Saving Rose

by Kate Genet

  ‘What do you think of Danny, Dad?’ she whispered.

  ‘Hush, Claire,’ he said. ‘Not in front of little ears.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Bad?’

  The older man didn’t answer, merely pressed his lips together in a thin, disapproving line.

  A nod and she gazed around instead. The town was devastated. ‘The Timeball Station,’ she said, voice low in shock.

  ‘It was damaged enough in the last quake,’ Frank said. ‘Won’t be any fixing it this time.’

  Claire would be surprised if he was wrong. The nineteenth century building that for so long had told seafarers the time had come to a terrible and sad end, its stone walls collapsing in a tumbling spill onto the unstable ground. She shook her head. The port town was never going to be the same again. Nor, for that matter, would Christchurch itself.

  ‘They reckon the epicentre was pretty much under Lyttelton harbour,’ Frank said, and his voice had a weary shock that made Claire want to take his hand and give it a squeeze in commiseration.

  ‘This is going to be no easy thing to recover from.’

  ‘You got that right, Claire,’ he said.

  She thought about Danny, heading back into the city, going back to look at his wife’s broken body. The hatchet on the floor of his study glinted in her mind.

  What had Zoe discovered that morning that had her breaking down a cupboard door in her husband’s study?

  Suddenly, she wanted very desperately to know.

  ‘Claire! Frank! Oh thank God!’ A small figure hurtled itself at them and wrapped itself around all three of them, drawing them into a tight huddle. ‘Oh I told you I had a bad feeling about today!’

  Claire kissed her mother’s soft cheek and promised herself never to dismiss her mother’s bad feelings again. If there was ever a spectacular hit, this was it.

  Gracie cupped Claire’s cheeks in both hands and examined her, turning her head this way and that. ‘You’re all intact?’ her mother asked.

  With a grimace, Claire nodded. ‘Not a scratch,’ she said.

  Her mother nodded. ‘But Zoe…’

  Claire closed her eyes. Felt her mother’s soft kiss on her forehead.

  ‘It’s a dark day,’ Gracie whispered.

  Her mother turned to Rose and held out her arms. The little girl tumbled from Frank’s grip and wrapped herself like a starfish around Gracie.

  ‘My little love,’ Gracie crooned. ‘What a day you’ve had!’

  ‘I wanna go home,’ Rose responded.

  ‘Yes, Claire’s mother said. ‘Home is just the place.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Where are you parked? Isn’t everything just a huge mess?’

  They walked to the car and Gracie slid into the back seat, Rose still clinging to her. Claire thought about the car seat in the back of Zoe’s little red vehicle and her mind shied away from the image. Perhaps they’d just buy a new one to use.

  Frank drove slowly through the streets, all of them silent, looking at broken buildings.

  ‘Everyone’s been amazing,’ Gracie said after a minute. ‘I’ve been helping to dish out cups of tea and pass around sandwiches.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Was there any damage at home, Mum?’ Claire asked.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘None. Your father designed that place to withstand anything mother nature could throw at us.’ She smiled at Claire. ‘And just as well too. Thanks to him, we even have power and water.’ She looked at her husband behind the wheel, love folding familiar creases in her face. ‘He’s a keeper, is your dad.’

  Claire looked away before the tears that suddenly filled her eyes could spill down her cheeks. The earth might move underfoot, she thought, but some things could always be counted on.

  Until death came calling, that was.

  Zoe.

  30

  Danny jogged up the road to his house, nodding at the few neighbours standing around in pathetic little huddles. It was a strain to keep his face from breaking into a happy smile, but he managed it.

  ‘Danny,’ the old woman from two doors down said, reaching out a bony hand from which loose skin drooped. ‘Where are your beautiful girls? I hope they’re all right.’

  Stopping in his tracks, Danny ran a hand over his hair and creased his face up in concern.

