Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  Tubs fished another beer out of the lake, cracked it open.

  ‘Onemanawa?’ Brownie pursed his mouth. ‘I suppose the closest translation is “sands of my heart”.’

  ‘Sand up my arse, more like it,’ said Tubs. ‘Fucken stupid.’

  ‘Why?’ Deano said. ‘If that was what it was called before?’

  Tubs’s lip curled. ‘Who says it was called that before? It’s been Gabriel’s Bay for like a hundred fucken years, so why say that’s wrong now? Just stirring, if you ask me. Local “ee-wee” creating a stink so they can bribe more dosh out of the government.’

  Mr Hanrahan’s words, Sam knew. Tubs’s own grasp of politics and history was less firm than the grip he had on the wet beer can, which had already slipped once out of his hand.

  ‘Because, of course,’ said Brownie, ‘the government owes us nothing.’

  ‘Your lot are getting fucken millions from them!’ said Tubs. ‘Whereas what have us white folks got?’

  ‘Autonomy over your own culture and language,’ said Brownie. ‘The lion’s share of land and property ownership. Majority representation in business, politics and the judiciary. Easier access to higher education. A society focused around your traditions and customs—’

  ‘Aqueducts,’ said Deano.

  ‘What?’ said Tubs.

  ‘Monty Python,’ said Deano. ‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’

  ‘You’re a fucken weirdo.’

  Tubs drained his beer, chucked the can on the stones beside him and fetched another.

  His third, though Sam knew he shouldn’t be counting. They were Tubs’s beers, as was the brand-new tent they’d put up — plenty of arguing until Deano started reading out the instructions, which meant they had to completely dismantle everything and start again. Mr Hanrahan had provided the tent, plus rifles and ammo, backpacks, sleeping bags, binoculars, Tilley lamps, camp stove and pots, chillers filled with cans of beer and a ton of food, and then he’d lent them a new double-cab ute — a black one with leather seats and a fat chrome sports bar sticking out the back. All Sam and the others had to supply were spare clothes.

  ‘And our souls,’ Brownie had whispered to Sam as they loaded up.

  Sam, voted most sensible behind the wheel, drove them into the ranges, up a steep, rutted dirt road, hemmed in by thorny bush that seemed intent on scratching the shit out of the ute’s paintwork, and slowly down the other side, bumping and rolling over boulders and potholes, to a campsite beside a small lake. There was a Department of Conservation hut there, but it was closed for maintenance — some joker had left a frying pan on the stove, according to Tubs, and the inside was black with smoke damage and smelled acrid and toxic, like burned plastic. So they’d set up the tent on a grassy patch under some trees, unloaded the gear and, at Tubs’s insistence, were now sitting on the stony lakeshore, rewarding themselves with a few bevies.

  ‘We should start cooking soon,’ said Sam. ‘Otherwise it’ll be too dark to see.’

  ‘Chill,’ said Tubs. ‘We’ve got the lamps.’

  Deano hopped up. ‘I’m onto it.’

  He was perkier than Sam had seen him for ages. At primary school, Deano was like a terrier dog, never still, always nagging at them to play a game, run around. About halfway through high school, he discovered weed and that slowed him down. He could still pull out a turn of speed on the rugby field, but after school Deano quit playing. Tubs didn’t play much anymore either, preferring to socialise in the clubrooms than train. Brownie — he made the team for most matches, but since his mum died he played with a quiet intensity that somehow created a distance between him and his team-mates. He wasn’t aloof, exactly — he joked and laughed with the others. But there were times when he’d stand apart, beer untouched, staring off at nothing. If he caught Sam looking at him, he’d wink and Sam would feel relieved, though he wasn’t sure why.

  Sam was nagged every so often by the thought he should ask Brownie if he was OK. But he figured that if there was something wrong, Brownie would say. Until that happened, Sam felt it was pretty safe to assume Brownie was all right. Even though, like Sam’s dad had said, he had more to handle than perhaps he should at his age.

  Maybe that was why Brownie stuck with their group? For the same reasons Sam did — part habit, part need to hang onto a connection that had been part of his life since he could remember. Sam had family, a few other mates he’d met building, and no doubt he’d make new friends in Christchurch. But if Brownie stopped being friends with the three of them, who would he have in his life except his sick father?

