It was there on an inside page — staring up at me. 'Man's Body Found.' I must have read it aloud.
'What? Where?'
I pointed.
Wellington police have launched a homicide investigation after a suspicious death. The body of an elderly man was found in the bedroom of a Te Aro flat, where he was a new tenant. Police were alerted to the death by the owner of the property. The dead man's name will not be released until his next-of-kin have been contacted.
I felt sick. This was it. It wasn't a story, it was true. I leaned my head against the window glass. Reality tilted, then righted itself again.
Una was opening the driver door. 'I've got to find a loo or I'll shit myself. Can you do the meter?' She ran, skipped plumply, towards the lift doors, leaving me behind in the car.
In the library foyer at ground level I stopped, considering which toilets she would have headed for. Upstairs by the coffee shop, inside the library on the first floor? I'd just have to wait by the lifts or risk missing her.
I waited. The lift doors opened and closed, the doors to the library admitted and dismissed men and women of varying ages, with bags and satchels and handbags, untying scarves, pushing glasses up noses, stepping on cigarette butts. Two old women were taking a ridiculous amount of time to get up the wide stairs in the curving direction of the coffee shop or perhaps the Senior Centre. One day soon Una and I would be seniors. I watched, feeling my shoulders sink, my thoughts congeal. Bugger Una. She couldn't be taking this long with a dodgy hand-drier in the ladies. Surely she hadn't decided to brave the police station on her own? I stepped out onto the pavement and looked doubtfully towards the POLICE sign up the road. Unlikely. Then I turned and thought I saw a flash of Una's red wool coat beyond the library information desk. No, perhaps not. I stood impatiently in front of the doors, then passed through, searching. The ground floor was airy and light with deep windows of glassy grey sky. Occasional computer screens punctuated a fanning view of book spines. One of the up escalators was disabled and a group of petulant readers was straggling in the stairwell. I moved quickly, my eyes darting between the low shelves.
A fat red coat had its back to me in front of an electronic book-issuing machine.
'Una!'
'Oh! You made me jump. Have you ever used this thing? It seems to work. Look — I thought I should get myself something to read, I haven't read a book for weeks. You put your card here — I've got my card — see — and then . . .'
'Una. We're going to the police station — aren't we? I've been waiting for bloody ages.'
'Oh. Do we have to?'
'It was your idea in the first place.'
'I don't think so. I think it was your idea. I don't really want to. I'd rather have a carrot juice — they do a good one at Clark's. I don't think I need this book after all.'
I shook my head, trying to look amused. I wasn't amused. 'You're impossible.'
'Well, tell me something I don't know. Or a coffee? You want a coffee, I know you do.'
'Okay. A coffee and we'll talk about it. I'm getting really tired.'
Una mashed her scone with a fork. 'Why do they have to assume someone else did it? Maybe he just decided to put the thing in his mouth. He was mad enough. And he did talk about shooting himself with his air pistol once. He wasn't keen on living without his job and without the stupid animals he thought he could care for.'
'Cared enough to shoot one. Or two,' I remembered. 'It won't work, Una. Fingerprints. You said it yourself. He had someone else's prints on the paperweight. All over the flat, you said.' I screwed my eyes up, thinking. 'And he hadn't threatened you at all. You weren't defending yourself.'
'How do you know? I might have been. I'm trying to remember.'
'Well, that's the sort of thing you need a lawyer for. A lawyer might make a case for you at least. A good lawyer. I couldn't recommend the bloke I used for the divorce . . .'
'What sort of case?'
'There's always unsound mind,' I said.
'Hah! I knew you'd come up with that. He was mad — bloody Garth was mad!'
'It doesn't have to be true. Seen to be true is what matters. Like justice has to be seen to be done, not necessarily done.'
'You surprise me. I thought you were more moral than that. Tell the truth at all times, a good little girl guide.'
'You're my friend,' I said. 'And I'm your friend.
That's what it's about.'
