Unspeakable Secrets of the Aro Valley

by Danyl McLauchlan

  So even if Parsons died of natural causes, Danyl still faced charges on a number of other offences, for which he was currently remanded on bail. Court dates had been set, but they kept jumping around. So things hadn’t turned out all that well—but it was too nice a day to quibble.

  They reached the end of Devon Street and turned onto Aro. Traffic was quiet—so quiet that a group of girls in cut-off jean shorts and T-shirts were playing football in the middle of the road. The street baked in the afternoon heat. Danyl and Steve walked under the shade of the trees, moving slowly so they could admire the girls. They passed by the market and the shops and the art gallery—which was dark, the door closed, a ‘Help Wanted’ sign pasted in the window.

  The gallery was closed because Verity was gone. Her phone went straight through to voicemail, and when Danyl had limped up to her rented house on Holloway that morning he found it empty, an estate agent waiting out front to admit prospective tenants. Danyl had stood by the roadside, staring through the window where he’d last set eyes on her, and where he’d left her crying so he could follow the Priest’s Soul. Maybe he had made the wrong choice?

  Yes, maybe. When he was arrested the police asked Danyl for character witnesses. He gave them Verity’s name and they reached her somehow but she said she barely knew him, that Danyl was living in her house against her will and she wanted him gone. Which had to be some kind of mistake, right? But until he could find her and get everything straightened out, Danyl was evicted from his own home.

  And the Priest’s Soul itself? The gold was being repatriated to Austria where various families and spiritual organisations were already suing each other over its ownership. Bludkraft’s skeleton was back in Vienna, scheduled for burial in the frozen, snow-covered Bludkraft family plot.

  ‘But it’s not all good news.’ Steve was still talking, so Danyl tuned back in. ‘The SSS is defunct,’ he complained. ‘The disruption to my field work has been immense. Not even I can obtain meaningful data from an organisation that no longer exists. I’ve had to change the whole focus of my doctorate.’

  ‘Change it to what?’

  ‘You sound like my supervisor.’

  They passed by the park. A circle of schoolchildren sat in the clearing, chanting in Sanskrit, their index fingers pressed to the centre of their foreheads. Campbell’s tower came into view, a dark bulk visible through the trees. The tower was their destination. Earlier that morning Danyl had found a letter from Campbell slipped under his front door.

  Dear Bard and Exonerated Traitor,

  I’m taking your advice.

  I’m leaving Te Aro for the foreseeable future. I recently came into a large sum of money—an artwork in my possession was destroyed by vandals and the insurance value was substantially more than the purchase price—and I intend to spend this money on international travel. You see, I only remained in the Aro Valley this past year to defend it from the evil schemes of the treasonous biochemist and yourself. As we discussed, I thought you were planning to use the DoorWay drug and your novel to destroy human civilisation, and since it seems that is not the case, my presence in Te Aro is no longer required. I shall live in the real world, not the world of my self-delusion!

  So thank you again for revealing the truth to me, harsh though it was. And I was sorry to hear of your legal troubles, so I have advanced a small portion of my windfall to a criminal lawyer who will assist you during this difficult time. Consider it amends for my destruction of your girlfriend’s spare room and garden.

  Speaking of which, I understand you are now homeless. You are welcome to stay in my tower for as long as you like. I’ve had the power, water and sewerage to the building switched off to reduce costs, but I’m sure you’ll make yourself comfortable. I’d appreciate it if you could prevent any other vagrants from taking up residency there. Use whatever level of force you feel necessary.

  Regards,

  The Campbell Walker

  ‘Let’s take a break.’ They had reached the bench at the bottom of Epuni Street where just a few days ago Danyl had collapsed when he sprained his foot. They sat down on the bench, not speaking. Steve tipped his head back and stared at the sky, while Danyl’s gaze roamed along the street past the Steve-sized hole in the hedge around the park, to the distant driveway leading to the EZ Wellness Heal U Centre.

  ‘The police still haven’t found Stasia,’ Danyl said.

  Steve frowned and shushed him. ‘Quiet. I’m thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Hsst.’

  Danyl snorted and turned away, adjusting the sleeves of Verity’s torn, tattered kimono, worn partly because it was too warm for his new blazer and the silk robe kept the sun off his arms, partly for sentimental reasons.

  He looked up the valley towards the Dolphin Cafe on the opposite side of the street, where two figures stood beneath the awning, talking. They were some distance away; Danyl recognised Eleanor, Verity’s oldest and least likeable friend, but the other person had their back to him.

  Eleanor probably knew where Verity was, it occurred to Danyl. She would never willingly reveal that information, of course, but if he surprised her and provoked her she might let something slip.

  ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ he told Steve.

  ‘Hsst.’

