Nancy Business

by R. W. R. McDonald

  My breath caught and I hugged him hard, wanting to cry but unable to make the tears come. That’s good. I needed to be brave for Mum and Devon and everyone else out there.

  ‘So sorry this is happening,’ he said. ‘We never had to worry about these things when we were your age.’

  I sniffed and pulled back, wiping my eyes on my nightie sleeves. ‘What about nuclear war?’

  ‘Sure, there was that.’ Uncle Pike stood and found a clean towel. ‘And of course satanic cults and killer bees.’ My eyebrows shot up as he chucked it at me. ‘But right now you need to shower. Wash off all that dust. It will help you get rid of the smell of smoke too.’

  I protested. I wanted to stay near the TV, worried I would miss an update about Mum and Devon, and also to hear about the killer bees, but Uncle Pike shook his head and repeated ‘shower’ until I gave in. It was a quick wash, lots of blowing my nose which had heaps of blacky-brown snot, but even after shampooing my hair and brushing my teeth, I could still smell the smoke and taste the soot. The only bonus was I could no longer smell the Airbnb. By the time I finished and got dressed, Uncle Pike had the fire going again, had put the bookcase back up against the wall, and swept up the broken glass and plates in the kitchen.

  There was still no news from Mum or Devon.

  While Uncle Pike had his shower, I watched TV and picked up all the books and puzzles and stacked them back on the shelves. Picking up the jigsaw pieces helped to slow my mind a little.

  On screen, they kept playing a phone video from the woman we saw across the street from the Bully. Her username @velvetpurse89 and #RiverstoneExplosion were stamped in pink in the top corner. I fought against crying, biting the insides of my cheeks.

  Uncle Pike and I channel-surfed, trying to find the latest information. All the main channels’ reporters said it was a suspected terrorist attack, maybe a suicide bomber, and called the explosive an IED. Online news, from my phone, said the same. Then the report about the deaths came in.

  Two bodies had been found inside the town hall, dead from when the blast hit. One person injured, which must be Chuck. Two dead. My throat felt almost swollen shut, with a huge lump in it. Uncle Pike blew out a long noisy breath and rubbed my back. I prayed it wasn’t anyone I knew, or went to school with, but it was Riverstone, population 3687. Less now. I focused on my breathing, exhaling slowly. Chances were high I would know the people who had died.

  Who would do this? Why? They couldn’t be anyone I knew. I tried to think of anyone bomb-y. The only scary person who came to mind was my cranky next-door neighbour, Mr Brown, but he was so old he hardly moved from his caramel La-Z-Boy chair anymore.

  I sat there feeling like I had when I learned about Dad dying, or my teacher’s murder. Surrounded by something invisible, like a cushion of air; a kind of darkness you could feel if it wasn’t just out of reach. Not inside you yet, but once it was, your light inside dimmed a little more forever.

  On TV, a mug shot of Chuck flashed up, with the caption underneath reading Survivor. He looked better without blood on his face. The screen changed to a map of downtown with two black crosses over Riverstone Town Hall. At one point, a photo of Ms Everson, my old school teacher, popped up as well. Then the news anchor cut to a studio interview with their reporter, Mike Hornblower, who originally came from Riverstone but now lived in Auckland. He had gone to school with Uncle Pike and was his first boyfriend. If I wasn’t so worried about Mum and Devon, I would have made kissing noises.

  ‘—in such a small community like ours people know each other. A town’s heart—’ Hornblower held up his hands in a heart shape then pulled them apart ‘—broken. Of course, the police are doing their job, bodies need to be identified and next of kin notified. It—’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Uncle Pike grabbed the remote and muted Hornblower. I sat there trying not to think about what the bodies must look like. My uncle put his arm around me and handed me the remote. ‘Sorry about that. Are you okay, Tippy?’

  I nodded. We sat in silence until Hornblower disappeared off the screen. My phone vibrated—a text from Melanie checking we were all okay. Mrs Brown had woken her up at the farm with the news. I didn’t want to freak her out about Mum and Devon, so I texted back saying we were all safe, even though they were still out there. Melanie replied: Bomber died in blast, and sent a screenshot of an online chat. I rubbed my bottom lip and showed my uncle.

