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Friday.’
    â€˜Well go now, Dustin.’
    â€˜To Freo? Now?’
    â€˜I’d hate for you to miss choir. Take this permission slip. You’re supposed to have maths next, right?’
    â€˜But Mrs Blackler, Dustin isn’t in choir!’
    â€˜That’s all right, Shania. I believe him. Would you like togo with him to get some shots too?’
    â€˜I can shoot her?’
    â€˜I value my safety too much, miss.’
    â€˜So go to the harbour,’ Mrs Blackler tells him. ‘See what’s worthy of your film. You don’t have a partner today, so I guess you can practise on the public, without being intrusive, of course. Do I need to tell you about photography etiquette?’
    He shrugs.
    â€˜Photographing strangers can be tricky. You want to reveal something about them, but above all you’ve got to be respectful. Don’t get too close to your subject and don’t impose. Just use your commonsense.’ She smiles and looks at the clock. ‘I’ve loaded your camera with a roll of 36, which should do you until next week. Make them count, okay?’
    â€˜Can’t make any promises, miss,’ he says as he sweeps the camera into his backpack.
    â€˜Can you give Jasmine her assignment sheet? You’ll see her this afternoon, won’t you?’
    He shrugs again, keen to go.
    â€˜And don’t forget to KISS.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Keep It Simple Stupid,’ she laughs. ‘It’s a saying, Dustin. What I mean is, keep the pictures clean. Just one concept per photo. One theme, one idea.’
    â€˜I still don’t get the point of this.’
    â€˜Relax, it’s not rocket science. It’ll sort itself out.’
23
    Freo’s quiet today. There’s hardly any wind, making the old town easy to drift through. He aims for the harbour, keen for some sea air.
    By C Shed, tourists buy ferry tickets for Rottnest Island. Japanese girls huddle and giggle as they pose for cameras, holding rabbits’ ears above each other’s heads. An old man and woman in matching striped shirts push their bikes onto a ferry. A woman in the ticket booth blows gum into bubbles until they pop. Boring everyday stuff. Is this what Blackler wants?
    He buys a pie and sits on the grass, watching the commotion of seagulls having sex. They’re mental. The two gulls are locked into each other, their wings beating violently, heads knocking and beaks rasping at the air. Dustin can’t help himself. He opens his backpack, takes the camera out and switches it on. The shutter opens and closes as smoothly as blinking. The button clicks when he presses it, and the number 1 on the top of the camera rolls to 2.
    He marvels at the technology — that somewhere inside the plastic casing of the camera is an everlasting image of two seagulls fucking! They’re locked in there, stuck in a moment of frenzied lust, long after they’ve disengaged and gone back to pecking at food scraps.
    He wonders what else he can see.
    Further along the boardwalk sits a woman with a floppy straw hat. She holds a cheap fishing rod in front of her and Dustin can see her take a Kingston biscuit from a packet. Next to her is a boy whose back is as bony as a fish’s. He leans sideways, casually propping himself up on one elbow. With the other arm he dangles a line in the water, snapping it tight at short intervals, impatient at the disobedience of fish. On the jetty, beheaded baitfish coagulate in the sun. The boy’s right foot taps rhythmically at a wooden pylon.
    Through the viewfinder, Dustin sees light and dark become sharper. Sunlight beams off silver hooks and sinkers and the blond strips of the boy’s hair. Shadows spread under the woman’s hat and between the rolls in her back. And between them is the sea. Dustin presses the button and captures it — the lazy love of mother and son.
    At a sudden jolt, the boy jumps to standing, both hands pulling at the