Read Online Night Beach by Kirsty Eagar - Free Book Online Page A

Hollywood’s
voice
is
flat
and
now
he
doesn’t
sound
    stoned
at
all.

    I
shrug.
I
could
tell
him
they’ve
broken
up,
but
that
would
be
answering
to
him.
‘What’s
    your
point?’

    ‘Those
guys
are
arseholes,
Abbie.’

    He
means
Kane
and
the
guys
he
surfs
with.
But
what
I
hate
is
the
way
he
says
it.
There’s
    this
hard
note
in
his
voice,
like
I’ve
turned
out
to
be
a
disappointment
and
he’s
glad.

    ‘Definition
of
irony,
Hollywood.
You
worried
about
my
virtue.’

    ‘Yeah,
that’s
funny.
Look,
are
you
staying,
going,
or
what?’

    Once,
he
never
would
have
talked
to
me
like
that.
Without
saying
anything,
I
grab
my
    bag
and
get
out
of
the
car.
Then
I
pull
my
bike
out
of
the
back,
and
close
the
tailgate
with
    a
loud
KER-‐THUNK.
    And
he
just
drives
off.
Drives
off
without
another
word.

    Wanker.

    The
bottom
level
of
the
house
is
in
darkness.
When
I
see
those
black
windows,
I
get
a
    horrible
tight
feeling
in
my
chest.

    Crushing
disappointment
is
hardly
a
rational
reaction,
but
Hollywood’s
got
me
all
    churned
up.

    Even
if
Kane
were
home,
the
chances
of
me
seeing
him
would
be
less
than
zero.
It’s
only
    in
my
fantasies
that
he
climbs
onto
the
balcony
and
taps
on
the
glass
door
to
my
room.
    In
reality,
he
doesn’t
even
remember
Christmas.
And
today?
He
was
just
messing
with
    me.
Laughing
at
me.

    Hoisting
my
bike
higher,
I
make
my
way
down
the
steps
at
the
side
of
the
house,
the
    security
light
throwing
a
long
shadow
in
front
of
me.
I
flick
the
switch
in
the
storeroom
    and,
when
the
light
finally
makes
up
its
mind
and
stays
on,
I
wheel
my
bike
inside
and
    leave
it
resting
against
the
wall.

    I
very
nearly
don’t
do
it.
I
feel
so
yuck
that
I
couldn’t
care
if
that
door
is
locked,
open,
or
    blown
off
its
freaking
hinges.
But
a
compulsion
is
a
compulsion.

    And
up
until
then,
the
chill
in
that
room
has
been
sterile.

    But
as
I
stop
and
turn
to
look
at
the
door,
I
feel
a
change
coming
through
the
air.
A
pre-‐
    storm
electricity
that
sends
a
wave
of
goose
bumps
over
my
skin,
raising
the
hairs
on
    the
back
of
my
neck
and
hardening
my
nipples.
I
take
a
quick,
sucking
breath,
alarmed.
    The
sensation
grows,
my
skin
tightening
so
much
I
can
feel
nerve
endings
snapping
in
    my
scalp.
    I
can’t
take
another
step.
I’m
paralysed
by
the
certainty
that
I
am
somehow
about
to
get
    what
I
have
secretly
been
wanting.
    I
really
think
that
this
time
the
door
won’t
be
locked,
and
if
I
touch
it,
it
will
swing
open.

    I
don’t
run.
I
have
to
back
away
slowly,
moving
like
an
old
woman
because
my
legs
are
    turning
to
water
beneath
me.
    I
hit
the
light
switch
on
my
way
out,
and
it’s
only
when
I’m
through
the
doorway
that
I
    trust
myself
to
go
faster.

    8

    Anxious

    One
thing
about
this
house
that
makes
it
different
to
anywhere
I
have
ever
lived
before
    –
and
this
took
me
a
while
to
work
out
–
is
that
there
is
no
hallway.
Each
room
opens
    into
other
rooms
and
most
of
the
rooms
have
at
least
two,
if
not
three,
doorways.

Also
weird
is
the
pair
of
elaborate
wrought-‐iron
gates
between
the
foyer
and
lounge
    room.
They
are
beautiful
but
pointless.
And
there
are
a
lot
of
chandeliers
around
the
    place,
including
one
in
my
room,
but
they’re
all
positioned
in
nooks
and
corners,
never
    the
central
part
of
the
ceiling.
Again,
beautiful
but
pointless.

    Brian
is
braving
the
cold
out
on
the
balcony,
bent
over
the
barbecue,
nursing
a
glass
of
    wine.
Seeing
someone