The Last Guests

by J. P. Pomare

  The waiter collects my glass.

  ‘Still or sparkling?’

  ‘Tap is fine,’ Cain says.

  I raise a finger, turn to the waiter. ‘Do you work here every Saturday?’

  ‘Sorry?’ he says.

  ‘Were you working last Saturday?’

  ‘Last Saturday night? Yes.’

  I smile. ‘Oh right, you might have served a couple we know, Lucy and Phil. In town for the weekend from Auckland.’

  Cain gives me an incredulous look.

  The waiter frowns, thinking. ‘Lucy and Phil.’ He brings a tattooed hand to his jaw, scratches. ‘I think we did have a couple from Auckland. Blonde woman.’ He’s squinting now as if seeing them.

  ‘That would be them. Phil has short hair.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, nodding.

  ‘They said they had a lovely meal,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll pass the message on to the chef. Are they your parents?’

  ‘Parents?’ I look to Cain, who closes his eyes now with the tiniest smile. ‘No, they’re our age, maybe a little younger.’

  The waiter holds his cheek, glancing up. ‘I must be thinking of a different group.’

  After the waiter has left, Cain says, ‘And I thought I was the stalker.’ He tries to make it a joke with a smile, but his brow is furrowed in concern.

  I can’t tell him what I know, the coincidences that are lining up like dominoes, because I would have to tell him when I last wore that dress, why I stayed at the WeStay in Auckland and where my ring really is. And there’s the small matter of the photo.

  I notice a group rush in off the street, their jackets held up over their heads to keep the rain off. They look like a family, making their way towards the long table nearby.

  I’m not obsessed, I tell myself. I’m terrified. The dress. He’s been to the lake house. It’s not paranoia. Cain is still watching me. He’s always been hard to read, but even more so lately.

  When we first met, I didn’t think he was that into me until we were out with my friends one time. He was taking it slow, too slow, until in a dark, crowded bar full of mostly over-forties swilling wine, ‘Go Your Own Way’ came on. People filed on to the dancefloor. I said, ‘Come on, let’s have a boogie.’ I took his hand and that contact was enough. Just my hand squeezing his. His self-consciousness seemed to evaporate, he trusted me. Then we were dancing and before long he was kissing me, pressing me against the wall outside the bar. It started to rain but we didn’t stop at first. His body so tense and powerful. I remember my hands sliding over the hard muscle of his back. ‘Come back to mine,’ I said. It’s what he was waiting for. No taxis would take us, being drenched like that, so we walked in squelching shoes through the city back to my flat.

  ‘I just want to feel safe at the house,’ I say now, ‘that’s all. And something feels off about the last guests.’

  ‘We can change the entry code if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Yeah. Can we do that?’ My voice is unnaturally tight.

  ‘Sure. I’ll do it tonight.’

  I realise other diners are quieter now, listening to us. Cain turns his head, his eyes wandering the street. ‘After dinner, I’ll check the house properly. I’ll make sure there’s nothing to worry about, okay?’

  I give him a smile. ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’ I’ll need to hide my dress or tell him I hung it there when we arrived.

  Cain sips from his glass of wine and screws up his nose.

  ‘No good?’

  ‘Putrid. Lucky we didn’t let the guests drink it.’

  I take the glass from his hand, sniff it. ‘Doesn’t smell too good.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Tastes even worse than it smells.’ He takes another sip. ‘I’ll get through it.’

  Cain orders the pan-fried gnocchi in an oily white wine sauce. I go with the lamb bolognaise.

  He takes his phone out of his pocket, looking down for a moment, reminding me I’ve left mine in the car – part of me wanted to put some distance between me and the messages. Now I wish I had it so I had something to look at too. I need to distract myself from these thoughts about Daniel.

  ‘Maybe I should go get my phone,’ I say, ‘I haven’t received my roster for next month yet. I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with my emails.’

  Cain looks uninterested.

  ‘Actually, can I use your phone?’ I say. ‘Just to check quickly?’

