Hunting BLind: It's Every Family's Deepest Fear

  ‘Tell you what. We’ll go through this as an exercise. We’ll only be taking one rifle but you’ll have to hold it for part of the distance because I’ll be carrying most of the gear till we set up camp. You need to know how to handle it safely, right? So let’s just go through with this and you can have a few shots but if you don’t want to use the rifle while we’re out, that’s okay. There’s no guarantees we’ll spot an animal anyway. Deal?’

  ‘Yes. Deal.’

  He unlocks the door of a large shed with steel cabinets inside and fits a key into one, opens it and takes out a rifle. She steps back involuntarily. She hates guns, she’s frightened of them. Her Uncle Joe used to go duck shooting, would call into the house after a shoot dressed in camouflage gear. He’d bring his shotgun in with him to show it off, frighten Gemma with the duck caller. Minna didn’t like it. Didn’t like him. Stephanie heard her whisper to Dave in the kitchen. Whispering, but loud enough to be overheard obviously a very small penis, poor man and she’d felt her cheeks flush, at the same time wanted to laugh out loud. Minna. Never a sufferer of fools.

  ‘Private joke?’ He’s looking quizzically at her.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just this, this memory. Okay, what do I do?’

  ‘Right. Before I hand this to you, there’s a few things you have to be aware of. First thing is safety. More important than anything else. You always hold a rifle in a safe position, doesn’t matter whether you believe it’s loaded or not. That’s so you won’t shoot yourself or anyone else. So. I hand you the rifle. How are you going to hold it?’

  ‘Uh. Straight up?’

  ‘Yeah, good. Straight up or downwards. Never pointing forward or towards yourself. Right?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Next lesson. Whenever you pick up a rifle you check the chamber to make sure it’s not loaded.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Watch what I do.’

  She watches as he shows her. Slowly the first time. Then again. Again.

  ‘Now you do it.’

  She winces slightly as she takes the rifle. He says nothing. Watches carefully as she opens up the breech and checks.

  ‘Good. Now, more on safety. When you’re carrying a rifle you always keep your hand well away from the trigger and you grip it reasonably firmly. Let me see you hold it like you would if we were walking. Okay, a bit more loosely. If you held it like that your muscles would be in knots in no time. Look how I’m holding it now. Firm but reasonably relaxed. Right? You try it again.’

  This time it feels better, easier. She looks down at her hands holding it. The wood has a silky smoothness, a sheen, and the metal is shining black. If you liked guns you could say it was handsome, almost elegant.

  ‘Good. Okay, now we’re going over to the firing range. You all right to carry it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The most important rule. For obvious reasons, the person carrying the rifle always walks in front. Put the strap over your shoulder and keep it upright.’

  She walks ahead of him. The rifle feels unyielding, weighty. Feels like too much danger in her hands. She thinks of hunting accidents she’s read about in newspapers, heard about on the TV news. People mistaken for animals and shot.

  They’re at a fenced-in area some distance from the house with targets set up on a built-up bank at one end. He turns towards her and holds out his hand for the rifle. ‘I’ll show you how to load it. Watch me then you have a go.’

  ‘Do we have to do this?’

  ‘It’ll be okay.’

  She watches as he loads, then unloads the chamber.

  ‘Now you do it.’

  Her hands are shaking.

  ‘Good. Now you’re going to try to hit a target. Here, you’ll need these.’

  He hands her earmuffs. She’s up on her elbows on the ground, the rifle propped in front of her. She’s rigid with tension. He’s lying beside her. Close. Too close. She’s certain she can smell her own sweat, smell anxiety clinging sour and bitter to her body.

  He speaks slowly and gently. ‘This is the telescopic sight. You look through that. Any problems with your eyesight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keep the cross from the sight focused on the bull’s-eye. Got it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Now. Just like we did before. Take the bolt up, slide it back then forward and down again. The bullet’s in the chamber. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hold the rifle snug against your shoulder. Not too tight. Nice and relaxed. Squeeze the trigger. Take it slowly. Not too fast.’