  Uncle Pike frowned as he scrolled on my phone. I found it hard to stay still and paced around the small living room to the kitchenette. My mind raced. If the bomber was dead did that really mean no more bombs? It was a relief if that was true, but then should I feel guilty for feeling relief that someone was dead? Please let Mum and Devon be okay. Who died? Who did this?

  Out the kitchen window the smoke above the rooftops had turned grey and the sky had lightened from black to a navy blue. I couldn’t spot the circling helicopters that were making the annoying whomping background noise.

  Back on the couch I perched beside Uncle Pike and turned the TV up to drown out the choppers. On screen, there was an aerial view of the town, with billowing smoke and random leaping flames still obscuring the blasted section of Main Street from Mum’s work to the pub. The trunk of the founding tree had smashed though the cinderblock public toilets near the river’s flood bank, crushing several cars. Inside the helicopter, a reporter spoke over the background noise, saying it was lucky the tree fell that way otherwise it could’ve taken out part of Main Street’s pub and shops, or the information centre and museum across the road. The lump in my throat thickened. I sat further back and pulled up my legs, burying my face in my knees. None of this was lucky. I couldn’t help it, I finally started crying. Poor people. Poor tree.

  Uncle Pike put his arm around my shoulders again, pulling me close. He kept repeating that everything would be okay. This time I didn’t argue. When my tears stopped, I had left a wet patch on his T-shirt and sneakily wiped my nose on his sleeve before I sat up again. He handed me an old, holey tea towel which smelled musty and I dried my face.

  On another channel, in another chopper, a different reporter with earmuffs on talked about the early morning traffic, which was backed up on both sides of the river. The concrete bridge was empty. The army’s bomb squad had been flown down from Linton in the North Island. They were checking the bridge and all the buildings on and around Main Street for any other bombs.

  There could be more bombs? ‘Imagine if they blew up the bridge,’ I said. Was anywhere safe? What about the newspaper office? Shit. I moved away from the window.

  ‘It’s okay, honey. Remember what Melanie told you, they found the bomber. Mum and Devon will be fine,’ Uncle Pike said.

  I rubbed my wrist. Part of me was still annoyed at him for dragging me away like that.

  On the TV, a news anchor kept saying it was a miracle more people hadn’t been injured or killed considering the size of the detonation. The fact it had been 4.21 a.m. had a lot to do with it. The police were reviewing security-camera footage and a recording of a bomb threat made to Emergency Services at 3.47 a.m., half an hour or so before the explosion. I did the maths in my head: thirty-four minutes from the call. Why didn’t the police stop it?

  The TV was drowned out by the thumping blades of the helicopter flying low over our cottage. I raced to the window to check, hoping it was the army one, but it was just another news chopper. I wished they would piss off. My heart sank. ‘Do you think Hornblower will come to town?’ I asked, to keep my mind off Mum and Devon and bombs, but also hoping the answer was no.

  My uncle snorted. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I guess so.’

  ‘Did you phone him?’ At Christmas, Uncle Pike had promised to call and make things right between them after he had run off to Sydney when they were teenagers, without telling Hornblower or saying goodbye.

  ‘Well …’

  The front door opened. Devon came in, his face grimy with soot and dust. We both stood up. He was alone.

 
Uncle Pike rushed over and hugged him. ‘You okay?’

  Devon nodded. ‘Your mum’s fine, Tippy,’ he said, over my uncle’s shoulder. ‘She’ll be here as soon as she can.’

  I ran over and hugged him as well. He stank of smoke. It was so good to see him.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Devon asked, nodding at the TV.

  ‘Two dead, one of them was the bomber,’ I said. ‘And Chuck the survivor.’

  Devon untangled himself from us.

  ‘Did you find anyone else who needed help?’ I asked.

  ‘One more. Your mum and I …’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘Brenda, crushed inside a car in the carpark.’ He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. ‘After a couple of hours the fireys finally cut her out. I’m just going for a shower,’ he said, without looking at us, and then he rushed to the bathroom.

  Uncle Pike’s mouth was open. On TV, an updated map showed the town hall carpark and a red cross with Second Survivor Rescued written above it. He hurried after Devon and shut the bathroom door behind him.

  This was all too unreal.

