From Under the Overcoat

by Sue Orr

More people … Like a wall … Won’t give up space, not for anything … Push … Brewer, shaking hands, as though you’re a great man … You’ve had enough of me … You’re looking for me, sure of it! See me waving — no, you’re just checking, aren’t you … Making sure I’m nowhere near … Relax, the crowd’s too thick, can’t get through. Can’t … Go on, Brewer, waddle back to the jail … Maketu’s axe right between your shoulder blades too … Blood running … Go back to George Clarke … Saddled with his name for ever … Change it when I’m older, can I do that? That’s what I’ll do … Go on, go back. Hear what you want to hear: my father’s lies …

  Maketu’s last wishes … What a joke that was. Me, Father, Brewer and Maketu … Maketu’s head low, hands bound behind his back. What a scene … Trouble tonight, when this is all over … Not the first time Father and I have disagreed on the meaning of words. Right from the start … But this morning — too much … Too much —

  ‘Watch yourself there, sir, no, I’m sorry, but you cannot move in front of me.’

  … The smell and the heat … Worse … Unbearable … Really, what are we waiting for? You again, Brewer — just can’t help yourself. What are you doing now? Not yet satisfied with the size of the crowd? How many now? One hundred, more … Back there … Natives. They’ve come to see what British justice looks like … Ha …!

  … Oh Lord … It’s Maketu! … Can’t breathe —

  ‘MAKETU!’

  Try again, louder … ‘Maketu!’

  ‘Shush, son! Show some respect!’

  … Who is this fool? No one I know … Fine clothes … Don’t care anyway … Time to speak up, speak my mind … Not a child —

  ‘Respect? For whom?’

  ‘Well, for justice.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘My word! So much to say, young man! Come now: justice for the woman — Elizabeth Roberton, I believe the name was, and her children. And of course, that poor soul, Thomas Bull.’

  ‘Four months since the trial; four months waiting to die … no justice there, is there?’

  ‘Good gracious, what a tirade, and so young. Am I mistaken? It appears to me that you’re showing sympathy for this murderer! What are you suggesting? Are you saying we should pity him?’

  … Should we? Should we pity him? … God, don’t know … The trial … The hard facts …

  MAKETU IS IN THE dock. My father stands at his side, whispering. Translating the judge’s words.

  ‘In November last year, you, Maketu Wharetotara, did enter the bedroom of Thomas Bull, at the time under the employ of, and living in the home of, Mrs Elizabeth Roberton, and whilst the victim slept you killed him by splitting his head open with an axe. Mr Clarke, would you kindly translate for the accused, ask him how he pleads, and reply on his behalf.’

  ‘He says he is guilty, Your Honour.’

  ‘Furthermore, Maketu Wharetotara, on that same night, you entered the bedroom of the aforementioned Mrs Roberton, and murdered her with an axe to the head. How do you plead?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘And to the murders of the two daughters of Mrs Roberton, by the same weapon and in the same manner?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘And to the murder of the granddaughter of the Ngapuhi chief Rewa, Isabella Brind, at that time living with the Robertons? Your plea?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘Finally, Maketu Wharetotara, to the charge that you murdered a fourth child, the eight-year-old son of Mrs Roberton, by throwing him over a cliff as he tried to escape, how do you plead?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘I SAY, DID YOU hear me? Are you saying this native shouldn’t pay with his life for those terrible crimes?’

  … Oh God, help me … No sense … Don’t know … Maketu, seventeen like me. How could you? Savage, animal … Yet I like you … Look up, Maketu: look up, see me. Your head’s so low — chin almost on your chest — just like that first time we talked. Never forget that conversation, Maketu, the rage still burning inside you … Bull’s treatment … On and on … Taunting, insults, denigration of your people, the beatings. I was a dog, according to him …You said it to me, over and over … Finally, you avenged his beatings and insults, with your axe, raging … Next, the widow … Her children … Isabella the last victim and when you found out who she was, you knew you were a dead man. Turned yourself in … Chin down now, just as it was when you told me the story … You were showing me something, Maketu, remember? Maketu, look up! …Will he hear me if I shout —?

