Deep in the Shallows

by J. L. O'Rourke

  “Power of attorney? Can they do that at your age?”

  “Oh yeah, you'd better believe they can! All my money is handled by them through a trust anyway, since I was in hospital last time, so I can't do anything about it - except grovel desperately.”

  “And you've been a naughty boy and spent your allowance already,” Avi teased.

  “Don't rub it in, it's humiliating enough.”

  “Sorry”

  “Yeah, so I've got no cigarettes and Mum's out of town today so I couldn't phone her and hit her up for a loan - not that she'd give me money for cigarettes anyway. I'd just get yet another moralising lecture on the virtues of quitting. In answer to your other accusations, I know I'm drumming like an epileptic praying mantis but I'm not feeling very well and I don't feel well because I'm pretty stressed out. But it's just that, Avi, stress. I am not - repeat not - underlined, in capital letters not - stoned. Okay? Get that? Not stoned! Out of all of them, Avi, you should know I've been clean for over a year. You guys are as bad as Mum and Gabriel. They don't trust me either.”

  “Of course I trust you. I was just worried. Hey, if you're stressed out it's because something's bothering you. Can I help in any way? I'm here any time you need me, you know that. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be okay. I just need a cigarette.”

  Eighteen years of friendship had taught Avi when not to push Kit, so he backed off, lightening the tone.

  “Tell you what then, why don't we leave Danny to cool off and sneak down to the dairy. I'll buy us a packet of cigarettes and we can share them.”

  “Um... I don't know when I can pay you back.”

  “So, who's counting? Leave it to me in your will,” Avi grinned as he hauled Kit's lanky body to its feet. “Come on, before the pocket battleship launches another offensive.”

  By the time the two men had returned to the workshop Daniel Gordon had left. The band's replacement bass player, Kelly Reynolds, their temporary backing vocalist, Joanna Greenwood, and Mike Kiesanowski were ensconced comfortably in three of the dilapidated arm chairs which formed a casual semi-circle around the primitive coffee-making facilities at the far end of the large room. Avi and Kit slumped into two of the other chairs, Kit completing the act by stretching his long legs out to rest silver decorated, black leather boots on the badly stained coffee table. Joanna lifted her tiny trainer-clad foot and kicked Kit's off the table.

  “Get your feet off the table, you lanky slob!”

  “It's my table,” Kit argued petulantly, although he obliged, but only because Joanna had pushed his feet off and he couldn’t find the energy to put them back on.

  “So where's our beloved leader?” asked Avi, craning his neck to scan the room.

  “He gave up on you lot, called you by all sorts of interesting descriptive phrases - especially you, Kit, then ordered a lunch break,” Mike replied. “We have two hours of carefree liberty after which he expects us to perform - or else!”

  “That wasn't how he phrased it,” Joanna smiled.

  “No, that's the edited version fit for human consumption.”

  “Great,” said Avi. “So why are you lot still hanging around here?”

  “We were awaiting your return to ascertain whether or not you wished to accompany us to luncheon.”

  Avi grinned at the young man who had given the pompous-sounding reply. Kelly Reynolds was a recent arrival to the group and was still somewhat of an enigma. Mike, Avi and Kit were founding members of the group, ‘Charlotte Jane’, and were old friends from way back. Mike had met Avi and Kit when the band was first formed; Avi and Kit went back even further, to their first days at Beckenham Primary School eighteen years before. Joanna, although new to the group, was a long-standing acquaintance. She was Avi's cousin and in the tight-knit world of their parent's religious community the two had grown up closely together. Danny Gordon wasn't a local by birth, but he had been around long enough to be considered part of the Christchurch musical establishment. He came originally from Geraldine, a small rural community south of Christchurch, but generally chose not to broadcast that fact too widely. Daniel Gordon had a serious self-image problem.

