Night Beach (5 page)

‘Nah,
just
get
your
board.
I’ve
closed
the
tarp.
I’ve
got
the
keys,
so
lock
it
up
when
you

come.’

Halfway
down
the
stairs,
Kane
shouts,
‘Hey
Abbie!
There’s
another
bag
behind
the
seat.

Can
you
get
that
too?’

He’s
wrapped
my
leg-‐rope
neatly
around
the
tail
of
my
board
and
laid
it
on
the
grass

near
the
front
of
the
ute.
I
open
the
passenger-‐side
door
and
pull
a
small
khaki
duffel

bag
free,
and
its
contents
spill
over
the
seats
and
floor.

Shit.

Flustered,
I
start
piling
the
stuff
back
inside
–
his
wallet,
passport,
a
small
toiletry
bag,

pens,
toothpaste,
sunglasses,
deodorant,
miniature
bottles
of
body
wash
from
a
hotel,

sunscreen,
a
cap,
a
surf
mag
with
a
plane
ticket
used
as
a
bookmark,
two
mobile
phones

–
one
newer
and
better
than
the
other
–
a
zinc
stick,
bottled
water
.
.
.

Although
there
aren’t
any
compartments
in
the
bag,
and
everything
was
jumbled

together
to
start
with,
I’m
worried
he’ll
somehow
know
I’ve
been
snooping.
Because
I

am
snooping,
even
if
I’m
doing
it
at
speed.
All
of
these
things
are
clues
to
the
mystery
of

Kane.
I’m
looking
for
something
specific.
And
I
find
it,
in
the
back
pocket
of
a
pair
of

board
shorts.
A
string
of
five
foil
packets.
I
hold
them
up,
feeling
a
sick
sense
of

satisfaction.

And
for
that
moment,
I
stop
worrying
about
Kane
coming
back
up.
I’m
rubbing
the
foil

between
my
thumb
and
forefinger,
feeling
the
squish
of
the
rubber
inside,
imagining

him
rolling
one
of
these
on
himself
just
before
he
rolls
onto
some
girl
whose
face
is

shadowy
to
me
but
whose
legs
are
long,
slim
and
tanned.
I
feel
sick
with
jealousy
–

repulsed,
but
also
excited.

Guilty
of
being
a
pervert,
I
come
to
with
a
start
and
look
up.
There’s
no
sign
of
him.
And

what
I
do
is
keep
one
of
those
packets,
peeling
it
away
from
the
rest
and
tucking
the

little
square
of
foil
into
my
bikini
top,
under
my
breast
where
it
can’t
easily
be
seen
and

won’t
fall
out.
Then
I
tuck
the
remaining
packets
back
into
the
pocket
of
his
boardies

and
stuff
them
inside
the
bag.

I’m
not
worried
that
he’ll
notice
one’s
missing.
Because
what
can
he
think?
That
I
went

through
his
bag
and
stole
one
condom?
Why
would
any
sane
person
do
that?

But
of
course
when
you’ve
got
it
bad
for
somebody,
you
aren’t
really
sane.
You’re
a

stalker
and
a
groupie
combined,
and
you
do
things
even
you
don’t
want
to
try
and

understand.

I
scramble
around,
picking
up
the
rest
of
the
stuff:
a
tooth-‐brush,
roll-‐on
insect

repellent,
lots
of
foreign
coins
–
gold
ones
in
different
sizes
and
silver
ones
with
wiggly

edges
.
.
.

I
think
I’ve
got
it
all,
but
then
I
see
the
exercise
book
lying
facedown
on
the
driver’s-‐side

floor
mat.
Did
it
come
from
the
bag,
or
was
it
there
to
begin
with?
Curious,
I
reach
across

for
it.

‘Oi,
Abbie!
What
are
you
doing?’

I
give
an
almighty
jolt,
stuff
the
exercise
book
into
the
bag
and
zip
the
bag
shut.

Kane
appears,
walking
out
of
the
carport
and
up
the
driveway.
I
watch
him
step
onto
the

grass,
my
frozen
expression
one
of
pure
guilt.
I’m
splayed
sideways
across
the

passenger
seat
of
his
ute,
one
leg
hanging
out
of
the
door,
the
bag
on
the
driver’s
seat

beside
me,
and
what
I’ve
been
doing
suddenly
seems
so
obvious
that
shame
completely

paralyses
me.
He’ll
read
everything
he
needs
to
know
on
my
face;
it’s
blazoned
there

like
a
screaming
headline.

He
leans
down
to
frown
at
me
through
the
open
door,
resting
one
arm
on
the
roof
of
the

ute.

‘How
long
does
it
take
to
get
a
bag?’
There’s
an
edge
to
his
voice.

I’m
so
flustered
and
guilty
that
I
can’t
speak.
Instead,
I
duck
my
head
and
go
to
get
out
of

the
cab.
As
I
move,
I
feel
a
sharp
gripping
pain
in
the
toes
of
my
right
foot.

I
look
back
up
at
Kane,
face
stricken,
and
hiss:
‘
I’ve
got
a
cramp.
’

My
eyes
are
tearing
up.

‘I
can’t
–’
I
break
off,
sniffing.
‘My
whole
leg
is
–
it
hurts
–’

I’m
tensing
all
the
muscles
in
my
leg
so
that
they’re
compacted
hard.
Doing
this
makes

the
cramp
in
my
toes
worse,
and
it
spasms
into
the
arch
of
my
foot.
‘It
hurts!’

‘Yeah
okay,
settle
down,’
Kane
says
roughly.
He’s
leaning
into
the
cab
as
he
says
it,

looking
at
my
foot,
seeing
the
way
my
toes
are
all
jammed
together.
‘Stretch
it
out.’

