Dawdling students gathered around the door to Simons’ class, in no hurry for the next teaching period and blocking Jaimon’s entrance to the classroom. As he strode towards the room, the crowd opened before him and parted like a guard of honour so he could enter the room unhindered. His stride didn’t slow and he walked straight past the gawking gathering, hearing the murmured whispers as he passed but not understanding their quiet undertones.
He stopped abruptly and peered down at the person sitting in the desk beside his and recognised the redheaded girl immediately. “Salena...! Where have you been?!”
The students entering the room stared at Jaimon and gave him a wide berth.
“G’day, Bob. I guess the action over the last couple of days has been a bit too much for me and Mum made me stay home for the day.”
“Well, I sure am glad to see you back. You wouldn’t believe what’s been happening,” Jaimon gushed, finding his seat and removing his books from his bags ready for Simons’ inadvertent appearance.
“Oh...! Do tell. I could use a good laugh, Bob.”
Salena listened intently to the explanation Jaimon gave: the big student taunting him in the change room and his hasty retreat as Jaimon felt his eyes become hot and then returned to normal; then the situation with Monette Alarn and how she wanted to hang out with him. Salena raised her eyebrows at this piece of information but he continued on, not registering her reaction.
“Everyone just seems to be afraid of me and keeps out of my way and even my family have treated me different. Surfing the portals and allowing this player access has given me... I duuno… power, I guess! What type of player do you think I have?”
Salena’s knowing gaze rested on Jaimon. The door was ajar and the camel’s nose had entered. How long would it be before he wanted the whole camel in the room?
“How much control do you have?” Salena questioned.
“What do you mean, control?” Jaimon’s brow furrowed.
Just before Salena could continue, Simons entered the room and took charge.
“Shuddup and get your books out,” Simons demanded and proceeded to teach.
Salena leaned in towards Jaimon and whispered, trying to continue their conversation, “How much control do you have when you get angry? I mean, can you control the voice in your head?”
Jaimon stared in disbelief. How did she know about the voice?
He whispered back, keeping an eye on Simons as he spoke, “Yeah, most times.”
“Okay. If you have some control of the voice, the player you have is probably a high ranking Whimpitclasto or a low ranking Bettitclasto. Be careful not to get a big head with the power you can control. This player is small fish and if you run into a surfer with a higher rank, you will be toast.”
“Reece...! Tell me what I just said?!” Simons bellowed, while the whole class held their breath and waited for Jaimon’s response.
Jaimon could feel his eyes becoming hot again and an angry, raspy voice began to smoulder in the basement of his brain.
Salena saw his pupils glowing and whispered to herself, “This’ll be interesting.”
Jaimon’s voice broke and a deeper voice took its place. “You were talking about the Westminster style of parliament and the countries that still adhere to the principals of this style of government. The teacher’s handbook where you got this garbage from is wrong; and Canada still has this type of governance to this day. If you hadn’t lost your notes this morning, you would have been able to teach us the truth, instead of winging it.”
Simons stared at Jaimon in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing, trying to speak, while the class stared silently in utter incredulity. Simons glanced around the classroom, eyeing the reaction to Jaimon’s factual account of the mistakes Simons had just made and then finding his voice and his ire, he ordered Jaimon out of his class and down to the principal’s office.
Jaimon’s eyes lit in full-on hatred and he slammed his desk into the chair of the student in front of him, sending him sprawling to the ground under the force of the move and then Jaimon stalked from the room, leaving Simons trying to regain the remnants of control in the battle scene.
*~*~*~*
Allan Simons reached for his lunchbox at the back of the staff refrigerator, tucked neatly into a recess in the vast staffroom wall. He had just settled into an unoccupied seat and taken a bite of a sandwich when Principal Bern approached him and took the vacant seat next to him.
“What’s going on with Jaimon Reece, Al?”
Simons swallowed down the remains of his mouthful before answering. “I don’t know, boss; he was mumbling something and disrupting the class and when I picked him up on it, he let loose with a whole lot of abuse and then turned over his desk, knocking young Joel Freeboard from his chair.”