  Kelly Reynolds, on the other hand, seemed eminently self-assured. He had a different style to the others. His short, trendy haircut and snappy fashion clothing contrasted markedly with the more traditional 'long-haired scruffy rock musician' image of Kit and Avi, and his way of speaking matched his style. It wasn't as if he was being consciously pompous either. Kelly came from an upper-crust Wellington family and had all the benefits of an expensive private school education. The accent came naturally, along with an eclectic knowledge of world affairs, an innate sense of style and, as Joanna had often noted, an elegant, almost balletic, way of moving. To Joanna's eyes, at least, Kelly was a very tasty package.

  Kelly acknowledged Avi's grin at his accent with a slight bow of his head. He grinned back and continued, “Then the telephone rang for Kester.”

  Kit looked up, flicking the hair out of his eyes with a gesture that was so habitual it had been become almost subconscious.

  “Who was it?” he asked.

  “I'm afraid I don't know,” Kelly shrugged. “He didn't say. He merely inquired if Kester Simmons, and he did use Kester, not Kit, was there. I said you had disappeared temporarily with Avrahim and that we had placed bets on the probable destination being the corner dairy. Fair guess? Anyway, I inquired if I could take a message but he declined and hung up. I'm afraid he failed to leave a name or a contact number.”

  He shrugged his shoulders expressively and stared at Kit whose face now registered a broad grin.

  “Yes!” Kit shouted, punching the air with a fist. “Awesome!”

  Joanna turned to Avi. “That makes sense to you, does it?”

  Avi grinned and shook his head.

  “No, but that's normal with Kit, he never makes any sense.”

  “Well, I have no intentions of playing guessing games, especially when I haven't been fed. To hell with you guys, I'm going to find some lunch. There is no way I am going to put up with any more of Daniel Gordon's little hissy fits on an empty stomach.” So saying, Jo pulled an orange nylon parka from the back of the chair in which Kelly was languidly sprawled, thrust her arms into the jacket's sleeves and headed purposely towards the door.

  “You know something?” Kelly said to no-one in particular, “The lovely lady has made an infinitely practical suggestion. Shall we join her?”

  There was a general mumbling of agreement as the men rose to their feet and trooped out to follow Jo. As the party wended its way around Oxford Terrace, Joanna dropped back to fall into step with Avi.

  “Cousin, tell me something. Kit's a bit out of it, isn't he? Do tours always have this effect on him?”

  “Tours? No, they don't affect him at all, strangely enough,” Avi replied thoughtfully. “Something is obviously bugging him, though. Mind you, that doesn't mean to say that it'll be anything horrendous. Kit doesn't have the most stable personality and he is apt to make monstrous mountains out of the most minute of molehills. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to talk about it. This, with Kit, means that it is probably something reasonably serious, but I can't force him to talk to me. I'll have another go later. I can usually convince him to talk, it's just a matter of easing him along gently. I can be very persuasive.” He ignored Jo's expression of sarcasm. “I wouldn't worry about it too much, though. In the meantime, I would think the best thing we can do is keep Danny from ripping Kit's face off this afternoon.”

  “Danny doesn't like Kit much, does he?”

  “Huh!” Avi's laugh was more a scoff of derision. “Rest assured, cousin dearest, it's nothing personal. This close to a tour, Danny hates everyone, including and especially himself. Tours might not affect Kit, but they blow Danny away. He'll get worse yet.”

  “Super.” Jo did not sound as if she actually meant the superlative. “You mean we're likely to see some fireworks?”

/>   “Better than Old Man Carson's bonfires. I guarantee it.”

  Joanna laughed and rubbed her hands gleefully. Then she stopped and looked serious.

  “But Danny's such a little guy. He wouldn't be stupid enough to upset the whole band would he? Surely?”

  “He would, he has and he will, no doubt, do so again. In case you hadn't noticed, Daniel Gordon is somewhat akin to your neighbour's crazed Jack Russell terrier. Wind him up enough and he'll tackle anything, even if it is three times his size. Mind you, we could have some real problems this tour. I don't think it's going to be a very smooth ride. Danny is still very angry about losing our last bass player and, even though we've got Kelly, Danny is determined to hold Kit responsible and to rub it in as much as possible.”

  “Why?”

  Avi shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide in a gesture of genuine incomprehension.

