As she had been making this walk every morning for three weeks now, she was on speaking terms with some of the other regular users. She bade “good morning” to the old woman feeding the ducks, to the grey-suited businessman walking briskly towards the city centre, to the strange woman in the spotted tights who wandered the riverbank with a dowsing crystal, to the young mother hustling her brood to school and especially to the two handsome young joggers. She was in a good mood again by the time she reached Kit's wisteria-covered cottage, but that wasn't going to stop her ripping strips off her cousin when she got her hands on him. Which was about now, she thought, as she recognised his car parked in Kit's driveway.
“Breakfast,” she said out loud, rubbing her hands gleefully. “Second course.”
However, if Avi Livingstone was to be Joanna's extended breakfast, he didn't seem overly concerned at the prospect. In fact, it took Jo quite some time even to find him. Her first move was straight to the rehearsal room, but it was still locked so she tried the house. The back door was open and Jo let herself in. Even then there seemed to be no-one about. Jo was about to let herself out again when she heard Avi's distinctive laugh coming from the small back bedroom. She looked around the door to see Avi, Kit and Kelly squatting on the floor in a rough circle around a pile of photographs. Avi handed the photograph he had been laughing at to Kit, who promptly moaned in embarrassment and thrust the photograph into the centre of the pile before Kelly could reach for it. Jo took a step into the room, put a foot against Avi's shoulder and pushed.
“Where the hell have you been, you stupid bastard?”
Avi crashed sideways into Kit who grabbed him to stop him falling any further, swung his legs around so that he was now sitting on the floor and straightened his glasses. He looked at Jo with genuine surprise.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You! I'm talking about you. Where were you last night?”
“What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Where the hell was I supposed to be last night and what the hell has it got to do with you? Since when have I had to report my every move to you, cousin dearest?”
“Look here, Avrahim Livingstone, personally I don't give a rat's arse what you do - but your mother does and your father does. And when you don't arrive home they assume all sorts of horrific scenarios for their darling baby boy. Then your father rings his sister who, as you well know, is my mother. And then she imagines all sorts of horrific scenarios and she hassles my father who, in turn, hassles me! Understand now? Ring your mother!”
“Hell! Mum! You're right.” Avi leapt to his feet. “Sorry, Jo, I'll phone her now. Look, Jo, do me a favour. I stayed here, with Kit, but I don't want my parents to know that, okay? I'll ring Mum and tell her that I was too drunk to drive so I stayed at a friend's house. Just stick to that story and don't say it was Kit's. Please.”
“What's the big deal? Why can't you just be honest and say you stayed here? What's wrong with Kit?”
“Do as he says, please, Jo,” Kit intervened. “I understand.” He grinned self-depreciatingly. “I'm not acceptable.”
Jo realised what he meant. “Oh, right. Ok, Avi, what's it worth?”
“A cream bun for lunch.”
“And a chocolate eclair?”
“All right. You drive a hard bargain. And a chocolate eclair.”
“Done. But I won't lie. I'll just say that you turned up on time for rehearsal. End of story.”
“Thanks, you're a life saver.”
“If that means I've got a hole in the middle, thanks for nothing. Anyway, don't thank me, just pay up.”
Avi had already picked up the phone and was dialling his home number. Jo turned her attention to the pile of photographs in the centre of the floor. She sat in the space vacated by Avi and reached for a snapshot.
“So what were you guys laughing at?” she asked.
“Old band photos.” Kit rummaged through the pile and handed one to her. “Get a load of this one.”
“Oh wow! When was this taken? You all look so young. Bloody hell, Kit, you didn't really wear those clothes in public, did you?”
Kelly moved to look over Jo's shoulder.
“Well, I recognise you, Kester. The drum kit has grown bigger and the hair longer but you haven't changed much. And Avrahim. The keyboard gives him away, even if the glasses don't. But I must admit he has aged more than you, Kester. Avrahim looks more, shall we say, lived in than yourself these days.”
