by Alan Carter
She chucks the newspaper aside. ‘We need to stop tiptoeing around each other, Nick. You’re scared, I’m scared. Paulie is too but he doesn’t know why yet. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife.’
I kneel down and hug her. Tears streaming down my face. Hers too. ‘This sucks.’
‘Big time,’ she agrees. ‘But this is no time to be cutting each other off.’
Dismissed. I’m at the school early and so is Michael. He’s outside the ute, smoking. It comes as a surprise but then again, why? We’ve met, what, half a dozen times? I don’t know a damn thing about him or his personal vices and I can’t totally rely on his daughter’s or granddaughter’s versions of events.
‘Afternoon,’ he says, stubbing out his ciggie. ‘Won’t do to be seen with these outside the school gates and Mim hates the smell.’
‘The sleepover went well, I hear.’
‘Yeah, they kept themselves to themselves. Hardly a peep.’
‘How was church?’
‘You that interested?’
‘Sorry. Just making conversation.’
‘A happy-clappy congregation over in Blenheim. Jan’s the one needs it more than me. I go along for the ride. Keep her company.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘You must see things in that job of yours. Make you question your faith in humanity.’
‘There are good days and bad.’
‘Young Paul said you had a lot on your mind. Lot of worry?’
I get this a lot. People digging for war stories. Dig away, mate, you’ll find nothing. ‘The house fire knocked us back and Vanessa’s still in a bit of pain.’
He nods. ‘I was in the tail end of the Vietnam thing. Brought up Scots Presbyterian but waved goodbye to all that after a few months in those rice paddies. Learned the meaning of “God forsaken”.’
‘You survived. Can’t have completely forsaken you.’
‘Yeah, few bits of scrap metal in me to keep the airport detectors beeping.’ He taps his right hip. ‘Otherwise, good as gold.’
So at least Mim’s story about a war-wounded grandad holds up. The siren goes and the kids start streaming out. I can’t resist plucking at the loose threads.
‘Mim mentioned something about living in Nelson?’
‘Did she? Kids say the darnedest things, as the song goes.’
‘But Jan said you used to be on the west coast. Greymouth.’
‘She’d be right.’
‘Nice out there, eh?’
‘When it’s not pissing down.’ He nods, staring into the wide grey yonder. ‘And you reckon the sandflies are bad around here?’
‘Not your cup of tea?’
‘Nah. Again, Jan made the running. She’s a searcher.’
‘Searcher?’
‘The way, the light, the truth. The hereafter.’ He straightens up. ‘But who am I to tell her it’s just a big fucking meaningless void?’
Speaking of meaningless voids. It’s as we’re driving back to Havelock with Paulie chattering non-stop and the sinking sun glinting off the Pelorus Sound mudflats that a call comes through from Nelson hospital. Dr Copp would like to see me tomorrow. Would 11 a.m. suit?
‘That was quick. I didn’t expect the results back so soon.’
‘It’s about a week since your procedure isn’t it?’ says the receptionist. ‘Dr Copp must have had you prioritised.’
Which of course, in my current default state of catastrophisation, translates into bad news. Maybe even the worst. ‘I’ll be there,’ I say numbly.
‘Will Mrs Chester be accompanying you? Dr Copp recommends it.’
Call closed and phone back in the cup holder. Wordlessly we drive into the edge of town.
‘Who was that?’ wonders Paulie.
‘Nothing, mate. All good.’
I tell Vanessa about tomorrow’s appointment. Can she make it? Sure. Chop vegies. Set the table. Stare through the window at traffic and people drifting by on the main drag. Load the dishwasher. Another evening of tiptoeing around the subject. By the end of it we climb into bed exhausted by the tension and Vanessa spoons tightly into me while we both fail to sleep.
30.
‘We need to get that out of you as soon as possible.’
So that’s the plan. A bit of radical surgery, some chemo and radiotherapy and fingers crossed. Apparently we’ve caught it reasonably early so there’s cause for optimism.
‘Will it be a dangerous procedure?’
