Power Ride Read online

  “It isn't. I know it isn't. But I can't think of anything else to do.”

  Avi still looked blank.

  “Well, I keep thinking I hear it” Kit explained. “That's what wakes me up.”

  Avi paraphrased to marshal his thoughts.

  “You keep waking up because you think you hear the telephone ringing?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sometimes two or three times a night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it ringing?”

  “No. Um... well... I don't think it is. I don't know.”

  “Have you told your psychiatrist this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She thinks I'm heading for another breakdown. Just with different symptoms. Well, put it this way, she tells me that she thinks I'm heading for another crisis and that, with the right help, I can sort it out before things get too bad. I may as well tell you now, she doesn't want me to do this tour. I'm still going,” he hastened to add, “she just doesn't want me to go. Mind you,” he added, “that's not what she's told Gabriel. I'm not supposed to know this but Mum let slip that Gabriel had said that Doctor Phillips had told him that she thinks I might be developing schizophrenia, or something.”

  “Kit!” Avi sounded alarmed. “Is she sure? I mean, hell,” He was lost for words.

  “It's okay.” It was Kit's turn to sound reassuring. “It had to happen sometime, I guess,” he said philosophically. Kit smoked the rest of his cigarette in a few hard drags and threw the butt into the open fireplace. He continued. “And I'm losing things. I know in my other breakdowns that my brain has switched off, but that only happens in the final crisis. I get more and more hyped up until my brain shuts off and I'm bundled off to hospital. Why am I telling you this, anyway? You're the poor bastard who has to scrape me off the floor. I don't remember any of those trips to hospital. I just wake up there. But now I must be shutting off in sections, or something, and that scares me senseless. What if I shut off when I'm driving the van? I could kill myself - or someone else.”

  “How exactly are you shutting off?”

  “Stupid little things. You know how I like to keep this place - it may look cluttered but they're all Grandma's things. I know exactly what is here and where everything is. And I always put things back exactly where they belong. I guess Grandma drilled that into me so well I haven't lost the habit. But lately I'll put something away and when I want it again it’s either somewhere else, where it shouldn't be, or it has disappeared entirely and will turn up again a couple of days later, exactly where I first left it. Things... you know... without brains,” he struggled for the right word.

  “Inanimate objects,” Avi supplied.

  “Yeah, thanks, inanimate objects... don't move by themselves and I don't believe in ghosts, so I must be moving the damn things myself. I just don't remember doing it. Avi, Danny was probably right. I probably was responsible for the damage done to Gary's bass - I simply don't know.”

  Kit threw himself back into a chair, leant forwards and grabbed Avi's hands.

  “Help me, Avi, please. I haven't had any real sleep for two weeks and I'm desperate. What am I going to do? How the hell am I going to make this damned tour?”

  Avi moved to sit on the arm of Kit's chair. He put his arm around Kit's shoulders.

  “Don't worry. We'll take things one step at a time. I'll give you all the help I can. We all will.”

  “Except Danny.”

  “Except Danny, agreed, but to hell with him. Forget Danny. Worrying about his reaction is only going to double your own stress load and halve your ability to cope. Leave Danny to Mike, I think he'll get the message across.” Avi grinned. “We, on the other hand, are going to implement the Kester Simmons revival plan, stage one.”

  “Oh yeah? What's that?”

  “To begin with, we tell Danny to stick the rehearsal and take the rest of the afternoon off. We take a stroll in the Botanical Gardens, peruse the art gallery and the Arts Centre, take afternoon tea at the museum. All the stuff you hate, Kester, fresh air and exercise. To be followed later by a visit to a friend of mine who has a magnificent sauna and spa complex to which I have access any time I like. The object of all this is, of course, to make you so relaxed that you will sleep like a little baby.”

  “I like it already. What's stage two?”

  “How the hell would I know? Get your jacket.”

  Avi got to his feet and headed towards the back door, followed by Kit who paused in the kitchen to grab from a peg behind the door a black, nylon jacket inscribed with the Tama drum company logo. By the time Kit had donned the jacket and locked the house, Avi was waving cheerfully to a furious-faced Danny and gunning the motor in his disreputable-looking Toyota.

