Avi could feel Kit tremble at the prospect of entering the police station. He sought to delay the inevitable, at least until he could get Kit into a more stable frame of mind.
“We can't go until Gabriel's been,” he said quickly.
Kit looked up questioningly.
“Gabriel's coming?”
“Yeah. He's bringing some more of your lithium tablets,” Avi explained. “And a sedative,” he added quietly to himself.
“When?” Mike inquired.
“Um... I don't know exactly,” Avi admitted. “On his way to work. What time does he go to work, Kit?”
“I don't know.”
“Ring him back and ask him,” Jo suggested logically.
Avi hesitated, thinking of Gabriel's unhelpful tone.
“I don't think he'd appreciate that,” he said. “Hang on though. Excuse me again, Kit.” Avi moved to the phone and dialled swiftly. “Hi,” he said to the receptionist who answered, “can you tell me when Dr Simmons is expected in, please?”
“Dr Simmons will be in at four,” the female voice replied.
“Thank you,” Avi replied politely this time and hung up. “Four,” he relayed back to the others. “He's due there at four so I guess he should be here about half past three.”
Mike checked his watch.
“That's an hour away. I could suggest we go do this thing with the police now but, knowing how these things usually go, we'd get horribly held up and miss Gabriel, which is obviously not a good idea.” He looked from Avi to Kit who was patently barely aware of his surroundings. “So, how do we fill in an hour?”
“Photos,” suggested Jo brightly. She shrugged. “Well, it might cheer Kit up, if nothing else.”
“Yeah,” agreed Mike, “Why not?”
At Jo's urging the pile of photographs was shifted from the small bedroom to the middle of the lounge floor, the musicians seated around it like excited boy scouts around a camp fire. For the next hour the atmosphere became increasingly lighter as old photographs were passed from hand to hand and ribald comments passed on the looks, fashions and attitudes captured on the celluloid. Even Kit was cajoled into taking an interest although pictures of himself caused him obvious embarrassment. At one stage Jo passed a picture to Mike.
“If that's an example of your taste in clothes, I'm glad you don't dress yourself any more,” she teased.
Mike looked at the image and grinned.
“Don't remind me! I was extremely poor in those days. I wore whatever was on special at the op-shop. But, yes, Sarah does have more of a flare for fashion than I do.”
“Hey! Wow!” she said later. “This deserves to be put out on permanent display.”
“What have you found now?” Avi queried carefully, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answer.
“Kit,” she said lightly. “In a coloured t-shirt, no less.”
Kit looked quizzical.
“Well, come on,” she goaded. “Find me one other photo in here, or name me one occasion, when you've seen Kit in anything that wasn't black.”
The others thought about it then nodded ruefully. Mike looked at the photo.
“I will concede Jo a point, but only just,” he said. “It's white with black stripes. Normally I would say that hardly qualifies as coloured, but on Kit I must admit it is fairly riotous.”
“Don't you like colour, Kit?” Jo asked.
Kit shrugged.
“Um... I just don't like shopping. Too many decisions. It's not that important.” He tailed off into silence, unable to adequately express the mental terrors that accompanied tasks that were a simple pleasure for most people. Jo wouldn't understand.
Jo understood more than Kit realised. She didn't press the issue but, out of a sense of mischief, she stood up and placed the photo in the centre of the mantelpiece.
“There,” she said proudly. “Like I said, pride of place.”
Just after three thirty there was a sharp rap on the front door. Jo opened it to reveal a stocky, sandy-haired man in his early thirties, not much taller than herself. He was dressed in a well-cut grey double-breasted suit and carried a traditional leather doctor's bag.
“If you're Gabriel, you're expected,” she smiled.
“Doctor Gabriel Simmons,” he explained, proffering a hand. “And you?”
“Jo Greenwood.” His grip was firm, businesslike. “Come in.”
Gabriel swept into the room, shaking hands all round and introducing himself to Kelly. Jo thought he reminded her of a politician, or a religious crusader. She also noticed that he ignored Kit. When the pleasantries were concluded, Gabriel placed his bag on the dining table, opened it and pulled out a small phial which he handed to Avi.
