by Vanda Symon
‘Bingo! I owe you a beer. Quick too, you got it faster than everyone else here.’ I felt ridiculously pleased with that comment. So it was a test. Thank God I didn’t make a git of myself then.
‘Yeah, congratulations,’ a new voice said, except the tone was minus the good humour. The throbbing in my temple picked up the tempo. ‘You’re a regular little detective, aren’t you?’
The smile on Smithy’s face melted, and the others made their way back to their desks. Detective Inspector Johns, aka my boss and chief party-pooper, had made his presence felt. I hadn’t heard him enter the room. Normally my radar could pick him up from fifty metres. It must have still been off-line from the bashing. I hadn’t had my customary few seconds to prepare and don my mental armour, so the barb hit home.
‘That was careless, letting yourself get assaulted.’ No hello, how are you? ‘You shouldn’t have put yourself in that position.’ He had green eyes, kind of feline – verging on reptilian; they carried no warmth, in either colour or emotion. Combined with his short black hair, pale skin, and the dark-grey suit with monochromatic tie he always wore, everything about him said cold-blooded. ‘When will you be back at work?’ It was delivered in more of a get-your-arse-back-here way than a you’re-hurt-so-take-as-much-time-as-you-want fashion.
‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled, looking at the floor in front of his feet.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. It wasn’t a request.
9
‘Ouch,’ I said, gently pulling away. ‘Sorry, but even that hurts.’
‘You are in a bad way if I can’t even kiss it better,’ Paul said, his hand carefully cupping my jaw, on the good side. ‘You won’t feel offended if I don’t gaze adoringly into your bloodshot eyes though, will you?’
‘I can forgive you, just this once. I’d hate to give you screaming nightmares, and considering I refuse to look at myself, I won’t punish you with that horror.’
‘That’s mighty decent of you. I’ll have to stare at your tits instead,’ he said, and planted a kiss on my forehead, while giving my right breast a fondle. Who said men couldn’t multitask?
I wrapped my arms around his middle and leaned my head against his chest. The reassuring lub-dub of his heart and warmth of his arms enveloping me allowed me to breathe out and relax some of the tension in my body. It made me realise just how tired I felt and how, as much as I hated to admit it, I needed that sense of security only he seemed to be able to offer. A big fat tear rolled its way down my cheek, and was promptly followed by another. I didn’t bother wiping them away.
‘Hey, Shep, you’re making my jersey soggy.’
I gave a short laugh. ‘It’s the price you pay for coming to pick up the pieces.’
‘Small price; I can cope with that. But I am sorry I couldn’t get here earlier for you. You know what it’s like in this job – sometimes you can’t get away.’
Boy, did I understand. ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t have liked the chundering version anyway, believe me. But I hear what you’re saying about the job. Hell, here I was thinking I was going to have a restful weekend out at the beach looking after someone’s pooch, and next thing I know I’m being clobbered in the name of duty.’ I felt his hands rubbing big, slow circles on my back. I closed my eyes and relaxed further. ‘Hazard of the job, I guess.’
‘Well you do seem to have a knack for attracting crackpots. I’d go have a quiet word to this one, but he’s probably already got the message.’ Paul was the king of understatement.
Everything about Paul felt good: he felt strong, warm, loving and he even smelt good. God knows he looked damn fine, like a more mature and handsome version of Ben Affleck, but with a wicked twinkle in his eye. The depth of his voice felt solid and reliable, and I was glad he was here. Even though it was only a couple of hours down the road, Gore had seemed a long way away in the last day. For the moment, he’d bridged the gap.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I mumbled into his jersey.
He squeezed me tighter.
‘This does bring up something that’s been weighing on my mind,’ he said. His hands paused on my back. ‘I was going to tell you when I saw you this weekend, but now seems an appropriate time.’
‘Let me guess, you’re horribly bored with being a detective and are chucking it all in for a career as an artist?’ I’d seen his attempts at doodling; they weren’t what you’d call accomplished.
‘Not quite, but it does involve a change of scenery.’
My instincts pricked up, and my innards started to develop a vague sense of impending doom.
He took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, I’ve applied for a transfer to Dunedin; they’ve been advertising a vacancy in the CIB here, so I’ve gone for the job. I don’t want to be so far away from you all the time. I hate us only being able to get together on the weekends. So if I get this, we’ll be able to spend more time together.’
I sucked in my breath and felt a cold wave flow up my face, closely followed by a hot one. A transfer? Here? I loosened my grip from his waist and stepped back, unable to hide the confused look on my face.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘What’s wrong? A transfer? Don’t you think that’s kind of big, kind of sudden? Moving over here? Shouldn’t you have asked me about this first?’
A frown crept across his forehead. ‘I thought I’d surprise you, I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Pleased? Well, hang on; it’s a big step to take from casual shagging at the weekend, to upping sticks and moving cities to be closer. This is something we should have talked about first. You don’t just go and decide you’re going to move in without asking me.’
‘Hey, I didn’t say anything about moving in, so you don’t need to panic.’ I wasn’t panicking. The constriction in my throat and hammering in my chest wasn’t panic, it was surprise. I stood right back from him and crossed my arms over my chest.
