He sat beside Daniel’s kit bag and unstrapped his pads, removed his gloves, replaced his shoes. The last piece of Daniel’s kit he removed was the box.

Daniel was standing over him.

‘Okay, the stuff ’s in the inside zip pocket of my kit bag,’ Daniel said. ‘Don’t let anyone see. You got the envelope? Just put it in the zip pocket and swap out the stuff.’

‘Two hundred for three bottles,’ Ben said. He couldn’t meet Daniel’s eye. His heart was racing.

He heard Daniel snort. ‘It’s five.’

‘Five bottles? Even better.’

‘Five hundred, doofus. For three bottles.’

Ben took the envelope out of his school shoes. Those shoes were so uncomfortable.

‘Don’t wave it around!’ Daniel hissed, cutting his eyes from side to side.

‘It’s two hundred,’ Ben said. ‘You want five hundred, bring ten bottles.’

‘What the fuck?’ Daniel’s voice was cracking with disbelieving laughter.

‘And you’ll take the deal,’ Ben said. ‘Two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks—pretty good for stuff you get for free.’

‘That fucker. Tell him no deal.’ Daniel paused, meeting Ben’s eye. Ben saw fear. ‘What’s he doing trying to reneg?’

‘Okay, no deal,’ Ben replied with a smile and pocketed the envelope.

‘Shit, okay, gimme the two hundred. Arsehole, I thought he was desperate.’ Daniel clicked his fingers impatiently and beckoned for the money.

‘Nope.’ Ben patted his pocket. This felt so good, he almost got a stiffy.

‘Whaddaya mean? I’m the man!’

‘Sorry, Dan. He’s got a new man.’

THE SUNSHINE THAT KILLS US

The sunshine that kills us

The following Saturday, Bluebird became a place of worship as host beach for the statewide surf carnival. Viewed from The Lodge, the carnival made glorious wallpaper. Kelly threw open the windows to let in the shouting and the whistles and the starting guns and the cheering. The Lodge reeked like the bottom of an ashtray emptied into the stale dregs of a glass of beer aerated by middle-aged man fart. It needed health.

She stood on the balcony with Gordon, drinking passable cappuccinos that he had somehow learnt how to make on the La Marzocco. Definitely seeing, or planning to see, a woman, she thought.

‘What a shit show,’ she said.

Kelly had never been in the habit of attending the surf carnival, though she had found new objections to reinforce the old. The BSLSC had evolved from the hostile beast of her youth into a corporate advertising exercise, safe and soulless. A bank sponsored the marquees, a law firm sponsored Bluebird’s surfboats, a tech start-up sponsored the lycra racing outfits, and a management consultancy sponsored the royal blue banners tautened by the early-arriving nor’-easter. The BSLSC was now run by identikit executives who won their positions based not on time served but on their ability to raise revenue. Each brought their gift of corporate social responsibility to the club’s true business: the competition on the beach was merely a cloak for the race between clubs to poach each other’s assets.