Harlequin Rex (23 page)

Still under mute scrutiny from the children at the fence, they prepared to abandon Pan Bay. The special genesis of the group made it partly dysfunctional, as the professionals say, but it had some dynamics nevertheless. Who travelled in which van, for instance. Who preferred Raf and who preferred David. Who wanted a front seat, and who wanted to be first away. Who wanted to travel with a friend, and who wanted to avoid Jock’s disdain. Who wanted to sing, and who wanted to be quiet all the way home. Who didn’t really give a damn, but made a vehement statement anyway, just to assert a presence.

Montgomery was compelled to return from the picnic he had hoped would be his last. As David drove back up the slope to the centre, he felt an ache that came from the intractable isolation of existence. There was a glimpse of Montgomery’s sad and distant face. There was a limit to what anyone could do for him. That was the truth of it. Maybe David should have been less selfish: let the goggle man go for it across the sound.

After
sentencing,
David
was
allowed
some
time
for
family
and
friends,
A
fair
bit
of
time,
in
fact:
maybe
the
police
had
other
customers
they
had
to
wait
for
in
the
courts,
but
their
goodwill
could
as
easily
have
been
the
reason.
Jocelyn,
the
married
woman
who
was
his
lover,
and
his
mother,
both
came
to
see
him,
neither
showing
the
slightest
response
to
the
other
as
they
passed
at
the
entrance
to
the
holding
cells.
A
mother
may
well
be
expected
to
stick
by
her
son,
however
clear
the
disappointment
in
her
eyes,
but J
ocelyn’s
presence
was
something
else.
For
the
first
time
David
felt
an
 
admiration
for
her
unconnected
with
physical
response:
the
way
her
nipples
fluted
when
she
was
aroused,
or
the
flexing
muscles
of
her
back.
You
dirty
bastard,
she
would
say,
in
a
voice
so
low,
indulgent,
so
utterly
familiar
in
tone
that
it
put
inches
on
him
just
to
hear.
A
pact
of
passion
in
mutual
and
open
convenience
was
what
they
had.
No
strings
whatsoever.
No
future
plans.
No
interest
in
the
circle
of
each
other’s
lives,
except
for
that
one
place
where
circum
ferences
met
and
fused
as
their
bodies
fused
in
strenuous
relaxation.
There
was
still
no
future
sought
or
required,
but
how
much
had
she
placed
at
risk
by
coming
to
open
court,
by
asking
to
see
him?
Just
to
say
goodbye.
What
strength
and
directness
a
woman
can
have.
All
to
say
goodbye.

‘It
was
a
blast
while
it
lasted,
wasn’t
it?
’
David
asked.

‘Oh,
yes,’
she
said.

‘Prison’s
not
such
a
big
deal,
really,’
he
said.

‘I
suppose
not,
but
don’t
let
it
make
you
hate
yourself.
Start
off
your
life
again
just
the
same.
You’re
no
worse
than
anybody
else.
’

You’re
no
worse
than
anybody
else?
Surely
at
that
time
in
his
life
it
had
been
true.

They
knew
they
wouldn’t
see
each
other
again,
unless
it
was
by
accident.
In
one
sense
it
was
a
convenient
closure,
instead
of Jocelyn
ditching
him,
or
her
husband
finding
out.
What
David
remembered
best
that
last
time
they
met,
was
the
first
time
they
met
—
on
the
observation
terrace
of
the
restaurant
reached
by
gondola.
She
was
relaxed
against
the
railing
as
her
companion
talked,
and
her
long,
bare
arms
were
crossed
far
down
at
the
wrist,
and
she
knew
that
he
was
watching
her,
but
showed
neither
unease,
nor
coquetry.
She
was
tall,
with
a
figure
better
than
her
face,
and
when
she
raised
a
hand
to
push
her
hair
from
her
forehead,
the
evident
muscles
moved
beneath
the
smooth
skin
of
her
long
forearm.

‘I
want
to
thank
you
for
coming,’
he
told
her
in
the
holding
cell,
aware
of
how
little
the
banality
of
his
expression
 
could
bear
the
freight
of
his
feeling.
‘Jesus,
you’re
the
last
person
with
any
obligation
towards
me.
’

‘Fuck
a
life
which
is
all
obligation,’
she
said.
He
thought
then,
briefly,
that
she
was
a
woman
he
might
have
loved
in
other
circumstances.

When
David
later
saw
the
prisons
of
television
drama,
he
had
very
little
sense
of
affinity,
or
recognition.
Those
places
were
given
fierce,
dramatic
undercurrents;
aspects
of
terrible
focus
which
drove
lives
along.
Maybe
Paparua
lacked
sufficient
incorrigible,
dynamic
personalities,
for
poverty
was
his
main
impression:
you
have
a
poor
life,
and
the
life
of
the
poor,
in
prison.
Food,
clothing
and
shelter
sure
enough,
but
they’re
all
poorly
presented,
and
your
options
are
restricted.
The
environment
is
poor,
the
outlook
is
poor,
the
opinion
others
have
of
you
and
that
you
have
of
yourself
impoverished.
The
staff
are
a
reluctant
part
of
the
diminished
life
and
seek
to
escape
it.
Everything
is
worn
and
communal,
down
at
heel,
and
kept
going
at
a
minimum
level.

There
were
few
grand
desperadoes
in
Paparua,
no
intricate
baronial
hierarchy
that
David
was
aware
of:
just
a
ghetto
of
opportunities
neglected,
mediocrity,
failure
and
self-deceit.
The
shame
of
failure
was
stronger
than
any
remorse.
In
prison
what
you
despise
in
your
fellows
hasn’t
anything
to
do
with
criminality:
it’s
their
failure
that
catches
in
your
nostrils.

Prison
wasn’t
particularly
dangerous,
or
violent
—
not
for
someone
in
for
the
run-of-the-mill
crime
of
drugs
—
and
David
wasn’t
baby-faced
enough
to
be
bothered
by
more
than
the
routine
approaches
for
sex.
Things
did
happen,
of
course,
like
the
Auckland
guy
in
the
east
wing
convicted
for
snuff
movies
who
was
found
with
a
broken
neck.
Yet
oddly,
it
was
like
hearing
of
murder
in
a
different
part
of
the
city.
The
thing
was
to
keep
your
head
down.
The
thing
was
to
look
out
for
number
one,
and
not
draw
vindictiveness
upon
yourself.

In
some
ways
prison
was
like
a
single
men’s
hostel
for
 
unskilled
workers,
or
a
drop-in
centre
for
those
misfits
spun
out
of
the
competitive
centre
of
society.
David
became
a
regular
watcher
of
a
great
many
ongoing
television
pro
grammes
,
and
the
many
hours
at
table
tennis
put
him
in
the
prison
team
which
played
and
beat
Christchurch
club
sides.
A
sense
of
futility,
a
scathing
awareness
of
days
wasted,
was
a
common
mood
for
him,
but
you
didn’t
talk
about
anything
like
that.