  She feels the shock and kick against her shoulder, hears the explosion of sound hammer out, resounding into the stillness. Christ. She puts the rifle down.

  ‘Try it again.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘You can do it.’

  Again. Again. On her knees, the rifle up at her shoulder and firing. Leaning up against the wall and firing. And all the time he’s talking, instructing, his voice even and patient. Lying down, the prone position, is where you have the best control and kneeling’s the next best. If you have to stand, try to find something you can prop yourself against and steady yourself. In the end she can do it; the kick’s not so hefty after she gets better control and she grows almost used to the sudden thwack of sound. Her heart isn’t racing so hard and her body settles; she can hold the rifle without shaking, without her arms becoming rigid, can rest it snugly against her shoulder as he tells her. Instead of the bullets going over or to the side of the target she actually hits it after a few tries. In the end she hits the bull’s-eye.

  ‘Hey,’ he says laughing, ‘not bad. You’re a natural.’

  ‘I don’t feel like a natural.’

  ‘You’re doing a helluva lot better than some I get coming here. Anyway, I think you’ve earned yourself a glass or two of wine and some dinner.’

  The living room is stylishly put together. Muted colours. Pale greys, soft greens. Bookcases. Fat sofas to sink into. A wide polished-gold kauri table and chairs beside French doors. She stands beside the door looking around.

  ‘You look surprised,’ he says.

  ‘It’s a beautiful room,’ she says. ‘It’s just, it’s much more orderly than I expected. It’s a terrible cliché but somehow you always imagine men on their own to be living in some sort of disorder.’

  ‘I have a housekeeper and a daughter keeping me from turning completely feral.’

  ‘I can’t believe you have that kind of tendency. Not looking at this room. It’s so elegant.’

  ‘That was Kathy,’ he says. ‘She had an eye for things like that. Now, a drink?’

  ‘Uh, yes please.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Wine, please. White wine?’

  ‘I can manage both colours. Types as well. So. What type of white?’

  He’s grinning again. She sees he’s teasing her.

  ‘Pinot gris?’ Huh, I guarantee he hasn’t got that.

  ‘Central Otago?’

  ‘Uh. Yes. Thanks.’

  He opens a bottle, fills a glass and hands it to her. ‘I believe I’m making progress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I hope that I’m adequately demonstrating to you that all hunters aren’t blokey yobbos.’

  ‘I didn’t say they were.’

  ‘You didn’t actually say it, no.’

  There’s beef casserole, baked potatoes and salad for dinner. Rosie is silent, looks curiously up at Stephanie for the first half hour then starts to chatter. Who she’s friends with, why she wants to stop learning piano and something called Sweet Streets which Stephanie discovers is a set of toys Rosie and Milly she’s my best friend collect and play with she’s got the General Store and the Dance Studio and I’ve got the Shopping District and the Pool but we haven’t got Farmer’s Market yet.

  The fire glows, the wine and the food is good. After dinner Rosie sits close to her on the sofa and there’s the joy of that, a sweet child’s bod
y nestling against her own, the delight of the little-girl voice telling all those imperative concerns of her miniature and protected world.

  She leaves before nine. He comes out to the car with her. ‘We need to leave at seven. Come over early and have breakfast here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Take it easy going down. There’s lights all down the drive so it’s not too bad.’ He stands looking through the car window.

  ‘See you tomorrow. And thanks. For the dinner and everything.’

  She’s tucked up in bed under the duvet. She has the curtains wide open and she’s looking out into the night.

  His house. His little girl. Other people’s lives. Ever since Gemma she’s felt like a spectator looking in. It’s why she chose psychiatry. She understands that, not that she’d have it any other way, but she has to admit to it. You work so hard to analyse the hurts, try so hard to treat and heal. But the wounds belong to other people. Your own are much too raw to open up.

  32.

  She’s there by six-thirty. The lights are on in the kitchen and she sees him beside the stove turning something over in a pan as she goes up the path.

  He opens the door and smiles down at her. ‘The tube’s arrived. Bacon and eggs?’

