The bedroom door was closed, but it wasn’t locked. He knew that anybody could walk in and catch him, yet he couldn’t stop himself. He undid the first few buttons of his jeans and slid a hand beneath the waist of his undies. It didn’t take long for him to come. When his mother knocked on the door ten minutes later, he was already gazing out the window again.
“Sam, are you in there?” she called through the closed door.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and grabbed the book from the bedside table, opening it at random. He coughed to clear his throat. “Yes, I’m just reading.”
The door opened a crack and his mother peered in. “Don’t forget to mow the grass,” she smiled.
Only then did he notice, to his absolute horror, that his pants were still undone. He rested the book across his lap and prayed that she wouldn’t come into the room.
“Your father will be home soon,” she continued.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was half past four already. Shit, shit, shit.
“Are you OK?”
“Eh?”
“You don’t look very well,” his mother said, stepping into the room, to his horror. She walked over to his desk and picked up a dirty cup and plate.
“No, I’m fine,” he said, trying to smile naturally. Please, please go away.
She gave him a long, penetrating look, turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
He had only just wheeled the lawnmower back to the garage when his father came striding up the path and disappeared into the house.
White Queen to G4. Check.
He rotated the chessboard carefully so as not to dislodge any of the pieces. Nevertheless, one of the pawns fell on its side and rolled across the carpet. He caught it and set it back in its rightful place. He stared, unblinking, at the chequered squares, sizing up each possible move.
Finally, satisfied he had thought of every alternative, he slid his last remaining bishop diagonally across the board. When he withdrew his hand, he noticed that the mitre had made an indentation in the tip of his index finger. He massaged it with his thumb and then rotated the board back through one hundred and eighty degrees, ready to counter the move he had just made.
“Sam, get that, will you?” his father said when the doorbell rang.
He hauled himself to his feet and stretched, his joints cracking like an old man’s. A tear escaped from the corner of his eye and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away with his sleeve. As he passed the mirror in the hall, he glanced at his reflection. The bruise beneath his eye was darker still. It was obvious he had taken a fist to the face. He licked his fingers and tried to flatten down the cow’s lick at the front of his head, but the unruly tuft of hair refused to stay down.
He opened the door and did a double take. The last person in the world he had been expecting to see was the blond stranger from the beach. His jaw almost hit the floor.
“Not you again!” the guy said, but his mouth turned up at the corners. A lock of blond hair fell down over one eye and he pushed it back behind his ear. “John Wilson lives here, right?”
He nodded his head. He could feel the blood rushing to his face already. He almost tripped over his own feet as he moved to the side.
“Is that you, Tom?” his father shouted from the living room. “Come on through.”
Tom. He made a mental note of the name.
“About the other day,” Tom said, squeezing past, into the house, “I was already in a really bad mood—”
He was about to say “Don’t worry about it” when Patch came bounding out of the kitchen. He threw himself at Tom’s feet and let out a long, strangulated howl.
“Hey, mischief,” Tom said, squatting on his heels. Patch was writhing around on the floor like some demented creature. He flipped onto all fours and nuzzled against Tom and sent him toppling backwards onto his bum.
“Sorry about him,” Sam apologised, pulling Patch away and forcing him into the kitchen. He shut the door so that he couldn’t escape.
Laughing, Tom removed his work boots and left them by the door.
It was clear that Tom had come straight from a job. His forearms were spattered with plaster, and the back of his T-shirt was damp between the shoulder blades.
Contractors often called by the house—his father had run his own building firm for years—but none of them had ever looked like Tom. Most of the subbies who worked for his father were middle-aged and had receding hairlines.
“Follow me,” Sam said, and led Tom into the living room.
He returned to his seat on the floor, in front of the chessboard, while Tom perched on the edge of the sofa, opposite his father, and scribbled down his instructions for the morning.
“You know you can win in two moves, right?”
Tom’s voice startled him. He hadn’t realised Tom was looking in his direction. Tom put down the pad and reached for the board. “Do you mind?”
He shook his head.
Tom proceeded to move one of the white rooks three squares to the right. “Check,” Tom said and grinned proudly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see his father watching them.
Now there was only one move possible. While Tom watched, he moved the black Queen.
Tom moved straight in for the kill with an opposing knight. “Checkmate.”
They were both contemplating the board in silence when Sam’s father interrupted with a cough. “You ready then?”
Tom nodded and disappeared to put his boots on. His father stayed where he was, though. He had an odd look on his face—as if there was something he wanted to say, but he couldn’t quite find the words. There was a long, awkward silence before he finally said, “We’re going to the golf club for a drink. Come with us if you want.”
The clubhouse was exactly as he remembered it, although the yellow, nicotine-stained walls had received a fresh coat of paint. As they walked through the entrance, into the foyer, Tom veered off to the left.
“I’ll see you both in there,” Tom called over his shoulder and disappeared into the pro shop. Reluctantly, Sam followed his father up the stairs to the bar.
