Asturias (17 page)

33

CAST-OFFS

TIM'S STORY

So now there were two of us “missing”.

I didn't know what Marco was up to. At the time, I was out of touch with everyone, and I didn't even realise that Symonds had shafted him too.

Even if I had heard, I'm not sure I would have been particularly concerned. I just wanted to be alone, to feel sorry for myself. I know I should have seen it coming, but … what can I say?

I didn't.

When Tasha was having her problems, early on, it was obvious to everyone but her. I guess that's the way it always is. They all warned me: Chrissie, Max, Alex … everyone. But I was Mr Invincible. I could handle it. I never let them down, did I? I always turned up on time, and I never stuffed up on a song.

Of course there was more to the whole deal than just that, but I wouldn't see it. Why should I? I had all these great friends falling over backwards to show me I was right.

You've heard the story of the prodigal son, right? He blows everything, then crawls back and all is forgiven?

Well, I played out the first part of the story just perfectly. It didn't take five minutes for the word to hit the streets, and their attitude changed overnight.

They didn't cut me dead, not right away, but you could sense the difference in a look or a word — in what they
didn't
say. Or maybe that was just me being paranoid.

Whatever …

Suddenly their opinions didn't seem to matter all that much anyway.

Of course, there was one huge difference between me and the prodigal. Symonds was never the type to “forgive and forget”, and he was the only one with the power to give me a second chance.

I cursed him, and Max, and everyone I could think of. But when I got through cursing everyone else, the only one left was me.

And I realised the bit of the story I was overlooking. In the story, the prodigal ended up feeding the pigs. But it wasn't the pig farmer who was offering forgiveness, it was someone who was hurting a whole lot more.

I went home …

They knew, of course. Chrissie and the others had been ringing them almost hourly, to see if they had any news.

I knocked on the door and my mother answered it. She was the one who'd been hurt worst; caught in the middle between my father's stubbornness, and my … Well, I guess I take after him in most things.

When she saw me standing there, her expression was a mixture of relief and concern, but when I hugged her, she let out a sigh that seemed like she must have been holding her breath for a week. It was a good start, but it wasn't Mum's reaction I was worried about.

He was sitting in his chair in the lounge, reading the
Herald
and watching the evening news. He looked up as I came into the room, but didn't say anything. As usual, I couldn't read his face.

“I didn't know whether I should come,” I began nervously. “After … you know …”

His expression didn't change.

“No one ever said you weren't welcome here, Tim,” he said, his voice even and emotionless. “Sit down.”

He folded the newspaper and looked at me.

“Want to talk about it?”

This time, the offer was genuine. Maybe it always had been.

“I guess I stuffed up,” I said.

For once, he wasn't about to argue with me.

ALEX'S STORY

If I hadn't been so tied up with my own grief, maybe I would have been there for Marco. I don't know if there was anything I could have done, but I should have been there for him. It's just that there was so much going on that it was like the script from some prime-time soap. And to me it seemed about as real.

The band was falling apart, but I couldn't find the energy to care very much. Marco was gone, and part of me was concerned, but I couldn't focus. I kept thinking about Abuelito sitting there alone, dying.

Was he scared? Did he call out to me?

I'd come back all fired up about Symonds' cold-hearted manipulation, but suddenly it didn't mean anything. The old man was dead, and I felt responsible.

Claire told me it was ridiculous to feel that way. That he was an old man, and it could have happened any time. But it didn't make me feel any better.

I knew it had to happen some time, but that was all the more reason not to leave him alone. I should have been there with him.

I've come to terms with it now, but at the time, when I needed a clear head, I was operating with a brain full of cotton wool.

Which left the thinking up to the girls.

CHRISSIE'S STORY

Marco was hiding out.

He wasn't about to play the game his father's way, so he was lying low until he could get his game plan up and running. Trouble was, he didn't get in touch with any of us, either. I guess he didn't trust us to go along with whatever he was planning. He should have trusted us.

His plan was simple.

He'd contacted a lawyer — the same one who handled his trust fund — and worked out a plan.

His father had confirmed his guardianship through the court. Which wasn't too difficult, as Melina had never filed for any sort of separation, anyway. That gave him control. Of everything.

What Marco had to do was find a way of removing that control. And for Marco, attack was the best means of defence.

He was hiding out at Mindy's house. He couldn't go home, and he couldn't come to any of us. We were too obvious, but she was just far enough removed to escape consideration.