“I have to agree,” said Jo, who was actually concentrating more on the feel of Kelly's breath on the back of her neck than on the photograph. “Avi seems to have changed more than you have.”
“Nah!” Kit shook his head. “It's all relative. It's not that, at twenty three, Avi looks older, it's more that, at seventeen, he looked seventeen.”
“Say that again in English.”
“Sorry. It's simple. At seventeen, Avi looked seventeen. He was just finishing his final year of high school. You know Avi, straight-A student, university course planned, no problems. On the other hand, going by the date on the back of that photo, I had just got over my second nervous breakdown. The photo says September so it must have been taken three months after I was released from Sunnyside hospital. I was on medication up to my eyeballs, and probably a few other things as well. So you see what I mean. Avi has grown up, he looks older now because he is older. I've looked this haggard for years.”
Jo didn't know how to answer.
“Have you two known each other for a while then?” Kelly inquired.
“Oh yeah, years. Eighteen years, actually. I met Avi on my third day at Beckenham Primary School. He saved me from being pushed around by some bigger boys and he's been acting as my guardian angel ever since.”
“So Avi's the elder of you two, then?" Jo asked. “I've wondered about that.”
“Yeah, but only by two and a half weeks. Seventeen days to be precise.”
Kelly pointed to another figure in the photograph. “Is that Michael?”
“Yeah.”
“Now he does look older.”
“So he damn well should, he's fathered three children in the mean time.”
“Busy man.”
“Yeah. Mind you,” Kit added, “He's older than us to start with.”
“Who are the others?” Jo asked.
“Dave Kilpatrick on bass and Peter Branston on lead guitar. They've both gone to Australia. Dave was replaced by Gary, who was your predecessor, Kelly, and Danny took over from Pete three years ago.”
They were still commenting on the photo when Avi returned. Kit looked up at him.
“Everything okay?”
“Not really, but they'll live. Mum was throwing a cosmic hissy fit but I managed to get the occasional word in edgewise. How do you convince mothers that grown men of twenty three can look after themselves and do not need to be baby-sat?”
“Leave home,” Kit advised. “It worked for me. Mind you, I had the opposite problem. My mother didn't give a toss where I was just as long as I wasn't interrupting her busy social life.” Kit looked sagely at Jo. “Crazies are bad for the family image, you know.”
“Anyway,” said Jo, “leaving home wouldn't help Avi. It takes more than moving house to shake off our family. They are so possessive. No, Avi doesn't stand a chance. The only son in the household. He's a prized possession. They want him settled down, married off and spawning children - and Aunt Elizabeth is just as bad as Uncle Jacob, even if she started off as a Presbyterian.”
Avi shrugged in agreement. “But I'll go down fighting.”
“Your denomination sounds horribly like conservative Catholics,” said Kelly. “I can empathise, Avrahim. I escaped for precisely the same reasons.”
At the same time Jo had been shouting at her father in Beckenham and Kit and Avi had been up-ending boxes of photographs in the Avon Loop, in a tiny flat in Fitzgerald Avenue Cassandra Oakleigh was stepping out of the shower. The stereo was turned up full blast and Cassandra could f
eel the bass line vibrating the floor boards as she towelled herself dry to the strains of the latest release from ‘Charlotte Jane’.
She still thought that ‘Charlotte Jane’ was a strange name for a rock band, but she knew that it was the name of one of the First Four Ships that brought the early settlers to Christchurch and she had read somewhere that two of the group had degrees from Canterbury University, so she supposed that might account for it. Mind you, neither of them was the one she was interested in. Her friend, Melissa, liked the keyboard player but brown eyes didn't appeal at all to Cassandra. She liked blue eyes. Especially that really striking bright blue like the ones that smouldered down from the posters that engulfed every spare patch of wall space in the microscopic bedsit. Now that man had gorgeous eyes. Cassandra stopped towelling herself and gazed adoringly at one of the posters. Everything about Kester Simmons was gorgeous, she thought. She would make him notice her one day, she had promised herself that.
