by J. P. Pomare
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ he says over his shoulder.
‘What about dinner?’
He lets out a breath then replies, ‘I’m not that hungry. You start without me.’
I place the steak knife back in the drawer and, for the first time I can remember, I eat dinner alone. He’s in his room most of the night and I could almost believe that I’m alone in that house. But when I go to bed, I hear his bedroom door open and the lock outside my door sliding into place, then his bedroom door closing once more.
before <
EIGHT
‘HOLD IT IN, suck in some air. Keep it in your lungs as long as possible.’ The joint glowed in my fingers. I had smoked a cigarette but that was easier: pull the smoke into your mouth, blow it out. I didn’t like it at first but, after doing it once, the thrill of that small adult act brought on a bubbling excitement.
In the way that groups of girls are always looking for strays, I had been passed around from group to group within and outside of school, never settling too long before moving on. Willow was the only constant; I never was close to Sally again. Willow and I were enough for each other at swimming, turning away with our little inside jokes whenever Sally approached. I was surprised by how freely Willow could spit venom. At once she seemed almost aloof with her eyebrows raised, mouth pinched, then something sharp and mean would come out. Sometimes she would make small clever remarks, or sometimes she might just speak over Sally, interrupting her, suppressing Sally’s voice with her own. We never talked about Thom or about what Willow had told me. I couldn’t let them see how much it upset me.
It was easy for me to talk about Sally to Willow, but I was only bold in private. I could never look Sally in the eye when I heard her sharp intake of breath, saw her face drop. Willow, though, seemed to relish her power. The power to hurt. The power to exploit vulnerabilities. It made me fear her. I hoped I never found myself on the receiving end of one of her barbs.
I became distant with Thom; I felt betrayed in a way. Then he left swimming with promises to everyone that he would keep in touch. It felt like something had been severed. It felt like I might never see him again. Why did I care so much when I had been trying to distance myself from him anyway? It should have been a good thing he was leaving; that way I could get over him faster. Willow left swimming too. She had been ‘over it’ for months. And then it was just me.
Fortunately Willow lived close by and most days I went to her place after school – though sometimes when my dad thought I was at Willow’s, we were somewhere else completely.
That day it was the garage of a random friend of Willow’s. The smoke burrowed into the fibres of my lungs, breaching my chest, itching all the way up my throat. All eyes were on me. A small cough started it off. I tried to contain it but it kept coming. I coughed so hard my eyes watered but coughing didn’t stop the itch. I tried to swallow it away, but as the others smothered their laughter it came on again.
Dad had banned me from using my mobile phone for two weeks when he smelt the cigarettes. Who gave them to you? Dad had asked. I blamed Sally. I wanted him to hate her.
We swam in the cloudy garage. Laughing, sitting on the tacky leather couches. The awkwardness was evaporating with the smoke. Willow propped her legs across the lap of a barrel-shaped boy and his body seemed to stiffen with the touch of her bare skin. Maybe it was my imagination but everyone seemed to be watching her. I rolled my tongue around the inside of my mouth, smiling. It was easier to smile with the pot pouring itself over my brain. I undid my hair tie and ran my fingers through my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders.
Walking home later as the sun sank in the sky we coated ourselves in Impulse to mask the bitter herby scent. When we got to Willow’s house we went straight to her room and fell back on her bed. The light was fading outside. We lay there together, looking up at the ceiling, on the edge of some vast crater of laughter. The fragrant aroma of dinner rose up the stairs and my mouth watered.
‘Just act straight when we eat, okay? My parents don’t really give a shit. It’s best not to get caught in case Mum is in a mood.’
We went downstairs and sat at the table. I knew I was acting different but I felt untouchable. Willow moved her fork to scoop up peas, which spilled over the edge of her plate. A grin unfurled on her face. Her mum cleared her throat and her dad just sipped his red wine.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘you’re looking particularly happy.’
I realised I was smiling. ‘Oh, well, I am.’ Willow let slip a cough-like laugh.
