by Des Hunt
I watched and listened without saying anything, pleased that Dean’s growing anger had been replaced by excitement. I hoped that disabling the beach buggy was close enough to blowing something up to keep him happy.
Chapter 20
Stage one of our plan was to climb the cliffs behind where the boats were launched. Afi’s idea was that we would have a better chance of seeing and photographing the yacht from the top of a hill because the horizon was further away. The second reason was to hunt for fossils.
Matt had left for work by the time Dean and I came out of the caravan. Afi had got up ages before, and was putting things into a backpack when we arrived in the living area.
‘Supplies,’ he said, with a flick of the eyebrows. ‘Don’t want to go hungry.’
I didn’t think there was any chance of that when living with the Moores. From the dishes still on the table, it was obvious that Matt had eaten a big breakfast before heading off. Now it was our turn.
Tiresa placed a dish of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of us. ‘If you need more,’ she said, ‘just ask.’
I didn’t eat much, as I was still full from the night before. Dean made up for what I didn’t need. Whatever concerns he had about his family back in Wollongong, it certainly hadn’t affected his appetite.
The cold night had turned into a lovely winter’s day by the time we headed off to the beach. Perfect for climbing cliffs.
As we approached the gap down to the beach, Dean pointed to the Norfolk pine. ‘We need another Frosty,’ he said.
‘What’s this?’ asked Afi. I hadn’t told him the Frosty story and wasn’t about to now.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
Dean gave me a puzzled look, but was quiet until we were on the sandy track leading to the sea.
‘Black sand!’ he said in disgust, stopping to stare at it. ‘You never told me about this!’
‘What’s to tell?’ I said. ‘That’s the way the sand is around here.’
‘It sux!’ said Dean.
Afi took off the backpack and fished in a side pocket to remove something.
‘Look at this,’ he said.
He dragged the object through the sand and then held it up for us to see. Spiky strands of black particles had formed on the end. It looked just like an afro haircut.
‘Some of the sand is magnetic,’ he explained. ‘That’s what they use to make steel at the mill.’
‘Is that a magnet?’ asked Dean.
Afi nodded. He pulled most of the sand off the end and handed it to Dean. ‘Have a go.’
Dean came up with an even better afro. ‘Is all the sand in New Zealand like this?’ he asked.
‘No, just up this coast,’ said Afi. ‘It comes from a big volcano in Taranaki.’
Dean was fascinated by it. He picked up an empty plastic drink-bottle that was partly filled with sand. When he moved the magnet over the outside, some of the sand went with it. He found that he could pull it up and out of the mouth.
I was pleased with Afi. I don’t know if he’d anticipated Dean’s reaction to the black sand, but by bringing the magnet he had turned it around until Dean now thought the sand was cool. I wouldn’t have been able to do that.
There were two tractors with boat trailers parked at the end of the beach. Maybe it would have saved us a lot of trouble if the Redferns’ buggy had also been there, but it wasn’t. We continued past until we got to the place where the climb began.
At first the climbing was easy enough as there were plenty of plants to grip. Higher up, the cliff became steeper and the plants more stunted, until we were struggling to get hand- and footholds. Afi found it the hardest. His big body was not designed for mountaineering, and he slipped backwards more than once.
Our destination was a layer of bare rock. While not quite at the top of the hill, it was high enough to give a view over much of Port Waikato and far out to sea. Two big ships were now visible: a tanker moving towards Auckland, and a container ship going south. They must have been there when we looked from the beach, but had been hidden by the horizon.
‘See what I mean about the horizon?’ said Afi, smugly. ‘You can see so much further from up here.’
‘How high would you have to be to see Australia?’ asked Dean.
‘Mighty high,’ replied Afi. ‘I can work it out if you want.’
‘No need,’ said Dean, quietly. ‘I don’t really want to see it at the moment.’ He brightened. ‘Where are these fossils you were telling us about?’
Afi chuckled. ‘You’re leaning against them.’
Dean pulled back from the exposed rock. ‘This stuff? I can’t see anything.’
‘Look down near the base,’ said Afi.
We did. There were short cylinders of rock lying amongst the dirt. Some of them were pointed at the end, looking remarkably like a bullet.
‘They’re belemnite guards,’ said Afi. ‘A hard part from the inside of a thing like a squid.’
‘This all there is?’ said Dean, clearly unimpressed. ‘What about those dinosaur fossils you were talking about?’
‘There have only been a few, and they’re just bits of bone. I’ve searched and never found any.’
‘What a dead loss,’ moaned Dean.
‘No, it’s not,’ I said. ‘Look out there, between the two boats.’
Sitting on the horizon was a white sail.
‘The yacht,’ said Afi with a smile.
‘A yacht,’ I corrected. ‘We don’t know that it’s got anything to do with the Redferns.’
Afi nodded. ‘It’s too far out to take a photo,’ he said.
‘We need to watch it for a while,’ I said. ‘See if it comes closer.’
‘Then let’s eat,’ said Afi, opening the backpack.
No one objected to that.