  “I don't know. Danny's just a creep, I guess.”

  “So why keep him in the band, if he's such a creep?”

  “Two reasons, I guess. He's a damn good guitarist and vocalist and he sells records.”

  “Garbage! The band sells records, not Danny Gordon. 'Charlotte Jane' was selling records before Danny joined you guys, and who the hell was he? Some two-bit wanna-be from Geraldine! Come on, Avi, he might be a good guitarist but they're ten a penny. If the man is a jerk you've got to have a better reason than that for keeping him on.”

  Avi ran his hand thoughtfully over his unshaven chin. He shrugged again.

  “You know something, Jo? I don't have a decent answer. I guess we've got so used to Danny being a prize prick we just take his temper tantrums for granted. I mean, nobody's perfect, and if we started throwing out band members who had personality problems there'd be bugger all of us left. Poor old Kit would be at the top of the list, he's completely scrambled, and I don't think I'm always the easiest musician to work with. Anyway, whatever Danny is, he's a good businessman. He's got a pretty watertight contract, so we're stuck with him for the duration, at least.”

  “The duration of what?”

  “The cd, the tour and the next single. It could be an exhausting few months.”

  Blood in the Wings

  The First of Severn.

  Vampires and murder backstage in a Christchurch theatre. 16 year old Riley Lowe is working as a stage hand, backstage at her theatre company's annual show. Her classmate from school, Tasha, is also in the show as a dancer and, as usual, she is flirting with all the guys. In particular, she is trying to take the one Riley is attracted to. Severn is one of a group of professional theatre crew who are helping with the show but the closer she gets to him, the more Riley realises that there is something strange about the group who live and work in the dark. When Tasha is killed and Severn disappears, Riley learns their terrible secret. But can she solve the murder in time to save Severn?

  Read an excerpt:

  The rain came down red and Severn was gone.

  The police asked me lots of questions, both at the theatre and, later, down at the police station but I couldn’t tell them much more than that. No, that’s not true. I could have told them heaps more, but I didn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t sure myself. No, don’t tell anyone anything. Just answer their questions, get out of here, find Severn and hope the answers are wrong.

  “Tell me again, Miss Lowe, take it slowly.” The policeman, a detective inspector I think he said he was, kept tapping his pen against the table. It was driving me crazy. The policewoman sitting by the door smiled. That was driving me crazy too.

  “What do you know about this Severn?”

  I have to think about the answer. I know things about Severn that nobody knows but I hardly know him at all. And I desperately want to keep on learning.

  So, really slowly like the cop wants, I start from the beginning again.

  “I met Severn two weeks ago when we packed in.” It feels like forever.

  “Packed in?” the cop inquires.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. Pack-in. It’s theatre-speak, Get used to it!” This guy was so dumb.

  “All right, Miss Lowe,” the cop snapped. “There’s no need to get abusive. Let’s just get on with it so we can all go home.”

  “Yeah, well don’t butt in then!” Okay, it was well after midnight and I was tired and cranky, but he really was a jerk. “I told you, I met him at pack-in. That’s when we set up the show in the theatre.” I added the last bit slowly, just in case he was as stupid as he looked in his prissy black jacket and his ugly blue tie,

  Then, as he still looked blank, I explained.

  “Until pack-in the show is all over the place. The actors will have been rehearsing in one place, the orchestra somewhere else and the dancers somewhere else again. The props and the wardrobe have been made at the main rehearsal rooms over the last few months and the sets have been made in a hired warehouse. At least that’s how our company usually works.”

  The cop was rapidly taking notes.

  “On pack-in day the set and all the technical stuff such as the lights and the sound gear arrives at the theatre and the crew take over; rigging, wiring, hauling things into place. It’s organised chaos. I love it.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Mum’s been in the society for years. Even before she went to Australia and met Dad. When they split up she came home and joined up again. I go with her.”

  “You act?”

  “No, I’m the family disappointment. Backstage, that’s my job. I’m doing theatre arts at school but only because it’s easy, not because I ever want to act!”

  He was actually writing this down, he really was a jerk!