She stared at me. 'So you say. Yes, I think you really are. I don't deserve you. And I'm not ungrateful, Claz. I'm not really such a shit, you know, just when I can't help it.' She paused. 'So what's wrong with that bloke the agent came up with for our conveyancing? No, you're right, he wouldn't do at all. There's always the Yellow Pages . . . My first husband's lawyer was top rank but Lachlan still went inside and anyway he was an old bloke — he'd be dead. My mother's solicitor's definitely dead.'
'Your mother's solicitor? Why him? Was he good?'
'Well . . . It doesn't matter, he's dead. Everyone good's dead these days, some of my best mates.'
'And your mother?'
She didn't answer.
'Roy's not dead,' I remembered, thoughtfully.
'Yeah — Roy's solicitor was bloody good, or he said so.' She grasped the change of subject with something like relief. 'I could ring Roy — that would give him something to think about. From the police station, eh? Or you could — if you thought you could do it better. You could renew your acquaintance.' Her forehead creased, pondering, then she looked down at the watch on her wrist.
'Plenty of time,' I said. 'The police station won't close on us.'
'But the bank will.'
'What do you need the bank for?'
'I'm supposed to check a credit fund application I put in for. I applied for this extension. No, it's not important.' She glanced at her watch again.
'What now?'
'How much parking time did you pay for? We've been here a while. And we'll need a good hour in the cop shop.'
'More like two.' I stood up. 'We'll have to top it up.'
'I'll do it. You finish your coffee. I've got plenty of change.' She seemed pleased to be doing something thoughtful and sensible. 'I don't suppose you want this scone. It's quite nice, but I think I've killed it.'
I'd been sitting there for a long time — plenty of time to lean across and borrow one of the stapled Dominion Posts with the coffee-shop name inked on it. Time to read again the entry, 'Man's Body Found', more than once. A waitress had removed the dead scone and Una's empty glass while on the shiny wooden table top I turned my cold coffee cup round and round, round and round. At last I got up, sighing, unsurprised, and went down in the lift to the car park.
The car had gone.
The sky curdled so quickly in September. It wasn't late but the window at the back of the apartment was shrouded with dusk that slunk already in the leafy garden behind the apartment. The statue with a broken buttock raised its hand as usual in the tiny courtyard but very soon it would be only one of a dozen shadows, multiplied by the darkness. Two cats were keening lust somewhere out of sight. From another direction a muffler on a car driven by a boy racer was squealing speed. I spooned a serving of boysenberry ice cream from a cup and looked sideways towards the front door, waiting for Una's key. It should have been impossible to feel truly alone so close to the action of the city and yet I felt hollowed by loneliness.
I'd eaten two more servings of ice cream — at this rate I'd be as fat as Una and Sheree — when the door at last moved inward, behind Una's hand.
'So?' I asked her.
'So nothing. I decided there was no rush. I went to the bank.'
'I didn't see you there. I looked. I'd waited ages.'
'Sorry. You know what I'm like. I thought I should get a few things sorted just in case. I might not get bail.'
'Of course you will. It may not come to court for months.'
'And Sheree's coming home with her baby. Oh Gawd.' Una threw her handbag into her bedroo
m and went to the kitchen cupboard, looking for a glass. She held it under the tap without looking, so that it overflowed for minutes before she noticed. The stainless-steel bench was clear of the mess we'd left behind in the morning and the dishwasher murmured, filling with water. 'You've been slaving.'
'Yes. I didn't know what else to do. There's a casserole in the oven.'
'You haven't phoned Roy for me?' She waited briefly for me to shake my head, then went on, talking rather fast. 'There's a lot to get sorted, I've been thinking. Goes like this: I can clear some of my stuff from the wardrobe, pack the winter things — they'll go downstairs in the storage cupboard, in one of the boxes, or in a suitcase if necessary — and I might decide to put myself in Sheree's room. That would be good for me, wouldn't it? Get me used to a smaller space like a cell. Prepare me for when it happens. She has to have the baby in with her — you said it yourself — so one of us has to move. Oh, I don't mind. And then . . .'