‘Digging around in the human brain is not without risk,’ she says. ‘Some faculties might be impaired. But this is about saving your life and we’re pretty good at what we do.’
‘Faculties impaired?’
‘Best to remain positive and realistic.’
‘Which faculties?’
‘Motor, sight, speech, memory. Senses. All up for grabs, but we’re optimistic.’
Are we? ‘When do we do this?’
She consults her computer calendar. ‘Next Wednesday. How’s that sound?’
Soon. Real soon.
We’re driving back over the ranges from Nelson, they’re enveloped in mist, our doubts and fears have been replaced by a reckless euphoria. ‘She seems to know her stuff.’
‘And she’s not hanging about,’ agrees Vanessa.
Impaired faculties. ‘Out of our hands now, eh?’
She squeezes mine. ‘Always has been, love.’
Maybe it’s a false dawn and everything will come crashing down any moment. In the meantime I might just beat this and that’s worth holding on to for as long as possible. We stop off at Rai Valley for a raspberry ice cream and enjoy the ice-cream headache for all it is – just that, nothing more. Picking up Paulie on the way through we arrive home to find the insurers have deposited some funds in our account for household expenses. Although the police house comes fully, if simply, furnished and Latifa has added her own touches, this feels like another sign of things moving on for the better. We can buy stuff and make this place ours. No more limbo, no more stasis. We forego the stockpile of casseroles and dine out at The Mussel Pot. Fish and chips for Paulie, blue cheese mussels for me, Thai style for Vanessa. And a Marlborough sav blanc and L&P.
‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses.
In the morning the euphoria has dissipated but the determination to nail this bastard remains. Vanessa and I even had sex for the first time in a while – a delicate and clumsy affair given her bad leg and my funny head. Still it’s nice to get reacquainted. There’s work to be done and questions to be asked but I need to stay near Vanessa and driving the winding roads of the top of the south with a tumour in my head wouldn’t be a good idea.
‘Can I buy you a coffee, Morgan? Over here in Havelock?’
‘Don’t ask much do you? Make it a tea.’ That was surprisingly easy as I fully expected a ‘get fucked’. Morgan Hopu chuckles. ‘I was coming over anyway. Heard there might be some property going cheap in the Wakamarina.’
Charlie Evans’ place, I’m guessing. ‘Didn’t see you as the farming type?’
‘Make that a piece of cake, too. Something nice. See you in an hour.’
Apples for Charlotte, opposite the Four Square. Wacky name for a café, sure, but I’m hoping that the plethora of chintz, china and lace might curb Morgan’s instinct for violence. Besides they do nice cakes too.
Morgan perches on a delicate ornate chair with a rose-embossed china cup in his fist. Is it my cancerous imagination or do all the swirls in this place seem to complement his moko? He’s poking his little finger out and enjoying the joke. ‘Earl Grey. Choice.’
No beating around the bush. ‘How come you know so much about Havelka?’
‘I made it my business. He killed my boy. The cops wanted to charge me after he disappeared.’
‘Who was your source? There’s nothing untoward in the official record.’
‘Old girlfriend. She was a social worker, asked around. What’s on the files isn’t always the same as what people think.’
‘So wha
t, precisely, did they think?’
‘They observed that the daughter, Lisbet, was losing the plot at school after being a good kid before that. They had a chat with the parents and observed a mother in denial and scared to death and a father controlling everything and everyone.’
‘And what did they conclude?’
‘Nothing. The kid was moved to another school. The family moved to another suburb. The social worker went on maternity leave and they slipped back under the radar.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. It’s enough for me to know he wasn’t the squeaky-clean churchy old man they made him out to be.’
‘That’s it?’
He refills his china cup from the matching teapot and drizzles in some milk. ‘Mate, I’ll come clean. I had every intention of doing the fucker either once he got jailed for manslaughter or if he got off. But I’m smart enough to wait, keep things arm’s length. The simple fact is, somebody got to him before I did and that’s fucken tragic.’
I find myself believing him. ‘How’s Thomas going? Ruth told me he’s doing it tough.’
‘She’s right.’
‘Is that your interest in the Evans’ place? Want to be closer?’
