K Road

by Ted Dawe

  ‘Get in there, man.’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘I thought you had balls, man.’

  That old line.

  ‘I thought we were partners.’

  There it is.

  ‘I seem to remember an incident.’

  ‘Oh fuck off, Evan.’

  He gets up and enters the room. In the gloom he sees the outline of her form in the bed. He sits down and ponders his options. There is a snuffling, semi-snore coming from next to him. He pulls back the covers. She has nothing on. He closes the door.

  Outside he hears Evan singing to Australian Crawl.

  Them boys light up, light up, light up.

  15 MAUS SEZ ‘CHILL IT’

  From the awning, Maus was able to lean over and lay down the KRK tag on the front edge. The one that looked out on K. Road. Even though he was lying full stretch over the blue and white bank logo, and operating upside down, he was still able to get the letters out with good clean sweeps. He added Maus on the end. The ‘S’ was made of six slashes, a bit like a swastika. His own invention. Much admired.

  The tag now filled most of the front edge. This one would really say it to the QSKs who had been coming onto the K. and laying down their marks at street level. What was with that? They were gone in hours. Painted over.

  It really got Sonny going, though. Maybe that was the idea. Just to show they weren’t even scared of Sonny. They all knew the talk. The butterfly knife. The threat of a gutting. His famous psycho bit. Scary. But they still did it. That’s the trouble with huffers, no fear.

  Sonny would like this tag, though. Might even slip Maus a point bag or a tinny. That would be good.

  He made his way back. Didn’t hurry. At the end of the canopy there were coils of razor wire. Just there to keep people like him off. Didn’t work, though. Hardly slowed him down. He took the jacket off to place it on the blades so he could reach the top rung of the fire escape without cutting himself. The jacket was leather, just the thing for shielding him from razor wire. There were a few holes in it now, so he had to double it over.

  Across the park there was the green tin thing. Sort of statue. Some big round bits and a couple of skinny figures. This morning it was different. There were three figures. Two big ones and a small one on the end.

  His approach was silent and careful. Not for nothing was he called Maus. As he got nearer he could see it was a girl, even from the back. Not big either. All hunched up inside a green coat. A bit like a mossy rock. He went nearer to check out her face. She looked wasted. Maybe that’s why she’s here. He moved across so she had a chance to clock him before he was too close. Didn’t want to scare her. She looked up at him then looked down at the ground again. He went closer.

  ‘You with the Queen Street Kru?’

  Her head slowly lifted. She looked puzzled.

  ‘You know, the QSKs. From down the hill.’ Maybe she shook her head. Hard to tell. Like a battery toy but with near dead batteries. He went over and sat down next to her. They both stared across the road. At nothing.

  Then Maus started in again, in his snuffly little voice. ‘Well who you with then? I guess you’re with someone, ’cause it’s like “Hey, what’s with this? A chick in the park at five in the morning?” Got to be some reason for that, eh?’

  ‘No I’m just …’ then she stopped. Too much effort.

  ‘You on the run?’ said Maus. ‘Eh! You run away from home sister?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What’s that? You got no home?’

  No response now.

  ‘No home? I got homes all over town. I got foster homes. Three nights here, two there. Hour and a quarter at one place. Yeah I got homes all over. And I got Weymouth. That’s the boys’ home. I don’t want to go there either.’

  A cop car went past. She flinched.

  ‘They’re lookin’ for ya eh? Let’s go. You won’t last an hour here.’

  No response.

  ‘Just get my cans. Nothing without my cans.’

  He went off and came back with a bag full of rattling cans. ‘Check this.’ He pulled out a can of gold spray and gilded the face of the figure next to her.

  They both stared at it blankly for a while and then she whispered something.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Midas touch,’ she repeated.

  Maus shrugged and said, ‘You comin’? ’cause I’m going now, sunrise soon. During the day I’m not here.’

  She looked at him and then extended a tentative paw like a dog does when it shakes hands.

