Brightened, hurts fleetingly forgotten, Lefty passes an alleyway and hesitates, knowing it will lead him to a long network of fields and parks from which another exit gives direct access to his mother’s place, saving him almost an hour of walking. He also knows that at this time on a Saturday he runs the risk of encountering in the park bands of homies from the ghetto, making their clandestine way toward town and the evening’s operations.
He examines the sky, decides it contains another half hour of light: more than time enough to traverse the park and leave it to its traditional late wayfarers.
A while earlier, mortality close enough to choke on, Lefty might have taken the longer, safer route. Now, with fresh visions of his ‘connected’ future, Lefty shrugs a ‘fuck it’.
Starts down the grafittied alley.
Fag finished, the need for motion rushing me, I flick the butt clear and cross to a nearby tree. Snap a small branch from it. Shown the stick, the dog feigns disinterest. Nevertheless, when I toss it, he leaps from the bench and bounds a pursuit, enthusiastic as a creature twice as hale.
Surprise giggles from me.
He even returns at a smart trot, surrendering his quarry with the barest hint of a liberty given.
Awaits the chase with a patronising stare. I’m half tempted to throw a dummy; decency wins out.
Away again. I know you’re not food, but I’ll pretend so anyway. I’ve these urges in me to kill things, you see — shake them to bloody pieces — but I’m pretty sure the poop’ll hit the air-con should I dare to answer them.
In the background, the mob appears to be demobilising, dribbling away in small factions.
No idea now why I bothered feeling for them, extending myself. Not a maudlin trace left of the mood that saw me bitten.
I shrug sullenly, write it off to the wonders of LSD. Emotional imbalance in one easy swallow. Shame an entire trip isn’t like the end of one; the stuff’d be easier to quit than nightshade.
Still, as the dog shows fatigue a few casts later — pikes out of the game in favour of gnawing — as I sit on the bench and watch two of the kids toss a tennis ball; it’s hard not to thaw just a little. Hard not to chuckle at their artless ardour, their frowning engrossment. Their instant joy, quicker disgust.
Those were the days, all right. No doubt that we’d grow to inherit the earth. Soles like leather. All fields Eden Park. All tries Shield-clinchers. And even when you lost, knees skinned and limping, at home there’d be ice-cream, or soup by the fire. A kiss goodnight and all ills were rights; sleeping the sleep of the just.
I wonder what Tania’s and my kids’d look like?
Would a boy be like I was: all skin and bone, more energy than mass, a grass stained dynamo? What about a girl? Would she have Tania’s jet hair? Her cute pixie nose? A coffee-coloured cinderella …
Snapping to my feet, startling the dog.
Feel my breath quicken, like a deer on the run; can’t reign it in.
Even the kids feel my shock, stop to stare.
Tick followed tock, followed tick followed tock …
Forcing word to my feet: Let’s blow this scene, boys. Now. Out of the park, away from these brats. Get me to this pub, to beer and to mates, to jugs and to sounds, to weed and to bullshit …
… And you can keep your fucking acid stashed down your undies, Bum, you treacherous bastard.
… Feeling better already.
Lefty emerges from the alley onto a sloping field perhaps 500 metres across, down the centre of which flows a small river. Clumps of trees dot the landscape, a fenced rugby pitch in the foreground.
Birds sing their last in the dying light, and, after a good visual scouting, Lefty starts across the park.
Minutes later, though, passing a long grove of pines, he hears a sound that rivets him in his tracks.
A laugh.
A cackle.
Then, not five metres from his position, a boy of perhaps thirteen clears the bushes at a trot. A Maori boy.
Whose status Lefty is immediately forced to modify to ‘homie’ when two comrades appear at his back.
Lefty surprises the youths almost as much as they do him, minus the apprehension.
Still, though they are three, these kids lean toward Homieism’s younger and smaller denominator; present little threat to him in numbers of fewer than five.
Yet when a fourth, and larger, squad member materialises, Lefty’s dread regains flickering life.
And when Dusty pops from the trees like a juvenile orc in the Mirkwood, Lefty’s stomach goes into freefall, comes to rest near his heels.
