Crossfire (2 page)

A green arrow appeared and they turned off the main road to wind their way through row after row of houses that differed only in the colour they had been painted and the number of trees in each yard. Luke hoped that, now they were close to home, his mother would calm down … alas, her mention of CT's name sparked Alison's fury again. ‘Well, you won't be seeing much of CT for a while, either. Do you hear me, Luke? You are not to see him, talk to him or anything, until your suspension is over. God knows if all this will make any difference to CT. His father'll probably belt him round the ear a bit then ignore him for the rest of the fortnight, as he normally does. Poor kid. But not you, Luke. You are going to wake up to yourself. God knows I do enough for you. Surely I don't have to act as your common sense as well.'

She slowed down to negotiate a corner. ‘Your father's behind all this, you realise. He's the one who got you hooked on guns.
His little toys.
I should have realised something like this would happen when you had your nose stuck in all those shooting magazines he gave you. Just as well I banned those from the house when I did. Your father didn't have any common sense either. That was quite obvious when we were still married, and I don't think he's developed a terrific store of it since. Well, I hope this suspension of yours will rattle him. He might realise that he's setting his son on the same useless path he's followed all his life.'

Alison glanced across at her son in the passenger seat, aware that her apportioning of the blame would not be welcome. The hurt and the disagreement she had expected were there in Luke's eyes.

‘Oh yes, I know your father's a keen hunter and a good shot. ‘Armalite Aldridge'— isn't that what his mates call him when they're not calling him something worse behind his back? They were calling him that before you could walk. Once I was proud of the nickname. Thought it was a compliment. Not any more. I see it all in a different light now. If I could cut him out of your life I would. As a matter of fact …'

Alison stopped spitting out words to reflect a moment, then she said: ‘I must speak to Belinda. She might be able to turn this whole sorry story to some use.'

Belinda was Luke's aunt, Alison's younger sister. She worked in a government department that Luke could never remember the name of. But she seemed to know a lot of rules and regulations about kids of divorced parents, rules that applied to Luke. Long ago, a court had ruled that Luke's father, Wayne Aldridge, should be allowed to see his son every second weekend. At first, when Luke was still young, seven or eight years old, his father hadn't bothered to take advantage of his rights. But as Luke grew older, Wayne Aldridge had found more to enjoy in the company of his only child. Now, rarely a fortnight passed without Wayne arriving to spirit Luke away to the footy or the speedway races. Alison didn't like it but the regulations defeated her.

Alison Aldridge was a determined woman who had learned a lot about courts and laws in her thirty-three years. She knew that defying rules was waste of time. The way to get what you wanted was to use the rules to your own advantage.

Luke sat tense and quiet, staring straight ahead. Mention of Aunt Belinda was ominous, for though he didn't understand the detail, he had overheard his mother and her sister discussing something called ‘access'. It had to do with his father's right to take him out every second fortnight, and that was what mattered to Luke. He wanted to say to his mother, ‘It's not Dad's fault, any of this. You're not being fair to him because you hate him so much. You never say a good thing about him. Well, to me he's great. At least I get to do things with him. You, my mother, never take me anywhere; we never do anything, and now you're working out a scheme to stop the only fun I ever have.' He was sure this was so.

Luke wanted to say this to his mother, to shout it all at her out of the stinging injustice he felt, but he didn't. He couldn't. He was afraid of the rampage that would result. Only a month ago, his mother had raged like this against her former husband until Luke could bear it no more. In frustration he'd screamed, ‘I'd rather live with Dad than here with you!'

Alison had gone berserk, and ordered him into his bedroom to think it out for himself until he was ready to apologise. She'd stayed in the lounge room, and Luke had heard her dissolve into violent tears which lasted for what seemed like hours. Afterwards, she had forgotten the demanded apology and Luke had conveniently neglected to offer it. Gradually, over the following days, life in the house had settled back to normal. They had a lodger — Sally, a workmate and good friend of Alison's. She shared the house with them and used the spare bedroom. With a third person frequently present, Alison's mood had improved and her outrage at Luke's impulsive claim had blown away like a cloud. But Luke remembered with more unhappiness than he cared to admit the loneliness of his room that afternoon, as he lay staring at the ceiling and hearing his mother's bitter sobs echo down the hall.

