The Red Queen

by Gemma Bowker-Wright

  ‘Is she?’ Lew looks across at her.

  ‘She’s a hypocrite,’ says Ann. ‘Awful woman.’

  Lew grins. ‘Come on now, she’s not that awful.’ When he glances at Ann again she is watching him, smiling.

  At midnight it begins to rain. Water streams down outside the bedroom window. Beside Lew, Ann is sleeping, a faint upward movement of her chest with each breath. The rain gets louder, the sound growing, morphing. Ann rolls over and her eyes flick open, focusing on Lew. She looks at him for a while.

  ‘It’s heavy.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Lew. He sits upright and looks in the direction of the window.

  Ann looks at him, her face unsettled. ‘It was my ghost Ruth saw, wasn’t it? Maybe she mixed us up. We’re the same sort of shape.’

  ‘Of course not, love,’ says Lew, too quickly. Reaching out he pulls the blanket over her shoulder. She lets him. ‘Why would you even think something like that? It’s not like you.’

  ‘No, but she’s been right about a few things, with her weird predictions.’

  ‘They’re just lucky guesses.’

  ‘That’s what I do, except the guesses are informed. I don’t think I know where the boundary is anymore.’

  Lew lies back down. He can feel Ann tense beside him, the faint heat from her body. He takes her hand. ‘You were right about the snow.’

  Outside the wind chimes make a frantic sound. Suddenly, as quickly as it started, the rain stops. Lew holds his breath, waiting to see if it will begin again.

  ON THE RADIO

  My first job was a nine-month placement at a radio station in Nelson. It was small, community-funded and broadcast on a frequency that faded by the time you got to the mountains. During the nine months I would get to have a go at everything—researching, post-production, news reading, presenting. That was the idea at least.

  ‘You’re temporary,’ the manager, a guy called Harry in his early fifties, told me during the fifteen-minute interview. He held a copy of my degree in Media Studies to his nose, as if checking to see if it was forged. ‘Got it love?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I get it.’

  I found a flat that day and drove back to Christchurch to move out of home.

  The station was broadcast from the second floor of a two-storey office building. It was cramped. A messy open-plan desk area led to a corridor with two recording studios. On hot days, a small kitchen at the back with north-facing windows heated the place like an oven.

  Other than the occasional volunteer, there were only four staff. Harry ran things and presented a show in the mornings, discussing local issues—the City Council’s new recycling policy, pollution in the estuary, the state of state housing. Leon was on air from midday—he focused on the arts and current issues. Clare, the part-time receptionist, did the filing and accounting, and answered the phone. Then there was Summer. Her desk was empty when Harry showed me around on my first day.

  Summer presented the night show from eight until midnight on weeknights, interviewing local musicians and playing music requests for the late-night listeners, the number of which, Harry told me, had increased dramatically since she started.

  ‘She’s a natural. No background in it. Not much older than you. Listen to her tonight—if you’re serious about radio, the best way to learn is to listen.’

  I turned on my radio at five to eight. It was a warm evening and my new flatmates were out. I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge and sat on the couch.

  ‘Welcome to Late Nights.’ Her voice was cool, edgy. She had an American accent.

  I listened as she interviewed a band. She laughed and the band members laughed. There was something about her laugh. I woke up the next morning with the sound of her voice still ringing in my head.

  When I met her a few days later she looked nothing like I’d imagined. She was taller than me—dark hair, narrow hips, great legs. On her wrist, a man’s watch. In the dim light of the studio I could feel her eyes—a clear, unnerving shade of blue—processing me, deciding.

  I wanted to make an impression at the station. Being on the radio was a fantasy I’d latched onto in my last year at university. Now I was here, I wanted to give it a real go. My first job was doing background research for one of Leon’s afternoon interviews. The subject was possum control and the use of 1080. I spent ages researching the topic and typing up a set of notes, checking and re-checking the facts.

  Leon returned the notes a day later, coffee-stained and covered in highlighter, illegible scrawl filling each margin. ‘Have another go at this.’ He pushed the hair out of his face as he spoke. It was fine, blond. He was handsome in a thin, artsy way—not the kind of guy I would go for, if I was into guys.

  ‘The trick with live radio is to be over-prepared, but not let it show.’

  Frustrated, I went back to my desk and opened a new Word document, typing ‘take two’ at the top. Leon, on the other side of the office, had his back to me.

  ‘He can be a prick like that,’ said Harry when I went to see him the next afternoon while Leon was on air. Harry’s desk was a mess of papers, pens; cup-stains circled his mouse. Behind him a window looked out on a row of recycling bins and an illegally parked car.

  ‘I’d do what he says though—’ Harry winked at me ‘—he’s a bloody good broadcaster.’

  Clare stopped by my desk at the end of my first week, tapping her fingers on my screen to get my attention. ‘Look at you working away,’ she said. ‘Looks like you’ve got the hang of things already.’ She paused and looked at me, as if waiting for me to give her something.

  ‘Um—thanks,’ I said.

  ‘So how are you finding Nelson?’

  ‘It’s great—I like it.’

