Just a Moment

By Craig Decent

Everything in your life happens in a just a moment.Of the millions of moments that make up our lives most will pass as unremarkable; ordinary. For all of us there will be moments of importance, moments that present possibility and opportunity. Moments that can change our lives. Big moments. How we handle those moments can alter the paths of our lives.

James Campbell is a young man whose life seems blessed but when a big moment from the past presents as a big issue in the present he is faced with a life-changing and life-threatening situation.

How does a good,honest man deal with the dark side of human nature without losing himself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Decent
• Release date: Nov 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301176212

Book preview

Just a Moment

Craig Decent

©Copyright 2012 C. Decent. Coffs Harbour. Australia. All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any event or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your family and friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com.

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Chapter 1

This was a big moment. He did not fully realize just how big. Well, not immediately. Most people hope, or even expect, the big, pivotal moments of their lives will arrive in an orderly and readily identifiable way. It doesn’t really work that way. Some moments will announce themselves grandly, like a boxer entering the arena; seeking attention; all flash and sparkle. Many will shuffle up quietly like an old man in an overcoat before transforming into a bold and self-important vision. Just as many will breeze up camouflaged as ordinary moments and require some measure of identification and interpretation.

For many, the moments can slip by virtually unseen, just another guide post beside the road in the blur of mundane, unremarkable moments that make up their existence. A nagging feeling or fleeting thought later on is all that remains. For those that are lucky enough to understand this is a big moment, the decisions and subsequent actions of that moment can define their entire lives. For some, the decisions that are required of them when they recognize the big moment before them are too difficult or too frightening and their poor decisions or lack of action will be fertilized by time into luscious, blooming regrets.

The fortunate ones can see the moment coming. They recognize it instantly for what it is and are bold enough, quick enough and wise enough to seize that moment or, just as importantly, allow the moment to fly past untouched. There are so few genuinely fortunate ones.

As it is with all big moments, there are consequences. And as it is with consequences, some could be foreseen whilst those that were not foreseeable were those that would have the greatest effect.

Chapter 2

2009

The lunchtime crowds clogged the wide footpath. In truth, even if the path was double it’s already generous size it would still not have been sufficient to cater for the number of people scurrying, or attempting to scurry, to or from lunch. Tall buildings lined this street and the biting southerly wind that whipped through the canyon they created had the people hunching their shoulders and holding down flapping dresses and the front of jackets inadequate for this weather. Hair leapt and danced as if controlled by unseen puppeteers high above. Litter set sail and raced the traffic that jogged along, every driver looking to be hurrying and every vehicle moving at a pace barely in advance of the pedestrians. The spindly Lilly Pillys that stood trapped in the pavement; caged in wire mesh like some arborist’s zoo; folded back away from the unseen force buffeting them; looking for somewhere to hide and digging their toes in to hold their tenuous positions amid the concrete and tar.

The flow of people along this tributary was stuttered by those exiting buildings forcing into the current and further again by those who needed to talk or text on mobiles. Most had no awareness of their inability to walk and operate their phones simultaneously without causing havoc and even less care. James did not notice or care too much about any of it. He was comfortable in the city and in crowds. Besides, he was deep in thought about that phone call. How can something that happened six or seven years ago suddenly step to the front of the queue and demand attention? That it had occurred so long ago should have made it less important; less of a concern; but like many events that are archived in our minds, their significance to us is diminished and can now only be measured by how important other people find them. When James opened that old memory file it was primarily the reality of cold fear that he felt. He quickly recognized it was not just the memory causing that feeling. The feeling was being generated from deep in his gut as a brand new version of that same sensation right here and now.

James Campbell; the thirty year-old son of proud Scottish parents, Bobby and Sylvia Campbell, is not quite six feet tall or one hundred and seventy nine centimetres; and has a wide pair of shoulders that taper to a trim stomach and waist. He keeps his brown hair in a uniform 6 millimetre or quarter-inch cut and his green eyes surprise many with their brilliance and depth. The defining characteristics which most people couldn’t nominate are creases, laugh lines, at the corner of his mouth and eyes which came naturally but were etched deeper by his cheeky nature and easy laugh.

His parents, Bobby and Sylvia, had seized their own big moment in April, 1978 and departed their lifelong home in Glasgow to Parramatta in the western suburbs of Sydney, Australia. At the time, Bobby was twenty-eight and Sylvia a year younger. Their decision had not been entirely for their own benefit. Hard-working and believers in reward for effort, they saw Australia as a place where their children would have unlimited opportunity. Unlimited opportunity being something that everyone who had grown up in areas where there seemed little opportunity always believed existed somewhere else far away. It was always so far away. The further away the greater the opportunity seems to be the rule.

