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passed through a room full of gym machines, a sauna and a home theatre with widescreen and rows of seats. As he climbed the stairs a group of teenagers came thumping down and a girl told him, ‘Marcus is gone. Maybe to Jason’s?’
    â€˜Jason who?’ But she was sliding past him, her palms upturned.
    He looked into an empty room, a television showing a news channel: floods in Queensland, evacuations, snakes and crocodiles in the floodwater. Five people arrested in Copenhagen on suspicion of planning a ‘Mumbai-style’ terrorist attack. A magnitude-seven earthquake in Chile. He watched it for a minute or two.
    There was a light on at the end of the dark hall. Simon called out, then put his head around the door. On the bed Gibson and a woman were asleep, tangled in a satin cover, their mouths open, breathing harshly. A TV above the bed showed a blank blue screen. Porn DVDs were piled on the bedside table and more strewn on the floor. Beyond, a door was open to an en suite bathroom, its tiles puddled with vomit.
    A Burmese cat leapt up onto the bed, twitching its tail. It sniffed and jumped emphatically off again. The smell in the room was foul. The curtains were open; the moon shone on the water and in the distance lights were moving over the dunes.
    Simon stood by the bed. The woman groaned and turned, her hair trailing across her face. The rank smell reminded him of his father, Aaron Harris. Aaron had got drunk out of bitterness, because of all he wanted and didn’t have. Gibson had all this . But here he was, smashed, in ruins.
    The woman opened her eyes and stared straight at him. He stepped back, but her eyes were glazed and blank, and she turned and buried her face in the pillow.
    He went downstairs, followed by the cat. The couple on the boat were now clothed and sharing a cigarette on a sofa on the upper deck. He called out to them.
    â€˜There’s a whole lot of kids on the beach,’ the woman said, indifferent and surprisingly sober.
    He hurried to the car, imagining bottles spinning in the air above his head. Down at the beach he saw lights moving across the dunes and after a while he could make out a line of kids down at the water’s edge, walking through the shallows. He flashed his headlights on and off, and soon Marcus detached himself from the group and jogged up the beach towards him.

Strategy
    Simon arrived at the pool with his book and his towel. He had been for a strenuous early morning run to the Kauri Lake, and so it was with a sense of earned luxury that he arranged his gear on the table beside the deck chair and lowered himself down. It was a clear, still, blue day. There was a sheen over the garden and the water made loops of dancing light on the wall of the pool house. Nearby, one of the staff, Trent, had stretched himself out on the hot concrete to reach into a drain while another polo-shirted young man, Shane, stood over him, twirling a net on a long stick.
    He applied suntan lotion and put on sunglasses. He couldn’t be bothered with his book but lay toasting his aching legs and watching Trent and Shane, intent over their plumbing. A pair of grey herons flapped over the garden, slow and jerkily uneven on their string-puppet wings.
    Roza said to Juliet, ‘Maybe some men are attractive because they’re thick. A big guy with a nice personality and lots of muscles. The sexy thing is that he’s not complicated. He’s sort of generic. Some men prefer women to be a bit simple. It’s a sex thing. It’s easier to have sex with someone who doesn’t see you too clearly.’
    â€˜Mmm. I suppose.’
    They both looked thoughtfully at Trent and Shane.
    Her face coated with white zinc, in hat, sunglasses and loose Lycra rash shirt, Juliet left the safe shade of her umbrella and stood at the pool steps, dipping a toe in the water.
    Roza touched Simon’s shoulder. ‘Good run?’
    â€˜I went to the Kauri Lake. It’s