‘Good to hear. And how’s school?’
‘It’s okay.’
Reaching for the butter, Willow’s mum knocked over a glass of water. It raced across the table and dripped onto my lap.
Her dad flicked his eyes up, gave his head a little shake.
‘Good one, Mum,’ Willow said.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said to me, rising to fetch a tea towel. I felt a foot slide up my shin and looked into Willow’s eyes.
When the spill had been mopped up, Willow’s mum reached out to pat my hand. ‘I’m so clumsy.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘A little water isn’t going to melt you, is it, Kate?’ Willow’s dad said with a wink so subtle I almost missed it.
I noticed the face Willow’s mum made. She looked ugly for an instant and I wondered how Willow’s parents met. He was lean, handsome in a scruffy way. She was doughy, her jeans stuffed with middle-aged fat, but you could see she had once been pretty.
The television was still playing in the lounge. I remembered something Willow had said recently: My dad has the hugest crush on you – he’s always on his best behaviour when you come over. Sometimes if you bite into a joke you find a stone of truth at the centre. I looked him right in the eye. His irises were a galaxy of different shades of green, his eyelashes dark and cheeks peppered with stubble. I swallowed.
After dinner, we watched CSI. Willow’s dad disappeared to the study, which was more of a studio than a study, and I could hear the melodic plucking of a guitar unwinding into the house. After some time, I went to the bathroom. Passing through the study on the way back, I saw him sitting with his feet crossed on his desk, the guitar lying across his lap. A piano stood in one corner and guitars of different shapes and sizes were in racks beside it. I avoided his gaze, staring instead at the bookshelf.
The guitar paused. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. I turned to him. He thumbed a curl of dark hair behind his ear, then resumed plucking the familiar tune from the guitar.
‘Thanks.’ I tried to smile, but it wouldn’t take shape. There was something else, a tickling in my stomach.
Back in the lounge, I sat on the couch with Willow and her mum and watched the TV. The weed was wearing off.
Around nine a knock came at the door. I knew it was Dad: two curt taps. He had been away for work and was picking me up on the way back from the airport. Serious face, pants and shirt. I tugged my hair back into a ponytail and stood to leave.
The detached feeling from the pot was gone, replaced with a washy grey ambivalence. Most men looked at my father in awe, but Willow’s dad didn’t care about my dad’s sporting accolades; he may not even have known about them. Dad was just another man.
The warm breath of the heater in the car brushed my face like fingers. Are my eyes red? I didn’t want to check. My dad steered with his fists, his arms straight. The big Range Rover wheeled around the bend. Yuppie tractor. I almost laughed. He veered through the gate and into the garage. The Mercedes was there, dark and sleek as a wet panther.
•
I skipped swimming again the following week to get high with Willow. This time her parents weren’t home, so we sat on her windowsill looking down into the backyard, blowing the smoke out the window and burning a stick of incense.
‘Why don’t you just quit too?’ she asked, handing me the joint and climbing onto her bed. I hated swimming; there was nothing in it for me now that Willow and Thom weren’t going
anymore.
‘I can’t, Dad won’t let me.’
‘Fuck that. Just say you hate it.’
‘Yeah, I should.’ But of course it was not that easy.
‘What has Sally been doing?’
‘Nothing. She hangs out with Cara now.’ I took the last pull on the joint, then coughed out the window as I emptied my lungs.
‘Cara? She’s like thirteen.’
‘She just turned fourteen but yeah, Sally can’t make friends her own age,’ I said, not mentioning the fact that I always sat alone.
‘I want to go down to the pool,’ she said. ‘Come on – let’s go fuck with her.’
I felt anxiety thrumming below the surface of the high. There was no way I could be caught down there; I was supposed to be sick.
She rose from her bed. ‘Come on,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
I crushed the grey stub on the windowsill and let it drop into the garden below.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and I followed her downstairs, along the hall, and into the garage. Willow took something from a bench, jamming it in her bag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Let’s go,’ she said, ignoring my question.