“Two jugs of your finest,” his father shouted across the bar, before making a beeline for his buddies. They were propping up a leaner in the corner. Ngaire, the duty manager, hopped down from her stool and limped over to the taps.
He had always remembered Ngaire as a force to be reckoned with—she had given him a dressing down once that had reduced him to tears—but now she looked more like an old lady. Her face had softened with age, and when she smiled, he noticed that half her teeth were missing. “G’day, son,” she smiled. “You John’s boy, eh?”
He nodded and handed over the money his father had given him to pay for the drinks.
“That’ll be ten bucks,” she mumbled. The tattoo on her chin had faded to turquoise, the intricate design of the tribal moko distorted by her wizened skin. She was smoking a cigarette, and it dangled precariously from her lips while she spoke. A centimetre of ash dropped from the tip and landed on the bar.
He carried the jugs over to his father’s table, taking care not to slosh any beer on the carpet. He poured himself a glass and took a seat facing the door. From where Sam was sitting, he could see the entrance to the shop. He kept one eye on the door as he sipped on his drink.
Thirty minutes later, Tom still hadn’t appeared.
“Go get another jug in, will you?” his father said, addressing him directly for the first time since they had arrived.
His mind was elsewhere, and he stared back, uncomprehending.
“Another jug,” his father repeated and waved a lime-green banknote under his nose. Grudgingly, he got to his feet and traipsed back over to the bar. If he’d known he would have to spend the evening alone with his father and his cronies, he would have made up an excuse to stay home.
He was standing in line, waiting to be served, when Tom finally emerged from the pro shop. He felt his spirits climb
and then immediately plummet. Tom had a look of thunder on his face. Instead of continuing on to the bar, he turned and headed back towards the car park.
“Here, I’m just going to the loo,” he told his father, placing the jug and the change on the table, and headed out into the lobby. He reached the sliding glass doors just in time to see Tom’s truck pull out of the car park and disappear.
chapter five
Sam had spent every Saturday morning for the past six months stacking shelves and packing bags at the local supermarket. The work was mind-numbingly boring, and it didn’t pay much—in fact, his parents had stopped his allowance the moment he got the job, which meant he was now only marginally better off than he’d been before—but it gave him an excuse to get out of the house.
“Hey, Wilson, need a lift?” Lloyd, a lad he knew from school, who also worked the Saturday morning shift, called out to him across the car park.
“Nah, I’m good, thanks,” he replied. It was a nice day, if slightly muggy, and the sun was shining. He was in no rush to get home, especially now that he had no revision to consider.
He heard the motorbike before he saw it. It came roaring around the corner, shot straight past him and carried on up the street for several hundred metres before doing a U-turn. The rider, crouched low over the handlebars, flew back along the road and screeched to a halt alongside him. After what had happened at the Basin Reserve, his first instinct was to run, but logic told him he had no chance of outrunning a bike.
“I thought it was you,” the rider said, pushing up his visor.
He recognised Tom instantly, even though only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible. A strand of blond hair had escaped from beneath Tom’s helmet and was hanging down over his right eye.
He pulled the headphones from his ears and let the cords hand around his neck. The music continued to play, indistinct and tinny.
“Hi,” he replied, trying his best to appear cool. Relieved though he was not to find himself face to face with Sutcliffe, his heart continued to pound against the inside of his chest.
“So you ride a bike,” he said, blurting out the first inanity that came into his head. He wanted to kick himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“Yeah, she’s my baby,” Tom laughed and patted the engine affectionately, “Where are you off to?”
“Just home,” he replied. His tongue felt awkward in his mouth, as if he were trying to speak a language he didn’t know. “I’ve just finished work.”
“I was just going for a ride. Do you want to come?”
He didn’t answer straight away. He had never been on a bike before, and although he didn’t suppose riding pillion was inherently difficult, he wasn’t in a rush to make a fool of himself, either.
“Go on,” Tom encouraged, “I’ll go gently.”
Mum would flip out if she knew I was even entertaining the idea, he thought. But Holly was always telling him he needed to be more spontaneous—more open to new experiences. He swallowed and said, “OK, thanks,” before he could change his mind.
He took a step towards the bike and stopped. “Wait, I don’t have a helmet.”
Tom didn’t seem bothered by the news. “Stay here,” he said and, with a twist of the throttle, roared off up the road. He was back within a few minutes.
“Here, this should fit.” Tom handed him a matt black helmet. It had a deep scratch across the brow and looked as if it had seen better days. “It’s my spare,” Tom explained, as if reading his thoughts.
He held the helmet in both hands and peered into its close, padded interior. The cavity looked far too small; much too narrow for his head.
At first, the helmet seemed to fit OK, but when it reached his ears, it wouldn’t go any further. “I think it’s too small,” he mumbled beneath the padding. His eyes and nose were completely enclosed and he could feel his claustrophobia beginning to kick in. He pulled down on the helmet, but it wouldn’t budge.
