Shit. He had the whole beach, the whole coast and his own freaking cave and he had to be right there. Not that she had to talk to him. Even if he opened his eyes, she didn’t have to. He wasn’t the job anymore. She could pretend she didn’t see him, she could trudge straight past him, she could go the other way, she could …
He opened his eyes and he smiled at her and all her nots and coulds and wasn’ts reformed into a fast heel pivot and a swift walk in the other direction. She got a few car lengths away before she pulled it together.
Drum wasn’t a bushfire and she wasn’t a tree he could burn through. He was a mentally disturbed man and she was behaving like lunatic.
She turned back. He hadn’t moved. When she got closer she could see he’d closed his eyes again and she felt slathered in foolish sauce for the second time in as many minutes.
She stood a little in front of him. There was a man who begged at the main intersection of the town centre. He was often shirtless. He wore his hair in a plait. He went barefoot and the soles of his feet were black and tough, cracked thickly like the tread in a car tyre. He smelled dreadful. He held a piece of torn cardboard that said, “Please halp me. Good bless.”
There was another man, Asian, so filthy his skin was the colour of tea steeped for too long. His hair was one long mat, shaped like a beaver’s tail, almost reaching his knees. He wore a plaid dressing gown all year round. Neither man would stay in a shelter long. Neither would allow the council, charity, or church services near them. Both annoyed local businesses and frightened children, and both lived hard, sad, disconnected and heartbreaking lives.
Drum looked like a surfie dropout or one of those hippie types who lived out of a camper van. He was clean and healthy and, if you put aside his unstable attachment to the cave, he was an educated and interesting man. He was heartbreaking in an entirely unexpected way.
He opened his eyes. They connected directly with hers as if they were a homing device and her breath stalled.
She took a couple of steps towards him. “I’m sorry, that was plain rude of me.”
He inclined his head. “It’s okay, you’re mad with me. I get it. It shows you have good strong self-preservation instincts.”
Foley shook her head. Her preservation instincts were gift-wrapped with her way too ordinary life. “How can you get it?”
“I can see it in you.”
She huffed out a laugh.
“You’re ambitious, you’re dissatisfied, you’re anxious. But mostly you’re wondering if I deliberately came down here to annoy you. For the record I come here every night, weather permitting, to run and to meditate.”
She frowned. His guesses were general, vague and spot on. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Whatever it is you want, Foley. Whatever it is you’re looking for, I hope you find it.”
She shifted her weight onto one leg and jammed her hands onto her hips. “Don’t go getting all mystical on me. I had you pegged for a rational hermit squatter guy and here you are going all transcendental and wishful thinking on me.”
He smiled. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“You were really meditating, not just sitting there listening to the sea?”
“That can be a meditation, so can chanting or exercise.”
“If you start chanting, I’m out of here.”
He smiled and patted the sand beside him. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll give you a meditation that’ll take that stress out of your eyes, at least for tonight.”
She must’ve had scepticism in those stressed-out eyes, because he patted the sand again. “You didn’t get what you wanted from running. Maybe you can get it from being still.”
Beguiling hermit squatter man. She took a step closer. “I was going to get it from junk food.”
He tipped his head back to look up at her. “That can work too, but it comes with unfortunate side effects.”
She sat cross-legged beside him, the sand cool on the back of her bare calves. “Now what?” Tim Tams made more sense than this.
“The idea is to be still, let all the stress, everything you’re worried about go, and just be without it for a little while.”
She snuck a look at him. “What worries you?” It wasn’t a witch of a boss, or a sad social life. But maybe it was the lack of those things most people took for granted, a job, friends, a feeling of worth.
“Nothing when I’m here doing this.”
Maybe he’d been a lawyer in his former life. “Good duck. Quack.”
He smiled and the beauty in that was part way to a meditation all by itself. They sat in the falling light looking at each other and saying nothing for longer than should’ve been comfortable, and yet Foley had no urge to get up and walk away.
“What do I do now?”
He turned his head to look at the sea. “Pick something to focus on, just one thing.”
“What do you choose?”
“The sea. My own breathing.” He turned his face around again and a heat-seeking missile locked onto her eyes. “An image of something beautiful.”
It was entirely inappropriate that she was holding her breath. She couldn’t meditate and hold her breath. She knew nothing about meditating but she was sure it didn’t work like flirting or passing out.
“Take a breath, Foley.”
It shuddered in her chest and out of her throat in an embarrassing waver.
“Take another one.”
She took it, open-mouthed and shallow.
“Close your eyes and listen to the sea.” Drum closed his and turned his face away.
She watched him, this strange, inappropriate man she was so drawn to.
“Are your eyes closed?”
She didn’t want to close them, she wanted to shuffle slightly sideways so she was closer to him, so she could see him clearer, feel the warmth coming off his skin, smell his raisin toast scent. “Yes.”
His cheek lifted. “Close your eyes, Foley.” He turned his head and caught her staring and she felt no compunction to turn away because she knew he would.
Except he didn’t.
