Gith (15 page)

Katawai itself is a dump of a place. There's always a bit of
a smell hanging around and the air never looks or feels right
— like there is dust in it. The only reason to live there is to
make money, and it's easy to see why people commute from
smaller towns like Te Kohuna. I generally tried to get out
of there quick as. That day, though, I took the chance to get
myself a haircut, dropping into the place in the main street
where I usually went. It was pretty quiet and I was in the chair
after five minutes or so.

'What'll it be today?' Doug said as he slipped the cloth
around me and tucked it into my collar.

'The usual,' I told him.

'Ah, you're not going for the number one, then.'

'Why would I?'

'I was starting to think it was a new fashion up your way.

I've had three blokes in here from Te Kohuna in the last few
weeks wanting their heads shaved.' He had a comb in my hair
now and a clipper was going.

'Maybe they've all got nits,' I said.

He laughed. 'Looks like a serious outbreak, then. Actually,
you just spoilt my theory. I was figuring they'd started some
sort of secret society up there.'

'You mean like the Masons?'

'For instance.'

'Who are they?' I asked.

'One of them's a bloke called Wyett. You know him?'

Wyett? Was that weird or what?

'No,' I said. 'Not really.'

'Don't know the other two by name but I used to see one
of them round here a fair bit. I think he lived in Katawai until
a month or so ago. Had an Asian girlfriend.'

I couldn't figure that one out. The only Asians in Te Kohuna
were Chung Dong and his family. Their girl was about twelve
years old.

***

I STOPPED AT the old Parline place on the way home,
pulled over onto the shoulder beside the hedge. There were
two wooden gates that had dropped on their hinges and stuck
in the broken tarseal of the driveway. I lifted one of them
and opened it enough to squeeze through. The garden was
not as overgrown as I'd thought it would be. Even the weeds
sprouting through the cracks in the drive had been cut back
close. I soon saw why. An old ewe was standing in the shade
of the hedge. She stared at me, jaws grinding slowly over a
mouthful of grass or leaves, as I shut the gate behind me.

The house was as bad as it looked from the road. It had a
verandah along the front but you could see sky through the
rusted iron of its roof. The wooden steps were broken and they
creaked under my feet. There were two bay windows, one on
each side. In the one on the left the panes were covered by old
roller blinds, hanging off centre. I crossed over to the window
on the right. The glass was blurred with dust and dirt but I
could just make out bare floorboards and faded wallpaper. I
walked back to the door and tried the knob. Locked.

The ewe kept on staring as I went back down the steps and
round the side of the house. Broken tarseal of the path. In the
middle of what might have been the veggie garden was an
old wooden wheelbarrow, upside down, and over to one side
an incinerator made from a steel drum, brown with rust. The
boundary fence was the usual post and wire, and beyond it a
paddock stretching away to a line of trees. Who had let the
ewe in? Somebody must have.

There were wooden steps up to the back door. On the
ground beside them was a cardboard box, falling apart because
the rain had got to it. It was half full of empty beer bottles.
Next to it a chipped enamel basin with a soggy blue rag. The
door was shut, bolted and padlocked.

I kept on walking round the house. On the northern side
was a little orchard — green leaves and purple plums. A big
bay window here. Through the blur of dirt on the glass I could
see something inside. I rubbed a clearer space with the side of
my fist and put my hands up to stop the light.

It was a big room with a bare wooden floor, dark back
there in the shadows. Facing the window was a chair, rusted
chrome with a torn red vinyl seat. Other things, too, that I
couldn't make out. I walked to the back door and grabbed the
wet rag out of the bowl. It smelt pretty bad but I figured it
would do the job. Back at the window I wiped a bigger space
in the dirty glass so that I could see better.

On one side of the room was an old dresser with a cardboard
box on it. Hanging over the edge of the box was what looked
like the cord of a venetian blind. I could just make out the
plastic knob on the end. Next to the box was another beer
bottle, which still had the cap on. Nothing else except a chunk
of four-by-two about a metre long propped against the end of
the dresser, dark paint or stains on its lower end.

