Power Ride

by J. L. O'Rourke

  “I don't know. Danny's just a creep, I guess.”

  “So why keep him in the band, if he's such a creep?”

  “Two reasons, I guess. He's a damn good guitarist and vocalist and he sells records.”

  “Garbage! The band sells records, not Danny Gordon. 'Charlotte Jane' was selling records before Danny joined you guys, and who the hell was he? Some two-bit wanna-be from Geraldine! Come on, Avi, he might be a good guitarist but they're ten a penny. If the man is a jerk you've got to have a better reason than that for keeping him on.”

  Avi ran his hand thoughtfully over his unshaven chin. He shrugged again.

  “You know something, Jo? I don't have a decent answer. I guess we've got so used to Danny being a prize prick we just take his temper tantrums for granted. I mean, nobody's perfect, and if we started throwing out band members who had personality problems there'd be bugger all of us left. Poor old Kit would be at the top of the list, he's completely scrambled, and I don't think I'm always the easiest musician to work with. Anyway, whatever Danny is, he's a good businessman. He's got a pretty watertight contract, so we're stuck with him for the duration, at least.”

  “The duration of what?”

  “The cd, the tour and the next single. It could be an exhausting few months.”

  The group left the meandering twists of Oxford Terrace and strolled down Barbadoes Street to the small Avon Loop shopping centre. Kelly split from the rest and headed purposefully towards the health food shop, leaving the others to traipse their usual path to the hot bread shop.

  Joanna was first to the counter, ignoring the jibes from the men as she ordered a sizeable quantity of cream and jam filled items. As Mike stepped forward to order a traditional mince pie, Avi pulled from his hip pocket a wallet as run-down as his clothes. From that he extracted a five-dollar note which he surreptitiously thrust into Kit's hand. Kit grabbed Avi's receding hand and squeezed it tightly in a gesture of gratitude, his smile a mixture of embarrassment and profound relief. Kit made his choice quickly but Avi dithered, staring up and down the trays of food. Mike checked his watch, raised his eyebrows expressively towards the others and shook Avi gently by the shoulders.

  “Avi, can we dispense with the ritual daily guilt trip and just buy our bloody lunch?”

  “Um...” Avi dithered some more.

  “Now!” the others chorused together.

  “Okay, okay, I'm buying, I'm buying.” Avi dropped into a fake New York Jewish accent. “So I'm taking my time here, already. A man has to think about such important things.”

  The only response came from Jo. “Aaarrgghh!”

  After another minute of dithering Avi finally purchased a couple of innocuous-looking scones and the entire entourage trooped back to the workshop, collecting Kelly who was waiting for them on the corner, clutching a bean sprout salad and a fresh orange drink.

  When they arrived at the workshop, Daniel Gordon was waiting outside. His temper had not improved.

  “Oh, joy to the world.” he launched immediately into a verbal attack. “I really do have a band. Well, I have a ragged and motley collection of alleged musicians - whether I actually have a band is another question entirely.”

  For Mike Kiesanowski this, the latest of Danny's taunts, was the final straw. Tossing onto the ground the screwed-up remains of his pie's wrappings, he grabbed the diminutive lead singer by his shirt lapels and slammed him bodily back into the wall. By the time Kelly had prised the two guitarists apart, Daniel Gordon was sporting a cut lip, a bloodied nose and the makings of a black eye and Mike Kiesanowski was nursing bruised knuckles. Kelly let the beaten form of Daniel Gordon slump brokenly to the ground but he kept a firm restraining hand on the rhythm guitarist who was still shaking with anger.

  “Cool it, you two!” Kelly ordered.

  Danny made a move as if to argue then winced with pain and stayed put. Mike glowered.

  “That's it!” Joanna, as usual, made the deciding move. “We call it quits. Right now. It's been a lousy day and if we attempt to carry on now, it's only going to get worse.” She turned directly to Danny. “Look, mate, I don't know if you suffer from pre-tour nerves or whether you're always this obnoxious and I really don't care. Just get this through your thick head. You're no more indispensable than anyone else in this group. And you're not God. So back off. I might be the newest kid on the team but I'm not so desperate for work that I'm forced to take this kind of garbage from some up-himself little jerk with a machismo problem. Any more of these jumped-up little hissy fits of yours and you won't have a band, let alone a tour!” She turned back to the others. “Well, I don't know about you lot, but I've got better things to do. I'm going.” She swung again to Danny. “We'll all be here tomorrow morning at the usual time. If you want to join us on this tour, be here but be civil. It's up to you. Think about it.”