  By lunchtime, it was seven and a half hours since I’d heard from Mum. Uncle Pike sat with me in the living room while Devon rested in their bedroom. He had told my uncle he would talk about the rescue later. A fresh update on the midday news advised the area had been declared clear of any more explosives. I should have felt relieved but I didn’t. What if it happens again? The news anchor stopped speaking and pressed their earpiece.

  ‘What now?’ Uncle Pike said.

  I crossed my fingers and chanted in my head, Please not Mum.

  ‘Breaking news,’ the anchor said. ‘Police have named a local farmer, one of the deceased, as the bomber.’

  We looked at each other. I wondered if we knew him. The news anchor continued, ‘Please be advised the following security-camera footage could be distressing to sensitive viewers.’

  My uncle went to say something, but I interrupted him with a quick ‘I’m okay’.

  The footage was in black and white and judging by its angle it was from the security camera on the corner of the pub, across the road from the town hall. In the top right corner, a timer read 04:18:07. A white van fanged around the corner of the pub and shot across Main Street, slowing right down and then weaving into the carpark until it was parked diagonally in front of the town hall. Mr Tulips was written on the side of the van. I gasped. Mr Tulips? But he passed us yesterday by Dad’s cross.

  Uncle Pike ran his fingers through his hair, covering his ears. ‘What? What? No …’

  My neck and shoulders stiffened as I watched the driver’s door open. We waited but no one came out. Seconds went by. I glanced up at Uncle Pike then turned back to the screen. The timer in the corner suddenly jumped to 04:19:01.

  ‘They’ve edited it,’ my uncle said.

  A tall, lean man stumbled out of the van.

  Uncle Pike squinted then stood up and went closer to the TV. ‘That’s him.’

  Mr Tulips staggered up to the town hall steps.

  ‘Is he drunk?’ I asked.

  Uncle Pike sat back down with his thick hand on his forehead. ‘Looks like it.’

  The video timer jumped again. 04:21:15. I held my breath.

  The van exploded. The video stopped, its final image completely white.

  I sat back and hugged a cushion. Uncle Pike looked pale. We stared at each other. I didn’t know what to say. A photo of a handsome older man flashed up. He had a strong nose, thick greying hair and a square jaw with full lips. His brown eyes were crinkled in a smile. Mr Tulips. On the newsdesk, the anchor said Willem Jansen was apparently in financial difficulty, with his tractor—much needed to work the fields ahead of tulip bulb planting—recently repossessed. Jansen held a grudge against the local council. A photo of Mr Tulips took over the screen. The anchor’s voiceover finished by saying Willem Jansen died inside the town hall when his bomb detonated earlier than he had planned.

  ‘Who’s the silver fox?’ Devon asked, coming out of the bedroom with a towel wrapped around him. ‘Growl.’

  ‘That’s the bomber,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I probably shouldn’t say he’s hot then?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Uncle Pike said, getting up. ‘But trust me, I get it. Willem Jansen was like a really hot Geppetto but without all the creepy puppet-making stuff.’

  ‘Right?’ Devon pulled his towel tighter. ‘What a waste.’

  Uncle Pike gave Devon a big kiss and followed him into the bedroom.

  ‘Tippy, ignore this last minute,’ my uncle called out.

  I rolled my eyes and kept watching the news. The front door rattled then swung in and Mum appeared. I rushed over and hugged her tight.

  ‘It’s okay, honey.’ She squeezed me. ‘I’m okay.’ She stroked my hair, which normally I hated, but today I didn’t move. She smelled different, like lemons.

  Confused, I pulled back. ‘You smell clean?’

  ‘I had a quick shower and changed at work, otherwise people would’ve tried to cut my head off on the way over here.’

  I stared at her. Ms Everson popped into my mind, my teacher whose headless body was found by the side of the road last year.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Mum said. ‘Sorry! I meant because I looked like a zombie.’

  I frowned.

  Uncle Pike and Devon came out of the bedroom sharing a towel.

  Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,’ my uncle said.

  ‘Really?’ Devon said. ‘Two men, one towel?’ He seemed a bit better.

  She shook her head. ‘This is who I trust to babysit my daughter.’

