Into the River (17 page)

To his surprise, she kissed back. Everything went still and quiet. She pulled him up against her, their hips grinding together, then her wet hands slid low on his back. He shuddered. They stopped briefly for air and then resumed.

The next time they stopped it was clear that they were both committed. No one was smiling now; there was an urgency between them that required action.

Devon indicated with his eyes, out the door to where Wiremu sat on the back step in the sun. He felt her hand on the front of his jeans. Her mouth twisted slightly for a moment as she reviewed the options.

“Wiremu? Can you do me an enormous favour? Can you take ten dollars from my wallet on the windowsill and go down the shop? Get some conditioner?”

They paused, looking into each other’s eyes, waiting for a reply. There was silence.

Wiremu appeared in the doorway.

“Ooooh kay”.

Then he sidled off.

Tania had Devon’s jeans off much faster than he managed to clear the hooks on her bra. The urgency now bordered on panic. Then she had his cock in her wet hand. He gasped. The next thing was he felt a fluttering convulsion and came immediately, draping the wall of the bathroom with a ribbon of sperm.

“Whoa. Wait for me, Tiger.”

“I can still do it.”

She started to stroke him.

“You sound pretty sure about that. Been practising?”

He didn’t answer, but took her breasts in both his hands and lifted them so he could kiss them.

“Come with me.” She took him by his erect cock and led him through into the lounge where the baby was still gurgling happily in its play-pen.

“We’d better be quick. Wiremu has been known to run. Should’ve told him to walk.”

She let him go and leaned along the top of the couch so she could see up the drive towards the main road.

Devon stood there waiting for an order.

She turned back. “Come on man, we haven’t got all day.”

She straightened up, dropped her cargoes and knickers and leaned forward again, her wrists resting on the arms of the couch. Devon was still hard but couldn’t find a way in.

“Not that way man, are you blind?”

She let him blunder around for a moment or two and then reached back and carefully guided him into place. At this point everything became simple. Details disappeared as he focused on her creamy back and round hips. Nothing more was said; both were locked in their rooms of pleasure, where for a while everything melted into insignificance. This time Devon was able to contain himself. He could feel her rib cage heave as she gasped for breath. Then she began to make noises, soft grunts at first, then little affirmations and then finally commands. Across in the baby pen, Eru began to mimic her calls. Finally she shuddered and went limp. Devon kept going but then stopped too. He knew Wiremu would be there soon and there seemed no prospect of coming for a second time.

Tania slid onto the couch and began to rub a towel vigorously between her legs.

“Mmm, yummy.” Then she tossed the towel to him. “Better see if you can put that thing away somewhere; Wiremu’ll be back in a
moment.”

He looked down at his cock, which was still standing to attention. It would not be easy getting that into his pants. They both dressed quickly and Tania went out onto the back steps for a smoke. “I sure needed that. You?”

“Same.”

“Maybe I’ll stay a bit longer, after all.”

They chuckled.

“Yo, Wiremu. Ta. How much?”

“Eight dollars ninety-five.”

“Small town rip-off. Right, let’s do a round of conditioning.”

From that day on, Devon’s holiday seemed to engage a higher gear. Time, which had been limping along, now began to gallop. The huge gap before school resumed again shrank into a matter of days. All his thoughts were consumed by the excitement, the anticipation of frantic liaisons. Very little was said. There were no claims of love, no moments of tenderness, just a hungry drive to do the act. Sometimes they would meet in the wasteland next to the old school. Other times it was in Devon’s bed after Ra had gone to sleep. There would be a soft tap on the window and Devon would draw Tania in over the sill. For the next ten minutes they would fuck to the droning rhythm of Ra’s snores through the thin wall. Other times, if a few days had passed without a chance of sex, Devon would sneak over to Wiremu’s, silence Mangu, their excitable Labrador, and then clamber into the room where Tania and Eru slept. This was much more difficult because Wiremu’s mother was always up late and the baby seemed to wake so easily.