'Slow down. You don't have to do anything in a hurry.' This must be what manic means. I'd seen Una depressed, but never quite like this, or not that I'd noticed. Manic-depressive is called bipolar these days, but that wasn't necessarily the expensive name her therapist had handed her.
'I do. There isn't any time. I think I'll get the boxes right now.' She strode to the row of brass hooks at the back of the coat stand and plucked the relevant key.
'The casserole's about ready.'
'I won't be long.'
'I'll come with you,' I offered, doubtful about letting her out of my sight in this state.
The entrance to the storerooms was tucked under the staircase opposite Kevin's apartment, and while I was hovering in the passage he shouldered his way in from the street, burdened with a carton of wine bottles. He straightened, balancing the box against his front door.
'Hello!' There was a timbre of intimacy in his tone until he divined that someone was ahead of me, rooting about.
'Hi. Una needs to store some stuff. We're expecting Sheree home with the baby, and . . .' I took a deep breath, lowering my voice. 'All sorts of stuff. I can't tell you now.'
Kevin's voice changed gear and opened out into a tone of social conversation. 'Dale's busy with the new breadmaker she bought us yesterday. She talked about inviting a couple of people for drinks and cinnamon rolls this evening. That includes you and Una, of course. I'm stocking up the drinks cabinet. You'll come?'
Una emerged, dusting a cobweb off her forehead, dragging a mottled suitcase on wheels, while Kevin repeated his invitation.
'Of course we will!' She flashed a smile that was too sudden to be convincing.
'Will we?'
I sounded doubtful.
'What? You're turning down machine-made muffins?' Una wobbled her jowls humorously.
This sounded faintly rude and compelled me to agree at once, apologetically, smiling. 'Thank you. What sort of time?'
'Any time. After eight. Like the chocolates.' He flashed his troublesome smile at me as we left.
'Was that a hint?' Una asked, kneeing the suitcase ahead of her into the lift. 'Do we have to bring chocolates? We don't really have to go, do we?'
'You shouldn't have accepted if you didn't want to go. Is that suitcase going to be big enough? I thought you wanted boxes.'
'You can go without me, don't worry. I know you want to go to your boyfriend's. A breadmaker, eh? You could tell she was a breadmaker type, couldn't you?'
The telephone rang while we were eating dinner.
Una was barely swallowing any of her mashed potatoes and lamb; she had forked them into separate piles that she pushed about the blue and white plate distractedly. The phone made her start. She allowed me to answer it and kept her head down listening while I apologised to Sheree for our not having visited the hospital.
'She's not coming home tomorrow,' I told Una, covering the mouthpiece. 'Apparently someone wants to talk to you first. The social worker.'
Una grabbed the phone. 'That's crazy. What for? Do they think there's something wrong with this place? Nothing's changed. This was your address when you went in and . . . Monday? Why not tomorrow? Social workers must put in hours even on weekends. I'm busy on Monday. Because I have a life! I'm not your legal guardian.' Then she pulled a face. 'Am I? All right, I suppose. Wouldn't Clarice do?'
'Would I do for what?' I asked when the phone was back on its cradle.
'Oh — I've got to sign something, I think. I've got too much on my mind!'
'I thought you'd be pleased to have a bit more time before she came home with the baby. Brenda.'
'Who?'
'Brenda. That's the baby's name — didn't she say?'
'I've got too much to worry about. I don't know what happens next! Anything could happen. I didn't know life was so dangerous. I don't even have a job.'
'You did have last time I spoke to your boss.'
'No. You don't understand. I can't go back there, never mind bail. Lawyers don't solve anything — its just burble verbal, blah blah. I heard some of the stuff my mother's solicitor was charging huge bucks to spout. Useless.'
'What was your mother's problem?' I asked, keeping my voice low and steady in the hope that Una's voice might slow down to meet my level.
'What?' Una looked at me with a sudden piercing focus. 'My mother? Yes, Mum was a victim all her life — all she taught herself was how to duck and she didn't always manage that. That's not me. Victims get raped, they get their throats cut. She was lucky to die a natural death. You have to stand up and put the boot in.'