  Without pausing to notice the expressions of shock and admiration on the faces of the men, Joanna thrust her hands determinedly into the pockets of her jacket and walked away. Avi was the first to break the embarrassed silence that suddenly descended over the men as they self-consciously avoided eye contact with each other.

  “So, what now?”

  Danny, who was still picking himself up tenderly from the ground, mumbled an oath which the others ignored.

  “Well, without all the histrionics, the girl is right.” Kelly took temporary charge in his clipped Wellington accent. “Continuing today in our present frames of mind would be counter-productive. Go home, people, do something non-musical and return tomorrow full of brotherly love and inspired genius. If you could just unlock the door, Kester, I will collect my Ibanez and be off.”

  “Wise move,” Danny snarled. “You'd be a fool to leave it here.”

  Mike took two menacing steps towards Danny, forcing the singer back against the wall for the second time.

  “Don't start it, Danny, I mean it!”

  Danny pushed him away.

  “The man has a right to know,” he sulked.

  “Know what?” Kelly looked puzzled.

  Avi stepped into his usual role of peacemaker.

  “There is nothing to know. It's just one of Danny's little grudges. We got into the habit of leaving our gear in the workshop overnight. After all, it's all locked up and Kit keeps his precious drums there all the time. Anyway, your predecessor, Gary, left his bass there one night and found it the next morning with all the strings removed. Nothing serious. Just a bit bizarre. We still don't know how anyone got in and the police just wrote it off as some sort of silly prank.”

  Danny pushed forwards, dabbing blood from his face as he spoke.

  “Oh, come on, Livingstone, don't be so wimpish! The police thought nothing of the kind, and you damn well know it. They may have decided to put that in their official reports but we all know what really happened, don't we Simmons?” He rounded on Kit who dropped his gaze immediately to his feet. Danny turned back to Kelly. “I ask you. The place is locked tight. Only two people have keys - Simmons and myself - and Simmons is crazy.” Danny's tone became mockingly nasty. “Simmons also has a record with the police for taking too many happy pills, doesn't he? And an even longer record with the hospital's psychiatric ward. It doesn't take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out who tampered with Gary's bass - even if he was so spaced out he doesn't remember doing it.”

  “You have no proof of that!” Mike spat.

  “Maybe not - but there's plenty of circumstantial evidence. Enough for Gary to decide he didn't want to work with Simmons any more.”

  “Well, it doesn't bother me,” said Kelly lightly. He turned to pat Kit reassuringly on the arm. “Kester, I take people as I find them and I never pre-judge. Now, if you have the keys?”

  Kit fished them out of the pocket of his skin-tight black jeans and handed them to Kelly without meeting his eyes. Kelly tried two of the keys on the ring before striking the right one, then swung open the heavy wooden door and disappeared inside the workshop, followed closely by Mike and Dan
ny. They all reappeared in a matter of minutes, guitar cases in their hands.

  “Tomorrow, ten o'clock sharp.” Danny tried to sound as if he was still in control.

  Mike threw him a mocking salute followed, behind Danny's departing back, by an obscene gesture as the three guitarists made their way down the driveway to their cars or, in Kelly's case, his bicycle. Avi shut and locked the workshop door then knelt to hand the keys back to Kit who had assumed an almost foetal sitting position against the workshop wall.

  “Come on,” Avi shook Kit gently, “Let's go inside.” With long-acquired skill, he helped Kit to his feet and propelled him from the workshop to the back door of the cottage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  This time it was Avi's turn to sort through Kester's jumble of keys until he found the one which opened the back door of the historic cottage. Kit followed meekly as Avi led him through the small back porch. The porch had been an open space originally but had been roofed over at some stage before Kester took over the place; the ceiling and doors were simply too low to have been installed by anyone with Kit's nearly six and a half feet of height. Opening off the porch were three doors which, Avi knew from experience, led to the laundry, the bathroom and the house itself, via the kitchen. It was through this latter door he guided Kit, remembering just in time to force Kit's head down before his forehead and the door surround made brutal contact. Avi stored away the realisation that a normally-functioning Kit would have ducked the door automatically.

