Night Beach (4 page)

On
the
way
home
Kane
drives
fast,
but
not
stupidly.
I’ve
got
his
damp
towel
wrapped

around
me,
but
it’s
not
doing
much
to
warm
me
up.
All
the
heater
vents
are
pointing
my

way
and
my
toes
begin
to
burn
as
the
blood
returns
to
them.

The
longer
we
go
without
talking
the
harder
it
is
to
speak.

At
least
between
the
fan
of
the
heater
and
the
blare
of
the
radio
I’m
not
suffering
in

silence.
But
I
feel
choked.
Inadequate.
All
the
usual
feelings
I
get
around
him.
Nothing’s

changed,
even
if
I
am
in
his
ute
and
he’s
broken
up
with
Lauren.

I
stare
out
the
window,
watching
the
apartment
blocks
stacked
along
the
beach
slide
by,

and
I’m
thrown
up
hard
against
the
door
when
he
weaves
around
roundabouts.
I’m

nothing
like
Lauren.
When
I
was
thirteen,
I
used
to
cut
pictures
of
girls
like
her
out
of

magazines
because
I
wanted
to
look
like
them.
Kane
started
up
with
Lauren
in
May,

when
it
was
still
warm
enough
to
wear
a
bikini
on
the
beach.
I
saw
him
collect
her
after

a
session.
She
got
to
her
feet
as
he
approached,
seeming
hesitant,
and
with
good
reason

because
he
didn’t
kiss
her
or
anything,
just
stood
there
with
his
board
tucked
under
his

arm,
looking
impatient
while
she
gathered
up
her
things.

She
was
wearing
this
delicate
little
bikini
that
was
all
the
colours
of
a
sunset,
and
you

knew
just
by
looking
at
her
that
she
was
a
girl
who
was
up-‐to-‐date
with
her
Brazilians.
I

envy
her
body.
If
you
were
sitting
on
a
seat
next
to
her,
you’d
look
down
and
wonder
at

the
slightness
of
her
thighs.
That
day
she’d
gathered
her
shoulder-‐length
blonde
hair

into
a
loose
knot
on
top
of
her
head,
and
bits
of
it
had
come
free
and
were
brushing
her

shoulders.

My
hair
is
long
and
dark
and
thick
with
a
fringe,
which
I
do
dead-‐straight
and
across

when
I’m
going
out,
but
most
of
the
time
it
falls
apart
like
two
curtains.
My
face
isn’t

heart-‐shaped
like
Lauren’s,
it’s
oval.
My
nose
is
straight,
but
it’s
not
particularly
delicate,

and
I’ve
got
round
cheeks
not
high
cheekbones.
I’ve
got
full
lips,
which
bird
girls
like

Lauren
don’t
have,
and
people
say
I
have
a
nice
smile,
so
there’s
that
at
least.

But
my
body
could
never
be
considered
fine
or
delicate.

I’m
short
and
curvy
with
generous
breasts
–
if
I
hold
them
in
my
hands
they
swell

without
me
having
to
plump
them.

Because
of
surfing
and
all
the
bike
riding
I’ve
done
back
and
forth
between
the
break,

I’m
fit
–
no
jelly
bits
–
but
I’m
not,
and
will
never
be,
birdlike.
When
I’m
around
girls
like

Lauren
I
feel
like
a
clump.

‘You
right
if
I
switch
that
off
now?’
Kane’s
not
really
asking
because
he’s
turning
the

heater
off
as
he
speaks.
‘Friggin’
boiling.’

If
you
didn’t
know
Kane,
you
wouldn’t
call
him
hot.
He’s
got
the
surfer
body,
a
top
heavy

V
on
short
powerful
legs,
and
it’s
wrapped
in
a
good
tan,
but
he’s
also
got
thick
blond

hair
on
his
chest
and
forearms
and
legs.
It
marks
him,
makes
him
more
masculine
than

surfing’s
poster
boys
–
the
slim
boyish
ones
who
are
smooth-‐skinned
and
fashion

conscious,
the
ones
girls
lust
over.

What
Kane
has,
though,
is
intensity
–
compressed
ambition.
He’s
always
had
it
and
it

makes
people
notice
him.
Today,
it
seems
to
be
stronger
and
not
so
controlled,
like
he’s

changed
to
a
higher
octane
fuel
and
isn’t
sure
how
to
handle
the
power.

I’m
so
aware
of
him
–
all
the
heat
and
energy
his
skin
is
giving
off
–
I
don’t
think
I’ve

been
this
near
him
since
Christmas.

I
think
about
Greg
Hill
getting
punched
so
hard
he
was
knocked
off
his
board.
Greg
is
a

big
man.
Kane
threw
that
punch
while
he
was
sitting
on
a
surfboard
in
the
water
–

hardly
a
stable
surface.
So
how
did
he
do
it?
The
answer
is
locked
up
in
the
before.
The

memory
that’s
as
hard
to
hold
as
smoke.

I
lean
back
against
my
seat.
The
cold
is
deep
inside
me
now,
soaked
into
my
bones;
the

only
thing
that
will
get
rid
of
it
is
a
hot
shower,
warm
clothes
and
a
coffee.
I’m

exhausted.

And
I
feel
really
down.
Like
crying.
Down,
down,
down.
And
stupid.
Stupid
and
young

and
not
special.
This
situation
is
beyond
desperate.
I
haven’t
got
a
chance.

‘What
was
it
like?’
I
say,
the
words
sounding
like
they’ve
been
ripped
from
my
throat.