These memories rushed through Luke's head as the tired car wound its way through the last streets and corners before reaching their house. Just as Alison was steering the car into the garage beneath the house, which was built high on stumps, she stamped on the brake, flinging Luke hard against his seatbelt. She swore loudly out of her window at a lazy ginger cat which had been sunning itself on the grass between the concrete tracks over the footpath. ‘I'll flatten Rascal one of these days. Stupid cat,' she declared. She offered no apology to Luke for the jolt he had received, but slammed her door shut and headed up the stairs that led to the front door, leaving him to follow her.

two

Alison Aldridge found it difficult to stay in bed after the early light had strengthened into day, even after long shifts at the hospital which might keep her from sleep until one in the morning. This Saturday morning began like many an Australian winter's morning, cool and dry; it was a morning that made one pleased to be alive. Alison had found a sunny spot away from the westerly breezes; she leaned against the door post on the back landing, one leg curled under her and the other stretched down onto the first or second step. Here she would read the paper, leisurely choosing the articles which interested her. As this was the hefty weekend edition, there was plenty to catch her eye.

In the kitchen behind her, Luke was slowly clattering his way through the washing-up, after their bacon-and-egg breakfast. A cooked breakfast had become a weekend tradition in the household; breakfasts on weekdays were a mad rush of cereal and little else. Just as traditionally, the washing-up had become one of Luke's chores, the one he disliked the most. He had begged Alison to let him actually cook the bacon and eggs, but she didn't trust him.

‘You'll have eggshell and splashes of bacon fat from one end of the kitchen to the other,' she assured him on each of the many occasions he brought up the subject. In view of his present disgrace, Luke had not pursued his request this morning.

Luke glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen table, which still held the boxes of cereal, the milk bottle and sugar bowl, left ready for Sally's breakfast. Unlike the Aldridges, Sally liked to sleep in. He was about to clear these items away when the first signs of a disturbance reached his ears from the yard of Mr Brown's house a few doors away. There was the sound of a pot smashing on unforgiving concrete and a frenzied commotion amongst the garden beds. The shrill squeal of a cat brought Luke to the back landing, where he found his mother shielding her eyes against the winter glare as she tried to see what was happening. With more amusement than annoyance, she asked quietly: ‘Is that our silly cat making all that noise?'

‘Mr Brown won't be pleased if Rascal's racing in and out of his flowers,' Luke said.

A ginger tabby darted onto Mr Brown's high wooden fence, stuttered along the top for a few moments, then shot down into the adjoining garden. ‘It is Rascal!' laughed Luke. Then his eyes caught more movement on the wooden fence. Another cat had appeared. Spotting Rascal, it dived after her. They were both headed for the Aldridge backyard. ‘Rascal's upset one of the local toms, I see,' said Alison, rising from her comfortable possy and stretching the leg which had been folded beneath her.

‘Come on, Rascal, home you come!' she called.

Rascal needed no encouragement. She bounded over the chain wire fence into the Aldridge's yard, touching it only to steady her leap towards the steps. In an instant she was at the base of the stairs, sliding momentarily on her haunches to swing her body around a hundred and eighty degrees, then she launched herself upward into the safety of the kitchen. Chortling at their cat's desperation, Luke and his mother didn't realise until it was too late that the pursuing tomcat was upon them. Before they could swing the door closed he was inside the kitchen and had Rascal bailed up against the cupboards. A raucous squealing and spitting erupted as the two cats faced each other, apparently unaware of the furious threats Alison rained upon them.

Rascal realised there was no protection, nowhere to hide in the kitchen. She dashed into the lounge room, instantly followed by the determined intruder. Before Alison and Luke could enter the room they heard the first casualty as a plant crashed to the carpet, spreading damp potting mix across the floor. An empty coffee cup left on top of the TV the night before was next, then Rascal slid desperately under the sofa, where the much larger torn could not easily follow her. But in his attempts to reach her, the tom slashed and tore at the fabric around the wooden legs.

Luke could only stare in disbelief, but his mother was more alert. She quickly raced from room to room in the rest of the house, slamming doors to avoid further damage. The turmoil had roused Sally and Luke heard his mother answer her startled query with a few hurried words: ‘Some mad stray cat. Stay here. Don't worry.'

