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

by Richardson, Paddy

  Is this what he does? Moves on, starts everything afresh, new clothes, new everything, a modification of his name? She remembers the woman in the office called him Edward. Beth called him Ward. So why doesn’t he simply switch names, take on an entirely new identity?

  Because he needs to stay within the system. He needs his records and qualifications to get jobs. He needs jobs that give him legitimacy, make him appear trustworthy. And maybe it’s also because he likes to take small risks; perhaps the slim chance of discovery is exciting.

  Perhaps that’s why he’s come back to Wanaka where he may be remembered, where he can’t start entirely anew, where he may be taking an extra risk. Perhaps it’s been too easy or perhaps he’s simply arrogant enough to believe there’s no threat. He’s out of danger now. If anyone suspected anything it would have come out long ago.

  Or is there still a chance she’s mistaken? Still that slim possibility that this is merely a series of coincidences she’s misconstrued?

  It must have been him.

  There’s a sharp sound below her. A door slamming. Voices and footsteps on the staircase. Where to go? Where to go? She’s utterly still, frozen. A babble of conversation, a gust of music. Singing. Someone in the apartment on the other side. She looks at her watch. Close on lunch break. God, what if he wants to go out for his lunch break, goes to the truck, looks for his keys?

  Best not to think about it. Nothing she can do. Keep looking. Get it over with. She switches on the computer. Password? She tries variations of his name, Ted, Eddie, Ward Black, Ed Black. Nothing works. She’s hopeless with computers; even if she got into it, she’d probably not find anything. She opens the top drawer of the chest. Socks. New and matching. Underclothes in the next. T-shirts, running shorts, track pants. The last drawer. Nothing. There’s one final cupboard behind the computer desk. Sheets, towels, pillow cases. Crisp, fresh, meticulously folded. She pushes her hands beneath the linen. Nothing there. Goes back to the drawers. Lifts and searches. Nothing.

  And that’s it.

  She stands in front of the computer. What could it be? What would he use? She types in names. Gemma. Gracie. Rosie. Stella. Error.

  She could steal the computer. Find someone who could break into it. If there’s porn on it that would be something she could take to the police, a way of getting them to listen a teacher who downloads child porn. But if she took it he’d be alerted and wary, might leave. She stands there willing it to open. Error. Error.

  She retraces her steps. Through the bathroom, the bedroom, kitchen, living room, behind the sofa, under the shoe rack. There’s nothing. She’s broken into a house, risked her reputation and career all for nothing. She’s failed.

  She closes the door behind her. Down the stairs, open the door, pull it behind you, across the path, down the driveway. As if you belong here. It’s like learning to walk. She has to concentrate, tell her feet and hands what to do.

  Into her car. Park off the road, check there’s nobody there, crouch and run, cross the car park, keep your head down. The truck. Around to the door. Open it, reach in, replace the keys.

  Behind her. Footsteps across the loose gravel towards the car park. Footsteps and voices. She edges into the truck, pulls the door silently behind her. Down on the floor. She’s on her knees, her head pressed against the front seat.

  Christ, what if it’s him?

  An engine starts up. She hears wheels moving over the gravel, hears as the vehicle slows before turning into the main road. She searches blindly under the seats with her hands. Nothing. Straightens up, pulls opens the glove box. A handbook for the truck. An AA map. Nothing else other than a soft leather pouch.

  And it’s so utterly absurd. Because here she is, predictable, play-it-safe Stephanie, crouched down in the front seat of a truck she’s broken into, her heart juddering, sweating with fear and so desperate to find anything at all that she’s opening up a sunglass case. And discovering sunglasses.

  Except they’re old sunglasses. Not the ones he wears which are expensive and trendy. These are dated. And everything else he has is new. She takes them out. Turns them around in her hands why would he keep these? She lifts out the soft cloth lining.

  Underneath it a circle of shells made to fit the smallest of wrists. A child’s bracelet.

  Something else.

  Cherry blossom. Fairy dresses. The plastic butterfly is bravely, brilliantly, intensely pink. Bright pink and good as new. She clasps it in her hand, presses it against her heart.

