Motel View

by Forbes Williams

  By the 1880s the spa was well known across the world, the wealthy and even royalty arriving from every continent for recuperation and rest. It was in this period that the splendid old buildings were erected and many of the spa facilities developed. I remember there was a metre-long group photograph hanging in the Post Office of the staff and clientele of the spa from some time in the 1880s, taken in front of the main building's front entrance. If you looked really closely you could see that several people appeared in the picture twice, at both ends of the group. It was unfortunately lost when the Post Office closed up shop about the same time as the name-change, sucked, no doubt, into a bureaucratic vacuum of infinite negative pressure.

  The 1880s were the pinnacle for Hope Springs. Depression and a sizable drop in custom the following decade were compounded by the huge debts built up from the extravagant borrowing of the previous few years, and by the turn of the century the enterprise was only a year or two away from closing completely. Later the Catholic Church briefly ran the place as a sanatorium; later still an American developer tried to revive the concern commercially, ultimately doomed by the power stations of the 1950s and 60s, which so diminished the region's thermal activity that in the end there were barely any springs at all.

  There've been the recoveries, of course, the lights at the end of the tunnel: it was forestry at one time, later the fishing and tourism; for a while now, I suppose, marijuana. For some the Kidd affair itself was something of a mini-boom. Always, however, somehow mismanaged, none of it ever seems to last and the town continues slowly on its inexorable path towards death. There are no banks now, no high school, no supermarket, no hospital and no radio station. The last cop left years ago now; the Argus will probably wind up for good some time early next year. Eventually there'll just be the monument, a few empty buildings and houses, the run-down remains of the spa. Those who came but never left in the forgotten spa cemetery; those who left but never came back on the walls of the Memorial Hall.

  As it turned out my father didn't help in the search, merely chaperoned me there so I couldn't escape. That wasn't his plan—he really did want to help and talked excitedly about it the whole way there—but half the town had turned up to volunteer, far too many for the police to organise. There was even something of a traffic jam when the crowd spilled out onto the main street. They sent a lot of the older ones home, preferring the young and able; at least I had that over my father. There were quite a few women wanting to help as well, but they seemed to send most of them away too. Later in my group of thirty there were only two or three.

  Rumours flew through the crowd like electricity. The two most popular versions of what was going on now were that Kidd and his daughter had been seen crossing the highway a mile or so south of the town, or that police had had a tip-off from an old friend Kidd had contacted for help. People kept reminding each other of what everybody already knew from the news, and of course there were all the stories from Kidd's childhood. Almost everyone you spoke to had been at school with him: a quiet, thin boy with either reading difficulties or a speech impediment. Others had the low-down on the Hastings TAB hold-up that had got him into jail or other bits of his life since he'd moved away; I met one guy who knew of a confession he'd made to a cell-mate about his sexual preference for young girls. An hour later this was common knowledge, old news. Most people seemed to agree his parents lived half a mile or so out of town with a younger, mildly retarded daughter; opinion was divided on whether or not they would actually be helping their son—though as those who felt they would pointed out, why else was the search moving here?

  We were divided into our groups and each given a wooden pole. Our lot was taken in a truck to a hillside covered in bush about 2 k down some gravel road. I sat next to our group leader, an alarmingly young cop from out of town with a narrow, pale face and tiny eyes that never rested on any one person for long. I was surprised and impressed that he sat in the back with us.

  Hell, mate, he said to me at one point, how do you cope with the smell?

  You get used to it, I said. Tomorrow you'll hardly notice it at all.

  I hope you're right. He coughed. I keep thinking someone's farted.

  As for the searching itself, if anything it was worse than I'd expected. We formed a line at the bottom of the hill and step by step worked our way up. The line had to stay linked so we didn't miss a single centimetre, meaning I was forced to keep up with everyone else, no matter how much I wanted to stop. When we reached the top of the hill we simply went back down along a bit and started all over again. Worst of all it was still wet from the rain and everything from your knees down quickly became sodden. I wished I'd worn gumboots.