Simons didn’t tell Principal Bern that he had been caught out teaching the wrong information and incredibly, that Jaimon knew he had lost his notes before school.
Principal Bern rubbed his forehead worriedly. “I know Jaimon Reece is a bit of a quirky kid and most of the other kids pick on him, but he hasn’t given the staff any trouble before. Has he mentioned problems at home?”
Simons just shrugged. He knew about Jaimon’s abuse at the hands of other students and the abuse he was suffering from his father, but Jaimon Reece was a favourite and easy target for Simons to gain control over the other pupils, frightening them into submission by his threats towards Jaimon. Simons played innocent in a stage performance any actor would be proud of.
“Not that I know of, boss.”
Principal Bern patted Simons’ shoulder playfully. “Thanks, Al. Let me know of any developments with Jaimon Reece.”
Simons watched Principal Bern walk out of the staff room and then bit into another sandwich, unconcerned about the outcome with Jaimon Reece.
*~*~*~*
Jaimon wandered into the crowd of students milling around the quadrangle and eating their lunches–he could feel their eyes boring into his back as he walked–while he tried to make sense of the episode with Simons. It was obvious that the gossip grapevine was working overtime and somehow, the student body knew of his meeting with Principal Bern.
Bern had questioned him at length about the outburst, but he had no answers to offer him. He couldn’t blame the outburst on an out of control player and when his father found out, he didn’t know what the player would do, or if Jaimon could control it.
Things were turning messy very quickly.
A voice at his side startled him and Salena’s question drew more stares from wary students. “Still think you have control?”
Jaimon ran his hands through his hair and stopped to face her, nervously pondering her question. “I..I don’t know, Salena. I certainly didn’t see that one coming. Bern gave me strike one.”
“Strike one, dude, for that?!”
“Yeah, and I can just see my father’s reaction to that, too, when he’s told.”
“Well, look at the bright side, Bob; you still have two more strikes before they expel you for good!”
“Thanks for the humour, Salena, but it really isn’t helping.”
“Oops, Bob, here comes your new girlfriend. Time for me to be going. I don’t want to intrude.”
Jaimon turned away from Salena for an instant, riveted by Monette’s graceful sway as she set her eyes on him and purposefully aimed herself in his direction, topping it off with a melting smile.
He turned back to Salena, but she was nowhere in sight.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 50
Cutter’s big frame reclined on the padded seat of his Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, enjoying the exhilaration of the quickly passing country scenery. The engine cackled beneath his body, leaving a wall of noise in the cycle’s wake and announcing to every living creature within earshot of the road, that Cutter and the Fat Boy were on a mission from God.
The early morning air was warming up to be another balmy spring day and the speeding wind played with his
wavy red locks, whipping strands of ginger across the lenses of his dark sunglasses. A broken white line marking the black top stretched out endlessly in front of him, although the turnoff to Blakely County was still a handful of miles away yet.
Feeling completely at peace with his life and enjoying the companionship of the Holy Spirit, Cutter could sense the urging of his motorcycle to run. As if he was having a silent conversation with an unseen pillion, an excited agreement was reached and he lowered his head slightly, grasped the handlebars and pulled open the throttle. The Fat Boy responded immediately, pulling up its socks and tucking its tunic into its belt, unleashing a cacophony of growling power and quickly pushing Cutter closer and closer to 200 kilometres per hour... and then some. Cutter could feel the exhaust pipe cooking the inside of his right leg as his machine triumphantly tipped 200 kilometres per hour, heading for the extreme end of 210 kilometres per hour before it ran out of breath.
The unfamiliar bridge crossing the Deakin River flashed up in the distance as the broken white line blurred into a continuous, pale skinned snake and all too soon Cutter released the throttle, calming his disappointed ride with a guttural groan just as the odometer needle nudged 210. Cutter slowed the Fat Boy, kicking down the six gears in their turn and finally bringing it abruptly to a total stop at the intersection, causing the bike to galumph in a breathless idle as it recovered from its high speed jaunt.