  Walk into the kitchen composed and in good spirits. Accept the glass of wine Dave holds out to you. Chat to Greg about his holiday plans. Compliment Esther on the chicken casserole. Watch television. And when you can, escape up the stairs, close the bedroom door.

  Because now you know. Absolutely know. You are the only one who knows and you don’t know what to do.

  Sit on the bed your head spinning with rage and grief.

  What should she do? Tell Dave? Go to the police with the evidence? Put her family through it, the long haul of court proceedings, all that horror. The speculation, the memories, the pain.

  Put Beth and Andy through that as well? And what’s she got as evidence? Possibilities, supposition. It’s not enough. He’ll get a good lawyer, explain his way out of it. Gingerbread and a plastic butterfly hair-clasp. Jesus. He’d laugh his way out of it.

  Her cell rings. ‘Steph?’

  It’s Minna.

  Her fingers move to switch off her phone, then she hesitates.

  ‘Steph?’

  She’s silent, thinking.

  When she speaks her voice is tentative, wary. ‘I need help.’

  40.

  She’s there early. She parks in the car park, looks up into the bush. It’s a bleak, bitter day, clouds broiling up over Mount Aspiring.

  A dangerous day.

  She listens for the truck.

  ‘Hi there. It’s Stephanie.’ Breezy, careless.

  ‘I thought you’d left town.’

  ‘Got a family thing on. Have to please the oldies sometimes. You know.’

  ‘Not me.’

  She hears the easy, soft chuckle and her stomach lurches. ‘We’re not all free spirits. What I was thinking, though.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thing is, I’m going a bit stir crazy. I thought if you were keen maybe we could do a day’s hunting.’

  ‘Take students, you mean?’

  ‘Uh. Uh, yes. If you like.’

  ‘I don’t have a rifle.’

  ‘I’d borrow Dave’s.’

  He’s not saying anything. The silence draws on as she waits. ‘I don’t know. Students and firearms, it’s a bit of a no-go. We have to be safety-conscious. You know. PC and all that.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘But then again it’d be a new and novel experience for them, wouldn’t it? A real Kiwi experience and it’s not all that likely we’d shoot anything.’

  ‘Probably wouldn’t even see anything.’ Laugh. Lightly, flippantly laugh.

  ‘Where were you thinking of going?’

  ‘Up the Matukituki.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the students. There’s two I’m thinking of. Wouldn’t take any more than that. Eliminate the risk factor’s what we’re told to do. So, no danger, eh?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘If I can’t get anyone interested I’ll come on my own. What day were you thinking of?’

  ‘I’m free any time.’

  ‘Thought you said there was some family thing you had on.’

  ‘That’s a night thing. A family dinner.’

  ‘Friday’s best for me. What time?’

  ‘We’d have to make an early start. It’s a bit of a hike.’

  ‘Seven? At the car park?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘See you then. Looking forward to it.’

  It’s 6.45 a.m. She hears the engine, gets out of her car and takes the pack out of the boot. The rifle.

  He’s alone. He gets out, blows on
his hands, rubs them together. ‘She’s cold. Not much of a day. The weather looks a bit rough.’

  ‘No students?’

  ‘Pulled out at the last minute. Said they’d come down with flu. Didn’t want to get out of bed more like.’

  She’s pleased. The students could’ve been a difficulty. Still, they might’ve helped as well. It could have gone either way but this means she doesn’t have to think about it. ‘The weather should be all right. I listened to the radio this morning. Said it would clear in the afternoon.’

  ‘Right then. We’re away, are we?’

  ‘There’s wet-weather gear in the pack. Food and a thermos and water. Have you got anything?’

  He shrugs, flashes her a grin. ‘Just brought myself. I’ll have to rely on you for sustenance. So how do you want to do this?’

  ‘We’ve a way to walk. The pack’s quite heavy. If you carry that I’ll carry the rifle. You guide, I’ll follow you.’

