3.17am

The club is close and hot and steamy, an urban jungle realised. You stand by the purple painted wall, condensation running down it. You press your palm into the thin stream of moisture, relishing the brief moment of coolness. That Nike is roaring through your bloodstream, the charlie chasing it in a faint white trail – you think this as a coherent thought and start laughing, thinking of all the tiny specks of coke, all the little Charlies, running through your blood, chasing that Nike – yeah, just do it…

Oh God. You start praying to something you don’t believe in as you find yourself bent over the scummy toilet, feeling yourself empty out. There seems to be more than your stomach contents spattering onto the dirty porcelain. How can there be anything lost, when there’s nothing there in the first place? You shove that thought away, flush it away with the tug of the chain. You sit on the dirty tiled floor, throbbing head resting on your folded arms, staring at the filthy floor.

There’s a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder and you look up. Laurie’s face bends down from what seems like an impossible height.

“You alright, man?”

You can’t do much more than nod. Conscious of a little dart of shame, you haul yourself to your feet, wade towards the door. Your bed has never seemed so appealing. But you know you would just lie there, big-eyed in the darkness, feeling your heart hammer against the thin walls of your chest. Lying there, counting the beats. Counting down towards death. No way.

“I’m OK.” You reach for the bag as you say it. Laurie finally smiles, a little uncertainly. You produce an answering grin, from somewhere you can’t go too often.

“Sure?”

You wave the bag in answer and he grins again and doesn’t ask any more questions.

5.26am

The dawn light is creeping in through the windows of the club, a shy gold finger of light testing the smoky darkness inside the walls. The beat is as thunderous as ever but is beginning to sound bleary, too insistent. You bend over a sink, rinse your mouth with water, spit it back into the cracked bowl.

Back in the corner, sat on the sticky carpet, you look out over the sea of bobbing heads. As always there’s that pocket of emptiness inside you, that constant unending ache that no amount of powder can wipe away. You look at the sunlight, battling against the thickness of the dark and feel that pocket gape open a little further. One day it will open completely and you’re scared of what will come out.

There’s a figure in front of you suddenly, a white figure. It’s Nadia, in her shimmering vest and white jeans. The light behind her suddenly intensifies until she is irradiated in light. The smoke coils behind her; sunlight beams out in a circlet of fire around her head. You feel your heart leap up suddenly. She is so fierce, so splendid – for a moment you are drowning in the sight of her, in awe of her and you lean forward, yearning. There’s nothing lost that can’t be found – is that how is goes? Salvation is standing there, angel wings invisible in the darkness.

Then she moves and the light dims and she’s just Nadia again, beautiful and empty and boring. Your heart stutters, falters, limps along. It’s the same old shit, as it always has been, as it always will be. You feel a sliding trail of wetness move down your cheek, a sheet of wetness overlaying your face and realise that ache in your throat is a huge wave of tears, built up behind your eyelids. There’s one lifelong sob caught in your throat. Pressing a hand to your chest, you sigh. The morning light is out there, golden, molten, beautiful. But you – you are lost in the darkness, clawing for clarity, drowning in this sad, grey excuse for a life. That angel has flapped its wings . There’s no real sunshine, no golden morning waiting for you out there. There’s an empty house, a cold bed, a faltering heart. It’s nothing but dark and smoke for you, from here on.

~~~

Wave Goodbye

New Year had come and gone before Simon noticed that people were disappearing. Christmas had been the usual blare of tinsel glitter and family noise and he’d not been down to the beach once. So it was on his first day back on the surf that he realised the pink-haired guy who usually surfed just along the beach wasn’t there anymore.

Of course, Simon didn’t actually think he’d disappeared, not then. Despite the headlines in the local paper and the tentative interest of that intestate TV crew, the recent spate of vanishings had more or less passed him by. There were other things to worry about after all; Stacey, his lack of a job and the resulting state of his finances, his father’s failing health, the lines etching themselves ever deeper into his mother’s face. Too many things to waste time worrying about why people, young people like himself, had dropped out of sight. Had disappeared.

So, on that warm morning on the freshly washed beach, Simon just noted the absence of the guy vaguely, before paddling out to where the waves were breaking in foamy white crests. He’d caught a few and was splashing his way out again when he noticed the surfboard, garish red and yellow under the sun, its nose wedged into the sand. Only then was he aware of a small chill, a tiny finger of cold nudging his stomach, remembering the shark attack on the beach last year.

The board was sound, though, when he got to it. Foot strap tightly velcroed. No bite-marks, no blood stains. What was that guy’s name, anyway? Steve, that was it - his board, for sure. Simon hadn’t really known him but they’d shared the odd 6am conversation, several of the last sunset waves, a few spliffs at one of Stacey’s parties. A quiet guy, as Simon remembered him, but a nice one. So where was he?

He’s gone, Simon thought. Another one. He thought back to the headlines. Missing Teens. Where Have Our Young People Gone? Mother’s Anguish as Daughter Vanishes. How many had gone he couldn’t remember but it was a lot for a small town on the coast of South Australia and for those with short or long memories there were words like Truro and Snowtown to stir up fear for the safety of those who’d disappeared. Not yet really believing it, he tucked the board under his free arm and set off towards the police station. Behind him, in the sighing waves, a dolphin leapt and splashed.

“It’s getting weird now.”

Stacey lifted her head from his chest. Simon could see the dark roots in her hair smudging the blonde halo of curls. Her eyes looked black in the dim light of the candle.

“Matt asked me where Tim was the other day.”

“Who’s Tim?”

“That tall guy, you know. I used to go out with him.”

Simon frowned, shifting his arms beneath his head. ‘Go out’ was Stacey speak for ‘used to root’. As if sensing his mood, she bent her head and began licking the salt off his stomach. He gripped her chin, lifting her face to his.

“That pink-haired guy’s gone too – that Steve. I found his board on the beach this morning.”

She looked impossibly young in the candlelight. Momentarily it flickered and she was almost lost in the dark. He felt a clutch of panic that this was how it happened, this was when people just got lost, in the dark. But the flame strengthened and she was back in the light, hands moving lightly on him.

“Where’s everyone going, Si?”

He hesitated. What were the explanations? Killings, driftings, drugs, debt…all of these seemed like a whisper of a reason. To paddle out to sea, he thought dreamily, that’s where I’d disappear to; swim out into that endless blue, rolling ceaselessly under the mirroring sky. There would never be a last wave, ever; just the surf, eternally unfolding under the hot gaze of the southern sun.