Sam

by Luke F. Harris

  “Seen Tom lately?” his father asked, shaking out the newspaper as he turned the page.

  He froze, the fork suspended in midair. “No,” he replied warily, “not since New Year’s.”

  His father folded the newspaper in half and then in half again. He read in silence for a minute before he put the paper down. “I suppose we might as well go for a drink when you’re finished.”

  Sam felt like telling his father to fuck off, that he would rather stick pins in his eyes than drink with him right now, but he kept his mouth shut. It was the perfect excuse to see Tom.

  “I’m talking to you,” his father said when he still hadn’t replied.

  “Yeah, OK, thanks,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

  “There’s a few things I want to talk to you about.”

  He finished chewing and swallowed. “What things?”

  His father put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair. He heard the wood creak under the strain. “Let’s just say there’s a few grounds rules that need to be set before you go off running amok down there at the university.”

  Sam shifted uneasily and took a sip of water. He kept his eyes down.

  “I know what young lads are like,” his father continued. Across the table, his sister croaked with suppressed laughter. His father reached for a slice of bread, coated it liberally with butter, and folded it in half. “I used to be one,” he said, taking a bite.

  His father eyed him suspiciously while he chewed. When he had finished, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, dropped it onto the empty plate and pushed back his chair. “Don’t go getting any girls in trouble, is all I wanted to say on the matter.”

  This time, he almost laughed out loud. “No, Dad. I promise I won’t.”

  His father looked at him, as if he were unsure whether he was being mocked or not. “Very well, then,” he grunted. “Get your coat. It’s cold out,” he added, striding out of the room.

  “Don’t forget I’m taking you to the university bookshop tomorrow,” his mother reminded him as he followed his father out the door. He knew it was her way of saying, “Please don’t stay out late.”

  They walked in silence. His father kept half a stride ahead the whole way.

  “The usual?” Ngaire asked as soon as they walked through the door. She was sitting in her usual spot at the end of the bar, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. He wondered whether she ever moved.

  His father nodded. “And whatever you’re having.” She smiled, revealing a scattering of yellow teeth.

  He scanned the empty room. There was no sign of Tom, Jarryd, or any of the others.

  “Here you go, son.” Ngaire slopped two jugs of pale ale on the counter in front of him and returned to her seat. His father was already talking to a group of old guys huddled round a leaner in the corner.

  For over an hour, he stood beside his father in silence. Every time the door swung open, his heart leapt into his throat, so that by the time Jarryd walked through the door, he felt mentally exhausted.

  He stood up straight and tried to look as relaxed as possible. With Jarryd now here, Tom wouldn’t be far behind. He took a sip of warm beer to loosen his dry throat. Right on cue, the door opened again and in walked Tom.

  He took a step forward and froze, the breath knocked out of him.

  Standing beside Tom was a girl he didn’t recognise—though he knew who she was instantly; Amber had described her in painstaking detail. She really was as attractive as he had feared.

  “I’m back for a month,” her voice carried across the room. “I surprised him,” she giggled. He almost flinched when she kissed Tom on the cheek. He took a step backward, towards the bar.

  “You all right, boy?” Ngaire was wiping down the bar with a dirty cloth.

  He turned and gave her a blank look. He couldn’t think straight.

  “You don’t look too good,” she said.

  “I’m OK, thanks. I just need some fresh air.”

  Ngaire shrugged and continued with her chores.

  He slipped behind his father and out the door without saying a word. He kept his head down until he was clear of the building.

  The next few weeks were, without doubt, the worst of his life.

  “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” His mother leaned over the bed and placed a hand on his forehead. She held it there for a moment, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. “You don’t feel hot,” she said, somewhat accusatorily.

  It was nine o’clock in the morning, and, for once, there was nowhere he needed to be.

  “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  He rolled onto his back and pulled the covers up under his chin. He stared up at the ceiling. There was a crack in the plaster. He was sure it hadn’t been there before the last earthquake, a month or so before.

  “Well, don’t forget your gran and grandad are coming for tea tonight. They want to see you before you leave.” She turned and walked out of the room.

  Immediately the door was closed, he threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. It had taken him days to make up his mind, and now that he had resolved to see Tom one last time, he wasn’t going to let anything stand in his way.

  Tom wasn’t at home, and since his flatmate had no idea when he would be home, he decided not to wait. Next he tried the rugby club, only to find all the doors locked and the lights turned off. He stood by the kerb and tried to think of where to try next. Only one other place sprang to mind.

  When he reached the beach and saw Tom’s ute parked up outside the surf club, he breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly scanned the shore, but there was only

  one person out on the water and he was far too short to be Tom.

  He leaned against the wall of the club and waited for Tom to materialise. Twenty minutes later, though, there was still no sign of him.

  Sam folded his arms and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He would have to make his up mind soon: either to go in and find Tom or to leave. Right now, he felt inclined to leave, but a voice inside his head told him he would regret it if he did.

  He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  The dimly lit foyer was empty. He looked round, unsure what to do next. The staircase that led up to the café was cloaked in darkness. Clearly, Tom wasn’t up there.