  Maus pulled her to her feet. ‘Back to my Maus hole. My hole in the sky.’

  ‘Mousehole?’

  ‘I’m Maus. I got this little room at the top of a tower. You not seen my tags? What’s with you sister? There’s one over there,’ he said pointing at a parking ticket machine. ‘And there’s a big one up on that wall, see M.A.U.S. Maus.’

  She peered at the letters, 40 feet off the ground looking over the park.

  ‘How’d you do that one up there?’ Her voice was soft, and sweet. Sort of tired.

  ‘There’s a ledge, you can’t see it from here, I did my human fly bit. It was cool.’

  ‘Can’t read it.’

  ‘That’s the idea … it says, Maus sez chill it.’

  ‘And those are icicles?’

  ‘You got it!’

  They moved off past the shops. The first few morning cars were gliding into the lights on the corner of Queen Street, still hours to go before anything opened. Every now and then the girl would stop as if she was trying to remember something. Maus, the smaller of the two was agitated, eager to be off the streets before sunrise. When they reached the castle she began to stumble, so Maus climbed under her arm to hold her up.

  ‘Nearly there. Nearly there,’ he kept saying.

  When Tui awoke she had no idea where she was or how she got there. Out the open doorway there was nothing but a square of blue sky. The soft mumble of distant traffic began to insinuate itself. That and the snuffle of the kid who lay beside her. She sensed that she was high up and knew better than to move. It would clear. It must clear.

  Beside her was a hole in the concrete floor and the metal ladder leading to a room the same size, directly below. In that floor there was another hole. Another ladder. It was like a dream. It stopped four floors down. She wriggled forward to the doorway open to the sky. Nothing there but air. Step out there and it would be splat! That’s for real. The four walls, the ceiling, the floor … all concrete. Smooth. Lots of names and little tags. Like an autograph book.

  She looked at the wall facing the open doorway. It needed something. It needed her guardian angel. In the corner was Maus’s bag of cans. As well as the aerosols there were a few giant vivids. She found a can that was fairly full … Midnight Blue. Using her free hand as an anchor she laid out the shape of the face. The lines had to be just right otherwise there was no point in continuing. The eyes. The nose. The hair. Then at last, the tear. She stood back as far from image as she was able. Any further and she would be out the door. Fallen angel. Tempting.

  She felt her chest loosen. It was always the way when she finished a new angel. She breathed deep and coughed. Maus sprang to life, immediately covering his face with his arms. He looked like a little boy who’d been hit too often.

  He gazed at the picture with awe.

  ‘You do that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Seventh Angel.’

  ‘What’s the Seventh Angel?’

  ‘The Seventh Angel is the one that got broken.’

  ‘Eh? How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean … you know … touched … spoiled …’

  ‘Oooh! That’s you?’

  Nods head.

  ‘Those cops you told me about?’

  She was a bit shaken. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘You told me last night. You were rappin’ for ages. Then you flaked.’

  She didn’t r
emember that. Didn’t remember much.

  ‘No. Way before that. Just that now I’m marked. Everyone knows they can do it.’

  ‘Oooh. I know. Me too.’

  She continued. Her voice took on a faraway tone. ‘So now I do Seventh Angel. It’s like my tag, but it’s not words. But it means the same as words. Got me into heaps of shit at school. Can’t help it. Can’t stop it.’

  ‘What school you go to?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know it.’

  ‘I been to about fifty.’

  ‘It’s a richie private one. Anyway, it’s just for girls.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘St Lucia’s.’

  ‘I know it. I know some girls from there. You know Sharday? She comes here sometimes.’

  She shook her head.

  They sat for a while staring at the huge face of the Seventh Angel.

  ‘What you gonna do?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Home?’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘Stepfather?’

  ‘Mum’s just as bad.’

  ‘Stay with us.’

  ‘What about Sonny?’

  ‘He’s OK.’

  ‘He sounds scary.’

  ‘Is. He’s got his soft side though. I seen it.’

  ‘Where’s he from?’

