
everything
else
hotel
neat.
A
closed
door
leads
to
a
second,

smaller
bedroom.

Kane’s
board
helps
Mum
and
Brian
with
the
Major
Mortgage.
They
said
he
didn’t
have
to

pay
anything
–
I
think
they
liked
the
idea
of
having
another
man
in
the
house
for
the

times
Brian
is
away
–
but
Kane
insisted.
That
was
big
of
him,
because
it’s
not
like
he
has

much
money.
Kane’s
semi-‐professional,
slogging
it
out
at
second-‐tier
events
to
improve

his
ranking.
He
has
to
make
up
the
shortfall
between
his
sponsorships
and
prize-‐money

payouts,
and
his
expenses,
and
he
does
it
by
working
as
a
contract
painter
because
he

gets
paid
cash
and
the
hours
are
flexible.

‘Um,
tea’s
almost
ready.
Mum
said
to
let
you
know.’
I
take
a
couple
of
steps
into
the

room,
hover,
and
then
add,
‘I
put
some
stuff
in
the
other
bedroom
while
you
were
gone.

I’ll
move
it
tomorrow,
if
you
want.
Just
Mum
and
Brian
said
you
weren’t
really
using
it,

so
.
.
.’

What
Mum
and
Brian
said
was
that
Kane
was
renting
one
bedroom
and
the
facilities.

Technically
speaking.
While
Kane
was
gone,
I
set
up
my
easel
and
painting
stuff
in
there,

thinking
it
would
give
me
an
excuse
to
come
down
here.

Without
turning
around,
Kane
says,
‘Nah,
it’s
all
right,
leave
it
there.
Come
and
get
a
look

at
this.’

Tight
with
nerves,
I
walk
across
to
him,
feeling
the
cold
tiles
through
my
thick
socks.

He’s
in
the
same
worn
T-‐shirt
and
jeans
as
this
morning,
and
is
still
barefoot.
‘It’s

freezing
down
here.
Why
don’t
you
turn
the
heater
on?’

Kane
doesn’t
answer,
his
attention
fixed
on
the
screen
in
front
of
him.
I’m
wary
of
him,

but
he
doesn’t
seem
to
be
exhibiting
either
the
cockiness,
or
the
craziness
he
had
earlier

on.

He’s
not
even
aloof,
which
is
how
he
usually
is
around
me.

Kane
seems
.
.
.
well,
normal.

He
glances
at
me
and
then
nods
at
the
screen.
‘What
do
you
reckon?’

It
takes
me
a
moment
to
process
what
I’m
looking
at.
Then
I
breathe,
‘Oh,
wow.’

‘Yeah,
not
a
bad
shot,
hey?’

The
Kane
on
screen
glares
back
at
me
from
deep
inside
a
front-‐side
barrel,
so
deep
that

the
lip
has
already
closed
over
the
photographer.
The
set-‐up
is
one
I’ve
seen
a
million

times
before
in
surf
magazines,
but
this
one
screws
with
my
head,
like
a
negative
image.

Things
are
not
quite
right.
It’s
because
it’s
night.
The
water
is
black
and
Kane
is
spotlit.

He’s
crouched,
body
curved
to
the
swirl
of
the
wave,
back
arm
skimming
the
face,
front

arm
leading
the
way.
The
image
isn’t
perfectly
clean,
it’s
blurred
slightly,
but
that
adds

to
the
feeling
of
movement.
Kane’s
charging,
lips
drawn
back
to
show
his
teeth,
eyes

gleaming
in
the
glow
of
the
light.
He
looks
inhuman.

‘Like
it?’

I
realise
Kane’s
watching
me
for
a
reaction
and
my
face
burns.
I
nod.

He
looks
back
at
the
screen,
legs
jiggling
under
the
table.

‘Yeah,’
he
says,
sounding
satisfied.

I
clear
my
throat.
‘It’s
like
one
of
those
night
hunting
photos.
Like
you’re
a
wave
beast.’

He
laughs,
and
then
flattens
it
into
a
cough,
as
though
he
doesn’t
want
to
seem
too

carried
away.
‘That’s
a
good
one.
Shooting
surf
beasties.’

‘It’s
from
the
trip,
yeah?’

‘Yeah.
Marco
took
a
whole
bunch
of
these.’

