Sam

by Luke F. Harris

  As he opened his mouth to reply, the front door flew open and the other lads piled in.

  Bentley was preening himself quietly in the hall. He shot into the air as if he had been electrocuted, scrambled for traction on the wooden floor, and flew out the door, down the path, and over the fence.

  “Tom!” Mikey shouted. Clearly, the others had started drinking without them. Mikey clapped him on the back and dropped down onto the sofa. “Good—we haven’t missed kick-off,” he said, turning up the volume on the television and propping his feet on the coffee table.

  “What’s all this about you going overseas, eh?” Tommo asked, walking into the room, carrying several boxes of pizza. He pushed Mikey’s feet off the table and set the boxes down in their place.

  “I see the old bongo drums have been beating again.” Tom pretended to be annoyed. In reality, he was touched that his friends cared.

  “That’s no way to talk about your sister,” Mikey fired back at him, grinning.

  He laughed, and instantly felt guilty. His eyes went to the photo of Sam on the mantelpiece. Sorry.

  “Did I miss kick-off?” Deano asked, walking through the door a minute later and sitting down next to Mikey. He took the slice of pizza out of Mikey’s hand and took a bite.

  “Hey, piss off,” Mikey said, snatching the slice back.

  “Nah, you’re all good, bro,” Jarryd replied. “They’re still singing. Beer?”

  “Chur.”

  “So, South America, eh?” Tommo asked once both verses of the New Zealand anthem were over.

  Mikey muted the sound for the duration of ‘Advance, Australia Fair’.

  “Yeah, I’m starting in Peru,” he said. “And then I’ll just see how I go from there.”

  “Peru?”

  “We were always planning to go,” he said, glancing at the photo again.

  Tommo didn’t probe any further, and they all turned their attention to the game.

  The referee blew his whistle, and the Australians, having won the toss, kicked the ball straight down the field and into touch.

  It wasn’t long until Jarryd was yelling obscenities at the screen. “Open your fucking eyes, ref!” he cried as the Kiwi loose-head prop took a right hook to the temple during a scrum at the twenty-two-metre line. He thumped his own fist on the arm of the sofa and shook his head in disgust. By half-time, the Aussies were ten points up and he looked as if he was about to commit murder.

  “I was sorry to hear about Sam, bro,” Chris said during the next stoppage.

  There was a collective intake of breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jarryd glare at Chris. Evidently, Jarryd had given them all strict instructions not to upset him—instructions that Chris had just flouted.

  “Thanks, mate,” he said, “I appreciate that.”

  For many of his friends, this was the first time they had seen him since the funeral and he had been expecting the conversation to turn to Sam at some point. Chris’s sigh of relief almost made him laugh.

  Nate was the next to speak. “Yeah, he was a good cunt.” Nate raised his bottle of beer in a toast. “To Sam.”

  “To Sam,” they all echoed, Jarryd included.

  “So how’s it been—” Tommo started to ask, but Jarryd cut him off before he could finish the question. “That’s enough, eh, lads? Give the boy a break.”

  Their questions were more endearing than distressing, yet for some reason he felt his eyes suddenly fill with tears.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He jumped to his feet.

  “Just going for a piss,” he said, keeping his head down as he left the room.

  Most of the time, he managed to keep his emotions in check, but every now and then, and always when he was least expecting it, something trivial would set him off.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” he heard Jarryd scold the others as he closed the bathroom door quietly. A tear broke free and rolled down his cheek. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.

  He stood at the bathroom sink and pressed a cold flannel to his face.

  When he had told his friends about Sam all those years ago, he had been expecting them to react badly. But they hadn’t. They had been more accepting than he could ever have imagined. He felt ashamed for ever doubting them.

  He rinsed the flannel in cold water and returned it to his eyes.

  When he walked back into the room, nobody said a word. The second half of the test against Australia was well under way, and all eyes were glued to the screen.

  It was at least a quarter of an hour before anybody spoke.

  “So, how long are you going for?” Nate asked at last. He didn’t take his eyes off the game, though.

  “Not sure. Two months—perhaps three. I’ve got an open ticket.”

  “Fuck, that’s mental.” Mikey glanced at him and then back at the television. “The furthest I’ve ever been is the Gold Coast.”

  “What’s stopping you from taking off for a few months?” he countered. “There’s a whole world out there.”

  Mikey started to say, “It’s all right for you—” and stopped. His face turned crimson. “Sorry, bro. I didn’t mean to—I mean, my girlfriend might have something to say about it.”

  “Take her with you,” he persisted, raising his eyebrows. “What’s stopping you?”

  Mikey pondered the question for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, I suppose.”

  Tom skulled the last of his beer and then reached for a fresh one.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt this year,” he continued, removing the metal cap from the bottle. He had everybody’s attention now, game or no game. “It’s that life’s too fucking short to put things off.”

  He took a sip of beer and sat back in his seat. “That’s why I’m going. Now, are we watching this game or not?”

  The next morning, he was up and out, pounding the footpaths of the eastern suburbs, while the sun was still racing westward across the South Pacific. He reached Lyall Bay at first light.