At the sight of Lefty, an impudent grin splits the novice gangster’s baby-face, his eyes bright like foxglove. His adolescent voice saws like a hungry buzzard’s, dripping acid disdain. ‘Well, well, well! Whad’ve we got ’ere then, boys?’
Lefty, panic an inch away, backing off unconsciously: ‘I don’t want any trouble with you dudes!’ He whips his glasses off, laying bare his black eye, hoping for mercy a part of him knows can’t come. ‘I’m just …’
One of the younger ones, aroused: ‘’E was in that car tha uva night! Yu noe, outside the pickshas, when those fullas sung that slave shit at us?’
The fourth, and biggest: ‘’E’s always cruisin’ in that car.’
But, as usual, Dusty’s three steps ahead of his soldiers. His life is lived by fist and by boot, and his head for strife is the best in his field. Without it, given the fickleness of the circles in which he runs, Dusty would’ve been deposed long ago.
Crowing his delight: ‘Course ’e’s always in that car! “The ’Dan”, bawl’eads call it. “The Holll-Dan”. Used to be Luke’s car, that one. Old Redneck Luke. Yaw parta the “hitman” Barry’s team. Ain’t that right, bawl’ead? ’Im an’ old Alla-Gator. The very same crew that jumped Tubby an’ ’em up town that night, when they was all sick on the Jack’s they found. Folks say this one ’ere’s tha fulla ’u always scores. Well, yu’ve certainly scored today, beau. Scored big time!’
On a handful of occasions Lefty’s been a member of parties that have come close to scrapping, against their will, squads led by Dusty. Once it actually happened, briefly, but Lefty had hoped, in the confusion and darkness, for Dusty’s memory of him to be less than comprehensive.
Now he learns that the ‘kid’ has detailed files of him at instant access.
Not that it would have mattered. Given the odds, Lefty’s age and colour, the emptiness of the scene, Dusty would have set upon him no matter.
Instinctively.
Dusty, smirking, stalking: ‘Looks like sumone else ’ad a dance wif ’im not — too — long — ago. Less than a whole day, judgin’ by that shiner and nose. What ’appened, scorer? Ladies’ man? Did sum hoe slap yu silly ’cause yu wooden fuck ’er ’ard enuf? Maybe that’s true, ’cause I ’member seeing yu dance up town one night, an’ yu fight like a bitch yawself.’
They fan out, Dusty centring the net.
Lefty dials his whine to maximum patheticness. ‘Come ooooon, fullas! I only hang out with those guys because of the drugs they get! I just had a huge scrap with them, and four of them kicked the crap outta me! Don’t hurt me! Pleeeeeeease! Why meeee?’
But his abjection seems only to embolden them, and when Dusty’s grin sharpens, his eyes flaring, hysteria bursts the dyke of Lefty’s control. With a choked yell he turns tail, ditching his pack, sprinting for dear life …
… but the grunts run him to ground in a few drooling strides, hooting glee hyena-like; hurl him to his knees.
Dusty approaches at a pace more dignified, and through his smiling, baby-face the homie’s sudden mimicry affects Lefty like satanic pantomime. ‘What we’ve got here is … failure to communicate.’ Around the streets of Vegas, Dusty’s renowned for his artistry: he takes thuggery to new levels. Slapping Lefty hard with an open palm, frowning suddenly, like a wronged employer: ‘Yu should know beda than t’ run, bouy. Niggers, when they run lark that, it’s on account of their crames being tooooo mu
ch t’ bear. Lark mah pappy used to tell me, a runnin’ nigger’s a guilty nigger.’ He thrusts his face close to Lefty’s. Hushed, rueful: ‘And a guilty nigger? … Why that there’s a dayed nigger.’
Knees hugged to his chest, Lefty points his sobs at the grass.
Nevertheless, when instinct identifies a bolt-hole — the green and white scarf on Dusty’s belt — Lefty’s sense of self-preservation seizes it with venom. All other reason discarded — abolished — Lefty recalls some enemy intelligence of his own.
Dusty purports Rabble affiliation, always has; is eager to follow the lead of a patched older brother.
Lefty, babbling, purpose gushing to his eyes, through his limbs: ‘Iknowsomething! Somethingyouneedtoknow! I promise! I swear on my mother’s soul! It’s something about the Rabble!’