  We were looking for bits of clothing or hair, blood, anything we thought might be relevant. In fact all we found was rubbish. Every step I dug up a can or a bottle, a dirty scrap of paper or plastic. You never fully appreciate till you look just how thickly blanketed with trash our country actually is. But no blood or clothing or hair.

  On one side of me in the line was the young cop—Gary, call me Gary—on the other a recently graduated doctor from Auckland on his first holiday in Hope Springs. He was having a break from work to help him decide exactly what he wanted to specialise in. The problem was nothing really grabbed him. Next to him in the line were our group's two biggest loudmouths, friends who bragged to everyone else about other searches they'd been involved in elsewhere in the past; how easy it was to get girls when you were searching because they thought you must be big-hearted and masculine. On one search it'd actually been them who'd discovered the body of a missing tramper; in spite of this they were openly cynical about the value of what we were doing. Still, it appeared the girls were worth the wasted effort.

  Stories of Kidd and his daughter travelled up and down the line. They'd already searched the family house for evidence of collaboration, we heard, and though nothing conclusive had actually been found, they had managed to get the half-wit daughter for possession of marijuana. There was talk of other sightings, a couple even out this way. Apparently shots had been heard several days back in the exact area we were now searching and police were worried Heidi might already be dead; it was even thought possible Kidd might have topped himself into the bargain.

  Gradually all this talk ceased. The sun seemed to be stuck in the sky. I felt a knot of panic start to grow as the hours ahead stretched into tortured eternity. My feet felt like cartons of ice-cream, though in the end I stopped feeling them at all. Eventually even the loudmouths shut up, and we worked on in silence, jabbing at the earth with our sticks.

  Of course the sun did finally go down. Nobody had found anything, but the main feeling seemed to be one of relief that it was all over. On the way back in the truck Gary put it to us we should all go to the pub to warm up and get some hot food. It would help us establish some group unity too, he said. The two loudmouths were keen and a few other guys too, so they got the driver to stop outside the Provincial. This was the nearest the bus got to my house so I got off as well. As I started to walk away Gary called out to me.

  Coming in, mate? I turned, uncertain.

  I haven't got any money, I said, trying to keep my voice down so the others wouldn't hear.

  No worries mate. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took a couple of steps towards me. He offered me a twenty dollar note. Here, pay me back tomorrow.

  But I'm seventeen.

  What?

  I'm seventeen.

  He paused no more than a split second, a brief flash of honest confusion. But you're one of us mate, he said. I'll look after you, don't worry.

  Are you kidding me? I couldn't believe it.

  He smiled, almost gawkish, flapped the twenty dollars. Of course not, he said. Come on, let's do it.

  The summer before I'd been kicked out of Hope Springs' other pub, the Railway, by the manager one Friday night. I'd gone with Micky to meet some other friends of his; none of us was over twenty. Even so, the guy only made it an issue with me.<
br />
  I waited twenty minutes outside in the rain for Micky, but he never showed, not even for a single minute to see if I was okay.

  I thought you'd just go straight home, he told me later. What did you want me to do?

  I felt humiliated. It'd been bad enough in the bar in front of everybody, but on top of that I'd stood out there in the rain all that time for nothing, proving only that Micky meant more to me than I did to him. More than any other one thing this incident marked the end of our friendship. I was already spending a lot more time with Matt and Julie, twins from a family at the motorcamp. I mean I could see the manager's point of view. I was sixteen, and looked younger. Micky and his friends were regulars. It still hurt like hell. Now, of course, I'm glad to look young for my age.

