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The next day in Sweetwater the skies were clear, but still grey. Jo stood alone near the edge of the cliffs, staring at the ocean. Below her, a two-hundred-foot sheer drop led to jagged, teeth-like rocks where the water crashed and churned. Ben emerged from Ho’s Palace and lingered on the porch, watching her stare out to sea. He pulled his daypack over his shoulder and limped towards her. He felt good. Yesterday had been a bad day; the crash, being stranded, his relationship-sabotaging sarcasm, but they’d come through it in one piece. Sure, they were stuck in this weird little town, but maybe a few days break from being on the road would be a good thing for both of them. For his part, he could work on his defense mechanisms and take the time to remind Jo why he was worth sticking with. He came up behind her quietly and slipped an arm around her waist.
“Careful,” he said.
Jo looked at him and smiled. They instinctively folded into each other in an embrace. Yes, a good day. They turned away together and made their way back down the winding coastal road towards town.
Lonesome's workshop was shut up when they arrived. A large piece of card was wedged into the metal shutter that had been rolled only halfway down.
“Back soon” was scrawled on the card in faded marker pen ink. As an afterthought, “ish” had been added to the end of the statement.
Jo looked forlornly at the sign, and then at their Camper van parked outside. It had been stripped down to the bare bodywork and frame, and its components lay scattered across the ground around it. Ben emerged from the dim interior of Lonesome’s garage and shrugged at her. He stood next to her and stared at the mechanical remains of their vehicle.
“We need to find him,” he said.
“We could try town,” said Jo.
Ben nodded and quietly clenched his fist, trying not to show Jo his rising anger.
*
Main Street turned out to be nearly as empty as Lonesome’s workshop, as Ben and Jo strolled into town. There was just one person in sight: a tiny old woman clutching a beaded shopping bag with both hands. The old woman motored past them with speedy little micro-steps like some wind-up geisha, pausing only briefly to nod her head at them in the briefest of acknowledgments.
“Where the hell is he?” said Ben.
“Maybe he went to the beach,” said Jo.
“Yeah, right,” said Ben.
Ben felt the sharp sarcasm on his tongue before he knew it was there.
“OK,” he said, trying to rescue himself. “Let’s give it try.”
But his face was now as overcast as the sky above them, and he knew Jo could see one of his moods brewing.
Damn van, he thought.
They walked down to a deserted stretch of unkempt beach and stood there looking out to sea. A lone surfer was out amongst the waves tackling eight-foot peaks with aplomb. Ben and Jo looked at each other. They both remembered their talk with Ho the night before and shared a grimace, wondering what else might be lurking in the water with the surfer.
They walked on along the beach. Jo slipped her sandals off and began to flirt with the tide at the water’s edge. She feigned a little pantomime hysteria when the cold water caught her toes, trying to distract Ben from his souring mood and make him lighten up. He didn't want to play though, choosing instead to lag behind, picking his way through the sand, lost in introspection. Thoughts of yesterday’s crash circled is mind. It was an accident, or if anyone was to blame, it was surely that idiot driving the white van on their side of the road. So why was he suddenly so angry with Jo? She’d just done what anyone else would have done. Her quick reactions had actually prevented them from being injured. So why the hell did he feel this way towards her? Something caught his eye and he stopped to stare out at the waves. For a moment, he was sure he could see a large shadow rising through the water behind the surfer.
Then it was gone.
He quickly scanned the water again, but could see nothing. Jo appeared behind him and traced his gaze.
“What is it?” she said. “Oh my God.”
“What?” said Ben.
This time Ben followed her eye line, out to the blond-haired surfer riding the wave in. One of the man’s two legs planted firmly on the surfboard was a prosthetic. It was a customized sports model. The wiry, black plastic leg bent in time with the flesh driving it, as the surfer shifted his weight and controlled his balance of the board.
“That’s amazing,” said Jo.
“Yes,” said Ben, quietly. “Yes, it is.”
Ben rolled himself a cigarette while they waited for the surfer to make his way in. The surfer waved a lithe, muscular arm at them, as he waded from the water. Jo waved back. The surfer made his way up the beach and planted his board in the sand. He smiled and reached out to shake Jo’s hand, then Ben’s.
“Leyton,” he said. “How's it going?”