Their desire made them increasingly reckless. They paid scant heed to the chance of being caught, or any other consequence. It was only a matter of time before everything would be known but they didn’t care. Their huge hunger swamped everything. When Devon was inside Tania, life became stripped to complete simplicity. Their mutual need was the only goal and with each coupling they became more practised, more daring, more successful. When
they had finished they ran back to their other lives, still glowing with the warmth of their secret.

There was just a week left before Paikea was due to take Devon back to Barwell’s. His only thoughts were how he could delay this; how he could keep Tania near him in Auckland. He had arranged to meet her at the children’s playground, which was at the crèche next to the primary school. This was one of the few places where their presence was unlikely to raise suspicion. It was impossible not to hurry when he was walking towards one of these encounters. He hadn’t seen Tania for two days; she had been visiting at her parents’ house.

When he got there, the playground was deserted. There was nothing alarming about this, as she was often late, but nevertheless a feeling of dread settled over him. He lay on the seesaw and stared up into the leaves of a huge puriri tree that sheltered most of the rusting equipment in the playground. Once again he ran through the options of how to keep this thing going with Tania. He had grown up so much; had come to see things differently. In some ways he felt he knew more than his friends now, even Steph. It would be good to talk about it somewhere where there would be no repercussions.

Then he was aware of a shadow over his face. He opened his eyes. It was Wiremu. He gave a start.

“Shit, you gave me a shock. You sneaker.”

“Expecting Tania?”

“Yeah, I was actually. We were going to play with Eru here. Where is she?”

“She’s gone, Te Arepa.”

There was a triumphant note in his voice. Something gloating.

“What do you mean, gone?”

“She’s gone to her parents’ place. You knew that.”

“Yeah, but she’s due back today. She staying on for a while?”

“She’s not coming back.”

Devon sat up. It was like the day he left Barwell’s; he had a sick feeling. The kick-in-the-balls feeling.

“She was only going for a few days.”

“No, she was leaving for good. Didn’t tell you, huh?”

“No.”

Wiremu wandered over and sat on the swing. “She’s a wild one, Rep. You know that.” Then he said with a smirk. “She doesn’t have boyfriends.”

“What about Eru’s father?”

“Didn’t she tell you? He wanted to marry her and everything. Still does, they reckon. She won’t have a bar of it. She won’t let anyone tell her what to do.”

“Tania was cool,” said Devon, as if defending her. “She was fun.”

“Oh yeah, she was fun all right.”

Devon sat up and stared at Wiremu.

“You thought you were the one and only, huh? Well, stud, you were way wrong on that score.”

“What do you mean? You and Tania …?”

“Oh yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since the day after she came to stay with us.”

“Bullshit!”

“Back at ya, Rep.” He stood up and they held each other’s stare for a moment before Wiremu turned and wandered off.

“Wait, Wiremu!” yelled Devon, jumping to his feet.

But Wiremu kept walking. As he passed through the gate he raised a hand and, without turning, gave him the one finger.

Devon slumped back onto the seesaw and watched Wiremu disappear from view behind the school’s thick hedge. It was hard to believe that Wiremu and Tania had been doing it but then he knew that Wiremu didn’t lie. He didn’t have enough imagination. For days after Tania’s disappearance, Devon lay about, drained of energy or the desire to go anywhere or do anything. His life lacked
any purpose, and yet when he reflected on it, he had to admit that this was inevitable. He hadn’t realised that he had allowed a future to grow behind the sex. He had become attached to her. Not just her body, which he believed he owned, but to her funny little ways. Her staunch expressions. Her matter-of-fact, no-bullshit approach to everything. Now she had stepped out of his life as abruptly as she had stepped into it. His heart was hungry for more.

When Paikea picked him up, there were no words of wisdom or farewells from Ra. He had gone to Gisborne the previous day. Devon was packed and waited quietly in the front room in his uniform, studying himself in the old flaky mirror above the fireplace. He seemed the same, but somehow he was different. Older and sadder.