  ‘You know how to make a woman feel she’s looking her best,’ she says. ‘Thanks. Bacon and eggs would be great.’

  ‘Very wise,’ he says. ‘Might be a long time before the next meal. Runny yolks or hard?’

  ‘Runny.’

  He hands her a plate. As they finish eating there’s a thunderous clattering above the house. ‘Time to go. That’ll be the chopper.’

  ‘We’re not—’ She stares at him.

  ‘Shooting defenceless creatures out of a helicopter? No, we’re not. We’re going to get dropped off near to where we set up camp. We can’t get a vehicle in where we’re heading.’

  She follows him out. He hands a large pack up to the pilot, her smaller one, then the rifle. He climbs up into the helicopter, puts his hand out and helps her up. ‘Ever been in one of these before?’

  ‘No.’

  She straps herself into the seat behind Dan’s. The pilot turns and holds out his hand and she takes it. ‘Sam,’ he says. ‘All set? You comfortable?’

  She’s never been in a small aircraft before. The control panel is right in front of her, an alarming assortment of dials, coloured buttons and a small screen.

  The noise is deafening. Her stomach lurches, she’s dizzy with the swift rise into the air. The helicopter sways a little then rights itself.

  She squeezes her eyes tight shut. Helicopters crash. She’s read somewhere that they’re the most dangerous aircraft. They could go down miles away from anywhere, never be found. She’s afraid of that. Of disappearing, of physical pain, of being so cold you could die. On her own and lost in the dark. She feels bile rising up into her throat and swallows hard. God, what if she’s sick right here in the helicopter? She grips the seat edge, breathes in deeply.

  She feels a hand on her shoulder and flinches. She opens her eyes and stares into Dan‘s. He’s saying something to her, she can’t make out what it is but she sees the concern in his eyes. She nods. He gestures to the window, raises his hands in a cupping motion, marvellous seems to be what he’s trying to say to her. She forces herself to turn her head and look out. Closes her eyes again.

  She’s slowly becoming accustomed to the juddering, the clatter-clatter-clatter of the blades. She makes a conscious effort to settle her body back into the seat, to relax. She’s done this over and over with her patients okay, breathe, slowly in and out, you’re safe, now tense up your feet your legs your arms and let them go. Let them go. All floppy now. Okay?

  She opens her eyes. Dan’s watching her. He raises his eyebrows. All right? She nods, smiles back at him.

  He leans close. ‘Giving you a special tour. Over the sea before we go inland.’

  She forces herself to look down. There’s the coastline, the cliffs hard-etched, rising up above an expanse of jagged rock, patches of dark golden sand, creamy, foam-edged waves. Behind them the land is every shade of green merging into the hazy mauve of mountains. There’s great masses of black seaweed, a fishing boat moving further out into the sea.

  And the water rippling out like skeins of wool in a shop display, colour-coordinated and marked ‘blue’. What were those names in the paint box Gran gave her all those years ago? An old-fashioned paint box with a layer of tissue under the lid and the squares of colour, untouched and perfect, beneath. Azure, cobalt, sapphire, cerulean, indigo. Magical names signifying all that blue can be. Blue that’s almost black. Ink blue, ice blue, blue that’s green as well.

  What’s your favourite colour, Gemma?

  Blue.

  Late last night she heard the phone. She almost left it to ring, thought it most likely was Minna. But she picked it up, checked the name. ‘Mary-Anne?’

  The voice is shrill and high with elation. ‘Guess what? Guess what? I’ve had it, I’ve had the baby. A boy, it’s a boy. He came early my due date’s not for two weeks but he’s seven pounds so he’s okay he’s gorgeous really gorgeous got blue eyes and a lot of hair. I nearly didn’t make it back to the hospital. We went to Wanaka for the weekend. I was going stir-crazy, I said to Kevin let’s get away for the weekend, go and see Mum and Dad it’ll be okay, nothing’ll happen. But then on Sunday morning my waters broke, God, I couldn’t believe it, we were just having breakfast and it just— Mum said we should stay and have it there, she wasn’t having her grandchild born in the back seat of a car in Milton, but I thought it’d be okay. I was pushing by the time we got off the motorway you should’ve seen Kev’s face. Thomas. We’re calling him Thomas. Thomas Kevin probably. Oh and guess who I saw down the main street on Saturday morning? Mr Black. He looked so surprised to see me the size I was, remember how everyone had a crush on him? Oh Stephanie I can’t wait for you to see wee Tom he’s so, so cute.’

