He tried his best not to smile, but he couldn’t help himself. “Thanks.” He wiped his greasy fingers on a paper napkin and got to his feet. “So did you want to visit the cemetery then?”
Tom looked surprised. “Only if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
As he reached for his wallet, Tom held up a hand and said, “It’s on me.”
He tried to protest, but Tom wouldn’t have a bar of it.
The storm had moved on up the coast, leaving a crisp, refreshed landscape in its wake. All the humidity had evaporated from the air.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Tom asked again, slipping into his jacket and zipping up the front as they walked back across the car park, towards the bike.
He shook his head. “No, it’s absolutely fine. Take as long as you like. I’m in no rush to get home.” In fact, he had an aunt buried up there too. He really ought to visit her, but he didn’t like to admit that he didn’t know where her grave was.
Just as they reached the bike, he had an idea. Without saying a word, he turned and jogged across the street, towards the cluster of houses opposite the café. Tom called after him, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard.
At the very end of the row, facing out over the pebbled beach, was an old bach. Its blue weatherboard exterior had clearly seen better days, and its corrugated iron roof was orange with rust. It was beginning to lift on one side; the next strong southwesterly would probably peel it back like the lid on a tin of sardines.
The curtains were drawn and the driveway was empty. There were weeds growing through multiple cracks in the concrete. Clearly, nobody had been home for quite some time.
Along the fence line, a row of agapanthus was in full bloom; long green stalks protruded from the ground at varying angles, their blue and white funnel-shaped flowers dripping with fresh rainwater.
He crouched down, glanced around to check that nobody was watching, and quickly snapped off half a dozen stems. Tom didn’t say a word as Sam walked back across the car park, the makeshift bouquet clutched to his chest, but there was the hint of a smile on his face.
Tom knew exactly where he was going and brought the bike to a stop at the north end of the cemetery, beneath the shade of a large Norfolk pine.
He hung back, not wanting to intrude, but as Tom stepped carefully between the graves, he called over his shoulder, “They won’t bite, you know,” and motioned for him to follow.
Tom stopped at a small square plaque several rows back from the road and knelt on the grass. He brushed away a couple of leaves that had fallen onto the headstone.
“My sister’s been already,” he said, nodding at the small bunch of flowers that had been placed on the grave.
“Here,” he said, handing down the flowers he had picked. He felt rather foolish now; the agapanthus looked pitiful compared with Tom’s sister’s red and white roses. But Tom didn’t seem to notice. He moved his sister’s flowers to one side and gently laid Sam’s beside them.
“Thanks for coming with me.” Tom looked up at him and smiled. He touched the plaque one last time and got to his feet. “You know, I’d just turned thirteen when he died.”
They took a step towards the road.
“Sometimes I find it hard to remember his voice. I can see him, clear as anything, but his voice escapes me.”
When they reached the bike, Tom looked back at the grave one last time. He had a strange expression on his face—as if he were trying to solve a cryptic crossword or some equally difficult puzzle. Sam waited in silence until Tom was ready to leave.
“Let’s get out of here, eh?” Tom hopped up onto the bike and kicked the engine into life.
As soon as he walked through the door, he knew that somebody—his mother—had been in his room. The clothes that he had left in a heap on the floor were stacked in a neat pile on his bed. The empty glasses were missing from his desk, too, and the chest that he was filling with things to take to Dunedin had been pushed against the wall.
Patch was lying in his usual spot. He opened one eye, wagged his tail half-heartedly, and went back to sleep.
He rushed over to the bed, dropped to his knees, and lifted the mattress.
“Fuck,” he cursed, slumping back on his heels in complete disbelief. He had bought the magazine only a few days before, at a dairy on the other side of the city. He had carried it to the counter, concealed beneath a newspaper. He had barely been able to look at the dairy owner as he handed over the money. He hadn’t waited for his change.
He lifted the mattress again and took a second look, thinking—hoping—that the magazine had fallen between the slats, but it wasn’t on the floor. A quick search under the bed netted nothing but an odd sock and a discarded chewing gum wrapper.
He pushed himself to his feet and perched, stunned, on the edge of the desk. His pulse was hammering in his ears, so much so that the traffic outside sounded a mile away. A trickle of cold sweat escaped his hairline and ran down his temple. He reached down,
grabbed the waste paper basket, and vomited.
Once he had finished being sick, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took a deep breath.
Look, you haven’t broken the law, he told himself. But he knew that excuse wouldn’t carry any weight with his mother. He would have to tell her that somebody else had put it there. Owning up simply wasn’t an option.
His mother was standing at the sink when he walked into the kitchen. She finished peeling the potato in her hand and dropped it into a pan of salted water on the stovetop. She dried her hands on a tea towel and turned around. It was obvious that she had been crying. Her eyes were all red and puffy. He looked down at the floor, like some badly behaved child.
“It’s not mine,” he said. The words seemed to come out of his mouth all by themselves. “It’s not mine.”
His mother didn’t say a word. Instead, she turned away and plunged her hands back into the water. She set to work on another potato, staring straight ahead, as if she were searching for something amongst the flowers in the front yard.