  In spite of Avi's jibe about Kit hating fresh air, he enjoyed strolling in the gardens. No matter what the time of year there was always a profusion of greenery to revel in. Kit loved nature; that was one of the reasons he liked his little cottage. A quarter acre section with an established garden, butted against the bank of the Avon river, Kit's idea of perfection.

  The museum and the art gallery were not places Kit would choose to frequent by himself, but Avi was an educated, erudite and interesting tour guide and Kit was fascinated in spite of himself. The neo-gothic quadrangles of the Arts Centre were, as usual, a bustling hive of colour and sound. They wasted a good hour there jamming on African instruments with a group of touring players.

  Refusing to let Kit even glance at the bills, Avi then paid, not only for a slap-up meal at a well-known family restaurant - great food in a casual, relaxed atmosphere - but also for a supply of groceries as Avi had sneaked a look in Kit's pantry and found it not just depleted but completely bare. The middle hours of the evening were then spent in absolute and unabashed hedonism. Avi's friend was a university professor and his Ilam home had been created with no expense spared including a sauna, a spa and a heated indoor pool. The owners were involved in their own pursuits and happily gave Avi and Kit unhindered, private use of the lavish facilities. Kit asked why Avi had never taken him there before.

  “I've never come here myself,” Avi answered. “Well, I have been here a couple of times, obviously, or I wouldn't know the place existed, but they've been university staff parties.” Avi looked embarrassed. “I've never actually used this place,” he gestured around the pool complex, “it's not really my scene. Honestly,” he looked even more embarrassed, “I had thought of coming out here a couple of times and inviting you, but, well, I never had the courage to do anything more than think about it, until now. I mean, you know what Mum and Dad are like, they're so conservative about modesty and all that stuff and, in spite of the vast trappings of wealth, the owners of this place are very straight.”

  “Oh! Right,” Kit nodded in understanding before sinking back into the warmth of the bubbling spa waters.

  Avi lay back in the spa and considered both his friend and the situation. If it was possible to lose weight from a frame that held none to start with, Kit had lost weight. A long, skinny, gangling character at the best of times, he now looked gaunt. Without the ever-present black t-shirt, black jeans and black boots, Kit was all hip bones and ribs and Avi had noticed with consternation that the normally skin-tight jeans sat with room to spare.

  Avi looked from Kit's tall, slim frame to survey his own and grinned at the comparison. He didn't need his glasses to confirm his own summation made several years before that "Avi" was short for "average". At five foot eleven inches, he was average height for a New Zealand male, with an average build to go with it. His hair was an average mid-brown, although he did have to concede that the amount of length and curl would have been considered average only on a woman. Avi sniggered to himself. He was well aware that if it wasn't for the charisma gained from being a member of a successful rock band, he would at best be labelled as forgettable.

  By ten thirty paradise for Kit was a warm bed and a pair of strong hands. Avi had b
een playing the piano for twenty years. His hands were ideal for the purpose - long, slender, strong and supple. Ideal, too, for giving massages which was exactly what, at ten thirty, he was doing to Kit. The combined influence of the food, exercise and relaxation eased the tension from Kit's strung-out body and he descended softly into much-needed sleep. Avi smiled down at the sleeping figure, covered him with a feather-filled quilt and crept from the room, flicking off the light as he went.

  Out in the lounge, Avi wiped the surplus massage oil from his hands onto his jeans. The relaxation he had foisted on Kit had worked the same magic on him. Now all he wanted to do was sleep. His own bed would have been very welcome but he had promised a distraught Kit that he would stay and be there if Kit woke in the night. He opened the door to the spare bedroom, took one look at the amount of junk piled on the spare bed and shut the door again. He shrugged. The couch looked comfortable. He had slept on worse and, no doubt, would do so again. At least it was a warm night. Avi made himself comfortable and was asleep in a matter of minutes.