There was something weird about that chair. It seemed like
it had been put there facing the window so that somebody
could look out. I thought about them sitting there; in winter
maybe staring at the branches bare and dripping with rain, or
in spring with all the white blossom, or now in the summer
with the leaves and the plums. Peaceful? Looking out might
have been peaceful but looking in sure as hell wasn't. The hum
of the highway made the silence creepy. There were stains
on the wall above the dresser, damp that had spread down
from the ceiling and dried into the paper like washed-out
blood. I got the feeling that the person in the chair had been a
prisoner, tied up so that they couldn't move, and that the view
was a kind of torture. A picture of Dagmar popped into my
head, his folded arm, his twisted mouth.

I had a wriggly feeling in the skin behind my shoulders,
like somebody was watching me. I turned round real quick.
Nobody. A little breeze shifted in the plum trees. The sun
was warm on my face and hands. I let out a big breath and
found I had been holding it, like I was trying not to take in
poisoned air. Suddenly I wanted to run, to get out of there.
The old ewe stared as I went out through the gate and pulled
it shut behind me. It felt good to turn the ignition of the Surf
and have the motor kick into life, to merge into the traffic on
the road.

ON SATURDAY MORNING Pita Ratene came over as
usual to man the pumps for the day, and Gith packed her
bag for her visit to the farm. After that we pretty much stood
round waiting for Ma. Gith seemed happy about the trip. I
reminded her about the puppies and she laughed. Perhaps a
dog of her own would give her something to think about, as
Ma said. It might add a bit to our security too.

Ma was there around ten-thirty, and by eleven Gith was
belted in to the little blue Honda and they were gone. It felt
weird afterwards. In six or seven years this would be the first
night Gith and I had not been in the same house. Part of
me felt free, like a burden had been lifted, but another part
was just lost. I made myself a sandwich and had a cup of tea,
mostly because I couldn't think of anything better to do, and
then I went for a walk.

I popped in to see Len and Kath. Len seemed a lot worse
physically but better in himself. He smiled in a tired sort of
way and talked about the garden. His roses were in full bloom
and he liked to smell them every day. I said I would come and
do some weeding for him, given that everything was starting
to get a bit overgrown.

'Thanks,' he said, 'but not to worry. The weeds come and go
like everything else.'

When I left, Kath came out to the gate and told me they
were arranging for Len to go into the hospice in Palmerston
North. Any day now, she said. Would I keep an eye on the
place while they were gone?

'Sure,' I said. 'No problem.' Thinking that it sounded like
they were going away on holiday when the truth was that she
would be the only one coming back.

It was a fine summer day. The sky was blue with puffs of
white cloud, the air warm. I walked from Len and Kath's
place to the corner of Maungaiti Road. The same bunch of
kids were there, squashed together on the bench. One of the
boys was swinging from side to side on a telegraph pole. He
poked his tongue out at me. I did the same to him. A kid on
the bench laughed.

'Yo, Fat Man,' one of them said.

I pretended not to hear and tried to figure out where I
should go. I could keep on along the main drag, past the café.
I could stick my head in and say hello to Brenda. The thought
of her gave me an odd sort of feeling but I knew I should be
ignoring that. Just because Gith wasn't around didn't make it
right.

I crossed the road and headed off down Anzac Street. The
Domain was on my left, houses on the right. After about a
hundred metres I came to St Peter's on the corner of Church
Street.

It's made of stone and a smaller version of one of those big
European numbers, with a pointed arch for a doorway and a
steeple with a cross on it. There is a bell on a wooden frame
beside the gate and a few oak trees in the yard. Some graves,
too, although the main cemetery is up the highway towards
Tapanahu. Used to be, when we were little, that Ma took
us kids to church sometimes. The Old Man never went. He
didn't say religion was a load of bull but I knew that's what he
thought. Ma didn't bother with it now either. There were still
a few who did. You saw them hanging around outside after
service on a fine Sunday morning.

I turned the corner into Church Street, headed south past
the community hall. It seemed quiet there for now, only one
cop car outside. Maybe they were all up at the Vield farm,
combing the place like Monty said. I remembered talking to
Kerry Ryan. I still couldn't figure out if I'd done the right
thing there. Should I have said something about Anneke
Hesse? Part of me still said no, stuff it, keep your head down,
but another part just couldn't let the thing go. There was only
one reason I was walking down Church Street.

