Free Night Beach by Kirsty Eagar

thick
and
tightly
curled.
Tonight,
it’s
loose,
    tumbling
down
her
back
like
a
flaming
waterfall.
I
wish
she’d
just
let
go
and
live
up
to
    that
hair.
Brian
loves
it.

    ‘What’s
Brian
cooking?’
I
ask,
making
my
voice
bright
again.

    ‘Swordfish.’
    ‘With
the
wine
and
herbs?’
When
she
doesn’t
answer,
I
turn
around.
‘Mum?’

    I’m
taken
aback
by
the
look
in
her
pale
blue
eyes:
fierce
and
hurting
and
full
of
anguish.
    For
a
moment,
we
just
stare
at
each
other.
    ‘Mum?’
I
say
again,
my
voice
uncertain.
I
step
closer,
wanting
to
hug
her.

    She
says,
‘When
you’ve
done
that,
you
might
go
down
and
tell
Kane
dinner’s
almost
    ready.’

    9
    As
cold
as
the
ices
    ‘Yo!’
Kane
calls
out,
his
voice
muffled.

    I
push
the
downstairs
door
open
to
find
him
sitting
at
the
table
in
the
living
area
with
    his
back
to
me,
silhouetted
by
the
glow
coming
from
his
laptop.
The
rest
of
the
place
is
    in
darkness.
To
my
left
is
Kane’s
bedroom,
which
is
the
only
part
of
downstairs
that
ever
    looks
lived
in.
He
keeps
everything
else
hotel
neat.
A
closed
door
leads
to
a
second,
    smaller
bedroom.
    Kane’s
board
helps
Mum
and
Brian
with
the
Major
Mortgage.
They
said
he
didn’t
have
to
    pay
anything
–
I
think
they
liked
the
idea
of
having
another
man
in
the
house
for
the
    times
Brian
is
away
–
but
Kane
insisted.
That
was
big
of
him,
because
it’s
not
like
he
has
    much
money.
Kane’s
semi-‐professional,
slogging
it
out
at
second-‐tier
events
to
improve
    his
ranking.
He
has
to
make
up
the
shortfall
between
his
sponsorships
and
prize-‐money
    payouts,
and
his
expenses,
and
he
does
it
by
working
as
a
contract
painter
because
he
    gets
paid
cash
and
the
hours
are
flexible.

    ‘Um,
tea’s
almost
ready.
Mum
said
to
let
you
know.’
I
take
a
couple
of
steps
into
the
    room,
hover,
and
then
add,
‘I
put
some
stuff
in
the
other
bedroom
while
you
were
gone.
    I’ll
move
it
tomorrow,
if
you
want.
Just
Mum
and
Brian
said
you
weren’t
really
using
it,
    so
.
.
.’

    What
Mum
and
Brian
said
was
that
Kane
was
renting
one
bedroom
and
the
facilities.
    Technically
speaking.
While
Kane
was
gone,
I
set
up
my
easel
and
painting
stuff
in
there,
    thinking
it
would
give
me
an
excuse
to
come
down
here.

    Without
turning
around,
Kane
says,
‘Nah,
it’s
all
right,
leave
it
there.
Come
and
get
a
look
    at
this.’
    Tight
with
nerves,
I
walk
across
to
him,
feeling
the
cold
tiles
through
my
thick
socks.
    He’s
in
the
same
worn
T-‐shirt
and
jeans
as
this
morning,
and
is
still
barefoot.
‘It’s
    freezing
down
here.
Why
don’t
you
turn
the
heater
on?’

    Kane
doesn’t
answer,
his
attention
fixed
on
the
screen
in
front
of
him.
I’m
wary
of
him,
    but
he
doesn’t
seem
to
be
exhibiting
either
the
cockiness,
or
the
craziness
he
had
earlier
    on.
    He’s
not
even
aloof,
which
is
how
he
usually
is
around
me.

    Kane
seems
.
.
.
well,
normal.

    He
glances
at
me
and
then
nods
at
the
screen.
‘What
do
you
reckon?’

    It
takes
me
a
moment
to
process
what
I’m
looking
at.
Then
I
breathe,
‘Oh,
wow.’
    ‘Yeah,
not
a
bad
shot,
hey?’

    The
Kane
on
screen
glares
back
at
me
from
deep
inside
a
front-‐side
barrel,
so
deep
that
    the
lip
has
already
closed
over
the
photographer.
The
set-‐up
is
one
I’ve
seen
a
million
    times
before
in
surf
magazines,
but
this
one
screws
with
my
head,
like
a
negative
image.
    Things
are
not
quite
right.
It’s
because
it’s
night.
The
water
is
black
and
Kane
is