  She keeps her voice even, matter-of-fact. Even so, he’ll know the rules, know this isn’t the way it should be. Do his eyes flicker slightly as he looks back at her?

  ‘Whatever you say. Your gig eh, Stephanie?’

  They move across farmland, grass up to their knees, wet, thick and coarse. The sound of a car up on the highway. She listens carefully; it’s slowing down, must be near to where the turn-off is. There’s a fine drizzle of rain. They’re crossing the river and she’s up to her ankles in water, can feel the icy cold through her boots. The stones are slick and slippery under her feet, the current strong, and she treads cautiously. She can’t slip. She has the rifle over her shoulder, it’s half-cocked but the bullets are in the breech. He’s walking quickly, some distance away ahead of her. She mustn’t hurry; has to slow the pace.

  He glances back at her over his shoulder. ‘You keeping up okay?’

  ‘Fine. I’m fine.’

  Now the bush is closing in around them, dank and shadowed and mysterious, the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of their footsteps, the occasional peal of bird call.

  Dark on dark. The black-green of bush, grey of the sky overhead, just made out through the tangle of foliage.

  Keep over to the left side. There are ravines. You could fall over the edge without seeing them.

  She walked this track years ago with Dave and Minna. Shale rising up from the base of mountains. The pure white mountain glitter. Star-gazer. Moon-raker. Story-book names for the peaks. He’s just in front of her.

  They squat on rocks. She pours coffee, scalding hot from the thermos into mugs. She hands him sandwiches, wrapped in cling-wrap from one of Esther’s plastic Tupperware containers.

  A picnic. It’s like a picnic. That day. Penny Muldrew stacking left-over bacon and egg pie into a Tupperware bowl, pushing the top down with her thick brown fingers to squeeze out the air.

  Did you have her then?

  Talk to him. Even though it makes you sick to look at him, even though every word you utter sticks in your throat, you must talk to him because everything must seem utterly normal.

  ‘How long do you think you’ll stay on?’

  ‘In Wanaka, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t know. Might be for the rest of my life.’

  ‘You must be enjoying being back then.’

  ‘Good enough so far. You never know what you might end up doing. Look at you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. Great career. You ever thought you’d do that? Way back when you were a kid, did you ever think you had it in you to do that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘See what I mean? You can never be certain of what’s ahead.’

  Time to walk on. She glances at her watch. They’ve been walking for over two hours now. They’re deep into the valley. Darker the further they are in. The trees are packed close together, the forest floor cushioned by centuries of matted moss and leaves. Eerie, cold. She glances swiftly over her shoulder.

  How did you do it? How did you get her to go with you?

  If anyone ever tries to talk to you, Gemma, someone you don’t know, don’t answer. Don’t ever talk to anyone you don’t know. And never ever go away with someone you don’t know. If anyone you don’t know tries to talk to you, you must find Mummy as quickly as you can. Just find Mummy or if Mummy isn’t there go to Stephanie. Okay? You listening, Gemma?

  Except she knew him. He played with her, tickled her, brought her gingerbread ladies.

  Gemma. Hey Gemma, are you lost? Can’t find the boys? Couldn’t keep up, eh? Come on, come with me, we’ll find Mummy, eh Gems? Come with me and I might find something nice, a little treat for my favourite buddy.

  Is that the way it was?

  Stay calm. You have to be calm. They’re winding through the valley floor and there’s the twists and turns she knows about. Up ahead there’s the clear space. She can do it soon. He moves around the bend and she follows. And nothing. She can’t see him.

  Where is he? For Christ’s sake where’s he gone?

  She stands motionless staring ahead, half-turns, sensing someone behind her moving swiftly on the track, she has no time to turn properly, face him, get out of the way before she feels his hands wrest the rifle out of her grip and shove her so hard she stumbles forward onto her knees.

  She hears the harsh, distinctive click as he snaps closed the breech. ‘A little shooting mishap, was it? The rifle goes off and I end up dead? A sad accident, eh?’

  He’s standing over her. She stares up at him.

  Face him out. Don’t let him see your fear. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Think I’m fucking brainless? You’ve been stalking me ever since you got here.’

