Sam

by Luke F. Harris

  “Sorry, Dad!” she snapped back. “I told you: I don’t want to be carrying a jacket all night. Anyway, once I get a few drinks inside me, I’ll be a box of fluffies.”

  He glanced down at his wrist again, and then remembered that he had forgotten to put his watch back on after his shower. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned back on his heels. There’s nothing to be worried about, he tried to convince himself. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. You’re just going for a drink. That’s all.

  He heard the bus before he saw it—that familiar sound of electricity poles passing over junctions in the network of cables overhead. Slowly, the bus rounded the corner and came into view. The yellow glare of its headlights obscured the driver completely. He walked over to the edge of the footpath and held out his left hand. The bus crawled to a stop several metres further down

  the road.

  A few minutes later, they turned into Waitoa Road and began the short climb up to the bus tunnel, which linked the eastern suburbs of Wellington with the city centre. During the day it was possible to see sunlight at the other end, but at night the oval entrance was no more than a black smudge on the side of the hill.

  He hated confined spaces. Once when they were children, his sister had locked him in the wooden chest at the foot of their parents’ bed during a game of hide and seek. He had had nightmares about it for months after.

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture the wide open expanse of Lyall Bay, the waves lapping peacefully on the shore, but the image, so carefully constructed, vanished the instant the bus driver slammed his foot on the brake.

  The bus came to a screeching, jarring halt, and the half a dozen passengers who were standing in the aisle shot forward and almost ended up in a heap on the floor. “Watch it, mate!” a voice yelled from somewhere behind him.

  The driver paid no attention. Instead, he reached up for the walkie-talkie above his head and grunted into the mouthpiece, “Two guys in the tunnel. Over.”

  Sam plucked a tissue from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The driver’s rapping on the steering wheel was only making his anxiety worse, and when Holly saw that his hands were shaking, she gave him a concerned look. “You OK?”

  He nodded.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  An eternity seemed to pass before the radio crackled back into life: “Proceed with caution. The police have been notified. Over.”

  And with a lurch that threw him and the other passengers forward in their seats again, they crawled forwards, out into the still night air.

  He was out of his seat before the bus had turned into Courtenay Place. Elbowing his way through the crowd, he jumped down onto the footpath, sucking in a lungful of fresh air.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” Holly asked, appearing beside him. She was rummaging in her bag and pulled out a packet of bubble-gum. “Want one?”

  He shook his head. “Come on—they’ll be waiting.”

  But when they reached the spot where Tom had arranged to meet them, he was nowhere to be seen.

  The taxi rank on the corner of Courtenay Place and Tory Street was full, the drivers standing between their vehicles, smoking and chatting while they waited for their next fare. “Need a ride?” one of the drivers called out, spotting them loitering on the footpath nearby. He shook his head and turned away.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Holly asked. She blew a pink bubble with her gum. It reached the size of a large orange before it burst. She flicked the gum back into her mouth with her tongue and resumed chewing.

  He nodded, craning his neck to see further down the street. From force of habit, he reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. The packet was unopened, and he ripped off the cellophane cover. He inhaled deeply and the end glowed incandescent, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing before the nicotine had begun to leach into his bloodstream.

  “Are you sure?” Holly asked again.

  “Yes,” he exhaled. “They must be running late.”

  “I can’t see them anywhere. Can’t we just go in out of the cold? I can’t feel my nipples any more.”

  “Here, take my coat.” He removed his jacket and handed it to her. It was several sizes too big and it hung from her shoulders like a sack.

  He held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, the burning end sheltered in the palm of his hand. He stared at it intently, as if it might offer some kind of clue as to what they should do next. He was still lost in thought when Tom and Jarryd came tearing round the corner.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Tom panted. “Have you been waiting long?”

  He shook his head.

  “We just arrived, actually,” Holly said.

  “This bright spark nearly got us arrested just now,” Tom said, motioning to Jarryd, who was gasping for breath. They looked as if they had been running for their lives.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Tom must have seen the concerned look on his face, because he continued, “Don’t worry. It’s all good. We got caught running through the bus tunnel, but we managed to leg it before the police arrived.” Tom punched Jarryd playfully on the arm. “I told you we should’ve got the bus, toss. Sam, you remember Jarryd, eh?”

  He had been only half-listening and blurted out the first thing to come into his head. “The crusher?”

  Jarryd roared with laughter and clasped him round the shoulders. Sam had his hands in his pockets and almost lost his balance. “This one’s a keeper,” Jarryd boomed. But Tom wasn’t listening.

  “I doubt you’ll get in wearing those,” Tom said, nodding at his feet. Sam’s heart sank.

  He had been so preoccupied with getting there on time that he hadn’t given his sneakers a second thought. Of course, most of the bars in the city would insist on leather shoes on a Saturday night.

  Tom didn’t seem overly concerned, though. “Wait over there.”

  There was no time for questions. Tom turned and, without saying another word, walked past the doorman, into the bar. Jarryd grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and followed hot on his heels.

  He stood where he was for a moment, not quite sure what to do next. Whatever Tom was up to, he doubted it was strictly above board. The last thing he needed was to get into trouble just before he was due to leave for university. His mother would kill him.