‘Partly. We lost touch for a while. It’s good to be family again.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nah. Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘The Evans property neighbours the Americans. You’re not figuring on a war of attrition, are you?’
‘Perish the thought.’
We part ways and Morgan strides off up the street, shakes hands with a local real estate agent, and they head west in convoy to Canvastown.
‘That who I thought it was?’ Jessie James has sidled up to me.
‘Who’d you have in mind?’
‘Well-known Top of the South identity and scary dude, Morgan Hopu.’
‘He’s a big softie when you get to know him.’
‘I heard it was him and his brother blew up Deep Creek bridge. Not the Americans.’
‘Who’d you hear that from?’
‘The Americans.’
‘Fake news.’
‘They asked me to pass a message on to you.’
‘Is that in your job description?’
‘Want to hear it or not?’ I give her the nod. ‘The honourable James Bryant requests the pleasure of your company. Would you like to join him for a Sounds cruise?’
‘When?’
‘The weather is set to fine up this afternoon apparently. Lucky you, I’m not invited.’
Vanessa doesn’t need me anymore and Paulie will be dropped off by Jan and Mim after school. I don’t like the idea of being summoned to Bryant’s gin palace but Commander Keegan is encouraging.
‘Can’t harm. See if you can work out what they’re up to. When they’re leaving et cetera. Maybe they’ll confess all about Gelder.’
‘Maybe they’ll tie me to a lump of concrete and drop me in Pelorus Sound.’
‘I doubt he’d be so unsubtle but we’ve all got to go sometime, Nick.’ She realises too late what she’s said and mumbles an apology. ‘Foot in mouth disease. Family trait.’
I bring her up to speed on the Havelka gossip and my belief that Morgan Hopu is not lying when he says he didn’t do the deed.
‘Go get ’em, cowboy. And enjoy your pleasure cruise.’
Prospero. It’s a catamaran berthed at the posh end of Havelock marina. I’m reminded of the one owned by logging magnate Richard McCormack, graffitied with the name change from Serenity II to ‘Smaug’. McCormack still graces the financial pages these days fighting a succession of bankruptcy lawsuits as his share float failed and he made some poor life choices that brought the creditors circling. This catamaran is a well-known local charter vessel. James Bryant is on board to greet me looking very like his website photo – well-fed, blond, Christian.
‘Nick. Fantastic to meet you.’ He has a fine set of teeth. Brandon Cunningham is looking busy down in the cabin. Preparing canapés maybe.
After a falsely warm handshake we take a pew at the back of the boat. The weather has indeed cleared and thin rays of sunlight beam down through the clouds like God himself is smiling on us. ‘Nice day for it.’
Cunningham appears with a tray of drinks and nibbles and acts like he’s never met me before.
‘Thanks, Brandon,’ says Bryant, handing me a champagne flute.
As I’m on restricted duty and might die soon anyway I cast caution to the wind and accept. ‘Cheers.’ A sip. Pricey stuff. ‘So what’s this all about?’
The boat slips out through the channel and high on my right Cullen Point is garlanded in wispy cloud. Brandon Cunningham has retired to the cabin kitchen to prepare lunch or sharpen his knives, whatever. The skipper is also familiar. Last time I saw him he was facedown on the lawn at the Lodge being frisked by AOS a few moments before young Melvyn Cody was shot. Maybe Keegan is wrong and Bryant doesn’t do subtle. Maybe there’s a pair of concrete boots back there in the galley with my name on them.
‘We all got off on the wrong foot and I’m keen to make amends. Firstly let me apologise for any inappropriate behaviour by my employees which may have caused upset in recent weeks.’
Recent weeks. A mental tallying of the time elapsed since this all started. A month? Two? Either way, we’re into June now. Will this be my last winter on the planet? ‘At least three people dead, a fourth missing. Arson, assault, vandalism. Yes, it has been a tad inappropriate and upsetting.’
‘The more serious incidents were the work of a rogue operator. We’ve taken steps to deal with that problem.’
‘You knew Georges LeBlanc’s history long before you recruited him. He was a thug.’