  Still, he seemed happy enough right now, amused by Deano bustling around like a mother hen. Sam stood up. Better go do his duty.

  ‘Do you want to help us with the kai, bro?’ he asked Brownie. Brownie smiled, shook his head. ‘Too many cooks,’ he said. ‘But I’m happy to fetch the fire extinguisher from the truck. Just in case.’

  As it turned out, all Sam had to do was unpack the plates and cutlery. Deano sorted through the food and with swift decisiveness arranged it all into piles — one for each of their weekend’s meals, and the rest for taking with them in their packs. Deano then lit the stove, and in fifteen minutes had made a meal of vegetable fried rice and canned tuna with a dash of chilli sauce. Hardly cordon bleu, but hot, tasty and filling.

  They ate sitting around a fire that Brownie had built on the stones. The night was clear and the stars starting to appear above. When he was ten, Sam had learned to recognise all the constellations. Orion’s Belt, Canis Major, Scorpius, the Southern Cross, the Pleiades or Seven Sisters — the Māori Matariki. He’d forgotten them all now except the Southern Cross. Fortunately, being nameless didn’t make them any less beautiful.

  Tubs clattered his empty plate onto the stones, belched.

  ‘You’ll make someone a great wife, Deano,’ he said. ‘How are you at blow jobs?’

  ‘Less competent than you,’ said Brownie. ‘From what I hear.’

  ‘Fucker.’

  Tubs was six beers down now, but he was happy enough, grinning instead of scowling. Drinking could make Tubs go either way. Last weekend, he’d got into a scrap at the clubrooms. He’d given one of the older guys an angry lecture about mistakes he’d made in the day’s game, and if he hadn’t been Rob Hanrahan’s son, the club lads would have taken him outside and kicked the shit out of him. Sam knew this because he’d heard Uncle Gene telling his dad. Not because the lads were afraid of Mr Hanrahan, his uncle said, but because Tubs’s dad hated being made to look bad, and if he found out his son had breached club etiquette, been an embarrassment, he’d find the shit the lads had kicked out of Tubs, stuff it back in and kick it out of him all over again. General consensus was that even Tubs didn’t deserve that. But, said Uncle Gene, the fat kid was seriously testing the limits of the club’s compassion.

  ‘What’s the plan for tomorrow?’

  Sam directed the question to the group but really he was only asking Deano.

  And Deano answered. ‘Have breakfast, get packed, walk up into the hills. There are some clearings further up that deer often hang out in. Who knows? We might spot the odd chamois, too.’

  ‘Chamois?’ Tubs said. ‘I clean cars with a fucken chamois, dickhead.’

  ‘Which were originally made from the skin of the chamois mountain goat,’ said Brownie. ‘The chamois here and the deer are non-native European imports. Like you lot.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Tubs got up, swayed then recovered, headed to the trees. The sound of peeing carried clearly and went on for so long, the others looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘He’ll return a shrivelled husk,’ said Brownie. ‘A raisin of his former self.’

  Tubs didn’t return, but instead wavered towards the tent, took five goes to open the flap. They heard the thud of his body landing on, hopefully, his sleeping bag.

  ‘Shit,’ said Brownie. ‘Welcome to Snoresville. No sleep for the sober.’

  Deano was collecting the dirty
dishes.

  ‘I’ll boil up some washing water,’ he said. ‘Get these clean for tomorrow.’

  ‘Need a hand?’ said Brownie.

  ‘Nah, she’s right. I like doing it.’

  ‘Will you wake us up in the morning, Deano?’ said Sam.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Will you tuck us in and read us a story?’ said Brownie.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Deano.

  But he sounded happy, and all the while he cleaned up, he hummed.

  His mood should have made Sam happy, too, but instead, it filled him with a sudden dread. This should be Deano’s life, not sifting between odd jobs, smoking weed and sitting on the couch watching shit TV with Loretta, who looked like one of the lumpy bread rolls she sold and could barely string two words together. He should be using his skills, alongside people who valued him. Not flogging dope for evil bastards who couldn’t give a rat’s arse about anyone, and with whom there was no such thing as a second chance.