  “But you were at this show?” he asked, looking up from his paper.

  “Yeah, I just told you, I work backstage. My theatre arts teacher also happened to be the choreographer for this year’s show and she talked to the stage manager who agreed I could work as floor crew, moving bits of set on and off stage when the scenes change.

  This year’s production is the biggest show we’ve done. The director decided to have all the scene changes happening with the curtains up but in a black-out and there’re about twenty-one scene changes so they needed a lot of crew. That’s how come Severn and his lot were there at all. We didn’t have enough people to move all the sets by ourselves, or do the complicated lighting the show needs, so the stage manager rang somebody who rang somebody else who suggested Seth Borman.

  “Seth Borman,” the cop repeated as he wrote the name on his piece of paper.

  “That’s what I said.”

  The cop glared at me.

  “It was a good idea,” I continued. “Even if it is costing the society an arm and a leg. He runs a professional travelling stage crew. Technical wizards.”

  “And Severn was one of these?” the cop asked.

  “Yeah,” I snapped back. “I was just getting to that.” I carried on.

  “Seth Borman’s the leader. The head flyman.” I could see the cop’s eyebrow start to rise with a question so I jumped in first. “Flymen are the guys who work on a little platform about fifteen metres above the stage, hauling the big backdrop cloths and bits of set in and out. They are immensely strong. Seth Borman has an upper body to die for,” I added wistfully.

  The cop glared at me again. I continued.

  “There are six more of them. The women, Olivia and Meredith, work floor crew like I do. So does Aiden, Meredith’s twin brother. The older guy, Finn, is the floor electrician. The guy in charge of lighting is a strange little dude they call the Reverend. He’s about five foot nothing tall and wears a huge black floor-length coat that makes him look like a miniature version of Darth Vader. I’ve never seen him without a can of coke in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other.

  Severn operates the sound board.

  I didn’t notice him for the first four days.

  Tasha saw him first. When it comes to men, she always does. She’s got some sort of inbuilt radar detector that homes in on good-
looking men. Mind you, it must be a sending as well as receiving device because they home in on her just as fast.

  Tasha was in the show as a dancer. She clicked around backstage in tap shoes and a scarlet bathing costume covered in ostrich feathers, all up in front and out behind. I hate Tasha, she’s such a bitch.”

  “Tasha? Would that be Natasha Moreland?” The cop looked up at me. I nodded. “You said you hate Natasha?” he inquired, tapping his pen again. “Why is that?”

  “No, no,” I backtracked fast. “I don’t hate her really, I just said that, you know, like you do, I don’t mean it. She’s my friend, actually. She’s just, you know, so pretty and everything, And she knows it. She knew it that night, that’s for sure.”

  It was during interval at the final dress rehearsal. We had gone out into the alleyway at the stage door to get some fresh air. It was even darker outside than it had been backstage. We were standing by the open stage door where there was still a bit of light, watching Aiden and Finn playing hackey. I barely noticed Severn and the Reverend leaning against the fire escape off to one side, sharing a can of coke. Until Tasha nodded her head in their direction.

  “They’re a weird unit, those two.”

  “You reckon?” I replied automatically as I stole a glance in their direction. They made an interesting study.

  Severn, the taller and probably the elder, stood shyly, shoulders hunched and arms folded protectively across his chest. He had one leg folded over the other so he kind of resembled a nesting stork. In complete contrast was the Reverend. Younger, smaller but full of confidence. He stood firmly, his head back, his shortish brown pony tail bobbing against the collar of his oversize coat as he punctuated a sentence with much waving of the coke can.

  “Nicely put together though,” I finally answered.

  “Hmmm,” Tasha snorted. “More your type.”

  Tasha always says that when she means she doesn’t fancy a guy herself. Mind you, she’s often right. She was this time. Tasha is into bodies. Big work-out-at-the-gym-every-night type bodies. She was already torn between Seth Borman and the leading man who was the only other import into the company. He’d been brought in from Auckland especially to play the lead as none of our men came up to scratch. A move that was causing ripples of discontent.