At that stage they already had one son, a two year-old called Donald and Sylvia was five months pregnant with a daughter, who would be called Mary. Bobby never tired of calling to her;

Here comes Mary, Queen of Scots!

As a teenager Mary would make herself scowl when her father did it in front of her friends but it never failed to make her want to smile. They made their home in a small three bedroom brick house in North Parramatta, an ethnic stir fry where second or third generation Australians bemoaned the new immigrants from all parts of Europe and in recent times, the Middle East. James became the third child of the family two years to the day after Mary was born on the sixth of September, 1978.

Bobby Campbell was a stout man, barrel-chested with wispy, thinning brown hair and a poorly rendered tattoo of a naked dancer on his left forearm. He worked as a boilermaker for State Rail. If pressed, he would have listed his pastimes as football, boxing and a quiet drink. In truth, his pastimes should have been listed soccer, fighting, fucking and getting pissed and not in that order. In 1978 western Sydney, football could not mean the game that Bobby loved. The eleven-a- side game with a round ball played with the feet was called soccer here. Football could mean nothing but Rugby League. Whilst Bobby quite enjoyed watching that physical and, at times, brutal game he could never come to calling it football. Not that Bobby played or was in any way directly involved with football or soccer. His interest, though passionate, started and ended with watching. He hadn’t played football since he was ten years old. He did his best to keep abreast of the results back home and still felt a surge of pride and belonging when Rangers won.

His love of boxing was not quite the same. He was not a mere spectator although he always enjoyed watching a good fight. He had boxed as a teenager and been quite good, winning more often than not. These days his fighting thirst was quenched behind the pub with builders, concretors or an occasional salesman whose wife had not valued discretion as highly as Bobby had hoped. Even now, as a man approaching his sixtieth birthday, he still won more often than not. Ferocity and determination are traits that cannot be counterfeited. Bobby had both in abundance paired with some measure of skill and an attitude that allowed him to do exactly whatever was required to win. Over the years there had been a couple of close calls where he had inflicted awful damage to his opponents. Despite these incidents he’d managed to keep out of trouble with the law. There was never a question of testifying for those who had witnessed him using a fencepost to leave his opponent unconscious with a fractured skull in the car park of the pub on one particular night. The victim had indeed reached for the timber first. With less good fortune it may have ended in a manslaughter charge but the man eventually recovered and nobody could, or would, say exactly what had happened.

He admitted he had a low tolerance when having what he called a quiet drink. It was not a low tolerance for the alcohol, for he could handle his drink with the best of them but a lack of tolerance for what he called the fockin idyuts that, in his opinion, comprised a very high percentage of the population. Bobby was the proud owner of a Scottish accent as thick as cold honey. Even after thirty years in Australia that accent would not mellow. The low tolerance level he started with was naturally lowered further with each schooner of beer and chaser of Jonnie Walker. Most of the regulars at the Horse’s Head pub knew better than to tangle with a fully lubricated Bobby Campbell but he still found enough willing protagonists to meet his need for violence. Here was a man who firmly believed that men were supposed to fight. He loved it. The taste of his own blood would spur him on like a racehorse that had been given a taste of the whip. The sight of his opponent’s blood was his trophy. He could recall the smashed noses, gashed eyes and flying teeth with incredible clarity. He was not a boastful man and would keep his vivid memories for his own delight. He didn’t engage in conversation about his fights. Those that knew him best knew not to ask, he wouldn’t talk about it. Even immediately after a fight the best they would ever get was a wink and a grin before everyone settled back to their drinks and talk of other people’s conquests in sporting, sexual or political arenas.

Bobby’s other great pastime was sex. In this regard it was much like his fighting. Despite his reputation there was never a shortage of customers. For Bobby, it was his duty as a man. For the women, he was a rugged yet relatively charming rogue. His capacity for violence excited some and frightened others; some didn’t really know which it was they were feeling. Bobby gave no more thought to having sex with a willing woman than he did to ordering another drink. He always tried to be polite afterwards but paid no real heed to their feelings when he’d had enough of them. It was just a fuck. He saw himself as a married man and there should be no question of whether it would be an ongoing relationship with another woman.