“Hi,” said Jo, gushing more than a little. “I’m Jo, this is Ben. And that, that was very, very cool.”
“Ah, you know,” said Leyton. “It shakes the morning cobwebs loose.”
Leyton motioned further down the beach.
“Do you guys fancy a coffee? Crazy should be up by now.”
Jo looked at Ben, who just sighed smoke into the air.
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Cool,” said Leyton. “I love meeting tourists, it’s a rare chance to catch up on reality. We’re pretty cut off out here.”
Leyton and Jo smiled at his well-worn icebreaker, while Ben just stared into the sand. The three of them then started along the empty beach, Ben lagging behind. As they walked, Ben noticed a large wooden shack up ahead. It was set back against the road, where the sand rose and undulated in great sloping dunes. A big, bold, but tired sign in faded gold paint declared:
Crazy’s Golf
Sure enough, behind the shack, Ben could just make out something that might have passed for a crazy golf course; although it could also pass for a scrap yard with golf flags. Ben eyed Leyton’s limp. It wasn’t exactly the same as his, but it was close, and the two men kept in step as they walked. Leyton caught him staring, but the Aussie said nothing, he just grinned.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” said Jo. “But aren’t these waters dangerous for surfing?”
“Well, they're dangerous for anything,” said Leyton.
“So why go out there?”
Leyton shrugged.
“I love to surf,” he said. “And you can’t live your life properly if you're scared all the time, can you?”
Ben exhaled another plume of smoke and kept his surly gaze fixed on the wooden shack ahead.
“Besides,” said Leyton, looking down at his false leg. “They’ve already had a taste of me, and they didn’t like it. Me Ma says I’m stringy.”
Ben, Jo and Leyton stood outside Crazy’s tumbledown beach shack-cum-office-cum-coffee counter. The shutters were up, and the stools were out on the beach-side of the counter, but the interior of the shack was dark and lifeless. Ben looked at the golf course behind the shack. It was a variation on crazy golf, remade from junk and flotsam; scrap and corrugated metal, driftwood, recycled plastic, oil drums and a mishmash of wood off-cuts had been roughly assembled to form nine whole holes of golf.
Leyton banged on the counter and shouted.
“Crazy, ya drunken bum. Get up.”
Leyton hopped on to the nearest stool and delved into a plastic box of sauces and cutlery. He fished out a faded sachet of sugar, ripping it open and sprinkling it on his tongue. Ben and Jo sat on the adjacent stools, as a low, menacing groan rose from the interior of the shack, interrupted halfway through by a wet belch. A figure shuffled out of the dark, growling with an American accent.
“You’re too early kid,”
“It’s not early man,” said Leyton. “It’s late. Anyway, I’ve brought you some customers.”
“Oh yeah?”
A haggard, aging Lothario emerged from the shadows. His tired brown eyes were set in a face like tanned leather, creased by the lines of a life lived a little too well. Crazy had two- or three-days grey growth and if he was past sixty, his tailor hadn't got the memo; last night’s stained and flared polyester suit, his flamboyant gold rings and a medallion nestled amongst a mat of grey chest hair hinted that there was still life in the old dog yet.
“Tearing one off again last night, eh old man?”
Crazy burped again and fiddled with his crotch.
“Who’s this?” he said.
“Jo and Ben,” said Jo. “Nice to meet you Crazy.”
“Delighted,” said the old man. “I was called Joe once.”
Crazy looked over Ben’s scars, then without a word, he filled the kettle under the tap, flicked it on and unscrewed the top from an unseen bottle behind the counter. He poured quickly and Ben caught the flash of a whiskey magically disappearing in a heartbeat. Crazy sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He caught Ben watching him, but neither man said anything. Leyton pulled a cheap, canvas sports bag from behind the counter and began rummaging in it. Crazy poured himself another rescue whiskey and noticed Ben was still watching him.
“Something to say?” he said.
Ben feigned disinterest and looked away down the beach. Leyton retrieved a joint from his bag and lit it, blowing smoke towards Crazy.
“I see you’re in a good mood again,” he said.
“You know where the coffee is,” said the old man. “I need another hour.
Crazy turned around and shuffled back into the shadows, as Leyton stifled a giggle and passed the joint to Jo. Ben lit another cigarette and sighed smoke into the air with a disapproving sigh. Jo gave him a cold look in return. She held his gaze and then took a long drag on the joint.