Dusty, sneering, rhetorical: ‘Tssssss. What wood yu noe of Rabble affairs?’ He cocks his fist, grin springing back to his lips, quick as schizophrenia.
Lefty, frantic, cringing: ‘It’s to do with Hemi! Do you know Hemi? He’ll wanna know about this straight away, I’m telling you! And he’ll thank you for telling him forever after!’
Dusty, swapping a stare with the bigger of his subordinates: ‘Just ’im noeing Hemi’s name sa-prises me.’
‘Me tu. Maybe it wooden ’urt t’ listen to ’im.’
Lefty, as steady as ague: ‘Just you, Dusty. Hemi’ll do us both, otherwise.’
9
Sunday, 12 March, 5.39am, Takahera Forest
A long way north of the Smoke, State Highway 69 passes to the west of Takahera pine plantation, a sprawling exotic forest in various stages of logging and regrowth. Though smaller than the Juggernaut’s beloved Kaiangaroa, Takahera Forest is of similar nature: planted on long flats, gentle undulations; broken into blocks by a labyrinth of gravel roads; bordered at its circumferences by farms and real forest — native valleys and ridges, thick and steep.
As we hit the turnoff into Takahera, I’ve been at the wheel for the past two hours. Steve’s beside me, reading the map by torchlight. We’ve shared the driving since the Smoke, Barry and Mick having drunk to excess — the latter quite inexplicably — in Bum’s pub and now flaked out on the back seat. Though we’ve smoked near a packet of fags each, Steve and I are sober and straight.
Primed for business.
At least Steve is. I’m just doing well at pretending to be. For despite the sublime opportunity almost upon us, the coming day refuses to dwell in my thoughts as anything but a rip in a surf-beach.
Moving from bitumen to the gravel of the logging roads, the rougher ride is at first a little unsettling, but our arses soon adjust, The ’Dan humming across the coarse surface as only an old Holden can.
Me, attempting a thought derailment: ‘So, he planted in the pine, eh? What’s so sound about this spot? Looking at the size of the forest on the map, I’m guessing half of Northland plant in here.’
Steve: ‘They probly do, but not in the north-eastern corner, where we’re ’eaded.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cause it was logged completely in the sixties and then replanted. The seedlings they laid are now just a year or three orf maturity, so the bush up there is uniformly tall and thick. Unless yaw mad enuf to plant on the roads, yaw weeds ain’t gonna get one minnit of sun all summer, let alone the few thousand hours they need. I doubt the pigs even give that parta the forest a token glance when they play cowboys in their choppers every season. The bush gangs’ll move in there in force pretty soon, start logging the shit hard, but faw now they keep tha area locked up. The only cunts ’u ever go near the place are the odd pen-pushers or a thinning-to-waste crew.’
I puzzle on this for a minute, searching for my oversight. Fail. ‘So if growing in that corner of the forest is so inconceivable, why the fuck did this Woodstock cunt choose to plant Hemi’s seeds there?’
Steve: ‘First, ’member what I told you: ’e didin’ choose the site specifically for Hemi’s seeds; ’e’s been growing ’is own gear up there faw years. Second, you’ll see why it’s possible when we get there.’
Curiosity wants me to push for more, but a greater urge wins out. Procrastination. Like when you’re off to meet someone you don’t at all want to see, and the journey can’t last long enough. I begin to relish every second of our dark trek through the forest; to dread each turn Steve directs me down as he counts off his map, the forest devoid of signs.
A fine day slowly dawns, sunbeams fingering us accusingly, pilfering the false solace of night’s anonymity. We pass blocks recently logged, reduced to stumps and torn earth, piles of dead waste.
Rows of infant trees.
Prime timber.
Blocks in mid-liquidation, the Juggernaut’s pall-bearers hulking in condemned shadows, genocide stayed while the death squads recharge.
Swiss fairytale to mangled abattoir in one fell metre.
Deeper.
Gradually, the roads Steve chooses deteriorate, potholes and slopes eaten into them by rain erosion; our progress slows to match.