  ‘You don’t miss home?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She smiled. ‘You haven’t left someone special behind? No broken-hearted young man?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Her index finger left a smudge on my screen.

  During my first few weeks I hardly saw Summer. She didn’t come into the station until six or seven, after I’d finished. When she did come in earlier she sat at her desk with headphones on, writing things on a loose-leaf notepad she held balanced on her knee. Once or twice we had brief conversations in the kitchen. I asked her how long she’d been at the station.

  ‘Almost a year,’ she said, fingering the coffee jar. ‘It’s gone fast.’

  I said I liked her show and she looked away, an expression moving across her face—I wasn’t sure if it was a smile. Then she moved past me to get something from the fridge.

  It began the night of the Christmas party. Clare had decorated the station with balloons, tinsel, streamers, draping them from pin boards, shelves—every available surface was covered, making the place even more of a mess than usual. Initially I hung back, nursing a beer and feeling new and out of place. Everyone seemed to be getting drunk. Leon sat on the couch with one of the volunteers. She looked about my age. Harry swayed across the room with Clare. They made an oddly compatible pair—short and plump—dancing unselfconsciously.

  Summer arrived late. She walked into the room, a cloth bag slung over her shoulder. I saw her glance around, her gaze settling on Leon. Then, without talking to anyone, she got a beer from the fridge and walked outside to the balcony. I waited for a while before following her out.

  She was standing at the edge, elbows resting on the railing.

  My heart started to beat faster. ‘Hi stranger.’

  She turned, startled. Then her face relaxed and she smiled. ‘It’s sure loud in there.’ She sat down with her back against the railings and I copied her.

  We sat in silence. I could feel her breathing beside me and knew, without looking, where the outline of her body began and ended. I glanced at her quickly—tight jeans, a turquoise top, pale skin. The cloth bag was resting on the ground between us. Reaching out, I pulled it gently off her shoulder. Her blue eyes followed. She didn’t resist, letting
me take the bag.

  I opened it, removing each item and laying them carefully in a row in front of us—an assortment of discs, a notepad, an apple, a recorder.

  ‘What do you use this for?’

  Without answering, she picked it up and pressed play.

  Nothing at first. Then a smooth squeaking noise, a sliding. It stopped.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘A mouse slipping on a bench,’ I said. ‘The bench is covered in oil.’

  She laughed and selected something else. ‘What about this?’

  A loud sloshing, rhythmical.

  ‘A fat man running down a bank after sculling a couple of beers.’

  She laughed again, found another place, pressing play. Nothing. Then a faint crack—the splitting of something fine, brittle. The sound grew, morphing into many sounds, different crackings, cracklings.

  I listened for a while.

  She looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the sound of ice thawing. I was at a glacier down south on a hot day and a pool of ice was melting right in front of me. You could actually see the cracks forming.’

  She turned it off and gathered her things, putting them back in the bag. ‘I write radio plays. I’m collecting sounds for a script I’m working on.’

  ‘I’d love to read it,’ I said.

  She shook her head and her hair came loose. ‘I never show anyone until it’s finished.’

  When we went back inside the music had been turned down. Harry and Clare had stopped dancing. Leon was still talking to the volunteer, his hand almost touching her knee.

  ‘Do you want to go someplace else?’

  Before I could answer Summer was going to the fridge. Taking out bottles of beer she shoved some in her bag and gave me one to hold. Outside it was cooler. We walked along the pavement. At some point Summer reached out and took my hand, her fingers curled around mine. We went to a park by the waterfront and drank the beer.

  Later we walked to my flat. I sat on my bed, unsure what would come next. She sat down beside me and started kissing me, hard; the sensation was a shock, her mouth pressed firmly against mine.

  From then on Summer and I were together—there was no conversation or discussion about previous relationships—it just began. She started staying at my place the nights she was working, climbing through my window well after midnight and getting in beside me. I pretended I hadn’t been lying awake. Each morning I left for the station, leaving her in a twist of sheets. She was a tidy, compact sleeper—one hand under her head, body in a tight ball. In the slot of time between my day ending and hers beginning we sat in the kitchen at the station eating takeaways and talking. I loved the way she described where she was from in Minnesota—so flat it made you tired to look at it, blue sky, a horizon that moved the further you drove.

  On the weekends we went to a cafe around the corner from my flat. Summer always ordered black coffee and, although I hadn’t drunk coffee before I met her, I started to get the same thing. Away from work we talked about work. Summer told me she’d got the job through Leon; she’d come to New Zealand for a year to study music in Wellington and met him at a concert. But she didn’t see radio as a long-term thing.

  ‘What’s your long-term thing?’

  ‘I don’t really make plans—I’m not that kind of person.’

  I told her I wanted to host a programme on National Radio.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get there,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’ve got the confidence.’

  I loved her smile. The expression, each time, seemed a surprise—to her as well. It started slowly then suddenly caught hold, changing her whole face in one swift movement. I kept trying to find new ways to make it happen. One time I made up stories about our workmates.

  ‘Harry lives alone in an apartment. He’s had three failed marriages. He recently got a fox terrier.’

  An edge of a smile, it didn’t quite ignite.