  Holly tugged on his sleeve. “Come on. We’d better do as he says.” She put an arm through his and dragged him over to the window Tom had pointed to.

  The footpath was teeming with people. Two young girls tottered past. They didn’t look much older than his sister and were holding on to each other for support.

  “IDs, please,” he heard the doorman say. One of the girls giggled nervously and flicked her hair back, but the doorman didn’t bat an eyelid. “Sorry, girls. You’re not coming in without ID.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. At least he had had the good sense to bring his driver’s licence with him.

  When Tom rapped on the window behind him, he almost jumped out of his skin. He spun round, his heart in his throat. Tom pointed to his right, towards the entrance to the bar, and mouthed something that he didn’t understand. “What?” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Tom rolled his eyes and repeated himself, but it was no use; the music was too loud. The whole window was vibrating like a giant speaker. Tom glanced over his shoulder and then slid the window open a few centimetres. “Is he watching?”

  The doorman. Of course.

  He glanced to his left. Thankfully, a bachelorette party had just arrived. He shook his head. In the next instant, Tom thrust a pair of shoes through the gap. “Quick, give me yours.”

  Holly stepped forward and took the shoes. She tucked them inside her jacket, out of sight. He hoped to God the doorman wasn’t watching, but he didn’t dare stop to check.

  “You’re OK. He’s not looking this way,” Holly said, as if she had read his mind. He slipped out of his sneakers and
handed them up to Tom, who then vanished into the crowd.

  “Quickly, put them on,” Holly whispered under her breath. She pressed the shoes into his hands.

  “They fit?”

  He wriggled his toes. The leather was still warm. “Yes,” he replied absently.

  “Come on then,” she said, pulling him towards the entrance. “It’s freezing out here, and I need a drink.”

  He slipped the driver’s licence from his wallet, ready for inspection, but the doorman gave it only a cursory glance and waved them both through.

  Inside, it looked as if the entire population of Wellington was trying to squeeze within the same four walls. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and each breath clawed in his throat. If it hadn’t been for Tom, he would have walked straight back out the door.

  Holly put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. “Do you see him?” she shouted over the music.

  He gazed out over the sea of heads, but there was no sign of Tom. Red and green strobe lighting flashed overhead, illuminating faces at random. The rhythmic thud of the bass resonated through his chest like a second heartbeat. He sank back down on his heels and shook his head; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  “Come on.” Holly grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into the crowd. Only when they reached the bar did she let go of his arm. “Wait here,” she shouted over her shoulder and slipped through a gap in the wall of bodies. From a distance of several metres, he watched as she stepped up onto the brass footrest beneath the bar and leaned across the counter. She was wearing a low-cut top that showed off her breasts, and within minutes, she was back, a drink in both hands and a triumphant look on her face.

  They sipped their drinks in silence. The music was much too loud for conversation, and Tom was still nowhere to be seen.

  When he saw Sutcliffe in the crowd, he almost vomited on the spot. His ribs were still sore, and the bruise under his eye, although no longer dark purple, was still a mottled yellow colour. Instinctively, he raised one arm to protect his middle. Oh God, he thought, not again. It was one thing to be shamed in front of a few ageing council workers; it was something else entirely to be humiliated in front of Tom.

  “What’s the matter?” Holly asked. She must have seen the blood drain from his face. She lowered her glass and glanced over her shoulder. Right on cue, Sutcliffe turned and looked in their direction. It took a few seconds for Sutcliffe’s brain to catch up with his eyes. Slowly, a malevolent grin spread across his face.

  “Far!” Sutcliffe exclaimed and sauntered over to where he and Holly were standing. “Fancy seeing you two here, eh?” Sutcliffe plucked the drink from his hand and laughed. “You shouldn’t have.”

  He was too stunned to put up a fight. For Sutcliffe, it was easier than taking candy from a baby. But Holly was less easily intimidated.

  “Do one,” she said, snatching back the drink just as Sutcliffe was about to take a swig. Beer sloshed from the neck of the bottle, down the front of Sutcliffe’s shirt.

  “Far,” Sutcliffe cried and shook his head. “Getting the girls to look after you now, eh, Sam?”

  The collar on his shirt suddenly felt several sizes too small. He ran a hand through his hair and almost whispered, “Please just leave us alone.”

  Sutcliffe opened his mouth and, to his surprise, closed it again without saying a word.

  “Hey, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Tom said, appearing at his side as if by magic. Tom’s eyes didn’t leave Sutcliffe as he leaned in and asked, “Is this a friend of yours?”

  A shiver went down his spine as Tom’s breath brushed the side of neck, just behind his left ear. He shook his head.

  With a flick of the chin, Tom summoned Jarryd, Wiremu and several others guys, whom he recognised vaguely from the party at Tom’s flat. They clustered in a group directly behind Sutcliffe, who seemed to shrink in size before his very eyes. Sutcliffe wasn’t known to shy away from a scrap when the odds were stacked in his favour, but this time, he was clearly outmatched. Jarryd crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles bulging beneath the tattoos that decorated his skin from shoulder to wrist.

  Sutcliffe slunk off without saying a word.