“Before you say anything,” he said quickly, forestalling Avi's protest as he looked into the phial, “there are only enough pills in there for three days. This is what I want to make quite clear. My brother's condition is deteriorating.” He spoke about Kit as if he were not present. “Because of the combination of factors which make up his condition, I consider it would be unwise for him to have access to any larger quantity of drugs at any one time.”
“Why?” Jo cut in.
Gabriel eyed her with disdain.
“I am a doctor,” he said patiently. “If you were in my position and had a patient who was a drug addict and a depressive with a history of suicide attempts, would you allow that person access to drugs in any great quantity?”
“No, I guess not.” Jo couldn't disagree.
“Exactly! When Kester has had access to large supplies of his drugs he has done one of two things. Either he has tried to take them all at once, or he has sold them on the streets to obtain heroin or homebake. Either way he becomes a liability and a damned nuisance, and causes problems for our mother. Plus,” Gabriel looked steadily at Avi, “this system allows me to keep a regular check on Kester's condition. There are enough drugs there to last until Monday morning. I'll call back then.” He began to repack his bag, preparatory to leaving.
“Sedatives,” Avi demanded. “Take a look at him, Gabriel. Kit is freaking out. He needs a sedative. He is supposed to have a supply of them for emergencies, you know that.”
Gabriel glanced at Kit who hadn't left his position on the floor.
“He doesn't look any worse than usual and I am in a hurry.”
Avi grabbed Gabriel's arm and swung the young doctor around to face him.
“Then look closer, doctor,” he spat. “And listen up. Kit has got some idiot phone caller - probably a fan - calling him at all hours of the night. It's serious, serious enough for us to be talking to the police about it. And on top of that, we've got Danny Gordon throwing hissy fits all over the place and a tour hitting the road in ten, nine now almost, days. For God's sake, Gabriel, Kit needs help!”
“A crank caller? Avi, a word...,” he drew Avi after him as he walked towards the front door. Out on the porch he stopped. “Avi, between you and me, I wouldn't put a lot of faith in anything my brother says.”
“Are you trying to say he's lying?”
“No. I'm trying to say, in layman's terms and sparing all the text book jargon, he's nuts. Come on, surely you can see it? I'm sorry, I know you two have known each other a long time, but I think you'd better face the facts. My brother is a lost cause. I'll keep him out of hospital as long as I can, mainly for Mum's sake, but ... well... the time is rapidly approaching. Bye.”
He was gone before Avi could tell him that he, too, had heard the phone calls. Avi re-entered the cottage, fuming silently. Kit was still in need of a sedative. Avi picked up the telephone.
“Dr Phillips, please,” he asked.
“I'm sorry, Dr Phillips is in a meeting. She won't be available until five o’clock.”
Avi put down the phone. “Damn!” He drummed his fingers on the sideboard, thinking, then hurried out to his car and rummaged through the glove box until he found a small brown bottle which he placed in his pocket before returning to the house. There he extrac
ted a tablet which he gave, with a glass of water, to Kit who took it without question.
“It might make you a bit sleepy,” Avi explained gently. “But it should make you feel a bit better. Okay?”
“Okay.” Kit was trusting. “I didn't think there were any left.”
“There weren't,” Avi owned up. “I had a secret supply.” He took the bottle from his pocket. “Chlorpromazine. Dr Phillips gave me these to carry when we toured, just in case. They were in my car.”
“Is that what I had last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Good stuff.” Kit's speech was already starting to slur. Mike noticed.
“I suggest that we get down to the cop shop and get these statements done before Kit collapses,” he suggested.
“You okay?” Avi asked Kit.
“Yeah.”
Kit's assertion of control was belied by his staggering gait as he stood up then swayed unsteadily as Avi obligingly leant him a shoulder for support.
By the time the group stood face to face with Constable Rikki Merata Kit was obviously suffering under the influence of the sedative. Unable to stand unaided, he was leaning heavily on Avi, breathing raggedly and blinking glazed and unfocussed eyes. Mike dragged forwards the small office's one spare chair and Avi dumped Kit into it.
