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

by Richardson, Paddy

  Because of a few phone calls? Come on, Es, you’re better than that. Don’t let it get to you.

  Time to cut her losses and go. She’s done what she started out to do, found him, watched him, found out what she could. Which is nothing. Nothing. Maybe he’s a bit of a Peter Pan, has a problem with commitment which explains why he likes to move on. Whatever it is, it’s not her concern. Because as far as she’s been able to ascertain she’s misread a series of coincidences.

  How much longer can she possibly sneak about spying without making a complete fool of herself? She’s given it her best shot. She’ll stay till after the weekend, go to kayaking on Thursday, that’ll be her last time. And then she’ll go.

  Back to the city. Back to work. Back to Kaikoura. What will it be?

  She tells him when she arrives I’m leaving. This is my last time down here and he answers her casually It’s been good having you on board.

  It’s cooler today, the lake choppy and the wind bitter. She stands watching the kayaks, water up to her knees, her parka zipped and the hood up. Yes. It’s time to go. She’s had enough of it. Spying in this ridiculous way. Sensing she’s become an obstruction in Esther’s comfortable domesticity. Greg’s got used to her being around and he’s out with his mates most of the time now. She feels like an intruder and it’s time she left. She told them last night think I’ll head back to town in the next few days. Dave protested a little I thought you might stay till after Christmas. She saw Esther’s careful expression of regret. Regret masking relief.

  The lake’s grey and murky, the water cold on her bare legs. She’s shivering, wrapped up in her thoughts. Probably she should go back to the city. More sensible to go back there, find somewhere to live, start back at work. She could take a couple of weeks off later on when she’s more settled, go up to Kaikoura then. She wants to see Dan again, of course she does, but probably she shouldn’t rush it, should get a perspective on things first. She’s been all over the place, how can she possibly have imagined things could work out for the two of them, him at the other end of the island, committed to a business and a child, her down here?

  She doesn’t see until it’s too late. Stella, the little girl left behind on that first day, has tried to get out of a kayak, lost her balance and tipped. She’s bashed her head against the edge and there’s blood. A lot of blood and screaming.

  He comes running. He’s picking her up, pushing her hair back off her forehead, speaking gently. ‘Let’s look at it. Not too bad. Just a little cut. Just a tiny one.’

  He turns to Stephanie. ‘There’s a first-aid kit in the truck. It’s unlocked. A red tin on the back seat.’

  She runs over and opens the door. The large red tin on the back seat half-hidden by the parka. Reaches for it. Reaches and sees the package.

  Minna standing in the kitchen holding something wrapped in cellophane. ‘You made it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Sure I did. Dad was a baker. We used to make them all the time.’

  ‘Gingerbread men?’

  ‘Yeah, but look. This is a gingerbread lady.’

  A pink, smiling mouth, yellow hair, a green-and-white skirt.

  ‘You made the icing? Four different colours?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You went to all that trouble for Gemma?’

  ‘Hey, she’s my favourite girl, aren’t you Gemms?’

  And Gemma reaching for it. Holding it carefully, running her finger over the cellophane.

  ‘You want me to unwrap it Gemms? You want to taste it?’

  ‘No, I want to keep her.’

  The skirt is green and white, the hair is yellow, the mouth is pink and smiling. All wrapped up in cellophane and tied with a ribbon.

  Christ. Christ. What do I do now? What do I do?

  She forces herself to take the tin in her hand, to straighten up. Now go. One foot after the other, you have to do it. Hand him the first-aid kit, arrange your face in an expression of mild concern.

  There are parents standing close around, other children staring. He’s got Stella in his arms, holding her hard up against his body. ‘It’s okay, Stell,’ he says, ‘it’s stopped bleeding now. We’ll get a plaster on and you’ll be fine.’

  Where’s Stella’s mother? Why isn’t she there? Why doesn’t one of the mothers take her off him? Can’t they see the way he’s holding her?

  She holds out her arms. ‘I can take her. You put on the plaster.’ Her body and voice are trembling slightly though she’s trying to appear calm.

