by Des Hunt
SEARCH FOR A KIWI KILLER
Des Hunt
Chapter 1
Tom Smart had been waiting on the corner for ages, more than an hour at least. Looking back down the road, he saw that all the other kids from school had gone. Only a row of cars remained. Teachers having an end of term party, he thought. No use going there to ring Dad.
He’d known since that morning there’d be problems. “Don’t take the bus,” his father had said. “I’ll pick you up straight after school. We might have to make a trip.”
Tom had been no happier then than he was now. This was what he’d expected. It was so typical of Brandon Smart – ‘straight after’ could be any time up to three hours. Then, when he did arrive, there’d be all sorts of excuses to explain the lateness – always somebody else’s fault, never his own.
Tom sighed, wondering if he had time to go down the road to the takeaways. He probably had enough money for a drink. He’d even taken a few steps in that direction when yelling from further up the road caught his attention. Turning, he saw two kids chasing some animal towards him.
A pig?
Yes! It was! Not a monster, a young one, like a Labrador dog with short legs. Small enough for a boy to catch. That’s if he could run fast enough. The two who were after it certainly weren’t. They were screaming for help. “Tom! Tom! Block it off!” yelled Sean the older of the two.
“Grab it, if you can,” added Luke, the other kid in pursuit.
Dropping his school bag, Tom moved into the middle of the road waving his arms. The pig was now only seconds away, heading straight at him. All Tom had to do was stay there and he’d have it. Then a car horn blasted: loud, close, and scary. Tom jumped to the side. A car sped past, abusive words spewing from the window.
At the same time, the pig rushed past on the other side.
“No you don’t,” growled Tom, turning to give chase.
“Go Tom!” yelled Sean.
Tom went.
By then the pig had a lead of 20 metres, sprinting down the middle of Cobham Road, one of the busiest streets in Kerikeri. Cars pulled over, others veered, some towards the pig. Most had horns blasting at both the animal and its pursuer.
Tom was fast and fresh. The pig was tired and slowing. A service lane must have looked darker and safer, for the pig moved into it, seeking a refuge from the mayhem. Tom swerved to follow, his feet skidding on the gravel before accelerating off, only ten metres behind.
Down the alley raced Tom, closing in on the exhausted pig. But the pig was smart, and when it saw a gap between two buildings that was just wide enough for a pig, it took it. Tom didn’t even try to follow. He kept going down the lane, knowing there was an exit beside the cinema. Now it all depended on which way the animal went when it got through to Hobson Avenue.
The pig got it wrong, turning towards the business end, close to where Tom would reappear. They were on a collision course.
When Tom burst out of the alleyway, he was within two metres of the pig who quickly took a tight turn into the service station on the corner.
That was the pig’s second mistake. New concrete had recently been laid in the forecourt. Concrete that the owners kept clean and shiny. That made it great for car tyres, but hopeless for pig trotters. When the pig tried to turn between the pumps it kept going, crashing into a windscreen-washing bucket. Tom was on top in a flash and they slid across the forecourt until an ice freezer got in the way, stopping them with a thud.
Although the pig looked exhausted, that didn’t stop it voicing its anger at being caught. Who would have thought a pig could make so much noise? The squeals echoed around the forecourt drowning out the sounds of the people who were gathering around.
Still Tom held on, both arms around the pig’s neck, each holding a front leg.
“Keep it there,” said a voice from over his shoulder, “while I hogtie it with this.”
Tom looked up to see a guy bending over with a bungee cord. Soon all four legs of the pig were tied together and the guy was standing back staring down at the pig, his face split by a huge grin as if he’d just won the calf-roping contest at a rodeo.
* * *
Ten minutes later the pig was lying quietly on the concrete. Sean, Luke, Tom, and three adult males gathered around. The discussion centred around whether the pig was one from a pig farm up on the main road or a wild one that had come down out of Waitangi Forest. Mike, the guy who had hogtied the animal, reckoned it was wild.