*
Ben stared at the sea from his spot in the sand, watching large waves tumble and crash on the shoreline. The roar of the surf filled his ears, but he could still hear Jo and Leyton giggling as they got high. They lay on their fronts in the sand a few feet ahead of him, cracking up over something apparently hilarious.
“Hey,” said Leyton. “I think you’re burning.”
Leyton squirted a glob of cold sun lotion over Jo’s back making her squeal. He began to slowly massage it into her skin. Jo suddenly looked embarrassed.
“Erm...”
“You know,” he said. “Just because it’s overcast, it doesn’t mean you’re safe, your skin will still burn.”
Ben slowly rose from the sand and approached them.
“That’s enough,” he said.
Leyton ignored him for a moment, before pushing himself up and brushing away the sand from his body. He stepped forwards, going toe to toe with Ben, the two men locked in a stare.
Leyton grinned at him.
“You want to relax mate,” said Leyton. “You’ll live longer.”
Jo stood up and put herself between the two men. Leyton maintained his stare for a few moments to drive the point home, then turned to her.
“I think I’ll take a dip. Catch you later Jo.”
Ben watched the surfer limp out across the sand and into the ocean. He could feel Jo’s eyes burning into him. He reluctantly turned to face her, and the music.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “He was hitting on you.”
“Yeah, he was hitting on me, and I was in control of it. I don’t need you charging in on your white horse, trying to fight every man I talk to.”
“He had his hands all over you, right in front of me.”
Jo took a deep breath and looked away for a moment, trying her best to remain calm.
“We agreed you were going to make an effort Ben, let me handle my own life.”
“But he was trying...”
“No more protecting, no more controlling.”
She looked him in the eye.
“No more jealousy.”
“But his hands...”
“For Christ's sake,” she said. “He was just putting sun cream on my back.”
Jo sighed with frustration.
“Just stop Ben. OK? Just stop.”
She looked at his dark, manic eyes. They were filled with so much guilt and fear.
“Don’t you trust me?” she said.
Ben lowered his gaze and stared at the sand. Jo drew closer and took his jaw in her hand. She raised it, forcing eye contact. She looked into Ben’s eyes again. This time she saw doubt swimming behind them. Jo quickly turned away and snatched up her shoes. She marched away down the beach without another word.
“Jo,” called Ben. “Jo, wait.”
That was a big mistake he thought. Sure, you made your point, but at what cost? Panic flared and burned through his chest as he realized he'd really done it this time. He grabbed the daypack and limped after her, calling out again, but Jo quickened her pace in response and soon outstripped him. Ben lagged further and further behind as she walked away from him down the beach. He eventually halted, cursing under his breath.
He turned around and reluctantly headed up a small track leading back towards town. As he left the beach, he didn't notice the small, grey thing carried up on to the shore with the tide, riding the surf in. The sea withdrew seconds later, leaving a woman’s severed foot washed up on the wet sand. As the water retreated it wobbled and flopped over on to its side.
*
Jo kept walking, trying to cool off. She wandered further up the beach and then circled around the foot of the cliffs at the headland to find the next stretch of coastline. A rough shingle beach lay on the other side. It led up to another rocky outcrop that jutted out into the sea. She made her way along this second shingle beach and climbed over the rocks there. Beyond them she could see an old, dilapidated boathouse, then what looked like a cannery with a rotting pier in the distance.
She took a deep breath and reeled as the thick stench of rotting fish hit her. She then heard a buzzing chorus and hundreds of flies lifted into the air around her. Jo quickly stumbled away over the rocks and tried to cut inland, away from the flies. She followed a track there back up to a gravel road and saw that it gradually wound down towards town and away from the cliffs.
Jo reached the top of the track and climbed up on to the road. She stood there sizing up both directions it had to offer. To the east, she could see Ho’s Palace and the cliffs she had already navigated. Beyond that was Sweetwater. To the west, there lay an even more desolate stretch of coastline, where the rundown cannery and what was left of the pier lay.
She started the long walk back to the hotel, when she noticed another figure also heading towards it in the distance. She recognized Ben’s tell-tale limp straight away; and he was the last person she wanted to see.
“You shit, Ben,” she said to herself, as she turned around and walked away in the opposite direction.