Dead Lemons

by Finn Bell

  “They’re mine when they act intelligently, lover. When they get my youngest stuck in a whale skeleton because they ‘wanted to simulate a whale pooing’ and have used their sister as a turd, they are definitely yours,” she says from the kitchen.

  “Come on, bro, got to see this,” Tai says, laughing, as we head out the front door. I don’t have kids of my own so I can’t speak from experience, but I think if you have as many kids as Tai and Becks, you get a lot more relaxed about things than first-timers. There’s a certain measure of acceptance that your kids are fairly indestructible and resilient, will do amazingly stupid things and that, above all, will most likely not kill each other completely.

  Behind the shed we find a remarkably calm Mihi, indeed wedged between the massive vertebrae bones of some kind of whale which had been joined together by a thick metal chain to a massive skull bone. While several of her sister are, likely according to the level of actual responsibility for the situation, either involved in trying to extract her or taking photos with their phones to capture the moment for social media.

  Happily, the problem is soon solved when Tai and I straighten out the vertebrae by pulling on both ends of the massive chain while the rest of the girls grab Mihi and run off laughing.

  “Dude . . . that’s a whale skeleton,” I say as I eye the stack of massive curved rib bones next to the over-sized skull bone.

  “Yup,” Tai says as we both stare up and down at the length of it.

  “It’s in the backyard,” I add.

  “And we don’t even have a dog . . .” Tai says, shaking his head and then laughing at his own joke.

  “Come on, let’s see what’s in here,” Tai continues as he heads towards the big, corrugated iron sliding doors of the old shed.

  Once our eyes adjust to the gloom, we see that what’s in here is more; more of everything. The amount of what’s in here makes what’s in the house seem comparatively minimalist.

  “What are you going to do with all this stuff?” I ask as I eye what looks suspiciously like really old, stone-age tennis rackets.

  “They’re an old kind of snowshoe, homemade,” Tai says when he notices what I’m inspecting.

  “It would feel wrong to sell it. And I don’t want to throw stuff away. But there’s so much stuff here; maybe a museum would want some?” Tai says, sounding uncertain.

  While I’m eyeing the stacks of stuff, many reaching well above the height of the door, I say, “Maybe you could just start you own one right here.”

  “You know, that’s actually not a bad idea,” Tai answers, nodding to himself. “We could name it after Uncle Albie, get the family to help out getting it all sorted. It could be choice,” Tai says, warming up to the idea.

  “Well, it’s probably for the best,” I say, having just turned around, catching a view out along the dirt road leading to the property over Tai’s shoulder. “Because if I’m not mistaken, there’s a truckload more stuff arriving just now.”

  “What’s this then?” Tai says as he also turns around and we see the truck idle up to the house and come to a stop. You can clearly make out lettering on the truck’s door: “Te Papa National Museum, Wellington.”

  This is, we learn shortly afterwards, the returned consignment from Te Papa Museum, items 1 through to 134, as per index, please sign here.

  “I’m sorry to hear about that, mate,” the truck driver says when we tell him who we are and why we are here, and hence that we know nothing about this.

  “You lot want me to take it back?” he then asks.

  “Well, what is it all?” Tai asks.

  “Old stuff, mate,” the truck driver says with a shrug. “You want to see?”

  As he opens the back of the truck, we see that his description is largely correct.

  Between the truck driver calling the museum and the curator calling us back, we learn that this consignment is indeed the property of Albert Rangi, and had been on loan to the National Museum on a 25-year term which had just run out. Apparently, Albie requested the return personally. So after some more discussions and deliberations and with a mild air of bemusement, the truck is unloaded and the total amount of history available now fills up the house, the shed, and most of the front yard.

  “Tai, dearest,” Becks says, studying the paperwork.

  “Yup,” Tai says, head in a crate.

  “The papers says consignment 1 of 3,” Becks tells him, which makes us all pause to look at the size of the truck and the amount of things already stacked everywhere.

  “Choice,” Tai says with a happy chuckle. “This museum’s gonna be mean.”

  “Museum?” Becks asks.

  “Finn’s idea,” Tai says in an offhand manner, then continues digging in the crate and pulls out what looks like an ancient, oversized bellows of the handheld variety. “Look at this thing.” After working the handles a few times, he turns it around and blows into the spout.

  “Tai, put that down, you don’t know where it’s been,” Becks says in mock admonition. “You’d better call the family, we’re going to need a lot of help.”

  Even with just consignment 1 of 3 unloaded, the task seems huge as we poke through the shipment.

  It’s a selection spanning the mundane to the peculiar, and there’s even more unknowable, large implements straining the truck’s loading crane as crate after crate is plonked down next to the shed.

  “Look here, Finn,” says Becks, who, while Tai and I are poking around has actually been the grownup and checked over the attached paperwork. “Looks like maybe you weren’t the last person to talk to Uncle Albie after all. There’s a note here on the loading bill. Looks like Uncle Albie called them and confirmed the delivery dates on February 10, that’s two days after you were here.”

  CHAPTER 36

  April 23, TWO MONTHS AGO . . .