  ‘Maketu!’

  ‘Be quiet, won’t you!’

  ‘Maketu!’

  … Your chin touching your chest now … How you expected to die — immediately, the blood of those children still warm. You turned yourself in … When we first spoke, you were showing me, remember? Now, now, now — you said, remember? Blow to the back of the head … Utu … Justice … You knelt on the floor, hands behind your back, chin touching your chest … Showed me how it should be done. Do you feel me watching, Maketu? You won’t lift your head … You expected to die with your head hanging low … Expected to feel nothing, what was it you said? I delivered no long-lasting pain to my victims; I wish for the same death myself …

  Your people, they thought you would die at the trial … That very day. Kua mutu? they asked, outside the courthouse … Is it done? Waiting to take your body back north. I had to tell them, no, not finished. Just beginning, this justice … The British way …

  So quiet. Not a word from the crowd. Stifling … Stink … Listen … Those children asking when … The woman bending over the child … Maketu, did you … Before the murders? Should’ve asked, you would’ve told me at the end, liked me at the end … Did you? … Yes, no, maybe … Too late now … Must’ve crossed your mind: them asleep in bed, you mad with rage, already hacked Bull to pieces. Already a dead man, you … Standing over them … Widow … Young women too … Just one, maybe? … Nightgown up … Savage … God forgive me, stop it …!

  … Rain? Hope so … Cool … Cool things down … You thinking about me, Maketu? … You thinking about that night? …

  YOUR CELL, DARKNESS, JUST you and me. My bag is on the floor, at my feet. You ask to look inside it and I say yes.

  You pick up the flickering candle, and move closer. You kneel and set the candle on the floor. The light shines on your brown skin and I see muscle, the strength of your body. I am small and thin and weak. We are the same age, but you are a man, I am a boy. You reach inside the bag.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Silence. Item by item, every object gently handled, weighed in your hands, then placed on the floor.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  The bag is empty. You look up at me; tears roll down your face, I’m shocked — shocked by your dead eyes, your despair. Beside you, in a little pile, my copy of the Bible, a few more books, a photograph of my mother and father and a handful of coins. You stand up and turn away from me, then you kneel. Your back faces me, your head hangs low.

  ‘Come back later, George. Come alone, bring a knife. Bring a knife, or a club. Bring something to end this.’

  I WAIT UNTIL LONG after midnight before returning. I am wet with sweat, the smell of my fear follows me down the path. The key clicks as it turns in the lock. On the other side, your whisper comes through the darkness.

  ‘Thank you, George.’

  The cool metal bar is in my hands. I reach out and find your head, your hair. You are kneeling, your back to me. I press the tips of my fingers gently against your skull then down, down until they rest against the nape of your neck.

  ‘Now,’ you say.

  The metal bar is heavy and high in the air. Your hand folds over my clenched fists. I can’t see you but your breath is on my face.

  ‘No,’ you say. ‘You will die too. They will make you wait, wait, wait, like me, before you hang for my death.’

  The metal bar drops at our feet; a thud on the soft earth floor.

  ‘Why, then? Why d
id you ask me to do it?’

  ‘To see if you would.’

  MIGHT HAVE. MIGHT HAVE turned out like that, yes … Could have … We’ll never know, will we Maketu? Wasn’t brave enough to come back with a weapon … Went home and pleaded with my father instead, asked him to bring the execution forward … He talked about due process … Time to pass between conviction and execution … Ensuring justice for the condemned. Threatened to forbid my visiting you again …

  Should have told you. Would you have thought better of me, Maketu, if you’d known? … Heavens. Worrying about it now — what you think of me! … Matters to me … More than anything …

  Raindrops: you’re blurred … Dark smudge going up the steps of the platform … Lord … The hangman … Don’t know him … What’s he saying, Maketu? The noose in his hand … He’s trying to make you lift your chin. Of course you won’t: you’re waiting, still waiting, for the blow … If I could climb that platform now, I’d do it … Would … Would … Promise you … Ah … Wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t …

  ‘COME BACK LATER, GEORGE. Come alone, bring a knife. Bring a knife, or a club. Bring something to end this.’