‘This is a big step,’ I said, fumbling for the words. ‘I thought we were just, you know, having fun. What you’re talking about, this is serious.’
Paul put his hands on his hips, a guarded expression descending over his face. ‘I thought we were a bit more than just fun, Sam.’
‘Well, we are, but we’re not … not, you know…’
‘No, I don’t know. What are we, then?’ I could see the hurt look in his eyes, and I felt a pang of guilt, which was promptly replaced by annoyance. Damn it, why should I feel guilty when he was the one who’d dropped this bombshell on me. And his timing was lousy. No, I wasn’t going to wear it.
‘You could have asked me first. Don’t I get a say in this? Or do my feelings not count?’ My voice sounded defensive and angry.
‘Of course they do. But I honestly thought you’d be pleased.’ A hint of doubt had crept into his voice.
‘Well, I … I don’t know what I am. One minute you’re here to cheer me up, and the next you’re basically announcing you’re moving in. What am I supposed to think?’
‘Man,’ he said, forcing his breath out with the word. ‘This isn’t playing out like I thought it would.’ His gaze bore into me, those crystalline-blue eyes so intense I had to look aside. ‘Okay, Sam, let me state this categorically, because I can see you’re standing there like a possum trapped in headlights. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Me moving to Dunedin, it isn’t a marriage proposal, or moving in together, or an expectation that I want much more from you, or us. It’s something I want to do for my career – I’m not dumb enough to just drop everything for a woman, no matter how charming she is.’ He gave a fatalistic smile. ‘But I do want to see more of you.’ His voice softened. ‘I love you, you know that, poor sod that I am. I love you, can’t help myself.’
There was a vulnerability to his admission that melted me for a moment. I heaved out a sigh. The world felt very heavy today.
‘I’m not asking you for more. I’m just wanting the opportunity to see if there could be more.’ He stood before me, shie
ld down, heart exposed.
It was now my call. Shit. My head and my heart were pounding. I lifted my hand up and wiped at my face, wincing at the sharp pain.
‘Look Paul, I’m sorry,’ I said, looking at his feet. ‘This isn’t a good time. I just can’t promise anything right now.’
10
‘Stop looking at me like I did something wrong.’
Maggie stared.
‘What?’ I said.
She gave me a look that could have melted steel.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, what was I supposed to have done?’
One eyebrow went up.
‘He caught me at a bad time, that’s all. I’d just been assaulted, for heaven’s sake, and concussed, and my head was away with the fairies because of those damn drugs. Anyway, it’s not like I dumped him or anything.’
The other eyebrow joined the first.
‘Well, it was his own damn fault. What did he expect me to say?’
She folded her arms across her chest.
‘I wasn’t about to jump into his arms and say, “Wonderful, let’s move in, hell, marry me tomorrow, let’s elope.” Of course I needed some time to think about it all. That was way too big a surprise to spring on a girl. What was I supposed to do?’
I watched as Maggie’s hands slipped down to her hips, and she gave me the look once more.
‘No, I’m not going to apologise to him.’
11
Here I was, two days after being KO’ed, looking very much the worse for wear and feeling even worse than I looked. I was back on the job and I felt like one of those Neanderthal rugby players who basically had to be carried off the field, all the while arguing that they’d be okay, just strap some tape around it and let them keep playing, when their foot was facing in the wrong direction. It wasn’t entirely out of choice though. DI Johns had made it very clear he wanted me back doing my duty to Queen and country, and if there was one lesson I had managed to learn in my time here with him, it was to pick your battles. So, despite all common sense telling me to stay at home, I was here, toughing it out in an attempt to placate an arsehole boss.
There was one big advantage to dragging my sorry butt into work – it took my mind off the bombshell Paul had dropped the previous night. I suspected I may have overreacted. To be honest, my recall was a bit hazy, but the man had appalling timing. What sort of idiot would spring that on a girl in my condition? He deserved what he got, which must have been a bit. I think I shot with both barrels, because he turned around and drove all the way back to Gore. When was the paracetamol going to kick in? I rubbed at my temple, but that only caused a jolt of pain that made matters worse.
It was good to be sitting down. I still felt a bit unsteady on my feet. The sensation wasn’t helped by the vicious, blustery winds that buffeted the city. The slight sway of the building and the funnelling noise added a vertiginous effect to it all – hooray. Wouldn’t it be great to be seasick at work?
Not a hell of a lot was happening around here. There was no murder enquiry to get stuck into. There were a couple of serious assault cases – mine, and the assault against Felix Ford. Smithy was heading up those. For some reason they saw any involvement from me as a conflict of interest, so that left me stranded in the team dealing with the aftermath of the looting.
