Chapter 1

I pushed past my front door and sensed that all was not good and well within casa de Xendos. Two unfamiliar vehicles parked in my driveway were the first clue. The fact that the door was swinging ajar also figured into this equation.

I walked slowly down the long corridor and I mused on the fact that my security system had not alerted me. I almost expected the scene playing out behind The Door That Must Never Be Opened.

It was not shut tight.

The noises that emanated from there were not the kind of noises one would expect to hear in the middle of the day while the master and sole occupant of the home was not present.

I recognised my new darling Christine's voice in the throng of heaving, grunting and howling, but I couldn't recognise the male noises. Plural.

I made out at least two different voices, possibly three not including my girlfriend's squeals of delight. This could potentially be upsetting to the average Joe, but I sensed that given what I've been through in the last few years, I would take this in my stride.

About eighteen years into my relationship with my wife, cancer claimed her. The fight was short though incredibly vicious. It only lasted four months. As a matter of fact she died while in my arms, on the bed that lies beyond The Door That Must Never Be Opened. The army of specialists that examined and tested her decided that little could be done to save her. She wanted to go in an environment of her choosing. She chose home.

Helen was the centre of my world, my best friend, and most loyal ally. Our time together was precious. We argued fiercely but we understood that if we were to be together, we needed to be a team in everything we did. Once we resolved our disagreements, they never needed to be revisited. If I bent over for her, she made damn sure that nothing got poked up my ass. We had each other's back.

Her demise left me broken.

The darkness surrounded me like a warm cloak and remained my stifling companion for a long while. There was a serrated edge to the way I dealt with people. I was cold to anyone who cared to approach me. Often, particularly with those I loved, I would simply get up and quietly move away. Violence brewed just under the surface of my skin. I could feel it crawl around in there like an infestation, searching for a route to expose itself.

It was my friend Peter and his wife Vanessa who helped me start to emerge from my long cold winter. Peter put in many hours - occasionally he would talk, but mostly he surrounded me with ease, in companionable quiet. For this alone I could never repay him.

We've known each other most of our lives, our friendship born out of our common dislike of a Primary School teacher we shared when we were pre-teens. She had a particular interest in me as she was a close friend of my mothers. This close scrutiny always put a real crimp on my wanting to play ball with the other kids during lessons. No truancy for me.

This teacher had an even greater interest in Peter as she took him home with her every night, along with her daughter, Peter's older sister. Mums can be very embarrassing at that age.

It was during these formative years that she introduced us both to the sifu across the road from our school that ran classes teaching various styles of kung-fu. The passion Pete and I developed for this sport remained with us for the rest of our lives. I think Pete's mum just needed to know where we were while she was grading papers after school.

When Vanessa would turn up she would frown at my pathetic domestic attempts, and often take over many of the duties my wife used to perform. She cleaned my house, she made me food and she stayed with me while I ate and talked about nothing. I think back on these times when I need to remember the selflessness and good things some humans are capable off.

A year into my mourning, on a clear and crisp Autumn Tuesday morning a speeding WRX Impreza struck Pete from behind. They took him to Canterbury Hospital, a few kilometres down the road. I got the call from Vanessa, her tone frantic and dispersed with sudden loud silences where she was attempting to hold it together between sobs.

As I drove, I felt a familiar cold emptiness progressively consume me; Vanessa did advise me to be prepared for the worst. I'm not aware of the expression on my face, but I knew that people were giving me a very wide berth all the way to his ward. Friends and family who gathered outside the room fell silent when they noticed my approach.

I stood at the entry, but I remained still for a moment. My head a mess, I knew I needed to pull myself together. This time, I had to be the strong one for someone else. This time someone other than me was going to hurt, and this person is going to need me more than I needed myself.

I steeled myself for the final approach and it was not good.

Peter was a mess, barely cognisant and obviously a goner. Suspicious looking devices were making those ominous sounds familiar to me through watching hospital scenes at the movies. So many machines, cables and tubes. Vanessa stood by his side, and their teenage son Steph sat nearby with his head down. He looked up at me and gave me a weak smile, which quickly faded when he followed my gaze toward his father.

