Night Beach (34 page)

I’ll
sneak
back
in,
just
before
Mum
gets
up.

He’s
positioned
himself
so
that
he
can
see
the
wall.
I
think
he’s
plotting
his
next
move.

‘Are
you
really
going
to
use
the
photos
for
Visual
Arts?’
I
ask.

‘Yeah.
There’s
a
story
now.’

‘There’s
only
two
parts.
That’s
not
a
story.’

‘Yeah,
but
I’ll
do
something
else.
And
then
they’ll
do
something
else.
And
I’ll
get
photos

of
the
whole
thing.
I’m
going
to
display
the
shots,
along
with
a
written
bit
explaining
it

all,
on
this
old
board
I’ve
got.’

‘That’s
naff.’

‘Nah,
it’s
cool.’

‘No,
trust
me.
It’s
naff.
Why
don’t
you
paint
something
on
the
board?
That
would
be

better.’

‘Why?
Embarrassed?
Worried
I’ll
get
busted
and
it’ll
reflect
on
you?’

I’m
taken
aback
by
the
hostility
in
his
voice.
‘No.’

‘So
you’re
gonna
help
next
time,
are
you?’

‘No.
But
that’s
because
–’

‘Because
you
buy
into
all
that
surf-‐wank
shit.’

‘
Whoa.’
I
look
sideways
at
the
top
of
his
head.
‘Where’s
all
this
coming
from?’

He
doesn’t
tell
me,
and
we
sit
there
in
a
spiky
silence.

Is
he
right?
Do
I
buy
into
it?
I
don’t
know.

Once
I
did.
But
then
I
went
overseas
to
visit
Mum
and
Brian,
and
came
back
changed.
I

started
to
get
irritated
with
things
like
the
subtle
Beaches’
Provenance
Test
Dad

underwent
whenever
he
made
an
application
to
rent
a
new
place:
So
where
are
you

moving
from,
mate?

Just
down
the
road,
mate.

Beaches
boy,
are
you?

Yeah,
mate.
Grew
up
in
La
Roy.

Yeah,
don’t
worry
about
all
that
ID
stuff,
mate.
Driver’s
licence
is
fine.

I
realised
that
surfers
bleat
on
about
respect
all
the
time,
but
rarely
show
it.
Smash
the

lip,
gash
the
face,
carve,
cutback,
ripping
–
it’s
all
about
leaving
your
mark;
being
a
man;

dominating
the
wave.
Where’s
the
respect
in
that?

But
I’d
be
lying
if
I
said
I
wasn’t
proud
to
have
earned
a
place
in
the
line-‐up
here.
And
I

did
earn
it
–
turning
up
every
day,
whether
it
was
for
epic
easterly
swell
trains,
or

crowded
summer
slops.
Most
of
the
guys
here
play
fair
if
they
know
you;
chicks
and
kids

get
treated
like
everybody
else,
which
is
more
than
you
can
say
about
most
places.

So
I
don’t
know,
it’s
complicated.
It’s
like
everything
else
in
my
life:
I’m
half
and
half.

But
when
Hollywood
finally
speaks,
I
realise
that
he’s
on
a
different
track
entirely.

‘Just
tell
me
one
thing,’
he
says,
his
tone
sullen.
‘You
reckon
you’d
still
be
into
him
if
he

couldn’t
surf?
’Cause
take
that
away
and
you’re
left
with
a
loser
who
paints
houses,
gets

pissed
with
his
wanker
mates,
and
sleeps
around
on
his
girlfriend.
If
he’s
got
nothing

better
on,
he
might
fuck
you,
Abbie,
but
that’s
about
it.’

‘
Get
off
me.’
I
move
away
abruptly
so
I’m
no
longer
supporting
him,
and
he
falls
on
the

couch
with
an
‘Ugh.’

‘Just
telling
it
like
it
is,’
he
says,
righting
himself.

‘Yeah?’
My
face
is
burning.
‘And
how’s
that
any
different
from
you,
Hollywood?
At
least

Kane
wouldn’t
judge
me
afterwards.’

‘What
are
you
talking
about?’

‘
You.
The
way
you
treat
me
now.
After
the
fact.
You
think
less
of
me.
And
that’s
so
not

fair,
because
we
said
it
wouldn’t
change
anything.’

‘That’s
what
you
think?’
Hollywood
genuinely
sounds
shocked.
‘Abs,
that’s
not
–
No,

you’ve
got
it
wrong
there.’
He
goes
to
put
his
arm
around
me
but
I
slap
it
away.
‘Okay,

okay.
Let’s
just
.
.
.’
He
exhales.
‘Look,
I’m
sorry,
all
right?
I
shouldn’t
have
said
that.’
He

waits,
but
I
don’t
say
anything.
Then
he
intones,
‘
Forgive
me,
Abbie.
I
am
sorry,’
in
a

robotic
voice.

I
glare
at
him,
or
as
much
as
I
can
see
of
him
in
the
dark,
and
I
realise
something.
‘Oh
my

God.
You
actually
apologised,’
I
say,
and
I
have
to
laugh.

‘Yeah,
well,
it’s
going
to
get
better.
Come
back
here.
You
know
I’m
an
invertebrate.’

Hollywood
pats
the
couch,
and
I
slide
over
so
he
can
resume
his
position
slumped

against
me.

He
shifts,
feeling
around
under
his
jumper,
suddenly
a
flurry
of
movement.
‘That
wind.

We
need
a
blanket.’

I
realise
what
he’s
doing
when
he
flicks
a
lighter
on
and
holds
it
to
the
tip
of
the
rollie

he’s
got
pressed
between
his
lips.

‘God,
you’re
smoking
that
stuff
all
the
time
these
days.’

