 
### The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea

By Mac Dyson

"Life can be hell - thank god!"

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Mac Dyson

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and you didn't purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

At the conclusion of this Smashwords Edition is an Author Biography with the story of how & why **The Devil** was written; contacts for Mac Dyson; some reading suggestions; and an extensive Study/Reading Guide.

### The Devil's Who's Who

**Jamie Geddes** : 17, musician and generally sensitive bloke

**"Nick"** : exceedingly handsome non-human of dubious origins

**Jude Murphy** : 17, Jamie's best friend, a drama queen

**Dom O'Halleran** : 17, Jude's boyfriend, Jamie's sex buddy, a practical kind of joker

**Sue Tomkins** : 18, Jude's best friend

**Ryan Murphy** : 14, Jude's younger bro', dancer, and baby Drag Princess

**Russell Wells** : 18, sexy straight(?) captain of the school rugby team

**Robbie Wells** : 3 (and a bit), Russell's little brother

**Louise McKenzie** : 18, gorgeous country cousin

**Thomas Moon** : 20, illusionist

**Barbara Henare** : 24, rugby player and boat captain

**Campbell, Bragg, & Banister**: 17/18, Russell's redneck rugger-bugger mates

**Plus** : A miscellaneous selection of characters in supporting roles, including parents and other adults of limited interest.

##### The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea

### Mac Dyson

Foreword - Forewarning

Kia Ora.

This book is supposed to be fiction, eh? You know, made up. So no-body real appears in it. No actual events are described. None of this happened.

But ... there is a seaside town at the bottom of the world, the bottom of Aotearoa (New Zealand) called Riverton Rocks. And some of it looks pretty much like what we've described. So ... in 1979, there might have been a summer December that changed everything. These events could well have taken place. They possibly even happened to people like us.

And if they did, this would be the way to tell you - each of us writing down our own story. Making sense of it in our own way. Sure, producing a lot of jigsaw pieces. A bit random so they probably won't always quite fit. They mightn't always line up. There could be bits that overlap. Cover the same ground. Perhaps even contradict. But that's okay, eh. These are our lives, and we're entitled to speak of them in our own particular way.

The way we look at it, every life is a unique work of fiction. An ongoing act of invention, eh? A novel that deserves all the attention and care that you can give. We hope that you're awake to creating yours.

Kia Kaha* - Cheers!

Jamie, Jude, Dom, Ryan, Russell.

PS: Jude reckons we should warn you there's "language" - as her Nana would've said. So we 'spose we ought to add that there's fighting, and we all get horny with obvious results.

Oh, PPS: Nick wants to say that he's sorry he sounds like a pretentious git with a candelabra up his arse at the start - he loosens up in the end. At which Jude rolled her eyes. Anyway Dom says it's a full size chandelier, coz he reckons he can hear a tiny tinkle of crystal everytime Nick farts. Jamie threatened him with a thick ear if he tried to find out.

*Maori: "Be Strong"

### Chapter 1

Saturday December 1 - 1979

Jamie

Hear it in monotone. Magging away. Mumbling to itself... the story... the same old old story

On the far edge of awareness. Turning. Over and over. Circling. Round and round. The familiar bleary whine. A dreary dull drone. Insistent. Unrelenting. The persistent chain of thought

Plays to it's own content. Rehearses the old reasons. Nurses the ancient hurts. Hones the habitual script. Plots, and replots the last scene.

Although the muttering is muted. Muffled. It's ... Me.

Oblivious. On audio autopilot. With sad lack of cool. Me-two (too) provides soundtrack. At the threshold of hearing. The Elton John Songbook.  
_... beyond the Yellow Brick Ro-o-oh, oh o-o-o-oh..._

Shit! The handle bars jolt. The bike bucks. Rearing over the gravel verge. Towards the ditch.  
Stirring. World swoops slo'-mo' into focus. Back wheel starts to drift. Muscles wrench. Sudden sweat. A punch to my chest. Half a rib. Makes a bid for freedom.

Waking. Mind takes up the reins. Will myself to calm. This too will pass. Choose the least resistance.Zen Bike Sutra #1. Where you focus. Becomes the destination. Deliberately stare at the middle of the road.

Ten yards. Easy. Twenty yards. Easy boy. Fifty. Finally. Back on the black. Safe.

A surge. Sheer exhilaration. Thoughts kick up their heels. Lurch into overdrive. Head to the white line. Throttle open. Channelling Steppenwolf.

Born To Be Wi-i-i-ild!

Easy Rider. Kiwi style. Hooning down the highway. Tearing up the centre of the tarmac. Playing join the dots.

A hunchback 50s Austin saloon. Rises over the hill. Phantom in the late afternoon gloom. Bumbling straight at me. Habit steers me back into lane. Takes a moment for the irony to catch. Can't help but laugh. Gingerly.

With it now. The final chapter. It gets told my way. So. Behold. Take heed. Verily, verily, I tell unto you. The last adventure of James David Geddes. Known as Jamie to sundry and all. Full name only used in anger. By mum. Mother.

Lets start with my trusty steed. A 1959 touring scooter. Not a Vespa or its ilk. They're for posers. Sit up and beg. They fall over too easily. This one is low. Lean. Burgundy flashed with cream. Aluminium fins. Stripe the rear wheel cowling. Crest the front guard. Effect? Kinda nana toaster. Still – cool at its chilliest. Moving – comedy at its loudest.  
Ah. The delights of a two stroke Puch. Smoking and spluttering down country tarmac. To the coast. Taking me to ...

December 1. The first day of summer. Officially. Someone forgot to tell the sun. Drizzle blurs the visor. Drips down my neck. In defence. Trousers and shoes are dry. Don't get that on a motorbike. And it can handle. Horizontal torsion bars out back. Genius.

Full throttle. 63 mph. Yee hah! Feels like the ton, plus. Steer the curves between ragged gold gorse hedges. With a swing of the arse. Never get tired of this. Got an erection.

Hell. At 17 – always got an erection. We all do. Picture Toady. John Hilton High's neck-less headmaster. Must have sniggered into his jowls. Every morning. Before a quick tug in his office. 23 boys waddling. Down the school bus steps. Bags clutched awkwardly up front.

Road straightens. Heads for the horizon. Across quilted plain. To either side. Pasture rises. Falls. Broken by Macrocarpa hedges. Some three stories high. The unbounded sky looms. Low cloud banks. Smothering. It starts to teem. No need to slow. Have the road to myself.

Sheep carpet the green. Ignore the rain. Lambs are big now. Few late tiny specks totter across the vast paddocks. Tufted with tussock. A country with more sheep than people. To my mind a good thing. Very good thing.

String of giant power pylons stride above. Menacing. Hum to themselves. Making plans. They head for the hills. To the north. High hills. Bunched soft against the edge of the sky. Folded in maroon and khaki. Cloud trickling into the creases. Blanketing the tops. Lifts for a moment. To reveal the heights. Crowned black green. Flecked with white. Some late snow.

The end of the plain. Past the Race Course. Smooth drop left. Then. Grit my teeth. Judder over the rusting railway lines. Into the town.

Riverton. One wide street. Single ribbon of buildings left and right. Wood Fronts. Tin tops and sides. Need a good scrub. Lick of paint. Cross the estuary bridge. Tides out. Fishing boats lean drunkenly on silt bars. For a moment silver puddles gleam. A rip in the clouds. Shafts of light spear down. Fodder for Victorian painters.

Sweep the far curve. Then haul back speed. Tight turn. Almost back on myself. Lose momentum. Low gear. High revs. Wheel spin. Struggle up the last short steep rise. And over.

To The Rocks.

Nick

It hath alwaies and ever been thus: as the Ballade has its refrayn, and the Seasons their return, so we are condemn'd to revisit the themes of our lives till they be resolv'd.

So shoulde I know. So shoulde I have learn'd by now in this longest of all longe existençes. But yet, like a hunted animal, I run and I duck, I weave and I dive, and at every pause for rest I find I have circled round to return to the selfsame wretched tree in the forest.  
Or at least one that looks verie like it.

Hence, I find myself at the bottom of the Earth, as distant from the Old Worlde and its temptaçions as I can achieve on this tiny globe, trying to move on. And of course here I am back agayn at something too much like the start, dragging my feet on the road to repeat every incomplete chapter of my tatter'd and over-familiar storie.

Aotearoa - "The Land of The Longe White Cloud". Fleeing the maddening crowd of Europe and Thee Americas, I was first tempted to choose the northern, younger of its two principal isles. There the Earth only just anchors and survives the titanic pow'r that occupies its core: be it the smoking threat of volcano, the angry blub'ring of boyling mudde, or the sulphurous plumes of steaming geiser this Land lives, and vividlie. It rekes of primeaval fecunditie. It gushes. It heaves. It oozes. It thrusts. It spurts. In the ages of the planet it remains a joyfullie delinquent youth rejoycing in the first discoverie of Desire and Passion.

Alas as such, it remindes me much too much of what I have foresworn.

For the moment I have chosen to dwell on the southernmost coast of the lower island. For as well as physical isolation few deign to live here. There is little attraction for wishful-thinking colonials looking for an easie Life. While the soils are rich, 'tis countrie that rewardes only the most tenaçious. Regarde the almost horizontal trees that straggel the boundes of its coast. Locally, the weather is refer'd to, with a chuckle and a roll of thee eyes heavenward, as "Bloodie awefull, maite".

Much of its center is occupy'd by a sinuous spine of soaring alpes. Mile upon mile of stone adze ribs tip'd in crystalyne snow. To the south and west lies an ancient rain forest, ringing unfathomable chill'd lakes. Its coastal edge fring'd with finger fiordes, yardes deep in fresh-water runoff. Through it all, from the vertiginous peaks down to sea level, still ponderouslie trundel two lumbering glaciers.

Here, 'tis still much of Paradise. Still something of Eden's first ease as I straye 'mongst cloud scraper tree-ferns, the nocturnal walking birdes for company. Or soar the vast night skye vaulted with blazing fire-white stars.

'Tis these untam'd, untrammell'd expanses that hold my heart in thrall. 'Tis they that call to me, and remind me, thrill me and ... greve me.

Jamie

The Rocks.

From the top. The coast opens out before me. Fringed by a sprawl of haphazard wood and fibro' boxes. In patchwork pastel paint. Each piggy backing a circular corrugated iron tank. Rain water. Soft. Sweet. Bliss to bathe in. Great for the hair.

Hit 76 on the downhill stretch. Brakes just cope. Sharp right hander into the main bay. Taramea Beach. Where the river meets the sea. Vast. Flat. Featureless. Low tide. Not much better at high. Though always safe for the kiddies.

Road starts to wander. Cliffs. Cuddling tiny bays. Cream sand. Yellow and green shingle. Been a storm lately. Huge fronds of kelp. Gold. Stranded on the beach. Fallen sci-fi trees. Used to carve the stems into balls. Waxy. Hard and fast for beach cricket.

Mitchell's Bay. Past the Tiki Tea Rooms. Still boarded for winter. Jude comes to mind. Will the thought away. She'll be better off.

Dropping to sea level for a moment. Road and beach cheek to cheek. Around a corner. A sea lion rears at me from a rock outcrop. Bit of a shock.

At the last Bay. The very last section. Turn up the gravel drive. Livingston Daisies colouring its edge. Past the spiked Cabbage tree. Lightning strike. 1973. 12th birthday.

The house looms. Bit grand for a crib. Over the top for the seaside. Holidayed here since way back when. Always needed paint. Inside bathroom. Wet-back coal range replaced. Phone on. Mother's constant litany. Nothing gets done. Nothing ever will. Reminds her of her childhood.

Nick

In verie littel time I have become somewhat fonde of this dwelling. Somethinge in its whimsie, its unconsçious ironie, diverts me. Perhaps it is the idea of menacing stone Gothic render'd in wood, so splendidly fail'd under peeling coats of cheerie paint; thee artifiss so obvious, the lean-to addiçions so incongruous. Someone's social ambiçions reduced to a ramshackel holyday home, or crib as these ex-Celts would say. Well, crub as it sounds in their desiccayted flatte vowels.

They're an oddly jovial bunch with a strong streak of pragmatism. The dour pessimism of the Scots Presbyterian rubs shoulders with the devil-may-care whimsie of the Irish Catholic. They profess loudlie and longe to loathe each other but at heart they march to the same drum. Driven alike by optimism, spark'd by their zeal for a better Worlde, they have travell'd to thee endes of the Earth to make a hopeful fresh start in a promising new countrie.

They just fail'd to notice that they had brought their old selves alonge for the ride. So I keep awaie, though it amuses me to watch from a distance. They certainly know how to partie - and how to drinke. In truth it is hard to separaite the two.

### Chapter 2

Jude

Plunged into sudden darkness all I can see is ... the Bluebird of Happiness.

Well, not actually THE Bluebird of Happiness his- (or her-) self, but a small stuffed replica, perching on the ring finger of my best - actually female - girl-friend Sue.

(Look, I'm trying to give up the use of excessive punctuation - brackets/exclamations/dashes et al - so, please, ignore them. I just want to make the point that you shouldn't graft gender - or sexuality - assumptions onto my words. I am prepared to smack miscreants; just enough to hurt - not enough to excite!).

After a moment my eyes have adjusted enough to make out Sue herself, silhouetted against the screen, waving to me over the heads of the audience. Scrambling along her row in the flickering light I find myself trying to avoid unnecessary intimacy with three half hearted Frankenfurters resplendent in their mother's bras (what is it about blokes and women's underwear? - they get in to it just as we set it alight!).

(Okay parenthesis again - following an exclamation mark, after a dash. Sorry, where was I? Hmmm ...)

Oh yeah. I'm in the Regent Theatre for a special Saturday screening of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show". And I'm currently jostling past three Frankenfurters, one very weedy Rocky, and an assortment of vaguely gothic, slightly sexualised supporting characters to sit beside ... Snow White?

Sue grins at me \- even in the darkness her almond eyes sparkle with mischief. I don't know quite what to say. She looks gorgeous, the perfect princess, but this is the Sue who in public is usually to be found observing life from the edges, and avoiding direct conversation. A Sue, usually disguised in clothing devoid of cut or colour, who is on this very public occasion vividly arrayed in lurid Disney Technicolor. A Sue who seems to have entirely missed the point of the dress-up showing of New Zealand's number-one screw-you-all cinematic creation - thank you Richard O'Brien!

At my gawp, the grin widens and she shrugs,

"I had to tell Mother and Father that I was going to a fancy dress party."

Of course. Her professionally Christian olds would never let her out of the house dressed like Magenta, though maybe she could've got away with Janet. But then, to be fair, I had made it clear that I had dibs on that look.

My revere is disrupted by the audience crying out as one, "Kick the tyre, Brad". On screen, Brad dutifully co-operates. It's all a kind of hi-tech pantomime. I fetch out the necessary accessories – toast, lighter, etc, and settle in to call out instructions to the ever-obedient actors.

I was late in because I had to go back for a prop umbrella, and when I got here Jamie wasn't waiting. He always turns up way too early for everything and then has to circle the block a few times to fill in time. I thought that this time I'd just arrived at the wrong moment in the cycle or that he'd been brave this once and gone on in without me.

But he doesn't seem to have showed at all, which is getting to be a bit of a worrisome habit. Anybody would think he has some kind of perennial male premenstrual tension he's got so moody lately. On Friday night he shot off with out saying goodbye from the 7th Form Leaver's Ball, leaving me to carry (well drag) a very drunken and almost unconscious Dom home all by myself.

(Dom is my boyfriend, at least in the public sense, but there-in lies another deviation, as they say. But one that I'm not about to explain here.)

Friday November 30

Dom

I'm a penguin. And not a little blue penguin. I'm a bloody huge black and white stuffed penguin and I'm not happy, eh. I'm gonna stick out like dogs balls at this dance.

I had plans. I was gonna do the whole who's-so-cool John Travolta, Saturday Night Fever thing, in white but Jude threw a wobbly. Thankfully when no one else was about, eh. Coz she went into a great deal of detail about what would happen to my unmentionables from wearing tight fitting bri-nylon trousers. Hell, I wasn't planning on having kids any time soon anyway, eh?

So anyway I let her drag me down to the Rep' Theatre wardrobe so she could wave her lets-make-Dom-look-a-dick wand. She spent a whole afternoon cramming me and Jamie into tails and white waistcoats and wimpy wing bloody bow-ties. Yeh! Thanks! So here I am about to enter the school hall and ...

Shit-oh-dear, just what I needed, eh. Full-bloody-length mirrors on both sides of the front door. I'm looking for a dark corner – a very dark corner when someone spots me and calls my name. Bugger!

I turn round and ... Bloody Hell! Jamie saunters towards me with Jude on one arm and Sue on the other. The girls are in slinky long evening frocks, and the three of them together look like stars from some old black and white movie. Jude takes my arm and we all turn to look at ourselves in the mirror. And I have to be honest, eh. I look fantastic, an absolute major spunk.

I'm even feeling a bit excited as we stroll arm in arm through an arch of ferns and on to a small bridge (over a toilet-blue stream - yuerg) into the gymnasium. I'm particularly chuffed to notice the looks of puzzlement, as several of my classmates try to work out who we are, as we swan into the middle of the floor. Hell, I'm feeling so mellow, I can even cope with Jude playing the grand dame and waving to everyone like the Queen Mum.

I want to get the party started straight away but Jude refuses to dance with me. I reckon you can waltz to Abba. She very unkindly points out that I have the co-ordination of a spastic seagull and a tendency to forget who's leading – her of course!

Jude

The great thing about holding a dance in a school gymnasium is (going to have to take a moment here ...) aha, the floor is great for all those splendid ballroom manoeuvrers that well... we no longer do. (Or at least I don't with Dom!) And then there is of course the romantic fluorescent strip lighting and the evocative aroma of unwashed arm-pit and rancid tennis shoe that pervades the atmosphere.

Actually, for all our professed modernity and up-to-the-minute air of sophistication, an event like this has probably not changed for Millennia. 12th century Ceilidh or late 20th century school dance, it all begins with self-conscious couples, awkwardly mimicking societies latest interpretation of heterotopia, tottering arm and arm along a welcoming (judging!) corridor of adults. However the moment that required torture is over they sigh in relief, smile vaguely at each other and split – boys to one side of the room, girls to the other. Its only the true deviants, like our quartet, who saunter on to mix and mingle across the gender divide with the very few real couples tentatively gathering in the centre.

Of course just as the Headmaster is about to declare the festivities open, the entire first fifteen - under the leadership of their pommie captain (the insufferably handsome Russell Wells) - make a late and grand team entrance, their partners at their sides, smirking triumphantly (probably because they've just managed a Synchronised Purge). Jamie stage whispers, loud enough for the entire room to hear

"Behold! The total I.Q. of the room has just risen by 29!"

This passes most people by, though Russell frowns before sailing head high to introduce his current Barbie to the Headmaster. From that moment on it follows typical party format, everyone becomes increasingly inebriated, while the sensible among us get on with taking control of the DJ and having a damn fine boogie.

All 'n all I had a remarkably pleasant time, though sadly there was no real trouble to revel in. However there was that very heated moment where Russell lost his balance when he bumped into Jamie in the corridor outside the art room. The way they grabbed each other for balance, "Frankly my deah", I couldn't work out whether they were going to punch or pash!

Though it mightened have been totally politic to have said as much out loud in front of Russell's team mates, especially his sycophantic sulphurous vice-captain (how well named) Bruce Campbell. Perhaps I deflowered a budding romance (or not). Coz it wasn't long after that Jamie went AWOL and if I look back, so did Russell. Mind you, I shouldn't read too much into that because a fair few of his cronies went missing in action at much the same time. Probably out to the bike sheds for a fag (cigarette, alright) and for the more weak stomached, a bit of a barf.

With perfect timing we've reached the moment in the film where Brad finds Frankenfurter in his bed. I don't think I should relate the audiences proposal at that moment - apart from noting that they would deny that they understood any such suggestion if quizzed in the full light of the next day.

Which reminds me, we have final assembly Monday and the returning of books, etc. I better ring Jamie tomorrow and remind Southland's own budding baby Howard Hughes.

### Chapter 3

(Saturday December 1 - cont'd)

Jamie

Cut the engine. Helmet off. Always a surprise. The white noise of the waves. Sucking. Spitting the gravel at the cliffs below. Sit a moment. Don't dare budge. Just yet.

A tui sings opera. Mimicking Mum at practise. Tosca.

Premonition...

" _Visi d'arte, Visi d'amore ...  
Love and Music, these I have lived for_".

She jumped.

Movement in the window. No. Reflection. A mollymawk scuds across twilight sky. Ignore the pounding in my head. Dismount. Slowly. Shaking now. Badly. A moment. Draw breath. Step away. Disengage. Stand still. From a distance. The story returns. Cold. Plain. Clear.

Time to go?

The weary chill. Drips down spine. Clenches heart.

Time to go.

Weighted down by ice. Takes all my will to move. To throw the wet Burberry over the seat. Straighten my suit. Genuine 1964. Op' Shop find. Slim cut, high double breasted. Charcoal. Fine blue pinstripe. Over 1961 black slip-on winkle-pickers. Early Beatles record cover smart.  
Deep breath. Add a pork pie hat. Breezy. Playing against. As taught at Junior Rep'. The comic, so much the funnier with a serious frown. Tragedy, all the sadder faced with jaunty hopefulness. From the other pannier scoop the rope.

The house is airless. The musk of old books. Old flowers. That's not right. Holiday-reading paperbacks just yellow. Not a vase within a 5 mile radius. Still. Nice touch. Will the scent still linger when they find me? Thought to self: Take a trip to the long-drop dunny.

The glassed veranda. Exposed beams beneath the corrugated iron roofing. An easy reach. Thankfully. From up here. View as far as the eye can see. Realtors' wet dream. Over the bay. Across the estuary. Skim the sand dunes. Out to sea. Last trace of orange purples over the horizon. Nice. I 'spose.

For once my cock tucks away tidy ... I kick the stool.

Nick

That infernal noys! Damn their odious inventions, their pretençions at conquering the material Worlde.

I had quite forgot how vulgar the internally combusted Engine is. Little fierie explosions banging bits of metal about, just to propel some two wheel'd rattel-trap fast enough so one can not see anything. To adde insult to injurie, the blasted thinge turns in here.

A scrawnie figure dismounts, stares up at the house, and throws off a coat to reveal a vintage business suit. The Childe from Prudential. A miniature of the quintessençial door-to-door salesman of the 1950s. He even sports a tiny brim'd hat to match. All that is missing? A briar pipe.

I retreat to the attick, where alas I can still hear him. His heel plaites clatter on the wooden floor, tap tapping like Astair and Rogers, as he looks about. After a moment he heades back outside. There's peace until he sendes a mother load into the can, at the bottom of the longe-drop toylet hiding in the bush. He clompes back thorough the house, then a pause before scuffling sounds emenayte from the veranda.

I risk venturing downstairs and peer through a gap in the wood cladding. Oh no you don't m'young fellow m'-lad. I am not having a corps hanging about spoyling my tenançie.

Jamie

Musk. A snuffling at my neck. A moment. The face settles. Dust. Velvet. Copper. Ink tracery round moist grape lips. My cock struggles. Damn. A tent. Is there no dignity even in death?

He laughs. I think. Whatever, narked, sit up. Veranda swims into sight. Not literally of course. Can hardly manage a dog paddle. Even to save its life. No. This isn't right. Feel vaguely hysterical. And possibly alive.

He speaks. Presumably in English. Probably making sense. I guess. Coz if I'm alive, he's definitely dead. Well undead. But then that would make him alive... Perhaps he's dis-dead? Note to mind. Stop thinking. Now.

It's the teeth. The pointy teeth. Joke shop. Hammer Horror. That's all I can focus on. The pointy sharp fangy... fang ... thingies. Ah. I remember. Incisors.

He raises an eyebrow. Did the lighting just change? Whatever, in chiaroscuro relief. The full picture. He is pretty. No. Pretty is not big enough a word for that face. Terrifying. No, not quite right either. Got it! "Pretty terrifying".  
Oh dear. If this is reincarnation. I've returned with the sense of humour of a six year old. An easily amused six year old.

"Your mind will regain its calm after a while."

He is wearing a psychedelic paisley waistcoat. Over an open muslin shirt. Revealing much too much silken chest.

I moan. Stupid. Still. He might think it's in pain. Be more convincing if my gaze hadn't then swept quite so obviously. To his groin. You know. I could be convinced he's also suffering from inappropriate tumescence. (Got an A in School Cert. English).

What sort of after-death experience is this? At best I was expecting a long tunnel to white light. But a chapter from a rather seedy Mills and Boon romance is well, unusual. I think. Though perhaps. This is normal but not spoken of. In nice company. In any company. Certainly won't be telling anyone.

Begin to shake. Convulsively. A palsy that rattles every bone. He grabs me. Pins me to the floor. Nice. Not. My heels hammer against the lino'. A timpani that rumbles through to the wooden piles. I'd scream but the pain sucks at my breath.

Now. I'm sure I'm alive. Because. This time I am dying.

I can feel the night chill on my back. "Corrugated iron is a hopeless insulator". (Dad). Floating at the ceiling. Idly pick at a cobweb. Can see him panic. Go for my neck. Control himself. He places one hand on my chest. The other stretches for the window.

Ungainly. An out-of-body barrage balloon. I turn to see. The mollymawk suddenly plunges from the sky. I am

... Falling. Burning. Grab at my chest.

For a moment my fingers flutter. Feathered.

Black ...

Nick

There is no room to spread my winges and I struggel get the bite on the hempen rope. But finallie 'tis done and when I check, he is still near the cusp between Life and Death. I reach out, transfer, and he stirs.

'Tis something akin to rescuing a puppie. Dragg'd, bedraggled and gasping, out of the sack near Death, all it wants is to lick you all over. Hmmm? He looks surpris'd to hear me laugh. I am surpris'd to hear me laugh. Surpris'd to find I can rays more than a laugh. Of course he's notic'd. If he had the strength he'd hump my leg. Would I let him? Perhaps.

No! This can not happen. Whatever the temptaçions, I will not repeat this particular chapter of the storie. All that is requir'd is that I keep it plaine. That I preserve the distance, the detachment. Thus ... Puppies, I remind myself, no matter how appealing do not stay puppies.

Suddenly, unexpected, the call comes to him anew and the bodie tries to complete what it began. His cells are trying to shut down. The nerves running command systems for departure. I check his scent but he has had not the time to travel far. I rip open the jacket, the shirt and get a hand to his chest. Reach out and transfer agayn. In reflex his hands fly up and grab mine. I stop still at the touch, but push away whatever Memorie has surfac'd and occupy myself by carrying him into the back room.

I put him to bedde. Fascinating to undress something that is now so foreign to me. To get close to that fragile Mortalitie and to marvel at its transluscent delicacie. I am surpris'd to find myself lingering – I may yet turn out to be as depraiv'd as folk lore would have me. He is so skinnie that his bodie is hardlie dress'd by flesh. His joynts and bones stick out like bleach'd driftwood. Muscles and sinews on show like a doctor's dummie.

The rope burn around his neck is not the only mark on his bodie. He has suffer'd a beating. I can not resist traicing the high-ways and by-ways of his veins to where they pool in bruises. An intensitie of scent draws me to above his left ear where on the surface lies an abrasion that he has carefullie combed his hair to cover. But beneath, hidden deep in the sckull I sens a shadow, though cauteris'd now. He was already dying when he tried to kill himself.

An old anger rises. I bite it down, transfer agayn to speed the healing, and then leave him to his rest.

### Chapter 4

Jamie

Black ...

Cloudy. With chance of rain? Eyes... not skies... leaden.

None so blind as he... can't ... won't ...

Black

Singing. Gravel voiced. Elvis Costello. "Alison ... my aim is true". Kettle whistles in a contrary key. That laugh again. Could drown in that laugh. Please...

Black

Wriggle. Naked. Sleazy. Silken sheets. Turn the pillow. The cold side. Lovely ...

Black

His eyes are gold. Not colour. Material. Perhaps gold leaf. Backlit. Can see them in total ...

Black

The tunnel. No. A tunnel. This one. This time. Going to the dark. Between a Nave of trees. A path. Tattooed with dark drops of blood. The sound of laboured breath. Through tears. I begin to walk.

_No!_ His voice. The black loses shape. Now. Its just ...

Black

"Here comes the choo choo train." I open my mouth. Ever obedient. Mashed spud. Poached egg on top. Fresh cracked pepper. I am six again. Open my eyes. That is not my grandmother. That is not anyone's grandmother.

He does the eyebrow trick again. Lighting change et al. Egg yolk dribbles down my chin. I am so cool.  
Oh. I am so naked.

Black

Just noticed. Has pointy ears. Above pendulous lobes. One parent was a fairy. Or ...  
A Vulcan? Dr Spock. I presume?

_Black_ ...

Nick

I am boyling water on the blacked-iron coal-range to wash him when the kettel's whistle catches me singing. Cheerfullie even. For the first time in a number of centuries.

How can these beings that make music, also maime and murder? The "m" wordes. The "m" answer – madde. Mmmm? I am becoming poetick. So 'tis not just my bodie that he hath arous'd. No, there is also that most feared of all notions beginning with "m" – Memorie. Images loom up out of the past with a violence that makes me wince and duck. One catches at my attention, beckons me in.

He is lolling beside me, using my chest as a writing desk while the quill scratches feverishlie at the thin parchment. There is ink on his fingers, a splash on his nose, and when he sits up to read, words remain tattoo'd in blue over my heart. He recites to me in a thick accent that few now would recognise for English.

" _Thy sweet love remembered ..._ "

My mind twitches, and flicks out of the rut: By Goddes Blood, who is Alyson?

Later, during the daie when I usually sleep, I find myself rising to check on him. I am captur'd by his scent. It seems decades, naie centuries, since I last taisted that scent so close. Stale rose water - the musk of the Fallen. It remindes me all the longe way. I find excuses to be near that impossiblie frayl mortal bodie. The fourth time, I give myself up as lost. So like some poor needie sodde in an 19th centurie novelle I draw up a chair, sit and watch him.

I wake, sprawl'd on the covers across the foot of the bedde. For a moment, 'til I can sluff off the lethargie of sleep, I am swamp'd by a panick'd urge to wash my hands. The sound of him trying to catch his breath through gulping tears brings me back into full mind, and I cradle his unconscious form in my arms till he calmes and settels.

I master my distaiste and cook for him. He wolf's it down and with poach'd egg on his chops, he grins at me with the innocence of a newborne babe. Even his arousal is without guile. He hath not thee energy to maintaine his storie. Healing takes all his power, so there is none left over to use in making this moment fit his old account of himself.

They so rarelie drop their construction. That elaborate mind mask. But here, for now, in him I see them as they began.

But the carol calls, "Ne'er had the Apple taken been ..."

Jamie

Black

Dom... Dominic... Dom... Shy. Sly. Touch of smile. Tempting. Taking. Turning away.  
And again...  
Dom... Shy - sly. Teasing ... And again. Dom... A Loop.

I smile wistfully at Jude. Waving loftily. From a balcony. Candle lit. Costumed in gothic velvet. Lucky wench. She gets to keep him. Sort of. If its not me, then its his sister. Or the Christian Brother at his Primary. Got the moves from him.

Dom turns to me. Close up. His eyes are gold. We are about to kiss.

Suddenly he stands afar off. As if torn from me. Snatched away. In his chest. There is a gaping hole. Where his heart should be. I reach out. The hand. My hand. Drips blood.

Black

Out of bed. Scrabble for the gozunder. Don't remember carpet. A blue and white Doulton tureen. Bit posh. Hands and knees. Forehead braced on the covers. Piss like a drunk. Singing.

" ... my aim is true".  
"For that... I am grateful. Less cleaning up will be required." Didn't hear him enter.

Suddenly. My arse is cold. It is sticking up in the air. Towards him. Jeez. Think I'll just take out an ad.

Muscles jelly. Woozy. Not desire. Just sick (no pun). He scoops me up. Tucks me in. Smiles. Kind. He is my grandmother. Even gently kisses my brow. Nice! He turns to go. I reach out to stop him. And touch... ?  
He pauses. Facing away. Still. Waiting.

There's a light change. Bet it's that eye brow again. Has a switch fitted. Mind flickers. And there. See them. Could always see them. And not. Clear now. Sueded bat wings. Huge. Velvety. Soft. Like to be wrapped in those.  
Turns to me. Watchful.

Raise an eyebrow before he does. He leaves laughing.

Nick

His bodies hurts are healing apace. Now his mind hath started to awaiken and in his dreams thee ego begins to reassert. To date it appears to be just fragments of Memorie. Recall. Reassemblie.

I wonder how much time I have left with my puppie before the growing up divides us. My hackels rise at the thought of more loss. At least he is not my own kind. No, that will not do. I longe. And have alwaies longed. All these longe too longe years.

Ahh! Fortunately he cannot hear my murmur of desire over the splatter of his piss into the bowl. To take. To be taken. To be one with. At one ... Atonement.

I quietlie close the door, then reopen it with a swing. He senses the draft on that adorable bare arse. No!

No, I am not to think this. This way danger lies. I am separate. I am apart. And when I walk away, it is finish'd. Just as I gather my scatter'd resolve and steel myself to distance, he collapses. I catch him falling, and finish on the floor his bodie clutch'd possessivlie in my arms. I cannot breathe.

Eternitie ...

When I put him back to bedde he studies me – considering. Unthinking, perhaps to break the moment, I kiss him on the brow. He stares up at me – surprised, happie.

I have to leave now. Now. Right now. Not a moment to waiste.

Eventuallie, I turn awaie but a small soft hand shylie brushes my winges. We both start, but before I can make an escape his fingers are gentlie tracing patterns of sinew. I must leave at once...  
In the doorway I turn to look back and he mimicks me. Perfectlie.

Someone chortels aloud. I hope that 'twas not me.

### Chapter 5

Monday December 3

Jude

So here I stand, for the last time, sad that I don't feel, well ... sad.

You'd think there'd be at least some kind of atmosphere. If this were a film, then such a significant moment in the lead character's life would have framed with every device known to cinematic art.

" _The blind windowed brick edifice dusted in wistful light... The mute muddied playing fields fingered by yearning shadows... The distant echo of children's laughter censing the chill air... While a melancholic 'cello sobs, Largo, just beneath hearing."_

But no. Another God forsaken opportunity in this God-awful town. This is my very last day ever at school - my last day as a child even – and what do I get? A day that looks and feels exactly the same as any other.

To be fair, I've had plenty of fun in this up-tight town - quite a lot of it through rattling the bars of its po-faced provincial pettiness. (Try saying that repeatedly as a warm-up tongue twister). But there's a whole wide world of adventure to be had just a couple of days away. Look out New Zealand Drama School - here comes Judith Mary Francis Rupert (just kidding) Murphy and I ain't leaving while there's a dry seat in the house.

Couldn't get through to Jamie yesterday. Now there's still no sign of him, which is more than a bit disturbing, as when it comes to things scholastic he's a big girlie swot. And that's not to be repeated, as I've never said it to his face. Poor wee blighter thinks I don't know that he's an A-grade card-carrying bender. I should put him out of his misery but what with Dom and all, its more than a bit complicated. I mean how do you say, hey I hear you're playing around with my boyfriend and really I don't mind. (Coz I don't.) (Really ...) (At least not a lot).

Mingling with my nearly ex-classmates to sort out and hand in books, etc I'm surrounded by slightly forced laughter, and mildly desperate attempts at reminiscence. I guess we're all feeling the strain. Rebekah Wright is making a sterling effort at convincing me how much she will miss me (I think this is the first time we've spoken since I came to John Hilton) when the sound of Russell Wells's pommie tones peel across the room. The First 15, they of peanut sized brains, titchy testicles, and withered weenies, laugh on cue. I didn't actually pick up what he said but Sue who's nearer suddenly shoots me a worried glance.

Russell

Careful Wells, careful. You're not sure what's being hinted here about Geddes, but go with the flow and play it obscure (and obscene), because in a couple more hours its all over. Then all you have to do is fake it through a few bevies, laugh one last time at the same lame jokes, and then ... piss off, never to see them again.

Though at this very moment, I'm very tempted to belt Campbell over the bonce – swaggering little psychopath. He's looking far too pleased with himself and behaving like in some way I owe him a favour. The way he fawns on me sometimes I have my doubts about which side the maggot bats for.

I never wanted to emigrate out here, but Mother and Father were determined "We all need a new start". I wasn't in that much disgrace. Anyway on the boat we got and here we are. Pity on arrival they turned into caricatures of the English landed gentry. Plumy RP pronunciation, tweeds, pearls (fake), and all. Shit if anyone could see the semi-detached-dump that we come from in Barchester they'd be giving them the fingers right quick. It's just dumb luck that the exchange rate favoured us to the point that it looks like we're filthy rich.

The way they play up to it puts my teeth on edge. They go on about me attending a Cathedral School, but let's be honest if I hadn't won a scholarship as a Chorister I'd have been going to the local primary.

I still miss being in choir, (Decani of course) because after home boarding was like one big holiday. Certainly, a working holiday - what with having to sing seven services, six days a week, plus extra at Christmas and Easter. But the hard work was worth it. The ultimate reward was to get a solo, and we all began with a whole, excruciatingly nerve wracked, four bars of the Byrd short Mag'.

Of course the Everest of every treble was the Mendelssohn "Hear my Prayer" because that had these great changes of mood and a second chance to shine with "O For The Wings Of A Dove". I thought I was going to miss out but just managed to do it before the old "testicular descent" (balls dropping to you plebs) took its toll and cut my career short.

Back then it was like we were actually older. We sorted out our own lives and watched each other's backs. Right from the moment you were a probationer it was always managed that you were never alone with the assistant organist who had a reputation for wandering hands and other things. It didn't actually bother us, even if occasionally you got caught out. It was just a fact of life, nothing really to do with us, nothing personal and we dealt with it, together.

We made our own fun, late night romps like climbing round the entire third story parapet of the old Bishop's Palace roof before Matron caught us. And there was always sport - which at that age I was incredibly crap at, being gangly beyond all motor control. Its amazing how far away from your brain your feet and hands can seem to be sometimes. But there was nothing better than crashing about the lawn chasing a ball or each other after a particularly heavy going Evensong.

There, it all went together. Here, you have to go one way or the other. Either you play sports in this incredibly competitive loutish fashion or you go for the arts and get branded a fag'. Fortunately by the time I got here I had filled out enough to support being all of 6' 4" and I could cream anyone who got in my way. That and quite a lot of improvement in co-ordination led to the unassailable position of First Fifteen Captain. That doesn't of course mean that I have told anyone I'm off to study for a B.Mus at University!

Jude

Sue had over heard enough to put my teeth on edge so after we're dismissed, I run straight (yeah I know) to his house - no one home. His parents are away but I know where they keep the spare key. (Does the entire world have a noticeable bump under the mat by the back door? In the Antipodes, it's some kind of membership badge to a very unsecret club. To what, I fear to speculate).  
You know, he warned me not to watch the Stepford Wives. I can't believe I was so creeped and not a drop of blood ever seen. One day I'm going to make movies like that.

But not like this. The opera cape is discarded with ripped lining at the bottom of the stairs, just below a smudged handprint on the wall. This is not good. Even worse is the blood stains on the once white waistcoat thrown in a crumpled heap in the corner of the landing. His bedroom is normally control-freak clean but now it looks like a tornado has torn through it. Mercifully my mind chooses that moment to turn off. Unthinking I begin to pickup the debris swept from the top of the chest of drawers.

