‘Never get in front of a rifle.’
He carries the rifle and they walk for the rest of the day across grass and tussock, moving in and out of the bush. But they see nothing. In the late afternoon he stops and calls back to her. ‘It’ll take us a while to get back to camp, better head there now.’
They walk back, gathering wood for the fire as they go. She’s tired when they make it to the tent. She lies on her back in the tussock. Hears him moving about close to her, hears the crack of dry timber as it’s set alight, smells the faint acrid hint of smoke in the air. And opens her eyes. It’s almost dark and he’s looking down at her.
‘You awake?’
‘God, I must have—’
‘Nearly dinner time. Pinot gris?’
The fire’s blazing and they sit close to it drinking wine, eating, talking. She tells him, laughing, about working at McDonald’s I used to smell of Big Macs. I used to dream I had to eat my way out of a room stacked to the ceiling with Big Macs. Believe it. It’s true.
He tells her about living in London remember I said I had to come back here? Sure, living there was great for a while. I somehow fell into a good job really good money so I could do a bit of travelling. But I finished work one night, got on the Tube, went back to this six by four bedsit that looked out onto a brick wall and that was it. I was on a plane within a week.
‘What kind of work did you do in London?’
‘Marketing.’
‘I can’t imagine you doing anything like that.’
‘Neither can I now. I went to varsity like everyone else and commerce is what everyone else was doing so I did it as well. Only thing it ever taught me is I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.’
‘But you worked in that in London?’
He shrugs. ‘Means to an end. It got me a job. I’d always wanted to travel and, for a while, things worked out very well for me. I met Kathy over there and managed to convince her to come back with me and give it a go.’
‘She was happy here?’
‘Loved it.’ He picks up a stick, stirs up the flames. ‘That night in London I talked about, when I came into that flat and knew I had to go home. That gut instinct telling you to do something even when it seems the last thing you should do. I believe in that. Yeah, we gave up fantastic jobs and came home with just about nothing. But we loved it and everything worked out for us and then she died.’
‘I’m sorry. You must miss her.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. More wine? Or I’ll make tea if you like.’
‘No thanks. It’s been a good day but I think I need some sleep.’
Her face is hot from the wine and the fire and she splashes water over her skin. She’s sleepy, at the same time exhilarated. She breathes inwards, looks up into the black, black sky, the glimmer and gleam of stars, minute pinpoints of shivery light.
She’s deliciously drowsy, tucked into the thickest sleeping bag she’s ever been in. She hears the tent shudder as wind passes over it, hears the odd bird call ripple through the night. It’s dark, so dark and hushed and still.
Way out here with nothing but the earth and the sky everything else seems so distant and remote.
In just a few days I’ll see him. Ward Black. Ed Black. When I see him will I know? Will I look into his face and see?
Being out here has steadied her. She’s ready for it.
She hears him come into the tent, hears the rustle as he slides into his sleeping bag. Hears his breathing close by her as she floats into sleep.
Whatever she finds, whatever happens, she’s ready.
33.
Nothing the next day. And though she’d at least like to see a deer, she’s relieved. She’s afraid of how she’d react if she saw one shot, saw it hurt and bleeding. Dying.
They’re tramping through a landscape that takes her breath away, makes her jolt to a stop and stare. Hills veined with grey and black rising up out of valleys covered in rippling golden tussock, rising up into mountains tipped with faint shimmers of glittering snow. And floating above it all the pure blue of sky. She hears the whirr of kereru above them, the trill of bellbirds, hum of bees. They stop for smoko and lunch, eat bread, cheese, fruit and he tells her hunting stories which make her laugh. Tells her about the country they’re in, points out plants, the bright yellow ragwort, purple and white foxgloves springing up around the edges of bush the spring’s marvellous out here. At the end of the day they light the fire again, eat and talk into the night.
They’ve fallen into an easy familiarity. They walk for miles, barely speaking but the silence is comfortable. She sees him glance at her from time to time. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. After the first night he hasn’t talked much about himself, shies off if the talk gets personal you’re not trying to analyse me are you, Doctor Stephanie?