Vanessa was calm now, but with one look into her eyes I could see her screaming inside. She came to me where I stood and for the first time I can remember since learning of my Helen's illness, I felt an absolute terror for someone else. She clung to me, as if my strength could somehow help Peter.

Peter made a gurgling kind of noise, which brought us out of our shared misery and I could see him looking into my eyes. He cleared his throat then, and spoke softly.

"Couldn't wait till I'm gone before you tried to seduce my wife, eh?"

I responded the only way I knew how.

"Well I felt it was high time she finally got to feel what it's like to be with a real man."

"Oh. So what's she doing with you?"

"Enjoying the ultimate experience man."

"Huh! Fuck off, Gaylord."

"Loser."

"Butter boy."

"Softcock."

I paused here, we were both smiling. The silence deepened.

"Why did you go and get yourself all broken up for man?" I asked, the humour dwindling away, and a terrible sense of finality settling into the exchange.

"Someone had to slow that little shithead down," he replied, no longer expecting a laugh from anyone. He looked at his wife, smiled and nodded to her. She moved to take her son's hand and lead him out of the private room. When the door closed, he began.

"I don't have a lot of time Tony, so I've got to ask you to do me a huge favour."

"Do I even need to respond?"

"No, I know you'll do it. Just like I know you'll occasionally drop in on my family and make sure they're doing okay. You know how they feel about you, make yourself at home, and just be ... yourself."

"Pete, I'm a little pissed that you think you even have to ask me this..."

"Whoa boy, slow down, I haven't gotten to the favour yet." His eyes glinted mischievously. "What I'd like from you, is that you just start living again man. It's really important to me."

At this I broke down. I couldn't hold it back any more. I stood at the edge of the bed, and lost it.

"Come on Tony, there's no time for all this, come here, give me a hug and go call my wife. I think it's time..."

It shattered me to lose another person so dear to me. I was surprised to find I had the capacity to grieve all over again. But I took Peters words to heart, and practically moved into Vanessa's home. I stayed there whenever I had nothing planned, and even broke arrangements with people, sometimes even family, if I felt that either she or her son required support during a low ebb for them. I understood the grieving process and knew that there would be good days and then there would be bad days.

This is just how it was.

In a way Vanessa had a tool that helped her immensely I believe, in her son. Steph was a great kid hurtling towards adulthood, but with a strength rarely encountered in teenagers. His father taught him well. I sat with them many nights watching TV, playing ball with Steph or just chatting with Vanessa. I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time and effort in making her laugh. It became the highlight of my day to see her soft gentle smile. I knew that the wolves would be out soon, not too many men could resist the face of an angel.

After five minutes in her company, it was impossible not to be enchanted. She exuded a sense of confidence and style that appeared unconscious yet natural.

She was the original 'yummy mummy' and had the kind of beauty that took my breath away. Medium height, dirty blond hair and green eyes. Curves that even after twenty years and a teenage son, still sent any male nearby on a head spin. The woman was sheer poetry.

But Vanessa was a smart girl who could look after herself. She didn't need me to protect her but she knew that if she needed anything she could count on my support.

I tried hard to fulfil my promise to Peter. I started going out, clubbing and immersing myself in booze and women, although these days it took me a bit longer to recover, at least I was doing what everyone was telling me I should be doing. Getting out there and living again.

Funnily enough the only people that never offered an opinion on me behaving like a stupid teenager were mine and Peter's family. My own brothers were beginning to call me an alcoholic and in a way I felt my behaviour was taking me further away from Helen and Peter instead of bringing me closer to them. I needed to expand on my hobbies.

So I allowed myself to rediscover a diversion Peter and I had shared many years ago; building and racing muscle cars.

I had purchased a six speed Gen III 5.7 Litre Commodore SS and wanted to do a little work on it. This is where it started again for me. In the old days, we spent a disgraceful amount of money on all our favourite Fords and Holdens, and we were heavily into the street race scene before there was anywhere the average rev-head could go and legally race.

I especially had a passion for the old Ford XD and XE ESP, and absolutely loved the 5.8 litre Cleveland block. It was so easy to work on and pulled excellent times down the standing quarter. A 671 blower just added to the allure and mystique. It also guaranteed to take at least a second or two off my times. I'm not willing to go into the details of the damage those things did to my bottom ends, suffice as to say, I disintegrated several motors...

