Night Beach
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
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