“It’s this drought,” he said, “they’re having trouble finding water. They’re coming out of the forest. Last week I saw a couple on the side of Inlet Road, scratching around in the drain in broad daylight. I tell you, they’re starving.” He pointed at the pig. “Anyway Rob McKenzie’s pigs have better breeding than that. It’s a feral for sure.”
“What are we going to do with it?” asked another. “Eat it?”
Mike turned to Tom. “You caught it, so it’s your pig. What do you want to do?”
Tom was taken aback. “Um … I don’t know … ah … what would you do?”
“Return it to the forest. She’s a sow. A couple of months and she’ll be ready to breed.”
“Be good eating, but,” said the other guy.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to eat the sows, especially not the … young … ones.” His attention swapped to a woman approaching the group. “Hello Marika,” he said, smiling broadly. “You here for a story.”
“Hi Mike. Heard someone had caught a pig. Thought I’d better take a look. It’s not every day you get a pig running through Kerikeri. Did you catch it?”
“Nah. Young lad here caught it.” He pointed to Tom. “Pig came screaming down the road with the boy in hot pursuit. Took it in a perfect tackle as it tried to cut though here. All I did was tie it up.”
While he was speaking, Marika had taken a notebook out of her bag and started writing. “Is it a feral or domestic?”
“Has to be feral, Marika,” replied Mike. “It came from the direction of the forest, not Rob McKenzie’s place.”
Marika asked a few more questions – gender, estimated weight, age – before turning to Tom. “Can I have your name, please?”
Tom gave it.
“Okay, now I need a photo. Can we move the pig out so that I get a better background.” Then, after that was done she said, “Right, now, if you’ll crouch down beside it Tom, I’ll take a snap.”
“No!” said a loud voice from the other side of the forecourt. “No photo!”
Everyone turned to look at the source, a tall, muscular man, arms covered in tattoos. While the others stared, Tom groaned and looked away. He knew what would come next.
“Why not, sir?” asked Marika.
“Because Tom doesn’t want his photo taken. He doesn’t want his name in the paper either.”
Marika’s eyes narrowed. “And what gives you the right to make decisions for the boy?”
“I’m his father, Brandon Smart. And who are you?”
“Marika Greenwell from the Northland Informer. Why doesn’t Tom want his name and photo in the paper?”
“Because it’ll give him a swollen head.”
Marika turned her face away. trying not to laugh. A couple of the others couldn’t hold back their sniggers. Tom knew it was time to step in before his father made more of a fool of himself.
“It shouldn’t be my photo,” he said. “Sean and Luke found the pig and did all the hard work. I was just lucky at the end. If you take their photo you can have a person each side.”
This appealed to Marika. The attention shifted away from Brandon and Tom to the other boys. Names were recorded, stories told, photos taken. After that Marika left, as did most of the others until the only ones remaining w
ere the boys, Mike, Brandon, and the pig.
“C’mon Tom, time to go,” said Brandon.
“What about the pig?” asked Mike. “What do you want done with it?”
Brandon looked blank.
Tom stepped in. “We’ll take it and put it back in the forest.” He turned to Sean and Luke. “Do you want to come?”
“Nah,” said Luke. “We came to see a movie so we’d better get over there.”
Brandon’s van was parked a few strides away, half blocking the forecourt. Mike carried the pig over and dumped it in the back where seats had been removed to make room for a mattress. The animal seemed quite relaxed about things.
“What about the bungee?” asked Brandon. “Is that yours?”
“Keep it,” said Mike. “I’ve got dozens of them.” A pause. “Do you know your way around the forest?”
“Some of it.”
“There’s a pond off the main track. Have you been there?”
Brandon shook his head.
“I have,” said Tom. “I can show him.”
“Well, I think there’s still some water in there,” said Mike. “Drop the pig near that and maybe it’ll have a chance of surviving.” He slowly shook his head. “But if this drought continues, I don’t hold out much hope. It’ll be hard enough keeping farm animals alive. The wild ones won’t stand a chance.”