  It’s with a mild sense of disappointment that I finally put down the spoon I’ve been using to knock on the wood of the walls and floors of the last room I’m checking in the cottage. I’ve even gone as far as waiting until tonight, and alternately turning on and off lights and shining a flashlight along the floors to reveal any even cracks, but to no avail.

  I’ve been checking for more hidden passages or hidey holes.

  Maybe it’s due to the sense of discovery we had poking around at Albie’s, or maybe because I still have some lingering curiosity since finding Alice’s cake tin. Or maybe because nothing much has happened since and I’m bored. But I decided to search the rest of the cottage.

  Now I have finally satisfied myself that there’s no other dark corners, no more secrets to be had.

  Tai, Patricia, and a whole slew of relations are working at Albie’s house with admirable optimism. When Tai initially seized on the idea of starting a museum, I thought it would all peter out once the real-world problems of money, staff, and special skills and regulations and so forth started piling up, but maybe I’m wrong. All Tai says when he runs into another issue is, “She’ll be right, put it on the list,” and then gets on with things again. He’s got a way of making other people believe everything will work out. Maybe this is his way of trying to stay close to Albie.

  So it’s been a busy few days with the impromptu museum committee trying to create some sense of order out at what has now already informally become known as “Albie’s Museum.”

  They’ve already started knocking down walls in the main house and an extension to the shed is already taking shape under Tai’s unrelenting enthusiasm.

  At least Becks and I have managed to convince Tai to delay the arrival of the rest of the crates until the building is actually completed.

  And while I’ve helped out here and there, it’s become more a job for the able-bodied, so eventually I retreat back to the cottage and settle myself in back amongst my own unanswered questions. More of them have been about Patricia these past days.

  She called me last night and I felt the pleasant frustration of wanting to talk to her in person rather than on the phone, but in
the end we returned to our original decision that it’s best if we stick to being responsible, which means for me to sort things out before anything else.

  Just because we shared something that night of the funeral doesn’t mean things will go anywhere. If I’m honest, I can’t really expect anything more from life. I’ve already had more than my fair share of love from women far too good for me.

  So, current happenings aside, I’m back to the same place I was a few weeks ago.

  Except for the situation with my hot water.

  Everything else aside, I’ve still been losing power with frustrating regularity some point in the middle of too many nights.

  And of course relations with the neighbours have somewhat soured. The whole murder-suspect thing put a bit of a damper on sorting out the issue.

  I finally decided to take Hot-Water Tui’s advice and get his cousin in to put in a gas boiler and cook top so that I’m at least less affected when the power does go.

  Tui was well pleased with the idea, it being his originally in any case, as he reminded me earlier today when he stopped by.

  “Yep, had to reset things again just now,” Tui said as we chatted over a cup of tea on my porch this morning.

  “I’d hoped it would happen less now that you’re using gas but nah,” he says, blowing on his tea.

  “It’s strange-like, too, I reckon. I wonder what they do out there that takes so much power in the middle of the night,” Tui says.

  “It’s not common then?” I ask, not knowing much about farming.

  “Well, farming’s mostly something you do in the day, right? Unless you’ve got a big chicken shed which can pull a lot of power at night to keep the chicks warm and aired, which they don’t. I don’t rightly know what they farm out there, really. There’s some sheep, some cows, but mostly the pigs, as far as I know. But nothing to make up for the loads they’re using after dark. They’re not really fishermen either, if it comes to it. Never heard of them bringing in much. Bah, the Zoyls are a queer lot. Don’t like going out there,” he finishes with a frown, then brightens up and asks, “But at least you’ve got the hot water sorted now, hey? Never runs out on gas, too, that’s gotta be good.”

  I wonder to myself, why can’t I be like that? Tui notices something that bothers him and he just focusses on the next positive thing and moves on. Me, I keep fixating on every little thing that bothers me until I can’t see anything good beyond it.

  And he’s right, too. I’ve discovered that having unlimited hot water is a near cure for most human sufferings. Thank God I’m shallow enough to be comforted by small things.

  But thinking back on the conversation now, sitting here in my dark cottage, I think it’s not that unusual to find out something strange about the Zoyls, because the list just keeps growing.

  They’re farmers who don’t really farm.

  They’re fishermen who don’t really fish.

  And thinking back to what Tai told me about the Māori land claims and how the Zoyls were here since before the town, and what Black Albie said about the first Zoyls who didn’t speak English, I guess you could also say they are locals who aren’t really local.

  And again, there’s just too much nobody but them knows.

  It’s with these rambling thoughts and questions that I’m again ensconced by the fire, thinking that I hadn’t heard from Pruitt in a while and should probably see how he’s doing. But then I’m hesitant, as I’m probably the person that’s been the bringer of the bad news bringing him down in the first place.

  Maybe I’ll stop by after therapy tomorrow, I think.

  It’s strange to me how accustomed I’ve become to seeing Betty once a week. It used to feel strange and intimately invasive and at times downright frustrating, and now it’s just another part of my life.