We made our way along the tree-lined streets. Willow strode purposefully, her wild brown hair swinging down her spine.
As we passed the shops and rounded the bend towards the pool, my skin prickled with anticipation. The familiar cars were in the car park and the bikes were in racks near the door.
‘Follow me,’ Willow said.
I hesitated. ‘What are you going to do?’
A smile played on her lips. ‘You’ll see.’
‘I can’t go in there,’ I said. ‘Dad will kill me if he finds out I was lying about being sick.’
‘We’re not going inside.’
Willow drew her fingers through her hair so it fell down around her face. She stopped at the bicycle rack, lingering beside a white step-through bike I recognised. The lock threaded between the spokes of the front wheel and the loops of the helmet where it hung near the pedals. Willow unzipped her backpack, her eyes fixed on the sliding doors of the aquatic centre. ‘Watch this,’ she said. She pulled out a pair of sharp pliers and squeezed them over the series of cables that ran down from the handlebars. The cables twanged as they broke and curled back.
I clutched her shoulder. ‘She’s going to notice.’
She eyed me peevishly. ‘It’s just a prank. Don’t be such a Debbie downer. She knew you liked Thom, right? Don’t get mad, get even.’
I’d been holding my breath; I let it out. ‘Okay, be quick.’
She glanced once more towards the entrance, then reached down and clipped all the cables at the other end. Pulling them free, she wrapped them around the pliers and dropped them in her backpack.
‘Come on,’ she said.
It was a joke. As we rushed away, we were giddy, cackling. The euphoria felt oddly satisfying. It still hurt to think about Sally and Thom, the things they would talk about and do. I hadn’t seen him in the month since he had left swimming but every time I saw Sally it reminded me that he had chosen her over me.
I didn’t really understand the gravity of what we had done at the time, how a small act can have such consequences. Sally’s injuries weren’t serious. She hadn’t ridden far at all, nor was she going too quickly when she discovered she couldn’t stop. I didn’t know anyone who saw it happen, but apparently she was hurled over the handlebars onto the footpath, breaking a small bone in her wrist. It was easy to imagine other ways it could have gone; if she’d been riding on the road, for instance. Perhaps then it would have been a car and not the pavement she hit. For months afterwards, I felt a strange satisfaction, a sort of power in knowing I had caused Sally some pain.
> after
NINE
JIM CONTROLS EVERYTHING. That’s why we are here in this town. He says he is protecting me, he is protecting us both, and I have no choice but to trust that he knows what he is doing. Everything I see, everything I experience has been filtered through Jim. So when we park outside the shop and he hands me a ten-dollar note and says, ‘Grab some butter, won’t you?’ I just stare at him, searching his face for any sign of intent.
‘Me? By myself?’
He smiles and reaches out to unclip my seatbelt. ‘You’re a big girl, Kate. I’m sure I can trust you to buy something from the shop.’ He takes his glasses off and begins cleaning them on the hem of his shirt. ‘I need butter for the cheese sauce tonight,’ he says. It’s been seven days and for the first time, he trusts me to interact with someone else without him. Is this another test? Maybe he is working with the shopkeeper.
I climb from the car and cross the car park. In the shop, the scarred woman is at the counter.
‘Kia ora, Kate,’ she says. Kate. ‘How are you?’
I look at her. She’s grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’m okay. But my name’s actually Evie.’
‘Evie, huh?’ she says with a big knowing grin. Blood rushes to my cheeks. ‘I must have misheard your uncle. How’s the place treating you? Settling in?’
‘Good,’ I say, walking around the shop. Did Jim tell her he is my uncle? The silence prods me to continue speaking so I quickly add, ‘We’re settling in well. It’s very quiet here.’
‘I bet. Must be weird in Maketu after living in the big smoke. What’s the story with your hair? Just like to keep it fresh and short?’
I chew my lips. ‘Yeah,’ I say, looking over at the magazine rack.