I feel the stickiness in my hand as I hold his comb. I can't look, but after I've washed my hands in the bathroom there are splashes of colour around the tap. And my stomach starts to rise. I run through the house, wailing like a demented banshee, calling his name. Wrestle with the door out into the garage. His prize motor scooter is missing, so now I know where he's gone. (I hope).

Russell

Passing the Bus Stop on the way home the Murphy girl gives me a filthy look. So - I'm drunk! I'm finally free and I'm not about to take crap from anyone. So I ignore her. So there!

She thinks she's so shit-hot with her higher-than-thou, I'm-so-modern, view of the world. Like anyone appreciates her little sermons about the place of women in the world. And as for that "Shakespeare was a Homo" trip she got on when we were studying the Sonnets ...

I betcha she hasn't got a clue about the all the crap her poof mate Geddes has put up with this year, or all the extra crap he just missed out on because I diverted the wolves. I bet he told little Miss Sodding-Perfect nothing about being dacked, or the shit in his locker, or having his head flushed in the toilet, and well... She'd soon bloody change her tune.

Nobody loves a fag – name one of any class or consequence. And no, Woolly Woofter William doesn't count! And I mean where do you find them all nowadays – swishing about in Menswear stores and Ladies hairdressers. Shit, that's a life and a half for a man! Well, it's not for me.

Bloody hell! Fortunately she missed that – a full arc, arse over kite! What idiot put that curb there! Ouch!

Jude

I can't believe that a bus can stop so many times.

Alright I can. This is after all a country bus but today does it need to deliver and pickup at every damn farm along the way. And does the bloody idiot driver have to take time out at every stop for a lengthy mag with all these red neck fuckwits.

(I don't swear.) (I just did.) Shit I am so scared here.

### Chapter 6

Jamie

Awake. Definitely awake. Restless even. Day. Curtains not quite closed. Can see he's left me out some clothes. The suit. White T. Plus jeans. Maybe pictures me as Brando. "Wild One"? Don't' have the attitude. The pout. Or the energy.  
Some other random stuff. Appears he doesn't do underwear. Grab what's closest. Don't care.

Ah. Have chosen the jeans. There'll be chaffing before the end of day. Better the suit trousers. Swap... Stumble... Stop. Shaking like an old man.

Catch my wits for a moment. A leg to go. Done. Just in time. Jude's come calling.

"Thought you might be here." She pulls back the curtains. With a dramatic sweep. She'll do well at drama school. I back away from the light. "What are you wearing?"

"Clothes."

"Clothes?"

"Clothes."

"You certainly got dressed in the dark. I expect a thorough overhaul before you appear in public with me." Hugs me. Drags me into the light. For a proper look.

"Fuck!" A big word. From her.

"Your throat."

He hasn't? While I slept? No. He hasn't. Stupid. It's the rope burn.  
She studies me. Silent. Unreadable. Feel like a horror exhibit. In a wax-works museum.

Then bawls me out. Loud and long. And when I think she's finished. She yells again. Storming about the room. Flailing. Inconsolable. Sentences incomplete. Content muddled. Is she angry with me or with them. Both?  
But I do hear ... "Don't try that again. I'll kill you if you do."

We stop breathing. Silence. Look at each in surprise. Bit close to the bone.

Then laugh till it hurts. Which happens sooner for me. Much sooner.

Finally she wipes her eyes. "You let those creeps get to you."

Time to tell her. Classic Come Out opportunity. She knows. Pardon?

"You still cry at the end of Winnie the Pooh when Christopher Robin says goodbye."

"Just makes me a sook."

"You were Standard 2 Elastic Skipping Champion."

"Practising co-ordination for my gymnastics."

"You knitted me that pattern from the Woman's Weekly."

"Fine motor co-ordination. Helps my piano skills.

"...And a matching one each for our Cindy Dolls."

"I had Skipper."

"Action man she is not."

"Am I that clichéd?"

"No. Most people – including your Olds by the way – think you're theatrical."

"Go to Drama class once a week."

"I think you're a screaming little Queen."

"Thanks!

Sit heavily on the bed. Confused. I was safe. Unnoticeable. Well? Reasonably.

"Anyway Dom let slip that you two sometimes 'muck around. Little pervert!

"That's harsh."

"Am not."

"Not you. Him."

"What?

"Oh. Right.

We've both lost the thread here. Pause ...

I break it. "Sorry."

"For being a Grade A fag?"

Jeez. "No. He's your boyfriend."

"Sort of., I think I'm just cover. All we do is kiss. Boy does that bloke like to kiss. And he's amazing at it."

Terrific! "Well he's never kissed me."

She grabs the velvet curtains for support. Angles her head to catch the light. Camille. Languishing. Near the end. The accent is mock German for some reason. Garbo?  
"Given the choice between a lifetime of kissing And a moment of passion ..." Stops to gasp tubercularly, "I'd rather be rooted senseless."

"So does he." Oops. Bit blunt. Another breathless moment. She throws herself down beside me. Cackling till she gasps for air.

"He didn't tell me that bit."

Her gaze wanders the room., "Someone been looking after you?"

Hell. Safety in part truth.. "This bloke. Been squatting here over the winter I think. He... "  
Just say it!... " cut me down. Nursed me."

"A bloke. What kinda bloke?"

"What y' mean?"

"Well, how old?"

"Looks a bit older than us. Early twenties?"

"Mmmm? Cute?"

Catch my breath. The pause. Gives me away.

Jude smirks. "Very cute?"

Feel really hot. Oops. Cover by nodding. Yes cute. Part truth. Actually. Gorgeous. Aloud. "I just woke properly a bit before you arrived. So I don't really know what he's like."

"Take the time to find out."

I salute, "Yes. Sir!"

"No dropping your trou' at the first opportunity."

Silent. A few memories pop unwelcome into mind. Divert. "You're not normally this moral Miss Jude. Who is the author de jour?"

"Austen."

"Jane Austen talks about blokes dropping their pants?"

"No fluff brain! She writes about the importance of character.

"I didn't know she wrote plays.

A dirty look. In Regency terms - a speaking glance.

"Just joshing. Before offering up my bodies most precious prize I'll make sure he has moral integrity ..."

"And proper intentions."

"And an enormous cock"

"Schlong"

"Pecker"

"One-eyed trouser snake"

"Wee john Thomas"

"Etcetera"

"And etcetera"

"And so forth"

"And so on"

"Till the end of time"

"Existence"

"Eternity"

"Infinity"

"Amen"

Together. With expression,  
"Ah, Men!"

Get the picture? Played this game since Form 1. Stupid. Juvenile. Pathetic. Childish. And even sadly infantile. But. Deeply pleasurable.  
Also good for vocabulary. (Did I say I got top marks in University Entrance English?). And brill for theatrical timing. (No intention of mentioning that I never get a big part... Oh. This could get filthy.)

"I'm glad you're here."

"So you should be!" I get a hug.

At arms length. Look at her. Hair a mess. Always. Finger-in-the-live-socket frenzied. A firebrand. Drama Queen. The kind that makes alpine ranges the length of the South Island out of a speck of sand. Then effortlessly renders brain-numbing trauma trivial.  
Can't help but laugh. In the face of fickle fate. When she's around. Speak what you feel. Fuck what they think. A passion for the lost. Person or cause. Hmmm. Me?

Whatever. She's the only one I know who makes me feel safe.

OK. ... The only human I know.

### Chapter 7

Jude

I fall up the wooden steps to the open front door. Just call his name girl, and hope like hell.

Nothing damn nothing. Damn nothing, shit nothing, blast bugger nothing, bother fuck... Then I hear a cough. Thank goodness, I was about to use the C word.

In the gloom of the back bedroom I can just make out that he's standing. A definite plus. I throw back the curtains but they stick on the rod and the room becomes only a bit brighter. He seems to be wearing some trou' and an ancient old man cardigan, unbuttoned. I hug and drag him out into the light. His throat ... I step back. And get the full picture.

Jesus Wept. (Sorry, but I reckon he would) His body, what I can see of it looks like they all danced on it, in hobnailed boots. The bastards. I can't breath. I can't look. I can't look away. Then hot rage pours through every fibre of my being. My mouth takes off without me.

" _Hello Medea. Move aside Clyteminestra. Give me room Antigone"._

Got to keep moving. Mustn't stop. If I bottle this fury I will... I will... my hands are pins and needles. I can't stop moving. I can't cease yelling. If I do... If I do...

(Amazing, at a time like this, a bit of my brain is watching my reactions - recording my pulse rate, my posture, and my gestures so they can be used in performance at some later date. Bloody Hell, I have an urge to run to a mirror and see what my face looks like when I am this undone).

He has stepped towards me reaching out. He wants to comfort me? He wants to ... comfort... me... Then I notice his throat again and I hear myself say, "And don't you dare try that again. Coz I'll kill you if you do."

And that's it. All the adrenalin and the amplification, the playing to the gallery falls away and we laugh. In an instant it all goes from hell to plain simple, "she'll be right mate". Least I hope its going to turn out that way. (Well it will if I have anything to do with it).

We regain our balance, the usual pretend normality with some long honed lame banter. Then there's an awkward pause. Well it's uncomfortable to me. He just seems to lose focus, fade a little. Then, I can see him make a decision - if it's that painful to watch I shudder to think what it's like to do.

He wants to get out of the house for a bit. I think he's nuts but hey, after all he's been through, he deserves for us to try. I sort out what he's wearing and we shamble out onto the front lawn and sit sheltered among the Toi Toi listening to the gulls whine. In the white noise of the sea and the wind we can't hear ourselves think, let alone speak. A blessing.

I nearly have to carry him back inside. It's not a hassle though because he seems to weight next to nought. Back in bed he falls asleep almost instantly. I close the drapes and leave him to it. I don't fancy playing mother, sitting at his side and frankly I need a little time to myself to process this whole insane mess.

Its after dark when I awake in depths of an arm-chair huddled by the coal range. The sound of footsteps has roused me but it takes me a moment to pull my senses together, and by then he's walked fully into the kitchen. I feel remarkably calm as I watch him cross into the back bedroom, and then tip toe out closing the door gently behind him. He's smiling fondly. (At least that's the expression I guess I can see in that fierce unearthly face).

"We sat outside for a while this afternoon."

He spins around, surprised. Yep, there's no doubt about it. He's some kind of vampire (though my mind starts humming the theme to Star Trek). But those ears could be just a hint of Faerie, if it wasn't for the slight canine overtone that conjures up images of Werewolf. And you can't disregard the hint of ghostly aura that follows him. In fact it's almost impossible to pin down a single definition, but you can see that in some way he's the original of every boogie-man story in human history. But you know what? I don't think I'm actually all that bothered.

"Jude?" The voice is husky, like he doesn't speak that often, with halting delivery, as if he's tasting every word first. The effect is very sexy

"The one and the same."

"He has ...

"Spoken of me?"

"Dreamed ... about you."

That's a bit freaky. "Oh."

"He has been close to death. It was necessary, I ... had to be in contact."

"You rescued him?"

"In a ... manner of speaking."

"Are your intentions honourable?" Where did that come from? Wasn't quite what I planned to say. He pauses to digest the idea, give it due weight. Finally

"In truth... I really do not know."

I could get to like this bloke.

"You'd have to deal with me if you fucked him around." I am getting be a potty mouth. The C word is mere moments away.

"I would not want... that."

"To fuck him around?"

"To hear... the C word."

He grins wolfishly. I can't help but laugh.

"You can leave my mind now."

He is genuinely abashed.

"My apologies... It is not a habit I usually... cultivate."

I get it. "You don't normally have to deal with us. Dying or living."

He stares at me as if trying to see or read more. There isn't, I just guessed.

"Can you ... see to him if he wakes."

"Of course."

"I need to go out. I have not been able ... to leave the house to feed."

I hope that doesn't mean what I think it means. Though I must say I still feel completely at ease - safe even.

Those metalic eyes appear to sparkle for a moment. "You might not be."

"Want to try?"

He laughs out loud. "I am content to merely imagine ... your ability to hurt me."

I get a picture of him half his actual size - quite puny really - cowering beside the coal range. Whilst I, twice as big and growling like some primeval wild beast beat him about the head with ... "The Collected Plays Of William Shakespeare".

I laugh again. Its becoming a pleasant habit. "You can stop projecting as well."

He bows formally in submission.

I think to myself: " _how splendidly and extravagantly insincere._ "

He's clearly still in my head because he throws his hands up, wrists akimbo, in a gesture of mock horror that I should ever suppose such a thing.

Well hear this thought mate: " _I've probably become the first human to discover that camp transcends all boundaries. To find that poofs, of any species, are entirely alike._ "

He looks quite genuinely shocked.

I have to know. "Why?"

"To be honest I have never thought of myself as anything other than a ... vampire."

"Well, now you can think of yourself as a gay vampire."

He snorts. "I try ... not to think of myself at all." And with that pithy, I think, Oscar Wildism he sweeps out the door.

I entirely understand how anyone could fall for him. My temperature is up. I feel quite moist. Suddenly I'm very glad that he and his mind reading ability (Like Elvis) have left the building.

I hope.

### Chapter 8

Jamie

Mental? I'm completely mental. It's official. Jude sez so.

She's not far wrong. Reckon I got it from my Grandad. Oh shit ...

Mum. And Dad. Don't know. Anything. Need to tell them something. Where I am. Other stuff can wait. With any luck. For ever.

No phone here at the crib. Party line doesn't stretch this far. Jude calls them from the Tea Rooms. Makes it up, as she goes. They're distracted. Happy to buy.

They're in the bigger big smoke. Dunedin. The Edinburgh of the South. As they say. Where Grandad is visiting the war. Moment to moment. Difficult to know which war. What side he's on. Couple of months ago he held the newspaper boy hostage. For half an hour. A Japanese spy. Nanna's not strong enough to look after him alone. Won't have him put in a home. So. It'll be a while. "Back by Xmas. Definitely".

So here I am. Mental. A mind full of holes. Sudden silences. Thoughts don't come easy. Like ghosts. Turn to stare. They disappear. When they do manage a longer visit...

All they can do is career about. Stagger. Lurch. Crash off each other. Drunk dodgems. Spring into view. Bounce out of sight. A jumble. Parts of images. Fragments of memory. Some I don't recognise.

At night. Faces parade. Slow. Turning. Rotate across my closed eyelids. Black and white against a backdrop of blood red flame. Strangers every one.

Escape into sleep. When I can. To the smell of the kero' hurricane lamp. Occasionally re-surface. To float away. Re-assured. To the sound of his breathing.

Nick

Madde? My Senses certainlie think so. They consider that I am on the verge of losing my Wits.

The first brief moments of honeymoon are over. My mental faculties, my entire thought processes, reel as they struggel to deal with being in contact with Human-kinde.

My mind attempts to maintaine the statelie steps of its usual solitarie sarabande, but the counter-tempo of human activitie rails and rattels at me like a frantick tarantelle. I strain to surrender to the buzz, fizz, flitter of their thoughts and wordes.

An entire daie in their time seems but as littel more than a few minutes to me. Their hour divides the time betwixt my breath in and its answer out. By the time I have gather'd my wits to speak to him as we pass, he is longe gone and 'tis tomorrow alreadie - I am standing alone lost between thoughts.

Amongst the deliberate measure of my habitual regarde, ecçentric memories surface momentarilie. At first all I can sense is a ripple in my Peace, too fleeting to identify. But as I will my mind to pick up its feet and dance to this new rhyth'm, I find myself looking at pictures of places I've never been, feeling attachments to people I've never known. I even find myself singing songes that I don't know. But therein perchance lies the answer. Something in the transfer that sav'd his life also connected our minds brieflie and left echoes of his thought.

If that were alle then I could be content. But these phantoms of his past have hook'd and dredg'd up Memories of mine own, that I had longe hoped dead and dusted.

They drive me to search out those few preçious pages from where I have hid them. They are so old now that they are almost transparent. I sit, gentlie holding the curling sheets in my handes, feeling the tender parchment like flesh in my fingers.

" _What is your substance, whereof are you made,  
That millions of strange shadows on you tend_?"

Jamie

Dawn. Alone. Drifting.

A sense of meaning. Trying to break through. Coded. Concealed. Cagey. Hurts if I pursue it. Get agitated. Edgy. But about what?

Jude's got a remedy in mind. A bee in her bonnet. Ants in her pants. Tiger in her tea cup. Drops pieces of current info' into the conversation. Casually. Of the cuff. Nonchalant. As breezy as ... a breezy thing.

Reminds me regularly. Robert 'Piggy' Muldoon is still Prime Minister. Hurrah! Not. That's how I know today is Tuesday. Day 4 in my mind. Any time now expect to hear,

So Jamie, what's your name?

But. It works. Being in the Dementia Ward. In a way. Mainly. Coz I can't help but smile. To self.

She's also decided I'm too skinny. So provides fattening fare. The best kind. Treats for the unwell. Thompson's Lemonade. Tip Top Hokey Pokey ice-cream. And favourite of all favourites. Scots mutton pies. Squat short-crust cylinders. Filled with ... mutton. Peppery. Perfect with black Worster' Sauce. Eat them sleaves rolled up. The hot fat running to your elbows. This therapy I approve.

Sometimes, now. My mind snags a whole idea. Reels it in. Hand over hand. Thought to thought. Like ...Jude - her family - annual migration - T Rooms - Summer.

And my brain's off. Down hill. Gathering moss. And memories.

The "Tiki Tea Room". Actually more grocery store. Once petrol station. Garage doors filled in. Like a kid's drawing. Two mismatched windows. Rescued from the tip. Repaired. Fitted like eyes. Either side somebodies old front door. A reindeer etched into its glass. Kiwi? No. Walls likewise clad eccentrically. Vertical ship-lap to one side. Horizontal weatherboard to the other. Couple of tables on gravel out front. These at least constructed traditionally.

Inside. An eccentric school art room. Worn red lino'. Painted walls and roof. Karitane/A.A. yellow. Some droopy shelves. White. Sort of. Among the groceries clay figurines. Glaring. Would be malevolent. But they're a bit cross eyed. Twine macramé pot-plant holders huddle in the corners. Weird wool weave curtains the windows. Sills home to dusty shell art. Iridescent Paua pendants. Dangling from driftwood. In benediction. Over a dead blow-fly or two.

Another day. Perhaps Day 5/6 – Wednesday/Thursday? Guess who's still in charge of the country. Try to read. But every book, the wrong one. They're all Reader Digest "Condensed". Gutted. Gutless. Hard bits taken out. Rude bits removed. Leaving the uplifting moments. As if you could live on Candy Floss.

" _O to live on Sugar Mountain  
with balloons and the coloured machines_..."

Could be a career plus. Voice box damaged enough to sound like Neil Young. Perhaps even try for Tom Waits.

Can cope with old "Popular Mechanics". Devour repeatedly. Reviews of the latest "automobiles". Wrecked long ago. Now rusting in peace. Pieces. Articles on home improvements. Plywood projects I'll never pursue. A pretty plant stand. A storage divan for your rumpus room. How to house your Stereophonic Record Player.

Pastel photos. Results admired by happy fifties families. Mum always wears a pinny. Usually over her best frock. With a stretched Ballet School smile. Under hard hair. Poor bitch. All pleasantly dated. Dumb. Dense. Dopey. Distracting.

He and I pass. Dawn. Dusk.

Mouth open to speak. Silence. Shrug. Make do with a nod. Smile. Quick smart. Changing of the guard. A glance back. Pause. Then. Go our own way. Not a problem. What is there to say. Nice weather we're having. Nothing in common. Except ...

In truth. I can't face the endless open dark. Those smoked shadows. Parading across my sight. He can't stand the squinting day. The sun. Trying to catch up with Summer.

### Chapter 9

Nick:

'Tis the younge woman Jude who teases me out. Tempting me with feign'd disinterest and an outrageous tongue. Being near her grounds me. It is thorough listening to her that I grow accustomed to, and become easie with the pace and rhyth'm of Mortal thought.

She may be younge, but she has the way of these southern Celtic women who run the Worlde whiles hiding the fact from their men. It appears that she has let her tongue off the leash and is mindlesslie repeating some pettie gossip, " _And she sed ... So I sed ... And then they sed ..._ " And afore you notice, there is a sharp dart stuck, bulls-eye, right in the middel of your hard-wrought delusion. Completelie uneconomical with the Truth, she tells it at every opportunitie, with breezie good humour.

In thee archetypes of this Worlde she is no Maria. And has absolutelie no plans to be Martha. She is Eve. Eve before her fall. Full of inquisitive, wond'ring yearning, she may sense the danger but still reaches for the prize. I woulde daire be her friend.

Her plan is quite transparent but none the less stille beguiling. Fiercelie loyal, and entirelie unbending, she seeks to make me see him, her dearest friend as she does. And yes, I do begin to view him through her eyes, though with mild translaçion. For as she describes her sweet, unworldlie and funnie friend I begin to divine a Holie Fool. Well perhaps more of a Holie Puppie. With a tail that wags gleefullie when others are happy. A gambolling gaite to lead the lost. And a lickie tongue to encourage the sadde.

Perhaps that last, was a lesser than fortunate thought.

Jude

The way he talks is the absolute pits, total rubbish - not his quirky accent or that musty tone, which as I may have mentioned is very sexy. It's just his use of English makes him sound like some "Noble Savage" trained up by an ambitious 19th century Missionary for presentation at Queen Victoria's court. She would have been highly amused but this is nearly 1980 ... and well, they're certainly going to laugh but not in a nice way.

It's not as though I wouldn't mind a bit of the old Tudor rough and ready use of Thee and Thou – it works for the Quakers. Its just his la-de-dah vocab' and grammar would annoy Trollope with its pretensions – sorry, preten-see-ons. And no matter how gorgeous he is to look at, no bloke in their right mind (and I hope eventually that might be Jamie) would think of him as boyfriend material while he spouts that nonsense. (Mind you, it's really obvious sometimes in the way Jamie talks that he read far too much Dylan Thomas and James K Baxter when young and impressionable – ie: last year!)

The more we talk the more I realise how funny (peculiar and ha-ha) he is. You'd think that in a few thousand years he'd have got around a bit more, learnt a bit more. Grown up a bit. As it is he seems to have spent most of 6000 years in some kind of monk-like stasis, hiding from the world, with only occasional lapses. Which is fair enough when you consider his press and the tendency for murderous hysteria that accompanies being a vampire. But it leaves him somewhat at a disadvantage when it comes to casual chat, pub etiquette, and the right thing to shout at a rugby match.

The good thing is that he is, to all intents and purposes, only about as far down the growing-up track as we are. In fact he's closer to Ryan, with his almost juvenile smart-Alec fake confidence. Which is kinda good. Because if he really was "old" it would be too creepy for words to think of him with Jamie. I mean... "Danger" couldn't be "Stranger"! Ha Ha. Yuk, should never have started to think that. Anyway, anyway, anyway...

I have begun an education programme for him. Tailored to bring him more up to date on how people think and speak now. And to give him a bit of an insight into his adopted country. So I combed my shelves (well you knew it was going to be all about me) and came up with ...

"The God Boy" - a classic kiwi kids novel by Ian Cross; "The Pohutukawa Tree" and "The End of the Golden Weather" - a couple of landmark kiwi plays by Bruce Mason; some short stories by Katherine Mansfield - about her time in NZ, in exquisite English; and some poems and a play (The Band Rotunda) by James K Baxter - hopefully to demonstrate that you can still be poetic and not a wet ponce.

I decided against Janet Frame for the time being, on account of a tendancy to possibly disturbing mental irregularities. Though some common old garden Ngaio Marsh murder mysteries might be fun – perhaps "Died In The Wool"? And then of course ... Well, there's lots of other stuff but that should get him going.

Jamie

Sometimes. Jude puddles on the guitar. Might be an ace drummer. But. Rubbish guitarist. Hands it over. I resurrect sing-along repertoire. Beatles. Beach Boys. Simon and Garfunkel. Neil Diamond.

If we're really in the swing. "Delta Dawn". Key change at every chorus. Can almost manage to climb a fifth. Before getting the giggles. Record? A seventh. New Year's Eve. 1976/77. Perhaps this year we'll make the magic octave.

Have I just looked ahead?

Mostly. Spend the time quietly parked. Side by side. In the veranda. Weather's not that warm yet. So sit inside. Looking out. Sharing the view. The companiable silence. No mention of my lapse. Have nothing to say about it myself.

It's him she talks to. They laugh. A lot. Glad. All rubbing along. Nice and easy.

Nice. Easy. Content.

A couple of days are occupied with spring cleaning. Apart from Nick, its been vacant for nine months. Or so. Outside. Windows crusty with salt. Gutters choked with debris. Leave that for the meantime.

Get stuck in. Inside. Air rooms and bedding. Black the iron coal range. Rescue old toys from oblivion. Dust the hand-me-on furniture. Stack it all. Away. Out of sight in the side bedroom.

The crib is stripped bare. To its bones. Simple. Sturdy. Clear. New. Leave one chair for the view. Another by the bed. So. I'm sentimental. Don't deny it.

In the tidyup. Jude strikes camp gold. Campfire gold. An ancient Sankey hymnbook. Relic from Dad's Boy's Brigade days. Finds No. 428. To music by G. F. Root. No kidding.

Chorus – "Y'all join in now".

_Narrow and strait_ (their spelling not mine)  
_Narrow and strait  
Is the bright pathway to heav'ns pearly gate._

Verse 2 gets right to the point.

Do you find pleasures lasting and pure  
In the gay scenes that the thoughtless allure  
Leave the broad highway, oh, do not wait;  
Take thou the pathway so narrow and strait.

It causes a milestone. Loud laughter.

Finally a solution. **The** solution. Walk. And then walk some more. After the walk. Can always take a walk.

Plodding. Steady rhythm. Up hill. Down. Pacing. In. Out the flax bushes. Slushing through wet sand. Clambering rock to rock. Mind picks up the tempo. Stops its darting. Flitting. Slows to match my footsteps. Becomes a soothing pulse.

I stride purposefully. On the cusp of sanity. Walking the tides. Low. High. Morning. Afternoon. Whenever. Fill my mind with whatever I can see. The more restless the wild coves. The plainer and easier my thoughts.

Every so often. A creak sets me off. Know wooden houses breathe. But all the same I can see him. In my mind. In the doorway of the bedroom. Turning to look back. At me.

Remembering. I feel the longing. A momentary weight in my chest. Acknowledge it. In a way glad for it. Anchors me. But. Please take a memo Miss Geddes: I don't intend to tackle it. Yet.

Though. Today. When I return from walking. A short sharper stab. His perfume. Fills the rooms like candlelight. Flickering. Time stops while I yearn. Then as quickly as it seized. The wanting retreats. Winking as it makes its farewell.

There'll be a time. And I'm happy. Again. Rubbing along.

Nice and easy and content. For now.

### Chapter 10

Nick

I listen for his step. (Surely she can not find faulte with that?) Though I can't face seeing him, my ear is tuned for his ev'ry move.

Finally, one silent twilight (evening?) when he has not return'd from his journeying a walk I go looking for him. On a rock outcrop I find him standing on a rock, arms spread to the skyes, drench'd by the crashing waves, singing like a Siren.

I can no longer stand apart. Stand being apart. Stand being a Being apart. (Is that OK? Or too poncie as Jude would say? Actually I like it, so it stays.)

Crouch'd a distance behind him on a sand dune, for a moment I give into the temptaçion, reach into his mind, and join him here on this wounded Worlde (too much? Well it is damaged. Oh ...!) and see it as he does. He, who in his second chance at life, seems to be reliving the growth patterns of the first.

At this moment he is the fascinated toddler. Intrigued by his own body, in a state of perpetual wonder about the Worlde around him. Looking through his eyes transforms even the absolutelie mundane, most obvious and utterlie trite ordinar...y into a matter for joy. Even a seagull, that rat of the sea, becomes a luminous object of wonder.

Oh dear, I could become quite lost! And the only Star to guide me home is mortal.

I quietlie...y take flight and return the way I came, till I am well out of sight. Then wheeling out to sea, fly back towards him as if I were arriving for the first time. He does not ... doesn't move, but waits as if he was expecting me.

We posture, both somewhat on edge, but it only takes a brief attempt at stilted conversaçion a bit of silly chat and we stop bothering.

Jamie

Late one afternoon. Day 8, Saturday? Hello 'Piggy'. Still in power you hideous old misogynist? Walk further round the bluffs of Back Beach. Feel freer. A few steps further from the past.

Twilight before I turn back.

Half way home. Stop to admire an aurora. Hung across the sky. Purples. Greens. Floating. Wavering. Net curtains in a draught.

It holds me. Hypnotised. Wondering. Washes away. Worry. Weariness. Intuit a mirrored space inside. Vast space. Within. Vibrant with life.

Body fades. Being begins to bloom.

Sense him before I can see. Then. Distant dot. Takes form. Becoming shapely. No. Not Bat. Angel. Graceful. Black Angel.

My ears pulse as he lands. Throb from the pressure of those great nebulous wings. He furls them. They fade. Stands mock heroic. Foot on a small rock. All nonchalance. Elegant. Easy. That enormous power cloaked.

Can't help but smile. Regards me quizzically.

I ...am sorry?

Waiting for you to say, "The name's Bond. James Bond."

I am not sure... I'm flattered.

Not the blond one in the toupé. The first one. Scots. Sean Connery. Dark and sexy.

Like me?

He's better looking.

For a human.

Touché. Touché. Both of us put in our places. But. Tension now all passed.

We walk back. Scrunch of gravel becomes deafening. Then soothing. Steady. Unison. Ambling along. Together. In amicable silence. Like we'd always done this. Some old married couple. Blending together. Alike. Edges blurred. Idly wonder if they do really finish each others ...

Sentences.

Both laugh. Lightly. Don't bother to exchange glances. Even when we part at the front steps. Going our own way. Still feels as if we might be holding hands.

Nick

I walk home with him, feeling ridiculously happy just to be at his side.

So this is what being Human is like. Can be like. Spending so much of their unbounded Creativitie...y on becoming individual, so much of their finite Energie on being distinct. Yet, all the while longing, as I do, to belonge – to return home.

Unthinkingly, I open my mind and finish a sentence for him.

That night the skye pulses with Life. I ride the currents and surf the thermals, giddie with sheer pleasure at not'ing. And everyt'ing. I release myself to the wind.

As an eddie throws me towards the Heavens I feel him with me. In shock I almost stall, and then somehow he turns me over (Hmmm...?) to look at the stars. I am a bit ... (what would Jude suggest? Oh I know) freek'd out. I am about to retake control when I feel him leave as easy as he came.

Who is this? Who is this that gives his heart? Who is this that trusts? Who is this that completes? Even though I keep my mind from him. Even though he knows nothing of who I truly am.

What's going on here? Why does he trust me? Me! Whom (who?) he doesn't really know?

And how did that happen? I must just be imagining things. 'Tis (damn) It's probably no more than a case of wishful thinking.

Jamie

Later I wake. For a moment. Stare at the ceiling.

Notice. The dark? Comfortable.

Have a strong sense of him. Beside me. Roll over. Reach out. But I'm alone. Though the feeling remains.

Roll back. Close my eyes. A breath later feel as if I am flying. My skin tingles at unexpected cold.

Open my eyes. They blur with tears. Wind rushing at me.

Am out at sea. Looking down at white horsed waves. Foam manes tossing in moonlight. On a whim roll over. Elation surges through me. All above from edge to edge. The Milky Way spangles the inky night. The infinite dark splashed by laughing stars.

Early morning. Wake quite alone. Content. Fulfilled. As if we had just...

Now that's a relief. My mind can still play dirty. So. Lie in bed. For the first time since my aborted farewell. Lazily imagining possibilities.

Eventually. Reach for the tissues.

### Chapter 11

Nick

Jude suggested that until I feel quite confident that I won't make 'a complete twit' of myself (which she assures me is a verie badde thinge), that I mainl...y ask questions. She says that humans like to talk about themselves and I will learn much from their answers.

So the next night, when we're walking silently together along the top of the cliffs, I decide to try it. "So, why did you ... kill yourself?"

Jamie looks surpris'd and stares at me, then after a moment laughs. I don't know why, I'm sure I sed that correctly. "Thought you'd picked up on my memories."

"Yes? But not many of them and not ... with any particular sense of meaning. At the moment if I try and catch a thought that's yours I have a picture of ... a wizened little old man in bright red waistcoat. Yes ... and a blue nite-cap with a bell."

"Lying on his stomach, leaning on his elbows?"

"Indeed."

"Fred The Gnome. He liv'd on the front steps. When I was about three or four."

Now I'm very confus'd.

"Well he didn't actually live there. He's a garden ornament I lov'd when I was little. There was a screaming fit when we moved. He couldn't come. Concreted down. For all Eternitie."

"But ... why would you kill yourself over that?"

This 'tis not going at all well, because now he laughs until tears run down his face.

He walks away, trying to compose himself. I replay the previous conversation and realise that I've been so involved with the grammar I hadn't noted the exact content. Which, now in the cold light of consideration, is more than faintlie ridiculous.

"Sorry, that was addle-pated! I wasn't thinking. Just trying to talk properlie seems to take all my concentrai... shon!"

He catches his breath and smiles sympathetically, sadly. "That's Ok. It's a fair enough question. I was avoiding it. The answer is ... that ... I wasn't good enough. I was ... wrong. Didn't fit. Never belonged. Wasn't what people wanted me to be. I tried. Hard. But I couldn't make it all work. Didn't have enough energy to live up to what everyone expected.  
In the end I felt like a fake. That I wasn't real. I got tired. Lost. All alone. And I hurt. So much. So much ... I wanted the pain to stop. I just wanted it all to be over."

Jamie

Hadn't realised it was that simple.

Sit side by side. In the dark. Long pause. Then. He takes a big breath. Spills the beans.

"I think I know somewhat how that feels. You see, I'm not so much a vampire as what you would call an angel. A fallen angel. One of the one's that would not worship humankind. In some stories ... I'm a devil. The Devil."

I wait. Eventually he speaks. Very slowly. Very very softly.

"For as long as we could remember ... everything was perfect. We were... I was happy. After all, I was in Heaven. A seamless part of the infinite celebration of the Source of All Life. And then ... it all fell apart.

No ... was torn asunder ... to make Eden, the parent of this earth. And where before, we angels had all been like one – as music, every individual note link'd together to make melody – now we were separate. Broken into fragments.

The thing that meant everything to me – belonging, being connected with all my brothers and sisters – was gone. The loss... the pain... was unbearable.

I threw myself out of heaven, out of the spiritual realm into the material. I had no idea what it would mean to fall to earth. I was new to the physical. I knew nothing of the elements. I too hoped to... die.

I burnt in the sunlight. My skin blackened. The feathers of my wings singed away. The skin beneath leathered. But I lived. And I hid... in the night.

A long wobbly silence.

Nick

Shy. Patient, as with a small child, I feel his fingers touch, unpeel mine.

Unclenching my fist, he slips his hand in.

Warm.

### Chapter 12

Jude

So Jamie tells me he's a devil. Perhaps even the Devil. Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub.

Sister Mary-Joseph, the terror of ten year olds, would have a conniption. I can see the spittle spray from those pinched lemon squeezer lips. "The Devil indeed!". She'd have reached for the ultimate solution. The strap. And then twitched uneasily for a moment while she looked for someone to hit. Someone - anyone. (Usually me).

Sister Mary-Claire, my 3rd form mistress at St Mary's, would muse quietly to herself before the inevitable twinkle overcomes her studied demeanour. "The Devil himself". Her brogue thickens, "Oh I knew an Irish devil or two when I was your age. You want to keep tight control on your passions around them. They can charm the birds from the trees". And the knickers from nuns, my wayward imagination adds.

The full family contingent has now joined me in residence chez "Tiki". Mum, mind on her latest bit of weaving, stacking the shelves wrong. Then lost at the loom forgetting to make us lunch. Dad, free from collar and tie, practising being the ice-cream parlour equivalent of the cheery Publican, while dusting off his appalling repertoire of lame puns. Fortunately Ryan, the insufferable younger brother, succumbed immediately to the lure of the waves, leaving me to sort things out with the limpidly lovely (and entirely vacuous) Louise. She's the country cousin lent to us for work experience but really here to snag a husband. It's all a bit too determined to call her merely boy crazy. There'll be trouble before the end of the summer.

Unkindly, I wonder if I should start the baby-names discussion now.

Mum and Dad have gone visiting old friends, the McCullochs, so I've been left alone in the shop under the supervision of Orlando, our very pregnant ginger cat. And if you think Orlando is a boys name, it's time you caught up on your Virginia Woolf. To be honest, she's named after one of my favourite childhood books, though in this case her colouring is more rusty than marmalade.

Having sent Louise to work on her tan - well, her wrinkles - I'm undoing Mum's handiwork in the canned vegetable shelves. She never really got over Woodstock – the record (actually the triple LP box set). So I have an intricate Tibetan mandala to disassemble and then remake in the likeness of a grocery shop display. Its like playing tin Happy Families - reuniting the baked beans, the sweet corn, the canned apricots, the jams, even the jars of honey. Orlando and I have paused to consider the fate of an unexpected packet of frozen peas (ex-frozen peas) - when the door crashes open.

"Honey, I'm home!" Dom saunters over to me, mock sexy and kisses me thoroughly. Though for a shorter time than usual, as remembering, I start to laugh.

He pulls back, miffed "What? What?"

We'll have to put up a shrine to rival Lourdes coz I'm having visions here. Dom on his knees. Dom on his hands and knees. Gagging for it. Begging for it. I double up. Eventually I stop cackling like a demented hen and hang limply over the counter to wipe my eyes.

He's now majorly peeved. "What?!"

"Sorry, just a bit ticklish today."

Cue for him to chase me round the shop waggling his fingers at me roguishly. Fortunately we are interrupted by an obnoxious family of whiners wanting ice-cream ... Can I point out with heartfelt sincerity that it's such a good idea to allow your children do whatever they fancy. Let their overactive egos trample over the existence of others. Selfish precocity is just so attractive - especially at deafening decibels. (And of course why stop at the production of a single such prodigy when you can thoughtlessly pop out another six!)

I assume the mantle of a saint (colour of said robe to be decided later). Smiling, I deal with their extraordinary ability to change their minds the instant I've made up a cone. The dad must have read something in the set of my jaw because the moment they're all served he hurries them out.

All the while Dom has been playing at grocery shopping. Conscientiously weighing up the Weetbix against the Rice Bubbles with manly furrowed brow.

"Did you bring the drums?"

"Sure thing. Where shall I put them?"

"The garage."

He's an obedient child. He's brought my kit out from town in the back of his clapped out Triumph Herald. He's very proud of it – it's a convertible. (Actually it's a saloon that he's just unbolted the roof off). For his efforts he earns a quick peck on the cheek, followed by a quick exit as I stuff my hanky in my mouth and run for the store room.

I have a plan. I have decided that solitude was all well and good. A little post-suicide rest never did a body any harm - Oo, that sounds wrong, even to me! But now Jamie needs to get out and about, among the living, so its time to resurrect the band.

We're called "The English Period". That's us - incredibly bloody studious (think about it). Imagine Joy Division with a hint of sequins and a kiwi accent. Me banging out the beat on my drums - straight ahead bulldozer four on the floor. Sue taking the lead on bass guitar - low slung, singing melodies. With the icing on the top: maudlin poetry punctuated by an occasional guitar twang, all courtesy of the Vampire lover. Hmmm? Perhaps its time for a name change.

