Ben’s father looked more wretched, more abandoned, more lonely than after he’d found out about Kelly and Dog. A voice in Ben’s head told him he could cry later, not now.

‘He did this for you,’ Kelly said to Gordon. ‘Our son made himself a drug dealer because he wanted to help you out.’

Gordon’s eyes met Ben’s, then slid away. Ben willed his dad to maintain eye contact, just like his dad had always done with him. But Gordon couldn’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all that came out of his dad’s mouth.

‘That’s okay, Dad.’

‘It’s not okay.’ Kelly wheeled around. ‘Look at what you’ve done to our son, Gordon! Look what everyone’s done to themselves, just to help you!’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ Gordon rasped.

‘You know very well that’s not good enough,’ Kelly said. ‘You have to let our son into his own family.’

Ben looked from one to the other. They were talking about something else. His mum was right. Sorry was just a word. There was more, only Ben didn’t have the guts to ask for it and, he understood now, as his mum stormed off to the kitchen with a great impatient angry scream and began to make dinner, his dad didn’t have the guts to offer it.

STRAW MAN

Straw man

There were bell-ringer days, when even Bluebirders accepted that they would have to share their crescent of heaven with outsiders. Days when the sky was a spray-painted dome and the sea a dreamy teenager’s doodles. Out of the turquoise depths came tapered head-high rollers, steepening as they gathered force against the reef, wall after glassy wall. Snake was first out before the sunrise, Cnut had been up all night waxing his quiver, and Japan Ned’s cry of ‘Good out!’ was minimalistically apt. Tonsure Man arrived at dawn with Chook, two Chookalikes and Macca, five Maccalikes and the four-time state champ. Days like this, your first job was to eat enough breakfast so you could stay out four, five, six hours.

Red Cap, massaging his ruined shoulder, perched on The Bench of Broken Dreams in the top car park, where he intended to remain until coffee hour at The Lodge. He exchanged greetings with Dog, war-painted and ready to take on all blow-ins, hauling his stand-up paddleboard like a ballistic missile on parade in Red Square. By the time the sun had decoupled from the horizon there were sixty surfers in the water. ‘It’s worse at Capri,’ Red Cap said. ‘Doesn’t anybody work anymore?’ he added, forgetting that he didn’t work anymore. Dog nodded grimly and set out for battle.