The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

It was even newer and faster than Ben had expected. Not as good as Tigger’s of course, but still...

  He stood his birthday card on Meg’s old keyboard and pulled the door to the spare bedroom half shut. He didn’t expect she’d look in there for any reason tonight. He knew Al had asked her to a movie after dinner.

  And she was unlikely to glance into his downstairs bedroom where the old tea trolley from the garage now held some extra gear. He pulled that door shut, just in case. He didn’t want his birthday ‘surprise’ unveiled until the next morning.

  Meg trotted down the stairs at eight o’clock. Ben heard water running in the kitchen as she filled the kettle and clattered mugs from the cupboard. He groaned and swung his long legs out of bed. It seemed she really was serious about working at the computer all day.

  He shook his head to clear it. Tigger’s parents had gone away for the weekend, and she and Ben had enjoyed the luxury of a real bed in total privacy, and with great vigor.

  What did it feel like? Fantastic! But he was fed up with having to provide a running commentary for her all the time.

  “Hot. You are soooo....hot inside. Jeez, that’s amazing. Lean over a bit further. Further? That makes you as tight as...um...tight as...?” A fistful of steak? The neck of a Coke bottle? What on earth could he say next time?

  “Happy Birthday, Mom,” he said, yawning and stretching as he staggered through the doorway, wearing faded old blue pajama pants and one sock.

  Meg handed him a mug. He put it on the kitchen bench so he could give her a quick kiss on the cheek without slopping coffee over her.

  They stood together in the blinding sunshine, Meg sneaking admiring glances at his maturing body. He was beautiful—her own creation—and so close to being a man. Well, no longer a boy, that was for sure. And with scratches on his shoulder she thought it wiser not to enquire about.

  “So are you really going to write for most of the day?”

  She sipped her coffee and nodded. “That’s my idea of a huge treat. Do you mind if I kick you out of your room? You want to get dressed first?”

  Ben grinned and tried to stifle his glee. “You won’t bother me at all. But you’d better come and see where the computer is now. Won’t be a mo.” He ducked into his bedroom, grabbed something which he mostly concealed in his hand, and then beckoned her up the stairs.

  Meg put her coffee down and followed. He seemed very pleased—and goodness, someone had been having a real go at his back. She had no doubts those parallel scratches had been made by female fingernails.

  He reached the spare bedroom and showed her the label he’d made. Then pressed it onto the door until it held. Not quite straight, but it was the words that captured Meg’s attention. ‘Meg’s Den’.

  He pushed the door open and waited for her reaction. “We could see about getting you a proper office chair for Christmas?”

  She stayed silent. At last she drew a deep breath. “But what about you, Ben?”

  “Sorted. Al’s work was updating some of their gear and he grabbed some of the old stuff. We got it going yesterday. This is all yours now—if you want it.”

  “If I want it?” Her eyes shone.

  “Well, do you?” he demanded.

  “More than almost anything. You can’t imagine how much. You’re a darling boy to think of it.”

  “So the desk is your birthday present, if that’s okay?”

  She ran her hand along it. “It’s the very best thing you could have given me.”

  “It’s only second hand.”

  “I should hope so, Ben. And it’s in very nice condition for second hand. Or ‘pre-loved’ as they seem to say these days.”

  “I found it at that shop next to the church.”

  “And now I’ll be in heaven.” She bent over and switched the machine on. The old printer did its familiar ‘getting ready for you’ buzz and rattle.

  Meg gave him a proper hug, holding him close and rocking from side to side. “This will be my best birthday ever,” she whispered. “And a chair will make a wonderful Christmas present, but only if you can get one second hand as well.”

  He flinched as her hand brushed over the scratches on his back. She noticed he stayed facing her as he sidled out of the room. Definitely guilty.

  He bounded down the stairs to retrieve their coffees and set hers on the desk.

  By then she’d settled onto the bedroom stool, eyes glued to the screen. She murmured a wordless thank you to him as she groped for the mug.

  The warm Italian sunshine poured down on Carlo’s palazzo. The nanny walked out onto the balcony of the nursery. Carlo watched, unobserved, as she stretched luxuriously and the sun silhouetted her breasts through her flimsy blouse.