  Should he wait where he was or try one of the two doors on the ground floor? He took a step towards the doors and stopped. If he was caught nosing around a place he wasn’t supposed to be, he could get into trouble.

  He was still trying to decide what to do when the door to his left swung open. A guy he didn’t recognise walked past without giving him so much as a second look.

  “Hey,” he called out without thinking. The guy stopped and turned. “Sorry,” he continued. “You haven’t seen Tom around, have you?”

  The guy motioned to the door he had just walked through. “Yeah, bro. He’s through there.”

  Sam took a step towards the blue door, and stopped. His heart was beating so fast he thought he might actually faint. What good can come of this? a voice inside his head whispered. It sounded quite a lot like his mother’s.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts before continuing.

  It was much brighter on the other side of the door and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light. The room was empty, save for a solitary pile of clothes on a bench in the far corner. He recognised Tom’s coat hanging from a hook on the wall.

  He held his breath and scanned the room. His heart was in his throat. He half expected Tom to appear from nowhere, like some sort of apparition. At the far end of the changing room, there was another door, and judging by the sound of running water, it led to the showers.

  The pipes above his head clunked as the water was shut off. He stood motionless, his eyes transfixed on the empty doorway. It had better be Tom in there, he thought; otherwise, he would have some serious explaining to do. The long silence was broken only by the sque
lch of footsteps on the tiled floor.

  He gulped when Tom appeared. He wasn’t wearing a thing. Tom wandered slowly across the room, right towards where he was standing. His face was hidden beneath the towel he was using to dry his hair.

  Sam had seen Tom’s naked body once before, but that had been under cover of darkness. Now, the artificial light illuminated every detail.

  He had left it far too long to make his presence known. Still, he knew that he had to do something, and fast. He coughed, unable to think of anything better. The sound echoed off the concrete walls.

  Tom spun round. He snatched the towel from his head and held it in front of waist. But when he saw who it was, he exhaled with relief. “Sam, you scared the crap out of me.”

  He felt his face flush with shame. He had made a terrible error of judgment.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, taking a step back, towards the door. “I came—” he began, but stopped. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  Tom moved forward, closing the gap between them. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.” He kept his eyes to the floor.

  “Oh,” Tom said. “Have you got time for a drink?”

  He looked up and smiled nervously. “I think I’d better go.”

  Without saying a word, Tom closed the gap between them.

  Sam could feel his heart hammering against the inside of his ribcage. It was beating dangerously fast. He thought about running but knew his legs wouldn’t cooperate if he tried. Tom was standing so close now that he could smell the faint aroma of shampoo.

  “Goodbye, then,” Tom said, his voice almost a whisper. He had a strange glint in his eye.

  Sam was immobilised by fear. He looked up, as if for help, but Tom just smiled.

  When Tom reached out and touched his face, it felt as if an electric current was surging through him. Every muscle in his body trembled.

  Tom’s lips were surprisingly soft. Tom kissed him gently at first—quick, tentative. But passion soon got the better of both of them. He pushed his body against Tom’s and felt an unmistakable hardness against his stomach.

  Tom let go of the towel and it fell to the floor. Slowly, Tom’s left arm moved around his waist, his fingertips working their way down his spine until they came to rest just above the hollow of his back. A shiver shot through his body, and he let out a squeak.

  “Ticklish, eh?” Tom whispered in his ear. Tom’s breath brushed the sensitive skin on his neck, which made him squirm all the more. Without waiting for a reply, Tom covered his mouth with his own, his teeth nipping playfully at his lower lip.

  He felt himself melting away fast; if he didn’t put a stop to this now, he would never be able to leave. Summoning all the strength he had left, he put his palms on Tom’s chest and pushed him away. “Stop,” he mumbled. It sounded more like a request than an order. But it had the desired effect. Tom tensed and he pulled away. “What’s wrong?”

  He hadn’t meant to laugh. Tom winced as if he had just slapped him round the face.

  “What’s wrong?” He repeated Tom’s question. “I’m leaving in less than twelve hours. And you have a girlfriend.” The last sentence came out more acerbically than he had intended. Tom turned away.

  He stopped and looked back before opening the door to the foyer. Tom was still standing with his back to him.

  “Bye,” he said quietly, but Tom didn’t answer.

  The house was a hive of activity the following morning. His father had already filled the car with gas by the time he surfaced and was now dragging his trunk down the hallway, towards the door. “You’d better get a move on,” he said, letting the trunk drop to the floor with a crash. Thank God there wasn’t anything breakable inside. “The ferry won’t wait for you.”

  “Sam, get into that shower now,” his mother said, emerging from the kitchen and squeezing past him into his room. She reappeared a moment later, his used bed linen screwed up in a ball under one arm. She sighed with exasperation. “I’m leaving in twenty minutes—with or without you.”

  He stood in the shower and let the steaming water cascade over his face and body. He hadn’t got a wink of sleep all night and his joints ached with tiredness.

