Chapter Thirty-One: Reunion
“Well, that just about wraps it up for my report from Polynesia. I hope you enjoyed the programme. This is Ian Hunt somewhere in the South Pacific.”
• • •
Arriving in Christchurch was like stepping off the bus back into England. New Zealand, as a whole, has a reputation for being rather like Britain was forty years ago, a supposed rural idyll of green open fields and short memories. Stuart did not think the description particularly accurate: it was more like how an England might have been if it had a population in the single figure millions. Culture has become such a transportable commodity that it is too easy to see similarities where they do not really exist. Since Michelle’s announcement, Stuart had been finding it increasingly difficult to find any positives in his continued travel-exile, and was beginning to regard his current surrogate home-nation in the same way he would a suspicious-looking stranger.
They had checked into the Pavlova Backpackers’ hostel in the centre of the city, located in a corner of Cathedral Square. It had been recommended to Michelle, so she said. It was a large, slightly shabby-looking building, possibly a once-grand hotel that had since fallen on hard times. The original entrance was boarded up and a small lobby area, littered with colourful luggage – backpacks every last one – the walls of which were covered by eccentric posters and paintings, handwritten messages on scraps of paper and leaflets advertising local attractions, cheap meals and student offers, was accessed by means of a small side-door.
“Pavlova served every night between eight and nine, before you ask,” said the young woman in dungarees, who was working behind the makeshift reception desk.
“OK,” said Stuart. It wasn’t something that seemed to matter.
“Double, twin or dorm?” asked Ms. Dungarees.
The question had been directed at Stuart but he looked at Michelle for direction before hazarding an answer, “Uh, twin…”
“Double.” Michelle cut in, her voice loud and authoritative.
The receptionist looked from one to the other, “What’s it to be?” she said in a broad Australian accent, smiling.
Stuart shrugged. “Double, I guess.”
A notice on the wall advertised the daily rate for each type of room. The young woman pointed to a figure, saying, “Payment in advance. How many nights?”
“Just one,” said Stuart.
The receptionist looked across at Michelle for confirmation. “Yes, just one.”
• • •
Christchurch is a city of something over a quarter of a million people and Stuart thought that from where he was standing, on the tower balcony, close to the top of the Gothic spire of the imposing Anglican cathedral, he could probably see every last one of them. Directly below him, tourists milled around the square like pigeons. Viewed from such a height, and with the expressions on peoples’ faces that belied purpose not being distinguishable, it was easy to think of all activity as being utterly pointless: some people were walking from left to right; others from right to left, criss-crossing each other in unconscious formation; some people had found seats to momentarily extract themselves from the mindless merry-go-round of humanity on the move; one man was running and shouting; two others were on bicycles. A sea of such activity: to what end? Life, eh!
Stuart mentally reviewed his own activity since having checked in at the hostel. It had been a busy day. He glanced across to where Michelle stood, the collar of her jacket pulled up to shield her from the cold air, staring out across the rooftops of the city, lost in her own thoughts. They had been on a limited fuse.
They had planned to ‘do’ the museum in fifteen minutes, at most, but the exhibits had proved more interesting than they had imagined. Stuart had been distracted by a temporary exhibition on Antarctic discovery, while Michelle had developed a sudden fascination in large, stuffed mammals, the giant, prehistoric, hairy, ground sloth proving a particular draw. The opportunity to remain in the warm had also prolonged their visit: it had been raining earlier on in the day and neither of them had felt any great desire to hurry to become reacquainted with how icy the wind was. They had eaten at the Arts Centre, in a small upstairs room, which had appeared both intimate and hygienic at the same time, and which had served a range of savoury muffins, that both tasted good and alluded to being healthy. From there they had strolled, hand-in-hand, down to the River Avon to see the punts and the colourful boathouses and to watch the expert boatmen in their striped blazers, steering their craft with the ease which comes from years of practice. In Christchurch’s nod towards England, here was its most self-conscious illustration. On several occasions Stuart had tried to bring up the topic of Michelle’s imminent departure, to try to persuade her to stay on a few extra days longer, but she was not to be drawn into conversation on the subject. She had wanted to hear The Wizard speak – a local character who entertains tourists with his soapbox monologues – but he had not been in the square at the time that was advertised, and so, instead, they had climbed the stairs in the cathedral tower, arriving at their current lofty vantage point.
“Cold, isn’t it?” said Stuart.