  CHAPTER 27 - BOBBIE’S FIRE DOWN BELOW

  “Ms Rutherford! Ms Rutherford!”

  Someone bashed hard on the door. Not polite knocks. Hefty thumps. A dog yelped frantically, nearby.

  Bobbie swam up out of a deep sleep. She had summer flu. She’d taken pills. She was dopey and aching.

  The assault continued. “Ms Rutherford!” A crash of splintering timber signaled someone had broken down the door. That brought her properly awake in a hurry. She pulled her old mohair cardigan around her and staggered up from bed, heart pounding.

  Her landlord stood just inside the hallway, wrecking bar in hand, peering into the gloom.

  “Fire,” he yelled as she appeared. “Grab your most precious things and get out quickly.”

  Bobbie saw the flicker of flames and heard a fire siren wailing in the distance. Not a bad dream then? Because of her totally blocked nose she couldn’t smell the smoke. She stared at Jim McArthur through her haze of flu pills, and slowly made sense of the situation.

  “Fire?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Grab your things. Now.” He raced away. The dog continued its strident barking and whining.

  Her things… Her things… The old family photo album from the bookcase. She threw it onto the bed. Piled the contents of her underwear drawer on top. Wrestled a few clothes off the wardrobe rack and added them to the heap. Grabbed two pairs of shoes from under the bed.

  The first fire truck screeched to a halt outside and the deafening siren died. Its lights pierced the smoke, blinding and bright.

  A hulking black shape darkened Bobbie’s doorway, silhouetted against flames and flashes. “Come on, out straight away,” the fireman yelled.

  She made a frantic grab for her Kindle and a box of assorted computer stuff, and bundled everything up in the quilt. She struggled toward the tall figure and thrust the load at him.

  “Out NOW,” he yelled. Numbly she followed, racked with coughs from the smoke and whatever bug was laying her low. She bent double for a few seconds to regain her breath and then ploughed on. A few steps had never seemed so far.

  Her frizzy hair sizzled and stank as she dashed through the flaming doorway, and she screamed as it caught fire. Someone dragged her old cardigan up over her head. The combined smell of singed hair and cardigan caught in her raw throat. She hacked and wheezed in terror.

  “Hold on, hold on!” her unknown rescuer bellowed in her ear, half-carrying her away from the flames. She was bind from the cardigan, and still far from alert, but at least the heat against her face had been short lived. Then strong arms released her and she stood, wavering, in suburban hell.

  Flames rushed out of the old wooden house. Tongues of fire licked over the boards of her basement flat; there was no way she’d be living there again anytime soon. Her quilt full of belongings was now all she owned in the world—apart from her bank balance and maybe her bicycle in the garage.

  Still shivering from the flu and from shock, she obediently tagged along as an arm drew her to a nearby car. The man pushed her big bundle into the back seat with her. She hugged it tightly, for warmth and for comfort, and felt the car shudder as the trunk slammed shut. He reached in and draped a picnic rug around her shoulders. “Be as fast as I can,” his deep voice assured her.

&
nbsp; She huddled into a corner, watching from her little distance as the fire fighting continued. Firemen moved like spacemen. Water soared and splashed. Half the neighborhood clustered around for a better look. More dogs joined the canine chorus.

  Once the flames were finally out, Bobbie’s rescuer remembered her and returned to the car. “Where to?” he asked, peering at his dirty, haggard passenger.

  She shriveled. There was nowhere really. No family for a hundred miles or more, and they were two unmarried aunts she wasn’t close to. Workmates she could impose on? She wouldn’t dare. She cast about for any other sanctuary.

  “Willowpark Road,” she managed, thinking of Meg’s house. She’d always felt okay there.

  And so, four days after her birthday, Meg relinquished her new spare-room study to a shivering, grimy, half bald Bobbie at 12.30 am.

  ‘Life’s not always fair’, Meg thought, trying to feel sorrier for Bobbie than she did for herself. She’d been in paradise since Sunday. At last she’d had her own little world to write in, uninterrupted.