  Four hours later the telephone rang. The phone sat on an oak sideboard, beside the couch on which Avi slept, but just out of his reach. The bell was loud and Avi was awake instantly. The telephone rang just twice then stopped. Just before Avi picked it up.

  Angry, he slammed the receiver back onto its recharger and drummed his fingers thoughtfully against the sideboard. So, maybe Kit wasn't so crazy after all. Kit! Hell! Avi strode to Kit's bedroom and looked carefully around the door. He needn't have worried. Kit was still sound asleep, oblivious to everything. Avi closed the door and left him in peace.

  “Sometimes two or three times a night.” That's what Kit had said. Avi gave up on sleep. He made himself a coffee, scavenged around in the spare room until he found a rug, wrapped the rug around himself and settled onto the couch with the phone on his lap. Next time he'd be ready. He checked his watch.

  The second call came an hour later. This time the advantage lay with Avi. The phone had not even completed its first ring when Avi snatched up the receiver.

  “What do you want?” he snarled.

  There was the faintest hint of a gasp of surprise before the call was disconnected. Avi was furious. Why would anyone pull this kind of cruel prank? And why pick on Kit? A crazed fan? Danny would love that. That was all the band needed right now. Avi yanked the telephone cord from its wall socket then spent the rest of the night pacing the floor in anger.

  By eight in the morning Avi had chain-smoked an entire packet of cigarettes. He was tired, scratchy, uncomfortable and in need of a shower. And that was after only one night. No wonder Kit was freaking out in such a big way. As he stubbed out his last cigarette and added its butt to the mounting pile in the nearest of a curious collection of brass animal-shaped ashtrays which were conveniently placed around the room, Avi realised he was hungry.

  Before heading to the kitchen he checked on Kit who was still asleep, a long, slender arm cradling his pillow over which his long, black hair draped in an untidy mass of ringlets. Avi retreated but didn't close the door this time. Kit would have to wake soon anyway, so there was no especial need for quiet on Avi's part. In fact, Avi decided, a bit of cheerful noise might be in order. He flicked on the radio, which Kit kept permanently tuned to the nostalgia rock station, and set about creating a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast for two from the supplies he had bought the day before, singing along to Daddy Cool's classic ‘Eagle Rock’ as he worked.

  Kit was awake when Avi re-entered his bedroom with a flourish, bearing two plates and two cups of steaming coffee with the practised confidence gained from years of holiday jobs waiting on restaurant tables. As Avi laid the meals down on the bedside cabinet, Kit sat up and hurriedly pulled on one of his trademark black t-shirts emblazoned, like his jacket, with a Tama Drum Company logo. He stretched languidly and asked Avi the time.

  “About a quarter past eight. Have a good sleep?”

  “Oh yeah, brilliant. I needed that. Sorry to have wasted your time though, Avi. But you see what I mean? I'm going mad. It's all in my head. As you witnessed last night, no telephones - just the ones in here.” He tapped the side of his head ruefully.

  Avi sat himself on the side of the bed and looked straight at Kit.

  “That's where you're wrong, Kit. You're not crazy, at least, no more than usual. That bloody phone rang all right. Twice. Before I ripped it out of the wall. Speaking of which, I'd better plug it back in.” Avi sprinted from the room, replaced the phone's plug back in the wall socket and returned, accepting the plate of food which Kit pushed at him as he settled back onto the bed. Kit regarded Avi thoughtfully.

  “Run that by me again - real slow. You say the phone actually rang? Honestly?”

  Avi ran a hand in a contemplative gesture over the stubble on his chin. He really did need a shower.

  “Honestly. At two thirty and again at three thirty. Almost exactly an hour between calls. Kit, damn it all, whatever's happening here, I don't think it's very funny. I don't know who's making these calls but I think we should call the police.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure.”

  Kit sighed and flicked the hair out of his eyes.

  “Okay, I guess you're right. If they really are phone calls and not just figments of my increasingly demented imagination, I guess we should call them.” Kit hesitated. “Um, Avi, will you make the call, please. I don't think they'll listen very favourably to me. I don't have a very good track record with them, remember?”

