In the afternoon I catch the bus from granny’s out to Caves Beach. Sunburnt obesities kill themselves softly. Bodies everywhere. It’s not quite summer yet. But stinking hot. Dad used to take me to explore the rockpools at low tide. But I was always scared. The water was going to come in. I wouldn’t be able to escape. I wonder if youami ever comes here. He didn’t look like he could surf.
Caves is not like Coogee. The bodies are different. In Coogee the men sizzle. Size me up. Here the guys just concentrate on the waves. But it doesn’t matter which beach I go to. I’m the only one with a moontan. My body isn’t built for the beach. Mindless recreation and sweat. Salt and sand up your crack. Nah. After last night I’m beginning to wonder what exactly my body is built for. I watch girls with effortless long legs jog into the waves and duck under. I’m too hot even to swim.
The sand evaporates into scrubby bush and commercial waste-of-spaces. The perfect spot to murder young girls and dig shallow graves. I wonder how many dead bodies I walk over. Newcastle’s torn apart from years of mining. Granddad was a coal miner who came out from Ireland. He left his family farm when he was 14. Granny said he used to walk under the ocean to get to work. The mines tunnel deep under the sand. He died before my dad came out. Which is lucky because that announcement probably would have killed him. Or so my mum says.
During the earthquake my granny was in a car on her way to the bank. She didn’t really notice it. She thought it was just the car wheels going over a speed bump. When she got to the bank everyone was screaming and she didn’t know why. I’ve always been interested in natural disasters. Imagine if another earthquake suddenly hurled my girly torso into the air. Or there was a 14-metre tsunami. Dragging me out to sea.
I’m tired of having to move aisles when Danny’s around. He seems to be able to see me wherever I am. Knows when I am alone. He probably has a security camera in the coolroom. And when I’m at the checkout I’m stuck. I don’t want to go back there. Not after what happened last week.
There’s this couple who come in every second Thursday. Probably cashed up after Centrelink. Or doped up more like it. The woman is the kind who usually gets on at Penrith station. Face like an old lime. Skin peeling and raw. The kind mum calls a ya ya. She’s probably on ice. Yelling at the kid in the pram when he wants to get out. Fuckin’ sit there or you’ll get a smack. Of course the kid just wants to go down the lolly aisle. Pull out all the chocolates and popcorn. She screams at him. Then hands him a packet of corn chips.
The dad is so thin if he turns sideways he’s the invisible man. On Thursdays he strolls up and down the aisles for ages. He thinks he’s being casual. But he’s off his face. You can spot a junkie shoplifter a mile off. Especially when he suddenly seems six months pregnant. At the end of the frozen food aisle.
Vanessa often follows him around and asks if she can help him with anything. Just to stir things up a bit. But he always comes to the counter with a box of nappies. That’s it. Every fortnight. He always comes to my checkout too. The wife and kid pretending they don’t know. I must look like I have the kindest face. The one least likely to check their bags. Although we’re meant to do it with everyone. But fuckadoodle, I don’t really care. Whether they steal from Danny or not.
Anyway. Last week they were standing in the queue as usual. I was on 12-items-or-less. Easy peasy shift. Danny was hovering around and I thought it was just for me. The dad got to the counter. Put down his box of nappies. The kid was pulling all the mags off the rack. As if he’d been trained to cause a distraction. Trying to get to the Freddo Frogs. Danny swooped like a noisy miner. Patted the guy’s stomach.
—What you got there? Planning to have another baby?
The guy crouched. Danny pulled the t-shirt from under his hoodie and dropped a cold load on the floor. Three small trays of meat. Chicken, pork, beef kebabs. Fuckadoodle, if you’re going to shoplift. You might as well take chocolate.
He sprang and made it out past security. But Danny grabbed the divider from my station. The one customers use so they don’t pay for or touch anyone else’s stuff. Just near the supermarket entrance he whacked it. As hard as he could into the side of the dad’s head. Into his shoulders and neck. Blood was pouring out onto the guy’s shirt and the floor. He was trying to cover his face. But ended up cowering on the ground.
His wife, the kid and me just stood there in silence. The guy tried to make it out the door. But Danny chased him up the street. Whacking him as he went. Then the wife started screaming at me. As if it was my fault. My next customer quietly said, Wouldn’t it be better just to call the police? Danny brought the guy back. Made the family sit in the office.
He put the divider back on my checkout. It had a smear of the dad’s blood on the end. I couldn’t look at it. I rang in sick the next shift.
I don’t think I’ll ever go back.
There’s a man fishing off the beach near me. The way he reels and flicks reminds me of Danny and his knives. His bucket is still empty. The beach has gone quiet. Just surfers out in calm water.
Davo 4 Me 4 Eva.
I draw a heart pierced by an arrow in the sand. I spent years perfecting the arrow in primary school. I should have drawn it closer to the water. So the waves could lap at it. I scrub it out with my feet.