Michelle huddled deeper into her padded jacket by way of agreement, looking like a small bird that has pulled its head in and retreated back into its downy feathers.
“Are you ready to go back down?”
Michelle nodded then said, “It’s not you I’m leaving, you know.”
“I know. It just seems like it.”
“We can meet up again when we are both back in Europe.”
“I know, I know.” Stuart did not sound convinced, “Can’t…”
Michelle interrupted him, “You know I can’t. We’ve been through this. I have to go.”
“Why?” Stuart was annoyed with himself at how pithy he sounded, “What have you got to go back for that’s so great?”
“Me. That’s what.” Michelle ran her hands down her front, trying to encapsulate her whole body in the gesture, “This is not the real me. This is me on holiday. Me miles from home. Me without cares, without commitments. I’ve got a house back in Luxembourg, and a job that I have to go to each day. I don’t go out for meals three times a day. That is not real life. I have a routine. I have friends that I am missing. I have a brother that lives in the next street and I want to hear his news. I have plants that need watering. It sounds boring, but that is life. You would probably hate the real me.”
“Am I going to get a chance to find out?”
Michelle shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“I…” Stuart could not find the words he sought.
Michelle saw the anguished expression on his face and was patient, not seeking to interrupt him, encouraging him to say his piece, “Go on.”
Stuart clenched his hands into fists, holding them down by his sides, his whole body tight with frustration. The situation, the decision, was totally out of his control, “What’s the point?”
“Tell me.”
“How can I explain? It’s like, you make me feel as though I have finally joined the normal club.”
“The what?”
“You know, one of the normal people.”
“Is this meant to be a compliment?” Michelle did not sound convinced.
“When you’re single you go through life analysing every action you make, hoping that you do not appear strange, you know, out of step somehow with everyone else. Perhaps the reason that you are washed up on the fringes of society is because of something that you are doing and just no one is telling you. It’s exhausting.”
“Everyone else?”
“Married people, well, people in couples I guess I mean. You make me feel normal.”
“And that’s good? You really can be quite a ... what? Queer fish?”
For some reason, Stuart recalled the conversation he had had with Ian – it seemed like a lifetime ago – in Bloody Mary’s on Bora Bora. “It seems like there are so many choices and yet when it comes do
wn to it there are no choices at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shall I go to Dunedin or shall I go to Queenstown? Shall I bungy jump off a bridge or shall I go white water rafting? Shall I take a flight to Australia or a boat to Stewart Island? Shall I travel alone or shall I travel with you? Shall I continue running or shall I settle down and be happy? Shall I chop off my legs and go and live in a monastery?”
“So what do you choose?”
“That’s just it. It doesn’t matter what I choose, does it? The choice has been made for me. By you. I thought that I had finally found something that I no longer wanted to run away from.”
Michelle tried to make a joke. “The monastery?”
“No, you.”
Michelle was serious again, “You are wrong when you say you have no choice. We are the lucky ones. We have all the choices. Our worlds do not even collide with those people who genuinely have no choice. What you do not have is the courage to make a choice. Neither do I. I am not meaning to criticise you.”
“So what do you suggest?”
Michelle had half turned to go. There was the echoing sound of happy, youthful voices from somewhere below. Someone else was climbing the cathedral steps and it would not be long before they were joined on the cramped balcony. “I have to go, you know that. You have to make up your own mind what you do. You cannot go through your whole life expecting the responsibility for what happens to be taken by someone else.” She momentarily turned back towards Stuart, holding her hands palm upwards, in imitation of a weighing balance, “It’s your choice. Life or…” She left the alternative unspoken and, turning, began the descent of the staircase.
Take control. It sounded like a corny, self-help philosophy to act as a guide through the turbulent ocean of life, but Stuart was self-critical enough to recognise that he had been steering a rudderless course for too long. Staring blankly out, over the increasingly darkening view from the tower, it didn’t help him feel any less lost at sea.
• • •
They shared a bed that night but that was all they shared. Thoughts of departure were on both of their minds: for Michelle it was a matter of admin., for Stuart it was more emotional. Stuart did not dream that night. That had been the only consolation. There were no fond farewells: Michelle’s flight had left early and she had managed to leave the room without even waking Stuart.