Eventually, though, as we meet a stream winding in from the south, tack up a road along its true left bank, Steve quietly informs me: ‘I think we’re gettin’ pretty close.’
Sickly: ‘To the plantation?’
‘Well, as close as we’ll get to it by car.’
‘How close is that?’
‘Not too close faw comfort.’
Smiling with effort: ‘What’s that s’posed to mean?’
‘That yu can relax a bit longer: we’ve a fair amounta walking ahead of us yet.’
I decide enough’s enough, pull over near where the stream gurgles in easy reach of the road. Looking in the rear-view mirror: ‘Barry?’
As if he’s been foxing, Barry’s eyes snap instantly open. He leans forward, intent; a shake of the head and he’s fully on deck.
‘Oh, man, my mouth tastes like a dog slept in it. What’s up, bro?’
‘We’re nearly there.’
His gaze takes in the forest around us, a twinkle building even now. ‘Top shit. Great effort, guys. Sorry to doze on duty like that.’
‘Wake up, Mick, will ya, man? We’ll drag him down to that stream and dunk him.’
I’m yet to meet a better medium for hangovers than Mick, and as the rest of us wash and rejuvenate in the stream’s waters, he cowers on the bank, dripping, shivering, holding his skull as though it’s filled with nitro-glycerine. Groaning: ‘Have we got any Panadol left? Tell me we have.’
‘There’s a whole packet in the glovebox.’ Trying to chuckle some humour into us both: ‘Two days in a row: that must be some kind of record for you, man. What’s the deal? Looking to pad your CV in hopes of a move into politics?’
Not even looking up: ‘Just nerves, man.’
The four painkillers Mick drops seem to be beginning to take effect as I drive past a long firebreak. Through this, to the north, a high ridgeline smothered in rough native can be seen brooding in background.
Steve, studying his map: ‘That’s the forest’s northern border, boys. That’s where we’re ’eaded.’
A few minutes later and an offshoot of our road tacks east, crossing the stream via a small bridge. Unfortunately, access is formidably barred by gate, chain and padlock.
Me: ‘Do we park here?’
Steve: ‘Not unless yaw keen on walking an extra five k’s.’
Following Steve’s lead, we all jump from the car. He scans the surrounding bush with purpose. ‘Can any’a yu’s see a dead, forked tree, ‘bout eight metres ’igh?’
Barry spots it almost immediately; leads us off to the right a little way. Without hesitation, Steve digs in moss toward three o’clock of the tree’s trunk; pulls free a sealed plastic bag. It yields a key in reasonable condition. ‘Eu-fuckin’-reka.’
Mick: ‘How …?’
‘Woodstock told me where t’ find it. ’Member me telling yu’s ’e’s a qualified ’orticulturalist?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well,
’e found all ’is best spots legitimately: by taking a job wif Forest Products in the late eighties. ’E’s got this place well sorted.’
Barry: ‘This bastard sounds like the stuff legends are made of. I can’t fucking wait to meet him. How many times have you spoken with him, Steve?’
‘Three or four. Where ’is camp’s at, ’e can’t get a signal on his mobile, but Hemi’s ’ad ’im ’iking t’ the top of a ridge every Wednesday at three o’clock. It was written on the map. I made contact wif ’im like that, set up my own times for rendezvous. The last one was at seven in the morning yesterday.’
We lock the gate behind us, opting to keep the key.
Within a bend or three, the rutted road swings directly north, through big thick pine, and, bouncing and jostling even at low speed, at times we’re able to watch the ridge looming nearer, higher, directly in our path. Soon, topping a small rise, we limp gently downhill for perhaps a kilometre. The road then turns sharply west. By this point the steep ridge towers above us, dense with native bush, verdant in the sun, broken in patches by sheer cliff-face. We’re near enough to pick out individual trees — mighty kahikatea, the tawa’s spreading crown — and after our time among condemned exiles, the sight gives me fleeting release.
‘Stop ’ere, bro.’
According to Steve — via Woodstock — at this point, through the pine trees that stand between us and a river at the foot of the ridge — the plantation’s border — a natural corridor offers space down which one might ease a vehicle. The lads jump out to clear the path for The ’Dan; Woodstock and co have been at pains to disguise it.
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