THE DREAM CHILD (25 page)

CHAPTER ONE

ROMEO IN BLACK LEATHER

Dean Price was drunk, not so far gone that he didn’t know what he was doing, but intoxicated enough not to care. He lounged in his seat, laughing with his mates in the university union bar, thoughts of study for once far from his mind.

His friend and flatmate, Jacob Edwards, or Cobra, as he preferred to be called, started strumming an air guitar and singing softly to himself.

“
Gotta song formin’” he slurred, flicking his flyaway blonde hair over his shoulder. Cobra fitted the rocker image perfectly, Dean thought, tall, handsome and stoned ninety percent of the time. ‘Why do I always get inspiration when I’m off me face and can’t remember the words the next day?” the brawny blonde lamented.

Rick, their other pal, sniggered. He was a rangy sandy-haired young man who played drums for Cobra’s band. He also attended lectures at the university, but like Cobra, had perfected avoiding study into an art form. ”’Cause you’re an economics student not a bloody rock star.”

Cobra sighed theatrically. “What I wouldn’t give to throw the bloody books away and hop on stage to dazzle the world with me brilliance.”

“The only thing dazzling with brilliance right now is your imagination. Dream on Jay Jay. We’ll never be famous. We’re just kiddin’ ourselves. None of us will ever be anything more than average Joes in average jobs.”

Rick’s words sent a wave of depression crashing over Dean, another unfortunate side effect of alcohol consumption. He should have known by now to avoid the damn stuff, but Dean Price suffered from terminal peer group pressure syndrome.

“Shit you’re a misery guts, Rick. I’m off,” Cobra announced, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. “Time to party on. You guys coming?”

“Yeah,” Rick followed suit. They both stood there, swaying drunkenly from side to side like willow fonds. “Dean?”

“Reckon I’ll pass,” he decided, and his two friends stumbled off without backward glances. The last thing Dean felt like doing was staggering off to some sleazy nightclub for a one-night stand. That was all he seemed to end up with lately, when he was lucky enough to score. The heavy study schedule he’d set himself, and his own disinterest, seemed to attract only the seedier types. One didn’t find the kind of girl you took home to meet the folks in down-town Kings Cross.

Dean could count the number of steady girlfriends he’d had on one hand, and they’d never stayed for more than a few weeks. Dean knew love existed, but he’d never felt anything more than the pleasure sex could bring. He was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with him, if perhaps his time with the
Black Shadows
street gang had meddled with his mind somehow.

It had been his own stupid fault for becoming a member of their club. At the impressionable age of fourteen they had represented everything he wasn’t; tough, savvy, street-wise. They eventually let him join after subjecting him to a rigorous initiation process. Then, like an obsessive religious cult, they set him to work. Only his job wasn’t to steal souls and sell the cult’s warped interpretation of the Bible. No, it was to steal cars, sell crack and attack enemy gangs when they threatened to take over their turf.

If his family hadn’t migrated to Australia, Dean would have ended up in gaol, or dead. Take your pick. There was no other escape from the
Black Shadows
. To suddenly be able to disappear to another country where no one knew him had been a blessing, and a chance for redemption, but Dean had already dammed himself in his family’s eyes, and it seemed nothing he said or did would ever allay their disappointment in him. Hanging around the likes of Cobra and Rick didn’t help either. His folks couldn’t see past their drunken rowdiness, and Dean was starting to suspect they were right. If they didn’t pull their socks up both of them would be flunking out of uni big time.

At sixteen Dean had been so close to the edge, and now he watched his friends throwing it all away for the sake of their band. The sad thing was, they were good, dammed good, if only they could get their act together and do more than jam in a garage. One day after hearing Dean singing in the shower, Cobra had asked him to vocalize with them, but Dean knew trying to break into the music industry wasn’t the way to prove himself to his family.

“Excuse me. Are these seats taken?” a female voice asked close to his ear, dragging him out of his depressing reverie. Dean blinked, looking up to see Janelle Moore standing in front of him.

“Only by the invisible man,” Dean replied flippantly. Janelle was in one of his tutorial groups. He couldn’t remember which. They had spoken a few times. Even though he barely knew her she gave the impression she knew exactly what she wanted out of life. She was tall, blonde, and attractive, but apart from the usual flush of desire for her large breasts and long shapely legs, he felt little more.

At least I’m not gay, he thought grimly, knowing his parents would have a fit if he came home announcing he preferred men to women. Cobra and another mate had talked him into going to a gay nightclub once just for the hell of it, where Dean discovered he never wanted to repeat the experience. After extricating himself from the amorous embrace of a lecherous geek, he almost clobbered Cobra that night.

Sometimes he really hated peer pressure.

“Well I’ll sit on his invisible lap then,” Janelle quipped, sitting down in the spot recently vacated by Cobra. “So what are you doing here on your own?” she asked, placing her drink down on the table in front of her.

“What one usually does in a bar, getting plastered,” Dean flung back casually.

“Not too plastered for wise cracks though. Care for another?” She motioned to his empty glass.

“Can’t afford another one,” he answered truthfully.

Her blonde eyebrows shot up. “And I was told on good authority that your folks are loaded.”

“They might be, but I’m not.” Yes, Dean’s family were well off, but no one would know that by looking at him. His allowance only covered essentials, like rent and food. If he hadn’t set himself such a tight study schedule, he would have sought a part time job and invested in luxuries such as records, clothes and a second-hand car. Letting his hair grow meant he could save on barber’s costs. Who cared what you looked like on campus anyway?

“Who told you they were rich anyway?” he couldn’t help asking.

“That rocker friend of yours. Jacob what’s his name? Edmonds.”

“Edwards,” Dean corrected her. “And he lied. I’m as poor as a church mouse.”

