‘It’s not like I would defend the old ways,’ Gordon said, sharing her thoughts, ‘but I miss a surf club being a place where you went to learn how to help others survive in the sea.’

‘And how to avoid nasty old men,’ Kelly added.

‘But then, we’re nobody’s target demographic.’

From the stairs, Carl materialised, swaddled in the duffle coat in which he slept, ate, lived and, for all Kelly knew, bathed.

‘Leonie’s coming,’ he said without preamble. ‘Wants to take us to that.’ He inclined his head, vaguely, to the beach.

‘Who’s us?’ Kelly said. ‘What’s that?’

Carl shrugged one shoulder. ‘She’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’

Kelly felt her mind racing away. The notion of Carl, who had nurtured fantasies of blowing up surf carnivals since he was ten years old, strolling down to take in the sunshine and crowds, maybe suck on a pine-lime Splice while walking the dunes with Leonie, knocked her off balance.

‘We can’t let her up here,’ Gordon said. To Kelly’s questioning look, he held up a marble he had taken from his pocket. ‘The slope of the floor. It’s down to nine seconds. She’ll have a fit. Call her, Carl, we’ll meet her at the beach. The young ones are down there getting ready.’ Lou had been given dispensation to enter her surfboat crew as a ‘Bluebird II’ team, and Ben was helping her to organise the girls.

Carl mumbled something about coffee.

‘Perfect!’ Gordon said shrilly, pushing Carl towards the staircase. ‘It’s much better at her cafe.’

He punched Leonie’s number into his phone and handed it to Carl while he went to his bedroom for a sunhat.

Alone with her brother, Kelly said, ‘I haven’t seen Gordon move that quickly since he was offered redundancy from the paper.’

‘She’s not answering.’ Carl handed back the phone to Gordon, who had re-emerged with three hats. Carl refused to wear one.

‘I’ll text her, tell her we’ll catch her down there,’ Gordon said.

Kelly had forgotten how a carnival in full swing could trigger an involuntary surge of pleasure. Colours flew like flags of the world. The names of the beaches brimmed with a certain magic: Manly, Maroubra, North Curl Curl, Whale Beach, Bronte, Avalon, North Narrabeen … Despite her inner revulsion, she could still be stirred by the rollcall. And then there were the out-of-towners: Thirroul, Old Bar, Merimbula, Tuncurry—music to Australian ears. The beach was a study in organised mayhem. Events were lost in the gigantism of the carnival, as if the racing were incidental to the choreography. There was no scoreboard or central focus, so a visitor would never make head nor tail of who was winning. And yet somehow the clubs knew precisely where they stood and who they wanted to destroy. From the outside, it was sunshine and colours and bodies and logos. Health and service glimmering in their perfect corporate mirror. From the inside, it was kill or be killed.