We waited and watched until well after midday. By then both of the ships had gone and most of the fishing boats had come ashore. For a time it had looked as if the yacht was coming closer, but then it had turned and was clearly heading north and out of sight when we decided to abandon the watch.
‘The best time to look would be in the afternoon,’ said Afi, as he packed away the remains of our lunch. ‘Dad says that any yachts used in the smuggling would probably stay hidden over the horizon until the night of the pick-up.’
‘I’m not climbing up here again,’ said Dean.
‘We won’t need to,’ said Afi. He pointed to a hill just south of the Norfolk pine. ‘That’s not as high as here, but it’s easier to climb. It’ll only take a few minutes each evening.’
That met with Dean’s approval, and when everything was packed away we began the climb back down to the beach.
We spent the rest of the day showing Dean around the place. Much of it ended up in a battle between Afi and Dean. I don’t know what was eating them, but each wanted to upstage the other. Whatever Afi did, Dean tried to do it better; and whatever Dean said, Afi would try to out-smart him. To me it seemed like a battle between Action Man and Megamind, with Dean winning all the activities and Afi all the thinking.
The competition got serious when we were down by the river. There are some steep sand hills where the water sweeps around before flowing out to sea. The dunes are high enough to give the impression that if you ran fast enough you could jump into the water. It might happen with a vehicle, but I don’t think any human could run or jump that far.
That didn’t stop Dean from trying. He was in the air for a time before hitting the sand and sliding down to the edge of the water. After the first time, he challenged us to jump further. Even though I knew I could never beat him in anything physical, I had a go for the fun of it. Then Afi went, beating Dean’s distance. After that it was full on until Afi finally admitted that he’d been beaten.
Later, at another place alongside the river, Dean challenged us to a stone-throwing competition.
‘What are the rules?’ asked Afi. ‘How many throws each?’
‘Two,’ Dean said, after a moment’s thought.
‘You go first because you won the last one,’ said Afi.
‘All right. I go first, Pelly second, and you last.’
‘OK,’ said Afi. ‘And the winner is the person who gets the stone furthest out into the water before it sinks.’
Dean considered this, trying to see some sort of trap. He couldn’t, so the rule was accepted and the competition began.
Dean’s first throw was big, and I knew then that there was no way I would win. My pathetic attempt hardly made half the distance. However, I thought that Afi being a big guy might be pretty good at throwing. In fact I was hoping he was, as I was getting fed up with Dean’s winning and the bragging that followed.
Afi threw longer than me, but well short of Dean’s effort.
Grinning widely, Dean selected his next stone and threw it even further than the first.
Then it was my turn again. It was not a winning throw.
Finally Afi stepped up. He’d taken some time to select his stone, before working through some stretching exercises as if they would make a difference. I knew they wouldn’t. Dean was going to win yet again. Already he was smirking.
But when Afi threw, he surprised both of us: me pleasantly, and Dean angrily. Afi pitched the stone using a sideways motion so that it skipped across the water. It must have skipped six or seven times before settling into the water and sinking. By then it was well beyond Dean’s second throw. It was clearly the winner.
Dean’s face darkened. ‘You can’t throw it that way!’ he yelled.
‘Why not?’ asked Afi. ‘There was no rule about how it should be thrown.’
Dean growled. Then he changed his attack. He pointed to the water. ‘But it only went a short distance before it hit the water. That has to be the distance of the throw. I win!’
‘No!’ I said. ‘Afi wins. The stone didn’t sink until it was way past yours. Under the rules, that has to be the longest throw.’
The look I got from Dean was the sort that cartoonists show as a line of daggers. But there was nothing humorous about this situation. It was deadly serious and needed defusing before things got out of hand.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and spy on the Redferns’ house.’ I turned and started walking.
I didn’t look back for some distance. When I did, I saw Afi a few strides behind looking very pleased with himself. A long way further back was Dean with his head down. Even from that distance I could tell that he was sulking. He never did like being beaten at anything.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at the hideout behind the Redferns’ house. The place was much as we’d seen it the last visit, except this time the dog was loose, prowling around the section and looking for trouble.
If it had got our scent, I’m sure there would have been a noisy barking session. A slight breeze blowing into our faces probably saved us, though. Either that or our smell was masked by another, stronger, one. There was a chemical smell in the air, as if somebody had been spraying weeds. Once again I thought about them making explosives, but I didn’t say anything about my suspicions in case it got Dean all excited.
As it was, the beach buggy had grabbed his attention and pulled him out of the sulk.
‘That’s cool!’ he said. ‘Much better than your quad bike. I want to ride it!’
‘No way,’ I said quickly. ‘Harry Redfern would kill you.’
‘Not if I took it and he didn’t know.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said. ‘That dog would eat you.’
‘Then how are we going to get the bleach into the engine?’ he asked.
‘Last time, when we saw them getting the boat ready, they had the dog locked up. Let’s hope they do the same next time.’
‘Doesn’t look like they’re going out tonight,’ said Afi.
He was right. The boat and trailer were tucked into a corner looking as if they hadn’t been used since we’d last been there.
‘They’re there, though,’ said Dean. ‘The fire’s going.’ He pointed to the chimney where smoke was rising into the darkening sky.