Jinny had gone back to the hospice; Paikea was in no mood for talking. Devon expected her to do all the driving, but she let him take the wheel when they filled up with petrol at a town near Whakatane. His driving had become much smoother and more confident now and the tips she gave him were few and far between. Sometimes he would change down too late and she would mumble, “It’s labouring.” Other times she would just motion with her hands. Devon flashed a look at her occasionally and could see the pain in her eyes. In some ways it gave him strength. “It’s tough all over.” Her words from that earlier time began to have a deeper meaning for him.

Devon asked Paikea to drop him at the school gates.

“I’ll take you to the boarding houses.”

“No thanks, Pike, I’d rather walk. I want a bit of time to think about things before I join in and become a Barwell’s boy again.”

They pulled in off the busy road into the area immediately in front of the big gates.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks, Pike.”

He grabbed his bag and slid stiffly out of the passenger seat of the van.

“No kiss?”

He looked around to check who else might be watching and leaned back in to kiss the proffered cheek. Paikea grinned, as though she knew the score but wouldn’t go along with it.

“You have a good term, don’t get swallowed up in that Pakeha stuff.”

Then she disappeared down the road and he walked through the great gates towards the hall and admin area. Being Sunday night, there was no one in this part of the school. He reflected on that day when he had come up for the test. The little flags and signs guiding all the newbies. The headmaster and Mr Simmonds. It seemed much longer than eighteen months ago: so much had happened. It was hard to imagine a year on from now.

In the distance he could hear voices, and car doors slamming in the boarding house car park. When he reached it, the area was filled with cars, and families and boys being dropped off. Most of the older boys made their own way to the boarding house, but the younger boys were accompanied by parents, little sisters, and in some cases a whole entourage of relatives, all eager to see where
their charge was going to be spending his next few years. Among them was Wingnut. His father had a new car, a silver Range Rover. His mother and grandfather were with him. Devon kept back; he didn’t feel up to going over the whole “How are you? What have you been doing? When are you coming to visit us again?” routine. He was done with that fake crap.

He followed them at a distance, and when they headed up to the pens he took his gear to the common room to wait it out. To his surprise it was already filling up with boys, even though the house assembly wasn’t until much later. The place seemed to be teeming with boys younger than he was. Boys carrying pillows. Boys on the edge of tears. Swaggering boys trying to make a mark for themselves. He walked in and put his bag down, pushed a boy off a chair and sat down.

The boy, who was small and blond, scrambled to his feet. He seemed close to breaking down. The outrage. The unfairness.

“You can’t do that. I was here first.”

Devon smiled. “Yes I can, and more,” he said, remembering his first thump.

“Devon!” It was Steph.

He ran forward and threw his arms around him. Devon pushed him away quickly, indicating all the little eyes around them.

Steph was unabashed “We’re fourths now, Devon, we run the show. How was your break? Boring? God, mine was. Vast chunks of boredom, sandwiched between big hunks of sleep.”

“Same,” said Devon, struggling to hold back the Tania story. Since she’d taken off, a lot of it felt too big, too intimate, too much, to be shared with Steph.

“Wade Royle’s arrived with a whole flock of his bleating family. I couldn’t stand it, had to leave. Farming people become the beasts they eat. Big clumsy creatures with faraway looks in their eyes.”

Devon laughed. It was so good to be back with Steph. What an antidote to Wiremu’s dim-witted conversations. Soon Wingnut
and Mitch appeared, then Mr Simmonds with Hartnell, who they knew must be the next head of house. From then on there were the speeches, followed by the introductions, which were fairly abbreviated. Then came the mugs of Milo, and back to the pens.

That night, as they lay in bed, Mitch and Wade gave lengthy accounts of some of the things they had got up to. In Wade’s case it was a list of agricultural jobs that he described in great detail. He would have gone on all night, but Mitch began to make loud snoring noises.

Mitch had met up with some guys who were part of a street racing set. He had spent most of the holidays in and around cars. Every incident figured smoke, loud exhausts and near misses.

“Near misses?” asked Devon drowsily.

“Near misses with other cars, with cops, with blowing the motors …”

Mitch had gone from car fiend to full-blown petrol head.