  He closed his eyes and tried again to piece together what had happened at the surf club. Gaps were already appearing in his memory.

  After leaving the changing room, he had headed straight for the far end of the beach. He had sat on the rocks, facing directly into the southerly, until he had lost all feeling in his fingers and toes. He couldn’t really remember the walk home.

  He climbed out of the shower and dried himself with a towel. The clock on the wall was ticking loudly, and for a moment he paused to watch the second hand as it moved, unstoppably, round the face.

  “Sam, get a move on!” his mother yelled through the door, jerking him back to reality.

  She was already sitting behind the wheel when he walked into the front yard. His father was standing next to the driver’s door. “Don’t drive too fast,” he heard his father lecturing her. “And watch out for the cops.” His father rapped twice on the roof of the car and walked back towards the house without saying a word to him.

  “Get in, Sam,” his mother said through the open window. She leaned across to pop the lock on the passenger door, and he slipped in beside her. “Ignore him. He’s sad you’re leaving. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

  The car was full to bursting. His trunk took up most of the back seat. Anything that wouldn’t fit inside had been draped over the top, leaving barely enough room for his mother to see through the back window. The disassembled pieces of his bike had been crammed into every available space.

  His mother turned the key in the ignition and the engine spluttered into life. Using both hands, she released the handbrake and they rolled forward through the gate. It was an old car and weighed as much as a small tank. As she tugged on the steering wheel, her cheeks flushed with colour. A pump of the gas pedal propelled them up the small dip in the gutter and out onto the road.

  When they reached the end of the street, he glanced one last time in the wing mirror. A motorbike was approaching from the other direction. His heart leapt into his throat. But before he had a chance to see who was riding, they rounded the corner and the street disappeared from view. He slumped back into the seat and rested his forehead on the window, the warmth of his breath misting up the glass.

  chapter ten

  Tom sat in the car park and watched the crowd at the door disperse. He hadn’t touched a golf club in over six months, but this morning he woke up itching to get out on the course. He had been cooped up inside for far too long.

  Hurry up, he thought, glancing at the two old guys lingering by the entrance to the club. He had been hoping to sneak out to the first tee without anyone noticing. He wasn’t ready to cope with other people’s sympathy just yet.

  Once the coast was clear, he climbed out of the car and unloaded his clubs from the boot. He didn’t bother assembling the trolley; he was planning on doing nine holes only. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and turned towards the club.

  “Tom!” Mrs Murdoch screeched as soon as he walked through the door. She came waddling down the hall towards him, a pile of folded towels under one arm. At no more than a metre thirty, she was as wide as she was tall. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  She put the towels on a nearby chair and pulled him into a bear hug. Her face barely reached his stomach. He looked down at the crown of her head and couldn’t help but notice the grey roots that were coming through.

  “How are you?” she asked, grasping him firmly by the hands and stepping back to look him up and down. She cocked her head to one side, as if she were contemplating an invalid. He felt his body tense.

  “I’m fine,” he started to answer but she cut him off. “Stan, get out here!” she yelled over her shoulder, towards the office. “Tom’s here.”

  The sound of Stan’s grumbling was impossible to ignore. Mrs Mu
rdoch rolled her eyes and told him not to take it personally. He didn’t tell her that, right now, he felt a strange sort of affinity with her long-suffering husband.

  Mr and Mrs Murdoch made for the most unlikely couple—one outgoing, the other taciturn. And while Stan was tall and lean, his wife was verging on being a midget. The logistics of their love-making flashed through his mind, and he blinked away the disturbing thought.

  “G’day, Stan,” he smiled, offering the old club manager his hand.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  Stan Murdoch wasn’t one to smile at the drop of a hat, but when he did, his whole face lit up. “It’s really nice to see you,” Stan said, and patted him on the shoulder. He was genuinely moved by the sincerity of the gesture.

  “I see you’ve brought your clubs with you,” Stan continued. He nodded at the bag next to him. “I assume you’re looking to play a spot of golf today.”

  “I haven’t booked, I’m afraid. It was a kind of last-minute decision.”

  “No worries, no worries.” Stan waved away the apology. “I’m sure we can squeeze you in. Do you mind playing in a group?”

  “Of course he doesn’t mind,” Mrs Murdoch answered on his behalf. She squeezed past her husband, into the office, and took possession of the leather-bound diary that recorded all the tee times. She ran a sausage-like finger down the page, her eyebrows drawing together as if she were trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

  “Actually, Mrs Murdoch,” he dared to interrupt her, “I would really like to play alone today. I’m not much—”

  He was going to say “company” but she cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

  “Now, there’s a group of three about to tee off. I can add you in. You know them, to be sure. It’s Brian Johnston and his two boys.”

  Mr Murdoch, who had been hovering in the doorway until now, stepped into the office and took the diary out from beneath his wife’s nose. “Now, dear, Tom says he wants to play alone, and alone he shall play. So long as you don’t mind waiting twenty minutes.” He looked up over the top of his reading glasses and Tom was reminded of a teacher he had known at high school.