  ‘Tonga. His dad’s a minister.’

  ‘Sent him out here to go to school?’

  ‘Nah. Sent him because his father couldn’t hit him no more. Got too big. He says his dad’s a minister for the Fist Church of Tonga. Fist church … you listen to the word of the Lord or I smash your face.’

  ‘Who else stays here?’

  ‘There’s Gigi, and the sisters, that’s Ruby and Api … people come and go, ’specially when Sonny’s dealing. That’s how come I know a few St Lucia’s Girls. They got the little candle and the words on their jumpers, eh?’

  She nodded. ‘Sonny deals drugs?’

  ‘Drugs!’ said Maus copying and then came his little giggle. ‘Drugs! That’s good.’

  Tui said nothing. Puzzled.

  Maus mimed sucking on a joint, then waved his finger, schoolteacher fashion. ‘Keep away from drugs, kids. They’ll fry your brain!’ He stopped when he saw Tui wasn’t getting it. ‘Course he deals, this is a tinnie house. Mostly, anyway.’

  Then he stopped abruptly, cocked his head and listened, just like a mouse. A moment later they heard hands on the ladder. Maus looked down the hole and then looked at Tui.

  ‘It’s Sonny. You’ll be OK.’

  16 BIG BANG THEORIES

  It’s ten in the morning, early summer. K. Road is still yawning and stretching its wings. Its people are just hooking up with the activities that run their lives.

  Some have headed for the gyms where, in the isolating thump of techno music, they pound treadmills, haul chromed bars, and make the silver weights fly up and down little tracks. From time to time they rest next to the drinking fountain and check out the other bodies. The size of the bicep, the cut of the abs, and that badge of commitment: a tell-tale dark triangular stain of sweat on the crisp white T-shirt.

  In the adjacent room the lycra-clad faithful jump and stretch to the barks of a smiling, bronzed god. In the front row are the eight per cent-ers. The most virtuous of the congregation in this, the Church of No Fat. Further back in the joggling ranks are the strained, the breathless and the feeble. Those to whom this is merely a twice a week ritual, penance for those little indulgences, the bag of pastries, the chocolate bar or maybe that detour through McDonald’s drive-in for a combo on the way home. As they wheeze and pant, sweat dripping into their eyes, they are reminded of their sins, why it is they only get to see the backs of the sleek, why their exchange of smiles with the caller lacks intimacy.

  In the vast apartment buildings pallid faces and people in dressing gowns emerge onto cramped balconies. They dawdle over the Sunday papers and sip strong black coffee from tiny cups. ‘Former All Black runs tinnie house.’ ‘Shortland Streeter caught with pants down.’ ‘Cabinet Minister swallows sex toy.’ In an age of uncertainty, a newspaper and a strong caffeine fix are the closest they get to a sense of sanity, of order; to that comforting Victorian precept that ‘God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world’.

  The streets, still mostly empty of cars, are now the domain of legions of foot traffic. The light flapping of Nike trainers signals the passage of small herds of runners. Behind them the joggers, stumblers, and walkers. Some, red-faced and mouths agape, have the haunted look of the fugitive. Anxious, and desperately distancing themselves from their nemesis, the inevitable coronary that pads ever closer behind. Others, younger or leaner, talking loudly about the unsolvable conundrums that plague their lives. Why is my credit card debt so high? Still no return phone call … dare I ring him again? Am I really happy? Where is my other red sock?

  It was into this blue, mote-filled morning that the blast ripped.

  In the chapel of St Judes the boys heard it over the droning voice of the house master. His sing-song sermon, warning boys about the dangers of self-abuse, was no match for this orgasmic rumble. Some giggled and others exchanged glances with those behind them, as the outside world made its presence felt. For a few moments, the boys, freed from the dull cant of their weekly broadcast, tuned into the anarchy of the unknown noise. Excited that outside this coma of boredom the world was struggling to get in. It took fierce glares up and down the gloomy nave, to subdue them again.