Back in the lounge room, Alison opened the front door and all the windows which led onto the front veranda, to serve as escape routes for one or both of the cats. ‘We've got to chase them out of the house before they wreck it, Luke,' she shouted. ‘Get the broom, quick!'

Luke snapped out of his daze and fetched the broom, arming himself with a long-handled mop. His mother took a wild swipe at the raging ball of fur which continued to claw and spit at the terrified Rascal beneath the sofa. But Alison was a poor shot with such an awkward weapon and after a number of blows she had barely distracted the cat from his purpose. Finally she lunged directly at the beast, knocking him off his feet and forcing him to acknowledge her presence with a ferocious snarl. But his quarry lay crouched beneath the sofa and he would not be diverted. The tom lay on his back and pushed his head under the sofa. Gripping the under side of the furniture with his claws, he began hauling himself towards Rascal until only his rear legs and tail protruded.

There was only one thing for it. Alison grabbed that tail and yanked the protesting creature clear. The overwrought tom was beyond fear or reason now; at this painful indignity he sprang upon his human attacker. Alison screamed and put her arms up to intercept the cat, which seemed to climb straight off the floor into the air. The cat caught Alison on the left forearm, dug his claws into her flesh and held on tenaciously.

Alison screamed once, looked at her left arm with the cat hooked fast into her flesh and then screamed again and again until the whole house was drenched with her cries of fear and pain.

‘Luke, Luke, get it off me! Help me!' she bellowed. Her voice was hysterical. With her face contorted, she clutched at her upper arm as though to block the agony. Then she swayed to one side, snatching at the back of a chair for support. Already she was starting to black-out with pain.

The cat held on grimly, hissing in fury, its eyes on fire, past care, past control of its own actions. Its entire body, legs, paws and talons were locked. The creature was trapped by its own instincts. To flee it must release its grip, but it believed that this tenacious hold on the woman's arm kept her from striking back.

Luke did not understand this. He grabbed the animal roughly by the back of the neck and tried to wrench it free. Alison shrieked even louder. ‘No, no! Stop. It hurts too much. Make it let go, Luke. Help me! It's digging deeper. I can feel it.' Alison grimaced deeply again, then began to retch violently. After a few convulsions, she fell back against the cupboards and sank to the floor, unconscious.

It was a matter of seconds since the cat had latched itself onto Alison's arm, and at this point Sally rushed into the room to join the fray. She had been prepared for almost anything, but the sight of Alison prostrate on the floor, with trickles of blood emerging from the puncture wounds on her arm, and with the culprit still in possession of its victim, she released a shocked scream of her own. But, like Alison before the appalling attack, Sally kept her head and allowed her nurse's training to slip into action.

She crept forward to check that Alison's breathing was not blocked. The cat hissed its hatred at her as she knelt over her friend, forcing Sally to cower away. But the cat was immobilised by its own desperation; its claws were caught deep into Alison's flesh. Quickly Sally confirmed that Alison was okay — if this could be said of an unconscious woman with a ferocious cat gouging her arm.

‘I've never seen anything like it,' Sally gasped as she stood up again. ‘What can we do?' She answered her own question. ‘The first thing is to keep your mother warm. Luke, fetch a blanket.'

Luke responded quickly, racing into his mother's room and jerking the blanket from the bed. He rushed back and Sally immediately sent him out again for a pillow. Alison was starting to regain consciousness and they must make her comfortable.

‘Alison, can you hear me?' whispered Sally. The cat is still caught onto your arm. I know it must hurt but it's only going to hurt more if you thrash about.'

Alison grimaced and tried to bring her head up from the pillow.

‘Try not to look at it,' cautioned Sally.

The pain and the terror started to overtake Alison again. She moaned and began to gasp air in short gulps. Sally gripped her free hand. ‘Alison, keep control. You must not go into hysterics. It's going to be all right.'

Alison fell back onto her pillow. Her breathing steadied. Luke, hovering uselessly over his mother, was relieved. If she'd begun to scream again he would have been unable to think. The scene was becoming clearer to him now. It was as though his mind and body had caught up with some fast-forward video of the past few minutes. Now he had a chance to think, to explore a notion building in his mind. He looked at the cat. Terror and fury were clear in its face. If he hit it over the head, he might stun it, even kill it, but what damage would the thrashing about cause his mother's already ravaged arm? The claws would remain embedded. Cats' claws were curved. If the cat didn't release that mortal grip itself, a doctor would have to cut the claws out. What a mess.