  The Railway was named in anticipation of an actual railway that in the end never arrived. It was the rougher of the two Hope Springs pubs. The Provincial's clientele was older, more established, with a Workingmen's Club kind of atmosphere. The old stone building was among Hope Springs' most impressive reminders of the 1880s rush; inside, things weren't quite so flash. There were two bars: the Public with its orange linoleum floor and tables you had to stand at; the slightly classier Harpoon Bar, with its bistro and parquet dance floor, polished piano in the corner. Next to the piano a jukebox with songs I didn't recognise. A low false ceiling, carpet with a strong diagonal pattern your eyes felt compelled to follow across the room.

  I rang my parents from a phone in the foyer and lied I was at Micky's. I'd never actually got round to telling them he and I were no longer friends—for a start I'd've had to change the story—and this way he remained useful to me as an alibi. It did occur to me to tell the truth, that I'd come to the pub with the police so it was all okay and they didn't need to worry, but I could see too many potential difficulties. Like, what if they didn't agree that that made it okay? The police aren't the law, I could hear my mother saying. Or, even more likely, what if they thought—as you naturally would—that the police bit was just a stupid lie?

  When I got back to the bar Gary had already organised a table and ordered me a meal: sausages, eggs and chips. All this on top of the twenty dollars. I began to wonder if he didn't just fancy me. Always drink on a full stomach, he said as we started to eat. Even if you end up sick at least you'll have something to throw up.

  Roughly ten or twelve of our search party had come to the pub; similar numbers from two others arrived not long after us, including two cop friends of Gary, who came over to join him. Both had two jugs. We were all introduced: Robert. Stanley. Alan. Shake hands firmly: don't crush.

  As we sat down, Robert looked at me seriously. How old are you mate? he said.

  I swallowed, looked at Gary, sick with horror. Twenty, I said.

  I love it, said Robert, laughing as he poured a beer. I truly love it, I do. He sucked the froth from his glass. You know … what's your name again?

  Alan.

  You know Alan, you should join up with the police. It's one fuck of a hoot, that's for sure. Eh Stan my man! Eh! He sneezed. Christ this place stinks! It's like a bloody toilet!

  Naturally Robert had all the in on what was going down with Dean Kidd. They'd not only raided his family's house, he told us, but a few other known contacts as well. So far they'd found nothing positive in relation to the kidnapping, but they had busted several people, with more arrests pending. So the day hadn't been a complete waste of time.

  Pretty good weed too, some of it, he said. Not bad at all.

  Like us, the other two search parties at the pub had found no evidence, but that didn't stop people from different groups ribbing each other about it, as if one nothing could somehow be worth more than another. I kept pretty quiet at first, still slightly stunned at being there at all, but a few beers and I was into it as much as everyone else.

  On the late news the search was the major item. Shh! Shh! everyone hissed, but the whole place cheered when it actually showed Hope Springs; you could hear them in the Public Bar as well. They even had a few shots of everyone assembling at the Memorial Hall. People strained to recognise themselves. Apparently the public response was some kind of per capita record—more cheers went up—and there'd been another virtually definitive sighting of Kidd by a motorist, this time on his own just north of the township.

  They kept the pub open late—I think Robert organised that—and after everything I did end up being sick, on the way home: sausages, eggs, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. One of the few clear out-of-body pictures I have of myself is the exact moment of actually vomiting that night, leaning forward with my hand on a lamp-post. The street light is flickering. I'm watching myself from about two lamp-posts down the road, unconcerned. You get out and away and nothing can hurt you, nothing matters, that's the point. You can regard the whole thing as a film. It's a trick I seem to have forgotten.

  As it happened I actually felt okay in the morning; with no excuse for staying at home I had to pretend that I was off out searching again. In fact I went down to the motorcamp to see Matt and Julie. My parents were still in bed when I left—which only meant one thing—so we talked through the closed door. I told them the searching had been a good learning experience and Micky's had been boring.

  Will you be home for tea? said my father. I briefly imagined him sweating on top of my mother and laughed to myself. Generally I find it impossible to imagine people I know having sex, but I'd actually walked in on my parents a couple of times so it was really only memory. Both times my father was on top.

  I'll still be searching then, I said, but save me some if you feel like it.