  Sparks, rising glowing motes, caught his eye. Brownie was poking the fire with a stick, to revive the dying flames. The light shining from below made his face look hollowed out, ghostly, and Sam remembered them all one Halloween at his house, torches propped under their chins, jumping out at Sam’s little sisters and cousins, who went shrieking down the hallway, spurting pee. Nowadays, the girls wouldn’t turn a hair, would sneer and say ‘Whatever, losers’.

  ‘Ready to bag some stags?’ Sam said to Brownie.

  ‘If I end the day without being shot by Tubs, I’ll call it a success.’

  ‘We could remove his bullets while he’s not looking.’

  Brownie’s smile went up in one corner only.

  ‘That’s our Sam,’ he said. ‘Always watching out for us.’

  Sam couldn’t tell if his friend meant it as compliment or criticism. He didn’t ask, kept quiet, lay back on the stones and stared into the swirls of stars that had died eons before anyone he knew had even been thought of.

  The tent came down quicker than it went up, was slung in the back of the ute, along with the empty chiller, Tilley lamps and cooking gear. Rifles were stuffed into bags, and the backpacks, sleeping bags and a pile of soaked clothing chucked on top of everything. It was a shit packing job, but everyone was too pissed-off to take more care. Which, Sam thought but didn’t say, was the whole reason they were pissed-off in the first place.

  He drove from the campsite, everyone silent and sulking. Then the recriminations began. Tubs. Couldn’t help himself.

  ‘I had the fucken shot,’ he said. ‘I called it.’ ‘I called it,’ said Deano. ‘You were just standing there, like a stunned mullet.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ said Brownie. ‘You both missed. Doe all of thirty metres away, in open country, and you both missed.’

  ‘I missed,’ said Tubs, ‘because Deano fucken fired when I’d called it!’

  ‘I called it!

  ‘What, in fucken sign language? Sorry, I wasn’t looking at you. I was looking at the deer I was all ready to shoot!’

  ‘Wonder you could see anything!’ said Deano. ‘You were still fucken half-pissed!’

  ‘Peace, lads, peace,’ said Brownie. ‘At least you found a deer. Sam and I found squat.’

  Sam shot him a quick look. That wasn’t true. Deano had split the group up, sent Sam and Brownie off the track and through the bush, promising a clearing on the other side. The bushwhacking seemed to go on forever, and they kept getting smacked in the face by branches or tangled in bloody supplejack vines.

  ‘Jesus,’ Brownie had puffed. ‘What’s the point? All our swearing and noise will have scared off every animal for miles.’

  As he spoke, they popped out into the promised clearing, and at its far edge was a young stag, a spiker, antlers only part-grown. Sam froze, expecting the stag to bound away, but though its head went up and its nose twitched, it stayed where it was. Side on. A perfect target.

  Sam hesitated. He knew, in theory, where to place the shot, and he was a decent enough marksman. But the biggest animal he’d ever shot was a possum. What if he messed up? What if it ran away, injured, and bled to death over days?

  Brownie hadn’t moved either. His friend’s rifle stayed slung over his shoulder, his head cocked to one side as he gazed at the stag. Brownie pointed two fingers.

  ‘Bang, bang, young buck,’ he whispered. ‘You’re dead.’

  The stag heard him, darted away into the bush, vanished. Turned out to be their only opportunity all day. Whatever, losers.

  From the passenger seat, Brownie gave Sam a quick wink. No need to share, it said.

  ‘And then you bloody fell in the river!’ Deano’s outrage hadn’t lessened. ‘At the easiest bloody crossing spot ever!’

  ‘It was a loose stone!’ said Tubs. ‘You’d have fallen, too!’

  ‘But I didn’t.’ Deano jabbed a finger into his own chest. ‘Because I wasn’t half-pissed!’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Tubs folded his arms, mutinously. ‘I was fine.’

  ‘Hunting’s no place for alcohol! Guns and booze don’t mix!’

  Deano was seriously worked-up. Brownie turned around.

  ‘You’re right, mate,’ he said. ‘But leave it now, eh? You’ve made your point.’

  Sam doubted that — Tubs would barely take advice from someone he respected, let alone Deano. But Brownie was right. Leave it.

  ‘Yeah, s’pose,’ Deano muttered.

  Sam hadn’t meant to hit the large pothole, but was glad of the distraction as they rattled around the cab like dice in a cup.

  ‘Jeez, Sammo,’ said Brownie. ‘It’s incredible we’ve got this far still alive. Don’t end it now.’