‘And someone’s in the garage,’ added Afi.
Although the garage windows were covered by black plastic there were enough gaps to see slits of light from inside. Every so often the light would be blocked as someone went past. Unfortunately, all we could make out was a shape — there was no telling who it was.
After watching for about a quarter of an hour, we decided to head home. I’d thought that spying on the Redferns would be exciting. Instead, I felt depressed. Our plan to photograph evidence depended on them getting another shipment of contraband cigarettes. But the way the boat was parked suggested they weren’t expecting to use it anytime soon. Maybe it was stupid to think they would arrange deliveries in the middle of winter. Perhaps we needed to adjust our plan. The problem was, the only things I could think of involved breaking into the Redferns’ house, and that was something I certainly wasn’t going to suggest.
Chapter 21
Thursday morning, we were having a late breakfast when there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ called Tiresa from the kitchen area.
Nothing happened.
‘Will you see who it is, please, Afi?’ she asked.
Afi opened the door to find a card board carton on the grass outside.
‘Who left that?’ I asked, getting up to have a look at it.
Afi looked around, his eyes finally settling on something. I followed the line of sight and saw that someone was out on the road, almost hidden by the house next door. It was Bee Redfern.
‘It’s OK, Bee,’ I called. ‘You can come in.’
She took a tentative step towards us.
‘Come on inside,’ said Afi. Then he gave a big smile. ‘If you want, I’ll do my eyelids trick again. Better still, I’ll turn my nose inside out. That’s really something.’
This brought a tiny smile to Bee’s face.
Not to be outdone by Afi, I said, ‘Come on, Bee. You don’t have to see the inside of his body, but you might like to try Tiresa’s muffins.’
I don’t know which helped make up her mind, but a short time later she was inside, along with the carton, and we were introducing her to Tiresa and Dean.
By then I’d noticed that the markings on the carton were the same as I’d seen when we’d rescued the boat.
HOLIDAY
40 × 200
My heart began beating faster. Maybe she was here to dob in her father and she’d brought us the evidence needed.
I waited with growing excitement as Afi and Tiresa made their unexpected guest feel at home. In the end I couldn’t wait any longer, and interrupted with: ‘What’s in the box?’
She looked at the box sitting on the floor. ‘A duck.’
It was the last answer I’d expected. ‘A duck?’ I repeated.
Bee nodded. ‘It’s injured.’
Dean said, ‘Give us a gander.’
Afi and I groaned.
If Bee recognized the pun, she ignored it. Instead, she moved to the box and carefully unfolded the flaps. A black head appeared.
‘It’s a paradise,’ said Afi. ‘Where’d you get it?’
‘The estuary.’
Afi nodded. ‘It’s the male of the pair that lives there. What happened to it?’
Bee lowered her head. ‘My brother and his friend caught it with a fishing line.’
‘Take it out, love,’ said Tiresa. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’
The duck allowed itself to be taken out and placed on the floor without a struggle. I soon saw why. The only part it could move was its head. The rest was wrapped with nylon fishing line. There was a sinker and at least two hooks. Both were partially hidden by feathers, suggesting they were stuck into the flesh.
‘Why did they do this?’ asked Tiresa.
Bee sniffed loudly. ‘Because they’re evil,’ she said. Then she began crying. ‘They killed the other one,’ she added between sobs. ‘They’re making Mum cook it f
or dinner.’
Tiresa moved and put her arm around Bee. ‘Come and sit down. We’ll let the boys sort this one out.’ She nodded at Afi to take it outside.
‘Come on, Pato,’ said Afi, lifting the duck. ‘Let’s sort you out.’
As we worked on the bird, Afi explained that pato was the Samoan word for duck. It seemed an appropriate name for the poor, pathetic creature.
‘He’ll have difficulty surviving,’ he said.
‘Depends on the injuries,’ said Dean.
‘I’m not talking about them,’ said Afi. ‘They won’t help, but the loss of its mate will be devastating. They mate for life, and if one dies, the other often does, too.’
‘Is that why you always see two of them together?’ I asked.
Afi nodded. ‘Once they form a pair, they stay that way. Just like humans.’
‘Not all humans,’ said Dean, quietly. ‘My parents didn’t.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and from then on we worked in silence.
We first cut through every strand of nylon we could see. When all the line was off, we began on the hooks. There were two extra hooks that hadn’t been visible earlier because they were deep in the feathers. However, only one of the four had pierced the skin; the others had stuck into the quills of feathers. We had to pull the whole feather out, but that didn’t seem to do any harm. The fourth hook was stuck in the breast. We had to cut off the eyelet so it could be removed.
Once that was out and the wound treated with a disinfectant, the duck seemed to brighten a little. We gave him some space to see what he would do.
He waddled away a bit, moving his head around, searching for something. Then he called.
‘Quonk, quonk.’
He listened for a time before calling again. ‘Quonk, quonk, quonk.’
Again there was no reply.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought his head dropped in disappointment. He then waddled slowly towards our caravan, where he crawled underneath, squatted down and tucked his head under his feathers. We watched him for a while before moving back inside.