‘Nah.’
He
inhales.
‘Just
when
I’m
nervous.’
He
squeezes
the
words
out
through
his
lips,

holding
his
breath.

He’s
lying.
I’ve
only
seen
Hollywood
nervous
once.

‘Where’s
Max
tonight
anyway?’
I
ask,
because
Max
normally
fulfils
the
role
of

Hollywood’s
personal
taxi
driver,
and
I’ve
suddenly
got
the
oddest
feeling
that
things

are
being
stage-‐managed.

‘Dunno.
I
think
he
had
a
dinner
on
or
something,’

Hollywood
says,
letting
his
breath
out
in
a
rush.

The
fruity
pungent
smoke
brings
back
memories.
Easter.

‘You
want?’
Hollywood
asks,
and
I
see
the
burning
end
of
the
rollie
as
he
holds
it
out
to

me.

‘No,
I’m
cool.’

I’ve
got
this
horrible
crawling
feeling
that
things
are
about
to
get
uncomfortable.
The

surf
is
roaring
like
a
tough
crowd,
but
it’s
not
loud
enough
to
drown
out
the
silence
of

sudden
awkwardness.

I
exhale.
Hollywood
inhales.
Hard.
I
can
hear
the
crinkling
noise
of
the
rollie
paper

burning.
I
feel
trapped.
And
I
decide
I
hate
the
smell
of
marijuana.

Hollywood
clears
his
throat
in
a
way
that
makes
me
realise
that
he
was
telling
the
truth

about
being
nervous.

‘Ever
think
about
it,
Abs?’

I
cup
my
hands
around
my
eyes
and
stare
out
at
the
sea.

Oh
God,
please
don’t,
please
don’t,
please
don’t.

‘Okay,
well,
I’m
just
gonna
say
it.
I
didn’t
think
about
it
at
first.
But
then
I
had
this
dream

one
night.
About
you.
Not
one
of
those
dreams
–
we
were
just
hanging
out.
But
we
were

together.
You
know?
And
it
was
just.
.
.
really
nice.
So
I
think
it
would
be
good,
that’s
all.

’Cause
I
get
you,
Abs.
And
you
get
me.
I
think
we
should
be.
.
.
a
bit
more.
Than
we
are.’

Hollywood
breaks
off.
Sniffs.
‘How’s
that
for
a
shocker?’

When
I
don’t
answer,
he
sits
up,
turning
to
look
at
me,
his
voice
incredulous.
‘You’re

leaving
me
hanging?’

I
wrap
my
arms
around
my
legs
and
squeeze
really
tight.
I
feel
sick.
If
he
was
punishing

me
before
he
laid
himself
open,
what’s
he
going
to
be
like
after
this?

‘Ollie
.
.
.
Look,
I
really
love
you
–’

Hollywood
gives
a
sour
little
laugh.
‘But
you
don’t
like
me.
Yeah,
I
get
it.’

26

The
question

Before
I
go
inside,
I
take
off
my
shoes
and
shake
the
sand
out
of
them.
When
I’ve
locked

the
front
door
behind
me,
I
switch
off
the
foyer
light,
making
my
way
into
the
lounge

room
in
darkness,
looking
out
at
the
view.
All
those
lights
–
electric,
urgent
and
calling.

But
they
can’t
compete
with
the
moon,
breaking
through
a
cloudbank
over
the
ocean.
It

holds
the
real
mystery,
makes
my
soul
ache.
Putting
my
shoes
and
bag
down,
I
press
my

palms
against
the
cold
glass,
trapping
the
moon
between
my
hands.

‘
Fuck,’
I
whisper
to
myself.

This
house.
Sometimes
the
air
inside
it
feels
dead.
The
silence
is
punctuated
only
by
the

fat
ticking
of
the
clock
on
the
other
side
of
the
room
and
my
sniffing.

We
did
it
at
Easter.
Mum
and
Brian
had
gone
to
the
Hunter
Valley
for
a
couple
of
days,

so
Petey,
Max
and
Hollywood
stayed
over.
We
started
with
drinking
games
–
Max
drank

Sprite
–
and
then
Hollywood
pulled
out
two
rollies,
smoked
most
of
them
himself,
got

super-‐paranoid,
and
locked
himself
in
the
toilet.
And
for
some
reason,
hearing
him
freak

out
while
Petey
ran
a
carving
knife
underneath
the
door,
hissing,
‘We’re
gonna
get
you,

Hollywood,’
was
the
funniest
thing
ever.

But
then,
after
we’d
all
tumbled
off
that
edge,
Max
and
Petey
fell
asleep
in
front
of
Rage,

and
Hollywood
and
I
ended
up
in
my
room,
lying
on
the
bed
and
talking.
Oversharing.

He
wasn’t
Kane.
But
Kane
was
still
at
the
Gold
Coast
then,
and
I
didn’t
think
I’d
be
seeing

him
for
a
while.
Although
when
the
conversation
got
around
to
sex
–
or,
rather,
when

Hollywood
drove
it
there
–
I
mentioned
him.

‘So
this
Kane
guy
was
your
first?’

‘No,
we
just
kissed.’

‘Oh,
sorry.’
Hollywood’s
brown
eyes
were
shining,
not
contrite
at
all.
‘I
just
assumed.

Well,
who
then?’

I
don’t
know
why
I
admitted
it.
I
think
I’d
hit
the
point
where
I
was
past
stoned,
past

drunk
and
past
caring.
I
held
up
an
empty
palm,
muting
a
smile.

‘You
mean
.
.
.’
He
made
a
V
with
his
fingers.
‘Really?’

I
nodded.

‘You
want
some
help
with
that?’