  And now she’d lost it.

  For several days, Bobbie hunched under the bedclothes, sick and lost. Meg took breakfast to her each day, and did her best to prepare tempting meat-free dinners. Then, one evening, Bobbie finally emerged from hiding in ill matched clothes and with a towel around her head.

  “What can I do about my hair?” she whispered.

  Meg sat her down and gently unwound the towel.

  “Are you burnt? Hurting?”

  “Nooooo....”

  “I’d be lying if I said it looked good, Bobbie. I’m almost sure you’re going to need most of it cut off. There’s just about nothing left on this side and over the top.”

  Bobbie sighed wheezily and nodded. “It’s awful hair, but I’d rather have it than be bald.”

  Meg bit her lip. “Maybe a really short cut all over? It’ll grow quite fast...I expect.” Inspiration struck. “We should ask Liz—she’s the fashion expert. I’ll see if she’s home.”

  They started watching the TV news while they waited for Liz to arrive. Terrorists, murders, train smashes...the usual stuff.

  Ben ambled out from his adjoining bedroom. Tigger had arranged to go out with a girlfriend tonight, and he was almost grateful. “Sheesh!” he exclaimed, peering at Bobbie.

  “Ben!”

  “Yeah, sorry Mom, but it’s not real good.”

  “Put the kettle on, can you?”

  It took Liz only ten minutes to tear across town. She bribed Rosie and Brett to stay in the SUV with the promise of a video later that evening, and dashed through Meg’s open front door, all legs and hair.

  “Holy cow!” she exclaimed, inspecting the long and short of Bobbie. “Well, you can’t keep it like that. I’ll see if Tony can do one of his miracles.” She produced her mobile and tapped the screen. “Leslee? It’s Liz McKenzie. Need the biggest favor from Tones, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve got a friend who’s had a lot of hair burnt off in a fire.”

  A silence. “Yes, she has long hair, and very short hair, too, in places.”

  Another silence. “Bad. Awful. I know he’ll be all booked up, but please-please-please?” She waited, winding her long necklace around and around a finger.

  “Next Thursday? You must be joking? This is a serious emergency. I mean, I know next Thursday is really, really good of him, but couldn’t he just do an extra half hour tonight?” Liz tapped an imperious foot on the floor as she was put on hold. “He’ll do it? Tell him he’s wonderful. Seven thirty then.”

  She disconnected and turned to Bobbie. “I brought some clothes along in case you didn’t rescue many of yours. You’re welcome to any of these.” She unzipped a sports bag and rummaged inside. There were jeans, a denim shirt, and several T-shirts. “We’d be much the same size? You can roll the legs up.”

  Bobbie nodded gratefully. “The lights were off with the fire. I grabbed a couple of things, but I couldn’t see, and it was hopeless.”

  “Try the denims. They’d look good on you.”

  Bobbie slunk away to change.

  “Have you got any scarves?” Liz asked.

  Meg had a search and produced several. When Bobbie returned, Liz experimented with the remains of her hair until the worst damage was hidden.

  “And a bit of lipstick to brighten you up,” Meg insisted. She’d always thought Bobbie looked unhealthily pale, and the flu had washed her out still further. Now in the blue denim instead of her usual black, with a bright scarf and a lick of Really Raspberry, she was halfway to being pretty.

  Liz checked her watch. “I’ll go and get some takeaways for us all. The kids’ll be starving and playing up pretty soon. Meg, if you can take them home via the video store after, I’ll get Bobbie to Tony’s.”

  Meg agreed, seeing languid Liz in a whole new light. In just a few minutes, she’d organized everything and everyone.

  Liz zoomed off with her children, and fifteen minutes later they returned with boxes of pungent fragrant food.

  “Vegetarian samosas for you, Bobbie. Chicken all right for everyone else?”

  Meg dealt paper serviettes around the table and insisted Liz accepted twenty dollars toward the food. Orlando and Bella tried for shreds of chicken as they yowled and pushed themselves against the children’s legs.

