Power Ride Page 11

  “It’s Mike,” he said as the call was answered. “It’s time. It has to be now. After the tour is too late, we have to act right now. You got the contract I sent you? Great. It’s over to you now. Just do it quickly.”

  Danny Gordon was angry. He had been pumping iron for two hours. He could have done another hour before the gym closed but that other young prick who thought he was better than Danny had started an argument and they had both been told to leave. So he was sitting in the local pub, drinking beer and planning revenge.

  Down the road, only a few blocks from Cassandra Oakleigh’s flat, Danny’s competition opened the door to his garage, flicked on the lights to reveal an impressive array of weight-lifting equipment and stepped forwards to his favourite machine. He placed his hands firmly on the bar of the weight, pushed it into the air, grunted at the effort and, as he exercised, planned his revenge.

  Kit's sleep was plagued with strange and surreal images. Somewhere, away in the distance, but close by, there was Avi. There were swirling colours and large, hairy insects with bright red hair. There were feet, an army of feet, huge black hairy insect feet, marching up and down the gravel driveway outside his window. There was Danny Gordon, shouting and Avi, shouting back, then a spider, still with red hair, in a denim jacket, crawling up his arm. He thrashed around, wildly, trying to get rid of the spider but it wouldn't let him go. It hung on to his arm, stroking at his hair with its horrid hairy feet and talking to him in Avi's voice, telling him not to worry. Then it started to eat his face. Kit woke, screaming.

  Avi comforted him, holding him tight until he slept again, peacefully this time. The next time he woke daylight was streaming in through the window and Avi was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling encouragement and offering him breakfast.

  “I have to go home for a bit,” he said gently. “Will you be okay?”

  “Why?”

  “I have to placate the parents. It's Friday so the Sabbath starts tonight and I was supposed to help Dad cut some firewood before then. Plus I have to tell Mum that Danny expects us to rehearse tomorrow so I won't be at Chapel or the Sabbath meal. They are not going to like that.”

  “So tell them by phone.”

  “No. I have to go home. Just for an hour. It's quarter to nine now. Rehearsal starts at ten. By the time you've eaten breakfast and had a shower the others'll be arriving. I'll be back before you notice. Anyway, I need some clean clothes. These are starting to walk by themselves. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “One thing before I go. Money, Kit. We were going to talk about it last night, remember? But we didn't get around to it.”

  Kit nodded his head, there was a vague memory of it somewhere in his head, just not right at the front.

  “We still have to talk about it,” Avi pressed. “I don't want to hassle you, so if you can just tell me how much allowance you're getting from Gabriel, I'll do some quick budget calculations and we'll go over them together later.”

  “Fifty,” said Kit.

  “Fifty?” Avi repeated incredulously. “Fifty dollars! Are you telling me Gabriel expects you to live on only fifty dollars a week?”

  “Yeah, but he pays the power, the phone and the rates first.”

  “Oh, big deal! Kit, you're being ripped off. You're expected to buy food, clothes, run your van, everything, on fifty dollars? That's ridiculous. Where's the rest of the money going?”

  “There isn't any.”

  “Oh rubbish! Look, I know you don't earn heaps, but even with power, phone and rates taken off, there's still got to be more than fifty dollars left.”

  Kit's bony shoulders lifted in a resigned shrug.

  “Gabriel says that's all there is.”

  “What about the band money? The royalties and the gig payments?”

  Kit shrugged again.

  “I don't know. Ask Gabriel.”

  Avi gave up but resolved to call on Doctor Gabriel Simmons later that day and have a very long talk.

  “Okay,” he said more cheerfully than he felt. “I've got to go. I'll be back soon, I promise.”

  Avi revved life into his aged Toyota and eased it out of the driveway. As he swung into Oxford Terrace he noticed Danny's vivid green Charger parked by the river.

  “Damn,” he thought. “I forgot to tell Kit Danny was here late last night. Back early this morning, and quietly, I didn't hear him come in.”