  He felt surprisingly good, as if he were rediscovering a small part of himself, one he had forgotten even existed. He kicked off his running shoes and walked down to the water’s edge. There wasn’t a soul on the beach and he offered up a prayer of thanks to the gods.

  The sand was cold and damp under foot, and he left a trail of deep prints behind him. He gasped and clenched his fists as the first wave surged around his feet, splashing ice-cold water up his calves. High above, a seagull squawked.

  He walked the full length of the beach, past the surf club, rejoining the road by the rocks at the end of the bay. He brushed the sand from between his toes, slipped back into his runners and jogged on, up Onepu Road, towards Kilbirnie.

  The rugby club was locked up at this hour, its windows black and uninviting, but in his head, he could hear the roar of the crowd. For a split second, he was twenty-one again, lining up to take the penalty kick that would take his team into the final.

  With the roar of the crowd still ringing in his memory, he jogged on.

  The kitchen window of Sam’s parents’ house was lit up like a goldfish bowl. He stopped on the other side of the street and stepped back into the shadows, out of sight.

  A few days after Sam’s showdown with his father, Tom had gone around to the house to speak to Sam’s parents, to try to sort things out once and for all.

  He never told Sam. It had been an unmitigated disaster right from the start.

  Sam’s father had turned wild with rage, his eyes bulging from their sockets as if he were being squeezed around the middle. Tom had known he had a temper—he had worked with him often enough—but he had never experienced such anger before, and it left him speechless.

  “If you don’t get off my property, I’ll kill you,” Sam’s father had shouted loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear. His mother hadn’t said a word throughout.

  Sam’s father had died of stomach cancer the following year. They heard later, through Sam�
��s sister, that his father had spent his last days in hospital, mewling like a baby.

  He shook his head, remembering the stoicism that Sam had shown right up to the end.

  When Sam’s mother appeared at the kitchen window, he almost jumped. He stood and watched as she filled the electric jug with water, took a cup down from the shelf above the refrigerator, and made herself a cup of tea.

  She looked so small and frail—a lonely old lady. He felt a pang of regret at the way things had been left between them. Regardless of her beliefs, she had loved Sam.

  He took a deep breath and crossed the road, towards the house.

  Just as he reached the front gate, she looked up and saw him. She didn’t flinch; she just stared, her eyes cold and lifeless.

  He froze for a moment, unsure whether to continue. But he had made up his mind. He had to put things right. He pushed open the gate and stepped into the front yard.

  He wasn’t even halfway to the front door when Sam’s mother reached for the cord that hung beside the window and lowered the blind.

  The rest of the morning was taken up with last-minute preparations.

  The cat safely deposited with his sister, he went next door to bargain with his elderly neighbour. In exchange for the lemons and feijoas off the trees in the front yard, she agreed to collect his mail and keep an eye on the house.

  The first leg of the journey was a non-event. At just under an hour in duration, they had barely reached their cruising altitude when the seatbelt light pinged on and they began their descent over the Waikato Plains, towards Auckland.

  He walked the short distance to the international terminal. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and a handful of wispy white clouds hung motionless in the late afternoon sunshine. The peace was disturbed only momentarily by the roar of jet engines.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He looked up and smiled, but inside he was cursing. He had chosen the table in the corner for one reason only: it had a perfect view of the television and the Ranfurly Shield clash that was in full swing. “Sure,” he lied.

  The fat, bespectacled man shucked his jacket off and draped it over the back of a chair. He was holding a glass of beer in one hand and a tatty briefcase in the other.

  “Didn’t think we were going to get that try for a minute,” he chortled, shuffling onto the bench seat beside him. “Marty’s the name.” He held out a clammy palm, which Tom begrudgingly accepted. “I’m off to Sydney. Where are you heading?”

  He recoiled slightly as Marty gave a hacking cough.

  “South America.”

  He returned his attention to the game, hoping it would become clear that he wasn’t interested in conversation. But Marty didn’t take the hint.

  “South America, eh? I’ve always wanted to go there. The sheilas are supposed to be beautiful,” Marty chortled and made a lewd gesture with his hands.

  Tom smiled but kept his mouth closed. “Nice to meet you,” he said, getting to his feet. “Good luck in Sydney.”

  Marty was dabbing at his brow with a dirty handkerchief. “You off now, then?” he asked. He looked visibly disappointed.

  Tom nodded.

  “Shame. Looks like a pretty good game.”

  Before he reached the edge of the bar, Marty had already turned around in his seat and was trying to engage the couple behind him in conversation. They looked about as happy about it as he had been.

  He made straight for the departure gate. It was still more than an hour until boarding, but he had nothing else to do. He crossed his fingers that the flights to

  South America weren’t operating out of the same part of the terminal as those bound for Australia.

  Just metres away, outside on the tarmac, loomed the ginormous plane that would carry him across an entire

  ocean. He thought of Sam, who hated flying and would have been biting his nails down to the quick if he had been here.