She thinks about him as she walks. Thinks too much about him, is far too aware of him there just behind her. He’s straightforward, but at the same time there’s something enigmatic, something hidden. She knows she’s attracted to him. Knows also he’s the wrong man for her to be attracted to, a hunter living up here at the other end of the island. Nothing could ever come from it.
Still, she loves being with him and she has to admit it, she’s as comfortable as she’s ever felt in her life out here with Dan. But she’ll be gone in a matter of days, and, anyway, how can she begin to work out if he even likes her, let alone finds her attractive? Because apart from the occasional scrutinising glance, the odd teasing comment, he talks to her exactly, she imagines, as he’d talk to a bloke. And she probably doesn’t look all that unlike a bloke, either, dressed as she is in baggy shorts and a T-shirt, at night wrapped up in a parka and a blanket in front of the fire. She’d just about commit murder for a shower right now. Jesus, she probably even smells like a bloke. She thinks about how his face changes when he mentions Kathy, how when he talks about Rosie his voice lifts. Yet he speaks about them only in the most perfunctory way. Maybe it’s the way he is. A bit reserved, doesn’t like to open up about personal matters.
And what does she expect? She barely knows him. It’s unlikely he’d want to confide in her, a stranger he’ll most probably never meet again. Maybe he’s a bit like her, doesn’t like to talk about it, afraid the hurt will make him vulnerable. Who does she ever confide in, who’s she ever told about Gemma? She only talks about her if she absolutely has to, avoids mentioning her name; it’s as if she’d never had a sister.
It’s personal.
So deeply personal, in fact, that uttering Gemma’s name calls up such unbearable pain that it floods into her gut filling her up so she can barely breathe. She can’t talk about Gemma. Not to anyone.
Minna tried. She’s got to admit she tried to get her to talk. Maybe she saw the agony behind the closed face, constant study, hectic activity, the refusal to cry.
Remember, Steph, when Gemma? Gemma loved that wee dress so much, didn’t she, Steph? Steph, remember that time you and me and Gemma?
Gemma loved. Gemma used to. Gemma said.
Remember remember remember?
That’s another thing she never talks about. Minna. How she loved her. How she hated her. Because she didn’t watch Gemma. Because she left Stephanie in charge, left her feeling to blame. Because she left them all and Stephanie missed her, heard Liam crying and she cried as well, she couldn’t hold it back any more, she cried so much at night that her body ached. Nothing could ever make it better.
Get over it. Get over it Stephanie.
She never talks about Minna because the hurt is too great, the love too great as well. Yes, she loves her. Loves the way Minna walks upright, her high heels clicking, that bloody arrogant tilt to her head, her small elegant body, how she dresses with such flair and style, how bloody gutsy she is. And because she’s her mother, because when Stephanie was little all she wanted was to be exactly like her.
She’s six. She’s standing on a chair close to the table. The blue plastic baby bath is on the table and Minna is
bathing Liam, holding his small head firmly in one hand while she squeezes water over his tiny skinny body with the other. He gazes up at her and sometimes he kicks and sometimes he smiles, widely and toothlessly. Minna effortlessly picks him up, lies him down on a thick white towel on the table and dries him. She helps Stephanie shake on the talcum powder because that’s Stephanie’s job and then she efficiently and swiftly dresses him in his clean white cotton singlet, his white knitted singlet with the blue satin bow at the neck, his nappies, his white fluffy gown and knitted jacket. Then she holds him up to Stephanie and he’s smiling and blinking and Stephanie knows her mother is the cleverest person in the world because she knows exactly what to do. She knows how to dress a baby, how to look after a baby. She knows what to feed a baby, knows how to drive a car and how to bake a cake. Her mother knows everything.
It’s Wednesday afternoon. Stephanie carries the rifle because Dan has most of the gear in the pack. They’re climbing over the hill, to the next valley and the hut, moving upwards through pockets of scraggy bush, corn-coloured snow-grass, scraps of matagouri. It’s colder, the day starting to draw in. Drifting pockets of fog come at them as they move nearer to the top of the hill.