“What a quaint old saying,” Janelle grinned. “Well, I’d better shout you then. What will it be, poor little rich boy?”

“How about a screaming orgasm?” Dean suggested.

“She took him literally, and leant closer. “Would you like that?”

“What normal red-blooded man wouldn’t?”

“My place or yours?” she whispered close to his ear.

Dean shrugged, wondering if he really did want to get laid. She wriggled seductively against him, making his mind up for him.

“Yours,” he said. “Mine’s full of Bible bashers tonight.” His other flatmate, Linda Lawson, used Friday nights for her bible study group, knowing Dean and Cobra always went out.

Taking hold of Dean’s hand, Janelle got to her feet. Dean followed suit, drunkenly accepting what she offered. Had he been more sober, he might have questioned her motives, but at the moment he didn’t care. He hadn’t even had to try – she’d come to him, knowing that Dean Price would give her exactly what she wanted.

The humid afternoon air was perfumed with the scent of spring flowers growing in the garden around the small house. Situated on the high side of the street, it overlooked the sprawling suburbs of Wollongong and the distant ocean.

Those around it were of similar vintage, built of timber not long after the turn of the twentieth century. Most had undergone various forms of renovation, but the cottage on the corner had seen better days. Fronted by a shaded veranda which sagged at one end where dry rot had set in, the faded cream paint was peeling, and more leaks appeared in the roof whenever it rained.

The stocky, white haired woman sitting in the ancient wicker chair on the veranda sighed. The place was, like her, decaying a little more each year, but unlike her the house could be repaired. Her granddaughter did what she could, but she was barely eighteen, too young to shoulder the responsibilities of maintaining a rundown old property. Emma tended the garden for her, and did the heavy cleaning and shopping. More Joan couldn’t ask of her.

Due to Emma’s ministrations, Joan’s beloved roses and orchids were now in full bloom. But she hated not being able to take care of them herself. Her arthritis wouldn’t let her to kneel any more, and her weak heart prevented her from exerting herself. Walking to and from the letter box was the extent of her daily exercise. Her angina attacks had been occurring more frequently lately, and Joan found herself wondering if she’d be around to see her garden grow next spring.

She brought a trembling hand to her chest. Don’t even think it, she ordered herself. Already her heart beat out of time, and the now familiar pain jabbed at her chest. No, I won’t take another pill yet, she vowed. I’ll wait until tea-time like I’m supposed to. Picking up the plastic bag from the wooden table beside her, she withdrew her knitting.

If she’d been ten years younger, or a trifle more healthy, Joan was certain she would have coped better with raising Emma. Her son and daughter-in-law had died fifteen years ago, so the only living relative the little girl had left was Joan. She knew she placed more restrictions on Emma than other guardians did, but she’d grown up during the Great Depression. Life had been so different then. Now women had careers. They didn’t marry their first love, like Joan had done.

Even now, after twenty years as a widow, she still felt a deep pang of sadness whenever she thought about her husband. Forty-six was too young to die. Matthew had been a man in his prime; tall and handsome and brave - too brave. His heroism had been his undoing.

Fighting fires had been his life. He’d saved hundreds of properties and countless lives, but he hadn’t been able to save his own. He’d died in a bushfire no more than fifteen kilometres from home. When the wind suddenly changed direction, he and two other fire fighters had perished in the inferno.

Caring for her granddaughter had managed to get her through the long empty years of widowhood. After losing everybody else she loved, the thought of Emma graduating and moving away filled Joan with dread.

A deafening screech split the lazy afternoon silence. Joan dropped her knitting in shock. Her struggling heart leapt and palpitated erratically.

The cause of the unholy noise rounded the corner and roared past her house at such speed Joan barely caught sight of the leather-clad bike rider. But she knew who he was. She didn’t need to see the long black ponytail flying out behind him to know it was that horrible Price boy disturbing the peace of her normally quiet neighbourhood.

Every summer for four years he’d come home to cause havoc with that deadly machine of his, and every summer Joan’s heart suffered because of it. She was certain he came this way on purpose because it was the older part of town, ‘the retirement belt’ as it had affectionately been dubbed by the locals.

Joan tried to ease the pain in her chest with deep breathing, but instead of helping it worsened. With trembling hands she reached into her skirt pocket for the little pill bottle she now carried everywhere with her. Tipping one into her palm, she stuck the Anginine tablet under her tongue.

While she waited for the pain to supside, she saw her granddaughter round the corner. The girl was obviously in the middle of a daydream. Eyes downcast, a slight smile playing about her full lips, she ambled along the footpath. Probably thinking about some pop star, Joan thought in concern. She feared for the girl. Emma was much too pretty, and Joan was worried that one day Emma would be taken advantage of by someone like the Price boy. Even though Carla Price seemed nice enough, Joan was glad her older brother lived in Sydney most of the year. Young men couldn’t resist blonde girls with innocent elfin faces, and slender, but curvy bodies. Not even the knee-length school uniform Joan insisted upon could hide her shapely legs.

It seemed like only yesterday that the young woman walking up the path had been a golden-haired child playing with her dolls at Joan’s feet. Now she was all grown up, due to start her final exams in a few weeks. Hardly anyone left school at fifteen any more. They studied until they were well into their twenties. Emma, with her interest in sewing, would probably go on to do a dressmaking course, or fashion design as it was now called.

“Hi Nan,” Emma greeted her. “How was your day?’

“The usual,” Joan replied. There was little point in worrying her about the deterioration in her condition. She had important tests to get through. “Your friend’s brother is back. The lout almost scared me out of my wits when he came flying past here. That boy has no respect, hooning around here like a bat out of hell - ”

“Which friend?” Emma interrupted in an attempt to deter her from her favourite topic; the deterioration of moral values in today’s youth.

“The American one. Carla.”