“Is he okay?” the constable asked.
“Sedated,” Avi explained. “I know it's going to make getting a statement difficult, but he was in such a mess. His brother's a doctor, he came around just before we came down here.” Well, it wasn't exactly a lie, just an economical use of the truth.
“So,” Constable Merata took up his pen and a position of authority. “What exactly is the problem?”
Technically, it was Kit who should have explained as he was the official complainant, but Avi took over the role, relating the story in much the same way as he had relayed it to the band earlier that day. Rikki Merata took notes. When Avi had finished Merata then asked him to repeat it all over again, but this time into a microphone to record it officially as a statement. Avi sighed heavily but obliged. The band was offered coffee while they waited for the recorded statement to be typed out. Avi and Jo accepted the offer, Mike and Kelly refused and Kit remained unaware that any such offer had been made. Avi and Jo left the others in the small office and followed the constable to the coffee vending machine in the hall. Jo made two coffees while Avi started to light himself a cigarette then stopped as Jo pointed out the no-smoking sign.
“Avi,” she said as she handed him his coffee, “can I ask a personal question about Kit?”
Avi shrugged his assent. She could ask, he didn't necessarily have to answer.
“Back at the house, when I was teasing him about wearing black, he was... ah... is he agoraphobic or something?”
“Sort of.” Avi drew hard on his cigarette. “Kit has a mental illness, Jo. He's a depressive. He's been sick since he was a kid.”
“You're kidding? I didn't think kids could get depression.”
“Oh yeah. They can and they do. Personally, I just don't think a lot of them are diagnosed very early. Ask Sarah about it, she specialises in kids.”
“Obviously. How many have they got?”
Avi laughed at Jo's blatant attempt to cheer him up.
“Anyway,” he continued. “Kit was diagnosed early. Real early. He had his first nervous breakdown at primary school. I can still remember it. The teacher had made us play rugby. Kit and I both hated rugby, neither of us were ever any good at sport. Kit got tackled really hard and after that he wouldn't go near the ball. That just got him into more trouble both with the teacher, who was yelling at him, and the other boys who kept calling him names and pushing him around. After the game he didn't say another word, just sat at his desk and rocked. It wasn't until the bell rang and he still didn't move that they realised something was wrong. He was in hospital for ages.” Avi shook his head sadly. “Something disappeared from Kit that day. Some spark of life. It never came back. Sometimes, sometimes when he's behind his drums, you can see it but most of the time... Panic attacks.” He broke into his own reverie. “Not agoraphobia really, panic attacks. He can't handle crowds, or decisions. Shopping involves both.”
“What about his parents?”
“Huh!” Avi snorted derisively. “Kit's father walked out just after Kit was born. Kit's mother can't stand the sight of him, because he looks like his father and because she may have to explain his illness to her yuppie friends and that would be socially embarrassing. Brother Gabriel, who you met before, looks like Mummy and he's successful, so he's okay. His grandparents were good to him but they're both dead now, so he's pretty much on his own.”
“How does he survive? I mean, properties in the Avon Loop cost a fortune, he's got a better car than you've got and, let's face it, ‘Charlotte Jane’ might have lots of kudos attached but it doesn't pay heaps.”
“He inherited the house from his grandparents, likewise the van. Well, his grandfather bought him the van, and he lives on next to nothing. He earns a bit from repairing furniture and he sells a few of the plants and vegetables he grows to the health food shop where Kelly buys his lunch. Damn it! I knew there was something else I wanted to speak to Gabriel about. Kit's money. Apparently Gabriel's handling it at the moment and he seems to be awfully tight-fisted with it. Say, we'd better be getting back.”
Avi drained his cup and dropped the rubbish into a convenient receptacle before leading the way back down the corridor to the small office. After what seemed an eternity, the statement was brought in for Avi's signature, along with a second document confirming that the complainant was really one Kester Joseph Simmons, musician, but that, due to the ill-health of said Kester Joseph Simmons, musician, the complaint was being signed in his stead by Avrahim Jacob Livingstone, musician. Avi signed that as well, after double checking the spelling of his name on both documents.
