Sam

by Luke F. Harris

  “Come on,” Tom said. He turned and followed him through the door, out into the fresh air.

  “Where are we going?”

  They were walking away from Courtenay Place, towards the waterfront, and he had to increase his pace just to keep up. Tom darted between two cars that were parked up at the side of the street and crossed over to the other side.

  “You’ll see.”

  Tom’s shoes were a size too small, and by the time they reached the north end of Lambton Quay, they had rubbed large blisters on his heels. He was about to ask whether they would be walking much further when Tom stopped and announced, “We’re here.”

  They were standing outside a large stone building. The ground floor was hidden behind a three-metre-high wooden fence and attached to the padlocked gate

  was a sign that read Danger, Keep Out in large red lettering.

  He looked around, confused.

  Tom produced a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock, which sprang open with a snap.

  Sam took a step back and glanced around. Was Tom trying to get them both arrested? He opened his

  mouth to protest, but Tom had already disappeared.

  “Come on!” a disembodied voice called out. He took a deep breath and, checking again that nobody was watching, followed Tom into the darkness.

  It was pitch-black inside the building and it took a couple of minutes for his eyes to fully adjust to the lack of light. Slowly, the foyer of an apartment block materialised.

  “What the hell are we doing?” he asked. Tom was sitting on the third step of a concrete staircase.

  “Don’t stress—we’re perfectly safe. Just watch your head and follow me.” Tom jumped to his feet and headed on up the steps. At the top of the first flight, he stopped and yelled down to him, “It’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

  His thighs were burning by the third floor, and at the tenth, he had to ask Tom to pause for a moment while he caught his breath. He was wheezing like an asthmatic by the time they reached the top.

  “Nearly there,” Tom said. His voice echoed off the bare breezeblock walls. They were standing in a large, cavernous space that would soon be divided neatly into individual units. Tom motioned towards a metal door in the corner.

  The moon had risen while they were in the bar. Its light traced a silver path across the blackness of the water, cleaving the harbour in two. On the far side of the water, the lights of the Petone foreshore twinkled like stars fallen to Earth. Tom was right; the view from the roof was truly breathtaking.

  Tom walked across the tarsealed roof and sat on the stone ledge. Casually, as if the street were only a few metres below, he swung his legs out over the edge and let them hang in the air.

  Sam gasped and instinctively took a step backwards. He pressed his sweat-soaked back against the door, which had clicked shut behind him.

  “Come and have a seat,” Tom shouted over his shoulder. “It’s perfectly safe. I built it myself.”

  It was too late now to tell Tom that he had a pathological fear of heights. Mustering every ounce of courage, he took a couple of steps forward—slowly, as if the floor were made of thin ice that might crack at any moment. He made it halfway before he had to stop. He couldn’t go any further.

  “What do you think?” Tom turned and smiled. “Pretty cool, eh?” He nodded in agreement.

  Tom arched his eyebrows. “You don’t look very relaxed.” He hopped down off the wall and walked back towards him. “You don’t like heights?”

  He gulped and shook his head.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think.” Tom sat down at his feet and patted the floor beside him. “We can stay here.”

  It was a relief to feel the floor solid beneath him. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. There was only one left. He offered it to Tom, who shook his head.

  “Here.” Tom held out a silver hipflask. “It will make you feel better.”

  He took a large gulp.

  His whole body seemed to convulse, but somewhere inside, a flame ignited. “What the hell is that?” he coughed, shaking his head. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Bourbon.”

  He coughed again and dried his eyes on the neck of his sweater. Far away, a siren wailed. Police, fire, ambulance—it was anybody’s guess.

  “Did you play in the final last year?” he asked after they had been sitting in silence for a while. Tom was lying on the floor, gazing up at the stars.

  “Yeah.”

  He took another, smaller sip from the flask. “I heard you played well.”

  “We lost. Thirty-nil.”

  “Oh,” he replied, and gave himself a mental kick in the shin.

  The subject of girls was always going to come up—it always did sooner or later—but he still felt an intense disappointment when Tom asked, “What’s the deal with you and Holly?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?” he asked, stalling for time. He knew full well what Tom meant.

  “You know she likes you, don’t you?”

  He swallowed. His throat was bone dry. He removed the cap from the hipflask and took another sip. “Yeah, I know.” He needed to shift the spotlight off of himself, and quickly, before Tom had a chance to ask any more questions. “And you—are you seeing anyone?”

  Tom sat upright. He cupped his hands around the back of his head and stared out across the harbour. “No, not at the moment. So you’re not interested in Holly, then?” Tom batted the ball straight back into his court.

  “No, you dumb shit,” was what he really wanted to say. “Can’t you see it’s you I want?” But, instead, he settled for a hackneyed, “We’re just good friends.”

  It was freezing cold on the roof, and despite the warming effects of the whisky, he began to shiver. Tom noticed straight away.

  “You’re cold.” Tom took his coat off. Ignoring his protests, Tom draped it around his shoulders. “Here—I don’t need it.”

