‘Miss Carla.’ It was Ben, he was standing next to her, his hands empty. He’d let Roach hold a butterfly instead.
‘Yes Ben.’
‘You live in Albany, hey?’
‘Yes,’ she said warily, her defensive instincts kicking in. ‘Why do you ask?’
He shook his head.
‘What?’
‘I learnt something yesterday. Do you know what Albany was called before?’
The others were becoming restless. Everyone was waiting for someone else to make the first move and let a butterfly go.
‘Lucas Creek. I think it used to be called Lucas Creek,’ she said.
Ben shook his head. ‘Nah. I mean in Māori, the name for the whole area.’
Carla was getting a little impatient. This was an important moment for everyone in the unit, and she didn’t want to distract from it. ‘Ben, can we pick this up lat—’
‘Okahukura,’ he said. ‘Okahukura. It means “place of butterflies” or “place of rainbows”. Cool, huh?’
Carla’s skin rose into goosebumps.
‘That is pretty cool.’
Then there was a gust of wind. A host of hands opened spontaneously and butterflies were tossed into the air like orange confetti. They hung there momentarily, suspended in the air as if on a wall frieze in a child’s bedroom, before scattering across the evening sky.
‘Carla, I’d like you to meet someone.’
She turned. Next to Neil stood the mystery man.
‘Mike Adams,’ the man said, his hand outstretched, a collection of copper bracelets on his wrist jangling.
Carla tried to place him. He looked too casual in his jeans and corduroy jacket to be part of the staff. And his ponytail was definitely not regulation.
‘Mr Adams is a freelance journalist,’ Neil said. ‘He’s heard about the work you’re doing with literacy here.’
‘Word does gets around,’ Carla said, with a brittle smile. ‘I thought only bad news travelled that fast.’
‘Mr Adams was keen to meet with you and Ben to learn more of your stories. Maybe write a piece about the two of you.’
‘No!’
Both men looked startled.
‘No more written about me, or Ben,’ Carla said starting to walk towards the building.
‘He’s gonna fry! He’s gonna fry!’ Rusty shouted. One of the butterflies was balancing on top of the electric fence.
‘Come to our tea room,’ Neil said, quickly following. ‘We can talk more easily there.’
Carla helped herself to a gingernut and dunked it in her coffee. ‘You see, Mr Adams—’ she began.
He leant earnestly over his elbows. ‘Please, call me Mike.’
‘Mr Adams,’ she began again. He had warm eyes and an open face, she’d give him that. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I don’t have much time for you people. Journalists, I mean. I once believed in good journalism, but have come to realise that the truth usually gets in the way of a good story.’
Mike Adams opened his mouth to talk.
‘I’ve nothing against you personally,’ she went on quickly, affording him no opportunity to interrupt. ‘You look like a decent chap. It’s just that reporters these days seem to have forgotten that it’s people they are dealing with. Real people, real lives, real pain. They have a moral responsibility to those they are writing about. They need to carefully consider the impact their words have on the world.’
The end of Carla’s biscuit broke off and sank. She fished for it with a teaspoon. ‘It’s my experience that words used carelessly remodel reality, sometimes wreaking as much damage and pain as the knife, bullet, or baseball bat.’
Adams looked out of the small window. She followed his gaze. The inmates were still watching the last remaining butterfly perched atop of the security fence.
‘Freedom of speech does not translate into a free-for-all. It is not an absolute freedom to trawl through other people’s lives, and write without thought for the consequences.’
Adams bit his lip. She should stop. Just say no. Move on. But she couldn’t. The extraordinary lengths some had gone to to get her story had only heightened the suffering she’d had to endure. The lies. The violations. The unremitting attention. And then, when her life had been sucked dry of all sensation, when there was nothing more to keep the story spinning, she had been discarded like a piece of garbage.
Neil cleared his throat. ‘Carla, I’m sorry to have put you in this position. Perhaps Mr Adams can talk with Ben alone and not bother you again.’
