The peacefulness of the moment was shattered in the next instant, when a beat-up, old ute came roaring down the road, its windows down and its stereo blaring. It slowed as it reached the gravel car park at the east end of the beach and bumped up the kerb. Two young guys hopped down from the cab.
The one who’d been driving had short brown hair, and as he reached into the tailboard of the ute to untie his surfboard, his T-shirt rode up his back to reveal a strip of tanned skin. He pulled two wetsuits out of the truck, handed one to his friend, and disappeared behind the vehicle to change. Clearly, his friend wasn’t nearly as self-conscious. He unbuttoned his shorts and let them drop to the ground right where he stood, revealing his snow-white buttocks to the world.
Sam gulped and turned away before anybody caught him looking.
“Hey, mister,” a voice called to him from the beach below. He almost jumped out of his skin. He looked down to find a freckly kid of about five or six gawping up at him. The boy smiled, revealing two missing front teeth. “Is that your dog?” He pointed down the beach.
Patch was bounding towards them, a long piece of driftwood clenched between his teeth. The log protruded at least a metre on either side of his jaw, and as Patch snaked his way across the sand, the branch seesawed precariously from side to side. He winced as Patch narrowly missed a young couple with a small child.
“Patch!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, tossing his cigarette between two rocks and jumping down onto the sand. He started down the beach towards Patch, who was quickly gaining on a jogger pacing along the water’s edge.
“Patch, stop!” he shouted. But he was too late. As Patch flew past, the wooden branch clipped the jogger on the back of the legs, just behind his left knee. He seemed to go down in slow motion, like a soldier who had taken a bullet to the chest.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he apologised, stopping just shy of the jogger, who was lying face down in the sand. “Are you all right?”
Patch had dropped the piece of driftwood immediately and was now sniffing at the rotting carcass of a fish.
“Are you OK?” he asked again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Yeah,” the guy said, waving away his hand. He pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand from his arms and legs. “No thanks to your dog, though.” His shorts and T-shirt were soaking wet, but, thankfully, he appeared to be uninjured.
Sam let go the breath he had been holding and asked, “Are you sure?”
Not only was the guy much younger than he had first thought—he couldn’t be any older than twenty-four or twenty-five—he was also gorgeous. He had thick, shoulder-length blond hair and the bluest eyes Sam had ever seen.
“Yeah, I’ll live,” the guy said, replacing his earphones, which had been knocked out of his ears in the fall, and jogged on up the beach.
Sam looked for Patch and spotted him sniffing around the dunes by the surf club, his tail poking up above the long grass like the periscope on a submarine. At least he’s not annoying anybody, he told himself, and walked up to the road and sat on the stone wall. The southerly wind was bitter, but he was loath to return to his revision just yet.
He took the cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one from the packet. He lit the end, cupped a hand in front of his mouth, and inhaled deeply. As his lungs filled with warm, dry smoke, his heartbeat began to return to normal.
The rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore was almost hypnotic, and he let his thoughts drift away on the wind. It didn’t seem possible that in just a few months’ time, everything he had ever known would be hundreds of kilometres away. University, Dunedin, leaving home—suddenly, it all felt real, and he wasn’t sure that he was ready. Not just yet.
While he was still daydreaming, the blond-haired jogger reached the end of the beach, turned, and started back the way he had just come. He came to a stop almost directly in front of where Sam was sitting. His T-shirt clung to the muscles on his back as he leaned forward to stretch his hamstrings. He didn’t have the typical runner’s physique—thin and sinewy—he looked more like a rugby player. His shoulders and thighs were solid muscle.
He could see Patch out of the corner of his eye. He had managed to ingratiate himself with a group of teenagers and was devouring hot chips by the handful. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Patch’s ears pricked up at once. He whistled again, and Patch came skulking back, his tail tucked between his legs.
“Come on, you,” he said, grabbing him by the collar and slipping the lead over his head. “I think you’ve caused enough trouble for one day. If we don’t get home soon, Mum’ll flip her lid.”
His father would come home steaming drunk at least twice a week. He would pour himself a scotch, light a cigarette, and fall asleep in front of the television. The chocolate-brown armchair in the living room was covered with burn marks. The fact that they hadn’t all burned alive in their beds was a miracle in itself.
At half past ten, he finally called time on his revision. What he didn’t know now, he figured he never would. Even if he had wanted to continue, he didn’t think he would be able to keep his eyes open much longer. He pulled off his clothes, dropped them on the floor where he stood, and crawled into bed. His arms and legs felt as heavy as lead, and as he rolled over onto his front, he imagined his body sinking through the mattress.
He was fast asleep when the front door swung open and slammed against the wall. The impact reverberated through the entire house. Earthquake, he thought, still half dreaming. He rubbed at his eyes and rolled onto his side, ready to get out of bed at the next shake. Instead, he heard his father’s voice. Slowly, the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place.