  That evening, like a night insect to a lit window, I went back to the Provincial, this time with Matt and Julie. The idea was really just to wander past and see how things looked, take it from there. But when we arrived it was so crowded it didn't matter. The Harpoon Bar was packed to the gills and there were even a few people drinking on the street. I recognised a few guys from my search party, including the two loudmouths and several who hadn't been there the night before. One of the loudmouths shouted G'day to me from the bar and winked. I noticed they were both still single.

  We stood in the door a few minutes until I finally picked out Gary, waving frantically in the opposite corner. Robert was standing next to him. I told Matt and Julie to wait and burrowed my way across to Gary to get his permission for them to come in too. As I went I heard snatches of conversation, most something to do with the search or rumours of Kidd and his daughter; one guy was saying something about a knife with fresh blood.

  At first Gary play-acted he was really hurt I hadn't turned up for the search, tried to make out it was my fault they hadn't found anything again, but gave it away when I told him I'd been sick.

  Jeez, mate, I'm sorry. He almost had to shout to be heard. Crikey. He put a hand on my shoulder. I'm sorry, mate, I really am.

  It's fine, I shouted. It's my fault, not yours. But I haven't got your twenty dollars.

  Don't worry about it! He waved a hand in dismissal. Here, do you want some more?

  No no, it's fine. Listen, I've got a couple of friends with me. Can they come in too?

  Friends of yours? He hesitated, longer than the night before. Are they on our side?

  What?

  Are they on our side? I still didn't quite get what he'd said. He leant towards me, put his mouth to my ear. It's fine. Bring them across.

  By the time I got back over to them Matt and Julie'd already bought three jugs. The woman at the bar was so rushed she hadn't even looked at them.

  Gary says to come over, I told Julie. There's no problem.

  Do any women live in this place? she said. I looked around the bar, briefly registered the absence of women. Apparently not.

  Back with Gary and Robert we struggled through introductions. A group of guys near the bar had started singing and it was almost impossible to hear. While I'd been away Robert had miraculously managed to commandeer a table and chairs, and we sat in a small huddle trying to co
nverse.

  We could still hear Robert. He told us the guys singing were in a party that'd found a small cardigan late in the afternoon. So far they hadn't been able to say for certain whether or not it was Heidi's, but at least it was something. They'd got a whole lot more people for dope, too, and they were thinking of bringing in a couple of helicopters just to see if they could find any growing. The army was sending troops to bolster the numbers of searchers.

  Of course all this was strictly off the record. There was a bit of a problem with the media in this regard, Robert told us; too many journalists sniffing about. The thing is, he said, they think they've got some kind of right to know everything. Gary nodded his agreement. Some of this stuff just isn't for public consumption, Robert continued, and what would happen if this guy out there got wind of our every move? If anyone asks you, just tell them you don't know a thing. We all solemnly promised to keep our mouths shut.

  I looked around the bar. There were hundreds of people, but I found if I blurred my eyes they merged into a single mass, like a quivering jellyfish. Over by the bar the guys who'd found the cardigan had dropped their own victory song in favour of ‘We Are the Champions’. Others were joining in.

  Gary went for more beer. As soon as he was gone a young woman who didn't look much older than me slipped out of the mass of people and tried to take his chair. Robert jumped forward to stop her and I found her eyes in mine.

  Is this chair taken? she mouthed at me, plaintively, sexily, already knowing it was. My heart leapt. No! It's yours!

  Yes! Robert pointed to the bar and raised an index finger skywards. One minute! he shouted.

  She flicked an eyebrow in bored acknowledgement and shot another look at me, this time a half-smirk, half-sneer, as if she knew without needing to be told I was a seventeen-year-old snot trying to act a man in the pub with some big hot-shot cops; knew I was still living at home with my parents in a state of total submission, not even able to make my own money; knew exactly how badly I already wanted her—how long a second can be!—and slipped back into the crowd like a fish back into the lake.