‘Was
he
the
photographer
who
went
with
you?’

‘Photographer,
film-‐maker.
.
.
he’s
a
cool
guy.’

‘Film-‐maker?’

Kane
nods.
He’s
trying
not
to
look
pleased,
but
it’s
breaking
through
anyway.

‘So
the
trip
could
be
in
a
surf
film?’

He
nods
again,
letting
his
grin
out
into
the
open.

‘That’s
awesome,
Kane.
You
totally
deserve
it.’
Something
in
my
voice
catches
his

attention
and
he
looks
at
me,
surprised.

I
don’t
even
care,
because
I
really
meant
it.

A
film
would
really
up
Kane’s
profile.
I’ve
been
web-‐stalking
him
since
Christmas,
and

the
only
time
his
name
is
ever
mentioned
on
surfing
sites
is
in
reference
to
Toby
A.

They
used
to
be
good
mates,
but
then
they
had
a
big
punch-‐up
in
the
middle
of
a
surf

comp.
It
created
a
lot
of
buzz.
In
the
midst
of
all
the
fallout,
Kane
moved
down
here.

I
never
could
understand
why
Toby
A
went
on
the
trip
with
him.
Maybe
neither
one
of

them
wanted
to
turn
down
the
opportunity
to
be
in
a
film.

‘There’d
have
to
be
a
lot
of
interest,’
I
say
carefully.

Kane’s
face
clouds.
‘Doesn’t
mean
squat
if
we
can’t
get
distribution.
It
needs
serious

backing.
I
talked
to
Dark
about
putting
up
some
cash
behind
it,
but
–’
He
breaks
off
to

sniff.
‘Might
be
interested
now
but.
Surfing
in
the
dark
for
Dark.
Beats
their
shit-‐stupid

idea
for
an
ad
campaign
–
me
surfing
with
sunglasses
on.’

That
gets
a
giggle
out
of
me.
It
is
a
stupid
idea.

He
lifts
his
eyebrows
at
me
and
I
flush.
A
hint
of
a
smile
plays
around
his
mouth.

‘Did
you
get
film
of
this,
too?’
I
ask,
just
to
say
something.

I
nod
at
the
screen.

‘Yeah.
A
bit.
The
photos
are
better.’

‘How
did
he
light
it?’

‘There
was
a
full
moon
out
and
he
rigged
up
this
contraption
with
a
diving
torch.’
Kane

barks
a
laugh.
‘Taped
it
to
his
head.
He’s
game
–
I
went
close
to
hitting
him
on
a
few.
He

ended
the
night
getting
sucked
over
the
falls
with
all
his
gear.

It
was
pretty
crazy.’

He
wipes
a
hand
over
his
mouth,
legs
still
jiggling
madly,
then
clicks
forward
to
the
next

image.
Another
surfer
in
a
barrel
at
night,
although
this
time
not
as
deep,
more
upright,

one
hand
trailing
across
the
face
of
the
wave.
It’s
not
Kane
but
someone
with
a
leaner

build,
longish
dark
hair
and
a
rough
beard
covering
his
face
and
neck.
His
eyes
gleam

red
in
the
light.

‘Is
that
Toby
A?’
The
words
are
out
before
I
think
about
it.

Kane
frowns
and
his
legs
stop
moving.
‘No,’
he
says
eventually
in
this
blank
voice.
‘No,

Toby
didn’t
make
that
session.’

He
stares
at
the
screen,
a
muscle
flexing
in
his
jaw.
‘That’s
Matty
Kenda.’

Matty
Kenda
surfs
at
Walls.
He’s
a
bit
older
than
Kane
and
he
used
to
surf

professionally,
but
now
he’s
half-‐arsed
about
that
and
competitive
about
his

recreational
drugs.
That’s
the
talk
anyway.
I
know
Matty
Kenda,
but
I
don’t
know
him,

not
even
well
enough
to
nod
to.
He
looks
haggard,
older
than
he
is,
but
his
brown
eyes

blaze
and
his
surfing’s
electric.

We
contemplate
the
shot
in
silence.

‘Actually,
he
stayed
over
there.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Toby.
He
stayed
on
there
a
bit
longer.’
Kane
leans
back
in
his
chair,
his
hands
behind
his