And she liked him. Eighteen months of one-on-one builds up a pretty special relationship. He did all his business with the lawyer by mobile phone, and didn't contact anyone else.

Except the witnesses.

It must have taken days of leg-work, but he tracked down just about everyone who'd known his family in the years before Donny Faalo walked out.

He had them sign affidavits, and most of them agreed to give evidence if necessary about the way things had been.

Then he applied for the restraining order, and made his formal request.

At fifteen years old, with a twenty per cent share of two platinum albums, and nationwide star-status, Marco applied to the courts to become a ward of the State.

Of course, being out of contact with us, he had no idea what was going down at CTT. All he was interested in doing was getting his father out of his life. Again.

The strategy was to build up a case of longstanding violent abuse, and have his father removed as guardian, and restrained from making any type of contact. Then, because of his age and status, he would apply for a loose sort of fostering arrangement — maybe with Alex and his dad, or even Max. But basically it would mean that things went back to the way they were before Donny Faalo appeared on the scene.

And it worked like a dream.

The writs were issued in the Family Court, the witnesses were called, and the case was made. If he had been any younger, it might have been trickier, but he'd proved his point to the satisfaction of the Court, and Donny Faalo was slapped with a restraining order forbidding him to come within a kilometre of his son. He was out of the picture, and word had it he'd moved back up to Queensland. And Child Welfare weren't about to make a federal case out of where a fifteen-year-old, independently wealthy kid chose to live. They had kids with real problems to deal with.

But it all happened too late.

By the time the hearing had been scheduled and the decisions made, Donny Faalo had had time to have the kid's contract with CTT overturned. MacAllister had done everything in his power, short of ripping the thing up, to make it easy for the court to declare it invalid, so by the time Marco's father was out of the picture, so was Marco.

It made no difference what we said, Symonds wasn't budging. He'd made his decision, and he wasn't going to change his mind. Not for Marco. Not for anyone.

The father wasn't a threat any more, so there was no logical reason to get rid of Marco. In fact, it made much better economic sense to keep him.

But it was beyond business now. It was a matter of power. Max had quit and threatened him in the process, and he was going to teach everyone exactly who was boss. Even if it meant destroying the kid. There was no contract, and as far as Symonds was concerned, there never would be.

End of discussion.

34

OSTERLEY POINT

CLAIRE'S STORY

The poor kid.

To be hit with that, after all that he'd been through. It just wasn't fair. He'd overcome his grief, and fought so hard, carrying out a plan that would have done credit to someone twice his age, only to be cut down by some fat creep with a grudge to settle.

He was staying with Alex again, and I was almost living there myself. Between Marco's despair and Alex's useless guilt, I didn't feel right leaving Mr Rivera to deal with the household alone. He still had to work, and he had his own feelings of loss to contend with. The old man had been a part of his life for so long, it must have been hard making the adjustment to life without him.

Of course, Marco chose the one day I was back home, to finally go completely off the rails …

ALEX'S STORY

I didn't see it coming.

Whatever had happened before, through all the pressure and the tragedy, he'd always been strong on one point.

I don't do drugs
…

He'd said it on the first day I met him, and even when we were so concerned about Tim, I never worried for a moment about Marco. Not on that score.

It wasn't like there wasn't the opportunity. It's that kind of industry. Where there's money, there's always the lowlife scum who'll try anything to get their “cut”.

He was “the kid”, so we all smothered him a bit, especially on the road, but he could have got hold of anything if he'd really wanted to. Marco was just never interested.

Maybe that's why I reacted the way I did when I walked in and caught him.

I didn't know what they were at the time, but just by the way he reacted when I saw the tablets, I knew that something was very wrong. He scooped them up and shoved them into his pocket, then turned to face me.

His eyes were wide, and he was flushed.

“Don't you knock?” he asked, and there was something in the way he spoke, a kind of slurred … preciseness, almost like Tim when he was half-smashed, that made my stomach turn over. I knew that whatever they were, he'd already taken one. Or more.

“What do you think you're doing, you little idiot?”

If there was a worse way to react, I'd probably have found it. But there wasn't. Instead of talking him down, and discussing what was going on, I handled it like a Gestapo interrogator. Or maybe like his father.

His face set hard, and he stared at me.

“What business is it of yours? I didn't —”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by my grabbing him hard by both shoulders, and shaking him.

“Of course it's my business, you moron,” I began, but I didn't get any further.

Marco was almost four years younger than me, and thin. But he was stronger than he looked, and he'd learned a lot during his time mixing with the street kids. Before I knew what was happening, I was flat on my back, and he was running from the room.