They’re coming down towards the valley. She feels Dan’s hand on her arm. There’s a clearing to the side. Two deer. Dan gestures for her to move closer and they’re walking slowly, evenly, trying not to make a sound. The deer are motionless, the gleam of early evening light on their backs as they graze.
They’re easily within target. Only around three hundred metres away. They’re undisturbed, haven’t sensed them. Not yet. She motions for Dan to take the rifle and he shakes his head, points to the pack. She understands if he puts it down the noise will frighten them off.
She knows it’s an easy shot. Knows she can do it. But they’re in long grass. If she lies down, steadies herself, she won’t be able to see them. So she kneels and her heart is thudding and she loads the rifle, tucks it in snug against her shoulder and squints through the sight.
The one closest to her. She can get it easily.
And freezes. She’s freaking out, hears her breathing come rasping up out of her lungs, can’t move, she’s stuck watching through the sight as the deer raise their heads, lope away.
He comes over, squats down beside her.
‘I couldn’t do it.’ She’s almost crying with disappointment and relief.
‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I should have listened to you.’
‘I hate guns. I hate things dying. I couldn’t kill—’
‘Listen, it’s all right.’
He takes the rifle, opens it up, unloads it. ‘We’re nearly there. You all right to carry on? We could rest for a bit if you like.’
‘Let’s keep going.’
They’re above an open grassed valley, start to weave down into it. Scrub, a tall stand of manuka, a stream and a hut in the distance. Hotter down in the valley. She can feel sweat on her face, sweat trickling down her back and her feet are so hot she longs to haul off her boots, plunge her feet into cold water. She sees that the stream widens further up the valley into a river. Deep enough to wash in, swim in. Dan pushes the hut door open. A bench, an open fire. Beds.
She props the rifle against the wall and sits down, unlaces her boots. ‘Thank God.’
‘Good to see you smiling. Back there I thought there was a good chance you might never smile at me again.’
‘It was my choice. I wanted to have a go but I couldn‘t.’
‘Fair enough.’
They unload sleeping bags and cooking equipment. Dan sets a fire.
‘I’m going to wash,’ she says.
She takes a towel, soap and shampoo and clean clothes. Walks upstream and finds a deep pool. She takes off her clothes. The air cools her skin as she stands at the edge.
Wanaka. At the lake come on, Steph, it’s gorgeous once you’re in.
She’s leaping out, gasping at the abrupt chill as she hits the water. The cold is almost paralysing but her body is exhilarated, skin tingling, and she strikes out with her arms, rapidly kicks her legs. She reaches up onto the bank for shampoo, rubs it into her hair, dunks her head under until it’s spinning with cold then swims for as long as she can stand it. She hauls herself out, dries her body, pulls on a clean T-shirt, sweater and jeans and walks back to the hut.
Dan’s outside, his hair damp. He’s drinking beer out of a bottle and he holds it up towards her. ‘Nothing like it, eh?’
It’s the last night.
She chops the vegetables while he lights the fire. He comes over and stands near her, watching. ‘That’s a fairly mean knife. I haven’t seen one quite like that before.’
She smiles and holds it up. ‘It’s a dissecting knife. I’ve had it since Med School. Cuts anything.’
I may never see him again and it’s the last night.
There’s an old mattress on the floor and Dan pushes it up to the edge of the fireplace. She sits close, watching the fire blazing and roaring, the colours and shadows.
‘I’ve only been camping once before. It was with my family and I was quite young. Dad used to light a fire every night. The boys, Jonny and Liam, and me, well, we thought it was marvellous. We didn’t see all that much of Dad in those days. Having him do stuff with us was quite a novelty.’
‘Why didn’t you see much of him?’
‘Too busy. He sold real estate. He was the manager of the firm and he was away most of the time.’
‘Must have been hard on your mum.’
‘Oh, Minna managed okay. She came up with her own distractions.’