The bedroom door creaked open as Patch sloped back into the room and curled up beside the bed. He let his arm hang over the edge of the mattress and felt the wetness of Patch’s nose brush against the back of his hand. Patch gave his fingers an affectionate lick. “Go to sleep,” he murmured. As he retracted his hand, he wiped it on the fitted sheet.
An hour later, he was still wide awake.
With a sigh, he reached for the cord of his bedside lamp and ran his fingers along the wire until he found the switch. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the glare of the light. The hands on his wind-up alarm clock pointed to half past midnight.
Next to the clock, serving as coaster to a glass of water, was a dog-eared prospectus for the University of Otago. He moved the glass aside and picked up the booklet. On the cover was a large embossed photo of two students, strolling arm in arm across the campus. They look far too happy, he thought.
Last year, he and his mother had taken the family Holden on the 800-kilometre journey south to visit the university, stopping in Christchurch overnight with his grandparents on the way there and with family friends in Timaru on the way back. By the time they arrived home, his mother had mapped out his whole future. And as for his love life, she had quizzed him mercilessly.
“I just don’t understand why you don’t ask Holly out on a date. You spend most of your time with her,” she had asked when they were waiting to board the ferry home. “It’s obvious she likes you. You do know that, don’t you?”
He had had to make up some excuse about not having the time right now, what with his exams and all. Eventually, she had conceded defeat and let the matter drop.
Perhaps you should just ask her out, he thought, and get it over with. Most of the guys in his year at college had already lost their virginity.
He let the prospectus drop into his lap, pushed himself up on his elbows and leaned his head against the wall. The television might as well have been in the same room; it was so loud. “Arsehole,” he cursed under his breath.
Patch was sitting up, his tail thumping against the carpet, before Sam’s own feet touched the floor. As Sam started across the room, towards the door, Patch stood to follow.
“Stay,” he said as quietly but as authoritatively as he could. He pointed at the floor beside the bed. Patch let ou
t a whine but lay down obediently. He rested his head on his paws and gave Sam a doleful look. “Good boy,” he whispered and stepped out into the hall.
It was pitch-black, save for a thin strip of light below the living room door. He strained his ears for the sound of snoring, but all he could hear was the television.
Holding his breath, he slowly pushed the door ajar. The hinges creaked and he froze. He said a quick prayer that his father would be asleep.
He was in luck. Through the crack in the door, he could see his father’s chair. His head had lolled forward onto his chest, and there was a large patch of drool on the front of his shirt. The stub of a roll-up cigarette clung to his lower lip and fluttered with each exhalation of breath.
He pushed the door open just enough to slip through, and keeping one eye on his father, tiptoed across the room to the television set. He made sure to step around the creaky floorboard by the rug. When his father grunted and shifted position in his seat, his heart almost stopped, but he kept going regardless.
His hands trembled as he reached for the volume control. Slowly, he turned the dial anticlockwise.
In hindsight, he should have stopped at muting the sound. Did it really matter if the television stayed on all night, so long as he couldn’t hear it? Unfortunately, that thought didn’t occur to him at the time. With a quick glance at his father, who was still sleeping like a baby, he flicked the power switch off.
There was a moment of pure, unadulterated silence. But then, as the components inside the television set began to cool, it made a series of loud cracking sounds. His father opened his eyes at once.
“What are you up to?” he growled, knocking the cigarette from his mouth.
Sam hesitated before answering. “I’ve got an exam in the morning, Dad,” he said.
His father gripped the armrests and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. He scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “What’re you doing in here then?”
“I couldn’t sleep with the TV on.”
It was impossible to predict what mood his father would be in after he had been drinking. Sometimes he could be friendly, affectionate even; more often than not, he would come home spoiling for a fight.
“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” his father growled, and his heart dropped. As his father took a step towards him, he took a step backwards.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his father sneered. “You’re just like your mother. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us.”
He refused to take the bait. There was no point in arguing when his father was in one of these moods. “Dad, I’ve got an exam in the morning,” he said, very matter of fact.
His father’s eyebrows drew together and his forehead furrowed. “I don’t care if you’ve got a meeting with the bloody Queen.”
His father was remarkably strong for a man of his age, and when he lunged forward and gripped his arm, it hurt like hell. “You can leave when I say you can leave.” If his mother and sister weren’t awake already, they would be now.
Up close, he could see the capillary veins in his father’s face—a web of purple lines that testified to a life of heavy drinking.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be going to university at all. What if I refuse to pay?” his father continued. He kept his mouth shut.
“Answer me when I’m talking to you,” his father shouted, tightening his grip.
“Dad, I’ve got an exam tomorrow,” he repeated. “Please can I go to bed?”
His father flung his arm away in disgust. “What do you want to go to university for anyway? You think you’re so much better than me,” his father repeated. This time he seemed to be speaking more to himself.
When his father backhanded him across the face, he was completely unprepared. He stumbled backwards and collided with the doorframe. A shooting pain shot through his skull as it thumped against the wood.
It took a moment for him to fully comprehend what had just happened. His father had never hit him before, though he knew he had come close to it several times.
“Get out of my sight,” his father cursed and turned away.