I made it to my feet and out of the bedroom in time to see him disappearing out the back door. It slammed before I got halfway across the kitchen, and as I tried to reef it open, I realised that he'd slipped the deadlatch.

I turned to the kitchen table to get my keys, but they were gone. It was then that I heard the car starting up.

By the time I'd made my way out by the front door, it was disappearing down the street, heading east. I ran inside and called Claire.

CHRISSIE'S STORY

Tash and I were at Tim's parents' house — at Tim's invitation — when the call came through on the mobile.

It was Claire. She was in her car, and Alex was driving. The kid had taken off in Alex's new Mazda, heading east, and the only place they could think of to look for him was at his old house. The one by the beach that he'd shared with his mother, until she went into hospital for the last time.

As she filled in the details, she sounded frantic.

Could we meet them there? I looked at Tasha and Tim.

And then we were bolting for the door. Tim managed to yell something to his mother on the way out, but she barely had time to make it to the front porch before we were laying rubber and trying to struggle into our seatbelts. I saw her standing there, watching us scream off, and I remember wondering why anyone would want to be a parent.

We broke a couple of hundred road rules, but something told me that this was more serious than a traffic ticket.

Tasha called Claire's mobile for an update, but the signal had dropped out, so we were no wiser, and that just increased the tension.

As we arrived at the house, we could see Claire's car parked out front, with both the doors open, and neither of them in sight. The front door of the house was standing wide open.

In the lounge, on the tiled area in front of the fireplace, we found Claire kneeling over someone. I couldn't see his face, but it wasn't Marco — or Alex.

And there was a dark pool of blood spreading slowly across the tiles and soaking into her jeans.

“Claire?” I managed. “What …?”

She turned to look up, her face white as a sheet.

“I've called the ambulance. He's still alive, but I can't stop the bleeding. I don't know how long I can …”

I stepped up to help, and it was then that I saw the man's face. She had his bleeding head on one of her knees, and she was holding a folded towel hard against the wound.

Donny Faalo.

He was unconscious, of course, and in that state, he looked far less threatening than he had that day in court, when his big dreams had come crashing down.

I could hear the siren of the ambulance in the distance, and I wondered if it would get there in time.

But only with part of my brain. With the rest, I was desperately trying to imagine what the hell could have happened.

“The cliff!” It was Claire. She shouted the words, as if she had just remembered something of deadly importance. “Alex has gone after him.”

We left Tasha to help her, and the two of us took off in the direction of the beach, and the steep track that led up to the cliff at the end of Osterley Point …

He struggles against the haze that threatens to overwhelm him. And one thought drives him forward.

Escape
…

The weeds beneath his feet cushion his footsteps, so that it feels as if he is walking on cotton, and this close to the headland, the wind is powerful. He pauses to look back. The tiny figure of his pursuer is growing steadily larger. But as he turns to go on, he realises, in that part of his mind that still retains its former clarity, that he has trapped himself.

The headland is an almost sheer drop, and the only other way down is by the path up which he has fled. The path which is now blocked by the one who is chasing him.

He turns and stumbles, tearing his jeans, and grazing his knee on a rock, then he struggles to his feet, forcing himself nearer to the edge.

Below, the waves roll in and die in foaming fury on the black rocks which litter the base of the drop. He stands with his back to the power of the on-shore wind, and waits.

He knows the face, when it appears. But it is not the face of the one he fears.

“Marco?” Alex is breathing heavily, as he forces himself up the final rise.

“Don' come any closer!” The boy hears the scream, and realises vaguely that it is his own voice crying out against the noise of the wind inside his head. The dizziness that began as he drove to the house is growing worse, and he can hear a noise like bees buzzing against the inside of his skull.

“What happened? Why …?” The question refuses to form itself, as Alex stumbles to a halt. The boy is too close to the cliff-edge, and something warns him to advance no further.

“It wan't my fault
…”

The slurring of words that he noticed earlier is more pronounced now, and he watches the way the boy sways. His instinct is to reach out and drag him from the edge, but he is just too far away, and any movement now
…

“He was there when I opened the door. He wan't s'posed to be there. They said he was in … Queensland'. He wan't s'posed to be
…”

“It's alright, Marco. We're here now. You want to tell me what happened?”

The boy looks at him, then turns awkwardly towards the cliff-edge, and sways dangerously.