  Slowly, the lounge filled with passengers, lone travellers like himself, as well as couples and families. Opposite, a young mother was wrestling with her infant child. He watched as she sat the boy down on the seat beside her and placed a slice of apple in his hand, but the moment her back was turned, he was off again, the apple thrown onto the floor. She abandoned her belongings to chase after him.

  “Perhaps they think they’ll get there before us,” said the older guy sitting beside him. He nodded at the large crowd that was milling around the gate.

  “Or maybe they’re frightened somebody will steal their seats,” his wife, or girlfriend, chuckled.

  He smiled politely and went back to reading his newspaper. There was a story on the back page that he had been wanting to read. Within minutes, he was interrupted again, though.

  For fuck’s sake, he thought, folding the paper and looking up—straight into the eyes of the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

  “Good game, eh?” the handsome stranger repeated, nodding at the paper in his lap and smiling.

  “Oh, yeah—sorry,” he apologised, flustered. He could feel the blood rushing to his face. “Um—did you want to read this?” He offered him the newspaper, but the

  guy smiled and shook his head.

  “No, I’m good, ta. So where are you off to?”

  “South America,” he answered, and then remembered that they were both about to board the same plane. “Sorry—Peru. You?”

  “Chile. My brother’s teaching English there.”

  The guy leaned across the aisle between them and held out a hand. “Sam.”

  He almost snatched his hand back out of shock. “Pardon?”

  “Sam. The name’s Sam,” the guy smiled warily.

  He gulped and took a deep breath. “Sorry, ignore me. I’m a bit nervous about the flight,” he lied. His heart was in his throat.

  Sam got to his feet and slipped the passport and boarding pass from the back pocket of his jeans. “Looks like they’re calling my row,” he said, glancing down at the slip of paper. “Hey, you should give me a call if you make it to Chile,” he said.

  Sam took an old receipt from his wallet and scribbled on the back. “Here’s my cellphone number. I’ll be checking it regularly.”

  All of a sudden, Tom felt as if every pair of eyes in the departure lounge was looking at him. Judging.

  “Thanks,” he replied, folding the receipt and slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll text you.” He held out his right hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

  As they shook hands, Sam’s mouth turned up at the corners in a rakish grin. “You too.”

  He stepped to one side to let a family with small children pass. An elderly couple followed hot on their heels.

  “See you on the other side then,” Sam said, and with a wink, slung his backpack over one shoulder and fell in with the other passengers moving towards the gate like sheep.

  What the fuck’s wrong with you? he cursed himself, sitting back down and closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was just being friendly, you old fool. He hoped that Sam—his Sam—wasn’t up there somewhere, watching him make a complete arse of himself.

  He reached into his pocket. The ink was seeping through the thin receipt already, but the numbers were still legible. He stared at the paper. Why did he feel as if he were being unfaithful? With a resigned sigh, he scrunched the slip into a ball.

  “Sir.”

  A flight attendant was walking towards him now. How long had he been standing there, gazing into space? He looked around. The gate was almost empty.

  “If you could make your way to the aircraft, please, sir,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he apologised, reaching down for the backpack at his feet. She smiled at him before moving on to round up the other stragglers.

  He took a step towards the nearest rubbish bin and stopped.

  “Are you OK, sir?” The attendant appeared at his side again. This time, she looked slightly concerned.

  He looked at her and then down at the scrap o
f paper. “Um—yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

  Quickly, before he changed his mind—and before they called security—he slipped the receipt back into his pocket.

  “Kia ora,” the attendant at the gate greeted him. He handed over his boarding pass, which she scanned into the computer. A second later the light on the gate flashed green and the barriers blocking his path swung open. “Enjoy the flight,” she said, handing him back the stub.

  He took a deep breath.

  So this is it.

  With a clear image of Sam in his mind, he stepped forward, through the gate and into the unknown.

  acknowledgments

  Thank you for taking the time to read my debut novel, SAM. I know that SAM is far from the perfect novel—it’s my first, after all, and I still have a lot to learn—but I am proud of it, and I hope you enjoyed the story.

  I first had the idea for SAM in 2013, and it has taken three years of hard work, juggling early morning writing with the demands of a full-time job, to get to this point.

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my family, in particular my partner, Jamie; my parents, Jan and Frank; and my grandmother June for their encouragement and support.

  I would also like to thank Barbara and Chris Else and Norman Bilbrough for their critiques of my early drafts. I have learned a lot about the writing process since I started writing SAM, and I am excited about getting started on my next story!

  I would also like to pay special thanks to Kris Lockett and Lis Sowerbutts from DIY Publishing, as well as to my copy editor, Eva Chan, for casting her expert eye over the final draft.

  Please visit my website, www.lukefharris.com, for more information about me and my future projects.

  Best wishes,

  Luke

  author bio

  Luke F Harris is an emergent novelist, based in Wellington, New Zealand.

  Born and raised in Berkshire, England, Luke emigrated to New Zealand in 2009, where he has forged a successful career as an editor.

  SAM is Luke’s debut novel. For more information on Luke and his future projects, visit www.lukefharris.com