Stationary at the intersection and supporting the bike with one leg, Cutter peered down the three intersecting roads in turn. Blakely County was to the left, across the Deakin River Bridge; Sue’s Bridge was behind him; and the deserted highway to Injunoo stretched into the distance, on his right. Bairnsworth Psychiatric Hospital was less than fifteen kilometres away from the intersection and a further twenty kilometres to Blakely County township.
He pondered the trouble and opposition to the building of the institution on Blakely County soil, when irate locals took to the streets in protest, trying to block the building’s approval. But as usual, the process fell onto the deaf ears of bureaucracy, intent on the financial incentives that the federal government dangled in front of them, rubber stamping the deal before a word of protest was ever uttered.
Cutter huffed despondently. The Sue’s Bridge church had been handed a golden opportunity to make a difference in the Blakely County community and in the hospital environment, diffusing any biases. Instead, the church saw the situation as chagrin and not an opportunity, but a blight on their clean image, and the people sent to minister thought that the mental institution was beneath their dignity. In a matter of time, the chaplains sent to the hospital shrank from the challenge and refused to return to their designated post, escalating trivial problems into full blown crises and forcing the Bairnsworth authorities to cancel the Sue’s Bridge chaplain’s visits.
Recognising the value of a visiting minister, however, the chairman of the Bairnsworth board searched the local area, pleading for a replacement to step forward. After a sundry list of failed attempts and in desperation, the chaplaincy was once again negotiated with Sue’s Bridge. Slinger wasn’t keen to engage the troublesome ministry again and was intent on refusing, until Cutter’s truancy from the annual planning meeting raised Slinger’s ire. In a moment of hidden, seething rage, Slinger had proposed to the seven associate pastors to re-engage with Bairnsworth, inciting a hail of protest from those present. Slyly, he began to explain the plan and Cutter’s involvement. Once the scheme had been fully rationalised and he had explained that Cutter was set to carry the burden, the group had voted unanimously in favour of Slinger’s proposal – and Cutter’s single-handed involvement.
Cutter’s reaction to the news had broadsided Slinger, as if Cutter had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime instead of a punishment, and Slinger couldn’t hide his scepticism. If he failed with the ministry at Bairnsworth, that would be grounds to get rid of the irksome biker and Slinger was sure the day he longed for wasn’t far away.
With his back to the convivial sun, the heartening rays etched its way through Cutter’s jacket as if it was encasing him in a hug and urged him on. He turned the Fat Boy up the road towards Blakely County and eased the clutch out, throttled up slightly until the bike was again barking along the highway. As the big bike gained speed, a new growl of power echoed through the undulating farmland with each declutch and as a new gear kicked up.
Slicing between two sprawling green pastures and bordered by a line of fir trees, a small lane just ahead caught Cutter’s attention. He began to throttle back, kicking down the gears and bringing the steely motorcycle into a contemptuous crawl. A 1.8 metre tall wooden fence bordered the farmland in each direction, following the gentle undulations of the landscape as far as the eye could see and alerting Cutter to the probable entrance to the institution. After the experience of being incarcerated, he recognised the style of features surrounding a prison complex, trying not to look like a prison complex.
As he approached the lane, a small and ambiguous rusted sign, battle hardened by years of abusive stares and weathered by countless storms, whispered to the astute the possible presence of Bairnsworth, some distance beyond the tired sentry.
As Cutter turned his machine along the skinny paved road he was bumped and jostled by many ruts and potholes then after fifteen minutes, the lane opened into a long, tree-lined driveway, bordered by a high chainmail fence and topped by razor wire. A guard post, with a boom gate across the entrance, prohibited entry beyond without first checking in with the vicious human guard dog.
In just moments, Cutter sat atop his galumphing motorcycle, waiting in front of the guardhouse and stopped by the boom gate across the road.