  I am in bed. It is after midnight, but I’m awake. Under the bed, there is a long, cool, heavy, metal bar. I hid it there after visiting you.

  The picture rolls around my head, as though I am watching someone else. I see me sneaking down the path, the cool bar in my hands. A click, as the key turns in the lock of the jail door. The next thing I see is me, on the floor of your cell. You are standing over me, the bar in your hands. It is coming down, down, towards my head.

  It is nearly dawn when sleep comes.

  COWARD. NO BETTER THAN my father, no better than Brewer …

  Eyes wet … Not rain … Rope around Maketu’s neck … So quiet … Birds stopped. Can’t look … After so long, can’t look—

  ‘Excuse me, please, I’m trying to get to the back. Let me through, if you would.’

  … Let me through … Horrid, sick … Wide eyes … Faces: everyone stretching to see, the excitement … Idiot, child on his shoulders! …Th is is too much …!

  Better … Back … Space … Breathe, breathe, air, breathe … Better … Pull yourself together, George Clarke Junior … Name change? What? Maketu Wharetotara? Ha! Yes! Show my father … Show Brewer too … White ghost …

  No … Never dare … George Clarke Junior, always will be. Too much of my father in me … Too much …

  Dear God, please stop … The crying … Can’t stop … How to stop? Think about this morning, that’s the way … Think about Maketu’s so-called final wishes. The real words …

  MAKETU SITS ON THE step speaking in Maori, his hands and feet tied. It is sunny and warm. On one side of him is my father. Brewer loiters nearby, waiting for my father’s translation of Maketu’s words.

  ‘There are plans already under way, word spreading through the land, a message travelling through the treetops in the forests and along the rivers and from the tops of high mountains,’ says Maketu.

  ‘Plans? What do you mean?’ replies my father in Maori, turning the Bible slowly in his hands.

  ‘Plans to beat the Pakeha at this waiting-to-die game.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Maketu smiles. ‘I hear. In the night.’

  ‘Impossible. You’re locked up.’

  ‘I hear. Through the crack under the door … that gap up there, between the bars.’

  ‘Pray tell, Maketu. What do you hear?’

  Maketu leans forward, eyes gleaming. ‘I will tell you.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ says my father.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if I can trust you or not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You can’t stop these plans. No one can stop these plans.’

  Waiting … flip, flip, flip the Bible jumps palm to palm. ‘Well, then, tell,’ my father says.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Brewer asks my father. My father doesn’t reply.

  Maketu laughs.

  ‘The next time there is fighting, and Pakeha capture our people, the chief will give a secret sign. He will speak out loud, praising the bravery of the battle. But the speech will end with an agreed word — nothing to do with war, in case the Pakeha can understand — and when that word is spoken, our people will turn on each other.’

  ‘You don’t mean …?’ my father gasps.

  ‘Yes,’ laughs Maketu. ‘I mean to say that our people will use their tomahawks on one another — the men will deal with the women and children first, then each other. There will be no long wait for death.’

  ‘No!’ my father screeches, like a bird in the wind.

  Flip flip; the Bible barely touches his hands, it’s moving so quickly.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Brewer asks again. ‘Clarke — tell me!’

  My father’s eyes are changing — blue to grey to white. His face shines. Smiling madness.

  ‘Mr Brewer, this man has renounced the ways of the savage. He has just stated to me that he wishes to convert to Christianity. It is his desire to be christened before he dies. He wishes to repent.’

  ‘That’s not true, Father! Mr Brewer, it’s not what he said, not at all. Those aren’t his words … those are my father’s wishes, not his.’

  Maketu doesn’t understand. His gaze falls on me, then my father, then me again.

  My father’s eyes turn to Heaven. A beatific smile.

  ‘Oh yes it is. Enough, George. Quiet. This man, Maketu Wharetotara, is to join the Lord’s flock, albeit at a late hour in his sinful mortal life. It is his wish to cast off his name — a name that will for ever be associated with evil — and to be recognised from this moment forth as Wiremu Kingi. Mr Brewer, excuse me. I’ll fetch Reverend Churton immediately.’