  ‘As I was saying, before that … percussive interjection …’

  On the pavement outside Cannibal Jack’s espresso bar, caffeine afficionados paused mid-sip. Turning their heads to touch base, to be reassured, to see if the others had heard it too. Had this rumble, more felt than heard, actually happened? Or was it one of those freaky glitches provoked by last night’s ecstasy bash? There was a brief moment of recognition, of solidarity amongst the ranks of the terminally cool, before they all plunged straight back into their conversations without missing a beat.

  ‘So I texted her…’

  ‘So I texted…’

  ‘So I …’

  ‘So …’

  Out on Broadway in Newmarket, Evan and Bryce in the unmarked blue Commodore didn’t hear it: both of them were singing ‘Welcome to the Hotel California’ so loudly, and their windows were closed. Bryce was a sucker for those golden oldie radio stations and Evan found the Eagles irresistible. It wasn’t until some time later when they were going down Parnell Rise that they heard the call come through.

  Mrs Myers certainly heard it, although she was 87 years old and had her hearing aid switched off. Even the most mundane messages had to be shouted at her nodding head. Mind you, she was only metres away, in a straight line across the dreaming valley of elegant town houses. The blast knocked her gently backwards, into the rhubarb patch. As she lay there, looking up through the lush foliage, little bits of building tumbled from the sky, spiralling like shrapnel. For a moment or two, all she could think of was her son, who had died just days before the fall of Saigon.

  Jamie Winters never heard it. He was too close. About half a metre away: and, as was disclosed by the autopsy later, he had been killed instantly.

  The blast comprehensively demolished the sleepout which he had been living in at the bottom of his parents’ garden. Its frail old wooden walls were never designed to contain the forces generated by a blast like that. For some weeks afterwards, pieces of the building were being retrieved by concerned citizens, some from as far away as Bassett Road.

  The pieces that really annoyed the neighbours, though, were the bits that smashed their windows. Most of the neighbours had known Jamie for years. They had never liked his sullen, furtive manner, nor the music he played as he grew older, but nevertheless, they felt sorry for Glennis and Tony, his parents. After producing two high-achieving children – med school for Jenny and the Asian semi-pro golf circuit for Jerome – it seemed unfair that the third one woul
d go so seriously wrong.

  Glennis and Tony heard nothing. The bang had most of Remuera asking ‘What the hell was that?’ – but it wasn’t loud enough to disturb sunbathers on the beach at Phuket.

  17 TRUE LOVE

  During those first few months the gifts came in an unbroken line. Rings sang from every finger and her shoe collection soon outgrew the cupboard. She was there to be adored. She was there to be … gilded.

  It was easy to see why he was drawn to her. Such a pert little body and the face moulded in a smile. She was just 18, so the world lay before her like an unopened love letter. Whereas he was past 40, hair now tufty and sparse, his body gently surrendering to the tug of gravity. She was a bar girl from Chiang Mai. He was a plumber from Birkenhead. They were not a perfect match. But they were perfectly happy.

  His friends had long given up on him remarrying. Maureen had been dead for 15 years. The Thailand trip was his first time out of the country. There were jokes of course. Cradle snatcher. Jap importer. But also about their size. He was six foot four while she was just five feet in her spike heels.

  He never guessed how much his life would change. The golf, the nights watching footy on Sky, even his long working hours, all stopped. Now he enjoyed different things. The curve of her back when she emerged from the shower. Her scent on the pillow. The girly clutter of her cosmetics. Every day he seemed to get younger. He shed the years like heavy clothes.

  For her the old life receded as she tested the limits of her new one. The rice field, the man who took her to the big city, the boss, the men, the smoky nights, the men … these were replaced by the house with three toilets, the Kiwi people, big and awkward, the nippy little red car. But still, there was something missing.

  Strangely his business boomed as he worked less. He took on extra men … he stopped doing everything himself … he found a manager. The manager was young and energetic: there seemed to be no end to his initiative or the hours he worked. It was his idea to convert the downstairs basement into a flat.