Rick Parline's house was about halfway along the block. It
was a single-storey place made of yellowish brick with a green tiled roof,
front windows that were made up of little squares. In the garden there were
two tall skinny trees that came up to points. One of them was dark green,
the other a yellow colour. Flowers, too, lots of them, along the path that
ran diagonally from the iron gate to the front door. A concrete drive went
straight from the gate down the side of the house to a garage. There was a
dark green Pajero parked in the drive and, in front of it, partly hidden,
a white van. I couldn't see the number plate. For a second I wasn't sure what
to do. I was tempted to go and look at the van but I had hired Billy Cleat
to do that job, hadn't I? Then I thought of the chair in that room in front
of the window and the creepy feeling it gave me. Nothing like the house I
could see in front of me now — a house that showed a fair bit of money.

I opened the gate and walked down the drive. Nobody
seemed to be about. I passed the Pajero. By the time I was
beside its front wheel I could read the registration plate on the
van. I could also see that it wasn't a Mitsubishi but a Toyota
Hiace. What I didn't pick straight away was a woman on her
hands and knees beside a flowerbed next to the garage.

'Can I help you?' she said, sitting back on her heels.

She was young and slim and wearing loose-fitting brown
pants and a white blouse. She had a red scarf tied around her
head, bright green gloves and a pair of big dark glasses.

'Ahhm . . .' What the hell was I going to say? All I could
think of was the question I really wanted to ask. 'Do you folk
have a dog?'

'Yes,' she said, kneeling up a bit straighter. 'Why?'

'A black dog?'

'Black and white — border collie.'

'Oh, well, that's okay then. There's a black dog hanging
round our place. Somebody said it came from Church Street.
We've got a few head of sheep up there and . . . you know.'

'Our dog's with Rick and Mikey down at the Domain. At
least I hope she is.'

'That's all right then. Sorry to bother you.'

'Right.'

I took one more look at the van's number plate and walked away.

Back at the gate I couldn't figure out what to do. I could go
to the Domain and check on Parline, or I could keep walking
south along Church Street to Ramp Street. Also, there was a
problem with that bloody registration number. I had no pen
or paper on me and I was bound to forget it if I didn't write it
down. I turned and headed south. Then I had an idea. I pulled
out my mobile and put the van's registration into the contact
list. The phone beeped at me to say the battery was low but I
made it. I turned it off and slipped it back in my pocket.

Basingstoke Road runs down from the main highway to Church
Street and then carries on to make a triangle with Anzac. After Basingstoke,
Church Street becomes Ramp Street, which runs along the flat for about fifty
metres and then goes down in what for Te Kohuna is a steep hill. From here
the tarseal gets crumbly at the edges, the verges are overgrown, the gardens
are full of weeds and the houses in pretty bad shape. At the bottom of the
hill is an old four-strand wire fence and a chain-link gate. Beyond the gate
is the bank of the river, a boggy area of winding paths and shallow pools
where the reeds are head high in places. In a wet winter it is all half a
metre under water. In a dry summer it's a dustbowl.

I walked slowly down. There was a weird smell in the air,
kind of sour and muddy. Wayne Wyett's house was seven or so
from the top of the hill. It was the opposite of Rick Parline's.
There was no front fence or garden, only an area of cracked
tarseal. It was made of concrete planking and there were
patches of mould under the windowsills. The roof was rusty
and one of the front windows was covered over by a piece
of plywood. It didn't look that much better than the house
on Katawai Road. I went on past, taking the chance to look
down towards the back. There was a big garage to the rear of
the house. The door was shut. No vehicles anywhere. No signs
of life even. I headed off down the hill. As I got closer to the
gate the smell got stronger. It was even warmer down here
than it was up top and it seemed as if everything was rotting,
like bad silage. The gate was padlocked. On the other side
two deep ruts curved away to the left round a big clump of
reeds. There were footprints, too, maybe ten centimetres deep
and filled with brown scummy water. It would be a fairly easy
place to dump a body.

I turned round and crossed the road, started to walk back
up the other side. The steepness of the slope told me I was
not that fit. I was breathing hard by the time I got to opposite
Wyett's place.

'Gidday.' A big deep voice. A bloke was standing on my side
of the road beside a tree in a driveway. He was big across the
shoulders and had long shaggy hair, arms folded, frowning.

'Gidday.' I stopped.

'You looking for somebody?' He seemed to get bigger as he
pushed his chest out. He was wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt
with sweat patches under the arms.

'Yeah,' I said. 'Wayne Wyett. I think he lives over there.' I
pointed.

'Does he? Why d'you want him?'