Stuart spent the morning revisiting their haunts of the previous day. It was not a good idea. Neither the ghosts nor the memories had had a chance to settle, and he ended up feeling more lonely than he would have done if he had ventured off to explore territories new. Lunchtime, back at the Arts Centre, found him updating his diary. Most of the days since he had met Michelle had been left blank: that was a good sign. During happy times there was not enough time to write a journal. During sad times there was too much truth to record in a journal. Stuart had reread some of his observations during his travels so far: half-truths and lies for posterity, guidebook facts and day-to-day mundanity. He did not know why he continued writing. Partly, it was compulsion, he could not stop, part of it, though, was a need to make real the experience, like taking photographs, an event did not actually occur until it was documented for later review. He wondered if he would ever read through any of this material again. Probably not.
It rained all afternoon and Stuart returned to his room in the hostel: the ‘powers that be’ – a different name, but the same omnipresent ‘they’ - had allowed him to stay in the same room at the same cost for one additional night. He fell asleep on the double bed and did not wake again until it was dark outside. He strolled down to Oxford Terrace - ‘The Strip’ - not caring that it was still drizzling slightly. The restaurants and bars presented bright, happy windows to him, views of couples dining and talking, or groups of people drinking and laughing; garish, orange lights that reflected in the puddles on the pavement outside. Stuart had never felt particularly self-conscious about dining alone before, but that evening, surrounded by so much gregariousness, he did not want to be so readily identified as ‘Nobby No Friends’. He was hungry, but he decided that in his present depression a drink would serve him equally well as a full stomach, and the stigma of getting drunk by yourself did not seem so great. He talked to no one except the barman, finished one beer, before walking to another bar and drinking two more. Michelle would be more than halfway home by now. Perhaps somewhere over the Middle East. Clockwise around the world: flying into continual daylight. She would probably be watching a movie or finishing her aeroplane meal. He needed to eat, but not here. Stuart glanced at his watch. It was still early, even though it seemed to have been dark outside for hours. He thought back to where he was staying in the square, they might even still be serving pavlova there. He wasn’t sure if it was free, or not. A perk of the place? It would be better than nothing.
The reception area of the hostel was deserted by the time he got back and the communal rooms were all in darkness. The previous night there had been the sound of a TV and of people chatting, tonight there was nothing. The promise of pavlova looked unlikely to be fulfilled. Stuart thought that he could count the number of people he had spoken to that day on the fingers of one hand: there had been the woman behind the food counter at the Arts Centre, although he could not now recall her features; there had been a fellow traveller in the square who had asked him for directions, but who had not lingered to talk when he revealed that he did not know the way; and there had been the two barmen tonight, one who had been quite chatty, the other who had served him in silence. Stuart looked at his watch again. Nine o’clock. He could not face going out into the cold evening air again. Everything did seem to close down here early, in any case. The typical traveller went to bed early and was up the next morning early. With Michelle leaving, this was never going to be a good day. Tomorrow? Tomorrow and it would be time to move on again.
Something made Stuart feel for the greenstone Tiki he was wearing around his neck. It was not there. He cursed himself for buying a cheap chain: one of the links must have broken and the pendant slipped off without him noticing. Maybe he would be lucky and it had fallen in his room; chances were, though, that he had lost it somewhere while he had been out. Not that it mattered: if he had learned anything from his travels it was that everything was transient; possessions, destinations, people. People most of all.
Stuart climbed the two flights of stairs to his floor, and turned the corner of the corridor, his key already in his hand, ready to enter his room. As he drew closer to his door, he heard the rattle of a handle and noticed the door of the room next to his own opening inwards, his neighbour having evidently chosen that moment to go out. It was an opportunity for the kind of human contact that he had been craving all day, an exchange of pleasantries, no matter how brief, an easy opening into a conversation by virtue of a shared location. At any other time. Stuart had given up on today: he just wanted to lock his door on the world and retreat into sleep. He realised that he would not have time to complete the task of slotting the key into his lock, turning the handle and slipping inside his room without being observed, but he reasoned that if he turned an antisocial back to his neighbour whilst he obtained his entry the chances were high that he would not be called into conversation. He was mistaken.
“Stuart?” It was a woman’s voice, quiet, full of query and of doubt; a woman’s voice he recognised instantly. He recalled the last time he had heard her speak. She had been slightly drunk then. She had talked about bed. She had scared him even then.
“Stuart?” The voice was slightly louder now, still questioning, but sure of itself at the same time. It was only one simple word - his name - and yet it had the effect of making him break out in a cold sweat. Still he did not turn to acknowledge his addresser. He knew exactly what he would see; could picture every feature of her face, every contour of her body. His knees suddenly felt weak beneath him and the muscles of h
is bowels felt as though they were going to involuntarily relax.