The cat was too frightened to let go. If it was to release that appalling grip, Luke must help its terror subside, just as Sally had calmed his mother.

The tom followed every movement he or Sally made; every sound caused the cat's ears to twitch in response. His actions must be steady, calm, silent. He found a teatowel in the kitchen and returning to the lounge room he began to dangle and play it around the cat's head.

‘What are you doing, Luke?' whispered Sally.

‘We have to calm the cat down,' Luke explained.

‘Anything's worth a try,' conceded Sally.

Luke worked the teatowel gradually over the animal's head, so that it lay loosely covering its eyes. Searching tentatively in his own throat, he began to croon words of comfort. Finally he risked everything by stretching out his open hand and stroking the cat's fur as it lay on its side.

Luke maintained his gentle murmurings and caresses for what seemed an age. Beneath his touch, the cat's muscles felt at first like steel, but slowly he sensed the creature was relaxing. Then he saw one of the paws move, rocking just a fraction back and forth on the skin, but enough to give hope the awful grip was loosening.

The cat's breathing slowed and became deep and regular. Having lulled the animal so gradually, Luke imagined that the release, when it came, would be a slow process. Instead, the cat's four paws let go of Alison at the same instant. It stood and inspected Luke, who lay stretched out on the floor next to his mother. He had no idea how long the two of them stared at each other, dazed and exhausted. He had even less idea of what would happen next.

Alison flinched slightly and moaned. It was enough to break the spell. The cat sprang, this time away from the woman. It darted frantically across the room, then spied the open front door and hurled itself through to freedom. It jumped straight from the veranda into the front yard, then scurried out into the street. That was the last they saw of it.

Alison tried to raise herself to a sitting position, but Sally pushed her down again. ‘Best not to sit up, Alison. Keep the wound above the heart and reduce the bleeding.'

Luke forced himself to look on as Sally inspected the puncture marks. Rich red blood had already begun to ooze slowly onto his mother's white arm and trickle into a pool on the teatowel which lay beneath it.

‘I can't believe it,' murmured Alison. ‘It's all so bizarre.'

‘Does it hurt, Mum?'

‘Of course it hurts,' snapped Alison. ‘Like merry hell. What a stupid question.'

‘Sorry. I think I should call an ambulance,' said Luke.

‘No, wait,' commanded his mother. ‘An ambulance will cost a fortune and we're not covered for it. And I don't want to go to hospital if I can avoid it.'

‘But Alison,' Sally said once she had cleaned the wounds and examined them. ‘These are nasty gashes. Very deep. I think you should at least see a doctor and have them stitched. You're bleeding everywhere.'

Alison found a smile despite her pain. ‘You can clean it up and do the stitching, Sal. Done it often enough before. You're always telling me how the doctors ask you to dose up the patients after an operation.'

‘That's a bit different,' muttered Sally, looking uncomfortable. ‘Besides, I don't have the gear.'

‘Oh yes you do, Sally. You keep your own private supply of surgical thread and local anaesthetic. Come on, Sal. Do this for me.'

‘You're sure you won't go to the hospital like Luke says? I can take you when I go into work.' Sally glanced at her watch as she spoke, remembering she had to go on duty later that morning.

‘But what about Luke? I can't leave him here on his own, and he can't sit around the hospital all day. It might take for ever. And what if some fool doctor wanted to keep me in overnight for observation? What would happen to him then?'

Sally, her nurse's training nettling her, looked worried and unhappy. Luke could see plainly this decision was against her better judgment. He spoke up. ‘Mum, you have to see a doctor at least.'

‘No,' his mother said flatly in her ‘end of discussion' tone.

Finally, Sally reluctantly agreed. She and Luke helped Alison to her feet, then into the bedroom, where Sally remade the bed with amazing speed and efficiency. As Alison was made comfortable, Luke was set to fetch and carry whatever was required: hot water in bowls from the kitchen, cotton wool, tape from the medicine cabinet, and later, when Alison remembered them, a packet of extra strong pain relievers left over from an operation to remove her wisdom teeth last year.