K Road

by Ted Dawe

  With the manager running things from downstairs, the two of them began to develop a social life. His old friends lost their pitying looks and he rejoined their ranks with new status, that of someone in a couple. For a while it seemed that everything he touched was golden. That his feet barely touched the ground. That his life had became one of those stories his mother read to him when he was little. Happily ever after.

  One day he noticed an unusual hair embedded in the soap. It was short and curly. And blond. If he and she had one thing in common it was the blackness of their hair. The manager on the other hand, had hair the colour of straw.

  Not a man with much experience in these things, he pondered long and hard. Finally, he reasoned thus: what you didn’t know didn’t hurt you; if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. More importantly, this was a new life and he had to think in new ways.

  For a while this seemed to work. They took up Latin American dancing. At night they practised the tango, the samba and the cha-cha. They surged back and forth in front of a blazing Kent fire. She was a natural dancer, and in her hands any size difference melted away. Briefly, reflected in the ranch sliders, he caught moments that approached grace.

  There were the trips to Rotorua, staying in the huge lakeside hotels full of tourists from Korea. After the mud pools or the ice-blue lakes they would go back to their rooms to lounge by the spa pool in complimentary white bathrobes, to sip drinks from the minibar and watch TV in bed. But behind the smell of sulphur, the cold air, even the roar of geysers, was a little pool of silence.

  Her cellphone was the next thing. It seemed to beep day and night. Messages from cyberspace. He didn’t ask. She never said. He decided not to think about it again. But the harder he tried, the less he succeeded. The suspicion was like a label on the neck of a shirt, which prickled away all day long.

  One day she said she woke up with a floaty feeling in her stomach. She tried to eat but had to run to her bathroom. He was knocking on the door. She wasn’t answering. When he came back mid morning, it was too late. She had gone. So had the little red car. So had the little blond manager.

  He saw her rarely after that. Most contact was through letters from a Ponsonby legal firm. Occasionally reports came in from his old friends. Brenda and Mike told him how she and the manager had started an immigration business. A neighbour had seen her on Parnell Road in a yellow Audi TT with the number plate TAIS4U. There was even a photo of them in the Sunday Star eating with the mayor at Antoines.

  He soon settled back into his routine: just like returning to your favourite armchair, moulded to your shape. It was good to be off the phone and doing the plumbing again. Long hours perhaps, but it stopped him from brooding. Once again the footy seemed to be interesting and he even found himself out on the golf course from time to time. But there were things he didn’t like: the looks on his friends’ faces when he chanced upon them in the street; attempts to hitch him up with middle-aged women he had known for years; the idea that he was the object of pity.

  It must have been a year or two later when it happened. She surfaced again. She and the blond manager had been charged with people smuggling. The manager had stayed on in Thailand. He was in no hurry to come back. 60 Minutes had a field day stalking her in the street, besieging her apartment. They even tracked him down at a job, asking how they met.

  She discovered that behind the car, the Remuera apartment, the letterheads, the web site, there was nothing. Where had the money gone? And where were all those people she thought were her friends? The only one left was her lawyer. They became a familiar sight in the paper and on the news as the trial progressed.

  The talkbacks called for deportation. The papers nicknamed her Ms Asia. The judge said she trafficked in human misery. The court gave her three years in Mt Eden.

  Once inside things got better again. Her cell mate, Huia, took good care of her. The other lags called her the Siamese Pussy. But not when Huia was round. After two years she was out.

  He had this big job in Epsom. New apartments rotting away in the rain. It was top money and it had to be done properly. The walls were slimy and the floor had turned into Weetbix. The family waited downstairs for the water to be turned back on. What was meant to take four hours took eleven. He hadn’t eaten since that morning so he stopped off for a kebab on K. Road. The place was buzzing. As he walked back to the van he felt a hand on his arm. It was her.

  Dizzy with exhaustion and hunger he stared at her. In her gleaming black leathers she seemed to pulse with a neon radiance. He was back in Chiang Mai, seeing her for the first time.