  The inside of the cottage seemed out of context both with itself and its owner. Although Kit's own appearance showed a disinterest in his self-image, the cottage showed the obvious effects of fastidiousness to an almost compulsive degree. Not a single item was out of place and not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere. As he led Kit gently through the kitchen area into the lounge, Avi looked around and shuddered. In spite of the extensive and beautifully crafted alterations, the cottage still felt to him more like a museum than a home. Avi sniggered to himself. Mike's wife, Sarah the psychic, would love this place, he thought. If any place was likely to be riddled with ghosts, it would be this one. Avi certainly never felt comfortable in it.

  He propelled Kit to an oversized armchair covered in a chintz with an equally oversized and out-dated floral pattern, muttered some consoling words to make Kit stay put, then returned to the kitchen, which had probably been a separate room once but was now divided from the lounge by a wide, formica-topped breakfast bar in a very 1960s style. Avi knew exactly where to find things, so it didn't take him long to brew up two cups of instant coffee and return with them to where Kit was still sitting, staring vacantly at nothing.

  The lounge was a large room which had been created by combining the two rooms on the left side of the house and the hallway which had previously run straight down the centre of the building from the front door to the back. Now the front door, an elaborately carved piece of kauri dripping in highly polished brass fittings, opened directly into the lounge. Two other equally ornate doors led from what had once been the passage into the cottage's only other rooms. The bedroom at the front of the house was now Kit's, although when he had first gone to live at the house, nine years before, it had been the very private domain of his grandparents. His room then had been the smaller, rear bedroom. It still contained a single bed, if it could be found under the stockpile of spare drum skins and other musical paraphernalia. It was the one place in the house that was never tidy.

  Avi placed the rather-too-delicate china cups of coffee carefully onto coasters to protect the french-polished top of the carved nested table. In his own version of habitual gesture, he ran a hand over his angular, hawk-like features and straightened his glasses, mentally juggling the Kit who casually put his boots on the coffee table in the workshop with the Kit who polished antique furniture till it shone and who used bone china cups for coffee. As usual the different sides of Kester Simmons failed to come close to matching together. Just like the cottage. Antique furniture, cluttered Victoriana decoration and open-plan renovations. Perhaps the whole Simmons clan was crazy.

  As he put down the coffee, Avi sized up the seating arrangements. He immediately regretted not sitting Kit on the couch where he could sit comfortably beside him, considered moving him, rejected the idea and settled instead for manhandling a matching armchair until he could sit almost in front of Kit, close enough to be reassuring but not so direct as to be confrontational. The psychology units he had thrown into his double arts and music degree had not been entirely without premeditation. He had handled Kit for a long time. He noticed that Kit was now starting to rock his body backwards and forwards. Avi frowned.

  He reached out and put his hand on Kit's knee, creating contact. Kit raised his head to look at his friend but the gaze was expressionless. Avi smiled. Reassurance. With his free hand he smoothed back Kit's errant lock of hair. The contact was enough to get through and with a soft moan, Kit fell forwards onto Avi's shoulder, shaking. Avi held him close, surprised by the ferocity of Kit's responding grip. After a few moments Kit pushed himself away, sighed deeply and looked at Avi, red-eyed.

  “I'm... um... I'm really sorry,” he choked.

  “It's okay. That's what I'm here for.”

  Kit got out of his chair and paced the room. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose before flinging himself back into his chair and taking a long slug from his cup of coffee. Avi sipped at his own coffee and waited.

  “Ignoring Danny,” he finally broke the silence, “what's really up, Kit?”

  “Nothing.” Kit answered too quickly.

  “Bullshit!”

  “No, really, nothing. It's just Danny.”