Actually, if he's left to his own devising we get Julie Andrews (Sound of Music AND Mary Poppins – though not Thoroughly Modern Millie) - little odes to nature (wet), fashion (not so bad), and joyous teenage living (puke!). To get the right mood I've taken to providing him with clippings from the Southland Times. Anything involving tragedy, and if we're lucky, adolescence.

Our best song to date is " _She's Lost the Pill Again_ ". No, really.

(No, of course not)!

### Chapter 13

Dom

Jude's in a very strange mood.

She was all over the show yesterday. Even more than usual. When I got back from town with her drums I reckoned she'd be pleased, eh? But man, that was way off planet. For a start I thought she had the giggles, but then she got quite hysterical. Almost crying.

I never know what to do or say when she's like that. If I ask her what's the matter, she says "Nothing". Which I usually guess means she's got her monthly, eh? Though it seems to happen a lot more often than every four weeks. If I ask her if I did anything, she gets really cheesed off. I mean, what am I, a mind reader? I dunno, women, how the hell do you work them out. I mean blokes are much easier. They like a laugh, a drink, and a bit of a fool round. Just fun, no hidden meanings.

She hasn't found out has she? Nah. No way, Who would tell her. Jamie's her best mate and all, but I know for sure he's a bit sensitive about it. Bit like a girl in that way. I mean not being rude or anything, coz he's my best mate too, but I'm glad he's not like Ryan - swishing away like a one bloke poofter party.

Jamie's quite a petrol head in fact. Everyone laughs at my Herald and sure, it does look a bit shite at the moment. But he and I have been rebuilding a twin carb' six from a wrecked TR5, and when I drop that in with an overdrive box, it'll go like the clappers. At least in a straight line, eh. There's no way to keep the arse pinned down if those swing axles decide to cock themselves up on a corner. The whole thing would waltz around like Ryan in a bloody tutu. And I don't mean some ancient Maori act of vengeance! *

Y'know it was a bit odd him disappearing after the school end of year bash, to head down here to the Rocks. Especially without telling anyone. Jude just said he wanted a break. But I've never known him to do crap like that before. There's something else going on, eh? Because there's all those smart arse hints that bloody Russell Wells been dropping. I mean "ethnic cleansing"? What in bloody hell does that mean? And then he's been walking about like he's king of the universe. How can such a prick be so sexy. Pity he never dropped the soap in the showers after Phys Ed when I were around.

I'll head out to the crib to check up on him when I unload this wood. Its been a while. I've missed the bastard. Done sweet bugger all on the car since he's been here. That sort of stuff is no fun without company and a beer and bit of mucking round to follow. I'll get a couple of flagons out the fridge and trundle over and surprise him with a visit.

But ... on the other hand, I don't know. Perhaps that's not the best idea. Maybe he's cheesed off with me over something. I mean if he wanted to see me all he has to do is come down to the Tiki and say g'day, and I haven' seen sight nor sound of him, eh.

I reckon this is gonna make this place. I mean the Tea Room's between the road and the beach, and those rickety picnic tables are on the road side. Who's stupid idea was that. No view, plus fumes and noise galore from every dad's Ford "pr-Anglia" trying to make it up the hill.

The obvious answer is a balcony on the sea side. Put out some decent chairs and tables, perhaps even a sun umbrella. I reckon it'll be really classy. Could let in a door leading out from the shop so people can just wander through and grab a table.

Jude's dad was right into it when I suggested it. He's a good bloke. Bit hunky in a beefy kind of way. Wonder what he's like in the sack, eh? He can be kinda pompous, bit hearty, but at least his answer to everything isn't a biff about the lughole like my old man.

I freaked yesterday coz I swore I saw Brother Anthony coming into the petrol station just as I went in to pay. Hung around inside, pretending to check out the accessories, till I hoped he'd gone. But when I went out, I could still see him fiddling under the bonnet of that old black Morrie Minor.

The whole thing's made me feel a bit weird though. Coz I braced myself and went up to say hi, and it turned out it was another one of the Brothers. And yeh I felt stupid, eh. But it was a bit of a let down. I mean I felt kinda hollow, almost sorry that it wasn't him.

Yeah ... this is a great place for a balcony. You get amazing views right out the heads. Jeez, look at those two. There's some really shoddy surfing going on out there.

*Dom means "Utu"

### Chapter 14

Jamie

So he's an angel.

"Of course he is. Knew that from day one.

"No. You knew he was a vampire from day one.

"Same thing.

"Is now.

"So?

"Your point?

"And yours?

Oh goody. The multiple "me"s are back.

Head will now buzz with thinking. Rethinking. And thinking again. Followed by...  
Well, why not another thought. Or even better. An argument. Perhaps even with a person who's not there. About something they aren't likely to do?

They evaporate when I walk with him. Bounce back in the morning with renewed fervour. Time to discuss and dissect the previous evenings revelations.

Discover I'm not bothered. More amused. Own private radio station. Talk back radio. News and Opinions. Red necks and radicals. Wisemen and wankers. Thankfully, with occasional episodes of "The Goons".

But their chatter. Combined with a twitchy body. Pushes me to ferret under the house. To find my surf board.

Forgotten my Jandals. Nearly burnt my feet off. Hot tar. Used for torture with good reason. Poor winter soles. Struggle to maintain cool while clambering over the rocks. But the wet sand? Heaven. The sea does the picture postcard thing. Twinkles. Sparkles. Laps invitingly at toes.

Walk in looking purposeful. Feet sizzle gratefully. Wade forth, manfully. Up to thigh height. Balls sensibly take a hike. Then the moment when you have to get under. But... Take any longer and all sense of cool is gone.

Ohhh! Cool turns to cold. Mere cold to frigid. Body goes into revolt. Locks down. Lungs petrified. So cold. Jaw aches with it. Fair enough. Next stop is the Antarctic. Is that an iceberg passing?

Breaker crashes me down. Rise gasping but relieved. Released. Clear again. Fight my way out on the board. Arms protest. About three strokes in. This going to take some work. Great.

Group of surfers out already. Bobbing like black Shags. Nice bunch. Usually a bit out of it. Dope. But easy going. Prepared to like anyone.

All have fine lined sleek swimmers builds. Yum. Unfortunately surfing Foveaux Strait requires wet suits. Though if the nights get warm enough. They tend to get naked and dance. By firelight to drums. Modern primitives. Not sure I take to bum fluff chins. Salt bleached dreads. But they're sweet. If terminally vague.

Hot nights. Jude and I used to sneak out. When we were kids. Hide among the sand dunes to perve. Don't know why we bothered. To hide. They'd be happy to share a toke and let us watch. Could have sat among the girlfriends.

Simple job being a surfy chick. Watch your man surf. Watch your man dance. Feed him. Fuck him between. Ryan says the dudes also happily do each other. He's living in hope. But he's home with them. Safe. A little brother. They don't blink twice at lipstick. Flapping wrists. Falsetto Bette Midler. Coz he can ride. Like a god. Poseidon Jnr.

Looks like him ahead. Can't tell. Squinting into the glare. Usual wetsuit disguise. Must get one. Going to need a crochet hook if I wanna piss any time soon. Reckon that is Ryan. Broad shoulders over tiny waist. Already a looker. Grown up? Devastating.

Made the mistake once of admiring him. To Jude. Small tornado ensued. Later. Icy calm lecture. In words of single syllable she taught me The Equation. How to calculate age-appropriate liaisons. Tattooed on my brain. Result. Every time.

Absolute minimum age for nudie prod games. "Yes miss."

Can't be Ryan. That guy is total rubbish. Wrong wave. Wrong moment. Wipe out. Hope I can do better.

My first. Perfect. Sadly. Never to be repeated. Regardless of result it's a rush. Every time. Yes!!! Why dorky athletes punch the air. Sheer animal exhilaration.

Last wave in. So tired. Can't think. Ride it effortlessly. Movie ending. Right to the shallows. If there were no fin could have made it to sand. And stepped off.

Standing. Towelling down. Looking out. Self softens. Edges dissolve. Merging. Everywhere and here. Happy. Wanting no more than this. This moment in time. This place in being. Though, if he were here...

And we are, well... we. We. Laugh. Together. A moment. Only a breath. And gone. Unexpected. Not sure how it happened. But not freaked. Feels. As it should be.

I am. Alone. And not. Staring at the sea.

It all stops. Ceases to turn. Becomes knowing. Beyond thought. Changing it to words? Leaves ashes. But still. Being. Still. A little sense. That first heaven. Reflected.

The sea. It's one. But. Waves. Storms. Calms. Deeps. Shallows. Blue. Green. Grey. Mountain. Valley. Currents. Warm. Cold. Light. Dark. White horses. Foam fingers on sand. Oceans. Estuaries. All distinct. All at once. Somewhere. But. Still. One. Indivisible.

A jar dipped out of it. Isn't the sea. Just salt water. Can't reduce this vast living breathing pumping seething being entity to components. Without destroying it.

Walking back to the house. Notice. Can hold the stillness. While watching it. This is new.

The "me"s perk up. Frenzied attempts at exposition. Exploration. Explanation. Excellent. They've cheered enormously.

But. This is old. It is radio. Can pay attention. Or not.

The thoughts think they are me. Can hear them telling stories. Repeating old incidents. Building. Growing. A thing they think is me. I think therefore I am. But.

Who is this that watches.

_"Who said that?_ The "mes" are on fire.

I step back. Leave them to it.

### Chapter 15

Ryan

It takes one phone call. Well one overheard phone call. I was about to answer the party-line morse code. Long short short – Tiki-T-Room-How-may-I-help-you? But Jude got there first and, hey, I was just around the corner. She's my sister so its always good to have amunition to threaten her with if I need something. In her time she has been very inventive in getting me out of trouble.

So I lurk.

The mention of his name and I'm as brainless and beyond thought as my long blond locks would suggest. And no I don't bleach them. My Dad would have another serious chat with me. Another seriously boring chat with me. About the birds and bees and how boys should behave like boys because people will talk at the Rotary Club.

Actually I use lemon juice, and while I'm out on my board, sun, salt, and surf do the rest. This is allowed.

He'd rather be embarrassed by his Hippy son than by the screaming little princess that he seems to have sired. Mum actually glared at him when he wondered semi-jokingly if she might have strayed from the, ahem... straight and narrow about the time of my conception. Jude was so impressed that I was the cause of this momentous reaction from our beloved, but definitely otherworldly, Ma that she was mildly pleasant to me for an entire day.

When I was little I got to play dressups with them. We used to put on plays in front of an old canvas tarpaulin tied to the hedge. Usually to an audience of two – our guinea pigs, Spice and Sylvester (The disco diva – not cartoon character). Though Fluff the cat sometimes stopped to watch, if you count pausing to, as it was politely refered to in our family, "play the violin". For you commoners – lick his bum.

Jude always wanted to be the hero and yell a lot and swing a sword about. Jamie always wanted to be the baddy. The wicked witch. The scary sorcerer. The nasty knight. The villainous vampire. So that left me to be cast as the captured princess. Which was just fine coz I didn't know what to say so I could just scream and swish gracefully around. And better than good, I got the pick of the best frocks. There was this pink tulle bridesmaid's number, drop waist, hanky hem, that made me feel...

Anyway enough about me, do you think this nail polish suits me?

"Sorry Dad. I just had this sudden yearn to be ..." Thinking quickly here ... punk, eh."

You can see him veer towards fury till his brain kicks in and he realises that this could be actually beneficial for his image with the good and the great of the male world. Why he can even play the martyr to his obviously now violent and dangerous son. First hippy, now punk, what incredibly alternative but awfully masculine thing will I do next. Sweetie, you mean, who!

The home theatrics stopped when they 'grew up' and went to high school. Worse, didn't want to play with me any more. Jamie said it was just they didn't have time – homework. I could only watch him from afar.

Well not too far afar. The primary school was next door to the secondary. So I used hang about the fence between to catch a glimpse of him. Once he waved. Pathetic really. Once in three years he waved and... well, hello Bessie Bighead. "Kissed once when she wasn't looking, and never kissed again though she was looking all the time". Actually, that's not a bad drag name ...

When the time came to cross the fence to join the Big Kids I swaggered through the gate with all the confidence I could muster. Used it all up with that one nonchalant saunter, so there was only one solution from then on. I hid. And watched. A budding stalker. He was in senior school anyway. Sooo spunky in long pants, blazer, and loose tie at the open neck of his shirt.

Have you ever noticed how sexy a man's thoat is? Where that little V below his Adams Apple meets the junction of his collar bones. Yum!

After school walking through the park on the way to swimming, I used to imagine he was holding my hand, while the rest of the world swooned in jealousy. In an instant all those wicked step-sisters and evil foster-brothers were condemned to a long lonely loveless future. Sidelined. Envious of our good looks and good luck. Spitting tacks that they were powerless to emulate us - the golden couple.

But I never went near him. When he was round to see Jude, if he said hello or asked how my training was going, I'd just stammer a couple of sentences devoid of verbs, nouns, English, and any sense before disappearing into my room and ... I'm embarrassed to say, hugging my pillow, pretending it was him.

I'm so much more mature now. Not.

Coz there he is, dead ahead. Paddling a surfboard, rather badly. (How sweet) Paddling, no actually flayling, straight towards me to pick up a wave. Cool! So, of course with a wealth of worldly experience behind me now I am the ripe old age of 14 ... I hide. Again.Or is that still.

Yes I know I'm in the middle of the sea. Quite some distance from land. But I can hide even out here. I know I can. Come on brain. How? Oh the relief \- I am after all encased in a wet suit.

He's not. He's soooo not. I'm about to turn my board when my eye catches the little cascade of hair snaking down his belly from his navel towards his ... Groan.

He is never to wear a wet suit. I forbid it. He should surf butt naked.

Back in the moment I urge myself - do not drool. Hold the dribble. Too late. I wipe my chin.

Please dear God, if you really exist, now is the moment to whip up an enormous wave that knocks him from his board, while accidentally ripping off his swimming togs. Just so's I get a chance to rescue him and carry him, deliciously naked in my loving arms, to shore where we kiss, rolling about in the billowing foam and ...

Ryan! Get a grip and not that one! He hasn't recognised you.So get out of here now before he does. "Gosh is that Jude's little brother with the raging stiffy?"

Goggles on for extra camouflage I paddle desperately past him to catch a wave. Any wave. This wave ... the one that's really rubbish ...

Oh well, he certainly can't recognise me if I'm underwater.

### Chapter 16

Nick

He tries to explain an idea he has had about what Heaven was like for me, but just can't find the right wordes. So he asks me into his mind, to check out the thought ... first hand. (I do believe I'm getting better at this modern English!). We watch together his layer'd visions of the Sea.

"It's a good Allegorie." I enjoy this sharing that we've discover'd. I wonder where it could lead. Of course my mind gets busy in the usual male fashion. Thankfullie it's a dullish night and I can adjust myself without being too obvious.

I'm sitting completely casually when the moon makes an appearance through the cloud. He is staring at me questioning, his head to one side, all wide eyes and trust. It is that cute puppie thinge again. I consider letting him sniff my butt. Then ... damn, finally I realise .... Having gone visiting in his head, I have forgotten to leave and close the door firmly behind me.

He continues to regard me silently. I shall brazen it out. "What?"

"Hard to see it with your colouring. And at night. But I reckon that is definitely a blush."

Mortify'd, I whimper (aloud, damn) and turn away. He laughs. "No I'm the puppy remember. You're the big bad wolf."

I turn on him, mock vicious, "Grrrrrrr!"

He laughs. Bares his teeth right back at me, and after a moment lets me off the hook. "I want to know how you brought me back to life."

Oh that is good. Let's begin with the easy questions! "Well... because this Worlde somehow came into being out of the shattering of the Angel bond I am partially entwined with its material laws. So one thing I am able to do is transmute and transfer Energie.

When I cut you down, you had not travel'd far into Death. People who take their own lives often linger near the border. The cold light of Death reveals the emptiness of the story that led to it, and they discover that they wish to live, though too late. I needed to take no more than the Life of a bird to trigger you into that short journey back.

If you had been dead longer I could not have brought you back. For that would have needed another human life. "An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Equal Life for equal Life". Thinges have to be in balance."

"How did the Vampyre myth begin?"

"It is through Blood that I sense and transfer Life. Your jugular is for you a river of life - for me, 'tis a stream of information. Through sense of smell, and if necessary taste, I can read the story of your Life force. I guess to the human observer it all appears well ... exquisitely intimate. Very erotic. Humans are very oral."

He just grins at me and licks his lips. I flick him with the tip of my wing.

"Not fair. Bite me so I can fight back."

"If I bit you it would just hurt. Rather a lot! And it wouldn't change you."

He looks disappointed but recovers easilie, "So are you the only one?"

I think for a moment. "I have found threads of a story that tells that other Angels threw themselves down when I did, but somehow fell asleep in human form."

"But they'd be all dead by now."

"Their Energy could be transfer'd from generation to generation. Regardless, even if the stories were true I have no idea how to find or awaken them."

"Pity!"

"Why? Do you have hopes of becoming a Devil?"

He poses, hands clasp'd, eyes heavenward – pre-Rafaelite pious, "An Angel."

"Isn't being Gay dangerous enough for you?"

"It's not that bad these days."

"So they beat you because they didn't like the colour of your eyes?"

He has the decency to look abashed, though he retaliates. "That's Racism."

"Same thing. As is Mysoginie. Insecure people – individuals or societies - don't like to be challenged, confronted. They'll do anything to maintain their position, to save face. So if anything goes wrong it can't be their fault. They blame the ills of the Worlde on anyone who's different – be it fallen Angel or flaming Faggot."

He looks thoughtful, even a little lost. No, younge-fellow m'lad, you will never survive in this Worlde if you wallow. Time to divert. I flick him again with the tip of one wing. He deliberately ignores me, sulking. I cuff him over the ear with the other. He pays attention now, "Ouch!"

"Well don't be such a Sook!" I poke him in the ribs. He leaps to his feet and retaliates with a whirlwind of mock martial arts, kung fu cries, and what looks oddly like uncoordinated Parisian Can Can. I merely take off and hover just out of reach.

He gleefully curses me and runs off madly down the sand, arms spread like a child being an aeroplane, singing some inaine rhyme,

"Na-na na-na na-na na-na ..."

When he has made a decent start on me, he turns taunting. I can just hear him over the roar of the surf, " ... na-na na-na Batman!".

That is well beyond the bounds of tolerable, you ... brat.

The chaise is on!

### Chapter 17

Jamie

Taken Jude up on the band idea. Time to join the human race again. Scare up a bit of energy. Make a bit of noise. Perhaps... Well. Give it a go. Face it. Apart from Jude and him. Occasional nod to the surfies. That's it. No contact.

Give it some thought. Feel a bit of a buzz. Birds are singing. Bumble bees bumbling. Sun is shining. Oh. Storm clouds out to sea. But hey. May never turn up. Could be fun. Grab the baby guitar. Set off. Song in my heart. No more than a hook really. More Cars than Carpenters. "Just what I needed". Could finally get thumbs up. Another new experience. Ha-ha.

Early. Follow the banging round to the back of the Tea Rooms. In time to see Dom wallop his thumb. Spectacular result. War dance, woops and all. Nearly falls down the rocks. Its a long way. Careful matey. Catches himself.

Turns, thumb in mouth. Perfect image. Such a big kid. Unreasonably pleased to see him. He is too. Just stops himself flinging his arms around me. Both pretend he lost his balance again.

Shows me the plans. Great idea. Though. Not the most stable site in the known universe. Tying it all safely back to the footings is going to take some ingenuity.

A pleasant 10 minutes. Side by side. Sorting possibilities. Like old times.

He reasons: Face it. Scooter is finished. Finish this. Then drop the six pot into the Triumph. Mix in a bit of surfing. Some music. Couple of beach fires. A few jars. Summer well spent.

Agree: Recipe for bliss.

Grin at each other. Temperature rises. Dom does that smirk and shrug thing. About to make the pitch. Reckon I might well catch the ball. Jude calls my name. Bugger! Or not. On this occasion.

The garage is all set up. Looks very pro. I'm impressed. Nod to Sue. Knows what I mean. Grins. People think Sue is mute. Strong. Silent type. Staunch woman. But. Ms chatterbox with Jude. Gestures to the rest.

About to turn away. She holds up her hand. Stop. And. Produces from behind her back. A cousin's black custom Tele'. With gold hardware. Fender's finest. Shit! He's hitchhiking the North Island for a couple of months. So it's mine for the duration. So stoked. These are my friends. How lucky can one boy be.

Give Jude a tempo. She sets a kick pulse. Drop in some chords. Wait for Sue. She's all ear and instinct. To the outsider. Initially sounds like she's missed the point. Scrunches. Scrapes. Screeches. Out of key Off the beat. Then.

Miracle. She settles into a groove and ... well beauty erupts from her Ricky. Long lean lines. Chugging. Plugged into the idea. Plugged into the mood.

Stand back. From them both. From my mind. Simply open my mouth and see what happens. It happens. Don't know what exactly. But this is right. This is how this song should be. This is why we are alive.

Then. At the same instant. Each starts to think. At once. All start to falter. We all blinked. But. A deep breath. Everyone surrenders. The song survives. Better. Moves up a level. Settle it. To muscle. To memory. We got it.

With spot on timing. Dom arrives with fish and chips. Just cooked. Wrapped in yesterday's news. Today's news flash. A new saint. Saint Dominic of the Feast. Blue cod. Caught today. Nothing better. Oh Ok. Something much better. Add a flagon of DB green label. Yes!

We are all in a great mood. The dead has risen. Literally. Gratefully. It's a family reunion.

Ryan comes through to drop off his board. Without thinking. Go to give him a hug. Startled. He backs off. Trips. Lands on a stack of discreetly wrapped brown paper packages. Soft. Safe. See. Sanitary pads can be of use to man-kind. Give him a hand up. "Are you alright?"

Blush-wibble-wibble-squeak.

"Pardon?"

Sue saves his dignity. Pats a seat beside her. Plays dumb about surfing. He tells her. Lights up.

Dom gets hyper. Makes some terrible innuendos. In-your-end-O? Geddit. That's one of the better ones. He reaches out to get the last of the chips. From the newspaper spread on the floor. On his hand and knees. Arse in the air.

Jude catches my eye. I choke. Turn away. Can hear her fight the giggles. Not fair. We pull up. Collect our breath.

But then we all look at each other. A pause. Then we're all senseless on the floor. Dom included. Laugh. Cry. Hiccup. Recover. Fall apart again.

Finally exhausted. Silent. At peace. We're happy. No reason. Other than here we are. In this time and place.

Together.

Peal of thunder. Machinegun rattle of rain on the corrugated iron roof. Dom leaps to his feet. Damn wood is still out. Jude is taking Sue home. Ryan, prep'ing an early morning. At sea. Has headed off to get some Zeds. So it's me. Dom to the rescue.

The sky opens. Pouring. Torrential. Frantic. Hardly able to open our eyes. Gasping for breath. Slipping in the mud. Grab everything we can find. Shove cement bags under the Café. Throw a tarp' over the concrete mixer. Get the last of the 4 x 2s into shelter. Under the foundations.

Stand for a moment to gather breath. Both soaked through. Caked in mud to our thighs. Out to sea. Lightening. Exhilarating.

Hysterical stumble through to the shower room. Strip off and under that hot water. Before you can say... "Fuck me."

We both freeze. Eye to eye. I grin. "OK."

Reach out. Knuckles to his jaw. Drag them rough. Down his chest. Hands on his hips. Draw him close.

Then, an unsure child. He almost whispers, "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

Yes. I'm sure. Even knowing there's no future. " _We're on a road to nowhere_ ..."

He closes his eyes. Gives me a chance. To study his face.

Just wish I could kiss him better.

### Chapter 18

Jude

I walk Sue home, huddled together under a decrepit golf umbrella. The result is mainly dry with wet patches – an outside shoulder each. She asks me in and we cut the effects of the beer and greasy chips with Gregg's Instant – coffee it ain't.

Lovely Sue, all easy curves, sunny smiles, and in public, utter silence. When we're alone she blathers away ninety to the dozen, which is a good thing coz I can listen to her for hours. She has an amazing quicksilver mind. This quirky way of looking at the world, which she spills out in a stream of consciousness, a radiant monologue completely devoid of punctuation, though broken by random breaths. It's stirring and soothing in equal amounts.

It's seldom that I get to sit in that gleaming kitchen, scrubbed within an inch of its life. But tonight her parents are at a Prayer Meeting and those can go for hours. Especially if they have laid their hands (tee hee) on some poor bugger that they've decided is possessed by a Demon. Hmmm. Now there's an introduction just begging to be made.

"Mr and Mrs Tomkins, may I present my dear friend... Beelzebub. Though of course, you are welcome to call him Satan. Though he prefers Nick."

Mr and Mrs Tomkins. The perfect Pentecostals. Imagine that painting "American Gothic" but in black and white, with the hatchet faced farmer and wife dressed in their Sunday-go-meeting best. Oh, and instead of a pitch fork, he's wielding rather viciously a plain wooden cross. They're both tall and skinny, and tend to wear expressions of distaste, with perpetually wrinkled noses in disgust at the dirt and decay all around them. Prime candidates for immortalisation in cankerous Dickensian metaphors.

No matter what the occasion, no matter what the temperature, Mr Tomkins always goes around dressed exactly the same - armoured in grey suit and plain tie against a wicked and tempting world. I wonder if his suits arrive ready made with frayed cuffs and spray on dandruff. And I'd love to ask her how she gets lipstick on that puckered cats-bum mouth of hers.

Sue takes it all in her stride. Even the unnecessary reminders that she's adopted and has avoided the fate of all those other unfortunates. (I think its only in the last couple of years that the Tomkins have stopped using the word 'Heathen'). Sue is genuinely fond of them, grateful that they do their best, that they offer her every ounce of love that their pinched souls can muster. When she told me, I jokingly referred to the 'widows mite'. Then couldn't laugh.

It's stopped raining by the time I leave, so when I get home I don't go in but sit on one of the concrete pillars that's destined to hold up our much anticipated balcony with a view. But not for long - I wonder if those two know how loud they are.

As I set off down along the sand towards the estuary I am sucked into its eerie quiet. Even the sea hasn't reawakened from being subdued by the rain. I can't see much by the distant weedy light from the two streetlamps that deign to shine along this mile of coast. But I kinda like that sense of being lost in an edgeless dark. Lone, but not lonely.

I wonder what I really feel about Dom and Jamie being... together. I don't really think I'm much bothered. I think I should be. But then when am I ever? On stage I know I have huge repertoire of emotions to draw on. I can rock myself and an entire audience with their intensity. But in life? It's as if I waiting like some fantasy princess to be woken up. With a kiss? I reckon it'll take more than that.

Some times I think that I'm only really fully myself on stage. That real life is the place where I act. No, in fact feels like it's the place where I pretend. Act suggests doing something. I don't seem to be doing anything. I coast along, like some kind of sheep tic, feeding off the lives of my friends.

Somewhere on the far side of the estuary someone with a skin-full launches into "Silent Night". He's so bad, I marvel that I could work out what he's singing. Oh goody, now his friends have decided to join in. Just what a girl needs to accompany her on a journey through her tortured psyche. (Actually can't remember what it was I thinking anyway - no big loss there then).

Then it drifts into my mind that Christmas is less than a week away. Still time to make it special this year. After all Lucifer's-Best-Mate is alive to share it with us, though I'm not sure how we can sort it for his boyfriend. Blackout the windows? Actually we could go to Midnight Mass seeing that it happens at night and in the dark and all. All of us.

How modern and inclusive can you get? Me and Ryan and Dom - Catholics, Sue - child of God Botherers, Jamie – Anglican, and of course, presenting the Devil Incarnate. Oops, in the middle of that flight of fancy I forgot my Vampire Lore there for a moment. If he joined us he'd probably explode into dust. Which would be sad. (And messy).

I reckon I can convince the olds to open the doors to a extended-family Christmas \- out on the new balcony, if I can get those boys butts in gear to finish it in time.

I must stop having visions – especially explicit ones!

I turn round to head home and realise how far I walked.

Groan!

### Chapter 19

Nick

Awake and restless, I can sense that he is not in the crib. So, when I can tolerate my own fidgets no more, I wander down to sit in his chair and watch the storm head back out to sea. A flash of lightening burns his silhouette into my sight, bounding across the last bluff.

Then the clump of his boots up the steps and across the wooden floor, and there he stands. Grinning at me and holding out what I guess is an instrument case. "Look what I got."

I can not... I can not see. I can not touch. I can not think. All I can do is smell... And his scent tells me more than I wish to know.

He droppes to his knees to open the case, to reveal a stringed instrument of some kind, gleaming like ebonie. I can just manage a nodde. "Great."

"Great? The greatest!"

"Sorrie ..."

His attention leaves his prize and he looks at me intentlie. I try for nonchalançe and probably end up looking unwell because his face creases up in concern. He will reach out in a minute and... I have got to get out of here now.

"You alright?"

"Need to feed."

He steps back as I stumble out through the hallway and, fast as wings can carry, up into the skye. I head high into the cold. I'm burning. All I want is to be cool. reach for the storm heights and let it buffet me about. Anything to shake loose the paine clench'd in everie muscle. Pummell'd, tumbling mindless among the clouds, I yell obscenities at the skye, the Worlde, and You, you bastard, safe in Heaven! After I don't know how long, the storm and I both tire, and I fall out into the calm. Just above the Island.

Well, having got this far I may as well feed. Exhausted, and back in some pale semblance of my right mind, I slump in the porch of the little wooden church. Surrounded by bush, high on a hill above the bay, it looks directly back across the Straite. On a fine moonlit night I could have just about seen the silver sliver of the main lande.

I catch myself humming - I am doing a lot of that lately. This current style of folk music - pop, rock, whatever - is very addictive with its simple repeating tunes and that adolescent simplification of the world.

" _The first cut is the deepest, Baby I know ..._ "

Alright, and its tendençie to hit the nail cleanly right on the head - hard.

After all this time I still remember that feelings like these don't get easier. They bite as brutally the tenth time as the first.

Those little visits, do they really happen? Or is that my mind indulging in wishful thinking? Is there really a link between us? I've never stop'd to find out before. And therein lies the problem. This time I have I have stop'd to find out, and what I have found out is that I am jealous. And if I am jealous then I am ...

Best feed. Perhaps as I have often overheard said, things will seem better on a full stomack.

The door creaks on its wrought iron hinges. Inside the tabernacle light flickers over the wooden walls and arch'd roof - rimu or perhaps even kauri I would guess. Once honey golden but now dull'd by the lifting varnish, giving it a ghostly sheen.

On the carved Crucifix above the Altar – thankfully ungarnished with the usual gaudy colour – your eyes look up, to Heaven "from whence cometh my help"? But it did not come. At the end, You were totally alone. Except for me.

No surprise that's been omitted, Paul and I could never stand each other. Was I the only one that saw through his obsequious cant? All those beautiful ideas, carefully lifted from other people. And those of his own? Well, woman have every right to curse him through every age. A Roman to the tip of those blunt fingers he certainly knew what he was about. Building the Kingdom on Earth – the kingdom of men.

To this day that empire is polic'd by ambitious men, fortified by iron willed wives, who still armour themselves against a sinfull earth with the teachings of Paul. From lofty pulpits, after the prescrib'd amusing anecdote lifted from a pre 1960s Readers Digest, they thunder against the Worlde. Never a mention from the Gospels, they choke on using your name. They use mine. A lot.

I can replay those last days even now. I had heard stories but, until quite by chance I came across You praying in Gethsemane, it never occurr'd to me that You might chose to incarnate. To think that the two of us had lived in Creation simultaneously for something like 33 years. If I had chosen to speak to You that night ...

Incongruous that by day I hid in the cave that would become your tomb. That from its dark, I follow'd your Fall. With no sense of triumph, just an acute and debilitating weariness. That final day I sat waiting, wondering if You had a miracle planned to wake them all up. Even so, I was surprised when the ground shook and an eclipse shadowed the land. In its shroud of gloom I flew to your side.

For a moment I hoped. Perhaps we could get back. At least to the Garden.

But all I found was a body hanging there. Emaciated. Desiccated. A human shell, flesh grey in the half-light. I reach'd out ... but I had no energy. It was all I could do to close your eyes in death.

Ironic. For now You keep me alive. In a way.

I take the chain from around my neck and unlock the tabernacle with the tiny gold key that the priest has given me. The chalice is full. "The blood of Christ". I drink.

And I remember ... Love

And when We were all One.

### Chapter 20

Dom

Jamie comes over this morning, nice and early as he said he would, to give me a hand. And he gives me one – a very firm one on the butt. Right outside the Tea Rooms.

"Shit man, someone could have seen, eh."

He just laughs and points out that there's nobody about. "The Tiki won't even be open till 10."

Well I'm glad he's happy. Yeah I really am. It's great to see him more like his old cheery self. But I'm still freaked that someone has seen.

He comes close and I back off. He shakes his head, "Get over yourself".

Hey I am over myself. I just don't advertise. Got to have a bit of an air of mystery – drives the girls wild.

We get stuck into the balcony project. A bit of planning, some solid co-ordination, a session of syncopated hammering, and by lunchtime we've got more than half the floor joists down. Team work. Partners. Just don't bloody tell the world.

Jude brings out lunch. What an ace woman. The saveloys are still hot from the pot, so they melt the butter into the white bread. Add tomato sauce and you have a man's meal. None of this la-di-dah muck with that colourful stuff. What's it called? Yeah right, vegetables. Just kidding.

The three of us clamber around in front of the foundations and make ourselves comfy on the rocks. For a while there's silence as we wolf the food down. Hard work makes a man damn hungry. In the end there's only the remains of the butter and sauce that has run down our hands to devour. He and I catch each other licking our fingers at the same time. I clean off my thumb in a very suggestive manner. We both crack up.

Before it can all go totally pear shaped a distraction appears on the horizon. Well wallows round the bend from the estuary. A tacky gold Holden Statesman, the burble of its 308 V8 resounding across the bay.

Buggeration, it's the Wells. No way! They were 'sposed to go to Queenstown for Christmas. Must have decided to slum it this year eh. Perhaps it's not them, eh. But it is, coz they've stopped at the Tea Rooms and I recognise those voices. Plums in the mouth big enough to choke on – please. Thank god we're hidden round the corner. We're safe.

No we're not, coz baby Wells comes barrelling round the side of the shop. Pulls up short and regards us with a cheerful grin. Actually Robbie, aged three and a bit from memory, is a lovely kid. Sunny nature, and bizarrely thinks I'm the business. We know each other coz I help out at the local kindergarten a couple afternoons a week after school. Gonna be a teacher, a primary teacher, off to T-Coll after the summer. Me obviously, Robbie wants to be a pilot.

Robbie runs to me and I swing him up and through the air. He gasps and giggles. Russell appears to fetch him. From the way everyone freezes up I can guess his current status in the world. Somewhere between Hitler and Stalin, eh. He quickly takes in the picture and throws a perfunctory greeting in our general direction. He sees Robbie whooping in my arms, and avoiding looking at the other two completely, comes over. "I'll take the little tiger now."

"Okay. All yours."

Robbie growls and pretends to rake my face with claws. I hold him away from me at arms length and pretend to be very scared. So of course he tries to be even more fierce and growls louder. Russell grabs him from behind, tickling him lightly as he takes from me, and still carefully ignoring the others, thanks me and carries him away back round to the shop.

Yeah he's a prize shit, but bet you a million dollars that wasn't his keys that were bulging so provocatively in the front of his skin tight jeans. He's pleased to see someone. Promising. Though to be fair he's got the personality that is easily pleased. Particularly with himself. But he's spunky and, also he's very cool with his little brother.

It's him that picks Robbie up after kindergarten. The parents have too many more important things to do than chase around after their kids. They think they're a cut above Southland Society. To them if the world needed an enema this is where it could be fitted (actually that's a Jude joke). But there's money to be made out of us country hicks so... here they are slumming it with the working class.

Well get used to it folks. This isn't the old country, eh. This is the country of opportunity and equality. Time you got your hands mucky with the rest of us.

Or something else dirty, in Russell's case.

Russell

Oh, this is really good. This is not a mistake. Much! I felt all along that there was reason that we shouldn't come. And now I remember why – this is their holiday stamping ground!

But there is a plus. Dom O'Halleran's here.

Oh, alright mind, lose that thought. Quickly! This is a no-parking zone. Keep moving right along, think of something else. These jeans are far too tight to indulge wishful thinking. He never worked out why you were always early to pick up Robbie from Pre-school so lets not blow your cover now. Grab the kid and run!

See, you managed with only a tiny hiccup in your voice when you spoke, and now you have camouflage. And you can go!!

But of course Father has mucked up the arrangements as per usual so we're stuck here while he get's someone else to sort it out. And of course, lo and behold, here comes my best friend Judith Murphy.

### Chapter 21

Jude

I head back into the shop with the debris from our lunch. Oh great, I thought the Wells would be on verge of leaving by now. But there is no God, since there they are in all their landed-gentry glory looking like they're settled for life. They are having trouble locating their key to their holiday cottage. They invite trouble that lot – when they're not causing it.

Dad's going out of his way to sort things for them, ringing around to try and locate the key that they reckon was going to be left here at the T-rooms. While he does the actual work, you can see them shuffle about the shop, uncomfortably trying not to be touched by anything, to be tainted.

Robbie decides that he wants one of Mum's slightly disturbing garden gnome thingies (even we're unsure of their origin) causing Mrs W to recoil in horror and practically shake in disgust as she tells him to put that dirty thing down. She looks up to see me watching, mouths at me like a dying guppy, but can't find any platitude to fill her gob. I smile understandingly (its not always easy being an absolute cow!) though I can't help but observe her struggle for a little longer before putting her out of her misery by turning away.

Russell distracts Robbie by pretending wild animals with him. Much tumbling about and giggling ensues. His father hisses viciously at them both to shut up, in what he hopes is an undertone. Russell instantly freezes and looks sullen – I know that sulky look, some of the girls at school find it incredibly sexy. But for a moment to me he just looks, in the real sense of the word, pathetic. Even wretched – little boy lost.

I can see Robbie's lip begin to tremble so I quietly offer him a Mintie. After all "Moments Like These ..." This kid is no fool. Before he even acknowledges the offer of the sweet he checks to see if his parents are watching. They're not, being entirely occupied snapping impatiently at each in clipped whispers. Safe, he does the typical toddler old man stomp over to me, all smiles, and takes the lolly with quiet thanks.

Russell comes to join us to say thanks as well. I know he means it but I can't trust myself to speak - absolutely not in front of Robbie. If I open my mouth I will... Then bingo, a full-on light-bulb moment. Not quite an epiphany but certainly a stroke of brilliance.

"Russell, I wonder if you could do me a favour? Our dear mutual friend is having a birthday soon and I was hoping to take him on an "outing". If you know what I mean, and I think you do."

Russell looks distinctly disturbed.

"Don't you have a aunt who runs a tour boat around the coast."

"Barbara?"

"Yeah Barbara. Do you have a contact number for her?"

"No. I don't"

I look very very disappointed – you know that look teachers use with favoured students who have failed to come up with the expected goods. "Oh I'm so sorry to hear that ..."

He breaks in quickly "But I can find out. I could drop the number off here, at the shop if you like."

"Tomorrow?"

He looks doubtful. I purse my lips. Just mange to refrain from tapping my foot.

"Yeah Tomorrow. No problem."

I overdo the sincerity. "Thanks so much. You've been so helpful."