  He slides it over the table and I sign into the mail app. My roster is still not up and it’s a new month in less than a week. It never takes this long.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, handing it back.

  When the food eventually comes, Cain is onto his second glass of wine. The taste doesn’t seem to be slowing him down too much. ‘It’s actually much better now, maybe it just needed time to breathe.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Or maybe it’s singed your tastebuds with its bitterness?’

  ‘Suits me,’ he says. Then he takes another small mouthful.

  The wine seems to be getting him drunk quickly. He doesn’t even notice I’ve barely eaten any of my food, I’ve just moved it around with my fork. There’s no way I could keep it down. I can’t stop thinking about the dress. Someone at the house. What are they planning to do? The waiter clears our plates.

  By the time he comes back over with the menus again, Cain’s eyelids are lower and he is breathing heavily.

  ‘Can I interest you both in dessert?’

  Cain looks up now, his eyes a little unfocused. ‘Um, I’m okay.’

  ‘And for you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Cain checks his phone and when he puts it away it takes him a few attempts to get it in his pocket.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, peering forward.

  He frowns now, blinking rapidly. ‘Yeah, I’m just feeling a little sleepy.’ The booze is making his consonants wet and slow. How much did he drink?

  ‘Cain, have you taken any medication, anything else?’

  He shakes his head, closing his eyes as he does so. I know the signs of anaesthetic, he’s got something in him, a narcotic. It can’t just be the booze.

  ‘Let’s get the bill then,’ I say, turning back towards the door, searching for the waiter.

  I go inside and pay.

  ‘Alright, let’s get going.’

  Cain stands, turns, stumbles. He slams into the neighbouring table and I clutch him to keep him upright.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I utter to the diners, my face flushing. ‘He’s unwell.’ Then I say quietly into his ear, ‘What’s gotten into you?’

  I hear the waiter behind me asking, ‘Did you want to take the rest of your bottle?’

  Cain turns back, his elbow bumping the bottle from the table. It tumbles and explodes on the floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Let me tidy it up.’

  ‘No,’ the waiter cuts me off. ‘It’s fine, just leave.’

  He must have had some painkillers or something at the house before he drank. He falls against another table. A woman in a dark dress stands abruptly, moving away from her meal and the glass of wine spilling towards her.

  ‘Watch it!’ her husband says. Someone else is there, the bartender gets under Cain’s other arm and we carry him out into the rain all the way to the car.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter to the man’s back as he rushes towards the cover of the dining area. Then to Cain, ‘What’s the matter? How much did you drink?’ But I know how much he had. It was less than a bottle. I get him into the car; rain runs down the back of my blouse, it drips from my nose. By the time I am in the driver’s seat, he is blinking slowly, like a newborn.

  He swallows. ‘I’m okay,’ he says. ‘Drank too quickly, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it can’t be that alone.’

  I can look after him, I just need to get him home.

  I reach across, buckle him in, then start the car.

  SIXTEEN

  AS
I NAVIGATE through town towards the lake house, the rain thickens, drumming down hard on the roof and bonnet of the car. Blades of water keep passing before the headlights. Cain’s cheek is pressed against the passenger-seat window and his breath casts an amoeba of fog that grows and shrinks on the cool glass. I don’t want to go back to the house, I want to go home to Auckland. Why didn’t I listen to him earlier when he said he wanted to go? Reassured by the soft, rhythmic press of his exhale, I place my hand on his forehead. No temperature. I reach, peel his eyes open. Glance away from the road on a straight. No dilation. He keeps them open for a few seconds, blinking, before closing them again. I take the wheel in both hands. The wine, I realise, is the bottle we left out for the guests. The one they didn’t drink. Could the wine have been bad? Could the wine have been open? We simply handed it to the waiter at the restaurant to open and pour.