“It is you. How extraordinary.”
He turned around now. There was nothing else to do. There was no escape. There was no choice. How often it is, when your guard is down, when you think that you are out of the woods, how often it is that it is then that you are at your most vulnerable. No choice? Michelle’s words came back to him. Life or death? There was a choice.
Corrie was standing in the corridor outside the door to her room, her tall, thin figure leaning seductively against the wall, exactly as Stuart had pictured. She was smiling at him. From around the corner of the door, the short-cut, curly-haired head of Norbert emerged, leaning past Corrie to see. He was smiling too.
“We wondered if we might catch up with you somewhere,” he said.
Stuart shrugged, “Small world.”
No, small fish. It was always the same. Even here. Especially here. Norbert and Corrie they were the big fish, the sharks in the water. Stuart? The best he could ever hope for would to be a stickleback in a shallow pool; ignored and allowed to live his life if he was lucky, easy pickings for the circling predators if he should ever raise his head and make his presence known. It had even been the same with the crime - the accident, if he could still persuade himself that that was what it was - Stefan’s death at any rate: he had been a bit part player even then, not part of the main event, just a bystander caught up in a bizarre tableau, unable to take control of his own situation, unable to change anything.
Stuart laughed at the thought and for the first time in his acquaintance with him Norbert looked slightly disconcerted. “Stuart?” he asked, puzzled.
Marginalised even in murder? Always at the edges looking in, never the centre of attention, never the main attraction. Except there was a choice. It had just been presented to him. It was life and death, wasn’t it? He could still be the big fish.
Epilogue: Never Thought It Would End Like This
• • •
The blue cube of disinfectant was too new and too big to be moved by the force of liquid alone. He could tell that at a glance. It was not worth even harbouring ambitions in that direction. He might perhaps dissolve away a small corner of the block before he ran out of power, but that was not a particularly satisfactory activity. More entertainment appeared to be offered by the small, plastic disc, which covered the down pipe. If you caught it just so, slightly to one side, you could cause it to rotate and, once moving, if you continued to keep a steady aim, you could get it to rotate at quite a healthy speed. Lose your aim, though, and it stopped moving as quickly as it had started and you had to go back and pick up the momentum all over again. Yes, the rotating plastic disc, was pretty high up there in the urinal game circles. Toilet toys? There was something that could be marketed there. Big money. Everyone has got to waz. The spinning wheel of fortune. Where had it stopped in this case? On the big fat zero.
The exit interview. It would be worse than the introductory one. Then there had been the hope, the expectation of results. Eight years, though, they had all known it would be a long shot to turn up anything now. The relative would not be satisfied with that, though. They never were. He would have to tell him to go home. What was the point of staying on here?
Spin, spin, spin. Faster, faster, faster. Wooosh. How did that happen? The big douche. The automatic flush. Does the bowl know it is being used? Does it know to send down a torrent of water to clean itself? Or is it purely an automatic response, on an in-built timer, regardless of cause and effect? It seemed too clever to be purely random. And yet? That nagging doubt. It was like this case. Seemingly just within reach; in practice, always beyond grasp. No more delays.
Shake. In. Tuck. Zip. OK.
• • •
“Can I at least keep his suitcase?”
“I am sorry, Sir, it is evidence. You’ll understand.”
“Evidence! I thought you just said that there was no new evidence. The trail has … what?” For the first time, the man’s English let him down, “Run cold? Wasn’t that what you said?”
“We are not ruling out the possibility that something new will turn up.” Official. There was no other line to take other than official.
“I have been here for almost two weeks. You thought that something would turn up when I first arrived.”
“I know. I am sorry that there is nothing new that I can tell you.”
“So what do you suggest that I do now?”
“I suggest that you go home.”
“Home! I have not had somewhere that I can truly call home for the last eight years. For the eight years since my son went missing. Home is not just somewhere that you lay your hat, it is…” The older man placed his two cupped hands over his heart, looking directly into the eyes of the police officer, “You understand?”
“Yes.”
There was a silence before, “Do you have a son, yourself?”
“A daughter.”
“How old?”
“Two. She’ll be two tomorrow.”
“Is she talking yet?”
“Just a few words.”
“My son, he could speak five languages. It is the way they are taught in Switzerland.”
• • •
Meanwhile, eleven thousand miles away, Stuart had switched off the TV set. He was impressed: he had never thought that Ian would make it as a TV travel presenter.
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