  ‘What about Clare?’

  ‘Easy—she’s gay but doesn’t realise, and maybe never will. I think she has a thing for me. ’

  She laughed.

  ‘Leon,’ I picked up my coffee cup and held it in the palm of my right hand, ‘used to be a woman.’

  When I looked across at Summer she was looking out the window. ‘We should be outside,’ she said, ‘enjoying the sun.’

  As it got hotter our weekend coffee drinking morphed into trips to the beach, bushwalks, a day paddling a row boat on Lake Rotoiti. In the long afternoons we hung out at my flat, covering my flatmate’s TV with a cloth and listening to famous radio broadcasts downloaded onto Summer’s laptop—the 1970s recording of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Orson Welles reading War of the Worlds.

  ‘How’s your script going?’ I asked one hot afternoon. We were lying on the lawn outside my flat. ‘Read me some.’

  ‘No.’ She grinned, rolling onto her back.

  I picked a handful of grass. ‘Can you tell me the plot at least?’

  ‘It’s still developing.’

  ‘What’s it about then—roughly?’

  ‘A couple,’ she said, sitting up, ‘on a road trip around the South Island.’

  ‘What kind of couple?’ I picked a daisy and began pulling out its petals, one by one. ‘A girl and a guy, or a girl and a girl?’

  She looked up at the window checking to see if anyone was looking. Then, leaning forward, she kissed me.

  At the start of March, Summer and I moved in together. The lease on her flat had come up and my landlord wanted to sell. We found a place not far from the radio station.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?’ said my mother when I told her over the phone. ‘You hardly know her. And you haven’t been together long.’

  ‘Is this because she’s a girl? Christ Mum!’

  ‘No honey—’ I could hear something being dropped ‘—that’s not what I meant at all.’ She coughed. ‘She’s not from here. One day she might want to go back home and where will that leave you?’ She coughed again, clearing something from her throat. ‘It’s a trusting thing to do, moving in together.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know.’

  She put the phone down and I could hear the muffled sound of her talking to my father. Then she picked it up again. ‘Well as long as you’re sure.’

  My parents came up from Christchurch the weekend we moved and took us out to dinner to an Italian place that turned out to be nicer from the outside.

  ‘Well congratulations,’ said my mother. She’d brought two bottles of wine—one red and one white. ‘I wasn’t sure which colour you drank,’ she whispered to Summer as we arrived, ‘so I got both.’

  We all clinked glasses.

  The food took a long time to arrive.

  ‘So you’re from Canada?’ said my father.

  ‘Close,’ said Summer. ‘Minnesota.’ She was wearing a blue dress that made her eyes look bluer.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ said my mother.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You must miss your family; do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Only me.’ Summer glanced across the table at me.

  ‘What about your parents, do you go back to see them?’

  ‘I haven’t so far,’ said Summer. ‘It’s expensive. They live on separate coasts now.’

  My mother refilled her wine glass. When I tried to catch Summer’s eye again she was looking at the menu.

  I persuaded Harry to let me do a live interview in April. A writer from the US was staying in Nelson for a while—I’d read about him in the local paper and recognised the name. At uni I’d read one of his books and loved it.

  Leon wasn’t keen. ‘It’s too soon,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready.’

  But Harry, eventually, agreed to it. ‘Just don’t do anything stupid.’

  From the start I knew something wasn’t right. The guy didn’t look how I’d pictured
from his writing. He was older, mid-sixties at least, and black. When he came into the station twenty minutes late, I just smiled and pretended I wasn’t thrown.

  ‘Zoe,’ I said, and shook his hand.

  He nodded. His hand was heavy and warm.

  I grabbed my notes from the kitchen where I’d been sitting nervously. I’d been at the station since seven, leaving Summer asleep.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ whispered Clare, who’d come in even though it was a Saturday.

  ‘I’m not worried,’ I said, trying to pretend it was true.

  Harry opened the door to the recording studio for us and adjusted the equipment. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said to me, ‘will feel like a lifetime.’

  And I was on air. I paused, waiting. The guy looked at me—his eyes were deep brown, almost black. I asked if he would read something from his latest book to begin and passed him a copy of a passage I’d photocopied. He took it and I watched him scan down the page. The whites of his eyes were startling against his dark skin.

  ‘I’ve never seen this before.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I tumbled through my notes, dropping several pages on the floor. Digging out the book I handed it to him. On the cover was a pattern of leaves. ‘You wrote this—didn’t you?’

  He picked it up and skimmed through, letting the pages fan out. My heart was beating fast; I could feel the throb of it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you didn’t write this book?’

  He face was blank. ‘That’s the same name as mine on the cover,’ he said, ‘but I spell mine differently.’

  ‘So—’ my voice was too quiet ‘—you’re not a writer?’

  ‘I’m a writer young lady,’ he said, smiling, ‘just not that writer.’

  I tried to ask a question but it came out wrong, a jumble of words.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said, ‘I didn’t get that?’

  Leaning my elbows on the table I took a deep breath, and started again.

  Summer was still in bed when I got back half an hour later. ‘Well?’ I said.