Steph affected an immediate boredom with this, but there was a part of Devon that needed to hear more. Part of him had a hunger for the wild and the lawless; the head-clearing anarchy of speed and destruction. Something explosive enough to snap all the strings that held him back.

Being in 4A didn’t seem very different at first, but it sure put Devon under pressure. In his old class he was able to rely on his impressive general knowledge. Unlike the other boys who grew up in the city where there were always other options, Devon had spent much of his early life reading. He had been right through Ra’s battered old Everyman’s encyclopaedia, studying the murky pictures and complex diagrams when the city boys had been playing computer games or sport, having birthday parties or trips to the mall.

But 4A was different.

Here he was amongst boys who seemed, like Steph, to have it all sussed. There was a resident group of Asian geniuses. The speed with which they did their maths was unbelievable. It was like they were years ahead and all school did was hold them back. In English and Latin this wasn’t the case, but it would never balance out. Devon could tell that the prize for making it into 4A was going to be slaving away harder than he ever had, just to keep where he was. Running on the spot like Alice in Wonderland. There was something else he hadn’t considered. Steph had got him in and it would be Steph who kept him there. There was a price. Steph demanded more from him: certain people were to be kept well clear of. And he insisted on other things too … like Devon joining the choir.

Steph had been in the choir since the day he arrived. Joining meant that you immediately had “suss” stamped on your brow. For some this meant you were a bona fide, card-carrying fag; for others just that you had become part of something that made you terminally uncool. Your jokes stopped being funny. You were the last to be picked for any team at PE. You were on the receiving end of the “noises”. These noises were a call for general derision whenever the need arose, and it arose frequently. Particularly if you did something difficult or impressive. Unpopular boys were showered in honking laughter.

Devon didn’t want to join; it would put his invisibility under pressure. But he had to do it. Without Steph’s patronage he would never hold his place in 4A. He knew that, whatever else happened now, there was no going back.

Being in the choir meant frequent practices before school and once or twice a week in the evenings, depending on what events were coming up. Steph was quick to point out that the biggest incentive for being a member was having somewhere to go in the evenings other than the dorms, where you got picked on by predatory seniors.

The music department was housed in the Flagg-Lewis Suite.
It had been built with the proceeds of a bequest left by a wealthy Old Boy who owned a ubiquitous courier firm. The yellow vans with the red flag motif were seen everywhere in Auckland: but this brand power had a different connotation at Barwell’s. Here it carried a palpable smell of dubiousness because of its association with things cultural and hence dodgy. At Barwell’s, if it wasn’t a sport, preferably one that inflicted regular injury, then it was a poofy activity and drama and choir were at the “fag” end of the scale. As a result, the building was invariably referred to as The Fags and Losers Suite: shortened, in adult hearing, to the FLS.

Set apart from the other buildings, the FLS consisted of a number of small practice rooms built around an auditorium. There were different rules here. In the FLS everything was based around popularity, attractiveness and favour. Size and seniority counted for little and nothing was beyond the boy who played the system to his advantage. In this place Steph’s success had been meteoric. It was easy to see why he had gravitated here. Not only was it a safe haven, but also a place where, in no time, he had established himself amongst all the power elites.

Like many boys in the FLS, Steph was a “pet” to some senior: in his case a quiet boy called Barry Briggs. Back in Marsden House, Briggs was not someone with whom Devon and Steph had any real contact, but here in the music suite it was different. FLS rules applied.

Briggs always had something secret to tell Steph. When he talked it usually involved whispering, his face close to Steph’s ear. This was followed by frequent high-pitched giggles. None of that could happen in Marsden. There were little presents from Briggs too, and favours. Steph was wearing Briggs’s watch. He had one of his own but he wore Barry’s. He got to use his phone too. Steph, for his part, just had to laugh at the lame jokes; smile and allow himself to be hugged.

Nothing was ever simple at Barwell’s, though, and the FLS was no different. What made it tricky was the Director of Music,
Mr Willis (Willie to the boys).