  Stella won’t budge. She holds on tightly, buries her face against his neck.

  ‘You’re my best buddy, aren’t you, Stell?’ he says. He has his gaze on Stephanie but if he sees anything in her face it doesn’t show. She follows him as he carries Stella over to a bench, puts her down, kneels in front of her, cleans the cut and covers it with plaster.

  ‘Shouldn’t we phone her mum? She may need to take Stella to the doctor.’

  ‘She’ll be here soon. She works till four-thirty.’

  ‘But that’s half an hour away.’

  ‘Stell’s okay. It’s not serious.’

  ‘Her mother should know.’

  ‘And she will know. Stella and I are going to sit here quietly together until she comes and we’re not going to get over-anxious, are we?’ His voice is calm but his eyes are steely.

  Stephanie looks towards the lake. The kayaks are stowed in the truck, the parents and children are beginning to leave. ‘I’ll sit and wait with you.’

  He shrugs. ‘If you like. No need, though.’

  She sits beside Stella who is silent, sucking her thumb and leaning against him. A green van pulls up in the car park. Stella’s mother waves and ambles down over the stones towards them. ‘Sorry I’m late. Oh. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing serious.’ He hands Stella to her mother.

  ‘You okay, sweetie?’ She looks directly at him and smiles. ‘Thanks for looking after her.’

  ‘No problem. We’re mates, eh Stell?’ He grins down at them both, winks.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Stephanie says.

  He turns towards her. ‘Right. Thanks for your help, Stephanie, it’s been great. When are you leaving?’

  ‘Maybe Saturday.’

  ‘Never did go hunting, did we?’

  She heads up towards the road. When she’s far enough away she turns and glances back. They’re moving towards the truck. He’s talking, leaning in towards Stella’s mother. He opens the door, reaches into the back seat.

  She says it casually over dinner. ‘Thought I might stay on an extra week if that’s okay.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  Dave’s grinning widely. Esther’s smile is apprehensive.

  She goes up to bed early. What should she do? What can she do? Go to the police? He made my sister gingerbread ladies and he’s making them for another little girl as well. It sounds so utterly farcical.

  And if she goes to the police she’ll be forced to tell Dave. She won’t do that. Not without unquestionable proof.

  So what can she do? She could find out where Stella’s mother lives, warn her. But the way she was looking up at Ed Black: this trustworthy man, and oh so attractive.

  She’d never convince her. Anyway, she can’t risk Stella’s mother warning him this weird woman telling me crazy stories.

  She has to find something more.

  39.

  She waits until she knows he’ll be at work. Apartments labelled one to six. Car parks outside. His truck isn’t there. She doesn’t know which apartment he has, though it must be one of the upstairs units. He’s talked about the view across the lake.

  Is that where you left her? Is she there?

  She buys coffee from a stall, sits on a bench nearby, on the other side of the road. Casually looks across up into the windows. The postie walks up the street, stops outside the apartments and distributes letters into the boxes.

  No cars out
side. And probably there are no mothers at home with kids; it’s a place most suited for professional couples or single people to live in, people who are out all day. Except that workers in Wanaka are frequently on shift work. There may be people in the apartments sleeping or watching TV who could notice her. The coffee’s scalding, burns her mouth.

  For Christ’s sake, Stephanie, what the hell are you thinking of? You’re actually considering breaking into someone’s house?

  But if she can get in she may find something and then she can go to the police, tell Dave. Oh God, it would be so much easier if she could just let someone else deal with it.

  She crosses the road. Slows slightly as she walks past, her eyes on the row of letter boxes. No names. How would it look to anyone watching from behind a curtain if she bent down and started rummaging through the contents? She can’t do that.

  She walks towards the lakefront, crosses the car park, the strip of grass, down over the shining stones.

  Running across the grass, across the rough stones at the lake, past the pines, into the changing rooms, hearing her voice echoing hollowly around the grim concrete walls.

  Gemma Gemma Gemma Gemma Gemma.

  My sister. My little sister.

  Minna’s ashen face I’m sorry, Dave, I’m sorry.