He’d tell the other men in the pub Fer fock’s sake, we’re supposed to fock ‘em. Why the fock else would we all have these matching bits! Besides, they are lovely fockin things to play with. He would roar laughing every time he said it.

Despite his regular infidelities he always maintained his love for Sylvia.

Sylvie is the best fockin thing that ever happened to me

He recited this like a mantra, primarily when well-fuelled by drink and in recognition of one of his better moments. Bobby would not be lying when he quietly told her that he loved her in the dark after they had made love. He knew he was lucky to have her. It did not remove what he saw as his duty to take care of any strays. That was another part of his life. He was not always successful in keeping it away from her but he always tried.

Sylvia Campbell was simply Sylvie to everyone. A ready smile, hearty laugh and a cascade of long, wavy red hair were her trademarks. She was amply proportioned but nobody who knew her would ever say that she was fat. She just didn’t seem to be. Not even a big girl; just well built; curvaceous.

Sylvie worked in the office at the North Parramatta High School. A job she had taken in 1985 when James commenced his schooling. Mrs. Campbell was popular and well-respected by staff and students alike. She could be both a firm, confident administrator and soft, soothing counsellor as required. She chose her moments well and many kids who may have fallen out of the education system due to their errant behaviour could thank her for at least attaining some useful level of education. She could spot the children who were just a little too excitable and exuberant or even just plain cheeky as they waited outside the principal’s office. She liked that spirit and knew that it needed harnessing, not breaking. She didn’t see her role as guardian, protector or even teacher. More like someone to do a little guiding and to try to keep them on track. She was a believer that everyone needed an opportunity.

Sylvie liked to keep active. She loved to dance but did so infrequently. She played tennis twice-a-week. She knew she did not have a great deal of skill but played steadily within her limits and with great enthusiasm. She was an active volunteer at the local hospital. She had joined The Pink Ladies in 1989; after Mary had spent a few days in the hospital having her appendix removed. The Pink Ladies ran the small hospital kiosk selling hot and cold drinks, snacks and second-hand books. They were named The Pink Ladies in honour of the pink shirts which constituted a uniform. The proceeds of this enterprise went back to the hospital and contributed to the funding of much-needed equipment. The government-operated hospital system was better than many people gave it credit for but always seemed under-funded and The Pink Ladies did what they could to help. They would also make some time for those patients who were not lucky enough to receive visits from family or friends. A posse of Pink Ladies would do a daily round of the wards seeking a nod from the nursing staff and peeling off in ones and twos to sit and talk with patients. Sylvie found this part of being a Pink Lady profoundly satisfying and deeply disturbing. She delighted in raising the spirits of those she visited. She despaired that there are people out there with nobody who cares. She thought it no coincidence that these lonely people would be in poor health. It is nature’s way for the isolated to be at risk of attack.

Of course, Sylvie’s priority was always her own family. She was the axle around which the family wheel spun. Her children knew that she would always be in their corner. Even when they had done the wrong thing there would be no doubt that she would deliver the necessary rebuke along with consolation or protection as required. They could always come home and know that she would try to understand and work through any issue with them. She ensured that they were studious but allowed them the freedom to explore and engage with the world. She encouraged her children to have a broad perspective, explore the arts and be creative. She insisted that they participate in sports and would find a way to assist the children to engage in any endeavour that took their fancy.

Bobby had been astounded when he came home to the news that Donald, his eleven-year old eldest son had enrolled to spend two weeks of summer school holidays at Camp Create - an arts camp to be held in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney.

Why the bloody hell did you let him do that? he exclaimed when Sylvie told him of the trip.

Because it’s what he wants to do. He’s interested in painting, he loves music.

Well, he can stay home and paint the bloody house if he wants to paint so badly and I’ll even put the fockin’ radio on if he wants to sing while does it

Don’t talk nonsense, Bobby. It’ll be good for him. He’ll have a great time

He’d have a great time here, shaggin’ about with his mates. Why does he need to go halfway across the world to talk shit with ponces and hippies fer fock’s sake?

Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. It’s not halfway across the world, it isn’t even halfway across the state and he’ll learn a lot.

How much is this costing?

Don’t you worry about that; I’ve paid. It’s done. He’s going

I swear you’ll turn the lad into a fockin poofter.

Oh Bobby, being interested in something other than football and fighting doesn’t turn you into anything…. except maybe an interesting person

Bobby knew when he was losing a fight. He had never been a chance of winning this one.