Is there an echo in here? No, just Mr and Mrs W taking their farewell from Dad in the same words. Actually I'm more than a little jealous. They've managed to make theirs sound even more disingenuous than I managed. Damn! I'm not handing over the Oscar without a fight.

"Its so lovely to have with us for the holidays, Mr and Mrs Wells. Dooo-oo-o drop in any time you're passing."

This time its Mr W who attempts the dying fish riposte and fails. They all beat a hasty retreat. I can hear Mrs W's QE II vowels receding as they climb into the car:

"Now when you get to the holiday cottage the first thing you will do is wash your hands..."

I'm be thorough hacked off except I am blown away by my own genius. Jamie deserves the finest celebration a boy can have and I've just come up with a number one, world beating idea.

Happy Birthday, babe!!

### Chapter 22

Nick

The rest of that night and all the next day I huddle in darkness. Wounded and wearie beyond bearing I drift betwixt nightmaires and daydreams. Between my Brain's random invention and my Heart's wistful thinking.

I wake twitch...y and take to the skyes. Circle the solitary bounds of the island, trying to exercise out the cramps in my body and the knots in my Mind. I need to reach some resolution, get my senses into a semblance of Sanitie.

Flying becomes old, so I take to my feet. Walking an over grown track I disturb a native bush hen. The Weka regards me with bright eye, as if I were some much beloved friend. It happily skitters in my wake for a mile of two, there and back, as they say, to see how far it is. When I halt briefly on a beach he cheeril...y begins to forage, burying his beak under a rotten log, busy for huhu grubs. I stand and watch him gorge on their bulbous buttery bodies.

In the fullness of time he is satisfied, and looks up to me for entertainment. When nothing is forthcoming and I make no move to do anything interesting, he scampers happily off into the night. I watch him leave, thankful for his company. My Mind is quieter, though my Heart still pulses insistently in my chest.

The following day is the Sabbath. There will be Eucharist at 10.30. The priest, cassocked for service, comes early to prepare the Sanctuary.

I can watch him through a crack in the floor beneath the wooden tower. Fortunately the deafening bell that would have rung from my eyrie is long gone. The call to worship will come from an ancient whaling-ship's bell, fixed in a open frame within standing reach, in a clearing outside the church's vestibule. I imagine it ringing over the bush clad hills and around the golden sickle bays calling the little flock. Bawling out that mournful metal clang so tinged with loss. Its peal echo'd and re-echo'd by the crying sea birds.

He checks the Tabernacle, crosses himself and goes to light the candles on the altar. Early, to protect himself. Yes he is of the lineage, and as such he will act in Love to the best of his frail nature. But his time is near, and although he is compell'd by compassion, he has no sure knowledge beyond faith of where his Charity will take him. To be honest, neither do I.

The bell tolls.

As he murmurs the Rite to the four elderly souls that totter up the hill to answer the summons, I sit back into the shadow of the tower and hear, through the resonance of time, unnumber'd voices echoing the words. All with that same note, that same hungry tone. Always the fierce longing to go home, to return, to reunite.

The priest elevates the paten and the chalice, and for a brief eternal moment, it is said that the veil between Earth and Heaven becomes transparent. But not that I can see. If there is a mystic Communion between, its vision is denied me. Just as at Calvary I arrived to find only Death, here I find only darkness. Banish'd, I stand in darkness. Exiled, I live in darkness. The eternal outcast.

And I see Jamie's face. The human outsider. Like me ostracis'd and condemn'd by church and society for no more than natural inclination. Love may be the Great Commandment, but they even manage to hedge that round with barbed wire.

I try to guard my mind against the monstrous litany of History that surges into my mind, churning my gut – all the boys and girls his age, battered, bashed, bloodied, and even crucified by their own generation – sacrifices all, to the monumental insecurity of peoples who have had the connection with their own soul's light beaten out of them.

And I see this boy. The young man who has my heart.

Go, the mass is ended.

But your carved figure can never leave, just as I can never depart this Worlde. We both hang defenceless in an agonised solitary eternity. Both seeking atonement. Both humble, nay even humiliated lovers, waiting for an answer that we hope will be ... yes.

So it seems that I must see this through to the end. I shall take another day and then come the morrow night I will go back to him. Return home.

What ever that may have come to mean.

### Chapter 23

Jamie

Quelle horreur! Karen Carpenter has just been eaten.

All that wholesome goodness. Sucked in Chewed up. (But not spat out). Killed thoroughly dead by the car cassette-player.

An ironic demise for the Queen of Anorexia. And that splendid dolorous Sad-Sack voice. So it's "Goodbye to Love". In fact any Greatest Hit by the Carpenters. Unfortunately we can't play anything else. Yards of shiny tan and chocolate tape choke the mechanism.

Damn! There goes the opportunity to travel to those melodious delights. Mr O'Halleran's musical taste. Barbra Streisand, John Denver, The New Seekers et al.

Well, had planned for a quiet day. At home. Not waiting, of course. Waiting? Me? Never. Anyway it's daylight. Will be for some hours. Won't be winging in anytime soon.

Who am I kidding. Haven't been able to settle. For three nights. Not that I'm counting. Restless the whole while. Get up to piss - a lot. Checking every time whether he's returned. Sure, got a weak bladder. Woolworths special. But this is a bit obvious. So hope he's not looking on. Could be severely embarrassed.

This morning lay in his bed for a while. And no I didn't. Was happy just to lie there. Cradled in his scent. Odd. Jude can't smell it. Perhaps it's my imagination.

The 'me"s tried to start something. Without success. Yes. I miss him, but he's coming back. He is coming back. He better!

Yes. He is!  
Stuff's still here. On the beer crate. Beside the bed. A few old papers. Tissue thin edges. Handle-with-care fragile. Half-ghostly words in ornate handwriting. Looped and crossed. With corrections. Poems. Love poems. Beautiful love poems. Kinda familiar. All, 12 lines apiece. Rhyming couplet to finish...

For as the sun is daily new and old,  
So is my love, still telling what is told.

Aha. Sonnets. Dedicated. To Nick. Signed.  
"With eternal devotion. Will."

Jude stomps into the house. Determined. The Tiki troops are heading into town. Dom needs stain for the balcony. The others Xmas shopping. Am informed I'm coming. Not much choice in the matter. Fair enough. Need to clean house before the Old's get back. Not surprisingly. She refuses to join me at that. Rather she didn't, anyway. Don't want to talk about it. Yet. If ever. The parp of a horn breaks the silence. Dom wants to get going.

On the way. Try the radio. Its 4ZA. 10.30am. Gore Housewives Choice. Grand! Hokey selections from the home of Country Music. New Zealand style. Live local star Suzanne Prentice sandwiched among the sobs of dead people. Patsy Cline and Jim Reeves. Cheery!

We begin to yodel our way through "Send Me The Pillow That You Dream on". Dom playing "Dad" pulls over. Ignition turned off. Arms folded. Refuses to carry on driving until we stop singing. He wins. For the moment.

Eventually. Pass the dusty parade of agricultural warehouses. Tractors. Trucks. Combine Harvesters. The less than picturesque entry to Invercargill. Dom drops me at mine. He's off to the hardware shop. Meet up in town. About an hour's time.

Ryan suddenly decides to tag along. With me. Shit. Don't know what kind of mess I left. But. Don't know what to say. Jude shrugs. I get it. My problem.

Ryan doesn't blink at the devastation. Studies my blood stained waistcoat and shirt. I wait. He turns. I wait some more. We both wait. He sighs. "You clean up in here. I'll put these in to soak."

Almost finished picking up when he returns. Leans in the door. Watching me. Still waiting. Eventually. Takes a big breath...

I cut him off before he speaks. "Don't you start..."

He grins. "Jude gave you a lecture?"

"Jude gave me a full length Wagnerian Opera. The Ring Cycle!"

He ignores the pitiful joke. "So she should of. That's the trouble with you closets."

I try a little light banter. "Actually, being of British extraction, I reckon I'm in the Wardrobe."

He gives me a filthy look. "Well, get used to the fact that Aslan is sure not going to help you out here. You imagine you're invisible so you don't think you're in any danger. So you never work out strategies to keep yourself safe."

"You don't seem to get into trouble."

"No I took the traditional route – keep it obvious and keep 'em laughing."

'You sound like some old queen."

He clasps his hands over his heart. Reeling in mock horror. "Well, clutch my pearls! I do hope that you are referring to ancient royalty. Boudicca perhaps."

"I mean, do I lithp? Do I thhh-riek? Flap my writhtth? Ecktheth-thively? Well, more than nethethary? I mean Hamlet would be proud."

"I get the picture."

He butches up. "Okay so it wouldn't suit you but you could take the more masculine path of Martial Arts.Boxing even!"

"Ryan!"

"Okay, enough said. Whatever, it's time you got to grips with things." Realising the double entendre. Mr Gay Sophisticate giggles and blushes. Reverts to silly 14. So sweet. He covers. Flounces out the room.

After a moment. Calls back. "Anyway, I got lots of books you can read."

And he has. Perhaps I should take a peak. At his books! Doubt any of them deal with interspecies romance though. Going to have to busk that one.

### Chapter 24

Ryan

After "Carnage Clean-up Duty" I've got the jitters. I'm fair fizzing with energy as we head into town through Queen's Park – ho ho. So it's a cartwheel into a round-off to flick-flack. Then I rope Jamie in to spot a couple of back flips, a byrani or two, before I see the Band Rotunda – a-ha a stage! I'm not Jude's brother for nought.

Careering round it, I'm Margot Fonteyn in jeans. I can make the leaps look like the real thing – my future teacher reckons I have superb elevation, so there! Embarrassingly today in front of Jamie, I don't seem to have much in the way of balance. An attempt at multiple pirouettes ends in disaster, flat on my back at his feet. So there is good in everything!

He flops down beside me. "You're good."

"Thanks."

"Should learn properly."

I let him into the secret. "I'm gonna. Got a part time job to pay for private lessons in the New Year. I've auditioned and she reckons I might have what it takes for the New Zealand Ballet School - if I work hard enough over the next two years."

I catch him sneaking a quick perve at my crotch, probably imagining me in tights. His voice sounds strained enough. "What'll y' Dad say?"

"Who knows? He'll cope. I reckon he makes a fuss out of duty, but in the end he always comes round. Silly old duffer!"

He grins at me, offers me his hand up, and off we head down the avenue arm in arm, fully camp cosy. _A Couple of Swells. Me and My Shadow._ Okay _\- Me and My Girl_ (I wish!). Of course at the first sign of people he pulls away. Pathetic!

I punch him hard in arm - hard - and take to my heels. He's after me in a shot and we race each other into the centre of town, pretty much neck and neck. The girls look at our red faces, sweaty brows, breathless panting, and dark armpits with disgust. Actually I'm not sweating – horses sweat, men perspire, woman glow and drag queens (that's me) ... shimmer!

Dom isn't back with the car yet, so there's lots of time for Invercargill's finest shopping experience, H & J Smiths. Jamie mumbles something about getting a special present (pick me, pick me!) while Jude needs to shop for everyone. We won't be long then! That's Ok, I have a project planned.

Louise needs makeup. Well, she doesn't, she just thinks she does. I mean, she's got all the plusses - elfin bone structure, doe eyes and possible porcelain skin. However nobody can tell as its buried under multiple clay coats of Elizabeth Arden. Result? The impregnable mask of 35 year old American divorcee.

I offer my arm to the Cosmetic Counter. I have designs of my own on her body - literally. She doesn't know it yet but she's in for a full-scale renovation.

### Chapter 25

Jamie

Jude and I leave them to it. Wander the brown lino' aisles. Haven't changed since Adam was a toddler. When I was little I preferred Thompson and Beatty's. They had "jiggers". Mile upon mile of overhead copper pipe. Throbbing aerial highways. Snaking across ceilings. Gathering menacingly. At a mysterious balcony.

A horror film vacuum-cleaner gone global. Sucking up bullet canisters containing your money. Whistling them away. Magically spitting them back with a hiss and clatter. Untwisted they produced change and a hand written receipt. "Thanking you for your custom". Jude imagines creating an 8 mil' celluloid miniature of terror. I supply the title, "It Sucks". She supplies the sharp smack to my arm. Ouch.

She wants a photo with Santa. Perches incongruously on his knee. Among the fake snow, plaster icicles, plastic rain deer. Bing Crosby croons "White Xmas". Daft. Outside it's high summer. But the length and breadth of the country. Every home is festooned with images of winter. Chirpy chilly cards. Crowding mantelpieces. Swung on tinsel loops across pelmets. Tucked tidily into the slats of Venetian blinds. Portraits of a world most of us have never seen.

Though I can't see how you'd change it. Anyone for pictures of fat hairy Santas spilling out of teeny red swimming togs? Thought not. I'd certainly go straight.

We rejoin Ryan doing his best Glinda the Good impression. Mascara wand waving at the ready. Louise, confronted with herself in the mirror, looks equal parts delight and horror. While Ryan completes the rejuvenation, we amuse ourselves in more grownup fashion. Trying on sun glasses. And pretending to be famous. Film stars.

"Darling!"

"Darling!!"

Jude has donned a pair of Raybans. Mirrored. Wrap around. Looks like The Fly. Naturally we have to recreate that final tragic moment. Bleating in unison. "Hel... p me! Hel... p me!"

But that's it! "I can get him sun glasses."

"But he doesn't go out in the sun."

"Mental! Of course not."

"So? They're useless for him."

"He could manage the twilight with these. Sit in the veranda. They're got proper filters against UV and all."

She gets the pictuire. "Then, there is the fact that he'll look very glamorous."

"Very spunky."

"Very Sexy."

"Very rootable."

"Jamie!!!"

Oops. Carried away there. Loudly. Out in public. Exactly. Forgot the need to tone down one's behaviour. But then look at our beloved Ryan. Then again perhaps not. Because at this moment he's fondling Louise's breasts. Guess that's alright. Its ostensibly het'. It's in the cause of beauty. Coz now they're heading to the bra section.

I buy the sunnies. By the time we reach the Ladies Underwear. Our two "ladies" have scarpered. So we adjourn. The Copper Kettle. The pride of H & Js. Club Sandwiches, Cheese Rolls, Lamingtons, and humongous pots of Choysa Tea. Heart-attack-City! Yeah!!

We're tonsils deep in cream, when, "Tah dah!"

Both speechless. Look at each other in amazement. Don't even bother to close out mouths. Ryan can't wait. "Well?"

But both got flat batteries. Can't start. Can't even imagine where to start. Fortunately Louise gets the right message. She looks fabulous. She knows it. She feels great. It's not just the make-up mask that's disappeared.

Back at the car, Dom is dozing. Looks up languidly on our approach. Leaps from car. Preening. Trying to still an all too obviously beating heart.

Jude can't resist. "Dom sweetie, have you meet my French pen pal, Chantelle?"

Dom is awash with hormones. So. Misses reality. By a couple of dozen rugby fields. Louise, rises magnificently to the occasion. Sails forwards, and kisses him on both cheeks. Stares into his eyes and smoulders... "Enchanteee!"

It's me that lets the side down. Dissolved in giggles. Dom doesn't really notice. Mind gently orbiting out in space. Imagination trying to escape across that last frontier. "What...?"

Louise sweeps gracefully to Ryan. Hangs off his arm. Pouting at Dom. "You 'ave forgotten meee already!"

Her French accent really stinks. Dom still doesn't get it. We clamber back into the car. Leaving him locked to the spot. Gawping like a stunned mullet. Louise gives Ryan a high five.

Jude lets Dom of the hook. He shakes himself like a wet collie. She pats the drivers seat. He climbs in grinning ruefully. "Had me going there. You look amazing!"

Louise acknowledges with a huge yawn.

"Cover your teeth dear, cover your teeth."

Gee thanks Ryan! We head home.

### Chapter 26

Jude

Well there's a turn up from the books – I think I'm an actual real life witness to the Curse of Dorian Gray.

To my left I have Jamie being obsessively chipper, even positively perky, while wrapping Nick's pressie. Whilst to my far right in a dark corner of the veranda can be seen his real portrait – a plain potted pine tree awaiting Nick's return so it can be decorated for Xmas. A plain potted pine that can only be described as plainly pining. Bad pun I know, but its sadly drooping needles give it a thoroughly hangdog expression. And I'd better not go into detail about the distinctly flaccid state of its crown. Any Xmas fairy looking forward to being mounted there (ahem) is in for major disappointment.

While Jamie agonises over the wording for the card – trying to balance making a declaration of his feelings against making a fool of himself – I potter over and give his downcast double a drink of water. I'm starting to wonder if we'll see Nick again. Perhaps I should suggest its time to begin draping it in tinsel – as a surprise for his return of course (?!). I'm trying out ways of saying that sincerely when a movement in the bush across from the window attracts my eye.

You couldn't actually say Nick is lurking because he's pacing up and down like a toy tin soldier. Back and forth, back and forth - I'd feel sorry for him if I wasn't so p'd off. Time to channel Lady MacBeth and have a bit of stern word with our errant angel. Devil or no, he's about to get a piece of my mind – a very spiky knife edged lump of thinking that may well inspire him to pull his woolly head in and behave! Or I won't be liable for the consequences. I still don't now how far down the road Jamie is from ... well, self harm.

I take my leave from Jamie claiming tiredness, crunch ostentatiously down the drive and, when out of sight, double back. I surprise bad boy Beelzebub peering through a Manuka bush at the house. Any thought of attack dies on my lips - he looks every one of his multiple millenniums. Oh dear, better make light.

"So you're a stalker now?"

I can see him make the effort to play up to the joke but it fades before it blooms. His tone is bitter. "Just a coward."

"He's been languishing for you."

"He doesn't feel anything other than gratitude."

I don't believe it!! "Its soooo obvious!"

"I thought it was but ..."

A long gap.

"Come on spill it out."

"He has a partner."

Where did he get that daft idea? "He has not!"

"I have ways of knowing these things."

"You haven't been wandering about in his mind again?"

"No of course not, but I still ... know."

"Then how?"

"He came home on Friday night ... reeking of ..."

Friday night? Hang on, bingo, got it! If this were a cartoon there'd be a light bulb. "Oh. Dom."

"So I am right. He has a partner."

Partner phooey! "Dom doesn't count. He's actually supposed to my boyfriend."

"I don't understand."

This'll be interesting. I going to be sorting it out for myself as I go along. "Look, they've been friends since childhood, sharing everything. They're the same age, they've lived across the road from each other, they've grown up together, played together, discovered their dicks together. They're not in love with each other. They're just ... mates... friends."

He looks doubtful.

"Ok, good friends! But I reckon for boys its just like getting together to play tennis or some other sport for pleasure – it's about fun, not the future."

"In many ways that's the actual problem."

"You don't like fun?!!"

"No, I'm worried about the future and what it will bring... because you are correct, I do ... I do ... care for him."

I look sceptical.

"Alright. It is highly likely that I am in love with him."

Wow, I'm completely ... speechless (Yeah right!) "That is sooooo romantic!!!"

He ignores the sarcasm. "So I am concerned about his future. From my perspective you humans live such short lives."

I get it, but "All the more reason why he should get to choose what he wants to do with it. Jamie is entitled to take what risks he wants – in human terms he's a big boy now. He's free to judge his own heart and make up his own mind."

No response.

"Am I right or am I right?"

He sighs so heavily that he scares a Fantail into flight.

"You need to get in there right now and be honest about your own mind and your own heart."

The silence is very long and very ... well... silent. I can hear grass growing and my stomach, with a distinct lack of dramatic comprehension, tries a little tuneful gurgle or four.

Finally he looks up and grins at me doubtfully.

"Well? Are you going to talk to him?"

He tugs a forelock. "Yes Miss! - On my way Miss! Thank you Miss!"

I watch him wander to the front door but on the brink of entering he stops. I'm about to get up from my hiding place and shove him over the threshold when I realise he's paused make himself pretty. How adorable – Nick, the Friendly Devil, is prone to pride. When he's finished trying to comb his hair back with his fingers he turns to me for confirmation. I give him the thumbs up.

(Actually he still looks like he's been pulled through a gorse bush backwards but I reckon that's absolutely the right effect for this occasion).

### Chapter 27

Jamie

Standing in the middle of Xmas chaos. My heart takes off. Brain lags behind. But. Finally catches up. He's here. Wasn't a moment ago. Certainly is now.

Shit. Hide his pressie.

Bugger. ... and the card.

Actually. Now I've got to make it to the door. I've forgotten how to walk.

We face each other. Down the length of the corridor. Outlined against the moonlight. He shrugs. Speechless. Shakes his head. Hopeless dork.

I've remembered how to run. Grab him. Hard. Hold on. He's not going anywhere. Anytime soon. Says not a word. Holds me very tight in return.

Unspoken dialogue. Unthought even.

I'm sorry.

I know.

Gently extracts himself. With his thumbs. Wipes away my tears. My happy tears. Kisses me on each eyelid. A feather touch on my lips. Smiles tenderly. Before silently heading up into the shadows.

Floating. Through the house. No more than a couple of feet above floor. Out into the garden. No more than a couple of feet from the stars. Singing to every sparkly little speck.

Good morning Star-shine, the earth says hello

You twinkle above us, we twinkle below ...

Can feel him holding me still. Holding me like he ...

Oh shit oh dear! Oh SHIT OH DEAR! Can't step back from this one. The thoughts hammer in my head. You fool!

"How was I to know?

"He loves you

"No he thinks I'm cute.

"He loves you.

"He thinks he loves me.

"He loves you.

You've said that.

Check in with my heart. Not helpful. On one hand its kinda aglow that he might love me. On the other it trembles that he may not.

Then the "me"s turn parental. Pair up. Gang up. Oh Goody.

"What do you really know about him.

"What actually has he told you. The truth?

"Can you really trust your own instincts.

"I mean....

"How many Angels, fallen or otherwise can you compare him with

"There is the fact that he's just a bit famous for being, well ...

In unison. They go for the jugular. Ho ho

"The Prince of Darkness

"The Lord of Evil.

"The malevolent High Priest of Sin.

Stand aside for a bit. Let them chunter on.

Then. On the edge of hearing. Quiet Sure. Sighing beneath it all. Trickling along every nerve. Coursing through each and every vein. These words. Unsaid. But. Implied with every pulse. Every breath... I trust him with my life.

The "me"s just choose a new angle.

"What will your parents think?

My parents? This is not an interesting question. This is not a satisfactory distraction. Answer is plain. My life. I decide.

The "me"s scavenge for further inspiration. Try a quick sing along.

" _Will you still love me tomorrow"._

Thank you, Carol King. Can stop singing.

Thank you. Now! Thank you.

No! Thank you.

Thank you. Stop!

No. Stop ...!!!!

They shut up. Got into a bit of a melody loop there. Could have ended up singing that all night. Probably even in my sleep.

Tomorrow's not a problem. More distant future is. Going to get old and ugly. Only got about ten good years left. If that. He's going to look the same for ever. Even though. He's so old. Beyond thinking about old. That he makes old seem ... well, young.

But look at him. Gorgeous. Whatever his years.

Looks far younger than Dad. The poor old fella. Got no hair. Well he does. Just comes off at night. One of Mum's less successful attempts at rebranding. In retaliation. He leaves it lying around. Can be a heart stopper. At 3 in the morning. On the inevitable way to take a slash.

There was the time he and Brian Anderson – bald at 22, poor bugger! – swapped hair. Before taking up the gifts to communion. Dad's grey mat over Brian's remaining black. Brian's black on Dad's grey. Mum, in choir, nearly choked.

Only nearly. Coz she was about to do a solo. "O Taste And See". Nothing stands in the way of a solo. Especially the coloratura one that rang round our ancient Vauxhall Viva on the way home. Cadenzas et al!

My thanks to the "me" who provided that diverting memory. Grounded again.

Time out.

Then. Dom winks into my mind. Grinning cheekily. Dom. Building that balcony. Diligently making himself useful. Needed. Wanted. Clever, creative, insecure Dom.

Dom. Sexy Dom. Sexual Dom. Who's not gay. Not straight. For him. Sex is ... just another way to be useful. Needed. Wanted. Loved. As he understands it.

Yes. We have a good time. But now it strikes me. Another angle. A new slant. He's not enjoying himself. Him. Self. His own self. The one he began with.

Us? Just reinforcing an idea. Repeating a story. Playing out a kinda of lie. Imprinted when he was too young to know. To say no.

The "Me"s continue the soundtrack from "Hair"

" _How can people be so heartless?  
How can people be so cold..."_

Doesn't know I love him. Doesn't know I know, and still love him. Can't know. Never said. Sweet Jesus. Just fucked him. Like Brother what's-his-handle.

Facing away. Who does he think is holding him?

Sure. Now. It's not insidious. Not about hidden power. Not about coercion. Manipulation. He asks. I say yes. But ... Time to put away childish things. Next time. He asks. Time to say no.

Standing out in the night. Everything is very vivid. Detailed. Alert. Alive. I lose myself in the soundless music of the spheres. Total silence. Eternity. Infinity.

Now.

The clamour of my bladder intrudes. Bugger. On the way back discover I have a visitor.

OK, God. My Fault. Entirely. Did say aloud that I wanted to join the human race. You never listened when I said I wanted a million dollars. So. Now you listen. Your point?

Ryan. Drunk as a skunk. And finally. Even to the brain dead. Clear as a window. Cute as a button. Sexy as a ... very sexy thing. For a moment ...

No. No. No. What is it about the word no that I don't understand. Ryan knows who he is. Knows what he wants. And I do think he's amazing. So. In another place. Another time. Another anything. Who knows?

But. Sorry. What can I say here. The Devil loves me ... I think. And. I love him ... back. I think.

Then blessing of all blessings. Remember Jude's equation. And its true. Have to do some inventive reinterpretation. Expect perhaps tears. But. Noticeably am disappointed. Ryan ponders a bit. Reels a bit. Then smiles sweetly and wanders off into the night.

Moments later. Stomach churning noise. He's chucked up in the garden? Sure enough. When I look. Flaked out just over the wall. Smiling. Dreaming of... Whatever.

I cross the road. Sit on the rocks. At the top of the cliff. Sing to the sunrise.

"Good morning Star-shine ..."

### Chapter 28

Ryan

I am absolutely and utterly determined. Nothing is going to stop me, not even my own delinquent thoughts. Cowards the lot of them.

And face it, if I were sober I'd be doing this exact same thing. Its not as though it's the beer talking. At least I don't think it is. In fact I'm quite sure its not. The most the beer seems to wants to tell me is to stop for a piss, which is not a bad idea. So I do.

Right where was I? Ah, I am on my way to tell him. I'm a grown up. I know my own mind. I want to know his.

I stumble up the drive, slip sliding on the gravel. Stop to catch my breath and for another quick nervous piss behind a flax bush. Then deep breath Ryan Baby, lets get this over and done with. I need to know, to get it sorted, then ... well I have not the slightest idea.

Wow the crib is so quiet. And almost completely bare. What is this. Shit he's become a monk. Suddenly I know - this is a huge mistake. Got to get out of here now but as I turn to run I bump smack into him. We both lose our balance and he grabs me to stop us falling. For ever and a day, and even an extra week after that, we look into each others eyes. I kiss him. And time returns to normal – bugger!

He detaches himself and looks some more into my eyes. This is good. Then the sweetest smile. Just a teensy weensy cute grin. A bit shy. This is very good. And he leads me into ... Oh not the bedroom.

He sits on the top of the front steps and pats the wood beside him. I sit down. I'm having trouble breathing – the asthma playing up again. If only. We both look out over the head land. There's a bit of an evening breeze coming up from the south. Chilly, a bit of late winter in its breath. My head clears. I know now how this is going to go and I don't want to hear it. I am soooooooo stupid.

I am so stupid I put my hand on his bare thigh anyway. He squeezes it. This is OK. He puts it back on mine. This is not OK. I've got a temperature suddenly. Hot and shivery. No I'm only tres embarrassed. Only one thing to do now to retain my dignity. Run. Really fast. As far away as possible. Preferably leaving my stupid ideas behind me.

He pulls me back down to sit. He wants to know how old I am. Oh well if that's just the problem. No, my real age. Which of course he has a fair idea of already. Thanks for stating the obvious. I'm a young stupid kid. And you're a drop dead gorgeous grownup.

Then I get a lesson in Maths. I must have looked real confused coz he repeated it. Its like some stupid puzzle that uses random numbers and the age of your second pet cat and the length of a piece of string and regardless, still it turns up your age.

Yes, it is all about my age. There's too big a gap between us. Seven years? But that would make him 21 and I know he's Jude's age, 17. At least I'm thinking about something else now. Oh, or I was. Shut up head. "So what's all this for?"

To keep me safe. I quite safe enough thank you very much. Well I was until on got drunk and decided I could tackle the torturous quicksands of unrequited teenage randiness.

"But I still don't get how you do the numbers. Or what they mean."

He turns it into a knitting pattern. Now that's a common language. I can understand that. You know, he once knitted me a pink miniskirt for my Barbie doll with a tiny cable pattern down the front. I must have been 7 or 8. Ah such good times. When I thought he was God. Alas, now he's just heavenly.

The knitting pattern. A knitting pattern for the "Pederast Index"

"Cast on my age."

"17?"

He thinks. "No make it 18. Its my birthday in a couple of weeks anyway. Knit a row or two. How many doesn't matter. Just to get into the swing of it."

"What stitch should I use?"

"Plain for now."

Well that's so not appropriate. Anyway.

"Now cast off half the stitches, what do you have left?"

In my minds eye I count by tucking them under with my thumb.

"Leaves nine."

"Now cast on seven."

Obediently almost hypnotised by the game, I cast on seven.

"Now count what you have left."

I have to do that three times just to be sure before I blurt out something ridiculous like 142 million. Oh damn. I count them again and announce with more confidence than I feel,

"16."

Turns out that that's he youngest age he can go with. Really? And where does it say that in the bible. He makes me knit for myself – halve my age, add seven and I discover my boyfriend has to be at least well, 14, my age. I think of the 12 and 13 years olds that I know. They're so silly. Children still. What do I look? Desperate? I don't think so.

Somehow the whole dumb exercise has calmed me. And even more madly I don't feel at all bothered. I feel quite OK. We sit quietly for a long time. I have no idea what he is thinking but I knit a lot of patterns in my head until I get the answer I need. Half and add seven Cast on, off, on. And again.

Finally! Got it \- when he's 22, I'll be 18. And the pattern works perfectly. I can wait. I smile at him, kiss him on the cheek and go home quite happily.

Well almost. I need a spew, and a little lie down among the flax before actually getting there.

### Chapter 29

Nick

Jude has accompanied him home. I listen to them rattel and chatter in the kitchen. They have had a late swim to wash away the day's grime and they are alive with the frisson of cold skin wrap'd about warm body. These southern summers have such stretch'd twilights, it is pleasant to have some entertainment to while the time till I can rise and venture forth.

Beneath me, Jude wonders pointedly whether he has any plans for his birthday. He plays back. A sing song attempt at nonchalance. "Think I'll give it a miss this year."

"Fair enough. Most of us are heading back to town anyway."

He knows that this completely unlikely, but I can still hear a barely suppress'd note of disappointment in his voice, as he mashes potatoes. "Cool. Perhaps you could pick up some clothes for me."

She is amused. "Not a problem. Though you can stop murdering those spuds now. What'd they ever do to you?"

"Oh ..."

"Come here you big nong. Of course we'll be here for your birthday. Just don't go making any plans coz I've got it sorted."

"Yes Mum!"

They must be hugging because his voice is muffled. Then its all sound and fury again, the clatter of plates, the clang of cutlery, the patter of bare feet out to the veranda.

There is still some time until it becomes fully night but I am guessing now is dark enough. The light should be sufficiently muted. So I clamber down to join them, feeling faintly foolish. And of course she can not resist but rib me.

"Tis our favourite rock star. Hey Bro!"

They are his idea, and he presented them to me yesterday with great flourish as an early Xmas present. Knowing that my eyes struggle to cope in the veranda during the twilight, he bought a pair of very dark mirrored sunglasses. I was sceptical but these Raybans certainly live up to their name.

While I was away, he had gotten out another chair and put it beside his in the veranda. A little altar to hope, which I almost expected to see surrounded by candles. No, that is not kind, not even true, just another attempt at protecting myself from my own Heart. He slips out of it for me and sits at my feet. I resist an attempt to reach out and ruffle his hair. Jude has seen my hand start and rolls her eyes.

I surprise her by giving the finger and, as my hand is already moving, I muss his hair anyway. He turns and grins at me and, seeing that mine is out of reach, tickles me. I spasm. In almost animal reaction I snatch his wrists and hold him off while I try to control my panic. No one in the entire history of the world has ever tickled me. And you can be damn sure that after this no one ever will again!

They both look a bit shocked at strength of my response. He breaks the moment. "Well Jude, time to stop sharpening stakes. Spread the word. A thorough tickling will induce cardiac arrest."

They laugh. I would join them, but I am still struggling to collect my senses and some kind of equanimity. They finish their tea while I compose myself, gradually unlocking muscles one by one, teaching my lungs to breath again.

Finally I can manage a little smile. "Sorry my friends. But perhaps a lesson to us all. My body is definitely off limits."

I realise what I have imply'd when he looks completely downcast, and just contain myself from saying 'apart from sex of course'. But then why did I bother, because I ought to have known that she would be on to it in a flash, and indeed up she pipes

"Apart from sex of course."

Now he just looks plain embarrassed.

Playing to stereotype I growl menacingly and lean over to nibble at his neck, and before I can stop myself, whisper in his ear, "I'm sure something can be arranged."

Jude has got up and is staring out of the window, ostentatiously pretending to be distracted by the sunset. She murmurs to herself, of course loudly enough to be heard to the rear of a large auditorium. "Red sky at night, the shepherds delight."

He rearranges himself, "Its Christmas tomorrow. As traditional, it'll rain."

She turns back to us with regal certainty - you can clearly envision the Edwardian skirt sweeping in a curve about her feet - and announces in Pygmalion cut-glass vowels, "Not bloody likely."

I suspect that this is one Eliza Doolittle that Higgins would be better to leave well alone. I feel sorry in advance for those legions of directors who will attempt to, well... direct her.

We all settle back and let the rhythmic chugging of the sea wash over us. Jude sits back into her chair, while he cuddles between my legs, head flop'd sideways onto my thigh. It is peaceful just list'ning to our breathing, faintly audible over the surge of the surf.

Finally he pipes up, "Tell us a story."

"What am I to you? Your grandmother?"

Jude picks up the cue without faltering, "Why Granny, what big teeth you have."

I avoid indulging her. "What do you want to hear about?"

She pouts winsomely then considers. I can see her mind running possible questions till she alights on the one that most interests her. She wants to know about Eve.

I describe her not as I remember, for that is beyond my words, but as if she were being play'd by Jude. Lost in imagining this exquisite creature, it takes her a moment to catch on. Her immediate response is to be indignant, but she can not in all conscience sustain it. She gives way and lets fly with a throaty chuckle. He looks surprised.

"Eve was entranc'd by Eden, by her husband, by the creatures all about her. She wander'd through her days in a state of connected bliss. Immers'd in all she beheld."

Jude twinkles, "If this were a Disney cartoon, she would be singing – Tra La La, Tra, La La."

"Among technicolour dancing animals!" Jamie demonstrates what appears to be an epileptic rabbit.

I glare at them both, "Is this the due deference with which to treat your beloved Grandmother?"

They subside, mock chastened.

"One morning as the mist wreathed through the garden, veiling it in silver, a wan ray of sun lit upon a apple, its skin film'd with dew. Eve plucked it and wandered down to the ocean's edge, bewitch'd by the landscape as the dawn mist writhed and wither'd in the growing warmth of the sun. Paddling in the chill water, lost in reverie, she rais'd the apple to her mouth and took a bite. The tang of the unexpected crispness sent a sharp shiver through her body and ... through her mind.

She turn'd back to look at the garden. She had never noticed Change before. But what she was seeing, what was now in front of her, was not quite as it had been. Her mind darted and danced - the garden had always been like this, had it not? This apple had always been like this, had it not?

But there had been a moment when it had not had a bite out of it the size of her mouth. And gradually arose in her mind through that tiny example of difference the experience of time, and with that, the dawning of a sense of place.

It was in that instant that she first knew herself to feel emotion; a fleeting barb of Fear as she suffered the sense that she was individual, separate – alone; and a more expansive experience of Joy as she awoke to the sensation of Life reflected within her own body.

Now she had a new game to play. Based on what she could see in the present moment, she could consider what had happened in the past, and even – and this was the engaging prospect – speculate what might happen in the future. Further, what might happen over that hill, out of her sight.

She became fascinated by what became that great human skill – completing. She could take any small occurrence, place it anywhere in time and space, and weave the result into an imagining of great complexity."

### Chapter 30

Jamie

Know that look. Jude's. She's pleased. And dis-pleased. Chuffed that Eve isn't the baddie. But. A bit peeved. The story has lost a shedload of drama.

So ... I wait. Out with it girl. You know you can't hold on. Sure enough. With a huff and a puff. Can't help it. Wants to blow the house down. (Theatrical joke. Geddit?)

"What about the serpent?"

Love it when Nick looks confused. The way his forehead scrunches up. Considering. Looks like a toddler about to poo.

"She means the snake."

Now he's completely bewildered, "Snake?"

Jude and I. Have a variation on the list routine. "Wind up Teacher". By being helpful. Super-helpful.

"Asp."

"Viper."

'Cobra."

I muddy the water, "Could be a lizard."

Jude takes it up, "Geko."

"Skink."

"Tuatara..."

"Note. Old enough to have been there."

Nick breaks it up, "What are you talking about?"

Jude looks genuinely surprised, "In the Garden. The Serpent that was supposed to tempt Eve, to lead her astray."

Nick is lost. Not a bible reader. I guess. No surprise there. "Tempted her? How? It is not as though reptiles have voices to speak, or indeed, hands to beckon."

Can't avoid another diversion, " Must have been a dragon.

Jude plays along, "What? With scales and teeth?"

"Claws and wings."

"Fire and brimstone!"

Nick is looking grumpy. A little push. All that's needed. So. I push, ""Absolutely. That's how baked apples were invented.

Got it now. He can't help but chuckle, "There was no wicked talking serpent. Eden and Disneyland are not in any way alike."

Jude is firm, "OK, Mr Been-there-done-that. Got the scars to prove it. What's the real story then."

"Well, snakes were the symbols of the first communities which were women lead. So I can only speculate that the elders of the new patriachal tribes, such as the Jews, would portray them as evil in their story telling to discredit them."

Jude can't resist, "Typical. Never trust a bloke ..."

I punch her arm. Hard. Because men and women are equal. Right? Jude scowls at me, "That hurt! I was going to say – never trust a bloke with power issues."

Is that better? Know any secure blokes? Me neither.

Nick has been thinking, "I don't believe that the idea of a supernatural serpent being was ever based on any reality. Though such creatures can be willed into being. I did hear that there was something more to the story about Cleopatra and the Asp, but what, I never was interested enough to discover. By the time Will got to write the play the snake seemed to have become just a theatrically vivid way to die.

He looks at me. Winks. We wait.

Sure as eggs is eggs. Jude has to pantomime the scene. At length. And then some.

Try not to get involved. But she's good. Worth a round of applause. You know. Clap in a circle.

Hmmm. Sounds like venereal disease at Stonehenge. Or better. At a Charismatic prayer meeting. Need to explain. Laughter. Otherwise, death will ensue. Jude has her hands about my neck.

Nick

There are times when I feel I am attempting to herd feral cats. One moment these children are quietly fascinated by an idea and the next they are cavorting about like groundling clowns.

