Night Beach Read Online Free Page B

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?’

    ‘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