  ‘Stalking you?’

  ‘Watching me. Asking questions. For fuck’s sake, do you think I’m stupid?’

  She’s staring up into his eyes. She’s supposed to have the rifle on him when she asks this but she says it anyway. You took her, didn’t you? You killed Gemma.’

  ‘Get up.’

  She stands and faces him. ‘You did it. You killed Gemma and then you killed Gracie.’

  She sees the flash of unease shift across his face. ‘Turn around and walk.’

  She’s calm. It’s so utterly strange but somehow she’s not afraid. Because now she knows, absolutely knows, and even though her instincts tell her that probably she will die out here at least she’s done what she set out to do.

  And he knows too. Knows someone has found him out.

  Her voice comes out strong and scornful. ‘You’re going to shoot me in the back? Giving me the same chances you gave Gemma and Gracie? Two little girls. What a man you are.’

  ‘Fucking turn around.’

  He shouts it. She remains still looking directly into his face and he brings up the rifle okay if that’s the way you and there’s a sudden and bewildering flurry of sound behind her, the snap of dry undergrowth shifting, a low chuckling call. For a fleeting instant he’s distracted. He glances swiftly over her shoulder and his hand slackens on the rifle. She rams her fists hard against him and runs.

  41.

  Breath coming in piercing, walloping punches. Run. Run.

  Into the bush. Into the dark. Zig-zagging in and out of shadows and pockets of brightness, through the trees, in out, in out, go, go, don’t trip, don’t fall.

  Light filtering through the leaves. A lattice of light. The flicker of colour and the trill that is almost a giggle. Run.

  Run.

  Tugging at her hands. Come and look. Come and see. Hiding places to tuck yourself away safe. Cubby-holes. Under the house. In the garden. Under the canopy of black current bushes. Come and see.

  Here. Crouch and shuffle, shove your body further into the scrub as far as you can get. Lie flat. Flat down and don’t move, don’t breathe. Her parka is dark, pants black, pull the hood over your face, he’ll pick up the whiteness of your face. Still. Utterly still.

  Is he behind her? Is he watching?

>   ‘May as well come out. I’ll find you.’ His voice mocking, echoing around, around, around.

  ‘I’m waiting, Stephanie.’

  All he has to do is wait it out. Any movement, any attempt to run and he’ll be on her. He’s faster and stronger than she is and he has the rifle. Even if she made it out of the bush he’d take her before she reached her car.

  She thought she could do it. Thought she could hold him with the rifle, force out of him where Gemma is. A confession. Christ. She’s been so stupid, so naïve; he was onto her from the beginning. She should have known he’d be wary, should have known he’d be cunning. All the time she was watching him he’d been watching as well. Watching, manipulating.

  She closes her eyes. Still, she’s not afraid. Feels only a calm steadiness that has stilled her body and her mind as if the bush has embraced her, is keeping her lulled and safe.

  Perhaps if she stays here he’ll never find her. She’ll simply give up her body to the elements, to this twilight world. She can feel the change in temperature. The weather’s closing in; eventually she’d slip into unconsciousness.

  She can stay here, let the cold take her. Give into it.

  42.

  There’s the slow languorous float of ice-cold rain. She’s utterly still, scarcely breathing. So easy now to slip into sleep, into unconsciousness. Hypothermia. It’s an easy death. You drift slowly and effortlessly into heavy sluggishness, you’ll likely hallucinate for a while and then you just slide away.

  Gemma. Gemma. That ripple of sound, the shimmer of colour flickering through the bush. Was she hallucinating then? Is she now? Is she imagining the pitter-patter touch of small fingers on her cheek, the soft intake of breath?

  Raindrops? The wind?

  ‘I’m here, Stephanie. I’m waiting. I’m good at waiting. You must know that, Stephanie, how good I am at waiting.’

  She hears the crackle of scrub under his feet as he moves. His voice ricochets out, insistent, mocking. ‘I’ll get what I want in the end, Stephanie. I always get what I want.’