  Sam lifted his foot off the gas. ‘Sorry.’

  For the next few minutes, there was silence in the cab. Tubs and Deano sulking, Sam concentrating on the road. Brownie was the only one who seemed relaxed. He watched the scenery out the window.

  Then he said, ‘You know, Tubs, even you and I are related. In fact, we all share a common ancestor.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Tubs. ‘How’s that possible?’

  ‘One in every two hundred men alive today is descended from Genghis Khan.’

  ‘It’s true!’ said Deano, suddenly perky again. ‘I read it on—’

  He stopped. Blushed.

  Brownie flashed a grin at Sam, and in a coaxing tone said, ‘Read it on what, Dean, my friend? You can’t slide out of this one.’

  Deano mumbled, but Brownie had sharp ears.

  ‘A female sanitary item, you say? Well, well.’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing with — no, never mind,’ said Tubs. ‘Don’t wanna know.’

  ‘They have these facts on the wrappers,’ said Deano. ‘Like Leonardo da Vinci could play tennis with one hand and draw with the other, and rats can understand two different human languages.’

  ‘Can they understand that you’re a retard?’

  ‘Hey!’

  Bicker, bicker, back and forth it went. But the atmosphere had lightened, was almost back to normal.

  The end of the rutted shingle road came into view, and Sam drove a little faster, feeling buoyed, lifted up, the way he might if he’d just had a lucky escape.

  Chapter 15

  Mac

  ‘Give it here.’

  Mac held out a hand, beckoned with her fingers.

  Ngaire kept hold of the plastic soft-drink bottle.

  ‘You’re not getting on the bus if you don’t,’ said Mac.

  ‘Could she not anyway?’ said Emil Olsen. ‘Her bloody coughing drives me barmy.’

  ‘Aw-aw,’ Ngaire protested. ‘Can’t help it, can I?’

  ‘Bloody can,’ said Emil. ‘You can quit the bloody fags!’

  ‘That’s enough from you,’ Mac warned him. ‘Ngaire. Bottle.’

  She plucked it from Ngaire’s grip, unscrewed the top, took a sniff.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I think the Americans burned jungles with this in Vietnam.’

  ‘It’s lemonade!
’ said Ngaire. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘I should tip it out on the ground,’ said Mac. ‘Except that I care more about the land than about you. I’ll give it back when I drop you home.’

  She stashed the bottle in her canvas bag, a freebie from another drug company that sported the words ‘Don’t let diarrhoea wreck your day’ in large purple letters.

  ‘Listen up,’ she said to the waiting old folk. ‘Any concealed booze, knives or Word Search puzzles, and you’re banned from the Love Bus. Got it?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Word Search?’ said little Ena Lester.

  ‘Anyone who doesn’t know the answer to that,’ said Mac, ‘will be taken to the Hampton dementia ward and left there.’

  Silence.

  ‘Right. All aboard. Chop-chop.’

  Mac stood beside the steps to help up the less steady, counted everyone off — a necessary routine after Doris Te Puhi was left behind. Doris was found again in Paper Plus, engrossed in the latest issue of Grazia, unaware she’d been abandoned. Mac was relieved and resentful in equal measure, and vowed no one else would get lost on her watch. She might be forced to strangle them and toss their corpse off the hill, but they wouldn’t get lost.

  Twelve, thirteen, fourteen …

  Numbers had been dwindling steadily since the first Love Bus run two years ago. And they were down another since last week. Albert Chapman. Massive stroke on Saturday morning. Quick, said Dr Love. Mercifully so.

  Mac stood by the driver’s seat, checked her passengers were seated. Took a while, so best to be sure. Be a waste of a morning if she had to spend it in A&E.

  ‘Listen up,’ she said. ‘Albert’s not with us today because he’s dead.’

  Sharp intakes of breath, cries of surprise. Seriously, what kind of small town was it if news took more than a day to get around?

  ‘Don’t worry, he didn’t suffer,’ said Mac. ‘Big stroke. Dropped him like a stone.’

  Little Ena sniffled into her hankie. Ngaire emitted a series of ‘Aws’.

  ‘We’ll have a cup of tea in his memory at the Kozy Kettle,’ said Mac. ‘And one of his favourite buns. All right?’

  Nods. Fewer sniffles.