  He drove away remembering Daniel's arrival at about ten o'clock the previous night. Avi had heard the noise and crept out, thinking it was their phantom caller, only to run into a drunk and belligerent Danny who had pushed Avi roughly out of the way, telling him to mind his own business and go back to his boyfriend. Avi knew Danny had intended to fix Mike's damaged amplifier. As the car was back early this morning, Avi could only assume that Danny had been too drunk to complete the repairs and had sneaked back this morning to finish the job before anyone, notably Avi himself, could pass any comments.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The early morning traffic was heavy as Avi coaxed his reluctant vehicle from the central city towards Beckenham in the south. The elderly car didn't take kindly to sitting ungaraged and undriven for two nights and was refusing to fire on all cylinders. The trip down the one-way system was fraught with problems as the car stalled at each intersection then had to be cajoled back into life amid tooting, taunting and abuse from other road users. Avi, in increasing frustration, fuelled by exhaustion and an honest knowledge of his own mechanical ineptitude, resorted to tactics he normally considered far below his dignity - he swore back, raising his fingers in an obscene gesture of rebuke.

  The car coughed and wheezed its way slowly over the Waltham overbridge, under which the remains of the city's once-proud railway network still thrust rusting tentacles, going nowhere. The downhill side of the bridge gave the Toyota an extra burst of energy which carried it relatively trouble-free down Waltham Road, past the outdoor swimming pool where he and Kit spent many hours as children, and around the banks of the Heathcote River, to swing finally into the driveway of his parents' 1930's styled weatherboard bungalow.

  Avi pulled the car to a stop on the neat double strips of concrete, aware that his car would probably drop oil on the identically spaced row of tiny pansies which his mother had carefully planted in the plot of dirt that lay between the strips. He wondered why she bothered. As the car's brakes ended their distinctive squeal, Avi sat back, suddenly aware of the tension with which he had been gripping the steering wheel, egging the car home by sheer will power. He forced his fingers to release their determined grip, flexed them several times to restore mobility, then ran his hands through the matted rat-tails that were forming in his long, unbrushed hair. Dreading the outcome, he forced himself to study his image in the rear view mirror. As expected, the sight revolted him. In spite of his penchant for old, tatty - comfortable, lived-in, he called them - jeans, Avi's usual style did not include sweat-stained clothes that had been slept in, twice, a now three-day growth of beard and hair that would soon qualify him to play reggae.

  Avi climbed out of his car and approached the house from the back. He was sincerely hoping to avoid his mother, at least until after he had cleaned himself up. He walked around the side of the house and entered through the back door into the laundry area. The automatic washing machine chugged mechanically in one corner and a pile of neatly folded towels warned Avi that his mother was already well into her Sabbath preparations. This was confirmed by the rich smell of baking that wafted to meet him as he opened the door into the kitchen. He paused for a moment, preparing his story in advance - he was bound to meet his mother on his way through to his room. Avi took a deep breath, steeled himself and stepped into the kitchen. His father's fist struck him full in the face.

  He reeled back, blood gushing as his nose splintered under the hammer force of the blow. He staggered backwards into the laundry, followed by his father, striking blows with the precision of a prize fighter. Jacob Livingstone was a big man, an inch shorter
than Avi's five feet eleven inches, but he carried at least thirty kilograms more weight than his son and he had the advantage of surprise. He struck again. As Avi collapsed against the washing machine, he had the ludicrous realisation that he was bleeding all over his mother's clean towels. He sank to the floor, an arm raised across his face in futile protection against the savage rain of blows. In the background he could hear his mother's voice, screaming.

  “No, Jacob! No!”

