Nature of Ash, The
Page 30
I stare at her. Remember the way we were waved through the road blocks. All the calls I made on our bugged phone that could’ve got me in the shit. The way the cops agreed to take Mum in alive and get her help. In fact, I’ve had a lot of people on my side: Mr Prakeesh at the hospital, Simon Chan, Erich, Monica — even Ana, once she climbed down off her broken horse. More good people than the few rotten bastards at the top. She’s just one bloody surprise after the next, is Jeannie. No wonder she doesn’t mind if Trav comes with us. But, hold on …
‘Does that mean you always knew where Mum was hiding out?’
She shakes her head. ‘I wish, though it’s entirely possible Hargraves did. We’ll have to wait and see.’ She puts her arm around my shoulders and guides me towards the stairs. ‘I promise you, Ashley, the police will do everything we can to keep you safe. We failed your father. No one wants to fail Mikey and you.’
Can I trust her? Actually, I think I do. All along she’s done her best to help me, even if it didn’t seem so at the time.
I wait until she’s gone, then drop in at Lucinda’s on my way to collect Dad’s ashes from the undertaker. And though Lucinda’s surprised by Jeannie’s admission it seems that she agrees.
‘There are an awful lot of good people just bumbling along not really knowing what’s going on. After they’re made aware, that’s quite a different thing. Once the truth is out there in the world, it swells and grows until people can’t ignore it any more.’
As she runs me through our schedule for tomorrow, I try to put any remaining fears out of my mind. I have to learn to trust again at some point, I guess. Jeannie and Lucinda deserve to be top of the list.
Once we’ve agreed on the specific wording of my declaration, I take my leave and trek over to the undertakers for one final time. Lucinda’s paid his bill. I told her not to, but she insisted that what I’m about to do for the whole country is worth tenfold — though if I really want to make an issue of it, I can repay her when money from Erich’s houses comes through.
It’s the weirdest bloody feeling in the world, walking home with Dad’s remains clutched in my arms. Part of me feels sick, the rest relieved to have him close. I know just where I’m going to sprinkle them. The perfect place.
All night I prowl our empty apartment in Dad’s dressing gown and tuck away the things we’ve had to leave behind. It’s been a nightmare choosing what should stay or go: everything takes on meaning when you’re leaving it behind. In the end, we packed up the things we’d need to set up a new life, only giving in to sentiment over photographs and books. Oh yeah, and the kite as well. Who knows? Maybe one day it will be nice to have some positive memento of my childhood.
Without people to inhabit them, the rooms are soulless husks. The quietness is unsettling, and gives me too much room to think. Will I ever really understand the souring of Mum’s life? Or how she got caught up in so much slaughter and destruction? Lucinda has told me about other covert Secret Service operations around the world, where people started out fighting for justice then woke one day to find their groups had been hijacked to prop up corrupt regimes. In the process members lost their grip on right and wrong. Lost their minds. Their families. Often their lives. I understand that, but the fact remains that Mum aided the murder of my father. And tortured Mikey, and tried to kill Trav, Jiao and me. Yet in the seconds before she died, she saved my life. She had the opportunity to knock off Mikey too — but she resisted. Go figure that. I might forgive her someday — but not now. Hell no. Not yet. My heart’s still too much of a mess.
I crawl into Dad’s bed for one last time, and tuck myself around the canister of his ashes as I run through what I’m going to say. Tomorrow I need to make the case so unquestionable and clear, no one will be able to contradict my claims. What was it Dad’s letter said? Free speech is only tolerated when it suits those in charge. Screw them. It’s not just our own country that needs to know what those bastards put us through, their dirty tactics impact on the entire world. Once I close the door on this house, I’ll say my piece, then start a different sort of life. Tomorrow I walk out a man — alone — ready or not.
In the morning, Jeannie drops me at the hotel near the airport where the interview will be broadcast live, then heads off to collect Grandma. The conference room’s set up with all the gear, and — Murphy’s bloody Law — the pushy bitch who tried to interview me outside Dad’s building has been chosen. She tries to schmooze me up, but I resist. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to take a stand.
Just when I think we are about to start, another woman rushes over and tries to put some kind of poxy make-up on me. I wave her the hell away and then the cameraman counts us in. I close my eyes and hold a picture of Dad’s face inside my head. Old Erich’s voice butts in over the top: Heart not head, Ash. Heart not head. It’s what I need.