Chapter 2
Nothing was said as the panel van rattled out of town. No excuses from Brandon. No accusations from Tom. Nothing from the pig either. Maybe the animal sensed it was on its way to freedom.
The way to the forest was also the way home: along Cobham onto Inlet Road, passing orange and mandarin orchards until it dropped down to cross an estuary. On the other side, a posh subdivision was under development on the left, with the start of Waitangi Forest on the right. The track to Brandon and Tom’s place was on the edge of the forest, hidden from view by overhanging trees.
Instead of turning towards home, Brandon continued one more kilometre to a second entrance into the forest. This one was much more obvious with several signs saying what you could and couldn’t do if you entered. The track was part of Te Araroa Trail, a walkway that stretched the length of New Zealand from Cape Reinga in the north, to Bluff in the south. This bit covered the 20 kilometres from Kerikeri to the Treaty Grounds at Waitangi.
“Turn off here,” said Tom, his first words since leaving the service station.
“I know,” said Brandon.
“Back there you said you didn’t know.”
“I know where to turn off, I just don’t know where the pond is exactly.”
Tom let him settle into driving on the rough narrow track before going on the attack.
“Did you contact Mum?”
“Yeah, that’s why I was late. She went on and on about things.” A pause. “Like she always does.”
“So what’s happening to me over the holidays?”
Brandon glanced over to his son. “She doesn’t want you.”
Tom turned to stare out the side window. Part of him was pleased he didn’t have to spend two weeks with his mum, the partner, and their new kid. He’d been with them for most of January and it had been real bad: the only time either adult spoke to him was to complain about how he was upsetting the baby. Everyone was relieved when he returned to his father for the start of school.
And yet another part of him was sad that she didn’t want him. In movies and TV programmes mums were the ones who loved their children most. While his said she did, there were few visible signs. On the other hand, although Brandon would never use the word ‘love’, he did try to do the right thing, at least as he saw it. The problem was the authorities had decided that Tom should live with his mother, Mandy, which meant what they were doing was illegal.
“Does she know where we are?”
“Nope. She mentioned Auckland, so I suppose she thinks we’re still there.”
Tom nodded to himself. That’s why no names and photos.
“Have you got any work for the next two weeks?”
“Yeah. The early fruit is ready for picking. I’ll be flat out.”
Tom smiled. That meant he could do whatever he wanted during the holidays. That was much, much better than being with his mum.
“But you can stop smiling,” continued Brandon. “I’m arranging for Dave to look after you when I’m not there.”
The smile vanished. “Aw, Dad. Why him?”
“Because he’s close by.”
“But I don’t need anybody to look after me!”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“Right. Then the law says you do. I don’t want the authorities coming around because you’ve got yourself into trouble. I’ve got enough to worry about already. Dave Hughes will be looking after you and that’s that.”
From then on the only living sound inside the van was a grunt every now and then from the pig.
They passed from large mature pine trees ready for felling, into an area that had recently been cleared and lay waiting for replanting when the rains returned. No use releasing the pig there as no animal, whether insect, bird or mammal, would survive in that grey wasteland.
Continuing on, there were further blocks of trees before they came to a turnoff.
“Hold it!” said Tom. “We’ve gone too far. Turn around.”
“I didn’t see any pond.”
‘It’s back there, hidden in the trees. You need to turn around.”
As Brandon slipped the gear stick into reverse, he asked, “How come you know the forest so well? Do you run this far?”
“Nah. I’ve ridden this way a couple of times.”
“When?”
“After school,” said Tom, before adding the barb. “When I’m waiting for you to come home.”
“Tom, I do need some sort of social life. It’s not like I—”
“Stop!” interrupted Tom. “There it is. Wow, that’s changed from last time I was here. No wonder I missed it. The water’s almost gone.”