  Jacob Livingstone thrust aside Avi's outstretched arm, hauled his son to his feet by the lapels of his faded plaid shirt and half dragged him into the kitchen, slamming him up against the hard edge of the clinically clean stainless steel bench. He slapped Avi's face again, for good measure, then stood back, panting with the effort. Avi braced himself against the bench, eyes welling with tears of pain and humiliation, lungs gasping as he choked on the blood that ran thickly from his broken nose. Hazily, through the fading sight of an already swelling black eye, he could see his mother, cowering in the opposite corner, hugging her apron protectively to her bosom. He raised his arm, using his sleeve to wipe away some of the blood from his face, and choked back a wave of nausea. Jacob stepped forwards again, rocking Avi's face with another savage open-handed slap.

  “You filthy little pervert!” the older man screamed. “How dare you call yourself a son of mine!”

  “Jacob! Please!” Elizabeth Livingstone begged for her son.

  Jacob swung round to glare at his wife, who cowered back further into the far corner. His father's movement gave Avi just enough room to inch away slightly and regain his balance. By the time Jacob swung back, Avi was breathing raggedly, but poised to strike back.

  “You were with him, weren't you?” Jacob ranted. “You disgust me! You're an abomination! How dare you come back here! How dare you soil your mother's house!”

  “You're sick!” Avi spat back. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  He pushed away from his father and took refuge behind the small table that stood in the centre of the kitchen. Jacob squared off against him from the other side of the table.

  “Yes you do,” he snarled. “You know exactly what I mean. You and that... that thing! You spent the last two nights at his house. Don't think we don't know. I saw your car in his driveway. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “You don't understand.”

  “I understand only too well.” Jacob approached Avi menacingly. “I warned you what I would do if I ever caught you with him.”

  Avi backed off, keeping the table firmly between himself and his father. His mind was racing now with genuine fear. His memories raced back ten years to a similar scene. A thirteen year old Avi, even more terrified than the adult one now was, his mother, just as hysterical with fear and torn loyalties, and his father, shouting and berating, quoting from the Bible and waving Avi's diary, the incriminating evidence of two young boys' experiments verified in black and white, in Avi's own youthful writing.

  “I can see you remember.” Jacob's tone was cold. “Let's see how well you play your precious piano now, boy!”

  “No!”

  Avi made a break for the door but got no further than the end of the table. Jacob moved fast, catching his son in the side of the head with another roundhouse blow. Avi's knees buckled under him and he sank to the floor. Jacob hauled Avi's unconscious form onto a kitchen chair, allowing Avi's head to hit the table with heavy thud. He glared defiantly at his wife, daring her to intervene but fear held her in her corner, sobbing and clutching her apron to her own badly bruised face. Avi came to. He lifted his head slowly, trying desperately to register through the thick pea soup that was his brain. An attempt to move brought his father's huge hands down on his shoulders, forcing him back into the chair.

  “Don't try it,” Jacob growled.

  “Do as he says,” Elizabeth begged.

  “It's not what you think,” Avi pleaded. “Please listen.”

  “I've done with listening.” Jacob began to pace the floor. “I've listened to you two for years, your pathetic stories about how that boy was really a nice kid,” he spat out the words with venom. “Nice kid, be damned! He's just like his father, another filthy pervert. Listen! I've listened for too long. I should have taken action, not listened to your wishy-washy rubbish and your poncey, intellectual friends.”

  “Dad, please!”

  “Don't speak to me! You've disgraced me, you've disgraced your mother. Don't make matters worse by lying. We know you've spent the last two nights at his house. In his bed!”

  “No, Dad, honestly! It wasn't like that, Kit was sick.”

  A vicious slap knocked Avi sideways.

  “Don't mention that name in my house!” Jacob's voice dropped to an ominous hush, “We made a bargain, you and I, when you were thirteen, didn't we?”

  Dread spread ice-cold through Avi's veins, racking him with shivers of panic. He didn't answer.

  “I, at least, keep my promises,” his father continued.

  He reached out suddenly and grabbed Avi's right hand. Avi struggled to free himself but his father was much stronger. Tears now flowed freely down Avi's face, mixing with the blood that stained his shirt front and splashed on the table. Avi knew his father's intentions and begged for mercy.

  “Please, please. Not my hands, not my hands.”

