by J. P. Pomare
Sorry to hear the news, see you soon.
It strikes me as mildly threatening, yet if he was planning what he did, why send this at all? If he knew my address, why not just send it to the house? Could he have discovered I was lying about my dad being sick? I never even knew my dad. Something like that might send an unhinged man over the edge. Maybe he realised I only wanted my ring and necklace and never planned on seeing him again. Or he somehow realised I had changed my number. This could also be a way of covering his tracks. If he did set us up to be a murder suicide that night, and if he was questioned by the police, a lawyer could point to this act as evidence of good faith.
I put the necklace on. Then I twist my wedding band onto my finger, close the PO box and step outside. I toss the envelope and his note in a nearby bin.
‘What was it?’ she says.
‘Just a package from a friend,’ I say, before starting the car and heading off again.
I leave Sara at her house before heading towards the WeStay, passing the bar he took me to, then along that quiet suburban park and pulling up outside the house: 299 Hillview Terrace. It’s still dark but for the streetlights, and the moment I open the car door the cold rushes in. In the empty street memories from that night flood my mind: walking along here alone, meeting him, traipsing back under his arm with his damp breath in my hair. That emptiness inside me surges again and I think about what Cain said, I should have been the one to save you. He’s seen that violence before, and he wanted to protect me from it. He lives with his own guilt.
I quickly scan the street once more before opening the side gate and heading for the front door. I find the key safe and punch in the pin code: 4139. The keys fall out. Two of them: one modern, stubby and short; the other long and thin with a blade at the end in the distinct shape of a U. The small steel map of New Zealand is cold and sharp in my palm. More memories come unbidden when I open the door: that mad scrabble across the living room, hard up against the wall, stumbling around the couch then finding our way to the bedroom. The memories trap themselves in my throat and my heart is aflutter. Despite everything, I tell myself again that Cain could still technically be the biological father.
When I hit the switch, the place lights up, hospital-bright, but without that distinct low hum. It’s set up just how it was that night, but now I see a small note encouraging me to enjoy my stay. Curtains open to the tiny courtyard. I close them first. I feel vulnerable with all that darkness outside. My skin prickles, feels the cameras like eyes. Are they still there, watching me? What if they come for me now? I feel a stitch of fear. So different being here this time.
Somehow, impossibly, I’d briefly forgotten what Daniel did to me, what he did to Cain and now that I remember, I feel the anger and shame at myself again. It happened here, in this place.
I try to imagine the phone in Daniel’s hand again, video footage of us on his screen. We were here, in this room, pressed against this wall. The view angled down from the ceiling capturing part of the kitchen and the doors to the bathroom and bedroom.
I take a chair and drag it out from beneath the table, before climbing onto it to scan the ceiling for the camera. That night we were in such a hurry, but I would have noticed something conspicuous.
There’s a great big light fixture, black and baroque. It’s tasteless, oversized and doesn’t fit here. Reaching up, I use the torch app on my phone, shining it around the edge of the fixture, unsure of what I’m looking for but scanning until I see something. It’s a … camera? I peer closer, moving the phone so close that the light shines into the tiny cavity. It’s nothing. Just a hole. About the width of a knitting needle but it’s empty. It doesn’t make sense. A camera couldn’t fit there could it? It’s no smaller than the camera on my iPhone I suppose. He had showed me footage from the bed too. That is where I head next.
I drag the chair from the lounge into the bedroom. I climb up and scan the ceiling, but there are no holes here. It’s an unbroken canvas of white except for the smoke alarm. I bend my head all the way back, looking up at it. I move the chair closer, climb up and look right into it. Another hole the same size. It’s right where the emergency light should be. It’s perfect; you would never notice it unless you were searching for it. I press the button to test the alarm but it doesn’t make a sound. Stretching on my toes, I reach up and twist the alarm from the ceiling. It comes away easily. The plastic mount connected to the roof has another tiny hole through to the ceiling. I’m holding my breath. At the lake house, the police found the cameras hidden in impossibly small crevices. Seven in total. How many cameras were here in this apartment? My skin itches, I feel the eyes on me now, like hands touching me, pinching and prodding. Then a sound.
I freeze. Three hard taps at the door.
I can’t move. Someone is here, I think. Someone was still watching. My breathing is quick and laboured. I climb down from the chair, search the room for a weapon, or an escape. I could go out the courtyard, try to climb the fence.
There is another knock at the door. I’m electric, waiting for some heavy blow. I move silently. If I ignore them maybe they will go away. But what if they don’t? It’s too early in the morning for visitors, but why knock at all? If they mean me harm, why not just burst through the door? A dark thought enters my mind like a piece of glass, then shatters and spreads through me: what if it’s the second man?
My sneakers make a small squelching sound when I move across the polished kitchen floor towards the door. I lean in close to peer out through the peephole, my heart slamming now. The sun is beginning to rise, but it’s still dark out. Where did they go? Who was it? Someone must know I am here, they must have been following me. I can’t just wait it out, but then again I can’t go into the darkness alone.