  Dave took them to the hospital, her and Liam and Jonny. Greg was in a metal bassinet at the end of Minna’s bed. She sat there leafing through a magazine. She didn’t look at Greg, didn’t pick him up when he made those snuffling noises before he started to cry.

  What do you think of your brother? Isn’t he cute? D’you want to hold him?

  She said what was expected and her eyes were empty.

  Stephanie didn’t kiss Minna, wouldn’t meet her eyes. She stood away from them all, close to the door. She didn’t go over with Liam and Jonny to look into the bassinet. She wanted Dave and Minna to know she hated them for what they’d done and hated this baby. Especially, she hated Minna you have a doll and you lose it so you think all you have to do is get a new one?

  She was only a child then but now she’s an adult and she’s treated women who’ve bashed their babies with more compassion than she’s ever given to her mother. She’s listened to their confessions, soothed them it’s all right, the hardest part is over now, you’ve been so brave, it’s okay. How has Minna endured all these years? What have her thoughts been in her most private moments at two, three, four in the morning?

  All those years ago. Inside the house. You couldn’t go out, couldn’t even look out through the drawn curtains. You were locked away. You never got out.

  You have to know.

  She turns back. Goes into a café, orders coffee and a muffin, stares out of the window. There’s a stack of circulars on the window ledge beside her. She takes one, reads idly through it, some band performing in the park in the weekend. She takes a pile, shoves it into her bag.

  She’s close to the apartments and at each letter box in the street she bends down and places a circular inside. She’s there. Right outside. She crouches beside the row of boxes. As she places a circular into each one she rummages through the envelopes, swiftly looking at the names. Apartment one, C. J. Benson. Apartment two, nothing. Three, Sandra Armitage. Four, nothing. Five, R. Gosling and P. Donaldson. Six, Andrew Whittaker. She straightens up, walks on, continues to pause by each letter box. Is she convincing? Does she look like an ordinary circular deliverer? She wants to run. Wants to giggle hysterically.

  Undercover agent Doctor Stephanie.

  It must be either apartments two or four. She turns, ducks back walking swiftly up the street. Is anyone watching her? Into the drive. Keep walking, keep walking. She’s at the entrance. There’s a main door into the vestibule. Closed.

  If anyone asks she has a story ready I heard one of these apartments was coming up for rent, thought I’d have a quick look. There’s a glass insert in the door and she presses her face up against it and looks inside. A small foyer, four doors leading off it and a staircase. She can make out the numbers attached to the doors. Apartments two and four are upstairs.

  She steps back and stares upwards. Even if she knew which one he lived in there seems no way of getting in. There’s a small balcony leading out of each upstairs apartment. If she had a ladder she could reach. But the door to the balcony is closed anyway. Probably locked.

  How far would she get before someone saw her, called the police? This is crazy. Pure craziness. She walks around the back. Every window in the place is tightly shut.

  She gets into her car, drives out to the rifle range. This is what she does. This is how insane this has become. She takes Dave’s rifle, comes out here and shoots at targets and it steadies her. Load, aim, hands and eyes steady, focus on the target, ease back the trigger.

  She’s getting better.

  Hold it steady. Concentrate. Aim and fire.

  What can she do? How can she get in?

  She’s hitting the targets. If she ever sees Dan again, if she ever goes hunting with him again, she won’t freeze. She’s promised herself that. She knows how to handle it now, she’s not afraid any more of the kick against her shoulder, that great whack of sound.

  Take a ladder round there. Dress up in overalls. Pretend to be a tradesperson I’m cleaning the guttering. Knock on the door, pose as a meter reader. It wouldn’t work. Nothing she thinks of could work.

  What does he do during the day? What are his habits, what are his routines? Think. Think.

  She opened the door of his truck. Reached across the seat for the first-aid kit.

  In the morning. She knows they’ll all be in class. English lessons. Sports theory. She parks off the road. If she avoids the gates probably no one will see her. She checks the road, ducks through a wire fence. The car park’s well away from the rest of the buildings. Nobody around. His truck is there. She edges up behind it. The door’s unlocked. She eases it open, reaches in and gropes about with her fingers.