Before he knew it had happened, one well-placed thump on the top of his head sent the helmet sliding past his ears and into place.
“There you go!” Tom lifted the visor covering Sam’s face and smiled. “Come on. Jump on the back.” He revved the engine a couple of times for effect.
The whole bike wobbled as he held on to Tom and swung himself up onto the seat. “Sorry!” he shouted over Tom’s shoulder, releasing his death grip on Tom’s jacket.
He didn’t think to put his visor down, and as they flew along the main drag to the city, he had to keep his head turned to the side to shield his eyes. When they rounded the bend at the top of Wellington Road, fear trumped embarrassment, and he wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist.
The road was clear in the opposite direction, and Tom swung the bike out into the right-hand lane to overtake a long line of cars. They darted back across the median strip just in time to avoid an oncoming truck. So much for going gently, he thought.
He had no idea where they were heading or how long they would be gone, but he couldn’t have cared less. He had never felt so exhilarated in his life.
When they stopped at the traffic lights on the other side of the tunnel, he relaxed his grip slightly—although he didn’t let go altogether. Adrenalin was coursing through his body and his legs were shaking uncontrollably. He hoped Tom wouldn’t notice.
It wasn’t long before the city was behind them and they were snaking their way through the hills of the south coast. The road was narrow in places, and every time a car came towards them, he held his breath and closed his eyes, anticipating a collision that, fortunately, never came. The sky, a perfect blue only an hour before, was growing darker by the minute, and the first drops of rain fell as they reached the stony beach at Ohariu Bay.
“Quick, it’s about to piss down,” Tom yelled over his shoulder, kicking the motorbike’s stand into place. His peripheral vision was obstructed by the helmet and he had to turn his head a full ninety degrees to check whether the road was clear. He needn’t have bothered, though; the beach was completely deserted.
The gravel crunched underfoot as they ran towards the ramshackle café, which appeared to be closed. The door was ajar, however.
“Hello?” Sam called out, stepping inside, out of the rain. Tom followed closed behind him. As if in reply, a flash of lightning ripped across the sky and they both jumped backwards.
“You get a shock?” Tom laughed, pushing him forward into the room. The rain was coming down hard and it was truly deafening, the sound it made as it pummelled the corrugated iron roof.
He had to ask Tom to help him again, this time to remove the helmet. Tom’s fingers brushed his skin as he gripped the helmet under the base and tugged. For a moment, nothing happened, and then his head popped free. His hands went straight to his ears, to check that they were still attached.
A light flicked on in the back room and a nervous-looking girl peeked around the doorway. “Can I help you?”
His head felt as light as a feather without the helmet—as if it might float off his shoulders. “Are you open?” he asked.
The girl nodded and turned on the main lights. He saw the muscles in her face relax and wondered what, or whom, she had been expecting. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring some menus over.”
The plastic awning was already beginning to sag under the weight of the rain pooling between the wooden beams. In one corner, a steady stream of water was pouring through a tear in the plastic, soaking the concrete floor below.
They took a seat in the far corner, which was still relatively dry. The waitress appeared a moment later, two laminated menus held in front of her like a shield. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
He gave the grubby menu a cursory glance and ordered a trim flat white. Tom asked for the same, handing his menu back without even looking at it. “And some hot chips.”
“Just the one?”
“Nah, a bowl would be nice.” Tom winked at the waitress, but she didn’t smile back. She scurried away to the kitch
en, leaving them alone.
He didn’t jump at the second flash of lightning, although he did start to count in his head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, …
“It’s getting closer,” Tom said, as if reading his thoughts.
He nodded and looked out at the rain, which was coming down so fast it looked more like night-time outside than early afternoon. “Have you been here before?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I come every year,” Tom replied, but he didn’t offer up any more information. Instead, he licked the end of his finger and rubbed a speck of dirt from the sleeve of his jacket.
They sat in silence until their coffees arrived. The sugar sachets were damp and the sugar fell out in clumps.
Tom had finished half his drink before he spoke again. “It’s ten years today since my dad died. He’s buried up on the hill.”
Tom sat forward and rested his elbows on the table. He lowered his voice slightly. “Sorry about the other night—about leaving without saying goodbye. It was my sister. She was having a meltdown. It’s the same every year.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He wanted to ask what had happened to their father but thought it might be insensitive. Tom didn’t offer up the information, in any case. “Your mum,” he said, changing the subject, “does she live in Wellington?”
Tom shook his head. “Thank God. She’s down south with her new husband. We don’t exactly get along.”
The rain was beginning to let up by the time their chips arrived, and the leak in the roof had slowed to a steady drip. The waitress disappeared, returning a minute later with salt, pepper, and a half-empty glass bottle, smeared with congealed tomato sauce.
“You have it,” he said when they were down to the last chip. He pushed the bowl across the table. Tom picked up the chip, took a bite, and handed him the other half.
Sam Page 5