Squeezing my eyes closed I’m back in the lake house with that man, he’s hovering over me, taunting me. Then I’m holding the gun, it’s exploding in my hand, throwing me back. The trigger was firm, then it was water and I flew, sprawling. I’m there, seeing it all as if it’s happening to me again.
I survived. I got through that; this is nothing. Inhale, exhale.
In the kitchen I find a pan. It’s light but sturdy. I take it back to the door, where I reach for the door handle, and gently twist it. The door pulls open slowly, whining. The crisp early morning air moves in around me, through my clothes, chilling me.
I pocket my phone, before stepping out with the pan in both hands. Through the door, down the first step, then the second. I pull the door closed, locked behind me. I’m prickling with fear as I peer towards the car. No one is there. Slowly, bending my knees, I find the key safe and push the keys inside. Locking it once more. I rise and start towards the gate, the street beyond. The car is so close now. The gate creaks, a horror film sound that sends my heart racing. I’ll have to explain I left a pan in the front yard, it might cost part of my deposit to replace if it is stolen but I need to leave. I squat and place the pan down. Through the gate now, two quick strides. I reach the sedan and am vaguely aware of another car door sounding, footsteps. The fear is overwhelming. He’s coming for me. I look up and he’s on me before I can open my car door.
I find the key between my knuckles. Turn and swing blindly.
‘Stop!’ a voice says.
I swipe out again, aiming for his throat. He’s turned me using the weight of my attack. My arm is up my spine, the key pried from my fingers and chinking against the concrete footpath.
I kick back and twist. Throwing my elbows.
‘Stop,’ the voice says. ‘Calm the fuck down.’
‘Let me go,’ I say. ‘Help!’ I scream for anyone on the street. The sunrise is just beginning to tinge the horizon. Joggers will be out soon. Someone will help me. I scream again.
He’s too strong, my arm wrenches higher and I’m pressed against the car. He’s going to kidnap me.
‘Help!’
His voice is loud, authoritative and close to my ear. ‘Mrs Phillips, I’m going to need you to calm down.’
‘Let me go. LET. ME. GO!’ I twist, kick, turn my head. If I could just bite his hand. If I could loosen his grip.
‘You’ve just assaulted a police officer,’ he says, with a firm, authoritative tone.
‘What?’ I say, twisting my head back. It can’t be. They’re not in uniforms. ‘You’re not –’
‘My name is Detective Senior Sergeant Ed Rata.’
‘No,’ I say, turning back to eye the man. I realise there’s two of them. ‘You’re not police, you’ve been following me. You’re –’
‘And this is my colleague, Constable Black.’
Peephole transmission
Given the recent growth in members, it has become clear that Peephole must implement new measures to protect the anonymity of planters, and keep viewers from interfering with streams. Over the past month, there has been a number of robberies at properties that were vacant, and the recent incident on stream 037B has resulted in further police investigations. This stream would not have been compromised if it wasn’t for the individual who interfered. The planter’s equipment was discovered and removed by police, this may lead to identification through fingerprints or DNA on and around the equipment. We have closed the WeStay account and have safely removed equipment from all other streams associated with this account.
Until further notice all live streams will be delayed by one to six hours to stop those who are using this platform for anything other than watching.
Please enjoy the show.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘WE’D LIKE YOU to come with us,’ Rata says. He’s darker than the younger one, and has a bristled black moustache you could polish a shoe with.
‘How do I know you’re cops?’
He produces a badge, but I can barely see it in the early morning glow and even if I could, I wouldn’t know if it were real. As he opens his jacket to put it back, I see the handcuffs and the taser on the side of his belt.
‘What if I say no?’
‘We’d prefer it if you came along voluntarily. It would help to clear things up,’ he says. A non-answer. ‘We want to know why you’re here, at this house?’
A clot of something breaks free from where it had grown in my chest, it rises up and settles in my throat. I have to tell them. But I know I can’t.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I say, pausing. ‘Why are you here?’
He doesn’t take his eyes away from mine. ‘We can talk about that at the station.’
I slowly exhale, thinking through the situation. ‘Can I follow you there in my car?’
Rata turns back to Constable Black, who shrugs as if he’s asking question.
‘It might be easier if you come with us. We can drop you back here after.’
‘No,’ I say, defiant now. ‘If you want me to come, I will drive myself.’ I still don’t know if I trust these two. I can’t pinpoint why, but I don’t want to be at their mercy. I want to be able to leave in my car when I want.
‘Sure. Follow us.’
I climb into my car, my heart thrashing and my palms damp around the key. The car starts with a grumble. Headlights come on behind me. I wait for them to pass then follow on.
They lead me through the streets back towards the heart of the city, as sunrise slowly continues to peel the layers of darkness away. When we park, me tucking in behind their dark sedan, I’m looking up at what could be Orwell’s Ministry of Love. A Tetris block of a building, too banal to be considered ‘architectural’ but the word ‘brutalist’ leaps to my mind. Ten storeys of concrete, featureless but for the evenly spaced small square windows, sitting in their own recesses.