That was the only reason she had chosen this particular flat. She had looked at others which were larger and sunnier, and some that were cheaper, but this one had the most important factor right - it was only two blocks from Kester's house. Everything else was unimportant.
She had been a fan of ‘Charlotte Jane’ and, more importantly, of Kester Simmons since the group first hit the music scene in Christchurch six years before. She had been a fan before they had become famous, before being a fan had become the trendy thing to be. She knew more trivia about the band members than any of her friends and she had downloaded every song they had ever put out. She was a real fan. Cassandra had been only twelve years old when she first heard them. They had played at an ‘under-age rage’ in the Town Hall and she had thought they were just wonderful. She was sure the drummer had smiled right at her and she was determined to catch more than his attention next time. In a moment of brashness Cassandra flung wide her towel to flash her naked body at the poster.
“See what you're missing,” she said aloud before turning her back on the picture to don a scanty but exotic set of lacy lingerie in hot pink. She twirled in front of her mirror to survey the effect. Yes! In spite of her limited income, Cassandra had only the best underwear and always made sure she wore a matching set. Brief lace panties, more lace than panty, a brassiere with enough uplift for maximum effect and a filmy camisole designed to look both demure and alluring at the same time. Cassandra would have made a good boy scout; she believed firmly in the adage about being prepared. You never know, today might be the day she got her chance with Kester Simmons and she intended to make very sure that, when the time came, she presented him with an offer he couldn't refuse.
Over the top of the luscious lingerie she added the type of look she imagined appealed to professional rock musicians - stretch denim jeans that clung so tight to her body they appeared to have been applied with a spray can, a halter top that she left partially unbuttoned so the pink lace of the camisole showed invitingly at her up-lifted cleavage, and calf-length, fringed white boots to which she had added silver chains and buckles in imitation of the black boots Kester always appeared in.
She then set about covering her face with an over-heavy application of make-up; lots of black mascara and eye liner contrasted with emerald green eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. She thought the final effect was mature and sexy, whereas in reality she looked more like a prostitute returning home from a night's work at the local massage parlour, which was a shame as without the make-up Cassandra Oakleigh was a naturally pretty young woman.
From the crowded dressing table beside her bed, Cassandra picked up an ageing silver hair brush and with deft strokes attacked the thick mane of red hair that, if she thought about it, was her most attractive feature. It wasn't a bright, carroty red, but rather a deep, fiery red that reflected different shadings when she moved, and it hung in long, wavy tresses almost to her waist. At the moment, however, the tresses were simply long, damp strands that were dripping water down her neck. She put down her brush and flicked her hair behind her shoulders where it would cause the least amount of discomfort and stooped to pull up the covers on her bed.
This, too, fell under Cassandra's master plan of being prepared. She didn't really need a double bed and she had to admit that it was far too big to fit comfortably in the tiny flat but... maybe one day she and Kester... she thought about that a lot. She knew he had a double bed, she had seen it. She had even touched it, although he didn't know that. She had been to his house several times, but always when he was out.
The first time she had actually hoped he was there. She had been feeling very brave and had marched right up to the front door and wrapped on it with the huge brass lion's head door knocker but it wasn't Kester who had come to the door. It had been a little old lady who had been very nice and had told her that, yes, Kester Simmons did live there but no, he wasn't in at the moment. His grandfather had taken him to his regular doctor's appointment and he was expected back in about an hour. The old lady had offered to let Cassandra come in and wait but her nerve had failed her and she had muttered a quick excuse and left hurriedly.
She hadn't gone near the house again while Kester's grandparents had still been alive but they had died within a month of each other a couple of years ago and since then Kester had lived in the little cottage all by himself. When she found out that piece of news she had made her decision to find a flat close by and make a more determined effort to become indispensable to his lifestyle. It had taken her several months to find just the right place and, in the beginning, she’d been forced to waste an awful amount of time going to work. However, that small inconvenience had been sorted out six months ago - she had been fired. Now she lived on the dole. It may not be as much money as she had earned in that boring office, but it did leave her free to follow what she considered her true vocation - Kester Simmons.