Willie had arrived with a flourish halfway during their third form year. The old Director of Music, Mr Walker (nicknamed Johnny Walker because of his whiskey breath) had left suddenly. When Willie arrived, the headmaster had introduced him as a “new broom”. It was hard to know what had the biggest impact on the school: his haircut, his bright red Mini, or the revamped rock songs he introduced to morning assemblies. It was as though he had a license to do just whatever he wished.

Needless to say, in the FLS it was Willie who set the standard for everyone else. His “cool stuff” — his jokes, his clothes, musical tastes — became the boys’ “cool stuff” when he was around. This was an unspoken understanding. After evening choir practice, the music was pumped up and everyone danced as though their lives depended on it. Even here, his moves were the ones that counted.

A week or two after joining the choir, Devon was on the receiving end of a story which all the other boys claimed to have heard many times.

Willie had been teaching Steph a long, complicated piece on the piano in one of the practice rooms. They sat together on the piano stool, hands rushing up and down the keyboard. It was late, and Devon should really have returned to Marsden, but he sat and waited for Steph so they could walk back together.

When they had finished, Willie pushed Steph off the long piano stool and turned to give Devon a piercing stare. It was as though he was seeing him for the first time.

“So, Devon, what is it that makes you tick? Do you have a dream? Do you have a vision that marks you out from everybody else, or are you content to be one of the crowd?”

It was a loaded question and didn’t need an answer.

“Do you know how I came to be here today? Can you imagine all the events and actions, great and small, that have led up to you and me sitting here in this practice room?”

Steph smiled and excused himself. He seemed to know what was coming next. Devon longed to follow him but was held back as if by some unwritten obligation.

Willie played a rapid little phrase on the piano, which Devon recognised as silent movie music signifying that something was about to happen. Willie was in his element. The tone of his voice softened and his face took on a more intense, focused look as he went back to the beginning.

“I wasn’t born playing this thing. When I was young my parents were killed in a car crash and I was sent to live with my aunt in Rotorua. She was a spinster; do you know what a spinster is?”

Devon nodded.

“My aunt taught music for a living, from the front room of her huge lake-front villa. In many ways she was a dry woman … had never been loved and could not give love. But she wasn’t without passion, without emotion. You can’t understand music without these things. It was just that all that energy had become channelled into the teaching of music. I know this because it lit a fire in me.”

He stopped to let this image sink in, and then he continued.

“I don’t remember when I first began to play but I am told it was about the age of four when she decided that it was time for me to learn to express myself musically.”

Willie plinked away at some memory loosened by the notes.

“I do know, and this is a matter of recorded fact, that I won a piano competition in Rotorua at the age of eight, against all comers. I have been told that at the time, the judging panel simply couldn’t believe that a child of eight would have the strength, or the hand span, to master the piece I played. Let alone interpret it with such maturity.”

He stopped for a moment as if reflecting on his own dazzling promise. Then, while softly tinkling the keys with his left hand, he launched back into the narrative.

“From then on it was back-to-back scholarships as I was
groomed for musical greatness. For some years I knew nothing but triumph. I set myself impossibly difficult challenges and met them with consummate ease. It seemed as if nothing could stop me. And then … it happened. The incident that meant my future as a performer was effectively over.”

“What happened?”

“I was bullied, Devon, bullied by a group of Maori thugs.” Then, after a moment, “No offence.”

“None taken, Mr Willis. Include me out,” Devon replied coldly.

“Willie, please. All my friends call me that.” He paused, giving weight to the invitation, and then continued in a lively tone. “They were jealous of my talent. Jealous of my … difference. Jealous of everything I was and they weren’t.”

“What did they do?” The question seemed to be expected of him.

“They used to go out of their way at school to torment me. They would steal my lunch, slap my head when I sat at my desk working, call me ‘fag’ and ‘queer’.”

He turned to Devon. “So you see I know a bit about bullying. I know what happens at this school and I make certain that it will never happen in my domain. Devon, these boys made my life hell.”

He turned around further on the piano stool and leant in close to Devon’s face. Devon could smell the sharp, sour reek of his breath. He struggled not to recoil or let it show.