  “They’ll be far too tired to watch their video tonight,” Liz muttered to Meg as everyone began making a hasty departure. “Let them choose it, get a three-day rental, and they can see it tomorrow or the next day.” She wrestled the house key off her bundle, and the video store card from her pocket, and handed them over. “Get them into bed somehow or they’ll be useless at school tomorrow. I’ve left the security alarm off for you.” She checked her watch again, cursed, and hustled Bobbie out.

  Meg loaded her new charges into the old Toyota. Brett in particular seemed to find it wildly exotic.

  “I’ve never been in a vintage car before,” he said, sniffing the oily air.

  “Only 1979,” Meg protested. Her father had bought the car for her mother to run about in, and, little workhorse that it was, it had become Meg’s and never been replaced.

  “1979?” Brett and Rosie chorused. That was a hundred years ago at least.

  CHAPTER 28 - IAN ON AN ISLAND

  That evening, Ian stood buck-naked in front of his mirror. He was now burnished a rich gold. Even kilted Herbie had been impressed with his progress, and sold him some after-sun body moisturizer and special shower gel. Ian used them religiously, fascinated by his new glowing body.

  The prospect of a woman didn’t seem so far-fetched now. One who’d be willing to rub moisturizer over his back would be ideal.

  He stood straighter, raising his chin and throwing a defiant glare at the dangerous looking man in the mirror. Tall and tanned, with a hard, lean body. With arms now as brown as his hands.

  One of the writers had mentioned his body hair would show less if he was tanned. They’d been right. Instead of white skin and whorls of dark hair, he now gleamed bronze all over.

  He thanked his lucky stars Liz had taken pity on him. Just the haircut to go now—no doubt at some poofy place where he’d feel really uncomfortable again. His two-monthly trips to the local barber for ‘a bit of an even-up’ were enough of a trial. Old Bernie sometimes suggested he might like to try a different look, but Ian was used to his thick mop the way it was.

  Tomorrow was Hair Day. Liz had made a huge thing of it. She’d be having her own done at the same time.

  And just the thought of her was enough to send blood pumping to his hopeful cock. Where was the woman he needed to rub his back?

  Or front?

  He sighed. At least he could do that for himself. He stretched out on the bed, looked down at Big Willy and closed his eyes.

  A small plane droned across the night sky. He imagined it was hot daylight...saw the plane high in the blinding blue firmament...heard its engine note change and splutter.

  Marianna struggled to free herself fro
m the tangle of cords and branches. The parachute had saved her life. And hopefully the emergency beacon was already sending a strong and steady signal out across the vast ocean. They would know she’d hit trouble, and more-or-less where. But they’d have no idea if she was dead or alive until they found her.

  She muttered with annoyance and kicked as an insect bit her ankle. Her shirt had ripped on the stubs of the branches. The sun poured down like sticky treacle, hot and relentless on her shoulders.

  On this deserted island she could take nothing for granted. Was the insect poisonous? Was there any water safe to drink? Were there dangerous animals?

  Marianna felt the answer to her last query must surely be no. It was a tiny place. A dot in the vast Pacific Ocean. Not large enough to sustain anything big, although she hoped it would sustain her for as long as it took for rescuers to arrive.

  She tugged at the harness, and one of the smaller branches snapped, dropping her further toward the ground. Still she hung, suspended in the burning sun. About twice her own height above the ground, she estimated—dangerously far to fall.

  But she’d been wrong about being alone. A shadow moved on the ground right below her. A large one. Something huge lurked here... Terror closed her throat and stopped her from screaming with fright. She twisted and looked down.

  A big ape of some sort? Male—no room for argument there! She licked her lips as all her nerves tingled. He looked almost human...and yet...?

  He wore no clothes of any kind. His skin shone coppery from the sun, and dark hair covered his chest, running down to a coarser, denser thatch at his groin. Not dense enough to hide his long swinging manhood though. A flicker of fascination ran through her, despite her predicament. Was he savage? Was she safe?

  He raised his head. He snuffed at the air. And fixed her with enquiring brown eyes.

  Marianna tensed. He’d seen her.

  He made a throat clearing noise. “Oo okay?” he rasped. He cleared his throat again, and stood looking up to where she swung so precariously.