In the last six months she had been to Kester's house several times. Once she had been caught looking in the windows by a neighbour but she had talked her way out of trouble. Then she had discovered a way into the house. The laundry at the back had been a separate structure originally and had old-fashioned louvre windows which were easily removed and replaced. And Kester, bless his heart, only locked the outside door to the porch, not the door that led from the porch into the main body of the house. Since this discovery Cassandra had spent several hours wandering around inside, checking out Kester's possessions. She wasn't very impressed with the collection of memorabilia that had obviously belonged to his grandparents but that wouldn't be a problem, she would enjoy redecorating.
She did like the bed, though. It was one of those big, old, wooden ones with slatted ends; the bed neatly made with a bedspread of homemade patchwork. Cassandra had hunted fruitlessly around several second hand shops before she managed to find one almost like it.
She roughly straightened the covers on her bed then poured herself a cup of strong, black coffee. She didn't like black coffee but she had read that was how Kester drank his, so she had taught herself to, at least, tolerate it. She had drunk it black for so long now she had actually managed to persuade herself that she enjoyed it that way.
Drinking the coffee hurriedly, she turned off the stereo, picked up her mp3 player, attached it to the waistband of her jeans, clamped the headphones to her head, snatched a denim jacket from the debris in the centre of the floor and left the flat for the day.
Cassandra bustled down Fitzgerald Avenue, braving the early morning traffic to reach Cambridge Terrace. From there it was only a short walk to the Barbadoes Street cemetery where she would spend the day. It wasn't that she liked cemeteries, but this particular one gave her a comfortable and sheltered place to sit and an unhindered view of Kester Simmons's house directly opposite on the other side of the river.
Just after she had settled in for her daily vigil, she watched the arrival of the man she couldn't identify. He had been arriving at Kester's every day for the last three weeks, but she didn't know who he was. Logic said he had to be the replacem
ent bass player. The band had not said officially that the old bass player, Gary Ross, had left but it was common gossip. Anyway, the new man carried what was obviously a bass guitar - even an idiot could work that one out. She watched him bike down Oxford Terrace from the Fitzgerald Avenue end and lock his black mountain bike firmly to the inside of Kester's white-painted picket fence.
About a quarter of an hour later, the woman arrived from the direction of the city centre. Cassandra knew who she was. The recent tour publicity had mentioned Joanna Greenwood as a temporary addition to the band's line-up and had given a brief biography which explained that she was an under-graduate of the Christchurch Polytechnic's jazz course, a competent keyboard player in her own right and Avrahim Livingstone's cousin. Cassandra hated her instinctively.
She noticed Livingstone's horrid old car sitting in the driveway. It wasn't like him to be the first to arrive; certainly not before Cassandra herself took up her regular vantage point. Something important must be happening.
After a pause of nearly an hour during which nothing stirred except the ducks on the river, the other two band members arrived in quick succession. Michael Kiesanowski was the first of the pair. He drove up in his snappy, white Honda Accord and parked with precision in front of the house. Daniel Gordon arrived soon after, sliding his green, vintage Valiant Charger to a halt on the wide, grassy riverbank. Even from across the river, Cassandra heard the door slam shut. The legendary temper of the small blond was already up and running. Everybody in the Christchurch music scene had stories of their run-ins with Danny Gordon and his temper, and everyone who told such stories agreed on one thing - he might be small but he was immensely strong and carried a lot of power in his gymnasium-built-up shoulders.
Those inside the house also heard the car door slam. Not a word was said but expressive looks were interchanged. Kit held his breath. The silence that descended as Danny's footsteps approached up the side of the house was finally too much for Jo. By the time Danny attempted to make a dramatic entrance, Jo was writhing on the floor, laughing. Kit was still holding his breath. Avi stretched out a foot and tried to kick Jo into some semblance of cohesion. He failed.
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