  The storm is swelling, ratcheting up to a feverish lashing of the car. Whipping across the road. I notice headlights behind me as I begin the ascent over the hill towards the smaller lakes, with the redwood forest sprawling out on one side and farmland on the other. I shouldn’t go any faster in this weather but with the itch of fear, I urge the car on, pressing the accelerator. We reach the summit and descend now. The headlights behind are bright, then off, then bright again. A car flashing me. It gets close, so close I’m forced to flick the rear-view mirror away, to keep the light from blinding me. Still it’s so bright, so close. I squint, my heart pounding. Am I going too slow? Or is it something else? Is it him?

  ‘Cain,’ I say, panicked. ‘Cain, wake up!’ I swerve at the last second into Okareka Loop Road, the long way out to Tarawera. For just a moment it feels like the wheels won’t grip the wet road. The car skids a little. We swerve. My knuckles ache around the wheel but I don’t overcorrect. The car stays on the road.

  The other car has stopped following us. A flash in the distance then moments later the rumble of thunder. I exhale. The headlights were just kids messing around, I tell myself. I reach across for Cain’s phone, feeling in his pocket, but when I get it out, I find it is flat. I let my breath out and continue on, descending the hills, then around Lake Okareka. My own phone is in the glove box, it might be tricky to get at without stopping. We emerge on the road towards the Blue Lake and finally on around Tarawera towards the house. I slow down, always silent and careful at the cliff bend. It would be easy to go over in this weather, a little too much gas, the tyres losing their grip. Maybe that’s what happened all those years ago …

  There are no other cars. The roads are black and silent beyond the fogged windscreen. I lean a little closer to see properly.

  Soon enough we are approaching the house. I ease off the accelerator, indicate and pull in. Part of me expects to see that car, the one that had flashed its lights, there beneath the tree. I park close to the steps and prod Cain’s shoulder again. I speak softly, begging him. ‘Wake up, Cain, please. We’re home now.’ Rain is flooding out from the drain beside the house. Another crack of thunder sends my nerves fizzing. The steps and deck are wet. There is no way I will get him inside without waking him first.

  ‘Cain,’ I say louder now, gently slapping his face. His lids peel back. ‘Come on, up you get. We’re home.’

  ‘Home,’ he says, dazed.

  He looks down as if realising for the first time that he’s in the car. I unclip his belt and reach across to open the door. The cool air rushes in and it seems to wake him a little more. When he stands, rain pounds the seat through the open door. I rush around beside him and feel the rain soak through my blouse. Taking him by the arm, I drag him along, up the drenched steps and beneath the eave at the front door. I punch in the code for the lock. It beeps three times. It doesn’t work. I try the code again. But once more it beeps three times and doesn’t unlock.

  ‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Wait here.’

  The backup key is in a key safe under the deck. I rush to it now. This time the code works, the key falls out and I take it back to the front door. The lock opens with the key and we move inside, dripping on the hard wood. Could the rain have gotten into the lock and caused it to malfunction or has something else happened?

  I strip, removing my blouse right there, dropping my shoes. I even unclip my soaking bra. Cain, oblivious, steps forward.

  ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Get your shoes off.’ He looks down. I go closer, on one knee I untie the laces of his boots, pull them off and toss them back beside the door. ‘Stay here a moment.’ I rush to the linen cupboard and find towels for us both. Patting his face dry, stripping his jumper, his t-shirt, his pants, I take his clothes and dump them in the washing machine before helping him up the stairs to bed. He falls on the covers in his underwear. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, and I decide I’ll take him activated charcoal and a bucket after my shower. I know by the rhythm of his breathing he is already asleep before I even turn the light out, but I’ll wake him through the night, check his breathing, his heart rate and feed him water.

  Back downstairs I lock the door. The shadows in the corners and my reflection in the glass send my heart racing. I approach the back door slowly, eyes fixed on the lawn outside, and check it is locked. I turn the lights off, before rushing towards the glow coming down the stairs from the bathroom. The darkness presses me on faster, and when I reach the foot of the stairs, I’m almost running.

