“Fuck no, thank God,” Luke snorts. “My girlfriend’s. She’s got a bun in the oven, though. That one’s mine.” He pauses before adding, “I think.”
Heath frowns, stepping back, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but talking to his former friend.
Luke doesn’t seem to notice. “Those bloody sharks,” he says nodding at the water. “I’m scared to swim these days.”
“Not even a shark would takeyouon, Luke.” Colleen smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She only tolerates him, I realize.
“Damn right about that.” He smiles proudly.
“Was it a tourist, you reckon?” she says, frowning. “I bloody hope it was.”
“Not sure,” Heath says. “There wasn’t much left to identify.”
I look down at the sand, remembering the small chunks of meat on the dark surface.
Colleen chews her bottom lip. “You been checkin’ the nets?”
I raise my head. “The nets?”
“The curtains of death!” Luke announces dramatically. “Shark nets.”
“The VFA put ’em up last month,” Heath softly explains, pointing far out to the ocean. “Two meters under the surface, a hundred meters long. S’posed to reduce the chance of an attack.”
“Well,” I say, “they sure as hell aren’t working.”
“You can’t prevent shark attacks,” Heath says. “Not really. The nets can only do so much.” He must notice Colleen’s face, because he adds, “We check for holes every afternoon. And every second night we make sure nothin’s stuck in the bloody thing.”
She asks, “Is there, usually?”
“Yeah, stingrays, turtles, it’s a bit sad really,” he admits. “Not the big boys, though, not yet.” He hesitates before adding, “But I’d stay outta the water, yeah? For now, anyway.”
“Surprised they didn’t close this beach today.”
Heath shakes his head. “The attack happened near the pier inbeach three. It’s closed until tomorrow. And even if theydidclose it,” he continues gruffly, “they’d still bloody swim in it.”
“Think they know better than everyone,” Colleen says, annoyed. “Bloody tourists.”
“Not just them,” Luke sniffs. “We’re not gonna stop fishin’. And Lord knows nothin’ will keep the boys from surfin’. Look.” He nods up at the parking lot. Five men in black wet suits survey the surf, boards gripped eagerly in their hands. Heath stares at the man in the middle, the one with the buzz cut. I freeze, heart thudding.
Colleen squints up at her son, swearing under her breath. “Trav.”
My brother doesn’t say a word, not yet, but I can feel it, the disapproval. The shift in his stance, the way his mouth tightens as he looks from me to Trav. Trav to me. Does he disapprove of Trav only? Or both of us? The shape we took on when we were together? The darkness we brought out of each other?
Trav shields his eyes from the sun, looks down at his mother. Then me.
Colleen calls him again; I can’t hear what she’s saying. Can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in my ears.
One of the last times I saw Trav, he was slouched beside me in class, chin tucked into his palm, when the cop came for him. Our fifth-grade teacher paused at the blackboard, open-mouthed, chalk dangling from her fingertips. My classmates and I watched with interest as the cop marched up to her, terse and vaguely apologetic. They had a hushed discussion that left our teacher solemn and staggering to her chair, palm pressed into her abdomen.
The cop hauled Trav out of class. He was sent to a juvenile facility for violent kids, and I’d long left town before he returned.
Travis Holloway.
The girl he nearly stabbed to death was our classmate Amy Anderson.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Heath’s and Colleen’s searching gazes. But my attention is locked on Trav. In my mind, we’re kids again. Nine or ten years old. He’s kneeling in the water, mud sticking to his thighs. I’m standing over him, waiting. He reaches up, offers me something. Greedily, I take it.
I shake my head, snap out of it. Trav throws his board back into the van, leans against it.