‘As I say …’
‘He tried to kill me and my family.’
‘I’m deeply sorry and I do feel some element of responsibility. I’d be very happy to look at a compensation package for you, for your loss of property.’
‘Fuck you. I’ll be the one who decides what and how you’ll pay.’
This probably isn’t what Keegan had in mind when she encouraged me to be diplomatic and try to get some gen on Bryant’s intentions. To hell with it. This has been a tough few weeks and finally there’s someone of consequence to take it out on. Concrete shoes? Go for it, I feel invincible today. Fearless.
‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Mr Chester.’
‘Hell no, we’re out here now. Good time to clear the air.’ I lift my glass. ‘Garçon, encore de champagne, s’il vous plaît.’ Brandon obliges, resisting the temptation to smash the bottle over my head and shove the jagged ends in my face. I stuff a cracker and cheese in my gob. ‘So why are you here, Bryant? Apart from the fact there’s a federal prosecutor halfway up your arse?’
‘You need to watch your mouth, Chester.’
I look at Brandon. ‘Or what?’
‘Okay guys, let’s take a breather.’ Bryant flicks his fingers. ‘Brandon, maybe you can go and prepare lunch. Leave the bottle and a bucket. We’ll help ourselves.’
I’ll say one thing for him, Bryant doesn’t give up easily on the deal-making. He’s determined to get a result out of today, no matter how hard I make it. Brandon, on the other hand, glowers at me from the galley. It begs a question.
‘How did you guys meet?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘You and Brandon. You, the top end of town international mover and shaker. Him, the sheriff’s deputy from Hicksville, South Dakota.’
Bryant smiles from behind his champagne flute. ‘South Dakota has the most liberal tax system in the US. If you’re filthy rich and want to hold on to your hard-earned, it’s the place to be. A good patriot like me has no need of tax havens like the Caymans. Instead I have a pied-à-terre in Sioux Falls. Our paths crossed fortuitously.’
‘Yet here you are when you could be patriotically sunning yourself in South Dakota.’
‘This is a beautiful country. Why wouldn’t I be here?’
‘You have no choice. America doesn’t want you any more. Hell, you’re practically a refugee. But before that choice was taken away you had plans for the supershack bolthole on the sounds. Māhana. That’s where we’re headed now, right?’
‘I understand you’ve already had a good look round.’
‘Panic rooms, private air strips, weird paranoid shit. That’s your business, but that wasn’t what got Bruce Gelder killed.’
‘Who?’
‘The plumber.’
‘Not sure what this is about but I’ll look into it.’
‘Māhana isn’t a wellbeing centre. I’m not sure why you’re hiding its real purpose. You could just say it’s your own private residence and you’ll design it however the hell you like. Maybe obfuscation is second nature. What is it the Feds have on you?’
‘Lies, smears and, in the end, nothing.’
‘So you can go home, then. Be with your family.’
‘You’re not showing that renowned Kiwi hospitality.’
‘What is it you want from me, Bryant?’
‘I don’t want anything. On the contrary, I may be able to help you.’
By now we’re approaching the jetty at Māhana and the same two goons, Vernon and Blake, are there, except they’ve smartened up since last time.
‘Make your pitch, Bryant. I don’t need another tour, I’ve got stuff to do back home.’
‘How is Mrs Chester? On the mend, I hope?’
‘None of your business.’
‘It’d be nice if you could call me James or Mr Bryant. I’m tiring of the aggression.’
‘Tire away.’
‘Bear with me, hear me out. This won’t take long and it will be to your advantage.’
To tell the truth I’m tiring of my aggression too. Maybe I need to shut the fuck up and see if he trips on his own words. ‘The floor is yours.’
We start the grand tour with Cunningham and the goons a few steps behind. Bryant straightens, as if he’s shrugging on a suit jacket ready to address a shareholder’s meeting. ‘You’re right. Obfuscation does come easily in these troubled times. You grow to expect the worst in people. Dig moats instead of building bridges. This isn’t a health and tourism venture as promised. It is my home and I’m looking forward to moving in.’