  For a moment they stood there, and then, as if some silent message had been exchanged, he held the van door open and she climbed in.

  The intervening years were never discussed. They simply resumed where they had left off. The downstairs flat was converted back into an office. There was no need for a manager. She had long since acquired the skills. TV seemed less important now: most evenings, once again, they were swirling past the ranch sliders. She led, he followed, although it never seemed that way to him.

  18 GROUND ZERO (PLUS 36 MINUTES)

  They were halfway through their list when the call went out. Any excuse. The boys from the Fire Department got the jump on them as usual. The message from Central came through at the same time as an appliance rushed past them in the other direction. Without even consulting Bryce, Evan yanked the wheel and flicked on the pursuit system. It was great to see the startled face of Joe Public as this wolf sprang from its sheep’s clothing, flouting every known road rule. It had to be the best part of the job. By the time they arrived the crowd of rubber-neckers made it difficult for the fire appliances to get close so their first job was to chase them back until the uniform boys arrived.

  The house was large, grey, with a row of roses leading to a stained glass front door. Behind it there was a pall of smoke that drifted between the houses in the windless morning. The house was in a street filled with others like it, all quietly competing for prominence.

  A woman, still in night clothes and slippers, identified herself as a neighbour.

  ‘Glennis and Tony are overseas. It’s their son, Jamie who made the bomb. He’s trouble that one. One of those white faced kids who dresses all in black. A vampire or something …’

  There was no stopping her and Evan felt duty-bound to start taking her statement. Who knows, there might be something useful in the prejudice and gossip she spouted. Statements change with every telling, that was for sure. Things were added and other bits removed as the initial emotion died and personal interest took over.

  The uniforms arrived ten minutes later. Three cars at the same time. It was always this way. They immediately took charge of the crime scene, driving back the onlookers and freeing up Bryce and Evan to get around the back and inspect the damage.

  The main house was one of those big old bungalows built during the 1930s. Copied from a Californian style, it was more generous than the usual Kiwi equivalent, with wide verandahs, stucco pillars, and shingled bits here and there. The back of the house had once been the showcase: it had leadlight windows and broad steps down to the garden. The pliable lead framing had weathered the blast and hung like thick cobwebs around the corners of the window frames. The bevelled and coloured glass that would have once painted refracted patterns on the back wall, now formed a sparkling carpet on the floor of the verandah.

  The back garden was long and sloped gently down into the valley, where a hundred years or so ago a little bush-clothed creek would have burbled. Now the water ran underground through massive concrete culverts and most of the bush had gone, making room for blocks of town houses. Somehow this section had been allowed to maintain its original, luxurious dimensions and had not succumbed to the frantic hunger to cash up and cram in more housing.

  At the bottom of the slope, past the broken trees and flattened delphiniums, lay what remained of the sleepout. The Auckland Fire Department were picking through the smoking remains, warily, in case there was so
me explosive remnant lurking amongst the debris. The fibrolite walls had turned into frisbee-sized pieces that had distributed themselves around the neighbourhood. (For months after the event elderly neighbours would still be arriving at the local police station with a piece hoping it might ‘help the police with their inquiries’.) The remaining studs holding up the roof all leaned downhill.

  ‘What are you guys doing here. Don’t tell me there was a burglary here too?’

  It was Detective Sergeant Willets: Willy to everyone on the squad but still Sarge to them. They were the new boys and rank was rank.

  ‘We were in between three and four on our list when we heard the call,’ said Evan, glancing at Bryce for confirmation.

  ‘So what have you done? Get anything?’

  Evan pulled out his notepad. It was lucky he had something otherwise the sarge would think he was just here to gawk too. ‘The neighbour, Mrs Drummond, was first on the scene. She was the one who dialled 111. That’s her over there in the dressing gown.’ He pointed to where Mrs Drummond was busy giving her statement to whoever would listen.