'I remember you said she drank.'
'Did I say that? She did, a bit. What else would she do? Poor Mum. She was a fifties wife, she didn't even go to work.'
'But what actually happened?'
Una was silent for a brief minute. 'Don't forget we have to go downstairs for drinkies.'
I sighed. 'You're still not telling me stuff, are you?'
'What do you mean — still? I'm the same person. Just because I killed someone doesn't make me a different person.'
I wrinkled my forehead because that was pretty much what I had been thinking. She looked across at the big-handed clock in the kitchen. 'All right, let's make ourselves presentable.'
It felt strange being in the downstairs apartment, smaller but so much more glamorous than ours, with Dale operating the coffee machine instead of Kevin. She was clearly in charge of the space now and had probably been responsible for the décor as well, including the small weighty bird sculpture that had brought Kevin's and my hands together that first time. Until now the room had never presented itself to me as anything but Kevin's. Its transformation to Dale's setting caused a sort of physical wrench in my head as if the room had been picked up and shaken like a Christmas paperweight so that the image of my lover vanished behind a swirl of white.
Perhaps the paperweight in Garth's mouth had shaken with an eddy of frozen ice when Una pressed it down, down. One day these people sitting politely behind wine glasses might read lurid newspaper details about all of this, although I was aware that not all murders became public knowledge and had said as much to Una. In fact it was surprising that the Wellington police were taking so long to track down Garth's lady friend; perhaps he practised secrecy as intently as she did. Was it because I was middle class and middle-aged that I couldn't believe uniforms might never knock on the apartment door if Una didn't go to them herself and confess? Crime doesn't pay, we were taught at school. Murder will out.
The murder we talked of with Kevin's friends was all overseas murder: a beheading in Pakistan, fatal white powder in the USA. White for danger. Asbestos, toxic fish, leprosy, white lies.
'Lovely,' crooned Marge from upstairs, waving a cinnamon roll that was singularly chewy, and perhaps reminded her of biscuits purchased at The Warehouse for her little dog, India.
'A champagne cocktail,' Dale was telling Una. 'Brandy and a teaspoon of sugar. Kevin says half a teaspoon is enough and I guess he's the expert. You'll try one, won't you?'
'C
larice would agree with Kevin, of course.' Una was getting a little bit drunk, which was worrying. 'The expert. And she would know.'
'You don't like sugar?' Dale asked me innocently.
'I think we should go,' I stood up. 'Sheree's bringing the baby home and Una wants to clear some space . . .'
'Not tomorrow. Monday actually — loads of time.' She stood up and staggered slightly, neatly elbowing a plate of nibbles off the coffee table onto the mat. 'Whoops. Okay. You're right. We're going. Thank you, thank you, for a lovely muffin and a very — Goodnight!'
When we were inside our own front door and Una had stopped laughing at her clumsiness, she reached out and put heavy arms clumsily about me. She gave me a little warm hug, something we never did. 'Thank you, Clarice. I have to thank you. I owe you.'
'For?' But I was shaking my head and smiling forgiveness.
'Thank you for not letting me get drunk. I couldn't have coped with getting drunk tonight, that would have been a really bad idea.'
I passed Una several times as we were preparing for bed. I kept forgetting things I needed in my room overnight — paracetamol, nail scissors, a glass of water. Una seemed similarly disorganised. When I was fetching the paracetamol Una was busy at the kitchen bench packing a handful of bottles, which looked to have come from the bathroom cupboard, into a deep toilet bag.
'What's that for? Are you going somewhere?'
'I'm going to prison, aren't I? Arohata, I hope, and not yet, I hope. But you have to be prepared, like when you're booked to have a baby, eh. I told Sheree to be prepared for the hospital and this is the same. I have to be ready, don't I? Don't worry. Sleep tight. I'm just doing the right thing. If you hear me moving about in the night . . .'
Playing Friends Page 18