  I stop at the bedroom on the way to the shower. Cain is still now. I fetch warm trackpants and a sleeping shirt to put on afterwards, still aching with fear but pushing through. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s in your head. I peel off my underwear and climb into the shower, letting the warmth rush over me, washing the chill from my skin. It almost stings, a good slap of heat. Despite the age of the lake house, the plumbing has always been fine but this shower is fickle, an all-or-nothing hot tap. I twist it a little to cool the water. I just stand there for some time, before reaching for the face cloth to wash my face. I’ve always taken long showers before bed, only now I can barely summon the energy to clean myself. Soon I reach for the cold tap, twisting it. That’s when I hear something. A gentle knock out there in the storm. Could it have been the pipes groaning? My gut plunges, that sound again. A branch knocking the side of the house? No. I know that sound. That is the sound of footsteps near the front door. Someone is downstairs, I think. Impossible. But then I hear the mechanical beep, the grind of the bolt. The front door lock. Despite the heat of the shower, I freeze. Could it be malfunctioning? It has to be because the only other option can’t be true: there’s someone in the house.

  Peephole

  Live Cam Premium

  Stream: 037B

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  After the man is assisted upstairs, and the woman is in the shower, someone else appears on camera 1. He opens the door gently, then closes it again – 11 viewers. He is wearing a gas mask that obscures his face but you can see him looking up directly at the camera. His hand moves slowly to the small of his back, then when he brings it before him, he is holding a sawn-off shotgun – 29 viewers. He raises his hand, places a finger where his mouth would be beneath the gas mask – 53 viewers. The show is about to begin – 127 viewers.

  SEVENTEEN

  I FEEL MY pulse in my chest as I turn both taps off and stand listening. The heat leaves my skin, goosebumps rise. I reach for my towel and quickly dry off. I can’t call Cain’s name, I can’t summon the courage to hurl my voice out into the dark, still house. I think about the bunkroom, the ladder downstairs. Why am I planning an escape? It’s all just in my head. But is it? What if there really was a man at the lake that time? What if someone has been following me?

  I pull on my underwear, the old t-shirt I wear to bed and slowly draw the door open. The air carries a chill in the passageway.

  ‘Cain?’ I call, softly. ‘Are you awake?’

  I’m so focused on Cain, I forget about the loose floorboard outside the bedroom. It whines under my foot sending a current over my skin. I press the bedroom door open, the
bedside lamp is on and Cain’s still there. He has fallen in beneath the covers.

  ‘Cain,’ I say, a little louder. I was hearing things. My ears playing a trick on me through the rumbling, pounding storm. Yet it was so clear, I’m sure I heard the lock. Something is on the bedside table, it’s so out of place, so absurd as if in a dream. A medical syringe lies on its side, the needle pointing at me. What is that? My heart slams, yet still I can barely move. What is that syringe doing there? Did Cain take something? Or – a new thought comes that freezes me – did someone administer something, someone who is still here? I step closer, reaching to pull the sheet back. My heart feels like it’s bruising with each thud against my sternum. There’s another sound. The loose floorboard. My hand is on the sheet but now my heart stops. I brace. I can’t move at all.

  ‘He will be fine.’ A gasp. My body leaps. I swing around, facing the door and see him. The scream doesn’t come; it’s a bird trapped in my throat, beating its wings. The shotgun comes up slowly. The barrel stares me in the eye. My feet won’t move. Nothing moves.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, his voice deep, distorted by the mask strapped to his face. It’s a relic from an early war; black rubber, a canister hanging down below the chin. Beyond the two round pieces of glass, like a pair of old coins in a well, I see eyes looking out at me. Deep green eyes. It’s you, I think. Daniel.

  ‘Please … Wh-what do you want?’ Weakness, that’s what this feeling is. A malaise, like falling limp and playing dead.

  ‘We’re going to talk,’ he says, a voice full of gravel. He’s disguising himself, his voice. That’s a good sign. I’d heard that somewhere. If they’re hiding their face they’re planning on leaving you alive. But what if he’s hiding it for some other reason? I’m not prepared to test the theory. He lowers the gun, so the barrel is directed at the floor. He turns, sweeps his arm in a gesture for me to leave the room. My heart is a fist, air is trapped in my throat. How can I move, how can I do anything?