  ‘Rose is with her grandparents – she’s fine,’ he said, then deepened his frown. ‘I'm still trying to find Zoe, though, Mrs. Wellman.’ Her eyes widened and gazed at him, rheumy and frightened. ‘So I need to get going, track her down.’ He made to leave, then stopped. ‘Are you all right, Mrs. Wellman?’ The concern was smooth with practice.

  She blinked behind the magnified glass of her spectacles. ‘My son’s coming to pick me up,’ she said. ‘He’s a good boy.’

  On a nod, Danny swiped a quick look at the old biddy’s house. The roofline was different. ‘You lost your chimney too,’ he said.

  Her nod was like the bobbing of an old chicken. ‘Right through the ceiling. I was napping after an early lunch.’ Her clawed hand clutched at empty breasts. ‘I thought I was going to have a heart attack.’

  ‘Well I'm glad you made it through, Mrs. Wellman. But I have to go find my wife now.’

  More clutching and bobbing but Danny didn’t stick around for an answer. He’d done the necessary dose of nice. It was time to get back to business.

  Wondering what was actually being done about Zoe, he dodged the rest of the looky-loos and jogged down the path to his house. He imagined some sort of rescue service was digging her out of the car, or something. He’d find out later.

  Right now, there was more pressing business.

  The door was locked and for a worrying moment he couldn’t remember doing anything with the keys. But there they were in their usual pocket and then he was standing in the hallway of his house, closing the front door softly behind him, thumbing the deadbolt, and turning to survey the dim interior.

  It felt different without Rose, without Zoe, knowing Zoe would never come clomping down the hall again, calling out unnecessarily that she was home.

  If only she’d kept her nose clean before being hit by raining boulders.

  He strained to remember their exact conversation on the road in front of the bakery. She’d accused him and tried to take Rose. He sucked in a deep breath, letting it go in a slow huff of air between pursed lips.

  She’d said something about Jeanette. And her policewoman friend. Moana, that was her. The Maori woman with the big voice and crude sense of humour. He’d never liked her much.

  But he shoved all those thoughts away. They were for later.

  Now, it was time to find those photographs.

  31

  He started in the obvious place, determined to be cool, calm, and methodical. Still, after a few minutes looking, he discovered he was carrying the hatchet in one hand, finding the heft of it sweet, clenching and unclenching his fist around the wooden handle.

  The once-locked cupboard was empty. He got down on his knees to look but only shadows lurked in there. Scowling, he checked the things strewn about on the floor. Zoe had been in a fury when she’d broken into his room. This was no orderly searching – she’d been moving like a whirlwind. His knuckles whitened where he held the hatchet.

  She’d upended every album he kept in the room, tossing them onto the floor. Crawling about, he checked each one, but he did not find the third of the white, wedding albums he’d kept in the cupboard. Rocking back on his heels, he cursed.

  ‘Fuck!’ Damn the nosy bloody bitch.

  The collection of Rachel’s photos was nowhere in sight either. She’d found it and taken it.

  But taken it where? It and the album he’d used for all the pictures of Sahara – where were they?

  A square of white caught his eye under the desk and he scuttled forward, drawing the hatchet along without noticing what he was doing, and snatched at the square.

  It was a polaroid and he held it up to the light, squinting at the twelve-year-old image, l
istening to the way his heart pounded and feeling the stirring deep in the pit of his belly.

  Rachel had been so lovely.

  He shrieked then. A howl of anger and frustration he bit off before it could alarm his neighbours.

  The photograph was tucked into a shirt pocket with a cold anger that made him gentle with the image, and he got to his feet.

  He would search every inch of the house and if he did not find the photographs, then he would find his dead wife, bring the bitch back to life, and throttle the information out of her.

  The hatchet went into the bedroom with him. The bed was still unmade from when Zoe had climbed out of it that morning. It seemed like days ago and he stood gazing at it, vision going in and out of focus, thoughts circling around inside his skull with a vicious anger.