A thickset, uniformed guard stared at Cutter through a window, wondering what he was about to encounter. Grabbing a clipboard, he unbuckled the flap holding his service revolver secured and pulled open the door, separating the guardhouse and the boom gate.
Cutter found himself reliving the eight years behind bars and the regimented lifestyle he had tried so hard to forget. A small voice whispered and settled his fears, coaxing him out of his past, “You are just visiting, beloved.”
Cutter smiled at the quiet reassurance and the guard became more sceptical and wary at the sudden gesture, eyeing Cutter’s biker outfit and the tattoos with concern, and ready to react at any provocation.
“Yes. State your business, but I warn you, you are on closed circuit television and I have a loaded pistol in my belt.”
Cutter tried to remain as inoffensive as possible, knowing his appearance seemed threatening and he didn’t blame the guard for his stance. Cutter smiled again, wondering how his next statement would be received.
“I’m the new chaplain for the hospital. My name is Cu... Sylvester Castelano, but everyone just calls me Cutter.”
Now it was the guard’s turn to smile. “Yeah, right, if you’re the new chaplain, Mr Castelano, I’m Mother Teresa!”
Cutter’s eyes twinkled for a moment as the two men stared at each other, then he held out his hand in a greeting gesture. “Pleased to meet you, Mother Teresa.”
The guard almost smiled at the gesture, disarming the situation. There was something about the biker that drew the guard; maybe the ludicrous situation was true and it wouldn’t take much to confirm the strange story.
“Turn off your motorcycle, but stay on it. What’s the name of the person who sent you here?”
“Jesus Christ,” Cutter’s frank reply slipped out, adding to the comedy.
“Yeah, yeah, Mister Smarty; what church are you from?”
Cutter smiled again. “Sue’s Bridge Community Church and Kyle Slinger is the head dude. Do you want the phone number?”
The eyes of the guard locked onto Cutter; this wasn’t the snooty suit-and-tie chaplains he was used to and somewhere inside, the man hoped that the friendly biker was the real deal.
“Nah, I have it inside the guardhouse. Don’t move from there; I’m a good shot.”
Cutte
r tipped his bike helmet in obedience to the man and settled back to wait.
*~*~*~*
Nancy Jessop tidied the array of paperwork deposited upon her desk in an unruly fashion by passing associate pastors, as they made their way out of yet another early morning meeting with Kyle Slinger, the senior pastor of Sue’s Bridge Community Church. She was just about to enter the kitchen and make herself a cup of coffee before tackling her workload for the day, when an incoming phone call stopped her in mid-salivation and demanded she return to her desk.
With a sigh of frustration, she turned away from the coffee dispenser and made her way back to her desk, trying to drag up some sweetness from within her, to answer with a smile appropriate to the task and the facade she was supposed to keep up. Nancy grasped for the phone, standing momentarily over it and wobbled her head from side to side, practising the morning sweet.
“G-o-o-d... morning, Sue’s Bridge Community Church, this is N-aa-ncy!”
A perturbed voice stuttered on the other end at the singing reply, “C..can I speak with Kyle Slinger, please?”
“I am sorry, Mr Slinger is still in a meeting; may I take a message?”
“Oh! Maybe you can help me then? Does a Sylvester Castelano work there?”
The name seemed somehow vaguely familiar, but Nancy Jessop couldn’t place it. “I’m sorry, no one by that name works here.”
“Hmm, just as I thought; thank you for your help, goodbye.”
The guard put the phone down and removed his revolver, then pushed a button under the desk. It would be at least half an hour before the Sue’s Bridge police would arrive; Blakely County was closer but they weren’t cooperative with anything to do with Bairnsworth, and they seldom responded to a call for help.
*~*~*~*
Cutter could see the revolver drawn as the guard approached him, wondering what had gone wrong.
“Don’t try anything, mister,” the guard barked. “I don’t know what your intentions are, but the Sue’s Bridge church has never heard of you.”
Cutter’s look of astonishment kept the guard on edge. “Who did you speak to?” Cutter managed, while holding his hands above his head.