Donald returned from the camp wearing a freshly tie-dyed tee shirt, a headband with a feather attached that flapped gently at the left side of his face and sporting a gold sleeper in his left ear. So quickly did the blood rush to Bobby’s face that he resembled a thermometer thrust into boiling water. He burst from his seat like man who had just sat on a rattlesnake.

What….what….what?

This was all that tumbled from his mouth as he took in each feature of his son’s new appearance. He turned wild-eyed to his wife to find her laughing hysterically;

What the fock is funny about….about THAT

The tears in her eyes and the steady growth of laughter around him from all of his children had him wondering whether he had somehow lost his mind in some instantaneous fashion until he turned back to Donald, who was pulling the clip-on earring and headband off as best he could with his body so wracked by spasms of laughter. Bobby was still more than a little bewildered as he turned back to his wife;

Everything is funny about that…especially you, my dear

Sylvie morphed into a very good impression of a kookaburra so hard did she laugh at her husband’s expense. Later, when she had regained her breath and composure she explained that she thought they might be able to have some fun with Bobby’s concerns about Camp Create so she had put together Donald’s homecoming outfit and fitted him up on the drive home;

Very fockin’ funny

Yes it was. I’m sorry, but god, yes it was

It was probably late the next day before Bobby genuinely saw the funny side of it and by the time he told the story in the pub that evening he thought it was hilarious, as did most of the men who listened to the tale. The exception was Andy Johnston, another ex-pat Scot who was married to an Australian woman. They had embraced the hippy concept in the seventies, living in a commune for a short time before finding their way back to mainstream Australia. Andy couldn’t understand what was so funny, his wife dressed like that all the time.

Sylvie knew that her husband would come to realize that she was not just playing a joke on him. She was also gently delivering a less-than-subtle message. Her husband was not dissimilar to the students that passed through the office in which Sylvie worked. Despite the fact that he was quite blinkered in the way he saw the world, she knew he was essentially a free-running, impulsive creature that needed constant guidance. She did not delude herself that he was a perfect husband and father. She didn’t think such a thing existed. Nobody is perfect was exactly the way she saw people. She accepted that we are all flawed and prone to mistakes but she knew that his family was important to him and she could count on him when needed. Sylvie thought they were a good team and that her family worked well.

1991

James Campbell stood there, knees trembling slightly, heart thumping in his ears. He leant forward, eyes down, ears straining. He knew this would hurt but he was full of determination to work through the pain. He dared not look sideways for fear of missing the moment and then, suddenly, it was here. The gun cracked and the swimmers launched themselves at the water, straining for every millimetre. The final of the New South Wales boys under eleven years 100 metres freestyle would be over in a little more than a minute. Family, friends and schoolmates were cheering loudly as the swimmers splashed their way down the pool. James could not hear anything but the water sluicing across his body, his legs and arms pumping and pulling and his lungs screaming for more air. He took a breath and told himself to keep his head down and go hard. He could see the swimmers either side were about level with him. The lap back up to the starting point seemed to last forever. The wall at the end creeping towards him at a rate that didn’t make sense to him given the effort he was exerting. Just for a moment, he began to wonder if he was actually going to reach the end at all. Then just as quickly the wall appeared to suddenly rush to greet him like a long-separated lover. He touched the wall, found a hold on the ledge and worked hard to get some air into his burning lungs. He looked around and had no idea where he had finished in the field. He looked at the boy in the lane to his left, who had the appearance of someone who not only had not won but may have been readying himself to accept the death that surely would arrive momentarily. James was unsure what that meant for him. As his body adjusted to now receiving enough oxygen to function correctly he looked across the pool to the seating area where he saw his brother, sister and mother jumping up and down and whooping wildly. He took this to be a good sign. He was sure he had won when he saw his father pumping his fist and although he did not hear the words he knew what his father was saying;

You fockin beeeeeuuuuuataaaay!

James also knew that the floppy-hatted official walking briskly toward his father in the following moment; would be berating him for swearing at a junior event. There was no need to look, or even hear, to know that the official would most certainly get a response that he wouldn’t like any better than the initial swearing.

Smiling, James hauled himself from the water, took the offered card from the lane official which signified his win. He removed his goggles and rubbed his head and face with a towel. He looked around as he wandered away from the starting area. It was only now that he could really hear his family and friends. They sounded like an out-of-tune choir singing three different songs but all at the same time;

Woooohhooo James!