  ‘Where the fuck did you put them, Zoe?’ he said out loud, then stepped forward and dropped the hatchet on the bed. The blade gleamed dully in the light from the window.

  Another aftershock hit, and Danny reached out a hand to touch the doorway, rocking with the moving earth, listening to the house groan on its foundations. A hairline crack snaked up the weakened wall behind the bed. Then everything stilled again.

  ‘Right,’ he said, slipping unconsciously into his old habit of talking to himself. ‘Let’s get on with the job.’

  The wardrobe was the obvious place to start. Flinging open the doors, he stared in at a helter-skelter of clothing that made him want to grind his teeth.

  He had to grapple with them, but they went in big piles onto the bed, his nose wrinkling over them. All these clothes and the woman had the nerve to complain about a few pretty dresses for their daughter! Well, that wasn’t going to be a problem again.

  Once they were back in Australia, Rose would have whatever she liked. And whatever Danny wanted for her. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again, either. Wouldn’t get himself lumbered with another wife. Unless there were compelling reasons.

  For a moment, Danny stood half in and half out of the closet, eyes closed in a pleasant daydream of a house full of daughters. Tucking them in at night. Kissing their soft cheeks, stroking their silky skin…

  Enough. Time enough for all that. Today he had to find the photographs.

  There were several shoeboxes in the darkness of the bottom of the wardrobe and he pounced on them with a cry of triumph. Maybe she’d removed the photos from the albums and hidden them in a box. It would have been a good idea.

  Three of them contained shoes, all high-heeled pairs he didn’t recognise. He sat down on the bed for a moment with the fourth box, fingering the contents.

  There were the stubs from their first date to the movies. The card from a bunch of flowers he’d sent Zoe for her birthday when they were dating. Roses, if he remembered correctly. Yellow and white ones. He’d thought they were pretty. A few other birthday cards he’d given Zoe were in there, and a photograph of her holding a brand-new baby Rose. He held that between his fingers and stared at it for a long minute. Then tossed it back in the box, shoved the lid on and chucked it on the bed with a grunt of annoyance.

  His photographs of Rachel weren’t there.

  Sitting on a mound of clothes, he considered the problem.

  Maybe he was going in the wrong direction. Why would she have hidden them away? His hand crept under the pile of blouses and touched the cold metal of the hatchet blade.

  Zoe said she was going to Moana about what she’d discovered. She’d been talking about the photographs. He strained to remember the conversation.

  It spooled out inside his head. She said she’d already talked to Moana. An outbreak of goose bumps pimpled his skin and he shook himself.

  ‘Think!’ he scolded himself. ‘Think, damn it. This is important.’

  She said she’d already talked to Moana. She’d said the police were already on their way. He glanced out the window as though he was going to see the policewoman walking up the path, a scowl on her fat face and the glint of silver cuffs in her hands.

  But there was no one there, of course. Even if Zoe had spoken to Moana, the woman would be totally preoccupied.

  In other words, he had some breathing room, but it was also time to get serious.

  Finally caution wound around him like cold wire. Standing up, hatchet in hand, he discovered his mind had sharpened, turned into its own sort of blade.

  Methodical. Cunning. Those were the things he needed to be.

  He’d find the photographs, then he’d get Rose.

  Then they’d get out of the country.

  32

  The kitchen was a mess. The earthquake had flung open all the cupboard doors and sent the contents tumbling to the floor. Danny stood a moment in the doorway, hatchet dangling from his left hand, and stared at the mess. He pressed his free hand to his temples as though taking his temperature. A fever was brewing there.

  Shoes leaving prints in the spilt flour, Danny trekked over the floor to the middle of the narrow room. The remains of their breakfast was still on the table. Zoe’s half-eaten toast. He’d been too furious this morning to clear up after her. Absently, he picked up a crust and chewed on it, assessing the options.

  There were no albums of photographs. Not sitting on the table beside the cold cup of coffee he’d made for his wife that morning. Not on the counter by the jug and canisters of tea, coffee, and sugar.