“Whose is it then?” she asked at last. He didn’t know how to answer the question, so he stayed silent. “I thought I’d brought you up better than that.”
She turned to face him again. This time, she let her arms hang at her side. Water dripped from her fingertips onto the floor.
“Holly,” he said. He felt a pang of guilt as he said her name, but it was the first one he thought of.
“Holly?” his mother repeated, her voice several octaves higher.
“Yeah, she thought it’d be funny to put it in my bag. You know, on the last day of term. A whole heap of us got pranked. I couldn’t exactly put it in the kitchen bin, though,” he said defensively, “so I hid it under the bed.”
She gave him an intense look. He knew that she was weighing up the story. What he had told her was possible yet unlikely, but, clearly, she wanted to believe. It was better than accepting the alternative. She dropped onto the nearest chair with a sigh.
“Oh, Sam,” she stifled a laugh, “I didn’t know what to think. Honestly, I didn’t.” She shook her head and her face grew serious again. “But to think that you could bring something like that into the house.”
The awkward silence that followed was broken by the shrill ring of the doorbell.
He gasped when he opened the front door. The blood that had only just begun to return to his cheeks drained away again.
“Want a pineapple lump?” Holly asked, and thrust a crumpled brown paper bag under his nose. The sickly sweet smell of the lollies turned his stomach. “You look a bit pale. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” he answered. He glanced towards the kitchen—his mother had her head in the pantry—and pushed Holly out into the front yard. He closed the door quietly behind him. “Let’s get out of here, eh?” he said, pulling her away from the house, towards the street.
“Hey, what’s going on?” she protested. “Are you sure you’re OK? I heard what happene
d.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”
“Your mum told my mum what happened,” Holly said, her mouth full of chocolate, “and then my mum told me, of course.”
“My mum told your mum,” he repeated. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Holly nodded.
“She told her what exactly?”
Holly looked at him, her eyebrows drawn together. “About the attack, of course.”
She popped another lolly into her mouth and started towards the road. “Do you fancy going to the movies? I’ll protect you if we bump into Sutcliffe,” she added with a smirk.
“I can’t, sorry,” he replied, distracted. His father was walking along the street, towards them. “Dinner is nearly ready, so I’d better get back inside. I’ll catch you tomorrow, eh?”
Holly shrugged and walked off in the other direction.
He shut himself away in his room after tea. He wasn’t sure he could face any more questions from his mother. Thankfully, his sister was staying the night at a friend’s house and his father had disappeared to the golf club. His mother must have felt the same as he did, because she disappeared into her room and didn’t come out for the rest of evening.
He pulled the duvet up around his neck, against the icy draught that was stealing in through cracks in the window frame. The wind had been gaining in strength all day and was now howling around the eaves. He had been reading for the past two hours, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open for another second.
He knew exactly why Holly had invited him to the movies. It was the second time in a week that she had suggested they hang out. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think of excuses. He thought he had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in her as anything more than a mate, but, evidently, the message still hadn’t got through.
He was just drifting off when his cellphone vibrated against top of the bedside table. The noise was loud enough to wake the dead.
It was pitch-black with the light off, and when he flipped open the cover on the phone, the fluorescent glare of the screen stabbed at his corneas. He clamped his eyes shut and let a few seconds pass before he tried to open them again.
Hey Sam, we’re having a party if you’re interested?
He didn’t recognise the number, and it wasn’t saved against any of the contacts in his phone. He decided to wait for a while before replying. If it was Holly, he would have to think carefully about what he wrote.
A couple of minutes later, the little envelope icon appeared again. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared at the screen.
Ha! sorry bro, it’s Tom.
He leaned over, flicked on the bedside lamp, and read the message several more times. No, he wasn’t imagining it. It was definitely from Tom.
For a moment, he wondered whether Tom had messaged him by mistake, but then he remembered that the invitation had been addressed to him in person.
A third message came through a few seconds later—this time, with Tom’s address. He threw back the covers and flew out of bed. In his haste to get dressed, he almost forgot to reply.
Thanks, I’ll be there soon, he messaged back, sitting down on the end of the bed to tie his laces.
He was almost ready to leave when his father arrived home. The force with which the front door flew open sent a shockwave reverberating through the whole house.
He stopped where he was and held his breath. Hopefully, his father would be too drunk to notice the thin strip of light beneath his bedroom door.
There was a long silence, followed by the chinking of glasses. He recognised the sound immediately. In a few moments, his father would stagger past, a cut-glass tumbler in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. If Patch was unfortunate enough to be sleeping in the hall, he would probably get a kick for good measure.
Fuck you, he cursed, backing away from the door as quietly as he could. He would have to leave via the window. The wooden sash squeaked against the interior casing as he forced it open. As soon as the gap was wide enough, he squeezed through and made his escape.
Sam climbed the wooden steps to the upstairs flat and knocked on the frosted pane in the door. His heart was pounding and his mouth was uncomfortably dry. He ran his tongue over his lips and cupped his hands over his nose and mouth to check his breath.