  ‘I’m not a baby, I’m twelve,’ I said, as they went back into the bedroom to get dressed. I got mum a drink and an orange from the welcome basket. When they came back out, Devon was in a black singlet dress. I couldn’t see if he was wearing anything underneath but I hoped so.

  Mum got up and gave him a hug. ‘You were amazing out there, under all that pressure.’ She rubbed his arm. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You were, too,’ Devon said. ‘You should be a designer, you could handle Fashion Week, no problems.’

  ‘This one,’ mum said to my uncle, ‘is a keeper.’

  ‘Lennie, are you okay? I’ve never seen you this mushy,’ Uncle Pike said. Lennie was his nickname for Mum, ever since she was a baby and he was little and couldn’t say Helen. ‘I’m very proud of both of you. Must’ve been awful.’

  Mum nodded.

  Devon glanced down at the shiny floor rug, then his head shot back up again. ‘Yuck. I don’t like it.’ He sat down beside me on the couch.

  I handed him a little kid’s board book on ponies from the bookcase. ‘You can look at this if you like?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, opening it. ‘Love this one.’ He pointed to a photo of a brown and white pony with heaps of ribbons on it. ‘She’s living her best life.’

  I giggled and put my arm through his. ‘Mum, how’s Chuck doing?’

  ‘Resting up in the clinic,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him but he’s doing okay. Just some cuts and bruises.’

  ‘Will Jansen …’ Uncle Pike said.‘I can’t believe Mr Tulips did this.’

  Mum nearly choked on her drink. ‘What?’

  Uncle Pike nodded. ‘He died inside the town hall. His van was the bomb.’

  ‘What?’ Mum looked startled. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense.’

  Devon frowned at her.

  ‘Will Jansen’s one of the nicest people,’ she said. ‘He’d never hurt anyone.’

  My uncle pointed to the old plastic TV. ‘Right? But they’re saying he did it.’

  ‘Why is he called Mr Tulips?’ Devon whispered to me.

  I shrugged. I’d always known Mr Jansen as that.

  ‘His family moved here from Holland back in the 1950s and started a tulip farm,’ Uncle Pike said.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ Devon said.


  ‘It was,’ Mum said. ‘“Mr Tulips” was the name of their flower business, which sold bulbs to the public, but it became Will’s nickname as well. But his farm’s struggled for years.’ She shook her head and rubbed her face. She looked tired. ‘They’re wrong, they have to be.’

  ‘You going home for a sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘Bridge is closed. Plus they need me at work. Police are still checking the neighbourhood.’ Mum sighed. ‘We’ve already had some injured old folks and someone whose wardrobe fell on them during the blast.’

  ‘Have a nap in my room,’ I said.

  ‘A power nap’s probably a good idea,’ my uncle agreed.

  Mum squeezed my hand. ‘Fine, but wake me in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Did Mr Tulips have any kids?’ I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have your dad responsible for blowing up the town.

  Mum shook her head. ‘Trust me. He was a good person.’ She groaned as she stood up.

  ‘Apparently, he was pissed off with the council,’ Uncle Pike said.

  I nestled into Devon as he flipped the pages of his book. We giggled at a white pony, who had bared its teeth at the camera like it was going to bite it.

  ‘It still doesn’t make any sense.’ Mum had stopped in my bedroom doorway. ‘Our rates are ridiculous, but if that was the issue, why didn’t he blow up the Council Chambers?’ The Council Chambers were behind the golf course. Over the bridge on our side of town.

  None of it made sense. Why would one of the nicest people in Riverstone drive into town and blow himself up, killing someone else in the process? It didn’t add up. But what scared me the most was that someone so good did something so evil.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the time I woke Mum up half an hour later, after letting her sleep an extra ten minutes, we still hadn’t heard who the other person killed in the blast was. No new details had emerged; the TV showed only the edited security and phone videos on a loop. I had also searched for Mr Tulips’ social media accounts but he didn’t seem to have any—there wasn’t even a website for his tulip farm. Old people. I had hoped to find some other reason why he had blown up our town, other than what the reporters were saying, which was money problems—but Dad had left debts and Mum hadn’t blown things up. She lay on my bed, her eyes bloodshot and blurry. I offered her my hand and she took it, pulling herself up.