'I've got a dog up at my place. A stray. Somebody said it
belonged to him.'

'What sort of dog?'

'Black. Pig dog, I guess.'

The bloke didn't answer, just wriggled his shoulders.

'Would Wayne have a dog like that?' I asked.

'Dunno. You a friend of his?'

'No. Like I said. There's this dog . . .'

'Why don't you fuck off?'

'Hey, no need to . . .'

'Just fuck off. Go on.'

'Okay,' I said. 'Okay.'

I started to walk away. I could feel his eyes on my back. I
was angry but no way I wanted to get into a fight with this
guy.

As I kept going up the hill it felt like I was coming back
to a healthier world. The air was lighter. My breath came easier. I was getting
towards the top when I saw a white van coming towards me. It was a Mitsubishi
and I had plenty of time to see the number plate. I only got a quick look
at the bloke behind the wheel but it was enough to catch the gleam of light
on his bald head. I stopped to put the van's number in my mobile. I wasn't
sure if I made it or not. There was a final beep and the screen blacked out
before I had time to turn the thing off.

Wyett's van was turning into his driveway. The bloke
with the long hair was heading towards him. Halfway across
the road he looked up in my direction and stopped, turned
towards me, stood there with his hands on his hips. I got
myself out of there.

I walked up to Basingstoke Road and then back along
Church Street. The woman was in the front garden at Parline's
place now. She was working on a rose bush close to the low
front wall, so I got a better look at her. She was pretty, in her
way, with a narrow face and high cheekbones, lipstick on her
mouth. Did she put on makeup to do the garden?

'Hi,' I said.

'Did you find that dog?' She didn't sound that friendly. She
was frowning at something. Staring at me from behind her
sunglasses.

'No.'

'Only there's a black one down that way.' She turned and
pointed in the direction I'd come from and I saw what the
glasses couldn't hide. She had a black eye. Maybe I made
some sort of move because she suddenly lifted her hand to
the side of her face like she was trying to hide the bruise even
more. 'Not sure where,' she went on. 'Ramp Street, maybe.'

'Yeah. I tried that. No luck.'

'Right.'

'Thanks anyway.'

I walked on, heading back towards the Domain, thinking
about Rick Parline: the woman's eye, the house on the road to
Katawai. On the other hand, his van was a Hiace and his dog
was black and white. I passed the community hall. Still just
the one cop car outside.

There were more people than usual out in the Domain. A cricket
match. I guessed that was where Parline had gone. I crossed the road and went
in through the gates. The match was down towards the northern end. Beyond
the pitch was a line of trees with people sitting in the shade. I headed towards
them, moving round the game. The bowler was coming into bowl. There was a
whock of wood on leather and clapping from a few of the people watching. Over
to my right were a man and a boy and a black-and-white dog, a border collie.
The boy was throwing a stick and the dog was fetching it. The man was average
height and wearing baggy shorts, a white short-sleeved shirt and a floppy
hat. I started to head towards him. I wasn't sure what I was going to say
but I just kind of wanted to look into his eyes and see. After a couple of
minutes he saw me, saw I was coming his way and stopped to wait for me.

'Hi,' I said.

'Gidday.'

'Great weather.'

'Not bad at all.' He tilted his head and looked at the sky,
like he wanted to check that the weather was still there.

'That your dog?' I asked.

'Yeah. Why?' He had pale blue eyes, half buried in wrinkles,
which stared at me from under the brim of his hat.

I spun him the yarn about our sheep. What I really wanted
to say was, how come your missus has got a black eye? I knew
the answer to that though. Parline had the look of a hard man
with a bad temper. I wondered how his kid got on.

'My dog's under control,' he said.

'Cool.' We looked at each other. 'Ken McUrran,' I said,
holding out my hand. I don't know why I did that. There was
no way I was going to be mates with this bloke.

He shook it but he didn't say anything.

'I run the local service station.'

'Yeah. I know.'

'I guess you've got a vehicle.'

'Yes.' He was frowning the way the woman had frowned.

Suspicious, maybe.

'Well, you know.' I shrugged. I really didn't have a clue what
I was talking about. 'We're always open for business.'

'Right.' He looked away from me, somewhere over to my
left, and his expression suddenly changed. 'Fuck!' he said.

Under the trees I could see a bloke, dark against the light
behind him. He was just standing there with both hands
raised to his face. Binoculars?