Still in shock, he backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
He sat on the edge of the bed and touched his bottom lip. He could taste blood in the back of his mouth, warm and metallic. Patch padded over and gently nuzzled his elbow, but he pushed him away. He needed some space. He reached for the glass on his bedside table. His hands were still shaking and the water sloshed over the edge of the glass, onto the carpet.
The bedroom was freezing, and with its barely insulated walls and single-glazed sash window, he might as well have been sitting in the yard. Every exhalation of breath evaporated like a puff of white smoke.
He climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up under his chin but, ten minutes later, he was still shivering.
“Come on, boy,” he whispered and patted the covers. The mattress dipped to one side as Patch clambered up onto the bed and lay down beside him, his large furry bulk providing some much needed warmth.
chapter four
Sam was still writing frantically when the invigilator called time. He scribbled down a few last words, placed the pen on the table, and sat back in his seat. It was over.
As soon as the last of the exam papers had been collected, he was up and heading for the door. Free at last, he wasn’t going to spend a minute longer at school than he needed to. A voice called after him, but he pretended that he hadn’t heard.
He took the stairs several steps at a time, shoved open the heavy metal door at the bottom, and stumbled out into the sunshine. As he crossed the field, towards the gates, he ran his tongue over the wound on his lower lip. The skin had already started to knit together. In a couple of days, it would be almost healed.
The Basin Reserve was still open to the public; another day, though, and it would be blocked off ahead of the upcoming test series against Australia. He entered via the southern gates and circumvented the oval. The grass was already yellowing in places. Several groundsmen were inspecting the wicket. Their hands were clasped behind their backs. They looked deep in conversation.
The dairy owner looked up as he entered the shop. “That time of day already, na?” he said, folding his newspaper and tucking it away beside the cash register. He nodded in reply.
“Twenty Marlboro, please,” he said and dropped a crumpled-up note on the counter.
“Perfect weather for the cricket, na?” The dairy owner tried to make conversation. He turned and plucked a packet of cigarettes from the top shelf behind him. “Reckon we’ll win?”
“No idea,” Sam shrugged, pocketing the change.
He opened the packet, dropped the plastic wrapping into the bin outside, and removed a cigarette. He lit the end, inhaled, and flicked the smouldering match into the gutter. The dairy owner was right; the weather was perfect.
He didn’t have time to hide when Sutcliffe walked around the corner. And, of course, Sutcliffe didn’t fail to notice him immediately.
“G’day, gay boy,” Sutcliffe called out. His voice carried across the street, to the café opposite. Several people looked in their direction. Sam took a deep breath and turned away. Just ignore him, he told himself. But giving up without getting a reaction wasn’t Sutcliffe’s style.
Something soft hit the back of his head, and he looked down to see a scrunched-up burger wrapper land at feet. Sutcliffe roared with laughter.
Adrenalin was surging around his body. All his instincts were telling him to flee, but he wouldn’t give Sutcliffe the satisfaction. By sheer force of will, he crossed slowly to the other side of the road. Only then did he quicken his pace to put some distance between them.
The groundsmen were still hard at work when he arrived back at the cricket oval. He took a seat high up in one of the stands. It was chilly in the shade, and he pulled his jacket around his body.
Thank God he would be leaving soon. By this time next yea
r, it would all be a memory. An unpleasant one, but a memory nonetheless. The thought was slightly comforting. And perhaps I’ll have got my shit together by then, he wondered, but somehow he doubted it.
“So this is where you’re hiding, gay boy?” He was lost in thought and didn’t see Sutcliffe and his two sidekicks walk through the gate and up the steps. They were nearly upon him before he realised.
A malevolent grin spread across Sutcliffe’s face. “Where’s that girlfriend of yours today?” he laughed. “She gone looking for a real man?” Sutcliffe grabbed his crotch and made a lewd gesture with his tongue.
“Do one, why don’t you,” he replied. Sutcliffe folded his arms and perched on the back of the seat in front.
“That’s not very nice, bro.” Sutcliffe pretended to be offended. “Can’t you take a joke?” He saw Sutcliffe wink out of the corner of his eye. One of the other guys sidled behind him. “Nice sunnies you got there,” Sutcliffe continued.
He knew what was coming but he didn’t have time to get to his feet. Two hands shot under his armpits and reached round the back of his neck, pinning him to the chair.
“Fuck off!” he shouted, trying to move his head, but escape was impossible. Sutcliffe leaned in and plucked the glasses casually from his face.
“Not bad at all.” Sutcliffe put the glasses on. His head was much wider than Sam’s and the arms looked as if they were about to snap off. “A bit scratched, though,” he said and dropped them on the floor. They made a horrid crunching sound as he stood on them.
“You fucking bastard,” Sam cursed.
Sutcliffe stiffened and looked down at him. Clearly, he had hit a nerve. “What the fuck did you call me, you little shit?”
Sam’s mouth seemed to acquire a life of its own. “You fucking arseholes,” he screamed at his attackers, “I’ll make you pay for that!”
Sam Page 3