Carla jumped up. ‘Absolutely not! You will not speak with him!’ She rested her palms on the table. ‘He … He … Just don’t.’ She wouldn’t let Ben’s progress be thwarted, nor measured and confined by words. She would not risk anyone damaging what they had.
‘I think that should be Ben’s decision,’ Neil interjected.
Mike Adams held up his hand in a gesture of peace. ‘I should explain.’
Carla clenched her jaw and shook her head. She would not be persuaded. Enough reporters had hidden in the shrubs on her farm with their long lenses, to cement a permanent distrust for the media. Money changed hands when news was reported. That corrupted the integrity of the process.
He stood up. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave your story intact. I think the work you are doing is incredible.’
He ran a hand through his hair. As he did so his shirtsleeve rode up to reveal the green patterned ink of a traditional Māori tattoo. Carla was surprised. He didn’t look Māori.
‘You know, I tried to write about Ben and you a long time ago,’ he said, his hand gripping hers in a handshake. ‘For a number of reasons, I couldn’t. The story refused to be tamed into a one-page article. Perhaps I got a sense, then, of its depth, and the onus on the one who would try to tell it.’
Carla swallowed.
‘Eight years on I thought I’d give it another crack.’
Carla looked down at his hand; his fingernails were all chewed. ‘So you’re a biter too.’
Adams blushed, curling his fingers into a fist.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you know what they say: Fact writes stranger than fiction. Who would ever believe that a bunch of hoodlums could be bewitched by butterflies?’
Adams laughed. A genuine, endearing laugh.
He walked towards the door.
‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ Carla said.
He turned, his expression a little wary now.
‘Why don’t you come up to the prison when time permits and assist me in my classes. I could do with a helper. Being the wordsmith that you are, I’m sure you’d be a great asset.’
Adams’ eyes grew wide.
‘Maybe after a while you’ll be better equipped to write the kind of story I think Ben and I deserve.’
Chapter Forty-Six
CARLA
The sun pushed through a crack in the curtains, casting a skew of light across Carla’s dreams. She stirred and slid her feet towards Paul’s heat, wheedling her legs in and around him until she was enveloped by their warmth and weight.
‘What must a man do to get some sleep?’ he protested groggily, trapping her between his thighs. ‘Isn’t it Sunday?’
She moved her hand down his torso until it reached the rise in his boxers. ‘Why sir, it appears you’ve been expecting me.’
‘Carla Reid,’ he said in mock chastisement. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ He rolled onto his back, yielding to her attentions.
Carla loved him first thing in the morning when he was still doused in the earthy smell of sleep, his face crumpled, his hair all tousled and wild.
A ringing telephone interrupted their play.
‘Has everyone forgotten what day it is?’ he grumbled, hauling himself up and rubbing his eyes.
Paul reached for the handset, fumbled with the receiver, then passed it over to Carla. He was good that way, still respecting her place after all this time, and not allowing familiarity to blur bound
aries.
‘Hello,’ she said in a husky morning voice.
‘Is Mrs Reid there?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice for a moment. It’s Myra. Myra Catchpole. I hope I haven’t woken you?’
‘Myra!’ Carla’s voice sprang forward in anticipation. ‘Not at all. Been up for ages.’
Paul yanked the sheets over his head.
‘I was wondering …’ Myra paused. ‘Russell and I wondered whether you were going to be in Auckland in two weeks’ time. We’re coming down for the weekend and—’
‘Yes. Yes, we’re free.’
‘The fourteenth. It’s a Sunday. Perhaps we could meet up?’
Carla’s mind sighed and whooped and started to spin. ‘Of course!’
‘Where would be a good place to meet?’ Myra sounded tense.
‘Here, of course! Come for a meal. Lunch. Does that suit?’
‘We really don’t want to intrude; a cup of tea will be fine.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Carla said, hopping out of bed and starting to pace around the room. ‘You must come for a meal. I insist. It won’t be a problem at all. We’re on the Shore, about five kilometres from—’
Paul popped his head out from under the sheet and mouthed, ‘Slow down.’