I try to recall what that earlier Judith taught me about how to gentle Will's grandspawn. There was just one word that caught it exactly. Ah, of course - divert. Lets see if it works on 20th century toddlers.

"Of course, Eve discover'd speech." That got them to sit up and take notice.

"Eve was in fact the first story-teller. For until the moment of awakening to her individuality, her separate self, she had never needed to speak. No-one had. All had been experienced, known in common, so there had been nothing unique to share, nothing to say."

"Can't see that bringing about the fall of the world!"

"Consider the primary puzzle, what you would now call Psychology – the pursuit of an understanding of how you become your particular Self. The search for meaning and sense in the story of an individual human's life. The story of who you are.

Now in that, lies all that leads you astray. In that story, in its construction and its maintenance flourish the seeds of what your authorities would designate sin. Call it 'Ego'. 'Personality' if you wish to be less brutal.

When you are very young, a baby, you live as in the Beginning. You are part of all that is. There is no sense of separation. All is undivided. Equal. One. But always the apple moment of realisation occurs. About the time when you begin to speak. A period that is famous in all maternal folklore - the terrible twos.

Then the need to be a One, some One, only, different, and individual, awakens and gathers in your consciousness. 'I am like this... 'You are like that... 'I can do this... 'You can not. Thought by thought you create a special narrative that is yours, and yours alone. A story of who you are.

Little by little you grow, water and feed, a "novel" – what you hope is a new and unique Being. To protect that identity, you gather to those that tell a similar account. For security, you repel those that choose a different theme. Chapter by chapter, everyone that agrees with you, everyone that disagrees, builds that story ever stronger.

You come to enjoy the act of creation, immersed in the pleasure of its manufacture for its own sake. But in that all-encompassing engagement you begin to mistake the Construction for who you really are, your true Being. And its small quiet voice within, begins to fade and is drowned out by the clamour of doing."

Jamie muses aloud, "What to be or not to be, that is the question."

Jude graçiously uplords his poetic rephrasing.

"In the end you will do anything to protect what you now believe to be 'You', to save what appears to be your life."

Well that appears to have silenc'd them. They sit, frowning in duet, trying out the idea for size in their own lives.

The silence is broken by Jude's sudden exclamation, "We're due at Midnight Service in half an hour."

She scrambles to her feet and begins to pick up utensils to return them to the kitchen. He just hunkers down the more tightly between my legs trying, like some naughty child past his bed time, to avoid being seen.

I have to concentrate hard to maintain the illusion.

"Couldn't you come too?"

Before I can answer he shrugs and gets up, "Sorry, stupid question. Better get my arse into gear. See you when I get home?"

"Of course."

They scamper from the house, little children once more. Years melting away in the excitement of Xmas and all its expectaçions. I stand at the gate and consider the twinkling windows which spangle the bays.

To belong or not to belong. Well... I could always just pay a visit. Such a gesture does not commit me to stay. And a snack wouldn't go amiss.

### Chapter 31

Monday December 24 - Xmas Eve

Jude

I love Midnight Mass. (Even though this is the Anglican equivalent and I'll probably go to hell as a result - perhaps not the bad thing it at first seems because after all when I get there, at least I'll know the boss. And better yet, I'll have all my favourite deviant friends for company).

The little weatherboard church is crammed to the rafters with families singing the usual suspects at the tops of their voices - Hark the Herald... O Come... While Shepherds Washed... etc. There's even a couple of overconfident wanna-bees attempting - and spectacularly failing - a descant or two. The icing on the musical cake is the wheezing harmonium, ploughing through a eccentric précis of the harmony, a line or two behind us in splendid fugue.

As we sit tight in a tiny pew, yodelling along with the rest, I consider my little family - Dom, Sue, Ryan, and Jamie. Who are we? On one hand I can see us as we seem to others, our parents, our teachers, the world at large. But then, on the other, these last couple of weeks have begun to graffiti over those portraits in a big way, to leave ...?

I stop the whole analysis thing dead in its tracks. I want to leave well-enough alone. If our mate, the ultimate Bad Boy, is right, then I don't want to construct another story, a lie around us. Because whoever we on the surface, I know that deep down we connect, and for the present that'll do me fine.

The service begins and I drink up the language. All those glorious phrases gathered from old Latin and Greek at that first full flowering of English. It's quite the equal of Shakespeare and Marlowe in its tongue tingling flourishes and roundly musical roulades. (See, its got me playing with words).

About halfway through rumbling out my favourite: the Prayer of Humble Access, 'Lord, I am not worthy even so much as to gather up the crumbs from beneath Thy table...' Sue makes room at the end of the pew for some latecomer. We all budge up obligingly – it's not really Christmas (or indeed Christianity) unless you're suffering in some fashion.

We have all decided to do the modern ecumenical thing and take communion together. So when it's our turn, up we get and I finally see the interloper in our row, as he stands in front of Jamie. Wow, he's a major hunk - tall, broad shouldered, smouldering dusky colouring, with a slightly feline flow to his movement. We all preen a little, just in case. No wonder Jamie is ... oh, that's just a tad gross. He's sniffing him. And now he's reaching out ...

My mind can't help but fall into Sports Voice-over mode, " _Yes, I am correct he is reaching out. It certainly appears that his next move will be to molest the man in front of him. Yes it definitely looks like he's going to cop a feel. No wait! He's pulled up short. He hasn't actually contacted the bum in question. I must say, listeners, that I surprised by his reticence because it's a very taut butt and ripples most temptingly as the subject moves forward a step. Hang on, hold your horses! What is happening here? Ladies and gentlemen a new development._ "

Now he's running his fingers through the air, tracing some kind of complicated pattern behind the man's back.

I hiss out loud. "Oi! People are going to stare. What are you up to?"

Before he can answer, the object of his attentions turns back towards us and smiles. I smile back. Seems only polite. Then he raises an eyebrow. Oh... and just in case you missed the first one ... OH! " _Ladies and Gentlemen, now here's a turn up for the books. The Devil has come to church!_ "

At that, my mind gives up.

It recovers enough to notice that he takes communion - though he palms the wafer, while drinking from the cup. I automatically wince and duck slightly. But no explosion occurs; no death throe screams, no flesh melting, no steam from the ears, no gushing of putrid entrails onto the carpet. Not even a demure descent into dust. I think I'm disappointed. (Well you know what I mean).

After service he's nowhere to be seen. So we hitch a ride back to the Rocks in Dom's death trap Triumph. He drops Beelzebub's Apprentice and I off at the T Rooms and we carry on by foot, along the top of the cliffs. Once we're clear of the flickering street light Nick flies in from the sea to join us.

My difficulty is deciding which question to ask first. Lets start with the taking of communion.

He grins. Oh, the teeth are back. "That is the easy one. What is the folklore about me?"

"You drink blood."

Jamie makes those "Oo Oo" noises you use to attraction attention in Primary School, when you're about 8. I'm amazed he hasn't put up his hand, but I can't ignore a cue. "Yes, Mr Geddes, your answer please."

He is gleefully smarmy - sing-songing the answer, "Transubstantiation."

I'll take your Ace and play my Joker. "Oh my god, you wear woman's clothing?!!"

They both do their best 'I'm appalled' faces and make tush noises. But hey, I'm a grown woman so I merely stick out my tongue. "Actually, what I want to know about is the disguise thing. The way you can fade bits, change your appearance."

### Chapter 32

Nick

"It was Eve that first notic'd that I was fading. It began with my wings and although if I concentrated I could still use them to a limited extent, in time they became almost invisible. She tried out a number of stories, but nothing seemed to fit. Perhaps it was just that I was not of this world and this was the consequence. That this world and I would separate too.

"Now Eve had borne two sons to Adam."

They dutifully duet, "Cain and Abel."

"Indeed. And as you know Cain tilled the land and Abel tended the livestock."

Jamie cocks a eyebrow, "Cute?"

Jude's taught me some of this slang, "Mega-cute."

Wind a bit out of his sails, "Oh ..."

Can not resist the temptaçion...tion to tease him further, "You have to consider that not only did humans live longer then, but they were much bigger, (pause for effect...) in every way."

Jude applauds my timing. He just snorts and grins.

"They were your age. Twins of that kind where they were in feature identical, but in colouring opposites - Cain, blond with fair skin, Abel, dark haired with olive complexion.

They were both pleasing company, again in contrasting ways. Cain, his father's son focused outward, always busy doing, expansive and jocular. Abel, more of his mother's temperament, looking within, reflective, though with a gentle playfulness. I liked them both."

Jamie twitches. A-ha jealousy! I think I shall turn the screw. "Perhaps more than liked..."

He looks stricken.

"I'm teasing! It was Abel who realised why I was fading - I did not eat.

I was confus'ed, I had never eaten. But he pointed out that that was when I was a part of Heaven, and Heaven is no more no less than a Collective of Pure Spirit. Here in the material world Life requires sustenance.

So Cain brought me the finest from his fields to try, and Abel offer'd me the choicest of his flock. The fruit and vegetables did nothing but from the first taste of the raw meat my strength began to renew, and even some solidity began to return to edges of my being.

They left me to rest and recuperate, Abel promising to return with another kid in three nights. But on the appointed evening Cain came alone and said that Abel and his flocks had been swept away in a flash flood. Even through my sorrow, I could hear the uneasy invention in his voice, almost watch the sentences manifest on his tongue.

After he had gone, I roam'd out into the night and was drawn by the smell of blood to a patch of fresh digging at the edge of Cain's fields. There I uncover'd Abel's corps.

I found Cain, and laid his brother's body at his feet.

He seem'd to think that he had done right. He had hoped to please me with his gifts but the way I had naturally responded trigger'd a story within his mind. To me, I had been equally pleas'd with their concern, and the choice that I had made was merely a fact with no correlating meaning of good or bad. But from this straightforward occurrence it seemed that he had develop'd an elaborate Fiction in which he cast himself as the "Abandon'd One".

Like a river in flood gathering debris, his mind added consequence to consequence - the idea that I had chosen deliberately Abel's gift lead him to infer that I favoured Abel above him - No, more than that, this meant I loved Abel - which in time of course, would mean that Abel and I would turn against him. He now knew with certainty that we planned to kill him. So he had lured Abel out into the field and by murdering him, and thus cutting off my food supply, he believed that he had saved his own life.

In my anger, I pin'd him to the ground, and tore into his throat, beginning to suck the life-blood out of him. He was not surpris'd as this was only right too. Revenge was another possible ending that he had envisag'd to the story he had invented.

I stopp'd at once. Bewilder'd not only by the fantasy but by the way it was malleable. By the manner in which it could be written and rewritten to suit, regardless of fact. But mostly, I was appall'd by the manner in which I had responded to it – blindly, without consciousness.

I staunched the flow and sent him back into his fields, to live out his years in the knowledge of what he had done. But I had not realised that by taking some of his blood I had reduced him in strength and power. Without thinking, in my oblivious thirst for vengeance, I had made his work in the fields a trial and effort.

Perhaps it is only fair that he curs'd me the rest of his long life and constructed many stories about me. Stories in which he was always the victim, I the evil perpetrator of his doom. Stories that ... still echo today."

### Chapter 33

Tuesday December 25 - Xmas Day

Jamie

Last night. Again. Dreamt of blood. I think. Can't remember. Exactly.

An impression. Of pulse. Of throbbing. Of windings. Weavings. Flowing patterns.  
Shining eddies. Streams. Rivers. Lakes. Seas.  
All shades of red. Vivid. Veined with purpled blue.

Woke with a sense of joy. Feeling so excited. Energised. Bit weird.

Actually. What's totally weird. Nick. He's the one can't seem to deal with blood! Face it. It's a fact of life. A force of life. It is life. He must know that. Of all people.

Much as Jude would otherwise. I eat meat. A bloodied steak at times. There'll certainly be flesh on today's Xmas menu. Perhaps not human. But? A near relative. I can handle his story. Why can't he?

Anyway. It is Xmas today. There is fun to be had.

So lets be having! And. In abundance. Yeah!!!

Dom

The balcony is finished all but, and in time for the big get-together, eh. We just need to finish the staining and she'll be jake, ready to rock.

Except I got the wrong balustrades. These could do at a pinch but they're really a bit tacky in that pukey fake colonial style. So we mulled it over for a while and I came up with an alternative: rope hooped between the uprights, sort of yachty fashion. Himself came up with the rope. It's the right idea but we need to refine it a bit coz I not sure it's quite sturdy enough, eh.

Just for today, just for a bit of extra safety we've twisted crepe paper chains round to make the edge more for visible. Unfortunately bloody things look ... well totally rubbish. Coz its Xmas day, eh. And that means, year in, year out, rain. At the supposed height of summer. Rain. And, as Jamie would say, just for a change... I reckon that might be ... yes, rain. So our carnival bunting looks more than a wee mite bedraggled.

Ryan of course had to find the silver lining in that cloud. For him every problem is a fashion challenge. So he's using the colours running out of the crepe paper to dye the tips of his hair. He thinks it all looks like a multicoloured rainbow. Frankly my vote is with a technicolour yawn. It's certainly gonna make his Dad sick.

For the moment we've all adjourned inside the T-Rooms. Being Xmas day it's of course closed. There's quite a big turn out as the tribe gathers to the call of the drums, eh. Jude and Ryan's parents, as traditional, presiding.

There's their Grandad, puffing and blowing after a very short trip up the front steps. He's driven down from Tuatapere in a very smart 1955 Sunbeam Talbot, two tone, charcoal over silver. At 80 plus I don't know how he does it. I mean, not only does he do all his own maintenance, but he's been having saxophone lessons for the last couple of years.

And of course filling out all the corners, our mob, the O'Hallerans. You can always tell the Catholics – seeking world domination through the simple and satisfying strategy of over population.

The Tomkins are eyeing us up. We're like an overfull Dunny to a blow fly. They can't resist. Noticing every dribbly nose, every skinned knee, while searching their memories for the right scripture to save us. But they don't dare dish it up, eh. Dad's pretty hot on the old theology game. Was in the Seminary till Mum took his fancy.

And there's my best Mate. James David Geddes. A Grade Loony. Numero Uno quality fuck. His olds are still in Dunedin grandpa sitting. Not sure what's going on there, eh. Not with his grandparents but with him and me. He just seems a bit dodgy about it. Usually its me doing the avoidance kick but we seemed to have swapped roles there.

Jamie

Dom and I got a move on. Arses into gear. Though not that way. Finished the balcony. Pretty much.

And yeh. Decided to say no. But. Haven't had the guts. Yet. Running out of excuses. At this rate. Next time. Going to have to plead a headache!

Jude

Nice to see the Matheson's have made it. Mr, Mrs, and Lorna. Sweet simple lumbering Lorna - 40, (perhaps almost 50) something, with the mind of a child. Her parents look dowdy and perpetually worried. Now in their 70s, they search for solutions, "What will become of her when we ..." always followed by a tremulous silence.

Jamie

Mother teaches Lorna singing. Tuneful clear voice of a kid. Learns songs without effort. But needs to be told everything. Last year. She sang in the local Comps. "The Skye Boat Song". Beautifully. Not a dry eye.

Mother had told her how to come on, where to face, how to bow. She did it all perfectly. But then there was a huge wait. Till mum realised. Hadn't told her to leave the stage. So I went up, fetched her.

### Chapter 34

Dom

I convince the rest of the delinquents to brave it out. It's really not very cold on the balcony, especially all of us crammed cosily round a picnic table, protected, mostly, by a huge sun umbrella.

Louise stays inside because she has a new frock she doesn't want ruined, eh. After a couple of beers and the ridiculous feel of rain dribbling down your neck we're well on the way to hysteria. Might get spin-the-bottle out of this lot at this rate.

Jude tips us the nod and we do our best to pull ourselves together to hand the lad his pressies.

Jamie

They've all done the family present thing. At home. At the crack of dawn. The kiddie-card well out of date. But still play it. Olds moan about getting up. Love every nostalgic moment.

Didn't get anything from the family. Yet. Probably bring things when they come for my birthday. Four miserable days after Xmas. Always joke that it means I get half the pressies. So ...

Bastards. Ganged up on me. Taken my complaint at its face value. Each of them gives me one sock. Its mate to follow in four days.

Jude announces her latest. Supposed brilliant idea. "The English Period" will debut. The Sunday, before New Years Eve. What!?

Going to be celebrations in the Sound Shell. A 50s relic stranded on the beach. Shaped like a hump backed seal. Crapland, jerry-built Sydney Opera-house. Used to rollerskate on the concrete apron in front. Hasn't been used for years. Appears their dad has coerced his Rotary Club. Sponsoring a bit of a do. There will be a fee.

About to puncture their enthusiasm. Not ready for that kind of exposure. When we're dragged back inside to get food.

Jude

Mum has transformed the worn Formica shop counter into a lavish banquet table.

She's in her element with this kind of thing and today she's working around a Kiwi Christmas theme. At each end of the counter she's done ceiling high arrangements of Toi Toi and flax branches, the creamy feathered flags set off by purple-black toffee-crisp seed pods. Scattered over the baize green table cloth are pom-poms of brilliant red Rata bloom. Between she's placed candles into polished paua shells, the light gleaming off the opalescent blues, greens, and mauve. She's even found some discarded Tui feathers, inky gloss enamel, to set it all off.

The Tomkins are a tad disturbed by the centre piece, a Nativity Scene - each item lovingly knitted in vivid stocking stitch. I think it works. Particularly the Joseph who looks like Jim Morrison in a poncho. Sexy.

Dom

That is quite a spread. Pity we're eating buffet style, which means I'll be on clean up duty. It's one of the joys of having four siblings under 8. Food on faces. Food on floor. Food in places you just don't want to go, eh.

It's the usual get-together, "Ladies-Bring-A-Plate" affair. Seeing its Christmas most have brought several. Nobodies quite got a handle on Xmas in summer. So along the traditional goose, served surrounded by golden roast kumara, parsnips, and pumpkin, there is a selection of cold meats, and an unnecessarily large number of salads.

I start to take bets on how much of the rice salad (grated carrot, pineapple, and sweet corn – yum?) will be left at the end of the day. Have to give up coz everyone one wants to bet on every single morsel surviving.

Jude

Dad, in genial host mode, asks Mr Tomkins to say grace. Mrs Tomkins smiles and tilts her head piously, basking in the reflected glow of her husband's goodness.

Five minutes later, he's still talking to God, head back, eyes closed, hands waving to the heavens. I think we're about to leave Leviticus so we should be able to eat next Tuesday. It suddenly occurs to me that he might even go for an altar call.

I can see all of us trooping down to the sea in my mum's Mum's best white sheets to be "Baptised in the Spirit". The ghost of Nana, in life a died-in-the-wool Catholic, screaming from the balcony to the future saints heading off like a flock of seagulls, "You bring those back here this instant. Irish nuns wove that linen. I won't have their memory besmirched by your sinful Protestant nonsense. Bring them back. Do you hear?!"

Ryan

I sit and eat with Louise. Though she's becoming much better at coping with them, Jude and the others still put her on edge. She thinks she's not bright enough to keep up with them, which they reckon is nuts. But to be fair, they've known each other for years and, not that they'd notice now, but they talk in short-hand, in-house code. She didn't stay inside to protect her dress, but to defend her dignity.

But what she lacks in street cred' and social banter she makes up for in number smarts. She took one look at Dad's book-keeping and took the ledger firmly from his hands and put it to rights. Better, managed explain it to him in such a way that he can now do it for himself. Now that is talent. Very groovy.

She wasn't allowed to finish school. There was a whisper at school that she got in the family way. But actually her Dad's a pig. Fully 1950s old school swine. Education's not for the fairer sex, so he made her give it up and come home to the farm to help out. But I reckon it was mainly to save himself money. The expense of University.

No wonder she's looking for a bloke, preferably nice, but she'll take what she can get. Anything, anybody to escape. Well, not perhaps just anyone coz she seems to draw the line at Dom. Thinks he's funny and nice to be around but more in the sense of a brother she never had.

Ah, but there's a subject that she can't have. Mine girl, he's mine. Well, will be eventually. So how do I manoeuvre her away from Jamie? Could try the truth, but that might back-fire with a girl like her. Sex is not the main item on the agenda, so a nice gay husband could still be the perfect escape clause.

### Chapter 35

Jamie

Jude's grandad. Sits with us. Scots Protestant. Disowned when he married a "Mickey Doolan". Been in New Zealand most of his life. Still has a burr. A cat's purr roll of "r"s. Can mow a phrase into incomprehensible submission.

Jude, for politeness sake, introduces us: "Of course you remember..."

Her grandad interrupts. Gleefully up for a stir. "Of course he doesn't. I'm invisible t' young laddies the like o' him. All y' youngsters have eyes for is blokes y' own age. Y' don't even imagine an old bugger has a prick. Let alone that it might still stand t' attention if required. Y' certainly don't fancy an old 'un. Y' and Ryan both, wouldn' look at a lad more than 10 years older than ye, and then only as a bit of fantasy."

Jude and I look at each other. She's a bit freaked. I don't know quite how to respond. Hell. Why not the truth. "Actually I find older men rather attractive, Ganga."

He twinkles at me, "My age?"

"No older. Much much older. You're far too young for my tastes."

He laughs. Deep and dark. Chesty and unexpected from this wizened midget. But then. Before he went on the railways. Started out as boxer. "That's the ticket. If y' want t' beat the bastards forget y' fists. Y' just gotta be a wee mite funnier than they. Remember Celeste, the big Maori trannie who almost became Mayor o' the Big Smoke? Went t' school with him. Funniest laddie I knew. Turned int' funniest lassie I know as well." Taps the side of his nose

Jude is a bit aghast, "But Granny ..."

"What about y' Granny?"

"Well, she was so nice, so elegant."

"Aye, that she were. A reet bonnie wee lassie." And he's away on a reminisce.

"I met y' Granny when she were touring with a Kiwi Concert Party. They travelled all the wee country towns. I seen 'em in Winton. Usually the top o' the bill was the two singers. Tenor and soprano screeching awa' like Nelson Eddie and Jeanette MacDonald. A bit on the worn side t' be playin' young lovers. But they were bonny enough under poor lighting. Sometimes if y' were fortunate y'd get a proper music hall turn. Someone obliging with a bit o' Harry Lauder." He lets fly with a few lines, and quite a lot of spittle

" _Let the wind blow high.  
Let the wind blow low  
Through the streets in ma kilt I'll go.  
All the Lassies say "hello!"  
Donald, where's y' troosers?"_

No one has the heart to tell him. It's Andy Stewart. But we've joined in. All round, toes tap. If the olds were further down the slippery slope. A smidge more schickered. Slightly more sodden. Might have been treated to a bit of a Fling.

"But this night, t'were spring 1936. There was a bonny lassie in white satin trew – could tie herself in the grandest wee knots. And smile all the while." He pauses for a moment, you can tell he's recalling her.

Jude's fascinated, "Granny? A gymnast?

"O no, not a gymnast! M' Fiona were a proper contortionist."

"I didn't know that. You mean she could ..."

He interrupts, "She certainly could."

The chuckle is fruity. Racks his body. It turns into a cough. A surreptitious spit into a hanky. Crumples it out of sight. But not before I see. Threads of brown. Blood in the phlegm. He'll be joining his bonny Fiona before next Xmas.

And I think. Its so short, this life thing. Better get on with it.

Back on the Balcony for another beer. Jude tells the others. Can't resist embellishing. Makes a better story. Now her gran's a stripper. I put the story right. She screws up her face at me. I stick out my tongue. It'll turn into a full on grimace fest. But Dom gets our attention. Remembering his Gran.

Ended up in a home. Perfectly with it. Apparently. Just a tendency to give birth all the time. Usually to wild life. The nurses completely cool.

"How are you today, Mrs O'Halleran?" "Fine Thank you, pet. Little tired. But it was an easy birth." "What is it dear?" "A possum." They congratulated her every time. Even gave her flowers the day she gave birth to four parakeets, a guinea pig, a Friesian calf (that must have hurt, eh), and ...

All chorus together. "And a partridge in a pear tree." Gales of laughter. Then a brief sober interlude. Privately consider our own prospects in old age.

Don't feel that sane now. No idea how it could all end.

Dom

Hells bells, rain or not, it is summer. It's the long holidays, we are at the beach and it is Xmas. Time for a swim, eh.

With a bit of persuasion - the old O'Halleran charm - they're all up for. Plus a few of the brothers and sisters. Yes Mum, keep your hair on, I'll keep an eye on them, don't worry, they'll be fine.

Change into our togs and charge off down to the sea, racing to be first in. Bloody hell, it's low tide so not only do we have a long way to run in the cold to get there, but then there is a long wade through shallows till it gets even to your knees. So we abandon swimming for a lot of splashing and play fighting before running back to the warmth. I'm hoping like hell I haven't lost an important appendage through frost bite.

All the way back you can see the smoke rising for the old laundry at the side of the store. The copper has been boiling since dawn, cooking the pud. We run faster.

Jude

Dried and dressed, we're in perfect time for the unveiling of the Christmas Pudding.

None of your modern Woman's' Weekly summer suggestions for fruit mince in jelly. This is Mrs Matheson's prize boil-in-a-cloth sod-your-heart suet beauty! Cooked to perfection in the copper. Crammed with fruit, and a sprinkling of old currency thr'penny bits and sixpences, even an occasional florin and half crown. (These are swapped for modern decimal currency at exchange rates determined not by fiscal policy so much as blood-alcohol levels).

We don't go in for that flaming brandy thing. It just gets unwrapped reverently at the table from its stained muslin shroud, cut into steaming slices, and served with egg custard, and cream fresh from the farm.

After gorging ourselves appropriately for the season, we tiptoe out to peer under the garage foundations to admire Orlando's new kittens. All of them bar one are blindly pushing each other and their mother about for the sake of food. The exception sits placidly, waiting. I think I'll call her ... Jesus.

### Chapter 36

Jamie

All completely rooted. By 7 o'clock. Still three hours till twilight. But. Fair enough. Its been a long day.

First up, midnight service. Not much sleep to follow. Then. Early start. Eating too much. Swimming in the cold. More eating too much. With some eating too much to follow. All washed down by far too many beers.

So here we are. Lying about. Rag dolls. Haphazard around the Murphy living room. Dom's got the most under his belt. Starts to hint. Decided its time for Spin-the-bottle. Truth or Dare? Ensemble rolling of the eyes. How new. Angling for an everyone-in orgy. We opt for cleaning up. Silly duffer only sulks for a minute. Joins us. Clearing the empties. All finished by 9.

Jude walks me home. Worried about last night. Get over it. I don't care.

He does.

We reach the house about sundown. Dom's game has triggered same idea. Storm the house. Up the stairs. Jump into bed with him. No. Doesn't mean hanging from the ceiling. Got a perfectly ordinary ... single bed. Oh. this is cosy.

Jude goes for the tease-em-to-reality approach. First words. "Hey Killer!"

They must have felt the recoil. In the Big Smoke. 23 miles away.

Isolation from humans. Means. Not great on the subtleties. Or. The even down-right obvious. Words, yes. Irony, no. He's kinda social Autistic. For the moment. Jude and I are adoptive parents. Of a very distressed child.

Eye each other over his head. Change of tactics. Baby-steps. 'Humour Amongst Friends: 101'.

At the completion of the question and answer session – Jude's big on Socratic method - He's diverted but not quite up with the game, "So if something has really upset you, you will tend to say nothing."

"Right."

"However, if something, no matter how horrible, has not upset you, you'll talk about it."

"Usually as some kind of exaggerated joke."

"So the point you are making is ...?"

Jude sighs and turns to me, "Your turn."

"If your past as a hideous blood sucking killer really bothered me I'd talk about the weather."

He's horrified, "The weather?"

"In fact your torrid past doesn't bother me. That was then. This is now. So ... I'm just going to tease you about it."

He still looks bemused. I give up, "Or not in this case."

Get a kiss good night. But no tongues.

Yet!

### Chapter 37

Wednesday December 26 - Boxing Day

Jamie

Wake. Very late morning. Day is perfect. Making up for yesterday. Double dose of warmth. No cloud to sully it.

Ryan and I are riding a last wave in. Just a wee one. Low and long. Clowning. Side by side. Synchronised Surfing. The next Olympic Sport.  
Hang five. Sit. Stand. Hang ten. Turn. A teetering arabesque. Difficulty 4.5. Loss of balance. Result, Dying Swan. OK. More seagull kicking the bucket. Though still in unison.

But the scores are in. Shit, going to have to settle for the silver.

We are both distracted by Dom. Running the tide line. From bay to bay. Frantically waving his arms. "Robbie Wells has gone missing."

Jude

I've sent Dom out towards the heads to fetch the other two from the surf, in while I do a quick dash in the opposite direction to Taramea, in case they just missed the obvious in their panic. Frankly I'm in no hurry to get back coz I can just imagine the pandemonium and I don't want to face it. The thought of it does my head in ...

Dad blustering, Mum dithering, the O'Halleran kids running amuck, the Tomkins hands in the air praying in tongues, and in the middle, on the podium as Parents of the Year, the Wells judging and finding it all lacking. It's just all too horrible to think about.

I'm dragging my heels when I meet Jamie coming round the side of the T-Rooms, so now there's no avoiding a return. A deep breath and we're through the door into ... a gentle hum of focused activity. It's amazing, but everyone seems to have undergone personality transplants.

Dad's calmly sorting out search parties to cover the coastal beaches, for the obvious reasons that nobody is prepared to annunciate - lost is one thing, drowned is quite another. He's occupied Mr W with directing teams to cover the open shallow bay round to the estuary, Mrs W to organise groups to search backyards. Hopefully, both areas where Robbie is likely to be found safe and sound.

Mum's on phone duty, keeping the information flowing back and forth to the Police, who are half an hour away, coming from town. I can hear her relaying the latest situation to Dad with quiet precision. The 'Search And Rescue' helicopter has to come all the way from Dunedin, so that's maybe two hours off.

Mrs Matheson, a legal secretary in bygone years, is co-ordinating the team reports as they come back so Mr Matheson, at the wall map, can mark off areas when they've been searched. Lorna is happily useful at the tea urn, bright eyed and interested in the goings-on. I see her quietly cross to Mrs W and offer her a cup of tea. Mrs W, bewildered but busy with a street map, is gracious and genuinely thankful.

Mr and Mrs Tomkins arrive with members of their congregation, just as Ryan turns up with some Surfie mates. Without a second thought they compare skills and muddle together to make teams and leave to search the bays at the headland and around to Back Beach.

Jamie and I start to rustle up provisions - this could turn into a long day.

Dom

Russell didn't come with Mr and Mrs W when they skidded into the car park, gravel flying, to tell us that they couldn't find Robbie - in fact hadn't seen him since breakfast.

They thought he was with Russell, and Russell thought he'd gone in to town with them first thing in the morning. Russell had stayed at the holiday Bach (poncy North Islander term for a crib, they just won't speak the lingo, eh) in case Robbie turned up there.

I leave them to it, grab the car and go and see Russell. I mean, me and him of all people are closest to Robbie, so we're most likely to know how he thinks, what games he likes to play, where he might go mucking about, exploring, eh.

Russell looks chuffed to see me. If anything he looks even spunkier when he drops the hard-man pose. He's going out of his mind, coz he can't do anything, stuck in the bloody house. He's got to the point where he declares he can't think straight.

Now, there's an opening, eh, but I restrain myself and put the old thinking-cap on. Come up with checking out Robbie's room and his toys to see if there is any clue there. Perhaps something is missing that would give the game away.

Nothing. It's all there save Teddy Doll-Doll, which from memory is a very worn Rupert Bear clone. But that tells us zilch coz he takes that everywhere. So ... well, can't think what next, so we crack a beer.

Could try what 'lets pretend' games he might have been playing lately. Russell lights up, they'd been playing at being wild animals a few days ago. So where would he go to find a jungle, eh? Actually not far from the crib, back up the hill across a couple of fields, is a stand of native bush. Russell's taken him there before.

I fetch Sue to stay in the house, and Russell and I put on our hiking boots and head up country. No sign of him along the way, and nothing and no one in the bush. We decide to head up to the top of the hill.

It's really unlikely Robbie would have gone this way as it's pretty nasty with gorse. You get scratched to buggery. But from the top in one direction you can get a pretty good picture of the Rocks below, and in the other you can look out back on the sand hills and rock out-crops of the reserve stretching along the back beaches. We hope he hasn't gone that way, coz while there's no trees, the tussock and flax are well tall enough to conceal a 3 year old.

The whole thing has taken us a while. By now it's early evening, cloud is starting to close in, and Russell is starting to flag. Grab a beer each from the pack and sit at the foot of the Trig' Station to drink it and watch the activity below.

Little lines of ant-people combing the landscape in formation. A police car sirens round the estuary from Riverton. The Search and Rescue helicopter passes over head to nosy across the Reserve. I try to cheer him up by pointing out all this promising activity eh, but can't get through coz he's tuned out. He's got really jittery. Shit what's going on here? I discover he hasn't eaten all day, low blood sugars and all that crap. o it's time to head back to the T-Rooms, get some grub into us, and work out what to do next.

### Chapter 38

Jamie

Feeling useless here. Yeah, helping out any way we can. Keeping home fires burning. Well, the bread buttered. Sav's on the boil. Want to be doing. Something. Anything.

Jude and I take a break. Grab a cuppa off Lorna and onto the balcony. It's no longer all that bright out. Low cloud's coming in from the South. Across the sun. Doesn't look like there'll be much of a twilight. Some summer nights you can play tennis 10 o'clock plus. Why not tonight. For heaven's sake?

Dom and Russell join us. Fill us in. Jude remembers the wild animal game. Thinks it's still a good bet. She's casually wondering aloud where do the wild things go. Can see her sit up. Grabs me. Drags me aside, "Nick! Didn't you say that he reads life-force or something like that? Do you reckon he could kind of 'heat-seek' for Robbie?"

"Could ask. Think there's still too much light though."

"It's clouding over and he's got those good sunnies you bought him. Perhaps he can wrap up somehow."

Both know. Even if Robbie's alive still. May not survive the night. Height of summer or not. This the deep deep south of the known world. Nights get cold. Bloody cold.

Quick farewells to the boys. Our excuse? Want to go get some warmer clothes. Well done Jude. Cadge a lift to the crib on the tray of a search team Ute. Call for him all the way up the drive. Meets us in the kitchen. Blinking. The blinds aren't fully drawn. Jude thrusts the sunnies into his hand. Spills the beans.

He's up for it. Though obviously something's bothering him. Shakes his head when Jude suggests he could just wrap up more. Protect his skin.

Takes a deep breath. "These clothes. They're an illusion. I picture them, project them into being. That's why I could change my appearance to meet you in church. How do you think my wings could operate through the fabric of a shirt or a jacket?"

Jude can't help but grin suggestively. "You mean you're actually stark naked? All the time?"

He nods. And steps back as she instinctively reaches out to touch. "Sorry."

My mind's wandering. Cough from Jude. I return from a very pleasant place. She's got an idea. "So is your skin anything like ours?"

"Apart from the sensitivity, it is basically of the same material."

"Sunscreen!"

Pardon? Nick and I look dubious.

"There's a big bottle of Factor 15-plus somewhere in that room where you dumped everything when you were cleaning out. I remember seeing it. With the sun behind cloud, and low in the sky, it should be more than effective enough."

He'd go anyway. But crippling him isn't going to find Robbie. Needs to be able to weather at least another three hours. Even of this half light. Quick dash to the spare bedroom. Rummage through the boxes. Found. Run back triumphant. To hit head-on. A thought.

He just laughs at me. "I am sure you can cope."

Jude giggles. He throws her a look. She realises, "Perhaps best if I go and check ... something... Mmmm ... Somewhere else."

I turn back. He's uncloaked. Standing arms out. Ready. Naked as a new born... World's most inappropriate metaphor. No new born of any species I know is that well-h ... Did I mention how naked he is.

Gosh. Forgotten how attractive those gold eyes are.

"You can not do the job effectively if you do not look."

"Think you could mange to rustle up a ... mm ... little posing pouch at least?

He hasn't used the eyebrow in an age. Fair enough. He's right. So right. "Sorry. How about a very large posing pouch?"

He laughs. I risk a little peek. Fortunately ... Sadly... In two minds here. He's well covered now. Damn, and Phew. At least. Can get on without distraction. Well. There is the fact that his skin is so soft and s...

Better recall batting averages. New Zealand Cricket team. Last three tests against the Pommies. That got me down his back. Next stop his bu...

... England vs. Pakistan. Run rates.

Finally Jude knocks on the door. Enters with eyes averted. Too late. He's re-cloaked. Can see her disappointment. Can't resist. Rub my hands together.

She's thought it through. "The one area they're going to have the most trouble searching is going to be the sand hills and tussock above Back Beach. He could be curled up asleep under a flax bush right beside you, and be completely invisible. I reckon we should start there.

Jamie and I will walk round from the crib via the road. You need to head out as far west as you can and then fly back towards us. See what you can pick up."

### Chapter 39

Jude

As soon as we step out of the house into the rising wind our mood changes. Without a word we pick up our heels and head out at a jog. I can hear the helicopter's intermittent drone. Luck is on our side because it seems to be coming from the township side of Taramea Bay.

We're just about to come to the end of the road, when the Ute clanks over the metal cattle-stop towards us from Back Beach. The driver stops and cranks down his window to tell us they've seen nothing. In the cab his CB radio crackles to announce a general bulletin, there's a regroup at the T-Rooms in 15 minutes to look for alternatives.

We decline the offer of a lift back. And wait till the Ute is on its way out of sight before we walk out of the shelter of the trees and turn down on to Back Beach. It's a No-Swimming zone. Actually it goes way beyond that – this is a Keep-Well-Away-From-The-Water area. I mean, don't even think of a little paddle in the shallows. The seas are huge and vindictive, rearing and tearing into the gravel with murderous snarl. You can't hear yourself think as your ears roar with the howl of the wind and the relentless pound of the surf.

I shiver, suddenly afraid, all sense of make-believe shattered. This is a reality I can't puncture with a quick improvisation. We might be on one huge wild goose chase. We could have chosen completely the wrong place to search and what if ...

Jamie grabs my arm almost pinching it to make me pay attention. Shouting and gesticulating against the buffeting wind, he looks completely mental. I can't concentrate, can't hear what he's calling. Eventually I look to where he's wildly pointing. There's a black dot on the horizon gradually slowly getting bigger. Too slowly for my liking. I start to stumble down the beach towards it, staggering like a drunk, the gravel giving way beneath my feet. I lose my balance and fall.

Jamie scrunches up beside me and helps me to my feet, but I have to keep my eyes closed against the pulsing down-draft of wings as Nick gets close. When I can open them again, he's standing beside us holding Robbie.

Robbie. Who is just fine. Perhaps a bit cold. Definitely hungry. But he's a resilient child and far from upset. In fact at this moment you could say that he's downright bonny and quite a lot bouncy. You could even say he's wide awake. Which is really good news...

... and really bad.

There's one thing we didn't think of. Like any small child or, lets' be fair, any child or adult of any size, he's fascinated by his rescuer. (Oops).

So we encourage him to keep it quiet. He nods happily and wonders if he can go home now. He sure can, no problem there. And it looks like it's going to be a lot sooner than expected because we can hear the rasp of a blown muffler over the top of the wind. There's only one old bomb in the vicinity that is dilapidated enough to make that much racket. They can probably hear Dom coming in Te Anau! (Oh no, I'm making another association - my mind is becoming total crap at the clean thinking thing).