  ‘She says these people are called the Winters. He’s an importer. They are away in Thailand on holiday. The only one left here is their son, Jamie.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Well, we’d just got started when the uniform branch arrived so we came round the back.’

  They all stared at the little shed, or what was left of it. The firemen had stopped blasting the smoking frame with CO2 and one was trying to squeeze in under the collapsed roof.

  ‘Any idea what caused it?’

  ‘I hadn’t got that far.’

  There was a yell from under the roof and the other two firemen squatted down to peer in. They all moved forward.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Willets asked.

  The older of the firemen turned to face him.

  ‘There’s a body … or bits of one.’

  Willets went down to crouch behind the firemen. People began to arrive. One of them carried a heavy suitcase. They knew him, by sight anyway. His name was Trembath. He was the specialist guy. Ex-army, now a consultant whenever things went bang. He walked over to where Evan and Bryce stood and put down the bag.

  ‘Hi, boys, you first here?’

  ‘First cops anyway,’ said Bryce, hoping they would be able to stick around for a while.

  ‘Been at one of these before?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘This is the third clan lab I’ve been to this month. Of the exploding variety that is. About fifteen non-bangers.’

  ‘This typical?’ asked Evan. Anything to get him talking, he was one of those guys, just loves to blab, and you could pick up a lot once he got going.

  Trembath shook his head. ‘Too much bang for a solvent flare. Must have been something else in it. Something with more percussive potential than just chemicals igniting in a closed room.’

  ‘Like what? Dynamite?’

  The older man laughed. He had the know-all laugh of the visiting expert.

  ‘Classic! You’ve been watching too much television, lad.’

  Evan and Bryce endured the patronising old fart as they waited for his answer.

  ‘More likely a drum of solvent. LPG bottle maybe, they do a good-sized pop. I don’t think the CIA are involved.’ He laughed again and turned to them, as if waiting for them to join in.

  Bryce looked down to where Willets was talking to the senior fireman. The sarge kept looking up towards them with a sort of pissed off expression on his face. Mind you, when didn’t he have a pissed off look? He was born with one, they reckoned. Bryce shifted on the spot. ‘Hey, Evan, we’d better get back to the list.’

  ‘This is a doozy though,’ said Trembath, as if trying to keep them there. ‘Last time I saw a bang like this was in a campervan at Piha beach. Mobile labs. Really hard to catch those bastards. These guys usually cook a batch and then move on. The only way we know they’ve been there is the big scorch mark where they’ve poured the spent chemicals out on the ground. Toxic stuff they use, eats through anything. This time, though, there was more than a burn mark. The chassis was the only piece left. Classic!’ He laughed at his own story. It seemed to be a habit, punch-line or not.

  ‘You wouldn’t think they could fit a lab in a van,’ said Evan.

  ‘They can fit it in a hatchback, lad. They’ve got it as small as two suitcases.’ He was about to regale them with a new story when Bryce chipped in.

  ‘We’d better be off, Evan; here he comes.’ Willets was making his way up the hill.

  By the time they got back to the round, the numbers had swollen to a good-sized crowd. A TV broadcast van was attempting to nose its way through the cordon but was being rebuffed by Tim Richards, a uniformed officer from their intake.

  It was disappointing to have to turn their car around and head once more for the Eastern Bays with their list. As they eased clear and made for Remuera Road, Bryce turned to Evan and said, ‘I remember there was a Jamie Winters in our year at Grammar. How old was this guy?’

  Evan shrugged, watching for a gap in the traffic. “Dunno. Didn’t get that far.’

  19 CAT AND MAUS

  The moment Maus saw that a cabin had been swung into place he knew exactly what he had to do. Here was this clean, white box, one floor above where K. Road joins Queen. An important corner. It was where Sonny’s turf gave way to the tribes of the central area. The QSKs, and the little klans and krus that hung out at Aotea Square and the bus station. Add to that the wild kids who came pouring in from South Auckland. Or them from down the line. Nowheresville and beyond, Sonny called it. Country hicks, FOBs from the islands, petrol heads from out west, runaways from the Far North. It was a jungle out there, man. You never knew who you were dealing with.