‘
I
can’t.
It
hurts
too
much,’
I
say.
‘Why
else
do
you
think
I’m
sitting
here?’

‘All
right,
all
right.’

‘Usually
they
go
away,
but
it’s
getting
worse.’

‘Well,
get
up
and
put
some
weight
on
it.
It’ll
hurt
more
but
then
it’ll
be
over.’
He
opens

the
door
as
wide
as
it
will
go,
then
grabs
my
arms
and
pulls
me
off
the
seat.

With
a
sharp
intake
of
breath,
I
stand,
balancing
on
my
left
leg.

‘Okay,
relax
it
again.’
Kane
kneels
down
and
starts
vigorously
rubbing
my
leg,
trying
to

stretch
out
the
muscles.
‘I
get
’em
too.
It’s
the
cold
water,
and
then
because
you
tense
up

against
it.
Dunno.
You
right?’

‘Yes.’
I’m
dying,
actually.
There’s
no
dignity
in
this
for
me
at
all.
His
hands
feel
so
warm,

but
all
they
do
is
remind
me
my
leg
is
cold
and
goose
pimpled
and
probably
really

unattractive.

And
he’s
rubbing
so
hard
I’m
wobbling
like
jelly.
The
towel
I’m
wearing
comes
loose
and

I
freak,
worried
that
all
the
jiggling
might
dislodge
the
condom
from
the
stretched

elastic
of
my
bikini
top.
I
toss
the
towel
over
the
top
of
the
door
and
pinch
the
underside

of
my
breast,
checking
I
can
still
feel
the
square
of
the
condom
through
the
worn

material.
None
of
which
Kane
notices
because
he’s
focused
on
my
leg.
When
I
look
down

at
the
top
of
his
head,
how
close
he
is
to
me,
my
stomach
hollows
out.

‘Okay,
okay,
that’s
enough,’
I
say.
I
feel
humiliated,
and
now
I
just
want
to
get
away.

He
stops
rubbing.
‘Stand
on
it.’

I
put
weight
on
my
leg,
slowly
stretching
out
the
remains
of
the
cramp
in
my
calf.

‘Better?’
he
asks,
looking
up
at
me.

I
nod,
suddenly
choked.

He
stands
up
slowly,
not
shifting
backwards
at
all,
resting
one
hand
on
the
roof
of
the

ute
so
I’m
fenced
in.
‘Nasty
one,
hey?’

‘Yeah-‐no
–
sorry,
I
mean,
thanks.’
I
clear
my
throat
nois-‐ily.
‘Um,
your
bag
.
.
.’
I
whirl

around
and
reach
inside
the
cab,
dragging
the
bag
across
the
seat.
Then
I
half
turn

towards
him,
pulling
the
bag
across
my
body
and
handing
it
to
him
awkwardly
because

he
hasn’t
moved
back
to
give
me
any
room.

There
is
the
faint
smell
of
something
singed
hanging
in
the
air.

‘Ta.’
He
tosses
the
bag
on
the
ground
and
the
things
inside
make
a
crunching
noise
as
it

lands.
If
that
exercise
book
was
never
in
the
bag
to
begin
with,
I’m
screwed.

This
line
of
thought
stops
abruptly
when
I
look
back
at
Kane
and
discover
he’s
staring
at

me,
his
teeth
working
over
his
bottom
lip,
his
green
eyes
too
bright.
I
want
to
squirm

and
he
knows
it.
It
makes
me
paranoid
that
he
realises
all
the
things
I
think
about
when

I
think
about
him.

I’m
still
grasping
my
bikini
top,
and
his
gaze
travels
down
to
my
hand
and
then
back
up

to
my
face.
I’m
too
cold
to
flush,
instead
I
feel
brittle.

He
takes
the
towel
and
slings
it
over
his
shoulder.
‘All
right
if
I
take
this
back?’

I
nod.

‘You
sure?’

‘Yeah,
I’m
okay.’

He
lets
a
lot
of
silence
slide
by,
and
then
gives
me
this
knowing
little
smile.
‘You
can

have
it,
if
you
like.
If
you
still
want
it.’

The
dirty
way
he
says
it
–
I’m
not
completely
sure
he’s
talking
about
the
towel.

Somebody
picked
up
a
personality
transplant
in
duty-‐free.

‘No,
I’m
going.
I’m
freezing.’
Flustered,
I
bend
to
duck
under
his
arm,
but
he’s
already

stepped
back
out
of
the
way
and
is
closing
the
door
of
the
ute
firmly.

I
grab
my
board
and
limp
off
down
the
driveway,
then
cross
the
courtyard,
holding
onto

the
underside
of
my
breast
like
I
have
a
bad
stitch.
I’m
sure
Kane’s
still
watching
me,

smirk
on
his
face,
so
I
restrain
myself
from
picking
my
bikini
out
of
my
butt.

4

Difficult
pleasure

Safely
inside
my
room
with
the
door
closed,
I
set
up
my
tripod
and
camera,
aiming
the

camera
at
the
antique
mirror
on
the
wall
facing
my
double
bed.
While
I’m
doing
this,
a

low
mechanical
whine
shudders
through
the
house.
The
plumbing
is
prehistoric.
Kane

must
be
having
a
shower.

If
I
let
myself
think
about
what
just
happened
with
him,
I’m
lost,
and
I
don’t
have
time

for
that.
Nor
do
I
have
time
for
a
shower.
I
want
to
catch
this
while
it’s
raw.
At
least
my