  “Sorry, I don't buy that. You said earlier that you were stressed out. We can all see that you're stressed out. Sure, Danny's been picking on you but we've worked with him for three years now, we know he's an arrogant little bastard. So, logic says that something other than Daniel Gordon is the real problem. Right?”

  Kit shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. Pretty much... um... well, no. Well, yes and no.”

  “I always did like your concise, clear, erudite answers.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Kit, nice and slow, from the beginning, tell me what's wrong.”

  Kit hauled himself from his chair again and began to pace the room in agitation.

  “No. No... um... no, really,” he spoke quickly in a desperate but failing effort to be convincing. “Honestly, Avi, everything's okay.”

  “You just admitted it wasn't.” Avi kept his tone gentle yet inquiring.

  “Yeah, well, um...,” Kit floundered. “Look, Av,” he tried again, “just forget it, okay? Look, yeah, I'm a bit stressed, but it's just a bad day, all right? Can we just forget it, please?”

  Avi gave a long, unimpressed sigh and threw up his hands in surrender.

  “Okay, have it your own way. Consider it, no, damn it, it's not forgotten, just ignored for now, okay? Don't lose it, Kit, there's too much at stake this time.” He rose and went to his friend, guiding him to the couch where he sat beside him. He patted Kit's shoulder reassuringly. “Mike and I, at least, both know how much stress this tour is going to put on you. We're with you all the way, any time you need us. Use us, Kit, for God's sake, use us. Talk to us.”

  Kit shot Avi a reproachful glare.

  “You don't think I'll make it, do you, mate,” he spat, emphasising the "mate" into an insult. “Every single bloody one of you expects me to crap out. Kit, the junkie, might stay clean if he's kept nicely at home weeding the garden and feeding the ducks but wait till we hit the road, he'll fuck it up, yeah? Got a book running yet? Odds on how many days till I shoot up?”

  “Yeah, sure, Kit!” Avi spat back, suddenly furious. “Why the hell not, we've got nothing better to do. Get a life!”

  They sat for a few moments in a stand-off, glaring, before their anger died as quickly as it had arisen. Avi broke the silence first.

  “Sorry. That was unca
lled for.” He laid a hand on Kit's knee. “No, I'm not expecting you to fuck up. I just know that you find it hard going sometimes and we all know how tough it is on tour. Actually, it's quite the opposite to what you were just thinking. Mike and I really expect you to come through this okay. That's the point I was trying to make. We've watched you go to hell and back and, oh hell, how do I want to put this, um,” Avi searched desperately for the right words, “look, if you feel you're slipping backwards, especially when we're on the road, don't hesitate to use us as brakes.” He flashed Kit an apologetic grin which was returned immediately.

  “Sorry,” Kit reciprocated the apology. He grinned again, looking up under his hair with his spaniel-puppy impression. “Got a cigarette?”

  “Sure.” Avi hauled the packet from his pocket and lit two, passing one to his friend.

  “Thanks.” Kit drew hard, letting out the smoke in a long sigh. “It's not drugs,” he said at last. “The problem. It's not drugs. I promise you that. I just...” he paused.

  “Just what?” Avi prompted, knowing Kit would not continue without a push.

  “Just, um... just I hope they won't have to be the only answer,” Kit finished in a rush.

  “Drugs never have to be the answer,” Avi said gently.

  “Huh!” Kit spat derisively. “They are though, aren't they, for me anyway.”

  “Not any more.”

  “Yeah they are. Think about it. I'm not a bloody ex-addict. There's no such thing. And if you look at it, I'm not even a clean addict. Just a legal one. There's only three things different between the heroin I was shooting up last tour and this,” he hauled a small bottle from the pocket of his jeans, “this crap.”

  “Three things?” Avi was intrigued in spite of himself,

  “Yeah.” Kit shook the bottle and the pills in it rattled. “This crap is cheaper, I can't get arrested for carrying it around and it does no fucking good at all! But it's still junk, isn't it. I'm still a junkie. Shit, Avi, I've been a junkie since I was nine years old. I'm going to be on these bloody things for the rest of my life. Tell me again drugs aren't the answer. Dr Phillips keeps telling me to keep trusting them, they're the only answer I've got.”