Night Beach by Kirsty Eagar Page B

I
wish
the
feeling
would
stop
because
it’s
making
    me
nauseous,
and
it’s
hard
enough
just
coping
with
the
stress
of
thinking
I’m
about
to
be
    busted
at
any
second.
    The
exercise
book.
    Where
do
you
belong?
Were
you
in
the
ute
already?
I
sit
on
the
bed,
running
my
fingers
    over
the
front
cover,
and
then
start
leafing
through
it.

    Kane’s
handwriting
is
scrawled
and
awkward,
tilted
over
like
it’s
scratching
its
way
    forward
into
a
strong
headwind,
but
it’s
obvious
pretty
quickly
that
this
is
a
surf
diary.
    There
are
a
couple
of
entries
to
a
page,
and
each
entry
is
dated.
    On
the
14th
of
March,
when
he
was
still
at
the
Gold
Coast,
he
wrote:

    D-‐bah
early.
2ft
E.
NW
wind.
Stu
from
Dark
rang
–
beers
at
Broadie.
New
contract
soon.

    He
surfed
at
Duranbah.
The
swell
was
two-‐foot
from
the
east,
the
wind
from
the
    northwest.
I
hope
Stu
bought
the
beers.
Most
of
Kane’s
sponsors
just
give
him
stuff.
But
    Dark,
his
main
sponsor,
actually
pay
him
a
bit.
    Further
in,
I
find
something
scrawled
diagonally
across
the
bottom
of
a
page:

    Forget
about
Toby
A!
No
–
use
it.
Use
it
to
fire
you
up.
U
R
good
enough.

    These
words
are
a
little
window
into
Kane’s
head.
I
run
my
fingertips
over
his
angry
    scrawl,
feeling
the
indentations
in
the
paper.
I’ve
never
seen
him
vulnerable
before.
It
    makes
me
ache.
    I
start
looking
for
other
asides.
It
occurs
to
me
that
he
might
have
written
something
    about
Christmas,
and
I
flick
back
to
the
front
page.
But
the
entries
start
in
February.
    There
might
be
something
about
me
in
April,
though.
That’s
when
he
came
to
live
with
    us.
    On
the
25th
of
April,
Anzac
Day,
he’s
written:
Left
for
Sydney.
Lennox
lunch.
3ft
S.
SE
wind.
    Port
Mac
for
night.
Stayed
with
Brad.
RSL
for
beers
then
clubs.
Melissa.
    I
frown
down
at
the
page
–
at
‘Melissa’
specifically.
I
think
I
know
where
she
came
in
the
    order
of
events:
he
must
have
met
her
at
a
club.
It’s
pretty
obvious
what
you
do
with
    people
you
meet
in
clubs.
I’m
stinging
with
jealousy,
but
just
her
name
isn’t
enough.
I
    want
all
the
details.
I
want
to
know
what
he
does,
even
if
it’s
with
other
people.
It’s
sick,
    this
thing.
My
mouth’s
full
of
spit.

    On
the
26th
of
April
he
arrived
at
our
place:
Sydney.
Good
set-‐up
downstairs.
Checked
it
    late.
2ft
SE
onshore
and
shitty.
Might
be
OK
early.
Get
into
it.
Tea
with
M,
B
&
A.

    He’s
just
seen
me
for
the
first
time
since
Christmas
and
I’m
only
an
initial.
What
did
I
    expect?
I
was
pathetic
for
hoping
in
the
first
place.

    At
the
start
of
June,
I
find:

    Lauren
at
me
all
the
time
with
her
baby
talk.
Can’t
stand
it.
    Hey,
baby.
What’s
wrong,
baby?
Why
not,
baby?
Gets
it
from
those
Yank
TV
shows.
My
    name
is
Kane.
She
wants
to
come
on
the
trip.

    Tinny
music
blares
out
and
I
jump
to
my
feet.
After
a
moment
of
absolute
panic
when
I
    think
I’m
not
alone,
I
locate
the
source:
a
mobile
phone
lying
on
his
dresser.
He
must
    have
bought
himself
a
new
phone,
I
think,
recognising
it
as
one
of
the
two
mobiles
that
    fell
out
of
his
bag.
The
ringtone
is
‘Fire’
by
Kasabian,
which
surprises
me
because
Kane
    is
usually
disinterested
in
music.
Curious,
I
peer
down
at
the
screen,
wanting
to
see
if
    the
caller
is
identified.

    Dad.
    I
thought
Kane
wasn’t
in
contact
with
his
dad.

    The
phone
stops
and
the
screen
fades
to
black.
Nerves
shot,
I
cross
to
the
window
and
    peer
out
cautiously.
No
sign
of
Kane.
I