He turned his whole body around, pushing sand aside with his knee and she breathed and breathed and no air seemed to get past her nostrils, her whole body felt light and flyaway, a lure cast out on a fishing line, and his eyes were busy, travelling all over her face in a way that made her heat from the inside. She licked her lips because she was thirsty as well as breathless and Drum made a sound she didn’t think belonged in a meditation, a throaty hmm as he reached over and put his palm over her eyes. “Close them.”
He took his hand away and she wanted to snatch it back, but she did as he’d said and closed her eyes because his voice was hypnotic and she wanted more of his instructions.
“Take a deeper breath and hold it.” She did. He waited for her exhale. “Take another one.” She did. He waited. “And another. Make them slow and deep. Make each breath fill you up from toenail to hair tip.”
She breathed and she filled with air, but her thoughts were pinging around like popping corn in the microwave, each one slamming new awareness of him into her. He was sitting so close and his hand had been so warm on her face. If she inched forward her knee could touch his. If she opened her eyes he might close them for her again. What did this mean? Why was it hard to concentrate on anything but him? She was the worst meditator in the history of sitting cross-legged with your eyes closed, and if he was still looking at her he’d know. She almost opened her eyes but he spoke again, trapping her in her fake meditative state with the jostle of unsuitable thoughts.
“Let whatever is in your head just be. All the most important thoughts will wait for you. And when your mind has rested you’ll know what to do with them.” She kept her eyes closed and tuned in to his voice, to his nearness. “For now just breathe, it’s enough, one after another, deep and full and long. No breath costs, no breath hurts, none is greater or lesser or smarter or richer, or more beautiful. None competes, none takes aw
ay. Each breath just is. All of them wonderful, all of them free, and yours to take and give away.”
Foley tuned in to the frequency of his words and breathed, and so did Drum, and she was aware of the sea and the temperature dropping, the feeling of the sand on her legs and her mind settled, her brain got quiet and all of her disconnected, frantic thoughts fell away; but one.
They breathed like that together, in sync, until her shoulders dropped and her neck felt easier and her day’s frustrations lifted off.
She opened her eyes to find the light gone, to find him watching her in the glow from the ambient orange night lights on the promenade.
“You were saying goodbye. When you said you hoped I’d find what I was looking for, that was goodbye.”
He nodded. “It’s the right thing to do.”
He’d said the important thoughts would wait, that she’d know what to do with them, and she did. “Not for me.”
“Ah, Foley,” he said, his voice soft but heavy like humid summer air.
“I don’t know what this is, but it doesn’t have to be goodbye.”
He’d closed his eyes again. “It can’t be anything else.”
Drum stood and she sighed as a feeling of loss brushed over her in a sprinkle of loose sand, making her shiver, but when she looked up his hand was there.
She took it, and he helped her stand. “There is no rule that says we can’t be friends.” If she wanted a life less ordinary she could have a friend who lived in a cave.
He let her hand go. “I’m not the kind of guy you can hang out with in front of TV.”
“No, but you play a mean sunset, and you know how to feed a girl a decent meal.”
“Foley, it—”
She reached over and put her hand over his mouth, his open lips, pliant and damp on her fingers, his beard bristly. He made a shocked sound and stepped back and into a shadow.
She didn’t give him time to object further. “Friends go for a run together. They talk about their day. Their evil bosses and their difficult mothers. Friends share a meal. One friend might teach another to meditate. One friend might worry another doesn’t have a proper home.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need you feeling sorry for me.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you. I don’t understand you, but I’d like to try.”
“It’s not right. It can’t be.”
“It’s already happening, you and I being friends, and you know it. Otherwise you’d have walked away the moment you knew I was here. It’s a great big beach and there was no reason for us to run into each other. No reason for you to want to teach me to meditate. And by the way, I’d like to have another go at it if you’re up for it.”
He was facing away, but he might’ve walked away. He might still.
“Drum, I’ll be here tomorrow night for a run and after that I’m going to have a go at this meditation thing, see if I can get it. It would be great if you were here to help me out.”
“No.”
“Of course, if you’re busy.” She put emphasis on the busy and he half turned. “Friends can be casual, no strings, no obligations. If I see you,” she shrugged, “I see you.”
She got a nod, but not a commitment. She couldn’t read him well enough to know what he was thinking, but she hoped it wasn’t still goodbye.
14: Friends
Drum couldn’t stay away. But he couldn’t reveal himself either. Foley parked her car on the promenade and sat on the hood looking out at the sea. If she looked up to the deck of the surf club she’d see him, but she wouldn’t expect him to be there, it was members only and he got to be on the deck because he did odd jobs for the clubbies and they let him come and go as he pleased.
She looked around, locked her car, pocketed the key and went down the ramp to the sand. She wore black Skins, fitted to her knees over legs he wanted to run his hands down. She wore a sky blue tank that showed off the rest of her body, narrow waist, neat ribcage, breasts trapped tight in a sports bra. She had shape to her arms, the indentation of a bicep she’d worked to get. She had an athlete’s figure, lean and confident and too easy to watch. He liked her best this way, not in her work dresses and shoes that made her severe, more remote.