  Yes, this was the corner where the KRKs had to say ‘Our patch, our rules’.

  The construction site was locked up tight, just the way he liked it. The big solid ply wall with the three metre gates. Less chance of being grabbed by security guys. Cops weren’t interested, that was for sure. Once you got behind there you could do anything.

  Sure enough there was a Maus-sized gap at one end and he was through it in seconds. On the other side was the boxing, the wet concrete smell, the wood and the steel rods. Like a forest. Full of hiding places. Up on the platform the new shed sat aloof and inaccessible. Not even a ladder to get up to it yet. It must have been placed there that very afternoon.

  Maus found a big plank. It was heavy for a little guy like him but he managed to get the edge up on the fence. From here it was an easy climb to the platform where the new cabin rested. What a view! He could see right to the end of K. Road in one direction and to the bottom of the Queen Street hill in the other. Choice! Never get another chance like this.

  Two boxes got him to the roof of the cabin and from here he was able to hang over and tag MAUS SEZ KRK RULEZ TH HOOD. It went the length of the cabin, leaving no room for anything to be squeezed in at either end. Sonny would be pleased. This was something he relied on Maus for. Couldn’t tag.

  Maus climbed down, crawled under the fence and went across the road to scope it from a distance. The two security hoods went past in their white ute, eyeballed him and then looked across the road at his tag. He prepared to disappear but they didn’t stop. What’s with that? They didn’t stop.

  But the tag. It was a cool tag, worked out well, filled the top line. No sign of end cramping, the fresh tagger’s giveaway. Somehow though, something was wrong. It still wasn’t enough. Below his tag was all this white space, triumphant and untouched. He didn’t know how but he just knew that the QSKs would fill it in days. It needed more. It needed bombing. Only bombing said ‘we own it’. He thought of Tui. He thought of the Seventh Angel.

  Geronimo hadn’t checked his phone for a while. Been too busy. Ozzie had shot through early and left him in charge. Sort of as manager. Not that Oz was paying him any more for it. Cheap bastard. When he stepped outside for a breather t
he cell buzzed in his pocket. Third unread message. He clicked it. It was from Shem. He and Looey were Scorpion prospects. Keen to be useful.

  The first message said, ‘Seen Maus’; the second one, ‘Maus tagging’; the third, ‘Found Maus hole’. What a buzz. It had been nearly ten days since Maus had shot through with Ronnie’s jacket and a fist full of tinnies. The tinnies would be gone but he may still have the jacket.

  He called him up. ‘Where are youse?’

  ‘Down the wharves. Got a bunch of gates we gotta check. Then it’s some shops in Parnell. Then it’s a club house in Grey Lynn.’

  ‘What’s the story with Maus?’

  ‘He was tagging a Portacabin on the K. Road corner with Queen. Could have got him eh? Rang you but there was no reply.’

  ‘You should’ve grabbed him anyway. Put him in the boot.’

  Shem laughed ‘Haven’t got a boot, bro. We’re in the ute.’

  ‘I’m gunna need some help getting him. Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s in a tinnie house, just off K. Next to the Slipper. You know it?’

  ‘Ae. Slipper’s one of Ozzie’s joints. I seen the place. Empty building.’

  ‘Not empty, bro, that’s where the Klan hang.’

  ‘Can we get him out of there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. Don’t know what you’re walking into. He’ll be back. We’ll drive by after each sweep.’

  ‘OK. If you’re there when I get him …’ Geronimo paused, ‘says a lot eh?’

  ‘Check, bro. Later.’

  ‘Ka kite.’

  ‘Wake up, sis, I got a project for ya. I got a spot for your angel.’

  Tui blinked awake. She’d only just come back. Can’t have been asleep for more than an hour. ‘What is it, Maus? What’s up?’