  She’s found him.

  Dan tugs at her arm and points. Dolphins. Moving swiftly in a dark mass below the surface, curving upwards, white circles spiralling into the blue as they leap. The helicopter turns and heads back towards the land. Houses clustered at the edges of coastline then across stretches of farmland and they’re climbing higher. Stretches of bare, ochre-coloured land, hills, bush and they’re hovering, moving down and down, a slight shudder as they land. They’re at the top of a hill, close to the sky. A stretch of tawny green and patches of scrub.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Dan says. ‘You know where to pick us up?’

  ‘Yeah. Up by the hut, isn’t it? Thursday, around four-thirty?’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Dan slides the door back, climbs down and Sam hands the equipment to him. He reaches for Stephanie’s hand. ‘Keep your head down.’

  They run out of range, stand watching as the chopper rises up above them, becomes a small dark speck above the distant hills. It’s silent. So silent and so still. Acres and acres of land stretching out in front of them. Ragged clumps of scrub, bright gold tussock rippling as far as she can see and above them the intensely blue sky. What’s that phrase everyone’s using? Out of your comfort zone. That’s it, she’s way way outside her comfort zone and it doesn’t matter any more. If she’s learned anything at all in these past months it’s that she can’t be in charge of everything. She has to let go, wait and see what happens. So she stands there drinking it in. The sun on her face, the silken tussock, the land merging into sky.

  She’s found Ed Black.

  ‘Not a cappuccino machine in sight,’ Dan says, grinning. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I think you underrate me. I can actually survive a day or two without venturing into a café. What happens now?’

  ‘We have to set up camp. See those trees? There’s a spring there. I’ll carry most of the gear, you’ll have to take the rifle and your pack as well.’

  He helps her loop the pack around her shoulders, then holds out the rifle. ‘Remember what I to
ld you?’

  ‘Check it first. Carry it pointing up or down. Okay, teacher?’

  ‘Full marks.’

  He’s just behind her as they move towards the trees.

  She’s found Ed Black. She’s going back to Wanaka.

  She helps him put up the tent then they put the sleeping bags, cooking equipment, food, wet-weather gear and first-aid kit inside. She finds the spring bubbling up out of the ground and bends over it, cups the water up in her hands and drinks.

  ‘My God,’ she says, ‘that’s delicious.’

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying yourself. I may never be able to drag you back to civilization.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she says.

  ‘What we’re going to be doing over the next three days is trying to track down a deer, more than one if we’re lucky. We’ll be doing a bit of tramping, though, so even if we don’t come across anything you’ll get to experience country not many people ever get to see.’

  ‘I heard you telling Sam to pick us up near the hut. Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s over the ridge in the next valley. We’ll walk there on Wednesday and overnight in the hut.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘More rules. First thing is patience. Voices, any noises at all, carry a fair distance out here so you’ve got to keep it down, not talk much and watch where you put your feet. Remember there may be an animal right there around the next corner. When you spot an animal in the distance the main aim is to get close enough without it hearing or smelling you. You have to be within four hundred metres to get a decent shot at it so while you’re getting close you’ve got to be quiet and you’ve got to keep downwind of it. In other words, you can’t let it scent you. If it gets even the vaguest whiff it’ll be off.’

  ‘But how can you know?’

  ‘If it’s downwind? The general rule is to keep the wind on your face. Always have the wind in your face.’

  ‘What do I do if we see a deer?’

  ‘Stay back and try not to make so much as a peep. One other thing. The most important in fact.’

  ‘What’s that?’