“
A'right? Wha's a'right? It's over, Alex …” He turns back to face his friend. “It's over
…”

The tears are beginning to flow. Alex takes a step forward.

“Stay back! I don't need you, you understan'? I don't need … anyone
…”

The distance is still too great to make a lunge, and the older boy freezes.

“Everybody needs someone, Marc. We're here for you, just trust me. We'll work it out
…”

“Sure!
We'll work it out. Wha'you gonna do? Visit me in jail? I killed him, man. I knocked the drunk bastard on his arse and he smashed ‘is head on the fireplace. He wan't s'posed to be
…”

“It wasn't your fault, Marc. It'll be alright … What did you take? The pills. What are they?”

The boy begins to laugh uncontrollably. Then as suddenly as it started, the laughter stops dead.

“What's it matter? Blue pills, pink pills, white pills …” He looks confused for a moment, then his face clears, as if he is suddenly in control. “ ‘Don't do drugs …' they said. ‘Be a good boy …' ‘Work hard and do well …' Well, I did what they said, and … What's it matter?”

A movement further down the hill catches his attention. Alex follows the line of his gaze. Two figures struggle up the path, one male, one female.

“It's the others. They've come to help you, man. You don't have to be alone.”

But as he looks back towards the cliff-edge, the boy takes another step backwards.

“We're all alone, man. Din't you figure it yet? We're all
—”

And suddenly the ground is giving way, crumbling beneath his unsteady feet. He sways, and his arms swing out to balance his body, but he has lost control. Alex lunges desperately to grab him, but he twists towards the empty air and drops silently from view
…

TIM'S STORY

We were maybe thirty metres away when Marco disappeared over the edge. Chrissie screamed, and I felt suddenly faint. The contents of my stomach forced their way into my throat, and my head went all light.

But there was no time for feeling anything. Alex had dived for the edge of the cliff, trying to grab the kid, and now he was lying looking down.

I heard him scream. One word.

“Marco!”

Then he swung his legs over the edge and began to climb down.

By the time we reached the point where we could see over, Alex was four or five metres down the rock face, struggling blindly with his feet for a foothold. And from where we lay, looking down, we could see the reason for his urgency.

Osterley Point is not a sheer drop. Not quite. And Marco's body had lodged on one of the rocky outcrops, maybe ten or eleven metres down the face. There was blood on his face, and one of his arms was sticking out at a sickening angle, and there was no way of telling if he was dead or alive.

What was clear was that the slightest movement — perhaps even the wind — would send him plummeting the rest of the way to the rocks below. It was just a knob of rock, not even a ledge, and Alex was halfway down to it.

While Chrissie fumbled with her mobile to call for help, I looked on helplessly.

The wind tears at him, whipping his long hair back into his eyes, and making his shirt flap wildly against his back. His fingertips scream for relief, but there is none to be had.

For a moment he leans tightly in against the rock-face, struggling for breath, trying to take the weight on his feet and ease the pain in his hands. Then he is feeling carefully for the next foothold; looking down just enough to see the cliff a few centimetres below his striving foot, but not enough to see the yawning emptiness which is all that separates him from the foaming rocks below.

Another small movement, and another, and he is almost level with the boy. His foot slips, and his heart stops, but his heel catches on a sliver of rock, and he steadies himself. And breathes again.

The final manoeuvre onto the outcrop itself is the worst of the whole nightmare climb. The boy's body blocks his way, except for a single precarious foothold at the extreme left of the formation. Crablike, he positions himself above the boy, then reaches down carefully with his left foot, anchoring it on the rock. From that position, he must swing his other leg out over the boy's body, and find purchase on the rough surface of the rock, without overbalancing.

He senses the eyes watching from above, and takes a breath. Then his leg is in the air, and his strong fingers are all that remain to keep him from tipping over and tumbling to the rocks below. He feels them slip, then hold, and his foot touches something solid.

Slowly he lowers himself until he is astride the outcrop, facing the rock-wall, with his arms around the warm body of the boy. The boy moans slightly, but does not wake. At last, he allows himself a small vestige of hope. For as long as there is strength left in his muscles, the boy will not fall.

CLAIRE'S STORY

They took Marco and Alex to the hospital in the rescue chopper.

Marco was alive. Just. And Alex appeared to be fine. They couldn't tell us any more than that before they took off.

By the time we reached the hospital, Marco was in surgery, and Alex was waiting for us, a dressing on his cheek, where he'd scraped it on the rock-face. But it wasn't the physical injury that worried me.