OHHHH Yeah James

And YAAAAAAAY

These tracks overlaid to produce a sound of celebration that made no sense but to anyone would sound like sheer joy. He made no move to indicate that he heard them but the wide grin that cracked his face told the story for him. He scored a rub on the top of the head from his coach and an outstretched hand of congratulations from his school’s sports master. He shook hands and moved on to the change room where he towelled off and put on a tee shirt, shorts and thongs. The medal presentation was a brief affair some half hour later accompanied by the same soundtrack sung earlier. The drive home was an event in itself. James was unsure how many times anyone could sing We are the Champions before running out of voice though it was apparent that his parents were determined to find out. They sung long, proud and very, very loud. People driving beside them would stare and wonder about this capsule of chanting nomads. James was sure that they must have looked very much like the Brady Bunch on LSD. When they rounded a bend on Victoria Road and were confronted by a policeman waving them roadside for a random breath test the singing didn’t cease. In fact, it inspired his father;

Well there ye go; the daily double. Me lad wins and now I’m getting breath-tested and I’ve not had a sniff of a drink. Some days are too good….WE… ARE…THE…CHAMPIONS… WE…ARE…THE…CHAMPIONS… …NO…TIME…FOR…LOSERS…COS…WE…ARE…THE…CHAMPIONS...MY… FRIENDS!

It was obvious that the police officer who walked up to the driver’s side window was expecting to find a carload of drunks. Instead he was greeted by a family high on shared joy and a driver eagerly anticipating a clean result. He walked away shaking his head and chuckling as yet another chorus of We Are the Champions erupted behind him. In years to come, James would remember that he won a race that day. The race itself would forever remain nothing more than a blurry, vague recollection much like a film shot through a lens smeared with Vaseline but he would always remember with intense clarity the reaction of his parents and siblings and that car journey. It still made him smile.

Chapter 3

2010

James stepped into the elevator, pirouetted and pressed the button marked 22. It lit up under his touch and it occurred to him that for people in many parts of the world that would still be considered a remarkable thing. As he rode skywards to a meeting that held nothing but fear and dread he brought memories forward from the storage areas of his mind. James had spent almost two years roaming the planet, departing Sydney the day after his final examinations for a degree in law were completed. He was 23 years-old and had never been overseas. He had worked part-time as a researcher for a low-level state politician during his university days and had accumulated some useful contacts and a tidy nest-egg to commence his trip. Accompanied by classmate, workmate and good friend, Michael Harris, their first destination was London. James and Michael had met at the University orientation day and struck an immediate close friendship.

Michael was tall, dark-haired and athletic, he moved with an economy that belied his size and a measure of self-confidence that bordered on swagger. Michael was the son of a legal practitioner who had played first grade rugby league and a mother who’d been a talented sprinter, winning a state 200 yard title, before moving on to success selling over-priced frocks to the society madams of Sydney’s eastern suburbs. During his school years he’d enjoyed success at whatever academic discipline or sport he tried. It all came to him with a level of envied ease. He’d finished in the top five percent of the state in every subject he studied. He played state level cricket, tennis and rugby league. He was a good golfer and proficient surfer. He had attracted attention from several top flight rugby league clubs along with cricket clubs in Australia and England but knee injuries in consecutive years when seventeen and eighteen ended those aspirations. Well, the injuries had not necessarily ended anything. They had been the catalyst rather than the cause. He had recovered well enough that there was no physical barrier to his resuming exactly where he had left off. However, two years of life with his only sporting activity involving social games of tennis and cricket and an occasional early morning surf or swim had revealed to him a world that he had not previously understood. There was more than training and competing endlessly. He had reached a point where he would have to make a choice as to which sport he would dedicate his energies if he hoped to reach an elite level in any of them. Instead, he decided that none of them was the right option for him. The desire and hunger required was simply not within him at that time. Despite the protestations of his father and friends from sporting circles, his only sporting involvements during his university years were fourth grade cricket with his mates and Monday night games of touch football. Both were primarily played as a prelude to a night in the pub drinking far too much and listening to pub-standard bands that only had to be good enough to get girls on the dance floor.

Some whispered that the wonder boy hadn’t coped when everything didn’t come easy. Others lamented his waste of talent but Michael saw it differently and didn’t care in any particular way what the rest of the world thought. He knew that what he was doing was right for him. It was not a case of falling off the rails. It was about taking a different track. He often joked that he’d been like a child star in Hollywood. Extremely good as a child but as an adult the spark was gone and he didn’t want to be a bitter middle-aged man who didn’t quite make it and whose best days were when he was fifteen. When he wanted to make someone from the sporting world uncomfortable he’d expand that