  Yes. On the front seat. Wanaka’s a safe community. You can trust anyone in Wanaka.

  She grasps the bunch of keys. There’s the sound of a car coming into the driveway. Crouch down. Hide. Her breathing is fast and thick, catches in her throat. She hears it stop, the door slam, footsteps crossing the car park. Silence. She stands and runs.

  She’s in her car heading back to town, the bunch of keys on the passenger seat beside her. What if he doesn’t have his apartment keys on them? What if he goes to the truck and finds them gone? What if he suspects it’s her?

  Just keep going. You have to do this.

  Walk casually and confidently. Up the path to the door. Apartment two or four. Four keys on the ring.

  It’s fine, nobody’s here, nobody’s watching.

  The first key. It goes in when she pushes it then jams in the lock. She has to twist and jerk to get it out. Her hands are slick and clammy, she feels cold sweat sliding down her back.

  Someone will come someone will come someone will come oh Christ what will you do if somebody comes?

  The second key. Won’t go near it. The third one slides in easily enough but won’t turn. The fourth is the ignition key to the truck.

  Maybe it’s a tight lock, maybe it’s always hard to open, oil sometimes works, there’s lip moisturiser in her bag, take it out, rub it on the third key, that one’s the best bet, this is taking too long, anyone could have seen her.

  Push it in, twist. She’s inside. She’s climbing the stairs.

  The place is silent, no one about. At the top of the stairs another locked door. This one’s easy. The key slips in and turns. No trouble at all and she’s inside. Beside the door. Listening hard. Ready to run. Through the door, sprinting down the stairs, making it out. Out into that normal, daytime world of blue lakes and sunshine and kids in playgrounds. That real and safe world where people don’t steal keys and don’t break into houses. Where the idea that someone would lure and take a child with the intention of harm is absurd, something that happens somewhere else and to other p
eople.

  She could go back now. Walk calmly out and down the staircase. Close the door on all this. Return the keys. Nobody would ever know, no harm done, and by the end of the day she could have said her goodbyes and be on the road heading back to her life. Her life.

  Her heart’s hammering less painfully, she can breathe easier. She’s in a large, airy room painted a neutral beige, there’s a kitchen at one end, bar stools pushed underneath an extended bench top, dark grey Formica, wood veneer cupboards. At the other end are two doors. There’s a black sofa, a wide, dark-wood low table, a flat-screen television and a stereo on shelves attached to the wall. The sun is beaming through the windows. Part of the deck is glassed in and there’s a rack out there hung with washing. Running gear. Shorts, T-shirts, socks, towels.

  All purely functional. No books, no photographs, no plants, no clutter, nothing at all on the walls. It’s somewhere to eat in, sleep in.

  Somewhere you could easily pack up within an hour and leave.

  She stands close by the door looking around her, listening hard. All she can hear is passing traffic out on the road, the putter of a boat on the lake. She starts to move. Quiet. Quiet. There a small pile of mail on the coffee table. She leafs through it. Circulars, electricity and phone bills. Nothing personal. She opens the kitchen drawers and cupboards. Solely utilitarian. Pots, bowls, knives, plates, forks. No clutter, no mess, everything clean, in its place and matching. No odd plates: a standard dinner set, same with the cutlery. The pots appear new, as do the set of bowls and the microwave. It’s as if he’s arrived here without anything, gone to the local hardware store and bought everything new. She runs her hand over the sofa. New as well. No cracks or marks.

  The bathroom. A shower and hand-basin. Again, meticulously clean and orderly. Nothing left around, nothing out of place. Toothbrush, toothpaste. Soap, shower gel, shampoo on the rack in the shower. She opens the cupboard. Shaving gear. Paracetamol.

  Nothing. The other door.

  The bedroom is large. There’s a bed, a chest of drawers, a desk at the far end with a laptop computer on top of it. The built-in wardrobe takes up one side of the room. She opens it up. Clothes fill only a quarter of the space. Sweaters, jeans, shirts. Shoes on a rack. Everything looks new. So new.