  Elizabeth started to move forwards to help her son but fell back under the wrathful gaze of her husband. Jacob held his son's long-fingered delicate hand for close scrutiny.

  “Look at you,” he said scornfully. “You look like a girl with your long hair and your pretty hands. Like you pretty, does he? Well it wasn't a girl baby we christened twenty three years ago. It was a son! I'm glad the Preacher isn't here to see you now, he would be so ashamed. It's all her fault,” he threw his wife a scornful glare, “All that rubbish about sending you to public schools to make sure you fitted in, how difficult it would be for you if you were singled out as being different. I had a son once, a son I hoped would grow into a man I could be proud of, a man doing a man's job, not wasting his time playing music like some feckless schoolgirl.”

  Avi was too afraid to speak. Jacob's voice dropped even lower.

  “There'll be no more music!”

  With one strong hand Jacob Livingstone pinned his son's right hand to the kitchen table. Avi saw his father's other hand rise, his mother's steak tenderising mallet held aloft. He screamed as the mallet crashed down and the bones in his hand shattered.

  Jacob dragged his son's limp body from the kitchen out into the laundry. To the right of the entrance was an old-fashioned wooden door, painted the same subdued apricot as the laundry walls. Jacob opened the door and threw Avi through it into a tiny, windowless, wardrobe-sized space that had once served as a receptacle for coal. He slammed the door shut and clicked into place a huge brass padlock. From a hook on the wall he took the padlock keys which he waved purposefully in front of his wife.

  “Just so you don't get any ideas,” he sneered as he dropped the keys into his pocket.

  “You can't leave him in there,” Elizabeth sobbed. “Please. Jacob, don't do this!”

  “It's done,” her husband declared. “He can stay there a while. It'll give him time to think.”

  “But his hand! Please, he needs a doctor.”

  “I don't care. He should have thought of that before. He stays where he is. There'll be plenty of time for doctors later, when he's learned some manners.”

  Jacob Livingstone pushed his wife back into the kitchen where he waved a hand airily at the blood that lay in pools on the bench and the table and ran in smeared streaks down the white-painted cupboards under the bench and across the apricot vinyl floor tiles.

  “Clean this mess up!” he ordered. “Then make me a cup of tea. I'm going to read the newspaper.”

  Fully confident he would be obeyed, Jacob Livingstone marched through to the front of the house and settled himself comfortably in his favourite chair. Things were now as he wished them to be. His wi
fe would run a tidy house which would be admired by his friends when they visited and his son would now get a respectable job and take his proper place in society. After a nice, refreshing cup of tea he would phone his work to explain his absence that day due to a family problem, then he would phone his old friend, Adam Hennessy. Adam had recently scored a large building contract, and he owed Jacob a favour. There would be a proper job there for Avrahim.

  In the kitchen Elizabeth Livingstone cried silent tears into the bucket as she cleaned away the blood.

  Jo jumped as the car tooted behind her then relaxed as she recognised Mike's grinning face behind the wheel.

  “Get in!” he shouted as the white car pulled into the kerb.

  “I'm not that lazy,” Jo expostulated, but she got in nevertheless. “It's only one block!”

  “So what?” Mike eased the car back into the Madras Street traffic, indicating for a right turn into the two-way stretch of Kilmore Street that led into the Avon Loop.

  “Don't you live at Riccarton?” Jo asked as she buckled her seatbelt.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then aren't you going the wrong direction?”

  “I'm going to Kit's, I thought that was the right direction.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. Aren't you coming from the wrong direction? I thought you came into the Loop from Barbadoes Street.”

  “Guilty,” Mike grinned conspiratorially. “Shhh, don't tell.”

  Jo shook her head in mock despair.

  “I know,” she said. “Shut up, Jo, mind your own business.”

  Mike laughed and pulled the car to a halt beside Danny's Charger.

  “Oh oh!” he grimaced. “He got here before us. And here was I thinking I'd be bright and early and earn some Brownie points.”