Mike's watch registered twelve minutes past six when the group piled out of Mike's car and into Kit's house. Kelly offered to tidy up the heap of photographs while Avi helped Kit to bed, but before Avi had reached the bedroom door, Jo gave a startled cry. She was standing, hand outstretched, pointing to the picture of Kit which she had jokingly placed on the mantelpiece only a few hours before.
"Oh my God!"
The picture stood as it had been left, the early band line-up hanging off a large bronze statue of Peter Pan and Wendy, grinning inanely, except Kit's face which had been delicately cut from the photo and now lay on the mantelpiece, pinned in place by one of Kit's sharp scalpel-bladed modelling knives. Kit broke free from Avi, staggered to the fireplace to stare at the bizarre spectacle, swayed drunkenly then fainted.
Over the road, from her vantage point in the Barbadoes Street cemetery, Cassandra Oakleigh watched the proceedings with interest. It had been an amazing day. Things were obviously hotting up for the tour. Danny Gordon had come and gone and come and gone, the woman with the baby, who had to be the wife and child of the only married band member, had come and gone, the dude in the suit had come and gone then the whole band had gone then come.
That had worried her. She could see the keyboard player, the one who had spoken to her at the shop, half carrying her Kester who looked sick. Something wasn't right. He hadn't looked sick when she had touched him at the shop. Sure, he hadn't exactly looked well, either, but he hadn't looked any paler than the Goths who shared her cemetery hang-out.
She thought again of her meeting with Kester Simmons in the hot bread shop. She had touched him. He had touched her. First! Mentally she ran her eyes over him, slowly, piece by piece, instilling forever on her memory his height, his slim frame, his hair, so jet black it was almost blue, and his eyes, so blue they were ... unreal. And now he was sick. Something was wrong. Perhaps she should make sure he was all right. She could go to the door and ask. After all, she could ask, he knew her. She had told him her name. Cassandra made a decision. She left her position in the cemetery and began the meandering walk around the riv
er. When she finally reached the door she was met by a polite but firm Kelly Reynolds.
“Ah!” He said in recognition. “The girl from the shop. No, I'm sorry, you can't speak to Kester. He is unwell and cannot be disturbed.”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing serious,” Kelly lied. “He is over-tired and has reacted rather strongly to his medication. It is nothing to be concerned about and it is under control. He is sleeping. However, I shall relay your concern, and good wishes, when he wakes.”
Cassandra could see she stood no chance of getting past the bass player, so she trounced off, muttering “stuck-up yuppie” under her breath as she left.
Kelly, who heard, sniggered to himself as he shut the door. He paused as a fleeting thought dashed across his brain but failed to materialise. He tried to recall it, failed, shrugged and passed it off as meaningless, returning to Avi, Mike and Jo who sat quietly in the lounge.
“That was the young lady from the bread shop, the one with the fancy for Kester. I told her Kester was ill but it was nothing serious.”
“We heard,” said Jo.
“What do we do now?”
“What else can we do?” Mike asked. “I mean, we've rung Constable Merata and reported the photo. We can't drag Kit back to the police station, he's done in.”
“Or spaced out,” Jo corrected.
“That, too,” Mike agreed. “Still, he's out for the count. Look, Avi, it's up to you. I'm going to have to go home at some stage. Will you stay with Kit?”
“Yeah. I'll be in deep trouble with my parents but I guess it can't be helped. They can like it or lump it. Yeah, you guys go home. Get some sleep. I'll stay with Kit and we'll sort it out in the morning.”
“Will you be all right here?”
“Yeah. I'll lock up real tight and I'll rip the phone out. I'm not taking any of those damned crank calls. Go on, get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow.”
After playing with his daughters and tucking them into bed, Mike made an apology to his wife and headed into the privacy of the office he had set up in the front room of his house. He unlocked the filing cabinet, pulled out a file and picked up the phone. It was a private line running only to the office so he knew he would not be overheard when he made his call.
Power Ride Page 10