  “Sure.” Avi patted Kit reassuringly on the shoulder. “Come on, eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Avi chuckled. “I'll tell you one thing, though, whoever it was, I think I gave them one hell of a fright.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “That second call. I was waiting for it. Lightening fast reaction, if I say so myself. Scared the shit out of the caller. At least I think that was the reaction. I heard a gasp then the phone was slammed down in my ear - very quickly.”

  “Do we need to call the police then? If you scared him enough, he might not call back?”

  “Get real, Kit! If there's even half a reason for these calls, whoever's making them isn't going to stop. And, by the way, who says it's a he? Crazies come in both sexes, you know.”

  “Yeah, I guess you're right, as usual.” Kit hauled himself out of bed and into the black jeans and silver decorated black boots that he had dropped in a heap on the floor several hours before. “So what do I do next, Avi? I don't know how to cope with this.”

  “Well, like I said before, we start by calling the police. They'll know exactly what to do.”

  “But I've got a record!”

  “Oh, Kit!” Avi sounded exasperated. “Don't worry so much. It's a very short record, Kit, you're not exactly a hardened criminal. And it's got nothing to do with this. You're not the culprit, you're the victim!” Avi walked around the bed and gently sat Kit down on it. “Calm down. Just take it easy. I'll handle it. Look, yesterday you were all stressed out because you thought you were hearing things. Now we know this is real, don't, for goodness sake, get stressed out on things that are not relevant. Any dealings you've had with the police in the past are not the issue. They won't be mentioned. Trust me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On the southern side of Christchurch city, under the shadow of the exclusive Cashmere Hills, in the elegant dining room of the Greenwood family's Heathcote Helmore designed two-storey house, amid the dark-stained walnut furniture and the Rodd silverware, Joanna Greenwood was shouting at her father. Everything was normal.

  “No!” She thumped both hands hard enough onto the table to make the cutlery jump. “For the umpteenth time, I don't know. How would I be expected to know? What is it with you people? I'm not his keeper, all right? He was at rehearsal yesterday. He will be at rehearsal today - he'd better be or Danny'll kill him. What he does in between is none of my business. He's my cousin. He got me a job in his band. That'
s all! I don't know what he does. I don't care what he does - or who he does it with! So don't bother asking me again!”

  Joanna stormed out of the house, pausing in the oak-panelled hallway to snatch her jacket from where it hung over the stair rail.

  “And another thing,” she yelled back up the corridor. “You can quit all those hopeful little chats I know you have with Uncle Jacob. I don't care how good a match you think it would be, and what biblical precedence it might have, he's my cousin, it's a sick idea and I'm not marrying him! Ever!”

  Jo slammed both the front door and the gate just to make sure they got the message, then grinned to herself as she strolled off towards the bus stop. It was a daily ritual. Her parents always had to make an issue out of something over breakfast. Her two younger brothers had figured out the answer, they skipped breakfast altogether, but Jo liked her food and, to be perfectly honest, she wasn't averse to a decent argument either. It was a good warm up to dealing with Danny later.

  The sight of the ‘Big Red’ bus approaching forced Jo to sprint the last few metres to the bus stop, then, as the bus was full, she spent an uncomfortable journey squeezed beside an extremely obese woman who smelt badly of sweat, who wheezed and coughed and who rolled her own cigarettes with nicotine-stained fingers - in spite of the ‘no smoking’ signs plastered all over the walls of the bus. Jo closed her eyes and winced. This could be the start of a really bad day.

  Jo practically fell down the steps of the bus in her hurry to leave it. She still had to walk about four blocks to reach Kit's house but the street followed the meandering track of the Avon River along one of its more picturesque settings, so it was always a pleasant journey. It was one of the oldest areas of the city - a tiny suburb of tiny settler's cottages, most of them like Kit's, lovingly restored and maintained. The accent was on colourful paint and a profusion of wrought iron. A nice place to live if you could afford the rapidly escalating land prices. Jo made up her mind to ask Avi how Kit could afford to own a house there. Lucky bastard!