He
glances
across
at
me,
flicking
his
head
to
show
he
didn’t
hear.

It’s
a
strain
to
speak
up.
‘What
was
it
–’
He
turns
the
radio
down
and
then
I’m
too
loud

and
shrill,
‘–
like
over
there?’

‘Hot.’

He
turns
right
and
coasts
down
a
hill.
We
just
miss
the
lights
onto
Bayside
Road
and
he

pulls
up
first
in
line.
I
think
that
he’s
being
a
smartarse.
He
can
stick
it.

But
then
he
adds,
‘Surf
was
good,
hey.
Sweet
as.
Really
warm
water,
clean.
Beautiful.

Had
some
bigger
days,
too,
up
to
about
six
foot.
We
chartered
a
boat,
went
to
this
empty

place
which
was
–’
he
breaks
off,
frowning.

‘What?’
I
ask.

Kane
ignores
me.
There’s
this
expression
on
his
face:
a
grimace
of
pain,
his
lips
pulled

back
to
bare
his
teeth.
Then
he
shakes
his
head
and
the
moment
passes,
but
I’m
left

feeling
like
I’m
the
one
who’s
just
been
on
a
plane
for
twenty
hours.

Kane
looks
at
me.
He
seems
different
with
his
hair
shaved
short
like
that:
tougher,
older.

When
I
last
saw
him
it
was
thick
and
wiry.
You
notice
his
eyes
more
now,
the
way
they

bore
into
you.
Against
his
dark
skin
they
are
a
luminous
sea
green.

‘Yeah,
it
was
good.’
He
gives
me
a
secretive
smile.
‘Freaky.’

I
shrug.
‘Crazy
waves?’

‘Crazy
waves,
crazy
people.
Yeah,
all
of
that.’

There’s
something
cagey
about
him.

I
try
again.
‘What
else?’

He
glances
across
at
me
with
his
eyebrows
raised
as
though
he’s
forgotten
what
we’re

talking
about.
But
I
can
see
that
he
wants
me
to
shut
up.

Then,
when
we’re
almost
at
the
Heights’
shops,
Kane
says,

‘Well,
Abbie,
you
don’t
want
to
know
how
it
was.
I
don’t
want
to
know,
and
I
was
there.’

He
laughs,
like
he’s
just
got
a
joke
ages
after
it’s
been
told,
but
the
joke’s
on
him
and
not

in
a
good
way.
He
laughs
for
so
long
that
I
feel
scared.

Kane’s
eyes
are
gleaming
and
he
looks
really
hyped,
but
with
a
ragged
edge.
I’ve
never

seen
him
like
this.
Except
for
last
Christmas,
but
that
was
different
because
he
was

hammered.
Being
drunk
softened
him,
made
him
clumsy.

This
mood
is
sharper,
more
dangerous.
It’s
got
the
potential
to
turn
nasty.

I’m
worried
that
Kane’s
about
to
turn
on
me.
I
think
about
Greg
Hill
again;
how
red
the

blood
was
from
his
smashed
nose.

3

Guilty

We
live
in
Wilmette
Street.
I
hate
telling
people
that.
It’s
the
best
street
in
the
Heights

because
it’s
got
180-‐degree
ocean
views.
It’s
tree-‐lined
and
tucked
away,
with
big

houses
on
big
blocks
of
land.
Rich.

Kane
pulls
in
front
of
Mum
and
Brian’s
house,
kills
the
motor
and
rips
on
his
handbrake

in
one
smooth
sequence.

‘Home,
sweet
home.’

He
says
this
with
a
sense
of
irony.
We
have
that
much
in
common
–
for
both
of
us,
this

house
is
not
a
home.
Dad
and
Mum
split
up
when
I
was
seven
and
my
sister
Anna
was

ten,
and
afterwards
we
lived
with
Dad
on
weekdays,
staying
with
Mum
and
Brian
on

weekends
and
school
holidays.
Then
the
year
I
turned
thirteen,
Brian
was
posted
to
the

bank’s
London
office,
and
I
only
saw
them
twice
a
year.

With
all
that
moving
around,
my
memories
are
scattered
like
pepper.
You’d
think
I

wouldn’t
miss
what
I’ve
never
had,
but
it’s
completely
the
other
way.
I
get
homesick:

sick
for
a
home.
Sometimes
I
wonder
if
that’s
what
the
ending
sadness
is.

I
get
out
of
the
ute,
rewrapping
Kane’s
towel
around
me.

Brian’s
X5
is
missing
from
the
carport.
It’s
Saturday,
so
there’s
a
fair
chance
Mum
will
be

with
him.
I
feel
more
relaxed
knowing
that
they’re
not
home.

Kane
undoes
the
tarp
on
my
side,
pausing
to
hand
me
the
wet
tub.
‘You
want
to
do
the

wetties?
I’ll
bring
your
bike
down.’

I
take
the
wetsuits
to
the
side
of
the
house,
blast
them
with
the
hose,
rinsing
them
inside

and
out,
and
then
fling
them
across
the
head
of
the
clothes
line,
where
it
can
take
the

weight.
Kane
carries
my
bike
down
the
stairs
and
leaves
it
in
the
storeroom.
I
pass
him

in
the
carport
as
he’s
coming
down
again.
He’s
carrying
the
two
double
board
bags
he

took
on
the
trip
and
his
laptop
bag.
His
knees
are
bent
and
he’s
hurrying
in
the
way
you

do
when
something’s
bloody
heavy.

‘Are
you
right?’
I
ask.
‘Do
you
want
me
to
take
one?’