  ‘No! Stop! What are you saying?’

  A blur of skin, my father’s hand across my face, pain. Then, the walk home.

  HERE AT THE BACK, so many natives … New dialects: not just locals. Been a long time … Of course word has spread … Over there, Middle Island natives? … Stewart’s Islanders …?

  There! Maketu’s people! From the trial … Do you remember me? … Your eyes locked on the gallows, nothing will distract you. Your faces … What is it? Confusion? Shaking your heads … Savagery … But this is something else again …

  What is it … So hot and wet … But I’m freezing … What’s happening? Not sick … Something else. Gripped, coming from them, sure of it … Heathen spells, seeping in through my skin — taking me … Can it be? … Them, the look, terror … Terror and horror … What’s that they’re saying? Move closer … Closer still … Such a long wait, and now this … Such a complicated contraption … They’re shocked … So cold … Can’t stop shivering … Sweat too, all over … Please don’t! Don’t look my way …

  WHAT’S THAT? … THAT sigh … Never heard such a … Oh, shivers, up and down my back, all over … The sigh, like one huge beast breathing out … Heard it before … Know it … Know it … Where? Shivers, shakes … Too much … Know it, yes. A sigh, a hiss … End of war song … Ssss …

  … Maketu …?

  THE EVICTION PARTY

  The breeze should be up by now. Ronnie’s been counting on that breeze to blow away the stink and the heat. It comes down the valley most evenings around five o’clock, flicks the tops of the pine trees to announce itself. But not tonight. Not the night she wants it most.

  Her car’s parked away from the party, across the rough little paddock they call the lawn, under the macrocarpa tree. She leans against the dented door and lights a joint. The smoke vortexes her body, settling like a pale blanket over the agitated, unhappy thing inside her.

  ‘Last one.’ She says this softly to herself, touching her belly. ‘Just this one, then no more. Promise.’

  She’s tried ginger, herbal teas, some natural remedy from the health shop. Nothing takes the edge off the all-day sickness except weed. But the wind is bound to come up later — shift the revolti
ng stench of the mill, make her feel better. And when that happens, when she can face it, she’ll tell Pete. There’s the right moment and the wrong moment to bring things up with him. She’s seen it plenty of times, what happens when you don’t get it right. Not that anything’s happened to her, but to other people who’ve fucked up. Earlier today, she faced up to the fact that she was just putting it off. So it will be tonight, later on. And when it’s done, once he knows, that’ll be it.

  She’s eight weeks. Lots of her friends partied hard when they were this early on, not knowing. Theirs all turned out okay. Two arms, two legs, normal. You couldn’t call it a baby anyway, not yet, she thinks, flicking ash onto the gravel. Even if it already has opinions about things. Even if it can’t stand the smell of its home town.

  RONNIE’S LIVED IN THE shadow of Kinleith all her twenty years — but she never smelled it until a month ago. Twenty-fifth of January 1989; a date she’ll never forget. She woke that morning to the suffocating stink of raw, wet timber and chemicals and putrid vegetation. Every gasping retch over the toilet bowl dragged more of the stench back inside her. Something tiny pushed — no, pushed was too strong a word — pulsed at the smell, forcing it back. On and on went the little war.

  Ronnie put it down to too much of everything the night before. It’d been massive. Tequila, speed, fuck knows what else, she was hopeless once she got a head of steam, grabbed everything coming her way. So that morning she crawled back to bed and lit up a joint she found on the bedside cabinet. Pete slept on beside her.

  But the mill kept getting at her, day after day, forcing itself down her throat. She started stashing her weed by the bed. If she was quick enough in the mornings, she could get the first hit before she was properly awake. Before the nausea sent her staggering to the bathroom.

  Pete went off to do a double shift in the bush. She waited for the virus — she was sure it was a virus — to pass. By the time he came back she knew. She’d intended to tell him — that’s the truth — but then he started niggling about the amount of weed she was getting through. Just the odd little comment; he was pissed off having less to sell. So what was she supposed to do?