An eternity seemed to pass before the dark silhouette of a person appeared behind the glass. Sam sucked in a deep breath, stood up straight, and squared his shoulders.
An exceptionally tall man with a fuzzy red beard opened the door. He was holding a cigarette, which smelled suspiciously like marijuana. “You smoke?” he said, offering the joint across the threshold.
This was something that Sam hadn’t prepared for. He shook his head, feeling more than a little bewildered. “Sorry.”
The man in front of him had to be at least two metres tall. And judging by the breadth of his shoulders, he couldn’t weigh any less than a hundred and twenty kilos.
“This is Tom’s place, right?” Sam asked, suddenly fearing that he might have got the wrong apartment.
“Yeah, bro,” the guy replied, taking a puff on the cigarette. His pupils were fully dilated, and he seemed to be having some trouble focusing. “You smoke?” he asked again.
Sam smiled and shook his head.
Inside the flat, the air was thick with smoke. Before he reached the end of the hallway, he was coughing up his lungs.
He wandered slowly from room to room. A few faces he recognised from college, but the vast majority he had never seen before.
Tom was in the kitchen, playing cards with a small group of friends.
“Full house, boys,” howled the guy sitting opposite Tom, fanning his cards out on the table. Tom sighed and tossed his own hand into the centre. He pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet.
“Sam,” Tom said, spotting him standing in the doorway. He walked straight over. “You came.”
When Tom smiled, Sam felt his insides turn to jelly. He nodded and looked away. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
Tom looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time too. “Yeah, it’s OK, I guess,” he said and shrugged his shoulders. He motioned towards the hall. “Come, we’ll get you something to drink.”
He followed Tom into the bathroom, where the tub had been turned into a makeshift chilly bin. Tom reached into the slush of ice cubes and plucked out two bottles of beer. He prised off the caps with the base of a lighter and handed him one of the bottles.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s a pretty good location here.”
Tom’s eyebrows drew together.
“The flat,” he explained. “It’s close to town.” He wanted to kick himself.
“Yeah,” Tom smiled and held up his bottle. “Cheers.”
The sky was already brightening in the east by the time the crowded apartment began to thin out. Sam looked at his watch and then at the clock on the living room wall. It felt as if he had only just arrived; and yet several hours had passed.
“Time to go, fellas,” he heard Tom tell the stragglers in the kitchen. The sound of chair legs scraping against the linoleum floor made him wince. The voices moved along the hallway and then trailed off into the distance.
A peaceful silence descended on the flat and Sam was tempted to close his eyes. But instead, he got to his feet. He had no intention of outstaying his welcome either. But before he had finished buttoning up his jacket, Tom appeared in the doorway.
“Nightcap?” Tom said, holding up a bottle of whisky. In his other hand, he was holding two cut-glass tumblers.
Sam had never drunk spirits neat before but he accepted the triple pour with a smile. Anything to put off leaving. He waited for Tom to take a sip, though, before he raised the glass to his lips.
As soon as the whisky touched the back of his throat, he thought was going to choke.
“You OK?” Tom laughed, taking the glass out of his hand and slapping him hard on the back. Tears were streaming dow
n his face.
“I’m—fine—really,” he spluttered, wiping his eyes with his hands. Once he was able to breathe again, Tom handed him back his drink.
He sat down on the sofa and leaned his head against the cushion.
A car rumbled past the open window. Its headlights illuminated the wall opposite for a few seconds. Sam attempted to focus on the swirling pattern, but the effort made him feel queasy. He stopped and closed his eyes. He had clearly drunk too much.
The sofa dipped as Tom dropped down beside him.
“Sorry,” Tom apologised as they bumped shoulders, but he didn’t move away.
He kept his eyes closed. He could feel Tom’s shoulder pressing against his. When he inhaled, he could smell the musky scent of Tom’s aftershave.
“I’m glad you could come tonight,” Tom said after a long pause.
He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. He was too scared to look in Tom’s direction for fear of revealing his true feelings. “Thanks for inviting me,” he replied, and took another, much smaller, sip of his drink. This time, it went down without a hiccup.
Tom rested his head back on the sofa, beside his own. “You’re off to uni in a few weeks, right?”
“Yeah, to Dunedin.”
“To do what?”
“Law,” he sighed. Suddenly, the thought of leaving Wellington had lost its appeal.
“You don’t seem too happy about it,” Tom replied. He must have picked up on the distinct lack of enthusiasm in Sam’v voice.
Sam was about to reply when Tom sprang to his feet and walked over to the bookcase. He took a record down from the top shelf, carefully removed the delicate vinyl disc inside, and placed it on the turntable. “I saw these guys in Auckland last year. They were pretty awesome,” he said, lowering the needle carefully into place.
There was a crackle, followed by a second or two of silence, and then the room was filled with music. Tom turned the volume up.
Tom held his gaze for a second. He really did have the bluest eyes Sam had ever seen. They were like two sapphires speckled with gold.
“You know this song?” Tom asked.
Sam Page 6