The skull may not have reached the beach by nefarious means, but an owner still had to be found. People, especially the press, got a bit twitchy about unidentified human remains, no matter how clean and catalogued. No one had stepped forward to claim it so far, which surprised me given the amount of media coverage this whole debacle had received. It had made CNN and the BBC, with the inevitable comparison to Britain’s own Branscombe Beach loot-fest a few years back. Perhaps the skull was part of a container of personal effects, and the owners were en route to their new home here, oblivious to all the excitement. I was sure they’d be thrilled when they found out their precious belongings had been hauled out of their supposedly secure container, riffled through for the good stuff and the leftovers discarded across a beach. Welcome to Dunedin, haere mai, enjoy your stay.
The looted property could be anywhere by now. A fair amount had been intercepted by police on the road out of Aramoana, confiscated from the car boots of dumb-nuts, but plenty would have been spirited away before the road was closed and checkpoints set up. Who knows how much was now sitting in the cribs and residences of the local, supposedly law-abiding citizens? There was nothing we could do about that. No judge would issue a search warrant for a domestic dwelling on the basis that it happened to be close to the scene of a large-scale crime.
My navel-contemplating was interrupted by a sharp voice from the doorway.
‘Shephard, I’d like to see you in my office, now, if you please.’ It was DI Johns. Shit, my radar had failed again.
My heart rate skipped up a few beats, even though his tone was relatively neutral. I wondered what Dickhead wanted today. I stood up and pushed my chair back with my legs. The moment I started moving towards the door I realised something was off. The ringing in my ear picked up in intensity, a swarm of grey bees clouded the edge of my vision and I felt helpless to resist as my body tilted to the right, causing me to veer off course until my steps couldn’t keep up with the lean and I fell sideways, like some drunk comic-book character, or a kid trying to walk straight after a big stint on a playground roundabout. Despite my slow-motion attempt to break the fall, I ended up sprawled on my side in some strange horizontal dance, my face greeting the carpet.
My low-angle, sideways perspective saw an alarmed, then angry, look on the DI’s face. Through the buzzing I heard him say, ‘What the fuck are you doing back at work if you’re that bad?’
I thought, Your fault, arsehole, before throwing up on the carpet.
12
A week of enforced holiday hadn’t done me any favours; well, not mentally anyway. I didn’t do rest and relaxation well. My idea of rest and relaxation involved long runs to blow away the cobwebs and stretch the legs, or bike rides –since I’d discovered the world of mountain bikes, the muddier and hillier the better – or going for a good gallop on a horse, or even wielding a racket of some sort and whacking the crap out of a little ball, anything but being still. I didn’t do still. But the doctor had said ‘rest’, and meant it.
There were only so many books you could read, crosswords and Sudokus you could complete, and websites you could visit before cabin fever set in. Especially as Maggie had been out every day at university and I had got to enjoy all of those splendid activities alone. I believe it was day three that it got really bad. So bad, in fact, I’d opted for the last resort of last resorts, and, due to the doctor giving me the hard word about getting behind the wheel, got the bus home to the Olds on the farm.
Dad had welcomed me with a warm embrace and sympathy. Mum had greeted me with a lecture. No surprises there. But I could put up with barbs and pings from she-who-must-be-obeyed, at least for a while. The opportunity to escape outdoors and do quiet jobs with Dad was worth the trade-off. It also meant I got to be home for his birthday, and despite all my grumbles about my mother, she put on the best roast lamb and veggie dinner on the planet, and no one, but no one, could beat her gravy. Then the traditional birthday dessert was the icing on the cake, or I should say, the cream on the Pavlova – with passionfruit, not those stupid bright-green slices of kiwifruit.
It had been great to get out there with Dad and potter around, as he put it. There was something about ambling around the lush green pastures, dodging the odd steaming cow pat, inhaling the rich scent of earthy humus with a hint of sileage, that instantly relaxed my tensions, both physical and mental. My brother Steve and Saint Sheryl, his perfect wife, had recently taken over the early-morning grind of the milking and the day-to-day running of the place. They lived in a brand-spanking-new farmhouse on the property while Mum and Dad stayed in the original homestead. I liked the old house better, with all its memories. It was slightly dated in a charming kind of a way, j
ust like my parents. It was the perfect arrangement for them; I could never imagine them suffering the indignity of moving into a little unit in town upon retirement like so many of their friends had. I think my dad would just curl up and die if that ever happened. As it was, I could see that he was slowing down and wasn’t the same strong and strapping man of the land he used to be. It pained me to think he wasn’t getting any younger and that he wasn’t my Superman dad anymore. He’d certainly struggle to leap tall buildings, and the way he’d thinned meant the superhero suit would look a bit baggy nowadays.
I’d come away from my stint at home feeling physically better and a damn sight easier to look at, now the bruising had diminished to a pretty purple with jaundice-yellow highlights; but I was slightly on edge courtesy of the constant eggshell-walking required around my mother. Also, the realisation they had retired and were slowing down left me with a vague sense of sadness.
Being at home had also meant I’d conveniently sidestepped the Paul Frost issue. We’d been in touch in the polite and stilted way used by people who’d hurt each other, avoiding any deep and meaningful dialogue but trying to keep some semblance of civility. He’d been the grown-up and made the first contact. That annoyed me in a way, because I had intended to be the first, but he beat me to it.