I open up my heart, all right, then fire out my story from both barrels. Stuff them all. I tell it straight: the threats, the surveillance, the spies, the lies, the loss of lives … Ms Schmoozy Interviewer is so bloody excited, she can hardly keep pace. At one point I notice I’ve made her cry — and then I realise Lucinda and the cameraman are crying too. Christ, and I thought I was being staunch. I end it with a plea for the UN to help restore our rights — and to arrest the corrupt bastards at the top.
I’m so drained by the time I’m finished, Lucinda has to help me to the car. I try not to look at anyone as we hurry back down the corridor, but Lucinda slows when she spots Simon Chan, who’s going in to back up my claims.
I shake his hand. ‘I owe you one, eh? I’m sorry I got you involved.’
‘No worries, matey. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but there are millions of people around the world who care. We will reach them and, when they know the truth, they’ll act.’
With his hope ringing in my ears I’m bustled away to Grandma, who’s sitting in the back seat of the car, smiling calmly despite not having a bloody clue what’s going on. Not that I’m much better: I can’t even remember what I just said.
We drive around to a side entrance of the airport and there’s a helicopter waiting on the tarmac, its rotors already spinning. With all my high-flying adventures I reckon I’ve blown my quota of carbon credits for life. After a little coaxing and a lot of shoving, we manage to get Grandma into her seat and belt her in. God knows what she thinks is going on, but she’s clutching her handbag like a life ring.
Once we’re in the air Jeannie and Lucinda rehash every word I spouted in the interview while Grandma ohs-and-ahs over the view. I close my eyes. Think about the probable consequences. They’ll try their bloody best to deny everything — and their henchmen will come after me. There’s even a damn good chance they’ll paint my little thrown-together family as the next Muru. Now there’s a fucking quirk of fate. Note to self: Dad was right. Irony is just hypocrisy with style.
The pilot sets us down at Raurimu, where Trav is waiting with the car.
‘Thank you for everything,’ I say to Lucinda. I hug her goodbye.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘You did a very brave thing. Those of us who hate what’s going on will keep on fighting for the truth.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘One way or another. Come up and see us soon.’ Now I turn to Jeannie, who’s got her arm looped around Trav. ‘Hell, Jeannie, I hope I haven’t dropped you in the shit. You’ve done so much for me. What can I say?’
‘Promise to be careful. And keep in touch.’ She rests her hand on my cheek. ‘And look after my boy.’
‘I will. See you up here at Christmas if things don’t calm down first.’ I kiss her and quickly turn away. Leave her to say goodbye to Trav. Help poor confused Grandma into the car — she’s looking tearful now, and I’m not sure how much more disruption she can take. Or me.
Late afternoon we all make our way across the river to the bushy glade I found our first time here. Our new home. The sun filters down between the tree ferns and nikau, casting about a muted golden light. Jiao stands betw
een her parents, Mikey holds Grandma’s hand to keep her steady.
I open up the canister as the birds sing a hymn to freedom, and we each take out a handful of ashes to sprinkle on the forest floor. It’s much grainier than I expect: a mix of ash with tiny flecks of bone. I raise my arm and let it trickle through my fingers. A sigh of wind picks up the dust and swirls it, the particles catching in the filtered rays before they’re absorbed into the air and simply disappear. Like memories. They fill a certain physical space inside your head. Yet when you take them out and shake them loose, they deconstruct. And though they grow smaller and smaller, by some freaky quirk of nature they crystallise into something abso-bloody-lutely beautiful before they vanish from view. But it doesn’t matter that you can no longer see them. That’s okay. Because your heart knows that they’re always there.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks to Tom Watkins, Maari Gray and Paul Buchanan, and to Whitireia Polytechnic for their research support. A big thank you to Jenny Hellen and the team at Random House NZ, Joe Monti (BG Literary, New York) and special thanks to editor Jane Parkin. And to my incredible first readers: Rose Lawson, Julia Wells, Belinda Hager, Nicky Hager, Debbie Hager, Helen Los and Brian Laird — thank you all so much for your excellent advice, love and ongoing support.
For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz
OTHER BOOKS BY
MANDY HAGER
Smashed
The Blood of the Lambs trilogy:
The Crossing
Into the Wilderness
Resurrection
Copyright
The assistance of Creative New Zealand is gratefully acknowledged by the publisher.
A RANDOM HOUSE BOOK published by Random House New Zealand 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand
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First published 2012
© 2012 Mandy Hager
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 86979 903 8
eISBN 978 1 86979 904 5
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