When she put down the phone, Carla stared into space.
‘So … What’s up?’ Paul said, relieving her of the telephone receiver.
‘It was Myra. You know, Jack’s girlfriend. She, I mean they, are coming for lunch. I don’t know if the boy is too. I should have asked. I don’t know if Joshua is coming too. Oh, I hope he is!’ She climbed onto the bed and started jumping up and down, the springs creaking under her excitement.
‘Slow down, Mrs Reid, or you’ll blow a gasket,’ Paul said, tackling her at the legs and dropping her.
The following week dragged, refusing to be hurried. At the library Carla forgot to swipe books out and shelved a whole trolley of returned ones incorrectly. At home, she added salt to her tea, sprayed hairspray under her arms, and located her lost tube of toothpaste in the fridge.
Paul tried his best to anchor her enthusiasm, anxious about what the reunion would bring. In the end he gave up; Carla’s mood was too contagious.
Every evening after dinner she scoured recipe books, planning what to prepare for the approaching lunch date. First it was to be a slow-roast leg of lamb, Greek style, the meat marinated in lemon juice and stuffed with feta cheese and anchovies. Then she opted for roast chicken rubbed with a paste of rosemary, garlic, and olive oil. Finally, she settled on pasta with a simple sauce of bacon, egg yolks and Parmesan cheese.
‘Probably more suited to a child’s palate,’ Paul agreed wearily. ‘That’s if they decide to bring the children along. I don’t want you getting your hopes up.’
The week of the impending visit finally arrived. On the Tuesday, Carla could feel a cold coming on. The thought of even a minor ailment ambushing the upcoming Sunday was too much to contemplate, and she dosed herself up on vitamin C and zinc, Panadol and echinacea. But on the Thursday she still felt virally. Paul was spending the night out of town at a book fair, so she didn’t bother to make dinner for herself, instead climbing into bed just after six.
When her bedside alarm went off the following morning, she struggled to muster the energy to silence it. Paul was her usual alarm, waking her each morning with a mug of freshly brewed coffee and South African rusk to dunk. Carla couldn’t have stomached either now; her whole head was aching and the yellow taste of nausea coated her tongue.
Hauling herself out of bed, she headed for the kitchen to make a cup of hot lemon water, but then left it untouched.
She stumbled through her morning routine with limbs like logs and her head in a fug that was intermittently punctured by a painful spear of sunlight. By the time she got to making the bed, she was already half an hour late for her shift at the library. As she bent down to tuck in the sheets, a wave of heat swept over her and the room listed. She teetered there for a moment, then slid to the ground and crawled on all fours towards the telephone.
Chapter Forty-Seven
PAUL
Paul stood impatiently at the information desk. The woman’s perfume was very sweet.
Her long fuschia fingernails clicked away on the keyboard.
‘What you say the name is again, love?’
‘Carla Reid,’ he repeated slowly.
She scrolled down the computer screen. ‘Not in this hospital, pet. Sure you got the name right?’
‘Look, I was phoned this afternoon by a medical registrar to say she’d been admitted. I’ve driven all the way up from Taupo.’
‘Sure it was on the Shore?’
Paul panicked. ‘The registrar said Waitemata Health, I think. I mean—’
‘What’s her address, love?’
Paul repeated it robotically.
‘Hmm.’ She pursed her lips. Lines of crimson had bled into the creases around her mouth. ‘The only other thing I can think might have happened is … if she, um … Oh dear. Just a minute while I check.’
Paul froze, the world around him suddenly on pause. He knew what she was suggesting.
‘How do you spell that surname again, hon? Two “E”s or an “E” and an “I”?’
Paul spelt it slowly and deliberately, his impatience tempered by fear.
The woman shook her concreted curls. ‘Silly me, love! There are so many variations these days. Here we go. She’s in intensive care on the fifth floor. Poor sweet. Must be awful sick.’