  And not amongst the mess on the floor. He kicked away the loaf of bread with a sneakered toe and pursed his lips.

  The photographs were not in the bedroom and they were not in the kitchen.

  A quick glance showed they were also not in the bathroom or laundry. It took a little longer to determine that they were also not in the living room.

  Danny stood in the living room staring up through the hole in the roof at the grey sky above. Heavy bricks from the chimney had crashed right through the roof and ceiling. Great puffs of pink insulation lay amongst the old red bricks and tiles.

  Remembering his comment to Claire about putting up a tarp over the gaping hole, he shook his head. No point in bothering now. He stepped gingerly over the rubble to a pack of matches sitting miraculously on the high old mantelpiece and tucked the box in his pocket.

  Zoe had a little desk on the other side of the door. Her father had made it for her when he’d first retired. Danny never saw it without marvelling over how such a large man could make something so delicate.

  But right now he didn’t give one little fuck who had made it or why. Inside it were the insurance papers he needed, and he grabbed them with greedy hands, lying the hatchet on the little drop-down desk.

  Zoe had been well-organised, he gave her that. Along with the insurance papers were the deeds to the house and all the junk about the mortgage he thought he’d better hang on to. There’d be life insurance, house insurance, and probably some sort of earthquake compensation. All the good stuff he’d need to set himself up nice and comfy back over in Australia with Rose.

  Papers in hand, Danny walked back through the house to where he’d left the backpack Claire had so kindly lent him. He slid the paperwork down beside his laptop, thought for a moment, and removed his passport, leaving that to put later into a jacket pocket. He narrowed his eyes as he contemplated his camera.

  No. No point taking photos of the damage.

  Sniffing, he went back to the living room. Resigned now to not finding the photos, he wasn’t going to take any risks.

  The interfering little bitch must have taken the albums with her when she came to snatch Rose. He hadn’t seen them in the car, but that didn’t mean anything. He hadn’t known to look.

  His forehead was hot and behind the skin his pulse jumped. Yet strangely, the rest of him was cold. He wiped a clammy hand over his face and looked around.

  It should likely look like an accident. Just in case someone had time to investigate it.

  Probably it would look better if it were some sort of electrical fire, but he didn’t know enough about house wiring to make a decent
go of that.

  But the pinecones Zoe had put in the grate, so it wouldn’t look bare and all her fancy candles off the mantle gave him a good enough idea. Snatching a handful of bills from her desk he scrunched them up and made a mound under the old pinecones, squeezing himself in amongst the rubble from the roof to do so.

  He got out the matches. The flames caught, billowed out a mouthful of choking smoke. Danny grinned at it and fed the fire with foam cushions from the sofa until it roared, spreading a trail to the drapes.

  The flames feasted like it was a three-course meal at a fancy restaurant.

  He backed away, swivelling on his heel and leaving the room filling behind him with grim, dark smoke.

  There was time to find what he needed in the bedroom. A dark jacket and the baseball cap Zoe and Rose had given him for Christmas. He put the jacket on, zipped it up and shoved the cap down low on his head. In the next room the fire snap, crackled and popped like Rose’s cereal and he could feel the heat already through the wall as it licked out over the pile of debris. He could see it in his mind, just in the next room, eating everything with its wide, hot mouth.

  He had to shake himself out of the reverie and a moment later was striding out into the hallway, loading the backpack onto his shoulders, remembering the passport, snagging the camera and hanging it around his neck. He let himself out the door, a twinge of regret that he couldn’t stick around to bathe in the glow of the growing flames.

  But there were more important tasks ahead.

  He reached the bakery at a quick jog, keeping his head down although his heart leapt at the sudden sharp cries that sounded in his wake as the neighbours realised his house was on fire. He allowed himself only the one glimpse but was rewarded with a billowing cloud of iron-dark smoke. Not enough to revel in, but it made his blood sing all the same.