‘This way,’ the younger one says when I climb out of the car. He leads, and the other one, Rata, walks beside me. Everything about this situation feels off. They’ve got control. Giving me the feeling that it would hurt more to defy their commands than it would to simply acquiesce. These two are well versed. They wield silence like a blowtorch, they know how to get people to do and say what they want. Or maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe it’s me, my own guilt gnawing at my subconscious. Maybe I’m afraid they’ll be able to unpick the thread and my secrets will all tumble out.
He stops, opens the door for me. ‘Come on through.’
I don’t acknowledge the gesture, I just stride past. Cain said the media are like vampires, but I feel that way about these two: never invite them into your house, never accept a gift from them or do them a favour.
‘Kia ora, Tabitha,’ Rata says as we pass a plate-glassed booth.
The uniformed woman glances up. ‘Morning, Detective.’
A buzzing sound and a door opens.
He leads me through corridors of unblemished beige walls. This is not the police station we had visited to give our statements. This is something else. We reach what feels like the heart of the ground level, a small interview room. If you’ve been in one, you’ve been in them all: a table mounted to the wall, a voice recorder and camera in the corner. I remember the first time I came to a place like this. Grandpa was with me because I was too young to go alone. We both had to give statements about that night, when Mum had turned up at the lake house, drunk again.
‘She’s coming with me. She’s my bloody daughter.’
‘She’s not getting in that car. We’re her guardians, not you. You can come back and visit her when you’re sober.’
The argument growing, Mum rushing at him, a skinny thing with her hands raised like claws, grabbing at her own father.
Then when they called the police, she’d sped off in that old Ford. And Grandpa just stood on the porch, watching her go. Then that sound. Metal bending, the crackle of branches breaking, and the boom and splash of the car striking the water. That corner at the cliff is four hundred metres along the road yet we all heard it so clear. I still hear it now when I think about her.
‘Look,’ Rata begins. ‘This isn’t a formal interview or anything like that, we’re not recording you. We just want you to help us understand one or two things.’
‘What is this place?’
‘It was the main police station in Auckland before the move, but the force still owns it, so we make use of it from time to time. For interviews and meetings.’
Interrogations? I wonder. National security? Cybercrime?
‘Okay. Is there any more news on our case?’
‘We’re looking at something different. It’s broader than that one case.’
The room drops ten degrees. Broader. What does that mean? Peephole? Rata sits down, private school straight spine, with a muscled neck keeping that large head of his up. ‘Perhaps you can begin by explaining to us why you were at that house?’ he says.
‘Well, I booked it on WeStay.’
A brow lifts. ‘Why did you book that place in particular?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Why did you book it? You didn’t stay there tonight. So what is it? Trouble at home?’
All the lies flicker through my mind, I needed a night away from Cain, sometimes I stay near the ambulance station when I’m on call, I stayed at that house before and left something valuable behind. None seem plausible. The truth is I don’t really know myself why I went, I guess I wanted to see if the cameras were still there. I twist the wedding ring on my finger, I don’t realise I’m doing it until I follow Rata’s dark eyes to my own hands. I stop.
‘I haven’t broken the law,’ I say. ‘So I want to go home.’
‘Well, that depends.’
‘On?’
‘Given what you know about the pending case concerning Daniel Moore and the fact you were at a place of interest, this could be seen as interfering in a criminal investigation.’
‘How was I to know that house was of interest?’
His smile says cut the crap.
‘I’m not answering any more questions,’ I say. I eye the door.
He levels his gaze right on me, letting the tension build.
‘I’m going to ask you again, why were you at that house this mor
ning, Lina?’
I just shake my head.
‘Why are you and your husband visiting a place of interest in a criminal investigation?’
I freeze. Look up suddenly from my hands. Rata cocks the corner of his mouth. Cain visiting that house? A swelling siren of panic. I try to straighten my face out but they’ve seen it.
‘Wait,’ he says, leaning a little closer. ‘You didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t know what?’
A small laugh. My insides plummet. Rata ribs the other cop with his elbow. ‘Hear that, Constable? She didn’t even know he had been there.’
The constable speaks now. ‘Daniel turns up at your house with a fistful of lead in his guts. He stayed at that house you were visiting tonight, and you didn’t know your husband had been there.’ The image almost makes me gag. The tone has changed. Rata speaks again now, the smile leaving his face. ‘Help us understand, Lina. None of this makes sense.’
I just shake my head.
‘If Cain was there and you don’t know why, I’d be very careful if I were you.’
I can’t help but take the bait. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It sounds like your husband has a secret, Lina. And you have a secret. Things like this tend not to end well. So why don’t you help us out? What we are investigating is bigger than you both.’
Bigger than us both. My mind is whirling. Cain must know something, why else was he there? Or could this be some trick the police are playing on me?
‘Cameras were installed at that house. Now they’ve been removed. Who do you think might have removed them?’
‘Daniel Moore?’ I say.
‘Some would say he’s the obvious culprit. But people can make a lot of money very quickly doing this sort of thing. Two places in less than one week and they’re both linked to you, Lina.’
‘I don’t know what to say, I had nothing to do with it.’
Rata shrugs now, as if to say, prove it. Then he speaks, ‘We’ve had the place under surveillance. I was not expecting you or your husband to show up. I missed him but when they said you were at the house, well that was worth getting out of bed for.’