By the time the Herald's headlight (yeah, the other is blown, not surprisingly) appears round the bend, Robbie is firmly in my arms and Nick has melted away into the dark. Russell has a struggle to get out of the car and but finally triumphs (ha ha) and runs to us. There's a brief slapstick moment as he swaps the car door handle for his brother. Robbie whispers into his ear conspiratorially.

Damn colloquialisms! We should have said "it's a secret", "say nothing". Because Robbie is at that very literal age. His interpretation of "keeping it quiet" is to whisper what happened. Over his head Russell looks bewildered and repeats it out loud. "He was found by a big angel? A big black angel?"

Better buy some time here. "Not literally. I'll explain later." (When I've come up with an answer).

We are expecting much rejoicing when we get back, but our grand entrance provokes shocked silence. Broken by Robbie's piercing treble.

"I've been flying!"

He looks mortified. And apologises in a stage whisper. "Sorry. That was really loud."

Jamie and I try to re-arrange our faces into expressions of incomprehension as Russell tries to make light of it, "He has this idea that he was rescued by this ... black ... angel."

Fortunately we are saved by Mrs Tomkins attempt at broad mindedness. "Oh, one of those lovely Maori people. They're so good with children you know."

You can almost hear her about to add "Because they're children themselves". Yes dear we all know. And she thinks this while her daughter smiles fondly at her?

Mrs W is galvanised into action by the thought of such unspeakable horror. She snatches Robbie from Russell to study him closely. I feel sorry for the poor kid, she'll probably try to boil him in Dettol to try and rid him of the contamination - all those nasty germs!

Then the whole tableau flickers back into life. It's like everybody shakes themselves awake. Suddenly the old familiar people are back. The Wells are gone with the briefest of thanks and a lame attempt at a cheery wave. At a broad hint by Mr Tomkins the Christians very stiltedly shake hands with the Surfies - all carefully manage to miss Ryan. Except for one burly older woman, who's not quite paying attention. Mrs Tomkins herds them out. The Mathesons bustle to Lorna, detach her from the Tea Urn, and anxiously check she's alright. Her face falls into her usual expressionless mask.

Dad stands at the top of the steps to see everyone off, ever the cartoon publican. (We must buy him a red clown nose for next Xmas). While Mum flutters over to adjust one of her dried flower arrangements.

Jamie

Adjourn to the garage. Band practice now. Tidy up tomorrow.

No way! All totally stuffed. Sit about like zombies. Staring at nothing. Thinking of nothing. The night of the living dead. Just missing our beloved leader. Well. My beloved ... whatever.

Little twist in my gut. Shiver through my body. Got a picture. A big bad butch bloke. Framed by gigantic black wings. Clutching a child tenderly. A major turn on.

Someone breaks the silence. Dom. Of course. "So who's this bloke that found Robbie?"

Sue chips in. Jokes. Throwing us all. "Jamie's new boyfriend."

Can feel my face get hot. Please no-one see it! No, its totally visible. Mr Beetroot. Jude jumps in. Bless her cotton socks. Can just hear her making it up. Out of bits and pieces of the truth. Lives near the crib somewhere. Keeps an eye on it term time. Bit of a laugh. Bit of a dish.

All I can see is Dom and Ryan. Too tired to cover. Both disappointed. Long faces.

Bloody Hell. Going to have to sort this soon. Love these two mangy mutts. But. There's this other place in my heart. Different shape. A winged shape. The shape he fits into. Sorry guys.

That place has got my entire attention.

### Chapter 40

Jude

It's a headache. Just a headache. And I guess it's only the usual time-of-the-month warning. But still it's like I carried that storm back with me – pounding in my skull, flickering in the corners of my eyes and knotting my guts, and every aching muscle in my body.

The others are all just lounging around in Normals-ville, tired but relaxed. There's my favourite baby brother – oh alright, my only baby brother - fiddling aimlessly with his hair, combing out tangles with his fingers. And Dom, staring at the ceiling while ... (thanks mate, really wanted to see you scratch your balls). Sue, all soft focus and of course my best friend, Jamie, scratching Orlando under the chin, his face almost as red as the cat's fur... Oops. Need to pay more attention. Dom and Sue have started a conversation stopper of major proportions. So I snatch a breath and ride to the rescue again. Again...

They still don't know about that night, I presume. Because of course being that we're just best friends naturally we've never talked about it since. Sure I get it – they beat you up and yeh I know what kind of family life you've had and all that shit but ... didn't you think it would matter to me if you ... weren't around to ...

I stumble to my feet, smile broadly (love a Polaroid of that), while making some kind of inane excuse. Sue tries to take my hand but I shake her off because, for whatever reason, I have no intention of playing nice a moment longer. Duck through the back door, and out of sight before anyone can follow. Flail around inside the house till I spot the booze stash.

Salvation. Grab a bottle of ... er, yuk. Well it'll have to do. Screwdriver – premixed, vodka with orange extract, plus enough sugar to rot your teeth on contact. With my luck it's probably entirely chemical with advertising standards met by waving one tiny strip of orange peel within a six foot radius of the mixing vat, once every two hours. But it's alcohol and I want to drink. A lot.

I hide under the famous balcony. Lift the bottle to take a swig and begin to cry... and cry and cry and cry. Great gulping hacking hiccuping noises. Not because I am reduced to such totally appalling alcoholic beverage but because ... well, because I'm crying, and even little Miss Method Actor doesn't know why.

Oops, almost side-tracked myself and stopped for a moment there ... but then on cue there she stands in my minds eye, Lorna. Sweet simple Lorna - never hurt a fly. All she has to look forward to is some grim grey loonies home where no one knows who she is or what she has been, or what she might have dreamed to become. And like a stone dropped, it all ripples out and I howl for the lost and lonely and unloved, and the unlovely ...

I even cry for Him. (Huh, Sympathy for the Devil). Hell I've only been miserable all my life, what's that? A measly 17 and one half years. He's been lonely for ... well, quite a while ... But at least finally he's got someone... I guess, coz that's another undiscussed situation. Whilst here I am, aching for somebody, anybody to come and hold me, rock me and make it all better. Where are they anyway when I need them. Are they my friends or what?

You know Lord, "born alone, die alone" is one thing – Oh OK it's two, but still sort of one if you know what I mean and I think you do ... But it's this possibly lengthy bit between, this "living alone" thing that's giving me the screaming heebie jeebies here. The sheer depressing obviousness that no-one will ever think my thoughts with me, no one will ever feel my passions with me, no-one will ever see the world as I do, no one will ever ...

So, Dear Lord lost in Heaven. Our Father who doesn't seem to give a ... toss! What's the point? You going to break a few thousand years of total silence and answer me on that one? Can you even hear me, you One True and Only God-person-thingy, shit-face, bastard ... (yep, we're on the brink again of using the c word!)

And he's back. Looming up in my mind with that splendid trade-markable eye-brow. Damn you Beelzebub! I can't help but laugh. Well, snicker a bit ... Me, the Good Catholic girl and I bonded with Satan over the use - or not - of the c word. Don't remember being warned about that in Catechism class. But it's true. It appears that I've proverbially "Gone to the Devil". Hell, here I am by the deep blue sea. What more could a girl wish for? (Answers on the back of an envelope - there will be no prize!).

I hear Jamie's voice, calling for me. He slithers down the gravel slope to the beach, where he stands calling, looking futilely into the night. Finally, he gives up and heads off towards the crib. I let him get out of sight before I blow my nose on my T shirt, and wander out onto the sand and into the darkness.

After about 30 seconds of desultory plodding, it becomes totally clear that I'm bored and tired - no energy for empty gestures to absent audiences. So, with a low curtain-call curtsey to the lonely sea and the sky, I turn back for bed.

### Chapter 41

Nick

This coast is always treacherous territory to fly, but the rising storm makes low flight to sense the child a distinctly disturbing experience. Mere inches away, the tall hard flax seed-stems waggle menacingly at me like the angry finger of some irate teacher. I am feeling very expos'd and vulnerable in that place where no male wishes to.

I am not sure what I expected I would find when I reached him. Perhaps he would be asleep, maybe frighten'd, but hopefully unhurt. However my admittedly cautious arrival is met with calm regard. He studies me, head akimbo, from top to toe in such a serious manner that I feel obliged to turn around so he can scan me entirely. Something in how he momentarily lingers makes me realise that he is still young enough to ignore the cues I use to invoke cloaking. But he appears completely unbother'd by anything in my appearance. When we are facing again he simply nods in genteel greeting and introduces me to Teddy Doll-Doll, whom he informs me was beginning to become a little scared. Though he told him, and told him again, that it was all going to be alright and now it is.

Without further ado he holds his arms out to picked up. A surprising shiver of warmth runs through to my core as I feel them about my neck and his body cuddl'd into mine. He whispers into my ear that he has decided that he'll get used to the flying first before he begins to look around, if that's alright. I assure him that even the most experienced flyers take a little time to orientate themselves every journey.

Then he begins the in-flight entertainment, with a full and frank disclosure of every thing that he has done today. I am completely charm'd by his measured adult delivery, and the soft flutter of his lips and breath in my ear is agreeably diverting. I can feel both tension and restraint unknit from body and mind.

I also find the flying becoming easier as in some way I respond more readily and immediately to the wind and weather patterns. There are a few moments where he stops chatting to watch with me, as we skitter playfully through the spasming eddies. We both regard each other with cheerful surprise. That was fun. He looks conspiratorial and suggests we could skim the tops of the waves, but accepts without demure my view that it would be cold and wet, which is never a great way to finish an adventure.

He smiles at me and reaches up a chubby hand to trace the tattoos around my mouth, squealing in delight when I pretend to snap at his fingers with my teeth. I could enjoy his company for many a day. It is such a pity there is not some way in which we could continue to visit. Then, without warning he becomes sleepy and before dozing off, pats me on the chest and says, "Nice angel."

An Eden child.

When I have deliver'd my "braw wee" bundle, I return to the crib and succumb to the overwhelming desire to lie down and rest. I wake sometime later to hear Jamie clatter up the front steps and am immediately muffled in a blanket of easy delight at his return. I go to greet him.

He stops still a few steps away from me, considering. I feel a measure of the same unjudging regard that little Robbie employed earlier in the evening. I return the compliment with a flutter of elation, happy to be merely present to that absolute and unadulterated innate beauty. "Make love to me."

That was not what I expected, and the answering cry within is so sudden as to shock me into silence. He must think I am displeas'd because he gives a tiny shrug, exposed and transparent. And as a result, to my heart, looks even more unbearably lovely.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to be uncool."

"It is cool. You are cool. Chilly to the nth degree, as you young persons might say. But therein lies the issue - I am old."

"You look 21."

"You are the perfect gentleman. But that does not change the fact that I am something like 2990 years too old for you."

He looks confus'd. So I help out. "The Pederast Index?"

"You were listening."

"Checking out the competition. Regardless, on your own admission, I can not morally sleep with anyone less than 3007."

He suddenly laughs and the universe lights up. "Hell! Sleep is that last thing I was planning."

I move to him and can not resist holding him by the shoulders so I can get a closer look at that dear face. He looks down, suddenly embarrass'd. I lift his chin. "I have thought about it."

"And ?"

I pause, reluctant to take the notion further. "I have thought about it."

"Make for a good tug?"

It takes a moment to work out what he means. When I do, I put on my best disappointed expression. "Well ... So so."

For the briefest moment he is disconcerted, but then realising, with a counterfeit cry of fury, throws himself at me and beats his fists against my chest in mock frustration. I wrap my arms around him and bind him in a bear hug so that he is unable to move a muscle. We look laughingly into each others faces before we both lose focus and with filmic flawlessness, lock lip to lip.

" _I think I hear violins_."

" _Not!_ "

So, we can kiss and touch minds simultaniously. Whatever next? In perfect response our thoughts concurrently descend to our groins. My mind flusters like some old-worlde maiden. In self defence it could be said I am the earth's oldest bachelor. Perhaps even, its most ancient spinster?

He can feel the pressure, " _No girl I know can manage that!_ "

He tries to escape from my grasp but I refuse to let go not matter what his struggle. But there comes a moment when I can't hold him any longer and we collapse on the floor, out of breath from laughter.

Eventually we draw ourselves up to lean against the walls across from each other, in a state of contented truce. A shaft of moonlight through the glass front door halos his profile. He looks at me softly, sweetly, desire damp'd down to a smoulder in his eyes. My mind reels again. He is now the adult, I the confused adolescent. He's absolutely calm. Absolutely sure. "I can wait."

He offers me his hand. Carefully we both stand and I retreat back down the hall into relative shadow to gather what rags of dignity I have remaining.

"But guess what I'm getting for my birthday?" With one flowing move, he uncinches his belt and drops his trousers with a clunk to the floor, to waggle his penis at me.

"You have been practising that."

A hit, a palpable hit! He has the grace to look mildly shamefaced. "Maybe."

We both laugh as I head for the front door. I can not resist giving his penis a friendly shake on the way past. His knees buckle a little but by the time he has recover'd and has pull'd up his pants to chase me, I am perched on the porch roof above the front door, tantalisingly out reach. "If your birthday present is going to be at all up to expectation, I need to go to the Island to feed."

"Better go for the four course banquet then!"

As I fly away I find myself whispering into his mind. " _I love you_."

I can feel the frisson of his delight before he conceals it with a cocky smirk in his thought. " _I know._ "

A long way out to sea, following a path of moonlight across the waves, I hear a muted murmur on the edge of my consciousness. " _You know, I'm mildly infatuated with you, too_."

Somebody is going to get a big smack when I return home.

### Chapter 42

Thursday December 27

Jamie

We have sun.

Not the vapid, peek-a-boo, here and gone kind. No. Full-on 'feel the burn', red neck sun. Sparking off the long low waves. Flaring the swirling roughcast acres of puddled sand. All darting curves. Sweeping. Swelling. Sexy.

Stand quite still. The glare is intense. Good thing I nicked his sunnies. Just for the day. Enjoy the soft breeze stroking my skin. Taste the airborne salt. Drink in the 240 degree panorama. Washed out in faded blues and gold.

I am one happy chap. Loving the life thing. Loving the being loved thing. No doubt. This in-a-body experience is ... massive!

Tide's low enough to potter from bay to bay by sand. Ten again. Clamber down the cliff to splatter through the rock pools. Overhangs havening tiny teeming life. Undersides pendulous with green lipped ebony mussels. The cockabullies flock for cover. Swarming for synchronised safety. The crabs scuttle away in mock terror. Waving a single king-size pincher apiece. Goodbye.

Sue has set up. Such a grand lass. Engulf her with a hug. Surprise to us both. I tend to shy off. Physical contact? Not my scene. Now is. Very much my arena. My amphitheatre of endeavour. Sportsfield of achievement. Podium of victory.

Aha! Dom at the work bench. Oiling a dash pot. (Carburettor talk) Dirty. Nice. Ambush him. Can not escape.

I am the new breed of Superhero. "Mr Cuddles". "Super Smooch". Beware "The Big Smackeroo". He looks pleased and exasperated. Wiping the spit from his cheek.

Finally Jude. On arrival, pounce from behind door. Uh oh. Sense resistance here. New Hero Persona required. Viola! "Le Debonair". (Not the refrigerator). "Super Dancer". Behold "The Viennese Waltz". Fleet of foot. Taut of buttock. Whisk her onto the floor.

She struggles. I struggle. We struggle together. Such modern kids. Can't manage 3/4. Settle on 4/4 romp. With freeform gallops. Finally. In sync. On a breath. Change of pace. Tango! Sue, Dom stamp along. Olé!

Sue plays linesman. Catches us before we fall into the drum kit. Jude shakes head, "Nuts!"

"That's it!"

"I know. Your point?"

"Title!"

They nod. Used to my shorthand. Set them to work. New song. New sound. Sue on acoustic bass. Jude on rations. Kickless, de-Tom'd. Standing at snare and hi-hat. Dom, metal beater on carb'. Me with guitar. Unplugged. Unpitched. Chukka chukka groove. And so ... "Nuts" is born. Grows up. Becomes No 1 hit. We hope. Will close the end of year festival set. All agree.

Settle on the rest of the track list. Couple of covers. Kiwi classics. Split Enz "I See Red". Alistair Riddell and Space Waltz "Out on The Street". Dragon "April Sun In Cuba". Open and close with originals. Should keep everyone happy.

Give the set a trial run. Still in semi-unplugged mode. Mucked up. Free-for-all. Rough edges and flaky adlibs. Scatty. Bratty. Less is more. Having fun. Taking the piss. Playing loose with convention.

Result. It clicks. New bounce. New groove. New sound - Bossa Nova Punk! Start to chuck about new lyrics. Pursuing the double entendre. The Holy Hook. The Happy Hooker. Happy as Larry. Whoever he is.

Need to stop this game soon. Exhausting. Out of control. Somebody slap me! And viola (yeh I know) – God listens. Russell walks in.

The Sound Of Silence. Did I just say that aloud? Sue nods. Well. That was unexpected. Situation petrifies into a staring game. Narrowed eyes. Lit by post box slit of sun. A Morroconi soundtrack moment. The classic movie standoff.

Russell is first to blink. He shuffles. Moves lips. Soundlessly. This could take a while. But Dom sorts it. "Fancy a beer?"

At last. The lips produce noise, "Just came to say thanks.". And. He's off. Uncorked. On a roll. Quite the chatterbox. Story of "How bloody upset I..." "How chuffed that you ..."

He's been practising. Still, it comes from the genuine place. In that moment, I can see the resemblance. Really, he's just a big Robbie.

Meanwhile. Note: I feel nothing. Mind has a go.

It happened.

So?

It happened.

And ... ?

Even try a brief replay. But it's gone. Long gone. Anger. Fear. Interest. All gone bye-byes. Someone else's home movie. Blurred. Scratched. Silent. No sound track. No resonance. No recognition. Bunch of strangers. Every one. Even the character that looks like me. Riding off into a sepia sunset.

House lights up. Check out the effect on others. Sue taking it all as normal. Jude not a happy lass. Dom is glowing. Aha! Love. Well, lust. Think he's pushing shit up hill ...

Appears Russell is finishing. Turns to me. "I..." Big pause. Oops. Appears beer battery has run down.

Hand him another Speights, "Forget it."

Looks surprised. "What ..."

Better be pointed here. "I have."

Dom. Running on half a story. And at least four beers. Carried away. "It's Jamie's birthday, the 29th. We're ... well that's a secret ... You could come."

Jude. Russell. Both slack jawed. My cue. "Yeah. Second that. Great idea. In the meantime I'm gone. Surfing with Ryan. So. Chance to pow wow the details. Play nice now."

Jude moves to head me off. Smile. Grab a hand. Spin her in. Whisper, "It's cool. We'll talk."

She can't respond. Coz I kissed her. Complete pash. Threaten slipping her the tongue. Glint in her eyes. She'll bite. Better part of valour. Desist. Rather be coward. In full ownership of oral faculties. And anyway. I have plans for this mouth. Big plans (tee hee) ...

I release Jude with a flourish. Twirl to the door. Offer gracious, if slightly tipsy, wave farewell. They all blow kisses in reply. Except Russell. Who looks slightly flushed. And thoroughly, splendidly confused. He'll learn. If he's going to hang with us. And survive.

He'll have to.

### Chapter 43

Saturday December 29 - Jamie's Birthday

Russell

My guts are killing me. Acid. I can feel the burn right up to my throat.

There's frigging nerves for you. I didn't sleep much last night just trying to find a way out of this, looking for some kind of excuse to stay at home. I only went back to see them because I wanted to say thanks because they has been really great about my little brother. And to be honest, they had no reason to care or bother or make an effort of any kind. And then I get caught up in going on this ...

Bloody Sodom and Gomorrah! Hadn't really noticed how much of a death trap this car is when we were slowly chuntering about looking for Robbie. But on the first corner out of Riverton the door's flown open at 30 mph plus and I'm not about to undo my seatbelt to reach out and grab it closed. Dom takes one look, flicks the steering wheel, and veers onto the other side of the road – bugger any oncoming traffic – then swerves hard back to the left to swing the errant door perfectly back into my tentatively out-stretched hand. He then woops like the All Blacks have just won a test and chortles manically.

I'm so bloody freaked that I can't help but join him in hysterical laughter. And like the opening to some road movie we head off down Highway 25, wind blowing through our hair - and up the leg of my shorts from a large rust hole in the floor - to catch up with the others in Bluff for Jamie's surprise birthday jaunt.

This is where it gets a bit weird but the man himself doesn't seem to give hoot and hell, I'd face a firing squad to get some time away from the parents. I was thinking that it'd be great for them to spend some time with Robbie, but I heard Mother on the 'phone just before I left sorting out a baby sitter. She never did get the family thing.

We've slowed to rattle across a railway track so conversation is briefly possible. Before I can catch it, my mouth is asking Dom whether he likes his parents.

"Yeh, they're OK. You can share them if you like. I mean, yours are totally crap, eh?"

Sue reaches over from the back seat and give him a friendly clip about the ear, and for a moment he takes his mind off piloting this wayward shit-heap down the road, to realise what he's said, and apologises very sheepishly. "Sorry. I just meant ..."

I hold off replying till he's wrestled the car out of the gravel at the edge of the road and back onto the straight and narrow of the tarmac. "Hey, its not a hassle. Actually, it's a major relief to find that I'm not the only person in the world that thinks so."

Sue pats me kindly on the shoulder. I must have looked a bit surprised coz nobody does the affection thing round our house, except of course Robbie who is a complete cuddle-bunny. But she doesn't seem to notice, or if she notices, certainly doesn't care. She just goes back to smiling at the world whipping past us at high speed.

To me, the countryside passes like a very, very long and unchanging foreign documentary. There is something about this landscape that jars my eye. Yes, just like home the ingredients are the same - green fields and trees and fences and livestock and all that stuff. But this is all sharp edges, acute angles, and twisted outcrops. Framed by jagged hills. None of the smooth curves and sweeps created by hundreds of years of cultivation that I'm used to. And what's really weird is the distance between towns. I keep expecting to see a cluster of red brick around every corner, but the little strips of roadside white weather-beaten weatherboard are few and far between.

Lulled by the drone of the car and the rhythmic flash of the drunken wooden power-poles, I settle back into my seat and give in the fact that I am way out of my depth here and there's not a single thing I can do about it. Muscles I didn't even know existed give up the struggle and let go. Followed a bit later by corners of my mind I haven't ventured to visit for quite some time.

Dom looks across at me and smiles cheerfully. I grin back. You know, I've got this really good feeling that this mad caper might just turn out alright.

### Chapter 44

Jamie

Sleep late. Birthday boy's prerogative.

Know he's not there. Set off some time in the wee small hours. Part of Jude's plans. But anyway. Up stairs I go. Jump into the tangle of his bed. Burrow deep. Tracing his aroma. Wrap tight around me. Imagining his arms. And ...

Oh to start the day with him. And my special "present". But. I can wait. Or not.

Hello, Mr Palmer and his five sons.

Jude

Dad insists on picking Jamie up at the crib. I don't even try to reason with him nor exclaim I told you so when he has to navigate a twenty-three point turn at the cattle stop to head back into town.

He's inordinately proud of his snot-green barge, a humungous wedge of Aussie cheese that he and Dom spend hours exaggerating the merits of. Metalflake paint – Oo! Hemi heads - double Oo! In its favour it's the first car I've ever come across that's got air-conditioning and electric windows. Now that is cool! Geddit?

So we sail off regally down the road back through Inver-"giggle" in the station wagon, but near the airport take the turn off for Bluff. Jamie looks a wee bit surprised, which is fair enough because Bluff isn't exactly the destination of choice of anyone with a modicum of taste, discernment, or discrimination - it's a dump. But he's happy enough to go along with the game, asks no questions and makes no comments.

In fact Bluff is merely a stop off to catch Russell's Aunt's tourist launch - a converted 19th century fishing boat. I've organised for her to take us over to one of the smaller bays round the back of Rakiura Island for lunch, swimming, the whole summer basking in nature deal. Then in the early evening she's going to take the parents (mine and his) back while we spend the night out under the stars. The advantage of all this not only do we get to have a good time but also a certain person's daylightly challenged b'friend can join in the celebration.

The Chrysler sighs and swoops its way round the harbour past the towering meccano tentacles of the Meat Loaders, constructed unsurprisingly for the loading the frozen lamb onto refrigerated cargo ships for export. Not a lot of use after the English bailed out on us to sleep with the whores of Europe. (Us bitter? Too right mate!)

Over the other side of the bay you can see the belching chimneys of the Tiwai aluminium smelter. To power it up Piggy Muldoon and his National Party flooded the finest apricot orchards in the world. Plus some exquisite terrain and a bit of choice goldmining history. But what's the value of an historic town or two, or someone's livelihood when you need hydro-electricity to placate the agent of a foreign power?

We pull up to the wharf, just as Jamie's olds get out of their car. Duncan and Deirdre – Mr and Mrs Geddes - Mum and Dad's Friday night Canasta party cohorts. They get together to relive their (not very) misbegotten youth, and to celebrate the 60s on a menu of Bolognaise and Du bonnet and Dylan.

Mr is all boisterous charm and restless energy, with a sometimes unfortunate propensity to playfulness and teasing. It's great for his youth work – kids love him, think he's like some out-of-uniform clown. Dad and he make a perfect pair of hearty glad-hand lads.

Mrs always presents as shy, her head winsomely to one side, a hopeful half smile. My mum is one of the few people that makes her feel at ease I reckon, so she's not too bad round us. Otherwise she can put it on a bit and tends to be very high maintenance. However, when she opens her mouth you can forgive her almost anything. She sang at my Nana's funeral, "I Know my Redeemer Liveth", it was like the heavens opened and smiled on us. I, cynic No 1, just suddenly knew that everything was all right. Always had been. Always would be. Amen!

But then my first instinct when I saw he'd been bashed was to wonder if it was her. He sometimes lets slip what it's like growing up in that publicly perfect but privately shit-house world. His Dad is fantastic with kids as long as they are other peoples. He's never managed to take any real interest in his own son and certainly has never made the slightest effort to protect him from his definitely damaged and damaging wife. But just like Sue, Jamie forgives them their trespasses and I try to ignore his efforts at winning his father's attention and staunching his mother's wounds.

My revere and our stilted hellos are interrupted by the roar of Dom's crate arriving from the point. He'd got here first and gone around to show Russell the famous sign post. The idea is that you are at the end of the world so it's branched with pointers and distances to everywhere major – New York, London, etc - on the known planet.

Someone somewhere (else, up north probably) with a vivid imagination probably thought it would appeal to the tourists – or the "loopies" as they are called on the island - blow-ins, like the lupin flowers that seed wild along the roads.

I'm just toting the first load of picnic junk down to the end of the wharf to avoid the strain of further social niceties, when the Rawhiti slides in. It looks so totally graceful but the roaring of the engine in reverse, the whine of the gears, and the slushing of the backwash kinda dilutes the romance.

A figure outlined in sun throws me a rope.

"Barbara?"

"Too right!"

I hide my amazement with some (only partly faked) fumbling with getting the loop over the bollard.

All I have known about Barbara is her voice (quite husky over the phone) and that she plays for the woman's equivalent of the All Blacks. So I was expecting tree trunk legs, bulldozer shoulders, and mannish short hair. But au contraire! She's sleek and almost petite with a swimmers physique, not much older than me, with a naughty-girl grin that could melt hearts. (Mine?)

Sue sidles up beside me, drops her load of tarps and blankets, and wonders quietly, "Catching flies?"

I return to Planet Earth and close my mouth with a clunk, only to notice that Barbara is looking directly at me. She smiles as she takes of her sunnies, and my fizzing brain manages to note that she says with a little emphasis, "Its great to met you in the flesh at last Jude."

Sue is highly amused by the fact that I am rendered speechless. But hell, what am I supposed to say - "Where shall I leave my clothes?"

### Chapter 45

Jamie

Out at sea. Surrounded. As above, so below. Piercing silvered blue. The curved horizon. The far edge of sight. Falling off the end of the world. Almost invisible.

The boat pitches towards the island. Shallow all the way. No matter the tide. No matter the weather. The water heaves drunkenly. Up and down. Surges in long slow troughs and languid mounds.

There's been a careful silence since we left the shelter of the harbour. But now digestions and balance are more under control. Movement and talk tentatively explored.

Jude is on the wheel. Flushed. A bit awed by Barbara? Sue staring into the clear depths. Dom is chatting ninety to the dozen. Keeping Russell's mind off his stomach. At the stern. Mum and Dad. Catching up with the O'Hallerans. Silly stories. Granddad's latest misadventures in reality.

I'm up at the bow. With Ryan. Surfie dudes. Can handle the chop. Mum looks across. Frowns. Wonder what she's found to criticise this time. Clothes? Hair? Weight? Existence?

Haven't had thoughts like these since... getting second chance at life. No need to traverse the past. The present is an ample sufficiency. Family joke if offered more food. But there's a huge cloud of memory threatening. Ryan calls out. "Dolphins!"

Four of them. Riding the bow wave. Falling away into dark whistling shadows beneath us. Keeping pace. Rolling on one side to regard with sparkling eye. Waving flipper. Chippering away. Dolphin laughter. Then back into the foam. Arching. Diving. Playing the fish fool. As we approach the island they peel away.

But there's distraction. Every direction. Little blue penguins bob among the swell. Seals bask, roar on the rocks. Weka play chase in the surf of a golden bay. Seagulls and Mollymawks tail us in clamouring hope.

Barbara avoids the main bay. Heads down an inlet. To a sprinkling of little islands. Stops us short of landing. Under a towering cliff. It plummets deep into the sea. Roots visible to thirty feet plus.

Through the cabin window. Jude holds up a hooked line. Mouths "lunch". Massive! My favourite. Blue cod straight from the sea. Gutted. Scaled. Boned. On the spot. Into a pan of half seawater, half fresh. Presented poached on buttered homemade bread. Heaven. Can't explain. But doesn't taste anything like what's normally called fish.

Mum hands me a scalding mug of tea. "Thanks". Then a little package. "Happy Birthday."

A Pounamu fish hook pendant. Only supposed to get greenstone as a gift. Not to buy it for yourself. "Thanks. Its beaut!"

Dad watching from afar. Smiles and waves. I wave back.

She half smiles. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You've lost some weight."

"Surfing."

"Oh... " She can't think of anything else to say. Wants a hug. Can see the yearn. But I can't move. She finally pats my hand. Wanders off.

I look at the pendant. Small but expensive. Carefully chosen. No white flaws to mar the deep green. Hand carved. Maori carved. Chunky. The real thing. Put it on. Feel its smooth chill on my chest. Ryan admires it. And me. Sweet.

We tie up. Load up. And hump the provisions over land. Through silvered beech. Towering tree fern. Bathed in sprinkled light. Again we're all hush. Content. Listen to the birdsong. Smell the luxuriant rot. Watch the bush Robins. The Fantails. Flickering after fodder. Clamber cliff edges. High over rocky bays. Jewelled by breaking swell.

And finally. Out of the comforting bush. Dazzled. Into a gold sickle cove. Reckon this is what the Caribbean is like. Dense foliage melting to the sand edge. The Rata, vivid red in its hair. Powder blue water. Translucent. Lazy. Only one thing to do. Swim.

Ryan

I can never get enough of being in the sea. You can keep your Tepid-Baths swimming with chlorine and kiddie tinkle. This is what it's all about. That first gasping chill and then the glow that seeps through every muscle as you haul yourself back 'n forth across the bay.

The rest are fooling about with a ball on the beach, but after being cooped up all that crossing I'm fit to bust. I need to work loose some shit, so out here in the colder deep I push it hard. It usually takes no more than a good couple of miles before my mind tires enough to give me peace. But this time round it won't give up, and fair enough too, this could turn out to be the weekend that truly ruins my life.

Not only am I being sent back early with the parents like a child, but I'm not gonna be there to keep an eye on my prospective husband's new boyfriend. I suppose it'll save me from being sent to Borstal with the other teenage delinquents because I stabbed him on the spot. They don't do the French crime of passion defence here.

Mind you, getting locked away with a lot of sweaty hormonal budding criminals could have compensations. Like ... syphilis!

Well, I can wait; and while I wait ... I can shop!

Dom

I am majorly pissed off, eh.

Coz we've ended up on opposites sides for touch rugby. Russell's choice. But I am starting to see another side to that bloke. Coz the first time I run wide into the sea he wrestles me down, and hangs on long after the game has continued without us. Interesting, eh.

So I test it out, and sure as eggs are eggs he does it again. Right I'm onto you mate.

Third time I 'accidentally' drag us further out and give him a thorough groping and then leave him to it. He stands in waist height water for quite some time before he's able to rejoin the game. That'll teach him to wear those ball hugging Speedos. Baggies have distinct advantages in the cock camouflage stakes.

Jude

Whoa, girl. I think I could be dribbling. Watching Barbara power across the sand, feinting, darting, dodging, is breath taking. I am completely mesmerised by the way every muscle in her legs ripple. She scores!! I just hope I restrained myself enough not to cheer, she is after all on the other team. Oh. Perhaps I didn't succeed because Sue gives me a cheery thumbs up, and I think she may have just mouthed "subtle".

Worse, Barbara has also noticed, and gives me a gentle pat on the back as she passes

"You are allowed to tackle me, you know."

"What?" (and end up as shamelessly obvious as Dom and Russell? )

She's got the ball again and is heading my way. Oh alright, if I must I must. Oof! You know, there's nothing particularly erotically satisfying about a mouthful of sand. Though the attention and sympathy that follows isn't half bad.

Jamie

Is it the sun? The sand? The sea?  
I'm smothered. Gagging here. The stink of sex. Welcome to Hormone City!

Fortunately the Old's are otherwise occupied. Mum and Mrs Murphy are setting out more food. Time for the sweet stuff. Blackberry jelly. Bottled Roxdale apricots. Drowning in canned cream. Lamingtons. Sherry trifle. The summer standards.

On the beach. The bygone rugby greats. Aka the Dads. Also hard at work. Fully engaged in the act of breathing. Failing miserably at disguising how out of condition they both are. Tempted to show concern. Are youse guys OK? Am I that cruel.  
Am I hell!

Whatever, They're pleased to stop. Down the cold drink.

### Chapter 46

Jude

Jamie is escorting the olds – his and mine – and a very whiny Ryan back to the boat. His excuse is that he has to pick up his guitar that got left behind, but he's really just being Little Mr Good.

I haven't been able to come up with an excuse but everyone seems to have taken it or granted that I'd walk back with Barbara. Hey, I can take a hint – when it suits me, (and this certainly does). The fall to earth happens all too soon after we depart. We've been talking dogs, breeds we have known and loved, and of course she opens her wallet to play the proud parent and show me her prize winning Rhodesian Ridgeback.

It's a very handsome photo of a very handsome dog - and that is certainly a very handsome older woman hugging it. I don't want to know but the hyper-nonchalant silence which accompanies my unasked question elicits the usual unwelcome news. Bummer! Well there goes a promising career as a baby dyke out the window. Looks like a rapid return to blokes is on the cards – or not!

After waving them off Jamie and I wander silently back through the bush. I'm trying not to give in to disappointment, not to be moody, it is after all his big day. But the bush starts to feel stifling, its humidity oppressive, and I can't think of a light-hearted topic to while away the walk.

These days Jamie is no champion of small talk but I must have sighed once too often because he tucks his arm camp-cosy into mine. "Okay, girlfriend, how do you want her killed?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, she's broken my best sister's heart and must pay for it."

"A momentary infatuation. I will recover."

"Must say, I'd have turned for her."

"You wouldn't've! Would you?"

He turns on his best nasal dumb blonde impression - the blousey broad from Singing In The Rain. "Of course not. "What do you think I am, dumb or something?"

My mind is rolling again so I guess now is as good a time as any. "What's the deal with Russell?"

"Not my type. Dom fancies him rotten."

"No, I mean how do you feel about him."

It appears that all he can manage is some kind of vague indifference, which kinda spoils any prospects of some good dramatic blood dripping Greek vengeance. (Damn, and I've already written a toga shredding, histrionic role for me – quelle surprise!) He still doesn't seem to remember much, or at least not much that he'll tell me. But he recalls enough to speculate that in fact Russell probably wasn't there.

"Campbell wouldn't have said "This is for Wells" if Russell had been actually standing anywhere near. Russell's a big bloke and quite capable of fighting his own battles."

My mind raises an interesting piece of speculation, "Do you reckon Campbell is a closet and fancies Russell?"

"Bruce Campbell is as thick as a fence post and fancies himself."

Now that's reassuring. My best mate hasn't lost the skill of bitchery! Yeh!!

Dom

I'm not quite sure why Jude picked this beach coz we're facing southeast and the sun has left us early. I 'spose it is the closest to the hut and it sure makes being in charge of the fire a whole lot more comfortable, eh. Russell and I have shooed the ladies off to sort out the cold food. Cooking snags is a man's job.

I reckon that this is as good as it gets. There's no doubt the twilight is the best bit of the day. Everything slows down, softens, takes the time out to breathe. I surface to find I'm standing with a beer, poking absent-mindedly at the fire. I wonder how long I've been doing that?

I look up through the smoke to see Russell looking suspiciously at a lump of raw dough that Jude has just dumped into his hand. I grab a green stick and show him how to wrap the Damper dough around it like a snake. He still looks confused.

"Its kinda somewhere between bread and scones 'cept you cook it over the fire. Slowly!"

After we've gorged ourselves, and before we get too pissed to be bothered, we hump all the bedding into the tramping hut behind the beach. Of course it wouldn't be us if there weren't a fight over who gets what bunk.

But in the fuss and flying pillows Russell manages to angle it to get the bottom bunk, head to head with mine. Hey, if that fella has thoughts of going lip to lip with me, well ... I might just let him. Sure as hell aren't gonna do anything more. You know my feelings on going public, eh.

Actually later he blew us all away (steady!) by his singing. Now I have the vocal talent of a chainsaw but I recognise a great voice when I hear one. If Jamie sounds kinda like a sobbie David Bowie (Heroes vintage) then Russell does the full on Freddy Mercury thing.

He certainly is the bloody champion, eh.

Jamie

We did it! After years of trying, finally did it. Thanks to Russell Wells.  
We actually transposed through "Delta Dawn". An entire octave. And then. One full tone more. Amazing.

And what a voice. Even Jude was impressed. What's more, said so! I made him sing "Nessum Dorma". No doubt. He's the real thing. No reedy nasal squawking here. Just burnished gold. Effortless to the top of his range. Massive!

For an ensemble encore. Jude teaches them "Narrow and Strait". Sounds pretty good. When we can sing for laughing. Try harmony. Even Dom can match his basso drone to the bass line.

Next time we bring tambourines.

Dom

About that going public thing ...

After his opera trumpeting he wandered straight back to me, and happy as Larry as they say, beaming like the bloody sun, drops into my lap in front of everyone. Well what could I do, eh? They all pretend to take an interest in the stars – oo look there's the two pointers, and the Southern Cross, and is that the Pot? Pity it's still a bit light to see them really.

But you know, I'm pissed enough not to care, so when they venture back from their brief excursion into consideration we are happily cuddled together like an old married couple (without the bickering).

Everyone takes it in their stride, though he must think I have heart disease or something, because its beating as loud as an unmuffled V8.

Jude

We've fallen silent. Settled down into fire staring, lulled by the swashing of the waves on the sand. A log crumbles to reveal a heart of burning crystal. The embers flare and flame against the sudden dark as the sky blazes into a huge aurora.