  “Here, I got you these,” Tom said. He was holding two bottles in his right hand. He gave one to Holly and handed him the other.

  “Thanks,” he said. He pressed his lips together into a half smile, but inside, he was still praying for the ground to open up and swallow him. He had never been so humiliated in his life. It was a while before his pulse returned to normal.

  The bar was nearing capacity now, yet the stream of bodies filing in through the door showed no sign of letting up.

  “Follow me,” Tom said, leaning in so that their faces were only centimetres apart. His breath was warm and smelled of hops. Not wanting to be left alone—Holly had spotted a group of girls from her netball team and had gone to say hello—he followed Tom out onto the terrace, where the music wasn’t quite so deafening.

  “He’d better let me off the fuckin’ bench this year,” a small, wiry guy called Franklin was complaining to the guy sitting next to him. “I hardly got any fuckin’ game time last season. I tell you, I’m this close to telling him to get fucked.” He held his thumb and index finger a centimetre apart. “This fuckin’ close!” he hissed and sculled the last of his beer. Franklin slammed the glass down on the table so hard that he was surprised it didn’t shatter.

  “Try kicking the ball between the posts and he might let you,” Tom replied. Franklin glared back at him, and for a moment, he thought there might be a fight. But then Franklin’s face cracked into a large grin and he laughed.

  “How do you know Tom?” Jarryd asked, appearing at his side when Tom went to the bar to buy another round of drinks.

  “He works with my dad,” he replied.

  “You’re John’s son?”

  He nodded. He hooked his thumbs under his belt and leaned back on his heels. “How long have you known Tom?” It was his turn to speak and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I can’t remember, bro.” Jarryd shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve been mates since for ever.” Jarryd’s mouth twitched upwards at the sides as though he had just remembered something funny.

  “Are you a builder, too?”

  Jarryd shook his head. “Nah—a mechanic. And as for those two clowns,” he pointed his empty glass at the others, “Franklin’s a sparky and Jensen does something with computers.” Franklin and Jensen both looked up at the mention of their names. “Tom tells me you’re off to uni.”

  Thankfully, Tom reappeared before he had to answer any more questions.

  “Thanks,” he said accepting what appeared to be a whisky and Coke. “The next ones are one me, though.”

  When Tom smiled, he felt his whole body respond. Tom was wearing a fitted shirt, the cuffs folded back past his elbows, and the hairs on his forearms shone like gold thread beneath the glow of the heat lamps.

  “Are you OK—you know?” Tom asked.

  He took a sip of his drink and nodded. Never in his life had he had such an overwhelming urge to kiss another person. Tom’s lips looked like silk and he wondered whether they would feel as soft.

  His daydreaming was interrupted by the appearance of a girl he didn’t know. But clearly, she knew Tom, and he felt a pang of nausea in his gut as Tom leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She rested one hand on Tom’s arm and reached up to whisper something into his ear. He noticed, with a growing resentment, that she allowed her hand to linger for a moment after she had finished speaking.

  “This is Sam,” Tom turned and gestured to him with his glass. “Sam, this is Zoe.”

  He forced himself to smile.

  Zoe glanced in his direction, but she seemed to look straight through him. She shifted her attention straight back to Tom.

  The sense of euphoria that he had felt just minutes earlier was already turning to despair. Although he didn’t have a cl
ue who she was, or what she meant to Tom, it was crystal clear that she had no intention of leaving any time soon. Short of removing her physically, he was stuck with her.

  He looked over to where Holly had been standing when he had last seen her, but there was no sign of her now. For a moment, he contemplated going in search of her but quickly weighed it up against the probability of bumping into Sutcliffe and decided that he would stay put. Better the devil you know, he reasoned.

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Jarryd said, appearing at his side. He gave Jarryd a blank look.

  “Girls,” Jarryd explained loudly. He pointed his glass at Tom. “They buzz round him like flies round shit.”

  Tom looked up and gave them a mischievous grin. Jarryd was right; there was something magnetic about him. His whole face lit up when he smiled. Tom winked and then turned his attention back to Zoe.

  Sam was standing too far away to be able to hear exactly what Tom was saying, but Zoe’s body language suddenly changed. She squared her shoulders as if she had just been told bad news. When she walked away, he tried not to smile.

  “What was that about flies and shit?” Tom asked, sneaking up on Jarryd.

  Jarryd took a step backward, but he wasn’t fast enough. Tom’s arm shot round his neck and pulled him down to waist level, in a headlock. “What was that you said?”

  “She given you the flick already?” Jarryd goaded, trying in vain to prise himself free. Most of his drink ended up on the floor in the process. But instead of letting go, Tom tightened his grip and Jarryd made a horrible choking sound.

  Jarryd drew his fist back to hit Tom but instead knocked a full glass of red wine out of the hand of a girl standing behind him. The glass flew into the air, drenching those underneath, and smashed into a thousand pieces on the polished concrete floor. The screams promptly attracted the attention of the doorman, who started towards them, his face like thunder.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Tom grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the crowd.

  He felt guilty leaving without Holly, but there was no time to look for her now. Still, he hesitated for a moment when they reached the fire exit at the rear of the bar.