They got a clearer look when the van had been backed up a bit. Between some drooping ferns was a small pond surrounded by cracked mud. A pair of ducks swimming in the remaining water eyed them warily.
“Okay, let’s get Miss Piggy,” said Brandon, climbing out of the van. “Time for her to return to the wild.”
At first it seemed as if Miss Piggy wasn’t too keen to leave the comfort of the mattress. Only when Brandon grabbed a leg did she show any interest in the two humans. Still there was no struggling, as if she accepted whatever fate they had in store.
That lasted until she was placed on the ground beside the water. Now, exactly when they wanted her to be calm, she fought to be free, making it impossible to remove the bungee. In the end Brandon took out a pocket knife and cut it. The bungee flew off and so did Miss Piggy, flying across the mud and into the undergrowth below the pines. In an instant she was out of sight.
“Can’t have been thirsty,” said Tom.
“She’ll be back,” said Brandon. “Look at all the prints.”
Hundreds of trotter holes in the mud showed the pond was an important watering hole for pigs of all sizes.
“Wow!” said Tom. “That’s a lot of pigs.”
“Or a few pigs returning many times.”
Tom moved towards the pond where the mud was still soft. “There’s been birds as well. See.”
“That’s a big bird,” said Brandon. “Bigger than a pukeko, I would think.”
“Kiwi,” said Tom.
“You reckon so?”
“I know so.” Tom pointed to the other side of the pond. “There it is.” A fluffy brown mass crouched on the mud, its beak slightly buried. “Looks like it’s sick.
“Let’s take a look.”
Before they got around to the other side, they knew the kiwi was more than sick. It was dead and judging by the stink, had been that way for a day or so.
“Could it have starved?” asked Tom.
; Instead of answering, Brandon touched the kiwi with his foot. The carcass fell sideways exposing a crawling mass of maggots.
“Yuk!” yelled Tom.
“Didn’t starve to death. Some animal has ripped into its leg.”
As the maggots crawled away from the light, a long wound became exposed stretching from the bare part of the leg up to the top of the thigh.
“Would a pig do that?”
“Doubt it. Has to be a dog.”
Tom thought about that. “But it could have been after the kiwi died, couldn’t it?”
Brandon shook his head. “If it was after food, then it would have eaten much more than that. No, this bird was killed by a dog. Looks like we’ve got a kiwi killer around here, somewhere.”
Tom stood and let his eyes scan around the site, wondering if the animal was watching them. If it was, then it must have been well hidden. But still, the thought of a killer dog worried him. He ran and rode through this forest all the time. He’d caught glimpses of animals in the past and not thought much about it. Now he realised he could have been seeing a dog. A vicious killer. One who might just as easily attack him as it would a kiwi.
“You won’t see it,” said Brandon. “Probably hunts at night when the owner thinks it’s sleeping.”
“Might be a wild dog.”
“Nah. I’d agree with that if more of the kiwi was eaten, but this killer wasn’t hungry. It gets a good feed at home. It kills for the fun of it.” After that, he began walking back to the van. “C’mon Tom, let’s get home. This forest gives me the spooks.”
Chapter 3
The hut that Brandon called home sat between the forest and the estuary. The renting agency called it a ‘rural beach bach’. The ‘beach’ was a six-by-one-metre strip of sand that separated the grassy bank from the mud of the estuary. The only time any sea water lapped upon that sand was during king tides. At other times the water was hidden by the mangrove forest that filled all except a narrow channel of the estuary.
Nor was the ‘rural’ description all that accurate either, as the scrubland that separated the estuary from the forest was far from productive farmland. But the bach part was right, if you considered a bach as having the bare basics for survival. This one had two rooms: a living area with kitchen at one end, table and lounge furniture at the other, and a bedroom with two sets of up-and-down bunks and a wardrobe. Under a lean-to out the back was a shower and tub. The toilet was a long-drop hidden in the scrub. While it wasn’t much of a place, it was better than living in the van, which they’d done in the past.