  Danyl limped up the road, keeping to the shade. The trees, crumbling tenement buildings and brooding homes of the valley shimmered in the heat. He was halfway to the cafe when Eleanor spotted him, said something, pointed. The other person turned around. It was a man, tall, in his fifties, with a shaved head and a red beard. Danyl had seen him before. He concentrated, trying to think through the haze of painkillers and the daze of the warm day. Ah, it was the man from the urinal. He remembered now: the dinner with Stasia, the kiss, the erection, standing beside the red-bearded man in the toilet unable to perform. How long ago it all seemed! How innocent he was back then! Funny to see him again now.

  Eleanor and the red-bearded man seemed upset about something. The man turned and walked up the street, glancing back at Danyl. Fair enough—their last encounter had been a little awkward. Danyl returned his attention to Eleanor. He could hear her voice carry in the warm air, but couldn’t make out the words.

  Then he stopped. His mind flashed with recognition. He had seen the red-bearded man somewhere recently. Where? Then he remembered: his photograph was in Campbell’s The Book of the Walker, the sacred SSS text. Danyl remembered the caption: ‘The scholars of Sapiens! Sapiens! Sapiens! capture the treasonous scientist Simon, who tried and failed to trick the DHH’.

  The red-bearded man was the biochemist who discovered DoorWay.

  ‘Hey!’ Danyl changed direction, heading for the bearded scientist, who glanced back again then crossed the street. Danyl lurched towards him, the rubber stopper of his crutch scratching the ground, his ankle complaining through the thick drifts of codeine.

  How did the biochemist know Eleanor? Why had he appeared now, as soon as Campbell left the valley? Danyl yelled again as the biochemist drew a set of keys from his pocket and pointed them at a silver pick-up truck. Its lights flickered as the locks unlocked and the alarm deactivated.

  Danyl was sweating and panting more than usual. The biochemist climbed into his vehicle. Danyl wouldn’t reach him in time, not in his condition. He looked over his shoulder and shouted out, ‘Steve! Help!’ But Steve was still staring up at the sky, rubbing the top of his head with the tips of his fingers.

  The truck rumbled into life, easing into the traffic. Danyl couldn’t catch it. He slowed, dismayed, abandoning the hunt. Then he noticed several things about the truck that shocked him onward.

  First: a pair of trousers draped over the back seat. They were wrapped in a see-through plastic shroud, and they were his trousers!

  Second, that pick-up truck was the same silver pick-up truck he had chased down this very same street a few days ago.

/>   Third: there, in the back of the truck, sat a squat, square box that cast no shadow. His archive.

  Danyl was breathing very quickly now. The rest of the world fell away. There was only the street, the truck, the box, the white sun. Disconnected bits of information bombarded him as he limped and staggered into the middle of the road. The man in the balaclava who stole his trousers was the scientist who discovered the DoorWay compound! He stole Danyl’s novel from Verity’s porch! He was friends with Eleanor!

  But what picture did all these malign fragments form? He remembered the barely visible stains on the pocket of the stolen trousers, he remembered Campbell’s words: There was only one copy of the DoorWay formula . . . It was destroyed in a freak laundry mishap. And Campbell’s demented, confused fear of Danyl’s novel: You wrote that book after taking the drug . . . It was another DoorWay, a conduit for what lay beyond: a way to infect the mind of the reader and contaminate our world.

  The pickup truck reversed direction; the reflection of the houses along the street streamed across the front window. It headed towards Danyl, wove around him and zoomed past. He caught a brief glimpse of the interior: the grinning scientist, Danyl’s beloved trousers dangling in the breeze and, in the passenger seat, Verity staring straight ahead, oblivious to his presence, an unreadable expression on her face.

  ‘Verity?’ But he whispered it. She didn’t see him; she couldn’t have heard. The truck sped off.

  Danyl stood in the street, the plastic handle of his crutch slippery in his grip. He stuck his hand into the pocket of the kimono to wipe it dry and his fist closed on a small object. He drew it out. It was a small, clear plastic tube, half the size of his little finger. A label wrapped around the base read: 25ml/rat/day.

  It was empty.

  He looked up again.

  The silver truck flashed in the sun then dissolved into the sunken depths of the Aro Valley, vanishing with his novel, his girlfriend and his trousers, and the secrets of his art and past.

  Thanks to:

  Maggie Tait for reading every draft of this book and providing valuable feedback, and also marrying me and having my child.

  Andrew Brettell, John-Paul Powley, Sean Molloy and Steve Hickey who read various drafts and corrected countless blunders.

  Campbell Walker who has confirmed in writing that he will not be taking legal action.

  Stephen Stratford who edited the book and also provided much (unsolicited) advice on gardening.

  Fergus Barrowman and everyone else at Victoria University Press who have been very tolerant and patient with a first-time novelist.