Either I've dozed off or I've had one too many because it seems to me that outlined against the livid heavens is a silhouette. A giant black neon edged shape.

At first I can't quite make it out. It's like being too close to a cinema screen so I have to swing my head to take it all in. It seems to be humanoid in shape and proportion, though spurs arch from each shoulder.

There's a whomp of wind. The aurora flashes and suddenly it becomes two enormous green and purple wings, translucent to the stars behind. They beat. Once. Twice. Thrice. The figure flies towards us and for a moment the whole world turns black. The night rings with a single high pitched note. We are washed with a fleeting waft of heady perfume.

I blink smoke out of my eyes to see that the fire has almost burnt out. I look up to see that it's once again twilight and standing barefoot in the wash at the edge of the waves is Nick.

Jamie

Only Jude copped that. Thankfully. Nice entrance Nick. Subtle. Not!  
At least now he's cloaked for the occasion. Very sexy. Floating open muslin shirt. Cream linen trou'. Nice.

For a moment. I wait. Watching him fidget. Diffident. Almost shy. And looking so beautiful ... heart stopping. And not just for me. The others dutifully are catching flies. Jaws to the sand.

Finally. Have to go fetch him.

### Chapter 47

Nick

And in the 1979 Queen's Birthday Honour Awards, the Knighthood for Stealth and Subtlie of Approach is awarded to ... someone else. Someone who can keep his Wits about him long enough to consider the situation and not arrive in his excitement, wings aflame, in full Angelic glory.

Fortunately there were but two witnesses to my indiscretion and they both know my real history. Though certainly they've never actually seen me like that.

All day I haven't known what to do with myself. Restless, churning, sleeplessly preparing possible scenarios. You might consider me a (very) old hand at ... intimacy but it has been a very long time, and no matter what people traditionally think, making love is nothing like riding a horse. Solitary fantasy aside, you can forget how. Reality has turned my brain to hog food.

And it becomes no better. Standing on the beach confronted with their attention - the bashful new boyfriend presenting himself for scrutiny - I can not move. Fortunately Jamie comes to meet me, grabs my hand and tows me back to the fire to offer introductions all round. Jude admires me at arms length before presenting her cheek to be kissed. Sue smiles warmly, Dom ogles me with undisguised lust while Russell makes the connection with his little brother's rescue.

"The Black Angel!"

He sees my look of apprehension and explains that it's Robbie's name for me. I relax and tell him how much I enjoy'd Robbie's company. It is going to take some time for my hand to recover from the manly mauling of his grateful handshake.

I sit by Jamie though not actually touching. Jude sends me a silent message of exasperated despair. Yes I know, I am a sad coward. Jamie smiles affectionately at me and gently squeezes my hand, I can sense him willing me to relax, so I take a deep breath and play my part in the social minuet that ensues.

By the time we've exhausted the weather (great), the swimming (great), and the location (great), it's time for the birthday cake, though a fleeting tendril of evening breeze gets to the candles before Jamie does. Jude sends me a sly look and teases him that he'll be getting his wish anyway. Great. Everyone chortles appreciatively while Jamie writhes in pleasant embarrassment.

Jude repents and takes the attention off him by demanding a story from me. They all chorus in agreement, though mainly out of politeness. I search for inspiration. Being out under this still starry summer's night sparks a synapse back into activity.

"There is an old old warning that is still remember'd in High Schools in certain areas of North America. It was imported from England with the Pilgrims – Do Not Wear Green on Thursdays. Because the wearing of green on Thursday means that you are homosexual."

Jamie exclaims in horror, "But I've worn green on Thursdays!"

Jude plays mother, "Stupid child. You ARE homosexual."

He looks suitably appall'd, "Really? Why didn't somebody tell me."

"And let you enjoy your unnatural passions? I think not!!"

He grins so endearingly up at me that I relent and cuddle him.

"It is no more than an echo of something that was believ'd in England during the Middle Ages. So let us begin there. You know the folk lore about a figure called Robin Hood?"

They burst into song

" _Robin Hood Robin Hood  
Riding through the glen,  
Robin Hood Robin Hood  
With his merry men_/

_Bum Buddies_!"

They glare affectionately at Dom, who acknowledges with pontifical waves all round. "They wore green, eh."

"Yes they wore green."

"So they were gays, right?"

"Not exactly. That's a modern idea with all manner of other meaning added. I think you were probably more on track with bum buddies."

Jude sighs and shakes her head. "We're trying to clean up his act."

"Don't bother, I'm very happy with it the way it is."

"You don't have to listen to it."

"True."

I try to recapture centre stage. "Robin Hood?"

"And his Cheeky Chums!"

A collective groan. But Dom is on a roll. rying to impress Russell? "His Penis Pals! The Blowjob Boys! The Sherwood Suckers! The Forest F ..."

They leap on Dom and begin to tickle him mercilessly. He squeals for help to Russell, who laughs wickedly and joins in. I squirm in empathy, my toes curling in memory. They finally settle back down with another beer apiece and Jude encourages me to continue. "So, I'm guessing that the trad' version isn't quite on track."

"It is not that far from the mark. But you need to grasp the idea that England was a occupied country, populated by two quite distinct ethnic cultures, each with their own individual beliefs and way of life - the conquer'd Pagans and the ruling Christians.

If you consider the art of the Pagans (your Celtic ancestors) you find endlessly flowing lines woven into exquisite swirling patterns. It is the expression of supple lives shaped by the landscape that they lov'd, that they allow'd to guide and enfold them, lead them hither and thither freely on the journey of Life.

However the Christians under the heavy hand of Rome were govern'd by the mind. They dreaded the appetites of the body, its needs, its pleasures, its passions. They believ'd that to respond to one's nature would be to risk returning to being mere animal. It was they that introduced the idea that punishment was the only way to raise children. They ruled – literally – in straight lines. Nature was subjugated to their will. They trampled their roads and their ideas in orderly grids across the country.

But out in the remains of the forests there gather'd small groups of Pagan refugees carefully eeking out an invisible life in the old ways. The most famous haven being that in Sherwood. Among those still in servitude the message was whisper'd from hopeful Heart to hopeful Heart, "If you go out into the forest on Thursday wearing green, they will come find you and take you home."

"But I don't see how that made you a poof, eh?"

"It didn't. It's just that the Celts followed their Hearts' and Bodies' instinct for connection. Love was found where it was found. It grew where it would grow. Those that were drawn to relationships that were deemed appropriate by their masters - that is to say, took the straight path - were relatively safe. Those who followed their nature down the curving - bent - path had to take to the forests."

"So are the characters we know real?"

"Yes, though perhaps they are not portray'd as they would recognise themselves."

"I always fancied crossing staves with Little John, eh?"

"You've always fancied anything that had a stave..."

Dom is indignant "And a heart beat!!"

Jude flashes me an apologetic look. "How do you know all this? Its not in the books."

"I ... They are stories handed down through my family. I had an ancestor who fell ill on a journey near Sherwood Forest where Friar Tuck (that jovial monument to the benefits of an all ale diet) ..."

Dom and Russell cheer. "... nursed him back to life. So he came to settle with them, sharing their way of life, joining forays to rescue their brothers and sisters from the sword, from hunger, or sickness.

But enough history. Now when ... my ancestor had first arriv'd, the Lady Marion had not yet come to live with them. She and Robin had been childhood neighbours and friends but time and circumstances had distanced them. However, this one Thursday her maid came to us pleading for help. Marion was being forc'd to marry the Sheriff of Nottingham the coming Saturday.

We talk'd it through and sent her back with a message that Marion should expect company for the ceremony.

On the night before the fateful day we dressed in wedding finery and having made hooped garlands of flowers danced our way into the castle as Marion's bridesmaids."

The others look perplexed. So I explain, "You have to remember we were all still quite young and even if I do say so myself rather pretty. Plus it was dark. Oh, and we were veiled under our wimples, which was particularly necessary for Little John who had the facial delicacy of a wild boar."

Jamie tries to sound nonchalant, "You're telling this as though you were there?"

Oops. "My apologises, I acted out this story so much with my friends when I was young that it actually seems like it happen'd to me."

Jude mouths at me, "Good save!"

I pretend not to have noticed. "We made ... they made their way to Marion's bedchamber and prepared to bear her away. They had decided to pretend that she was being taken to a neighbouring Manor for a mediaeval maiden's equivalent of a Hen Party. Her guards were easily convinc'd with flirtatious bribery of the alcoholic and monetary kind. But just as we were about to leave the room the Sheriff himself turn'd up drunk, with plans of his own."

"For some pre-nuptial nooky?"

"Unfortunately yes, Dom. Friar Tuck, like a galleon in full sail, and in splendid falsetto harangued him for his temerity. S/he tore strips off him for demonstrating such moral disrespect, and then kept him off balance by teasing him how much the more he would enjoy the morrow night. Tuck tip'd me the wink so I had the unenviable task of distracting him while they slip'd away. The others then launch'd into a rather boisterous dance and headed for the door with Marion, while I tempted the Sheriff to the bed.

I pull'd the curtains about us, intending to knock him out, but he became very excited by my weight on top of him and thrust his hand up my skirt. At discovering that I was a man he became even more arous'd. 've never know anyone to roll over so quickly and he was easily occupied ..."

Jude ostentatiously chokes.

"... while the others escaped." Oops gone a bit far again? It is all these pheromones in the air.

Jude puts on a breathless Famous Five voice. "I say, how ripping. It sounds as if you, I mean your great great great great grandfather, gave the beastly blighter a thorough ..."

I hold my breath.

" ... drubbing."

Jamie playfully smacks me on the arm, "That's a new way of looking at it."

Jude gives me a look, "So's the verb "to occupy"

Dom is reminded of a joke. "How do you make a queen scream?"

Everyone quickly and unsuccessfully searches for a diversionary piece of conversation ...

"Wipe your dick on his curtains!"

There's a gasp followed by the sound of choking. Russell is sitting up trying to catch his breath. Eyes wild he pushes Dom away, stumbles to his feet and off down the beach. The others freeze in surprise.

Dom protests, "I didn't think it was that crap."

Sue supplies the answer. "He's having a panic attack."

"But I'm nowhere near his curtains!!"

### Chapter 48

Dom

I could get used to this, eh. It's not so bad after all sitting with your arms round a bloke in public. Well, sorta in public. I actually feel pretty mellow. Pretty laid back. There's definitely something to be said for a plain old cuddle. I even risk a nibble at his neck. He squirms and grins back at me.

This Robin Hood stuff is nothing like they tell it in the books. Not that I've read many – well I have, but I have a reputation to maintain here. It's certainly not like on the TV or in the films. Seems like there's been gross deviancy throughout history. I like it, eh.

Russell's been getting steadily twitchier. Seems to be having trouble breathing. Asthma? But now he's started to shake. I try to find out what's the buzz but he won't even look at me. Pulls his head away. Something has really upset him. Don't think it was me, eh. Coz after all it was him that had got all touchy feely. I attempt to distract him with the classic O'Halleran sense of humour, but he just wrestles away from me and runs.

I'm not the only one that's taken aback. The others are sitting there like stunned mullets as well. Then Sue is up like a shot. She grabs something - a paper bag for heaven's sake - and chases after him.

By the time I get my shit together to follow, she's caught up and is getting him to breath into the bag. She puts her hand up to stop me before I get too close. So I hang about like a spare prick at a lesbo's party while she comforts my boyfriend, eh. My boyfriend ... oh, when did I get to think that?

Finally Russell takes the bag off his face and takes a few gulping breaths. Sue steps back, signs to me, and I move in but he starts to cry and keeps saying "Don't be nice to me... Don't be nice to me... I can't bear it if you're nice to me." Over and over.

Well too bad mate coz I reckon I'm here to stay so I put my arm around him anyway. When he doesn't actually try to fight me off I lead him over to some rocks. It takes a few minutes but he finally stops repeating himself and we sit in silence.

Then he starts to apologise over and over and I get really narked and give him an earful. "Stop bloody saying you're sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for, eh. Whatever it is that's worrying you I don't care. You're my mate and whatever the problem is I can handle it. So get over yourself and relax. It's sorted."

"But ..."

"It's alright. Just give over. And wipe your bloody nose. It's dripping like a tap and there's no way I'm gonna kiss a face covered in snot. Especially snot that disgustingly green and slimy."

He manages a kind of hiccupping laugh as I hand him my hanky, so I know we're on the home stretch. "I don't know what happened ..."

"Probably just overwhelmed to find a bloke as spunky as me to put up with you."

"One minute I was happier than I've ever felt and then ... Well I just couldn't breath and my hands were pins and needles. I was just ... really panicky."

"Well, I do have that effect on people. I think it's the fact that I have such a whopping great cock."

"You too?"

Well that was unexpected. And promising. He laughs at my expression. There's nothing for it I'm just gonna have to kiss him. But first I grab the hanky and hold it to his nose. "Blow!"

Nick

Watching Dom kiss Russell, Jamie is highly indignant. "Bloody hell! What is this with Dom? First he full-on pashes Jude and now Russell. I never even got a peck on the cheek!"

Jude and Sue both take that as a cue to give us some privacy and pointedly collect up the remaining debris and take it up to the cabin. Once they are gone we sit for quite a time in surprisingly comfortable silence before Jamie suddenly pipes up.

"So how did it end."

For a moment I'm confused. "How did what end?"

"Did they live happily ever after?"

Oh, why did that particular story come to mind? "Sadly no. When the rightful King returned we had hoped things would change, but life continued as before, and in the face of continual attack, the struggle became harder. Time passed. Many quietly returned to the mainstream way."

I find it hard to carry on, but not saying hurts no less than speaking it aloud. "When Robin died, he was little more than 32. Not long after Marion became frail and took refuge in a convent. Then Little John lost a final battle with gangrene. Tuck succumb'd to the bottle. A few of the young ones tried to keep up the havens, but in spite of Robin's... provisions, it took no more then a couple of years for it all to pass into legend."

I lapse again into silence.

"And Will Scarlet was Robin's lover?"

"Yes, how did you work that out?"

"You weren't wearing a red jerkin when you arrived."

I look down to see I am now indeed jacketed in scarlet, but try as I may I can't seem to will it to fade. After so many centuries of avoiding all recall, it floods back and I can again feel the dragging weight, the sticky damp of it, and smell the heavy aura of the abattoir... the unmistakable sweet scent of dead meat.

I beg his pardon and walk stiltedly down to the sea, trying shrug away memory. Standing in the ebb of the tide, the chill tendrils of the surf tug gently at my feet and at my attention. I concentrate on hearing it softly play its sluttering rhythms with the swishing sand. Attending to the white hiss begins to quieten my thoughts and by the time he has wandered down to join me I have released, and rebuilt that old denial.

We paddle up and down the waters edge in silence. I can feel him working up to something so I hold my peace.

"Must be hard. Outliving them. The ones you love. Eve, Robin, Will ... Me?"

I have no idea what to say to that, so I say nothing.

"Is that why you keep running away?"

For all my apparent concern for his welfare, he's nailed it in one. "Yes."

"But it doesn't disappear."

I'm not sure what he's getting at exactly. "No?"

"I meant the love. Her gift, his example, the plays and those sonnets, they have all lasted."

"And you might write songs to match them."

"If you stick around."

I let it pass for the moment. "I think it would be better to spend the night with your friends."

He says nothing.

"I would rather we made love at home in our own bed."

"Our home."

It is a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."

He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. "I did wonder about sand and mosquitos."

We meet Dom and Russell at the door, also on their way back. The four of us grin at each other, slightly sheepishly, aware that we have all so obviously put our passions on hold.

Jamie quips. "So much for stereotypes of male lust!"

Russell shrugs and grins. "Hey, Dom could have lasted more than thirty seconds if he had concentrated."

Dom tackles him and they crash in a laughing tangle through the doorway.

### Chapter 49

Sunday December 30

Dom

I know I'm driving and I shouldn't, but I keep glancing across at Russell. I just want to reach out and trace the way his hair shapes down the nape of his neck ...

Suddenly it occurs to me that we could go see Star Wars together in the New Year. I could cope with seeing it for the eight time, eh. I'm just gonna suggest it when I realise that it would sound quite a bit like a date. Bugger me if I haven't turned into a right girl's blouse. And what do you know but I don't give a shit, eh.

When we reach the Rocks I pull over on the grass bank looking out over the junction between the estuary and Taramea. We sit admiring the view, listening to the Allman Brothers on the tape deck. Eventually Russell makes the classic "yawn, big stretch, and drop the arm behind" routine, which would have been more effective if I hadn't gone for it at the same moment. We disentangle.

"Usually I don't kiss blokes, you know."

"But I thought you and Jamie ...?"

"That was just plain old rooting, eh."

He looks confused, so I spell it out. "I'm just saying that, well... I'm making an exception for you."

He gets the picture, teases, "Oh I'm boyfriend material."

I shrug and play it cool, "Maybe... Perhaps..." Give in. "Yeah, sort'a."

He takes a deep breath. "Listen, I'm really sorry about being a burke last night. It's just that ... one of the reason's we came to New Zealand is that I got caught by the police in the local park with this much older guy. My choice. But it all got blown out of proportion and well ..."

He's struggling so I help out. "Then its good thing you and I are the same age."

He grins, relieved, "Exactly."

We're in the middle of a rather satisfying pash and grope when suddenly he jerks his hand away and slinks down in his seat.

"What?"

"That car that just passed. I think it belongs to Bruce Campbell."

"What, that nana Datsun Bluebird?"

"That's the one. What the hell are they doing here?"

"It's beige! It'll to belong to a cardie wearing geriatric – there's a lot of them around this time of year. Pensioners – wrinkly and smell funny, but in the end not particularly dangerous."

He's not cheered by my playfulness so I drive slowly round the bays. And sure as eggs are eggs there it is, parked on the gravel in front of the Tiki. Russell has worked himself up into a right ol' lather, and I start to wonder if I've got a paper bag in the car anywhere. Perhaps the glove box?

"Stop! Stop! I need to get out."

I play it reall cool, "Ok, no probs. I'll drive on, and then you can wander up in a few minutes, eh."

"But..."

"Say hello as if we've bumped into each other a couple of times while you've been here. Nothing special. As long as you resist the urge to rush up and pash me we'll be home and clear. Eh?"

"Alright."

"That doesn't mean that you forget to kiss me now."

He looks entirely bewildered. "Pardon?"

"Forget it. Just relax."

"Do I look all right?"

"Fine except for that tattoo on your forehead saying "gaf"."

"Gaf?"

"I told you not to do it in the mirror. Why do you think most criminals go for Mum?

It takes him a moment to work it out but it does the trick. He laughs and leans across into the car to give my shoulder a manly squeeze. He's obviously trying to get into character. I don't mind coz I quite like it when he plays he-man.

Unfortunately he's right, eh. A fraction of a second after I'm though the door the cry goes up. "Hell, its O'Halleran!"

"Oh Hell!"

That was funny for five minutes when we were 10. "Yous blokes just get funnier and funnier."

Campbell rocks up to loom menacingly over me. Effective – not! "So, have you seen Wells?"

"Yeh a bit." I'm just not going say which bit ... Actually I don't want to even think such thoughts around Campbell who's built like a double-seat brick shithouse, with similar personal hygiene. The word smegma comes to mind. Now there's an interesting thought. What do you call it when a word smells like it sounds? Sounds like it smells? Something to that effect, eh.

I wander over to the counter while the three Rugger-Buggers practise passes with a can of Highlander Condensed Milk. Mrs Murphy looks up from making doll house furniture from shells, and waves hello with a pair of tweezers.

"Thanks for the help with Jamie's Birthday Mrs M."

She beams at me short-sightedly, "Oh, any time dear." Returning to trying match trumpet shells for tiny table legs, she suddenly wonders, "When is his birthday, pet?"

"Yesterday, Mrs M. We went to the island, eh."

"Oh yes so we did."

That leaves a bit a stilted silence which is finally broken by Russell bursting through the door like a full-back. Campbell smarms over to met him. "Speak of the Devil. Mate!"

Russell shares butch handshakes all round. "Campbell. Bragg. Bannister!"

Bragg gets funny. "Hey, it's the devil and O'Hell! Geddit?"

Bannister adds his two cents worth. "The perfect couple. A match made in heaven."

Luckily they read from our frozen response that we're totally repulsed by the idea.

"Don't get y' panties in a twist. Just joshing!"

Campbell looks at the "B's" with disgust. "You two are a right pair of poofs sometimes. Eh, Wells?"

I think Russell's response is unnecessarily hearty. "Pair of utter fruits!"

I leave them to it and head out behind the counter to the garage. Thinking of checking out how the band practise for tonight is going. But once through the swing door I lurk to hear Campbell mutter in dismissive disgust. "What a loser! I 'spose you've had to put up with his fuckwit mates."

Russell makes an attempt. "Well, they did help us rescue Robbie when he got lost."

Their voices fade as they leave, "Robbie got lost?"

"Yeah, Boxing Day ..."

### Chapter 50

Jamie

Dom barges me. Hard. Almost fall. Nearly drop the guitar. Am about to ask What the hell?

Russell speaks instead. "Get out of my way, you queers!"

Now completely confused. Heading round the back of the Soundshell. Saw Russell. Was about to give him a hug. When Dom hissed at me. "No!" And pushed.

Regain my balance. And. Look up into sneering faces. Campbell. Bragg. Banister. Ok. Got it now. Play it up. "Didn't think there was a Borstal in Riverton."

Campbell retaliates, "Didn't think there was a little girls home, either!"

Don't respond. Pick up Amp. Stick in on stage. Ready to go. Russell, behind their backs, shrugs. Heading back to the seats. Give him a friendly finger. He grins. Slightly.

There's the girls. Saved us places. No sign of Louise or Ryan. Weird behaviour there. Lots of sneaking around. Secrets. In-jokes. Whatever.

Finally. Sitting. Get the shakes. Not quite as over it as I thought. Jude squeezes my knee. Sympathy. I relax. Some. "Careful. I'll get a stiffy!"

She bats me about the ear. Mock fight time. Adults behind sniff. Disapproving. Hey. This is almost het' here. Get over yourselves.

Jude's dad clambers onto the stage. Welcomes everyone. Introduces the celebrity Master of Ceremonies. Local 4ZA DJ star, Jim Allwood.

How sad. That six foot tall, broad shouldered, and smouldering eyed, sexy radio voice? It's housed in the body of an over-weight, short-sighted, sweaty midget. There goes one fantasy. Unless ...?

Just kidding.

Jude

Ryan arrives with Robbie cradled in his arms. Robbie's making whooshing noises while Ryan careers about swinging him to left and to right. Robbie clambers on to my knee and whispers that they've been playing "Black Angel".

This time I make it clear, "I think that we should keep the Black Angel a total secret. Especially the flying stuff, OK?"

Robbie's totally unfussed. "OK. I've got another secret anyway."

"What's that?"

He looks at me like I need to grow a brain, and says with regal condescension, "Don't be silly. It wouldn't be a secret then!"

Ryan and the others snigger. But any thought of retaliation is wiped from my lips as the music blasts out to announce the imminent arrival of the Waihopai Girls Marching Team - current national champions, no less!

It's hard to imagine what kind of perverted mind came up with this as a competitive sport (and I use the word very loosely). But here they come - resplendent in white patent leather knee-boots, pleated skirts too small to blow your nose on, high button jackets cut for maximum revelation, topped by two foot feathered Busby helmets. Makeup is, as you'd expect, entirely bi-chromatic – sky blue eye shadow, fire-engine red lippy.

They strut out in two neat lines onto the concrete apron in front of the stage, poker faced, arms swinging, knees lifted, all to regulation height. My mind drifts off into thinking about our set list for later, so I don't notice anything until the muffled laughter around me breaks loose.

Robbie has climbed down from my knee and, with the seriousness that only a toddler can manage, is imitating the marching. He's got it down pretty pat – the steely gaze, the mechanical swing of the arms, the snap head turns, the high knee lifts, the goose steps, et al. The audience – bar of course the participants' Mums – are in stitches. I rush to scoop him up and we get a round of applause on our way back to the seat. He's just about to take a bow until I bear hug him into submission.

He is completely mesmerised into stillness by the next piece of entertainment – Thomas Moon, Magician and Illusionist. We all are. I guess we'd imagined some elderly bloke with an alkies red nose fumbling his way through a routine that was antique when Queen Victoria was a girl.

Instead we got a performance by a whiz kid of about 16, choreographed to the likes of Gary Numan, Kraftwerk, and Mi-Sex that fairly spits with energy. He and his "lovely assistant" (and this one, in white Geisha makeup and black bob, is a major glamour puss!) are both wearing space age interpretations of classical Japanese costume – exquisite kimono's decorated with high-tech materials and robotron electronics.

Robbie is in heaven. He almost forgets to breath as Moon begins his act by taking off pair after pair of gloves, each time producing a dove. Watching him magically link and unlink some silver rings, his eyes widen to match their circumference, and he is so enthralled by the floating ball that I fear I shall wear the marks of his tightly gripping hands on my thighs for the rest of my mortal days.

The only fly in the ointment is Russell's unwelcome guests who heckle the girl (Ok, to be PC – the young woman) performer with the usual derogatory "compliments" about her looks and then make offers of a good time that would make a porn star wince. They shut up very quickly when my Dad wanders casually over to loom above them. I can see Russell in the back just managing to hide a grin at their defeat.

Finally a brass bound chest is wheeled centre stage. The assistant hand-cuffs the magician, ties him up in a sack and padlocks him inside the trunk. She then stands on top , pulls up a large cloth about her, smiles brightly at us and throws it up in the air.

When it lands a moment later, she has disappeared and Thomas Moon is now triumphant on top, resplendent in pure white tails. To ecstatic applause he unlocks the trunk, and opens the bag to reveal his assistant, now sans makeup and wig, modelling a funky black cat-suit. She suddenly looks very familiar. "Oh my god!!!"

Robbie turns to me in triumph. "See!"

Oh I do indeed, I just don't quite believe my eyes.

### Chapter 51

Ryan

There are times when being a younger brother is the pits. I mean being sent home while everyone else gets to party on the island is just criminally unfair. There's nothing to do back here without them – boring!

After Dad has moaned once too often about me moping about the house, I go round to the Wells' to walk Louise home. She's another discard, left behind to baby-sit Robbie while the poor kid's ghastly olds play golf. It seems like they got stuck at the 19th hole, drinking with their farmer-tweed friends, coz they don't get home to till mid evening. No apology or offer of a ride home or anything – pricks! Anyway it's a lovely night and a wander home will fill some time.

We discover a large blue Transit van parked outside the Tiki garage. The back doors are open, but there seems to be no sign of life about. Suddenly a bout of swearing that would make a freezing worker blush announces that someone is mucking about in the gloom of the back. I call out hello and nearly fall over when a ghostly apparition pops up from among the crates.

He looks a bit like the androgenous Puck in Jude's class production of Midsummer Night's Dream, with elfin features topped by a snowy shock of bottle white hair. He grins at us, apologises for the bad language and introduces himself.

"Hi, I'm Tom, Thomas Moon. I'm one of the acts for tomorrow's festival."

"This is Louise and I'm Ryan."

Aha! The extended handshake with a side order of extra eye contact. One tiny gold stud in his right lobe. Family.

"Is there anything we can help with." If you know what I mean and I think you do! He lets the obvious suggestion pass with no more than the slightest of smiles. Cool!

"Well, you could give me hand getting some of this stuff into the garage so I can unpack it. But I don't think you can solve my major problem."

"We could try."

"Not unless you can conjure up a magician's assistant. Mine has gone walkabout. Boy trouble of some kind."

"What do you need?"

"Someone with great legs ..." At this point he admires mine. "Unfortunately the cossies are made for a girl."

I strut hopefully, "Well ...

He laughs, "Perhaps not that kind of girl! I don't reckon drag is quite the thing for this occasion. Plus you need to be able to dance."

"Hey I'm gonna try for NZ Ballet School in a couple of years."

"Really? Coz that's my plan for next year. Not exactly as a dance student. More to improve my movement for the act. Anyway, I need someone who knows the illusions – they're not easy and you have to be really familiar with the moves."

Louise steps out of the gloom, "I can do the 'Zig Zag', and the 'Cutting in Half'."

We're both amazed.

"I've got an uncle who does amateur magic for kids parties."

"Do you know the Transformation Trunk?"

"I've played around in one a bit, coz Uncle George got a bit stout to actually do it in performance – he can't quite fit anymore."

So it's resolved. Louise rehearses the act with Tom into the wee small hours, while I get the most amazing education in the intricacies of magic. It's no easy ride and they really work up a sweat. So bonus – I get to admire Tom's shirtless toned torso.

I think I'm turning into a slut coz I fancy him shitless, and what about Jamie? Well, he is celebrating with the current b'friend so I reckon I'm allowed to be shallow and perve.

### Chapter 52

Jamie

One lot to go before us. Siblings from Gore. Yodelling. Not the Sound Of Music Kind. More acrobatic. Less tuneful. Country. Plus Western twang. Jude pretends to gag.

Time to get backstage.

Pass Louise on the way. Beaming. Walking tall. As she should. Accepts hugs all round. Ryan is with Tom Moon. Handling the loading of gear into the van. Handling each other. Oh! That's a tad disappointing. So this is what it's like. Being last years model.

Going to risk no sound check. Sue and I have sorted our levels anyway. Jude's got her stand-up snare and percussion rig ready to go. Ryan peals himself away from Tom. Has a pressie for us. Been Op'-shopping. Found florid Hawaiian shirts. Even got gold overlay on them. Red. Blue. Yellow. Palm trees. Lurid! Tasty!!

Take him to one side. "How old does he think you are?"

Ryan shrugs, teasing, "Old enough!"

"How old is he?"

He's amused. I don't usually play Mum. Jude's job. "I don't think it's your business."

"As a kinda almost semi-ex, I reckon it is."

"So who's turned into a green eyed monster then?"

"I am not jealous. Just concerned."

"Sweet! But don't worry. Keep your pants on. He's about to leave for his next gig. So a bit of a pash is about all that's gonna happen."

"I dunno ..."

"I have kissed boys before you know. If I remember right, the first was when I was three. But no tongues till I was eight."

I quote Jude. "Once a strumpet, always a strumpet!"

He heads off laughing. "I wish. Wouldn't mind somebody blowing my horn!"

We're on. A look back. Tom giving Ryan his business card. In my mind, wish him luck. Tom, I mean.

The set-up is fast. We let rip before they get comfortable. Straight (ahem) ... Directly in "Nuts". Big groove with shouty lyrics. Trippy Beach Boys break. Back to Chorus. Pulverise them into dancing. Ain't going to stop till they're on their feet. Dom's down on the apron. Adding his own special magic. Dancing. One hand grabbing his crotch. That boy is too literal.

The applause lasts 3 minutes? 13? 30? Who knows. A satisfyingly long time. But eventually. They let us go. After double speed reprise of "Nuts". Dripping but high, we float off stage.

We got it. Whatever "it" is. Originals or covers. The crowd followed us. Where-ever we led. Even got right into a very dubby, sleazy "Bitten By The Love Bug". Wonder who detected my subtle stir. The instrumental break. Alison Durban – " I Have Loved Me A Man".

The "1968 Loxene Golden Disc" Camp Band Award goes to ...

THE ENGLISH PERIOD!

Russell

He's sitting on the edge of stage, grooving along, adding percussion and un-co' dad-dancing when required. I can feel his eyes on me from time to time. I daren't look back because if he's looking at me with the longing I'm feeling, we're dead!

Bloody hell, these guys are good - musically tight and really inventive, with songs that disconcertedly flip between anger, comedy, and pathos. Plus there's a quality of apparently good-natured, menace that's enjoyably "fuck you"! They can work a crowd to the point where anyone under the age of 25 (and a couple of renegades in the over 60s) are up dancing along. Even my breeder-boy mates forget themselves and start to enjoy the groove. Best to pretend I haven't noticed, again.

I risk a glance at Dom during the final wild applause. He's actually playing it cool. I give him a discreet thumbs up and he nods his head in the direction of the changing sheds. I tell the others that I need a slash and head off.

I follow Dom to behind the building but stop before entering the gap between it and the rock face, to check I'm not being watched. It's all very cloak and dagger which would be kinda fun if I didn't feel a bit queasy round the edges.

He's waiting for me with a roguish grin that makes me weak at the knees. "I can't stop long they'll be looking for me."

He doesn't answer, just drags me to him and kisses me thoroughly. Oh god! This is so what I want but just not now. Still without saying a word, he pushes me against the side of the shed and kneels to undo my trousers.

I gasp, No! But its too late so what can a man do? I close my eyes and give in without a whimper, though with a fair amount of stifled groaning.

With perfect timing I hear Bruce Campbell's croaky baritone calling my name. "Wells, y' bastard, where have you got to?"

Bloody hell! I push Dom away and fumble to do up my fly, with trembling hands. He laughs, ruefully shaking his head, and then like a toddlers mum tucks my shirt in properly and tidies my hair. He stands back to regard me, then whispers, "You'll do."

The tension is broken. I laugh quietly and give him a leisurely kiss before nonchalantly sauntering out to face the Neanderthals. They'll be gone in two days and then ... I'll leave that to your imagination.

### Chapter 53

Nick

I feel skittish, fever'd, on edge. Key'd up, my mind flitting this way and that. My heart drumming up an eager storm in my chest.

I've probably worn a groove, nay almost a ditch, pacing up and down the length of the corridor so I make myself go out into the veranda and sit. Force myself to pay attention to the seascape out its windows. Try and regain some measure of my natural body tempo. Just breathe Nick, breathe.

There is no doubt that I am finally and entirely in tune with the human biorhythm, because otherwise I would not be impatient on this scale. I have an almost infantile compulsion to stamp my foot. Perhaps I should give in to such an urge? Throwing a prone-on-floor, fullscale, fist pounding, foot kicking, toddler tantrum might well wear me out some, calm me down a little.

Breathe, Nick, breathe!

Out the windows the sunset drenches the sky and sea blood red. I gasp. My senses run cold - a hiatus in my panic as reality like melting snow runs chilly down my neck and spine. A sighed breath. Then another. I finally pull back into awareness.

It is time to put away childish things and face the knowledge of who I am, what I have done. It is time to dismantle these defences – tear down this absurd impenetrable tower, all castellated with regret, and moated about by self-disgust. I will risk it and tell him.

I sit, watching the sky turn and when it loses the last vestigial threads of purple I doff my sunglasses and head out to sit on a rock outcrop over the bay. I do not have long to wait. I can hear his voice before I see him, singing exuberantly as he clambers over the rocks – sounds like "Pump It Up" (Hmmm ... ?) Clearly the English Period have played well at the concert and he has been celebrating quite considerably since.

Jamie

Over the ridge. In full cry. Waving my shirt. Above my head. "Woo hoo!" Stop. Dead in my tracks. Waivering. Because on the opposite cliff. Nick. Waiting.

Can feel the booze. Sloshing about in my system. Bad idea. The drinking. Dutch courage. Almost lose my balance. Tottering on my toes. Just save myself. Terrific! I'm a caricature. A cartoon of Jude's top comic turn. The porter in the "Scots Play". Oh what the shit! MacBeth. It provoketh ... and it taketh away...

Oops! What if I can't?

A pause. While I put on my shirt. Then.

Another pause. For the first move. His? Mine? Finally. Can see the eyebrow from here. He begins. Down the rock face. I move to catch up. We make the sand. Same moment.

More waiting. I give up. Time to play the clown. Begin running. Arms out. Towards him. Mimicking movie slo' mo'. He has same thought. Same instant. A mirror.

Lovers reunited cliché. Leaping across the beach. Backlit. The last dying rays of the sun. He can really fake it. The lingering lift through each stride. Cheating. Wings!

Of course. We run past each other. Pretending other destinations. Then. Wheel around. Without stopping. Return. The way we came. Crash into each other's arms. He kisses me. Long. Lingering. Lip smacking amazing. Groin tingling great. Totally. Worth the wait.

Eventually. He takes my hand. Leads me up to the shingle verge. We sit. I lean back against him. Happy. Completely and utterly and entirely and eternally happy.

He wants to tell me another story. Get something off his chest. Fine by me. Can live in this moment. For ever. Held in his arms. For longer. If necessary. No complaints here.

Nick

I am going to hope that if I open my mouth and put one word after another that I will eventually start to form sentences. And that those sentences in due course will actually contain meaning. So ...

"Jamie...The Vampyr stories... the Blood ... thing. Well ..."

He settles back, "Yeah?"

"There's some truth to the rumours, albeit distorted. So I need to explain something... about how Robin died.

The oldest hunter cultures, like your Celt ancestors, believ'd that the animals that fed them, knowingly, willingly gave themselves up. A good hunter was one who was at-one with his/her prey, who knew the price that was offer'd and treated it with respect. Out of Death came Life. And in later times, when they settled and became more agricultural they still believed this and celebrated it in ritual blood offerings. The leader, the king/queen or chieften of such societies was consider'd to be like a sacrificial offering, giving themselves for their people. In times of trouble a Scape-goat – representing the Leader – was sacrific'd to ensure the sacred cycle of Death and Life would continue.

By the time of Richard, these beliefs had been surplanted at least publically with the Roman Christian point of view which emphasized dominion over the natural world. The land, the animals had been demoted to a thing, things – souless objects merely for use, for exploitation.

But old beliefs survive, and most of the population, although loyal to Richard as the ordain'd King, believed that he had abandon'd his proper place in the kingdom - he no longer thought of England and himself as one. The land and its inhabitants – be they human, animal, or spirit - no longer spoke to him of his life or of his task in that country. And moreover, deaf to that call he had follow'd an ego's summons to conquer others, leaving a petty tyrant in control. The Goat-King was no longer a sacrifice unto his own county and his own people.

A Scapegoat was called for.

Robin felt his countries pain, its people's suffering in the marrow of his very being. He came to decide that a blood sacrifice was requir'd and that, as in the oldest of times, the Scapegoat needed to be human - himself. Furthermore... He believ'd that for the sacrifice to have the necessary power, it needed be at the hand of one who... was Sacramentally linked to him in Heart, Mind, and Body."

Jamie takes a gulping breath of comprehension.

"It took a lot of persuasion to convince me. But finally, on the appointed day we walked together into the very centre of the forest. Taking his favourite bow and a new arrow, which we had prepared together, I shot him in the chest. At the very last moment I flinch'd and it did not pierce him as deeply as was necessary, so he had to fall on it to ensure ... the end.

Contrary to what modern story would have you believe, it takes quite some time to die of such a wound. Time enough to fulfil his last request.

I carried him, cradled in my arms, the length and breadth of Sherwood, blessing every step of the way with the drops of his blood. Though we had told no one, where ever we went they were silently waiting for us, dress'd and garlanded in green as if for a great celebration. By the time I return'd to lay him to final rest in the center of the forest, the entire tribe and many from the surrounding villages and crofts were present.

It was on that day that they first called me Will, the Scarlet."

Every knotted, uptight, rock-bound muscle in my body clenches as one. I am stab'd and strangled by my grief. Graceless and gurgling like a throttled man I choke on the long years of isolation, imprisoned by all that useless prideful restraint. Through my convulsion I gradually come to feel Jamie's fierce grip around my body, and awake to the butterfly whisper of his voice in my ear.

When finally the tears run, they run clear and I am free.

### Chapter 54

Jamie

Lost All senses turn to touch.

Blinded. Deafened. Oblivious. Rising through the soft white light.  
The edges of being give way.

A halt. Immobilised. Yearning. But unable. Held back. Tethered. A tiny touch.