BEN
A gloom had settled over Unit 14, mirroring the day outside. The canteen was like a morgue, the meeting room an empty school hall. Ben missed breakfast and lunch, spending the day in his crib staring at the ceiling.
By evening, the walls had started to close in around him and the ceiling seemed lower. He was suffocating. He jumped up, trying to shake off the heaviness, and cussed so loudly the whole corridor heard.
Neil put his head in. Ben searched the screw’s face for news. Neil shook his head.
The other laggers mooched about too, occasionally snapping at one another and lashing out. Two fistfights went down, and Rusty was sent to solitary for booting Isaac in the balls. It was calmer once he’d been locked away.
Finally, Chalkie called a meeting.
Outside the sky was black. The wind thumped at the windows and messed with the rain, sending sheets of water colliding into the glass. The room was cold and the floor hard. Eleven of them sat on the worn blue carpet waiting to hear what the tattooed lifer had to say.
‘I’m disappointed in you,’ he began. ‘Not only have you let me down, you’ve let Miss Carla down, too.’ The group stirred. ‘So her visits, they’ve been in vain, have they?’ Chalkie looked at Isaac. Isaac shrugged. ‘Can you only be cool when she’s around?’ Chalkie’s eyes landed on Ben. Ben glowered.
‘She was trying to set you free, don’t you see? Just like them butterflies. Teach you to read and write, so that one day you’d be able to make something of your lives. How’d you think she’d feel if she knew that the first thing you do when she’s not here is sink back into old habits, into a vacuum of meaningless shit?’
Ben let his head collapse onto his chest.
‘Look, I know you’re worried. Angry. At the randomness of it. Me too. Sometimes life is just plain unfair. But the best thing we can do is keep working. Miss Carla believed in you. I believe in you. Do her proud, boys. Keep up with your writing. Your reading. That way you respect her.’
Ben looked up from under his fringe.
Chalkie pointed a thin finger at him. ‘I want you to take charge of the lessons in her absence.’
Ben shook his head. ‘But—’
‘No bloody buts.’
Beyond
I must leave you, Benjamin Toroa, even though your story is not yet finished. The wind has brought me news of another who has fallen from our people’s embrace. I must go in that dir
ection. But I will never really leave you, boy, for I am the mountains and valleys, the sea and the sky. I am everywhere and everything. Recognising me is what takes time. You are just at the beginning of understanding. I am hopeful. I have seen the early buds of change.
I leave you with this one thought. Time stacks each generation upon the one that has gone before, just like layers of rock. What is built today depends on the strength of what was laid down yesterday. Your life, Benjamin, forms the foundation for those who come after. What you do now, son, will determine whether the platform stands strong or crumbles under the weight of new lives. Live well, for this story is about more than just you. It has always been about your people.
Haere mai.
PAUL
Paul pushed open the heavy swing door, leaving the metal-cold air of ICU behind him. A vending machine lit up the dingy corridor, offering a selection of hot drinks. Paul scrutinised the menu, then rammed a gold coin into the slot and pressed Coffee black no sugar. The money rattled, clunked, then dropped into the hollow belly of the dispenser. Nothing. The screen fluoresced: $2.00. $2.00. $2.00.
Paul cursed and fumbled in his pocket for another coin. Finally, a plastic cup dropped down and the machine spat out a treacly brew.
He hadn’t eaten for eleven hours. His mouth felt dry and his tongue furry. He held a hand over his mouth; his breath smelt foul. He took a swig of the scalding liquid. Pleasure and pain.
Meningitis. Just like that. Normal one day, near death the next. Carla had already had her fair share of suffering. Was there no balance or even-handedness to what life dished out? Was fate really so capricious?
‘Jeez, Carla, don’t do this to me!’ he said out loud, his words echoing down the corridor.
He thought about ringing his daughter in Germany, then dismissed the idea. It would be the middle of the night there. And she hadn’t even met Carla.
The Last Time We Spoke Page 25