‘Minna? That’s your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘You call her Minna? Why’s that?’
‘Don’t know. She seemed to suit Minna more than Mum, I suppose. I stopped calling her Mum altogether after she left us.’
‘She left you?’
‘Yes. But let’s talk about something else. You don’t want to hear about all this. Change of subject, okay?’
‘I’d like you to tell me.’
She tells him. About Minna. About Gemma. She hears her voice in the darkness telling her secrets, laying them all out and she doesn’t know why she is doing this but once she starts it seems she is unable to stop herself, to stop this torrent of words.
She’s finished and silent, hears herself begin to weep, feels herself gathered up into his arms, his hands soothing her, pulling her closer.
He draws away. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’
She draws him back against her, slides her hands under his sweater, over the taut slide of muscle, the hard edge of shoulder blades. She rests her body against his chest. Trusting. Trusting herself to close her eyes, to fall into the thickness of his flesh.
He’s silent and still, then his mouth is warm and wet and soft against her mouth. She pulls at his sweater, tugs it over his head, feels the shock and warmth of his naked chest pressed against her, his hands are on her breasts, on her belly, between her legs, they’re yanking off clothes and he’s inside her quick and urgent, the hard edge of mattress against her back, his hands grasping her hips, her voice crying out.
They’re lying on the mattress, apart and silent what’s he thinking? What’s he thinking?
‘God, Stephanie.’
He pulls her against him. ‘I didn’t expect this to happen,’ he says.
‘You didn’t want to?’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I didn’t intend—’
‘Look, I admire your chivalry but I’m perfectly able to make up my own mind.’
‘What I want you to know is this isn’t just something I do all the time. I’ve liked you, been attracted to you I suppose, from when I saw you at Aline’s. But this wasn’t supposed to happen.’
‘Are you involved with someone?’
‘It’s not that. Would you like a whisky? Seems like this might be a long night.’
‘Okay.’
She sits up. He drapes a
blanket around her and puts more wood on the fire. ‘Warm enough?’
‘Yes. Fine.’
He gives her a mug, pours whisky into it, then into his own. He rests his arm around her shoulders and draws her closer.
‘I hope you’re not regretting this,’ she says. ‘I haven’t got any expectations, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’
‘I’m more worried about my own expectations,’ he said. ‘My own involvement, in fact.’
‘We live very different lives.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’m very aware of it and it’s one of the reasons I’d made up my mind not to get too close.’
‘One of the reasons?’
‘The other’s nothing to do with you, not personally anyway. It’s something that happened not long after Kathy died. I find it difficult to talk about.’
‘I bet I’ve heard a lot worse.’ She says it lightly, strokes his arm.
‘Right. Here goes. After Kathy died I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was angry and sad and guilty and totally bloody worn out.’
‘Guilty?’
‘That I hadn’t looked after her properly, hadn’t made her go to the doctor earlier, hadn’t done everything I could, hadn’t taken her to Mexico for unconventional treatment. Not that she wanted it. I knew it wasn’t my fault but I blamed myself for everything.’
She strokes his arm gently. ‘Okay, you blamed yourself. That’s fairly normal.’
‘Thanks, doctor.’ His voice is terse. ‘Sorry. Sorry. As I said it’s hard to talk about this. I blamed myself and everyone else. The doctors for all the things I imagined they could have done. Kathy for not getting herself checked out. I was so fucking sad and angry with everything and everyone.
‘I didn’t know what to do. Rosie was so young. Mum came for a while but she couldn’t stay for ever. I couldn’t rely on other people, I knew I had to do it on my own, had to get a housekeeper. I got this woman in. You know what I talked about the other night about trusting your gut instinct? This is one time I ignored it. Soon as I saw her I knew I shouldn’t give her the job. I had— I felt I had Kathy right there hanging over my shoulder telling me not to do it. There were a couple of other women, older and mad keen to have the job but I gave it to her.’
Hunting BLind: It's Every Family's Deepest Fear Page 24