Out of the corner of my eye. A hand about my ankle. Feel the quicksand tow. Trying to keep my gaze. Away. Away. Look away.

I... Make myself look.

Lost. A child. Wide eyed. Crying out. Falling through chill dark night. All dressed up to kill. Suited to death. A bruised mask of face. Skull bloodied. Looks up.

I. Reach out. I am. This too. A catch of breath. Another. We rise.

Light.

The ultimate intimacy. Trace his face. Count his eye lashes.

Light.

Angel clichés.  
Victorian stained glass. Pious and pained.  
Epsom salts, anyone?

Barbarella. Blond. Blinded Pygar. Lust and longing.

Icarus. Joyous. Unheeding. Flying ever up.

Light.

" _Fear no more the heat of the sun..._ "

Higher into gold. Into white gold. Burning gold...

Light.

Nick

I pause at the threshold of his bedroom and he clumsily picks me up and carries me over. No matter my angelic origin, I am no ethereal weight and I fear for my safety and his, as he stumbles the four or five steps across the room to collapse with me on the bed.

He pants theatrically, bent double rubbing his back. "Next time I get to play the bride!"

We laugh and tumble together...

Later, as we lie together in that perfect peaceable satiation, he gently runs his fingers over my face, delicately following every contour, every feature. Of course being Jamie, he can't resist the joke of sticking a finger up to check out the interior of a nostril. I grab his testicles and threaten to squeeze, hard – a suggestion he greets with wicked glee. We settel on a thorough kissing and softly slide into sleep.

I am dreaming of the escape of Daedalus and his son Icarus from the Cretan labyrinth. I can hear a voice - mine? – calling, "fly the middle path" but the boy is overwhelm'd with the ecstasy of flight and heads for the heights. I can feel the heat, the burning, and for a moment I am back on that first great tumbling fall from Heaven into the sun's merciless dominion.

I wake with a start to find Jamie tossing feverishly at my side, his breathing labour'd. I try to rouse him, but when at last his eyes flutter open they are blank, the windows shrouded. I gather his burning body up and, braving the sunlight briefly, I crash around to the back of the house to collapse in the open shower under the deep shade of the corrugated iron water tank. I turn the cold water full on and hold him under its icy cascade.

Eventually his temperature begins to drop and his breathing to ease. 'm glad, because, summer or no summer, I am about to fall prey to a nasty bout with pneumonia. Odd how relief sets off the funny bone. I carry him back to bed, where as I dry him his eyelids flicker a little and he mumbles my name, before falling back into a more natural sleep.

Now I can get my mind to let go a little, it posits an idea that I am swift to reject, and then just as quick to recover. A frisson of delighted hope sneaks through my being.

If I am right, come sunset I will get My Lady Murphy to sit with him while I make a journey.

Jamie

Like old times. He's asleep. Across the foot of my bed. This time. Deliciously naked. A sculpture in perfect beauty. Would take advantage. If I didn't feel so crap.

Drift. Into fire

Lying on my stomach. Not asleep. Nor Awake.

So hot. Back itches. Shoulders ache. Feels like they're being ripped apart. Slowly. Persistently. Fuck.

But. That's merely irritation. Mild annoyance. Because. My heart revs. Stalls. My lungs freeze. Thaw. The clock chatters past the minutes. Stammers over a second. For Eternity.

Glad this is only a fever nattering. Scary reality if not. Flame envelopes me

Choke awake. Panic. Spasm for breath. Nothing doing. Throat is closed. Try and force air through. Give up. Exhausted. Don't want to... Drift.

My father's arms. Out into glare. Squint. Nick ...

Gasp in shock. Cold. Cold water. Cold. Coal black. Bliss.  
Step back. Watch myself. Cradled in his arms. Catch his eye. We both fall into quiet. Together.

Within. It's now just a candle flare

Yellow

Sense. Hear someone. At the door. Jude. Can I rouse myself? Floating. Cooler now. Time has called ... A truce. Peace.

Good.

Fade into

Grey

Wake suddenly. The sound of shouting. Panic. The floor throbs with running. Pick up the eiderdown. Stumble to find out.

### Chapter 55

Monday December 31 - New Years Eve

Jude

I swear that Angelboy has gone quite du-lally, turned into a total flibbidy-gibbet (and I appear to have transformed into my Nana – or at least I'm presently being possessed by the Spirit of Obscure Idiom, her chosen first tongue). Hey, if anybody asks I shall say that the object I am currently carrying is a "wig-wam for a goose's bridle' - always her favourite answer to a stupid question.

Actually, nobody in their right mind will ask because quite obviously it's a sanyo portable record player. Should have thought of this eons ago, at the very beginning. Might have got Jamie back on track a whole lot earlier. Never mind, at least my brain has returned home in time to be useful on this occasion.

Sue and I have decided that not only is tonight New Years Eve but it's also, and more significantly, going to be a housewarming for our two love birds. So we've arrived packing all the ingredients for a full-on dance-it-up, play-it-up, feast-and-imbibe-till-you-chuck party. (The best kind – the Celt kind!)

We tumble fully loaded out of Dom's rattle trap and he speeds off noisily, back to the T-Rooms. Says he's got to finish some work on the balcony but we all know that he's just hanging around in the hope that Russell will 'accidentally' pass by.

We are greeted at the door by a scarcely civil Nick, all ajitter and fidgeting – Jamie is ill and he needs to run an errand. I can't work out whether he's distressed or excited. He's at pains to assure us that Jamie was just a bit feverish but now he's better and just needs to sleep a little and he'll be OK. "OK?"

I shrug, "OK."

Off he flies in a fluster.

We dump the food and booze in the kitchen and, while Sue sorts it into some kind of useful order, I tiptoe down to Jamie's room to take a peek. I only need to open the door a crack to hear his stilted breathing. When I poke my head around to quietly call his name it stops entirely for a brief moment before reverting to its original ragged rhythm.

There is no response when I call a couple of times more, which is worrying. But I have to comfort myself with the thought that Nick certainly knows the ways of life and death and he wouldn't have left him if there was any doubt... Or, God forbid, he might have left him if the need was really extreme ...

At that point Jamie calls my name. When I respond, he sighs "good" and goes back to sleep. (OK, I feel better now.)

I've set up the record player, and Sue and I are onto the salads. We've downed a couple of beers and Joni Mitchell is crooning on the turntable – "Hejira", my fave' LP of all LPs. t's at the sound of the piano intro to "Skate Away", that wistful minor key riff on Jingle Bells, that it hits me, and I make a quick grab for the onions and begin to chop. Sue looks surprised at the random violence of my slashing, so I give her my best grin and try to settle to something more conventional in the way of slicing – it's a bit of a struggle.

" _Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on  
Oh I wish I had a river so long ..._"

She takes the knife from my hand and passes me the tea towel. I wipe my eyes a bit visciously, willing them to stop the flow. "Bloody onions!"

She says nothing, just waits - for a very long time - as I try and control the hacking tears that pour down my face. When I manage to catch my breath between sobs, she takes me by the hand and leads me through to the veranda.

We sit in silence, my hands cupped in hers. Finally I can trust my voice and I tell about Jamie's suicide attempt ... "And now I'm scared I'm going to loose him again. What will I do if he isn't around?"

She doesn't try to comfort me, just lets me talk it out. I start to get repetitive so I shut up.

She wonders aloud. "Do you love him?"

"Yes. Not in that way. Well yes in that way but I understand. I'm not some stupid het' girl from the sticks - I know that he is what he is and that its for life."

Sue teases "You don't think he just needs a good woman?"

"Like herpes!"

"I do."

I'm surprised, confused "What? Have herpes?"

"Need a good woman. (She pauses) Like you."

I blink – silenced. It's a landmark occasion, because for once in her life Sue is not looking at me. And I'm at a loss for words.

Gently, tenderly it creeps through every miniscule cell in my body - I can feel my skin tingle, a tiny smile begin to play at my lips, as the realisation begins to dawn.

I lift her hands - her beautiful broad, strong fingered, hands - to my mouth and softly begin to kiss each knuckle.

### Chapter 56

Dom

Being stuck sorting out this bloody balcony is like being on detention, eh. You know, when you're the last one cooped up inside on a sunny afternoon while everybody else is out having fun. The girls are with Jamie and Nick enjoying themselves up at the crib. I can hear Ryan and Louise giggling up a storm inside the shop getting ready to go party with the surfies. And probably at this very moment Russell's supping a few ales with the bully boys. And here's me ...

In the distance a rocket goes off – you're bit premature mate! There's screaming from the waters edge as a couple of girls egg each other on to risk skinny dipping. Floating up from further along the beach I can hear laughter as crackers rat tat like machine guns through the twilight. A car goes by packed with pissed hoons hanging out the windows yelling at the world – heroes, eh!

Shit, it wouldn't be New Year's if there wasn't some idiot and his best mate brewing trouble somewhere.

Which makes me think. The makeshift door from the balcony through to the shop looks pretty solid, but as we all know, its hanging in there by the skin of its teeth. It wouldn't take more than a bit of a nancy-boy shove to break it open, eh. So I secure it thoroughly with a whole bunch of four inch nails.

When I'm finished, Alcatraz my friend couldn't be any more secure.

The new balustrades are all in place so I'm considering sorting out the handrails when something moving by the flax bush attracts my attention. My heart revs right up, pitter-pat-zoom, before I realise that its just Orlando taking her kittens for an evening stroll. Boy, I've got it bad. Face it Dom my lad, you are not going to see him tonight. Or tomorrow for that matter – he told you how it was, eh.

It's just that if it was me I'd have found every excuse under the sun, and then some, to sneak away. But I gotta to be fair, I don't think he's my experience with playing hookey, nor anything like my gift of the gab, eh. I guess he would have made it if he could get away, just kinda wish he'd tried a bit harder. He's a bright lad, could have come up with a sound excuse if he'd really wanted to see me.

The sound of voices makes me jump again – get a grip Dom m' boy, get a grip, eh! Its actually just Ryan and Louise heading off. They wave cheerily at me and wish me Happy New Year! I think to myself – yeah, it will be once those buggers are gone and I can get on with ... well, some good old buggery!

Russell

" _Golly gosh_ " this is fun.

Drinking games, vomit and hysterical hilarity at unfunny recollections of past practical jokes - could life get any better? O yes it could - time to indulge in major amounts of misogynist bragging. Any minute now they'll have their cocks out to see who's biggest. How many times have we done this before?

I check my watch, yet again and no, it's still not even quite 11 o'clock.

I excuse myself and go for a bit of a wander down the beach, then when I'm out of sight, over a bluff, I double back towards the T-Rooms via the road. What do you bet that boy is waiting for me? He may think he's the toughest thing since Mohamed Ali but he's a major romantic - that Hans Solo heartless mercenary act never fooled anyone.

I creep down the side and pop up over the edge to give him a shock - boo! He's not here - shit! He said he was going to finish the handrail but by the look of it he hasn't even started. The uprights grin smugly at me like skeleton's teeth – alright, alright I get it! I was expecting too much. Well I did say that I couldn't see him at all for a couple of days. I'll be so glad when Campbell and Co. head home and I can spend some time with people who have some sense of genuine wit and intelligence.

I wait, just in case, but no dice. He doesn't turn up. So its back to purgatory for me. Oh well, less than an hour to go till the witching hour then I can plead illness.

Ryan

I'm looking forward to this. I have plans – its time I got laid!

Louise is looking a total doll in a wrap round skirt with a filmy organza blouse tied up under her breasts. It took a while to convince her to shed the bra, but she finally saw reason when I pointed out that the other girls would probably be topless and the blokes would be in the all-together. That's if the weather holds up – those clouds are looking a bit menacing. Me - I've just settled for a simple sarong. Afterall I'm not gonna be wearing it for long.

We're waltzing down the wet sand in the moonlight and I'm humming the Waltz of the Flowers - nothing like the romantic longings of a tragic poof to set an atmosphere. Tchaikovsky – not me! I've just completely a superb (even if I do say so myself) triple pirrouette when we're ambushed by Russell's mates, drunk as skunks and smelling just as bad.

I get a whiff of Campbell's petrol breath as he grabs me around the waist, leering "Give's a kiss darling!"

He pashes me, slipping in some tongue, then fakes shock, "O sorry Murphy. Just that poncy skirt got me confused there for a minute."

I turn to see the other two Neanderthals closing in on Louise, making salacious suggestions. I breathe into a surge of anger, make it work for me, and grab Campbell's out reached arm. I turn sideways, and using the thrust of his energy send him sprawling onto the sand. I dash past him towards Louise.

That lass is no shrinking violet. She's already winded Bragg with her elbow and he's reeling back clutching his guts. But Banister, who's a big bastard, has grabbed her by the blouse with one hand and is about to take a swipe at her with the other. Frankly, by the look on her face, what he's actually about to do is to make a gigantic mistake. These blokes obviously do not have genuine home-grown farm-bred Southland lassies for sisters. Because if they had, they would have never put themselves in the way of a woman who is fully capable of dealing with an angry Aberdeen Angus bull.

Campbell reaches out and grabs my ankle, tripping me up. Shit – concentrate on your own fight you silly queen. I turn onto my back, just as he launches himself at me, and get a foot into his rib cage – grabbing his upper arms I roll, kicking him up and over my head and he lands flat on his back. I scramble to my feet, sans sarong, in time to see Louise lash out with a foot to connect perfectly with Banister's nuts. He screams in agony and stumbles quickly out of her reach, right into me. I fall awkwardly and feel my ankle twist.

Louise takes advantage of the fact that Bragg is pissing himself with laughter over Banister's anguish and heads off down the beach fast as her feet can carry her. Bragg's so busy trying to catch his breath that it takes him a moment to realise and give chase, with Banister stumbling after swearing vengeance.

That leaves me with Campbell – oh great, I can't take any weight on my foot and I collapse in sudden pain onto the ground, leaving myself open to a thorough kicking in the ribs. Shit! I can't seem to hook one of his feet to up-end him. He's about to move up to kicking me in the head (Not the face, not the face!) when Russell appears out of the dark and high tackles him. There's a unpleasant crunch as Campbell connects with a rock.

He's stunned only for a moment but its long enough for Russell to scoop me up and make off with me down the beach towards the T-Rooms.

### Chapter 57

Dom

I feel miles better in a clean shirt, plus a splash of Jovan Musk to underline my undeniable butch sex appeal. So, though it's not exactly on the way from home to the crib, I decide to check in one last time at the T-Rooms for you-know-who. And I'm in luck - coming down the side I can just make out a voice, a very familiar voice.

This time I let my heart have its way and it beats so loudly I reckon he'll hear me coming. Then I get closer and I catch some moaning and what Russell is actually saying. "It'll be alright. Relax, it's going to be alright."

What the ...? As I turn the corner the moon pops out from behind a cloud to spotlight Russell holding Ryan, stark bollock bloody naked in his arms. He's lying him down onto the decking.

I'm out of there and down the beach before I can even take a breath. The bastard! The fucking bastard! And I thought ... well, obviously he doesn't give a shit what I think. Or feel. Or ... anything.

God what a fool, eh! What a stupid bloody fool!

As I power down the beach I'm playing back all the things I've ever said to him, my ideas about things, all the stuff that I reckon is important, - Christ I was going to tell him about Brother Anthony and all that shit coz I thought he'd understand. Fuck, I even stepped way over the line and kissed this bloke.

I'm so wrapped up in the whole bloody mess I don't notice Campbell and his mates till they appear out of the dark right in front of me. "Have you seen Wells?"

"What?"

"Are y' deaf. Have you seen that queer cunt Wells?"

They're looking majorly pissed off. I know how they feel, eh. Well, I'm not about to cover his bloody arse, if you know what I mean and I think you do. The bastard can rot in hell for all eternity for all I care, so I tell them where to find him.

Bit further down I sit on a rock to try and pull my self together. As I sit stewing someone breathlessly calls my name. "Dom is that you?"

"Louise?"

She crawls out from under a rock crevice. Her clothes are torn and her lip is bleeding.

"Shit, what happened to you?"

"Russell's mates attacked me and Ryan. I managed to get away and hide, but Campbell was really laying into Ryan. I think Russell might have got him away though."

Oh fuck, oh dear. I think I may have crapped out majorly. But fortunately no damage done. "Its OK, they got to the T-Rooms. Ryan's got a key, they can lock themselves in there."

"I've got the key. Sarongs don't have pockets."

OK, and I just nailed up their only other hope for escape tighter than Fort Bloody Knox. "I gotta go back. Are you up to getting the others from the crib?"

"Yeah, sure."

I begin to run.

Jude

I can hear Louise call our names all the way from the road. That girl has got a fine pair of lungs on her - and I'm not using that in the typical blokey sense (Though now I come to think of it, she does have a remarkably fine figure).

She arrives looking like hell but with a very determined set to her jaw – she's brief and to the point. Sue and I grab our shoes from the veranda and just as we're about to head off out the door a figure appears from the bedroom. For a moment I think it's Nick, till he steps forward into the half-light – its actually Jamie with the eiderdown hoicked up high over his shoulders. He doesn't need to be told, he overheard.

"We'll take the road, find a phone. Call the cops. You head out along the beach, but only as fast as you can manage – don't push it!"

No more to say, we're gone.

Dom

The blood is pounding so loud in my ears, eh, that for a moment I think that its all alright. But then I hear the thud of feet, and grunts of effort and pain as furniture is overturned.

No time to make grand entrances. I scramble up the rocks and hoist myself over the front edge of the balcony. The B-boys are holding Ryan up against the wall – he's wrapped in Russell's shirt. Russell is trying to dodge Campbell who's gone completely bezerker, scything a deck chair at his legs, trying to trip him up.

I grab him from behind and pin his arms to his sides, while Russell grabs the chair. Campbell twists himself out of my grip, shoves me away and launches himself at Russell. They waltz around and around in each others arms which would be kinda funny if they hadn't got so near to the edge.

For a moment Campbell has Russell backed against a balustrade and is beating him bloody. Bragg, or perhaps Banister, has a go at tackling me but I fight him off and send him reeling with a smack round the ear. I dash forward, get a handful of Campbell's T Shirt and pull. We all collapse to the deck in a heap, and for a moment I have memories of playground fights with everyone calling – kill, kill, kill.

Campbell's the first to get up and I lash out at him with a foot. For a moment he teeters upright. It's like a car crash – everything slows right down. Then he begins to windmill his arms, trying to keep his balance, but fails.

In total silence he falls over the edge and out of sight.

### Chapter 58

Jamie

It's all a struggle. Getting going. Putting on pants. Managing the steps. Leaving the house.

No control. Unfocused. Floundering. Flailing. Feel off-kilter. My balance screwed. Tipping backwards. Lurching forwards.

But now. On the move. Give in. Get out the road. Observe. Get the hang. Watch myself. Loping down the beach. Leaping. Light. Rock to rock.

Finally. It comes right. A sense of equilibrium.

Shouts. A scream of pain. Crashing wood. Faggot! Faggot! Round the bluff. See them. Time slows. Or. I speed up. As I reach them they fall aside.

The moon comes out. Behind me. My shadow looms over them.

My winged shadow.

Silence. Complete silence. Even as they run. Away lads. Run away. Now.

Ryan slumps against the wall. I push aside the wrecked furniture. Dom whimpers at my touch.

"The Road go! Find Jude. Coming from the crib."

He staggers up. Then runs. Leaves me with Russell. Dead.

No. He coughs. Looks up in a daze. Still death. Here. Near. Scrabble through the wreckage. Over the broken edge. Campbell. Bruce Campbell.

The others crash onto the balcony. Snap at them. "Keep back. "

I drop over the edge. Sniff at his neck. Not long gone. But already. Travelled far enough. Orlando's kittens mew under the decking. I reach. Weigh the balance. No way. Not enough.

Sense a cluster. Pin points of power. A flock of seagulls. Perhaps? Feel them pass. Bruce twitches. A defibrillator jerk. Nothing more.

Panic.

Reach and find ... Jude. Shit! Twitch away. To find Bragg. No.

Reach again ... nothing.

Then. Connection. Sudden. Thrill to it. And step completely out of time. And place. He is here. I look up.

Poised on the roof. He studies me.

Then. Smiles. Slowly.

Nick

I look down on a couple of unfamiliar boys running away in fear. Below, Dom and Russell, Jude and Sue, Ryan and Louise frozen in stunned tableau.

Beneath the balcony, on the rocks, Jamie crouches over a broken figure. Perches, balanc'd by his wings - raven, oiled black, feather'd wings - trying to transfer. Hopelessly - he will never take another life, even to save this one.

The moon disappears behind a cloud. It has been so bright, that for a moment I am blind in the remaining dark. All I can see is gentle flick'ring threads of fire, like the phosphorous trails of Guy Fawkes sparklers waved in fleeting patterns by eager children. They float and flash, ephemeral pathways, connecting us all together in halo'd hallow'd light. Are they real or perhaps just a phantom longing of my imagination?

It is finally plain to me - _It is in dying that ye shall live_.

This story that is me - its strains of loss and sorrow, revenge and sacrifice, isolation and avoidance, and at the last ... love. Now, I realise, this story is finished. It is time for a new one.

The moon reappears as abruptly as it left. It catches in almost theatrical light the broken balustrade upturn'd t'wards me. As I gaze at it, the chains of light that link us all blaze afresh ...

I reach out into his mind. " _You have five seconds_ "

Jamie

What?

"An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Equal life..."

No. He wouldn't. No ... No! Please NO!!

He returns the stare. Unblinking. Dispassionate. Then. A brief sweet smile. Whispers.

"Five seconds".

He drops something. A bottle. I think. To Jude.

Wings folded he pitches forward. Falls from the roof. Lands heavily. Over the broken upright of the balcony. It splinters beneath his weight. Stabs into his chest. Spears out his back.

It has started. The clock.

He begins to leave. I reach out. Flash of gold. He winks.

"Four seconds ..."

My arm falls.

" _Don't waste me!"_

Pain roars in my head.

Apart. Alone. Then. Edges blur. Overlap.

Mingled we reach out. Together ...

"Three seconds ... "

Together, we see him. Splayed. Burst open.  
His incisors gleam as he smiles in the moonlight.

"Two seconds ..."

Together, as one, we observe the slight winged figure bent over a boy's body. Crying.

We...

For a second longer... We

Then it is just I

I

My hand. My call.

I will it

### Chapter 59

Tuesday January 1 - 1980

Jude

I can't blink, hypnotised by the broken spar spitting his body.

Afar upstage, like some distant Greek Chorus, my mind mutters and mumbles away – fumbling, and failing, to find metaphors, similes, any language at all to make sense of ... this. I will my body not to give way - I'm made of jelly and junket and jubes and gelatine – "all my joints are like water". My mind peruses more psalms looking for apt descriptions - I ignore it.

Apart, I watch my frozen self. Spot lit, alone in an empty auditorium, time falls away - place dissolves into distant black. I begin to sense what they mean when they say that silence is profound - there's no other way to describe the endless depth of it. Nor to express the infinite unspeakable significance of this moment that it embraces.

Suddenly I hurtle back into my body, as every muscle spasms and a searing pain clenches me from gut to throat. (My stupid smart-arse actor's mind is almost thrilled to discover that perhaps hearts do break). But then a unison cry surges silently through me, engulfing every part of my being ...

_No_ \- screams and screams again - _no ..._

I turn to check whether anyone noticed, but they're all senseless - locked away, dealing alone in private places – motionless, mannequins pearl-skinned in the moonlight.

I clasp and unclasp my hands convulsively till the knotted joints begin to unravel - I'd stamp my feet but I'm too frightened to rouse the others. I will myself into movement and skirt carefully round where Nick lies, to look down over the balcony - Jamie is gone.

The sounds of New Year celebrations reach out muffled, as through a wall - muted, echoing, framing the sound of Campbell's breathing. He's alive, if unconscious - for a moment his eyelids flicker before he lies quiet.

I slowly straighten up, stilted, stiff, a zombie. Beside me, on the edge of hearing, there is a murmur like a long drawn-out sigh of relief. I turn to see Nick's body, now a brindled phantom of dust and ash, gathered up in a flurry of soft sea breeze to be scattered to the sea and the sky – so gently, oh so tenderly.

It's the clamour of the siren that wakes us up from the dead (sic!). I blink a couple of times to pull myself together. Louise and Sue run to Ryan, sit him up to talk quietly to him, checking he's alright. Dom is wrapped sobbing in Russell's arms.

The moon's path across the ocean outlines a black figure, flying. To the normal eye perhaps a large bird (a black shag?) - to mine, a Black Angel. I watch, envying his ability, till he stalls and flails erratically downwards. Even at this distance I can sense the effort he has to put in to pull out of the dive. He flaps his way back from the brink with all the skill of a drunken sea gull. I begin to think scones. (Or perhaps pikelets?)

The cops crash round the side of the T Rooms.

I shake my head. Food at a time like this? But of course. I am my mother's daughter, there's no doubt about it, so why fight the inevitable. Generations of Celt women have headed to the kitchen at the first sign of trouble - because no injury, no loss, no pain or grief can stand up forever against buckets of hot sweet tea and tables ladden with home baking.

As Jamie diminishes into a dot on the horizon I can hear the countdown to midnight blaring up from someone's transistor. Voices on the beach join in, to break into raucous cheering as the bells toll for the New Year. From random directions a ragged counterpoint of "Auld Lang Sine" begins to tremulously arise. You can hear the boozy emotion, particularly from the blokes – sentimental sissies every one.

I look at the bottle in my hand. Wine. Mission Communion Wine. Probably consecrated. Transubstantiated, even. (Yes, a cheeky '79 kiwi cab' sav' all frocked up as blood).

Sue takes my other hand and we silently stare together at the fireworks spurt, darting and dancing across the inky sky, fiery red. Blood red ...

Blood... will have blood they say

The words echo into the velvet black night, fading away to leave only the sensation of tears, like a slap, burning down my cheeks.

Coda: June 1 1980

Jamie

A cadence.

Not perfect. Not V - I.

But ... V - VI. Interrupted.

This is Ryan's suggestion. The writing. He visits. Every other weekend. (Occasionally with Louise. Laid charges. Assault. And won).  
Definitely his sister's brother. Bossy. He has ideas. Agendas. Plans and projects. Dragged me out moon-light surfing. But my balance is shot. I can fly. But can't swim. At least for the moment. The weight of wings. Win one. Lose one.

Now I have to write. He tells me. The other's are. They've gone on. New lives. Other places. Auckland University - Russell. Dunedin Teachers College - Dom. Art school - Sue. Jude's starring at Drama School in Wellington.

Get letters. Calls. Have the phone on now. They'll be home in a couple of weeks. For May Holidays.

Go up to the attic. It seeps into my senses. His physical presence. The musk scent of his skin. Can taste him. Every breath I take. Slump onto his bed. My body longs. I let it.

Pick up the sonnets. They now seem drenched in meaning. The love. The loss. Put them down. Quickly. A boy can cope with only so much. Beneath them lies a pocket book. Moleskin.

I begin to read. Randomly.

" _It hath alwaies and ever been thus: as the Ballade has its refrayn, and the Seasons their return, so we are condemn'd to revisit the themes of our lives till they be resolv'd. ..._ "

Suddenly. Almost deafening. A peel of laughter echoes round my mind. "What utter tripe. What was I thinking?"

"You wrote it. You tell me."

"You can't put that in the book. It's crap."

"How you going to stop me, Phantom Boy? I'm in charge of this body. You're just along for the ride."

"I will sing. In your mind. Ceaselessly."

"I'll cope."

"Show tunes!"

"Not fair!!!"

He starts, " _You'll Never Walk Alone_ ".

I retaliate, " _Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair_ "

With perfect precision. Both segue into, " _People (Who Need People)_ ". Wailing away like Streisand. Together. In perfect nasal unison.

I don't think that that first Heaven was ever this camp.

Thank you for reading **The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea**. Good luck with your own creative adventure. Or as it is better known - your Life. Best place to start is by listening to yourself. Not many people do \- it can be quite a revelation!

Thanks

This book would never have come about were it not for the stimulating conversation and delightful company of a very fine writer and dear heart. My faltering first efforts are immeasurably improved by Kathy's many canny suggestions.

I am indescribably grateful to my English 'family', the G-Bs, who were genuine life savers, as well as offering endless sustenance for body, mind, and soul! Thanks so much Chris and Mike, Rachel and Hannah.

Given the opportunity people are unfailingly kind. Often unexpectedly so, like the staff at Neros Café in Lichfield who saw me through some bad patches with good coffee and great company – thanks folks, miss you!

Here in Sydney my life is made so much richer by the love of Meg S, Richard P, Jac A, Rebekah F, Daniel O; coffee from Bakerman in Erskineville; and a roof over my head through the kindness of Vic (aka AWOL Monk).

Then there's all my Kiwi supporters ...

Oops, this could end up longer than the novel! Suffice to say I have a rich and rewarding life, and every fabulous aspect of it is due to other people!

With very special thanks to my sister Fiona!

### Mac

Sydney 01.08.2013

About The Author

 **I** am a Kiwi singer and actor/director who enjoys exploring what it's like to be lots of different people, in lots of weird and wonderful situations. I turned to writing as a way to expand those creative journeys so I could adventure in new places which stretched reality beyond normal human reach. Well at least what is available to me.

As my friends know far too well, I have the mental stability of a jelly in an earthquake (a purpled wine-red blackberry jelly, if that helps). I have always suffered from an excess of anxiety - about absolutely anything you care to name. Of course the Fearful tend not to attempt the things they'd love to do. So gradually over a year or two I stopped singing. Kept well clear of the stage. And that left life rather dull and flavourless, entirely devoid of interesting adventures. Result? Boredom. Loneliness. Depression.

Now if you give depression to a creative mind (actually any mind, as all minds - yours included - are infinitely creative) unfortunate thought-spirals begin to drill through it. Causing much havoc and lots of misery. To avoid the possible dire result of this particular episode I tried distraction. I watched films with useful titles like "Saved" (which has become one of my all time favourites, with close runners-up "Whip It" & "Beautiful Creatures"). Read lots of Terry Pratchett ("Nation"), and Neil Gaiman ("The Graveyard Book") - their collaboration "Good Omens" is a duet of genius! I discovered Jane Austin. Read every one of her books with increasing delight, and watched the BBC adaptation of "Pride & Prejudice". And walked a lot. The steady plodding of my feet slowly settling my mind into a more measured and tolerable rhythm.

I was far from home in Middle England in the midst of winter. So I ambled from one side of the small cathedral city of Lichfield to the other and back again. Over and over through the burning cold. Huddled in more clothes than I'd ever before needed. Often unable to see more than a few feet in front of me through the snow and fog. Occasionally I roamed out into the fields where the cattle would loom suddenly out of the mist like ocean going liners. Though fortunately more mellow and pliable than a Titanic iceberg.

The opening pages of **The Devil** wrote themselves in one such wander - there and back. Of course getting it down on the page required lots of thinking with added dollops of rethinking. And then ... another thought or four. But from that very first think, it began with a boy on a touring scooter (like I had once owned) riding down a familiar road to my childhood holiday destination to off himself. Only to be saved by the Devil - and naturally to fall in love with him. Ah, the lure of mysterious outsider!

I wrote **The Devil** as a way to heal myself from a particularly bleak place. I knew that there might be hope but I wasn't entirely convinced. I needed to practice it. So I practiced it over and over again writing and editing, and then writing and editing a lot more. I discovered a lot more than hope and healing, I found that I really enjoyed playing with words, puddling among metaphors and images, pulling at phrases and sentences till they took shapes that pleased me. Hopefully finding ways to express things so that they might rise up vivid in a reader's mind.

But there's always more to a book than evocative words. There's also the world of ideas that it tries to share. In writing **The Devil** I also wanted to achieve a radical relook at how we might see being Gay/Lesbian/Bi and all the other members of our colourful family. So some of my aims were to write a book

1 - in which being 'queer' and weird and individual were taken for granted, and where we were the centre of the universe, with other things on our minds beyond 'coming out' and whether other people liked us as a tribe/culture or not.

2 - that considered how history is merely a construction by those in charge and that the story of the world is actually made up of many other Historys (and Herstorys, Queerstorys, etc).

Plus, I wanted to 'paint' a portrait of a much loved place and time in my childhood/teenage years, to write a love letter to remote southern New Zealand in the 1970s.

Of course to be a writer you need to be a reader first. I am very grateful for all unnumbered amazing writers that have enriched my life and made some of the strange pain that life involves more tolerable, and the even stranger pleasures more enjoyable. I have mentioned a couple already but I need to add at least Ursula le Guin, Anthony Trollope, Tolkien and CS Lewis (before they became film fodder), and even AA Milne (hell, I still cry at the end of The House At Pooh Corner). Obviously I couldn't live without Shakespeare! Nor poets like Dylan Thomas, and NZ's own James K Baxter. And then there's ... too many others to name. Get thee to a library - ask and ye shall find! I reckon reading is great way to live more fully and more freely.

Of course every good book, every good life needs an excellent soundtrack. As a singer I'm particularly fond of people with voices that make my hackles rise, that hack at my heart and give me the shivers. The weird - Tom Waits, Bjork, Billy Holiday; the glorious - Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, Joan Baez. Or musical mavericks like Damon Alban, Prince, and Aphex Twin. The classical side of me is much in love with Tallis, Bach, and Shostakovich.

Whatever - like what you like, but have a nosy at what other people like. Sometimes they're onto something. Though sometimes they're not! You're the expert in your own life - get used to it!

### Mac

01.08.2013

You might like to Investigate and Read ...

Two authors inspired **The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea** (and much of my view of the world and of myself). Their influence is most strongly present in Nick's life and history, though I have altered their thoughts/writing quite specifically to suit the themes and story of **The Devil** It would be very unkind to blame my blatant rewriting of history directly on either of them.

My first inspiration was the American poet **Judy Grahn** through her empowering book " **Another Mother Tongue** ". In this fascinating exploration of lesbian/gay/bi/trans lives through the ages I gained a vivid sense that we are not merely some strand of biological sexuality inclination, or even a downtrodden 'tribe', but we are in fact a 'Culture'. Indeed the oldest continuous Culture still in existence. A Culture of connection that reaches across race and nationality, gender and geography.

Her work also was the first to make me reconsider my view of 'history'. After all, the official version is merely the view of the male victor, the patriarchal ruling class.

One of the great minds of the 20th Century and a figure of great influence and good in modern thinking is **Joseph Campbell**. His field is comparative mythology and he looks at the myth making of cultures and describes the common threads that express themselves from our common humanity. A good introduction to his enormous breadth of work is the transcript of a TV series he made with Bill Moyers in the 1980s " **The Power Of Myth** ". Read it and be inspired and uplifted and encouraged and healed!

Connect with Me Online

www.facebook.com/dysonandthedevil

www.smashwords.com/profile/view/macdyson

Warning: I don't spend a lot of time on the internet as I prefer to use my energies in my work and in connection with my actual reality. So there there won't be endess updates and statuses (stati?) but who knows I might get my geek on and start posting pictures of my lunch, cute dogs, and grumpy cats with meaningful captions from spiritual texts. Then again, I might just have a life!

Reading Guide: Food for thought?

We all enjoy a book on different levels and in our own way, but sometimes it's interesting to wonder about the hows and whys of a work. So I tried to set up here some ideas to consider if you'd like to probe beneath the surface of **The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea**. However I don't recommend turning any of this into hard work and thus spoiling the fun of just going along for the ride.

**I: The Devil** is set in 1979 in New Zealand. Even then Aotearoa (to give its proper indigenous name) was a remarkably broad minded country, very creative, and usefully underpopulated and so, green. On my Facebook page you will find visual and musical references to the type of world that the characters might have find around them. Research that year in your own circumstances. What music would a teenager have been listening to where you live. What would their world have looked like. What circumstances would they have had to deal with. How would they have spent their time?

**II:** I have written this novel as a deliberately 'queer-centric' work where the characters generally accept being gay, lesbian, or bi as nothing particularly special. Are these fictional friends much defined by their sexuality or do they have other life issues which concern them more? Are their issues universal - well at least in what we consider a free and economically stable society?

Consider **Dom** 's ambivalence regarding his sexuality. His tendency to be a bit homophobic, to consider himself straight, and yet his strong response to Russell. Does he need to recognise or reconcile any/all of these things?

What other issues might these characters face if they lived in more repressive societies/communities? How might they then have lived their lives?

**III:** In real life we recognise people's voices very easily by their tone colour, inflection, accent, and by the way they structure the things they say, including favourite phrases and even random noises. In **The Devil** I've tried to make each of the characters 'sound' quite distinct **-** what are the characteristics that define and differentiate each person's 'voice'?

**IV:** When **Nick** starts out writing he uses the random phonetic spelling that was the method in the 17th and 18th centuries - the period when he was last in close contact with humans. This 'aural' spelling often reflects regional dialects that can change markedly between English villages only a matter of miles apart. Universal Spelling is a very recent concept and marks only a very short period in literary history. How is modern spelling changing to reflect our usage - the effect of txting, English being used by non-English speakers, addition of words from other languages, etc?

**V:** I make much of the emotional roller coaster of being human, of being a young human. What aspects of the characters emotional lives resonates with you? For example: **Jude** 's sense of being purposeless, unanchored? **Russell** 's anxieties and panic attack? Or. **Louise** 's fear of not being smart enough? **Ryan** 's drunken courage?

**Nick** has constructed his life over the previous 300+ years in a very human way, by trying to avoid all the pains of connection by avoiding contact? Seeking happiness, and avoiding pain are universal to the human condition. How do these two drives change the way characters respond to the events that surround them. What other choices might they make?

**VI:** The Characters complete their introduction/foreword with these words ... " The way we look at it, every life is a unique work of fiction. An ongoing act of invention, eh? A novel that deserves all the attention and care that you can give. We hope that you're awake to creating yours." Then in Chapter 37, **Jude** notes that in the face of the crisis of **Robbie** going missing all the adults drop their customary masks/stories.

So some very big questions - unanswerable perhaps because their effects are ongoing.

How much can we really create our own lives? What aspects of our situation influence the possibilities? Check out Maslow's Pyramid - A Hierarchy Of Human Needs - and consider it's implications?

If we do indeed play so many roles (daughter, teacher, friend, etc), and use so many faces, suiting our behaviour and even appearance to the situation we find ourselves in, who are we really? Especially if we think about ourselves over time. Am I the same person I was three years ago, or will be in ten years?

**VII: Nick** takes quite an oblique angle to history and its myths, in reviewing 1: The Creation of the Earth, 2: The Fall from Heaven, 3: The Fall from Grace (Eve in The Garden of Eden), 4: Cain & Abel, 5: Robin Hood, even 6: Shakespeare. Of all these only Shakespeare is an actual historical person and even in his case, famous though he may be, we know next to nothing about his life. The Robin Hood legend has many many variants, and Nick's version also incorporates the legend of the death of the real King Rufus. And even the traditional Bible stories are told from different angles or have intriguing alternative expressions in other faith cultures.

So ... what is truth? Can it actually be defined? Can it be expressed? What is the use of fables, fairy tales, and all the myriad of artistic creation? Should they merely reflect back to a society or community what pleases it about itself?

**VIII:** Atonement. A obscure philosophical word yet a term loaded with meaning and resonance. I've used the concept much claimed by the Christians but have explored it in a way that is perhaps more derived from Buddhist attitudes. **Nick** and **Jamie** 's connection is based on the singular idea that once all was one, and that though we are all now separate we long to be all one again - seeking "at-one-ment".

What part does that longing for connection play in the life of the characters? How does it drive their choices and actions?

Cheers, Mac