  He could see the hairs on Tom’s forearms. They were standing on end. But he didn’t say anything. The jacket was warm, and with each intake of breath, he caught the faint aroma of aftershave.

  Tom leaned back on his hands and looked up at the sky. “Have you ever been to Lake Tekapo?”

  He looked at Tom and gave him a questioning look.

  “I spent a night there a couple of years back,” Tom explained. “I was on my way down to Queenstown to see some mates who were working the ski season. There’s isn’t much there—in Tekapo. Just a motel and a few shops, really. But at night, when the stars come out, it’s something else. You have to see it.”

  He looked up into the darkness above them. The light from the streetlamps below obscured most of the night sky, but out over the pitch-black waters of Cook Strait it was possible to see a smattering of stars.

  “I’ll take you sometime if you want.”

  He turned his head towards Tom, only to find that Tom was watching him. Instead of looking away, Tom held his gaze, his eyes shining like sapphires. Tom smiled and a surge of electricity coursed through his body.

  There was a long awkward silence before Tom spoke again.

  “Come on,” Tom said, getting to his feet. His voice had changed. He sounded almost annoyed now. “Let’s go, eh.”

  chapter seven

  “Sam, will you please just tell me what’s wrong?”

  His mother put down her knife and fork and turned towards him. “I know that something is bothering you. You’ve been moping around the house for days now.”

  The tone of her voice roused him from his daydream. “Sorry?”

  “Is something the matter? You’ve hardly eaten a thing.” She nodded at his plate. He looked down at his dinner, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Leave the boy alone,” his father intervened on his behalf. He had a mouthful of food, and a speck of potato flew across the table.

  “I’m fine,” he said, “I just feel a bit sick—that’s all
.”

  His mother reached over and placed a hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel hot, although you do look a little pale. Go and lie down. I’ll put your dinner in the oven to keep warm.” She took his plate away before he could protest and placed it on the kitchen bench, out of reach. “I’ll come and check on you in a bit. Now go.”

  Obediently, he got to his feet and retreated to the sanctuary of his room. The following morning, he made sure he was up and out long before his parents awoke.

  There was still a week to go till Christmas Day but the supermarket car park was already full by the time he arrived at work. Lately, he had been working as many shifts as he could. Each dollar earned now was one less he would need to find in Dunedin.

  “Here, put this on.” His supervisor thrust a red and green felt hat into his hands. Sewn onto the peak was a silver bell, which jingled with every movement. “Don’t worry,” she said, seeing the look of horror on his face, “everybody will be wearing one.” She handed him his float. “Number eight, please. I’ll send someone to relieve you for lunch at one.” But by half past one, there was still no sign of his replacement and his stomach was growling angrily in protest.

  “Do you have a loyalty card?” he asked the lady he was serving. He glanced at the long line of customers, which now snaked down the aisle opposite. If they didn’t relieve him now, it would be at least another quarter of an hour before he could hope to get away.

  “Thanks.” He swiped the card and handed it back across the counter.

  He was so focused on what he was doing that he hadn’t noticed Tom waiting patiently in line. When he spotted him, he almost dropped the jar of pickles he was holding.

  “You’ve just scanned that twice.”

  He could hardly hear the man standing in front of him over the pounding in his ears. “You’ve scanned that already,” the man repeated, accusingly.

  “Sorry,” he apologised. He felt his face turn beetroot. He glanced at Tom, who grinned and rolled his eyes.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Tom smiled as he stepped up to the counter.

  “Good thanks,” he replied. He tried to concentrate on the job at hand, picking up the first item, a twelve-pack of beer, and scanning the barcode on the base of the box. “You?”

  His face was still burning. He hoped to God it didn’t look as red as it felt.

  “Yeah, not bad. Just getting a few essentials for Christmas.” Tom was wearing a loose, sleeveless T-shirt, which billowed outwards as he lifted the beers back into the empty trolley.

  For the briefest of moments, Sam had an unobstructed view of Tom’s chest. His nipples stood erect, two pink discs on otherwise unblemished skin. He managed to look away just in time.

  “Are you spending the holidays at home with your folks?” Tom asked, straightening up.

  Sam picked up the next item, a bag of loose apples, and punched in the corresponding product code. “Yeah, my grandparents will be up from Christchurch on the twenty-fourth,” he replied. His heart was pounding dangerously fast.

  Right on cue, his lunch reliever appeared. He finished serving Tom and walked with him towards the exit. “Let me give you a hand,” he said, reaching into the trolley before Tom could say no.

  Tom tucked the carton of beers under one arm and carried the remaining bags in his other hand. “I was hoping that I’d run into you, actually.”

  “You were?” he blurted out and immediately wanted to kick himself.

  Be cool, you dick.

  “A few of us are going away over the New Year,” Tom continued. “I—we—wondered if you fancied coming along.”

  “Oh—um,” he stammered. He was completely lost for words.

  “I mean, it was just an idea,” Tom added quickly. “If you don’t want to—”

  “No,” he cut Tom off, “I’d like that.” Tom was adorable when he was flustered, and he had to concentrate hard to keep from grinning ear to ear.

  “What do you mean, you’re going away for New

  Year?”