I didn't discriminate between FMX (or C4) or Top Loader gear boxes, each had their application. I loved them both. In fact Peter and I once owned a couple of identical sky blue XD ESP's, where I was running a tricked up FMX with a stage six shift kit through it, and Peter was running with a top loader. The motors and the rest of the running gear were exactly the same, as we were buying all the parts two at a time to try and save a few bucks. The only differences were always the ratio's we were running, experimenting with highway gears or street 'n' strip. We had the best of both worlds.

I remember after getting my baby on the road when Pete thought he'd be a hero, and took it for a rap. He pumped up the stall and let rip out of the driveway. He later told me the monster was revving to eight grand and getting there so quick, he barely had time to correct the car before needing to shift into second and then third. It was like the car was on ice all the way down the road. He came back white faced, and loving the combination of FMX shift with 3/5 ratios in the arse end. That was a Kodak moment, and there I was without a camera.

If we needed to get a little serious, we'd swap those ratios for 4/11 and watch the front end launch off the ground. Like I said, lots of fun. A ridiculous waste of money, with never a hope of recouping it, but we were young and stupid, and lived for the day.

This time round though, I had the money to burn, with no debts to speak of. The boys in the workshop talked me into getting one of their young blokes to work on my motor, who was it seemed, a bit of a genius with the Gen III motors. Jerry assured me that with a bit of his love on the camshaft, some extensive exhaust work, and a serious chat with the computer, he could get my toy to run 10s at the Creak. Without the bottle.

With the laughing gas, I could apparently shave off another second or two. I was dubious off course, but he assured me that the Yanks got it pretty right with the Gen III and that it was a tough little motor that could take a fair amount of punishment. He did state though that a lot of his previous efforts revolved around getting the cam right. I was intrigued enough to agree to part with several gorillas that were sitting around in my bank account doing nothing, and told him to go for his life.

His response to me was a lopsided grin, and he threw his keys at me telling me to take his Monaro for a rap.

"I'm building your motor the same as mine. Have a feel of what you'll be driving in a couple of days. Remember though, you break it, you own it."

The Monaro drove like a dream. It was a slightly different configuration to mine in that it was a two door coupe. But after just a moment behind the wheel, I felt like I was home. Familiar, but new.

There is something quite exhilarating about driving a monster on the road that has the potential to lose traction in every gear. People could hear me coming and would I always look for their reaction. I quickly fell back into this routine.

Some people would look, and think that I'm just another hoon, driving something that shouldn't be on the streets. Others would think I'm a show off, just out trying to impress. I've even seen people react with resentment towards a driver of such a car. Results of a bad experience I suppose. But there is a group of people that will instantly recognise the kind of beast under my control. This is the group I always look for. And if they happen to be in their own toys at the same time ... well, you know.

I returned to the workshop and told Jerry I was impressed and that I was looking forward to getting mine back finished. He gave me his trademark smirk and a nod.

A few months down the track found me with a brand new girlfriend, someone who I decided I would slow down a little with. She was wild, spectacularly gorgeous, fun loving and was hated by everyone in my family who met her.

Enter Christine.

If my people were unhappy with her, Vanessa and Steph were unreservedly hostile. I couldn't see why since I'm pretty sure it was clear to those that knew me that I wouldn't get too serious with her. Suddenly I had words thrown around me that sounded like "slut", "gold-digger", "poutana" and "whore". I never said anything about it because I guess I kind of agreed with them.

I was just trying to get familiar enough with someone to be able to spend a whole night together and not wake up pre-dawn screaming my wife's name.

Why Christine latched onto me was another one of life's curious anomalies. I simply don't know. I'm fairly wealthy in my own right, but I take care not to advertise. I don't really throw money around unless it's on the SS, and even that is never on display unless I'm with the boys. With them, my ride is just another muscle car. My house is rather modest, a normal suburban home. I don't wear jewellery. I'm certainly no Adonis, but I guess I must hold my own.

It must have been my sterling personality so often displayed. That was a joke. I still had problems opening up to people. I could see how some people would take my reserved nature and mistaken it for shyness. This would only change if I was really, really drunk. I was always a happy drunk, so maybe she thought I would be that funny when I was sober over the long run.