‘Have a read,’ she says, kicking a stool out beside the counter.
‘I can’t – my uncle is waiting out in the car.’
‘Your uncle buys up loads of them. I reckon he’s my best customer.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He loves them.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, frowning. ‘I guess he does.’
‘My name’s Tiriana, by the way.’ She holds out her hand and I shake it. I don’t sit, but I quickly flick through Women’s Weekly. I don’t know what I’m looking for. There could be anything in there.
A police car stops outside and I catch my breath. Has Jim seen them?
Drawing my hood lower over my eyes, I hold the magazine close to my face. An officer enters the store. Sweat rises on my chest. He nods at Tiriana, crosses the shop to the pie warmer. Is he looking at me? If I run, I won’t get far. Tiriana’s movements are jerky when she reaches to accept the money for the pie. The officer takes a bite as he strolls out the door to the street. She scowls as the car starts up outside and pulls away from the kerb.
‘Wonder why they’re in town,’ she says. ‘Bloody nuisance.’
I jam the magazine back in the rack and wait, looking out through the door across the car park. I can see Jim waving me over.
‘What’s up?’ she says. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘No,’ I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. ‘I just need some butter.’
‘Down the back in the fridge.’
I find the butter and take it back up to the counter.
She pauses, sitting on her stool, shrugging her denim jacket higher up her shoulders. The collar doesn’t quite conceal the scars on her neck. ‘Three ninety for that.’
I hand over the note.
Jim is holding his mobile phone to his ear as I step from the shop. He eyes me on my approach to the car. The engine starts. The phone slides into his pocket.
‘Jesus, that was a close one.’
My heart is still thumping. ‘Could they be looking for me?’
‘I doubt it, but it’s possible. Maybe we should take a long drive, in case they’re waiting for us at the house.’
We cruise down through the village, then up over the hill to the neighbouring beach. I grip the door handle, focusing on my breathing. After half an hour we reach the next beach along on the coast. We stop at a park at the end of the beach and watch the sets of waves. Jim is chewing his lips with a pleat in his brow.<
br />
‘If they are there, waiting for us, we’ll just have to abandon the place and our things. We’ll have to move on.’
Gulls stand on the grass watching over the beach down below. Out near the receding tide, I see more. I walk close to them, and then I throw out my arms and rush. They take flight; the sound is like reams of paper falling.
Jim watches without speaking. This beach is longer than the one at Maketu, more exposed, and every so often a salty breeze comes off the sea, sending a chill over my naked scalp.
A car pulls up and an old couple with cruise ship tans climb out. The man has a newspaper package of fish and chips.
‘G’day,’ he says as he passes us. The woman just raises her eyebrows.
The man stares at me a beat too long. Have you seen the video too?
‘I want to go,’ I say. ‘Please.’
Jim nods and we head to the car.
We drive back along the road, up over the hill lined with curling ferns and the dark twisting limbs of those damp native trees. In places the trees lean towards each other from either side of the road as though they just want to touch.
When we’re near the house Jim pulls over to the side of the road and yanks the handbrake up. He switches off the engine.
‘Stay here while I check the house.’
He gets out and starts up the road, then turns and comes back. He taps his finger on the window. I lower it.
‘Hand me the keys.’
I reach across, pull them out of the ignition and pass them through the window. He jams them in his pocket.
‘I’m sure the cops aren’t waiting for us, but better safe than sorry.’
Jim walks up the road. When he has been gone for a few minutes another man comes back the other way and down the hill towards me. He’s dressed all in black and raises something to his eye, aiming it in my direction. I avert my eyes, reaching for the button to raise the window, but it won’t go up. He’s got an urban paunch and a lawyerish thin face.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ the man says as he approaches. It is not a New Zealand accent. It’s familiar. He’s from back home. I glance at him and try to smile, but there’s something mean in his eyes. Could he be here because I made that phone call? Did they trace it back to us? It can’t be a coincidence.