He stood on the deck and watched her become smaller as she approached the shoreline and felt guilty about doing it. But at least he wasn’t down there waiting for her, holding out an illusion they could be friends like Dorothy and some horror show mash-up of the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow. They’d need a whole new character for him, one without a moral compass. He’d go about looking like a reasonable person, but anyone who had prolonged contact with him would sicken and suffer.
She stood with her feet in the shallows. Hands on her hips, head tipped back so her tail of hair stretched down her back. He didn’t want to move until she started running.
On another day, if he wasn’t a man without a conscience, he’d stand beside her, feel the same wave lap at his ankles, the same stretch of sand bury his toes. He’d run beside her, adjusting his stride so he didn’t outpace her, letting her determine how hard they ran, how long. He gripped the brick edge of the balcony.
He craved that synchronicity of being with her; breathing in the same space, seeing the same vista, hearing her voice, being aware of the cheeky glint in her eye, right before she realised she was flirting and closed it down with a tight expression that locked her thoughts away, but still managed to tell him he disgusted her.
And that was as it should be. Exactly what a man without substance, without backbone, deserved.
Why wasn’t she running? She turned and he almost ducked, so real was the feeling she was looking right at him. From where she stood she’d see a figure on the balcony but she wouldn’t know it was him, wouldn’t expect it to be. He realised she was looking at the clock over the surf club door. So much for casual, she was waiting for him.
He was made of jelly, not stone. He’d go downstairs and when he stood under the clock, if she was still at the shore he’d go down to her. Tell her again, this friends idea was a waste of her time, a threat to her well-being.
From under the clock he couldn’t see the shore. Too many parked cars in the way. He glanced up the length of the beach, where he’d be able to see if she was running, and couldn’t spot her. He crossed the promenade and stood at the top of the ramp that led down to the sand. She was still at the shore and now she could see him. She made a big armed come here, hurry up gesture. He knew her face would be sunshine itself. But he felt like a storm front.
He jumped the distance from the ramp to the sand and toed off his shoes, leaving them against the wall. They’d be there when he got back; they were too busted up for anyone to want to steal. He’d tell her to go, to leave him alone, to get on with her fucking life.
He watched his feet push into the sand, listened for the clean squeak of shell fragments colliding with skin and when he looked up she was gone. She’d started to move along the wave edge. He quickened his pace and she moved from a walk to a jog. He hit the wet sand and felt his leg muscles contract as he pushed into a run. Did she know he was there? Ahead, she ran around a kid building an epic castle and he slowed to avoid a surfer with a tangled leg rope. Not once did she look behind to see if he followed.
They could travel the whole beach like this, her in front, him behind, starting to sweat but less from the dying heat than the sight of her. Nothing on her body was spare or extra or left over. If he was jelly, insubstantial and weak, she was bamboo, wild and strong and flexible. She could splatter him into a million skerricks of nothing and he would still dirty her with his foulness.
He stopped, feet smacking the wet sand hard, breath coming in grunts. Why was it so hard to remember that? When he looked at her all he felt was want, the steady sting of desire whiplashing around his heart and throat. It made him forget he was unfit, unclean.
“Come on, you big girl.”
He looked up. She’d stopped too, was dancing foot to foot. She jerke
d her chin up in challenge. “You’re not even trying.”
He was trying to do the right thing and that wasn’t chasing after her. It wasn’t being beside her, being close enough to brush against her, have her voice in his ear and her smile made for him.
She took off again. If he let her go, she’d understand. He looked out at the horizon. It didn’t matter if she understood. He’d walked away from the privilege of being known. But with Foley, he craved it. For tonight, just for tonight, if she gave it, he’d take it.
He let one more wave break over his shins. She’d put distance between them. He’d need to work to catch her. He kicked off with a long stride, pounding the wet sand, his footprints stamping deep, hers already filled with water and dissolving. She was running hard, as if she knew the only reason he’d let himself be with her was if he had to work to win that prize.
He pulled his arms in tighter, eased his centre of balance forward and he gained on her. In a few seconds she’d hear him coming, it was all the warning she’d have. If this was a different life, he’d sweep her into his arms, bring them both to an easy rest, take her remaining breath as his own in a kiss to stagger them both. But easy wasn’t allowed either, because it’d once been too effortless and others had paid the price for his choices.
She laughed, tossing her head when he raced up behind her. Now beside her, he could see the sweat sheen on her arms and chest. She didn’t let up her pace and they raced along together, pounding the shoreline. A mum pulled her toddling kid out of their path. An older woman stepped back, smiling at them to give them their speed, a fisherman held off his cast till they passed in front of him. They were the wind and the sea and every element of life pulsing in between.
The rock pile at the end of the beach loomed and they both slowed, strides shortening, energy reined back, lungs grasping. Foley stopped first and he blasted past her then turned back. She was bent forward, holding her thighs, her back curved to drag in her next breath. Sweat dripped off her chin.
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