  His mother glared at him. She was standing at the kitchen sink, arms elbow-deep in soap suds.

  “You know we always spend New Year together. It’s a family tradition. Your gran and grandad will be here, and they’ll be really disappointed if you’re not!”

  He had been fully prepared for a fight. He knew his mother wouldn’t back down quietly. But the one thing he hadn’t been expecting was his father to come to his rescue.

  “The boy can go if he wants to.” His father folded the newspaper he was reading and placed it on the table in front of him. Then he crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and addressed him directly. “Where will you be going?”

  “The Hawke’s Bay, Dad,” he answered, trying not to look at his mother. He could feel her eyes burning a hole in his back.

  “And how long will you be gone?”

  “Just a few nights.”

  “I suppose you’ll need some money, then?”

  He glanced at his mother for help, but she turned away. His father wasn’t known for his generosity; quite the opposite, in fact.

  His father stood up, walked silently to the coat rack in the hall, and returned a moment later holding a thick wad of bank notes.

  “Where did you get all that money from?” his mother shrieked at the sight of the cash.

  “My good friends at the TAB,” his father replied, a rare smile flashing across his face. He peeled off two crisp fifty-dollar notes and flicked them across the table.

  Sam looked down at the twin faces of Sir Apirana Ngata. Should he pocket the cash, or was this some sort of test?

  “Don’t you want the money?” his father asked, his brow furrowing.

  “Um—yes—thanks very much, Dad.” Cautiously, he reached for the money, but his father was as good as his word. The clip around the ear that he was expecting never came.

  The morning of the thirtieth, he was up at the crack of dawn, and by the time Tom pulled up outside and honked the car horn, he had changed his clothes completely—twice.

  “Sam, will you come here a moment, please.”

  He put down the bag he was carrying and turned towards the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She motioned to the empty chair beside her. “Sit down a moment, will you.”

  Tom’s car was parked up across the street. He could see Jarryd sitting in the front passenger seat, his left elbow propped on the open window, his fingertips rapping on the roof. Reluctantly, he sat down. Hopefully, whatever his mother was wanting to say wouldn’t take long.

  “I want you to pray with me.”

  Her voice was firm, and she began straight away, before he had a chance to protest. She reached forward and took his hands in her own.

  “Father, we ask that You protect Sam and that You keep him on the path of righteousness.”

  He wasn’t listening to a word that his mother was saying. Please, please, don’t come looking for me, he was praying instead. From the doorstep, Tom would have a perfect view into the kitchen.

  His mother kept a firm hold on his hands when she finished. He knew exactly what she was waiting for; it was always the same. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

  “Dear God,” he began. It would be quicker and much less painful to do as she wanted.

  Tom had to lower the visor and squint over the steering wheel just to see through the glare as they sailed along the urban motorway, out of the city.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Clearly, it was going to be another scorcher of a day, and over the hill, in the Wairarapa, it would be even hotter. The farmers had been facing water restrictions for weeks already and their paddocks looked as if they belonged more in the Middle East than in New Zealand.

  “Move over, will you,” Franklin grumbled at Jensen. “Your fat arse is spilling over onto my seat.”

  Sam was sitting on Jensen’s left, and as Jensen shuffled over, away from Franklin, he was pinned against the door. He gla
nced down at the blur of tarmac and hoped the lock would hold.

  “Now, now, kids.” Jarryd turned and peered through the gap between the two front seats. “We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

  Jarryd was right; it was well past lunch before they reached the outskirts of Napier. They sailed through the city without stopping and carried on along State Highway 2 for another ten kilometres before turning off the main drag and winding their way through the hills, towards the coast.

  The beach at Waipatiki was a half-moon bay nestled between steep cliffs at either end. Aside from a cluster of beach houses and a small camping ground, there wasn’t much to write home about. He gazed out the window at their bach. It looked at least fifty years old, and the weatherboard was rotting in several places.

  “Here we are. You can stop fighting now.” Tom swung the car onto the drive and cut the engine.

  Sam opened the car door and groaned unashamedly with pleasure as he stretched out his legs.

  “I’ll find the key. You guys start unloading the car,” Tom said, disappearing around the back of the house, leaving Sam and the others to unpack the mountain of supplies.

  The inside of the bach looked just as run down as the outside. The chocolate-brown carpet in the living room was threadbare in places, and none of the armchairs matched. He wandered over to the bookcase in the corner and plucked a dog-eared paperback from the hodgepodge on the shelves. He glanced casually at the cover. A Mills & Boon with a faded cerise cover. He returned it to the pile.

  “There’s one twin room and two doubles,” Tom said, dumping a large box of groceries on the kitchen table. “Deano’s girlfriend has already called first dibs on one of the doubles.” Tom turned to Jensen and Franklin, who had just wandered through the door. “You guys take the twin, eh?”

  “I’m game if you are?” Jensen nudged Franklin in the ribs with his elbow. Franklin grunted in reply and then turned and walked back out to the car.

  “You might as well take the other double,” Tom said to Sam.

  “But what about you—where will you sleep?”