  I still don’t know where it’s all going, or if it’s working, or if I’ve changed. I haven’t had a drink since the accident, and I haven’t needed to think about why I bought that gun so long ago, and maybe that’s enough. While Betty and I have definitely plumbed the depths of what’s wrong with me, I still come up short with how to fill up the empty space with the right things. Maybe that comes later. Or maybe that’s what all the time outside of therapy is for, who knows?

  It’s with a jerk of the head that I wake up cold just after midnight, having dozed off by the fire again. I put myself to bed, only to sleep not at all.

  But I’m tired of the wheelchair, so instead I just lie there staring vacantly.

  So this time I’m actually fully awake and well warned when the Zoyls come for me.

  First the motion sensors mounted at the corner of the cottage click on the outside spotlights, and next I clearly hear the sound of rapid footsteps jogging up to the house.

  As I pull myself up against the bedstead and look down out through the window, I can actually hear the glugging, splashing sound and see a rapidly retreating figure, bent down low as they move around the corner.

  But it’s the bright-red petrol tank spilling itself out against my house, shining in the spotlight, that I focus on.

  The Zoyls are going to burn my house down. With me in it. Oh, good.

  And whether it’s because I’m getting better at dealing with these situations or because if given enough tries, you eventually accidentally get things right, this time, with unusual calm, that’s exactly what I do. Every single thing.

  Within seconds the gun is in my lap and I’m pressing my newly installed panic button with one hand while pressing the speed dial to the police on my phone with the other.

  And I’m quick and calm and concise with the emergency operator, even remembering to repeat my address clearly twice as I’m getting myself into the chair.

  I’ve just gotten myself in the chair and swapped the phone to my lap and the gun to my hand when the whump echoes around the house and is followed immediately by the smell of petrol and smoke.

  The unmistakeable spread of flickering light tells me that, almost unbelievably, I am now in a house on fire.

  The Zoyls are burning my house down around me.

  With a mix of hysteria and anger bobbing along on a flood of adrenalin I yell out: “Bring it, you bastards!” at the top of my voice.

  And I swear there’s no fear in me, because this is not how it ends.

  I’m not going to sit here quietly burning while these bastards get away with it again.

  Fuck that.

  I’m a hard little centre of calm hate as I collect my wallet, keys, and passport, and wedge them along with my phone down the side of my leg, muffling the panicked pleas of the emergency operator, still on the line, asking if I’m okay.

  It’s as I start pulling the top blanket off the bed that the first smoke alarm starts going off. Despite the cold and the moisture in the air, the fire has already taken well; I can already see the more enthusiastic flames leaping into view out the window.

  It’s moving quickly. Too quickly.

  Everything is now about seconds and minutes.

  I reckon no more than a minute or so has elapsed since I made the call. I don’t know how long till help arrives. Maybe 5 minutes, maybe 15, it depends on how far away the nearest police car happened to be when the call went out. I don’t know how long I have before the fire overwhelms me, either, but with an old wooden cottage, complete with wooden floors, walls, and doors, I don’t think it will be long.

  As I head into the bathroom, blanket in tow over my shoulder, I can already feel the house heating up as everything creaks and groans around me.

  It’s a simple enough plan, and there’s going to be enough time, I tell myself as I’m wetting the blanket.

  All I need to do is last long enough in here for the cops to arrive and then bust out. Because I know if I do it now, the Zoyls are going to be waiting for me. They’re many things, but they’re not subtle. If they came out here ready to burn my house down, then I think it’s safe to assume they want me dead tonight.

  And they must have done t
he same thinking that I just have.

  Figured out roughly how long it would take for the police to get here and weighed that against how long they thought it would take until I either died in the fire or came rushing out of the house for them to finish me.

  And they clearly came to the conclusion that this is going to work for them.

  My only hope lies in the chance that maybe the house burns slower than they hoped and that I made the call faster than they expected. They probably made the mistake of assuming I’m not a paranoid insomniac.

  After I’ve completely wet the blanket in the basin, I plug it up and turn on both taps full blast. I manage, on the third try, to finally throw the blanket over the top of the bathroom door, which I then force shut, proceeding to wedge the excess blanket in along the sides and bottom of the door. It’s not a perfect seal but it’ll have to do.

  Then I pull the shower sprayer out onto the floor and turn it on full as well, seeing it dance around like a headless snake flinging water everywhere just as the basin starts to overflow as well.

  Next up, I lift the lid off the toilet cistern and just start ripping out random plastic parts until it’s constantly flushing. The next part is made easy as I see the pipe connecting the toilet cistern to the bowl has a big plastic nut on it that loosens easily under my sustained anger, and now I’ve got another spilling fountain of water in my rapidly flooding bathroom. Only two more things left.

  I quickly stack the gun, phone, and my wallet and passport onto the side of the bath.

  Getting into the bath is an uncomfortable chore, but luckily I’m quickly done. Getting the wheelchair in after me takes much longer.

  When I finally manage to have it hauled in and oriented the right side up, I realise that the bath is not wide enough for it to open out all the way again but it will have to do. After some uncomfortable scrabbling, I manager to wedge myself back into my wheelchair seat and with an awkward, scraping roll, get over the bath taps. Pushing the plug in at the very edge of my reach down between my legs has me seeing stars as I pull my head back up and turn on both taps.