Soon (18 page)

‘He rang you twice, and then you rang him.'

‘I rang him? That's not possible.'

‘You did.'

His stomach let out an embarrassing, audible groan. ‘I suppose he left a message, or I saw I'd missed a call. I have to be available for emergencies. I would have assumed it was a patient trying to get hold of me.'

She made a note, left-handed, her wrist awkwardly bent. She would have backwards-slanting handwriting.

‘You say you jumped in a pool with your phone?'

‘Sadly, yes. It's the kind of thing I do all the time. Just ask my secretary.'

He laughed; she laughed along then her smile dropped and her lip curled. He was taken aback, almost hurt. She didn't believe him. Or were police trained to unnerve you like that, to lull you then suddenly show their teeth?

Clarice might have seen Weeks standing on the road outside the office. There might be CCTV in the surrounding streets. How thorough was the feline Ms Da Silva?

‘When did you jump in the pool with the phone?' She had her notebook open, pen poised. She clicked and clicked impatiently. Her biro was much chewed at the end. Claire. She glared, not unlike his elder daughter: aggressive, impatient.

‘I don't know. A few days ago. I can't remember.'

She was staring at
his
eyes now.

He pushed his chair back. ‘I was contacted by a journalist. I cut him off. It happens every now and then. I go through cell phones like there's no tomorrow. Are we finished? Because I'm about to drive back to Rotokauri, and I want to beat the traffic.'

There was a slight shift in atmosphere. She hesitated. Yes, it was worth a try. Think of Claire; it's possible to put
her
off with a show of male anger. Be authoritative. Mention Rotokauri, the Prime Minister's summer residence. She's all very diverting with her golden mane and her rare eyes, but you're a busy man. Things to do. The PM's waiting. Why, in an hour, in fact, I'll be having drinks with Mr Ed Miles, the Minister of Police. Your
boss
, Detective Da Silva.

She said, ‘Do you know a Mereana Kostas?'

He went hot then cold. He felt his smile, the reptilian rictus. His voice, when he got it working, was faintly scandalised, as though she'd made some truly obscene crack. He could feel the male detective watching him. His stillness and silence were unnerving.

‘Kostas. Is that another journalist?'

She was deadpan, no light in her eyes, delicate hands flat on the notebook. She had uneven, bitten fingernails. ‘You tell me.'

‘I have no idea.'

Silence.

He said, ‘So . . . ?'

She chewed the nail of her index finger and appeared to consider. ‘Well, Weeks had a list in his flat. Like a to-do list, the kind of thing you stick on the fridge. Reminders. At the end it says, ‘Simon Lampton-forward-slash-Mereana Kostas.'

‘Forward-slash.'

‘A forward-slash suggests a link, don't you think?'

He blinked. ‘I guess two people he intended to ring. Or whatever.'

‘You don't know that name?'

‘No.' He added, ‘Do you?'

‘Maybe.'

Maybe. Had they found Mereana?

He said, ‘Why don't you ask this person, Costas did you call him?' (Actually,
no.
Don't find Mereana, don't look for her, don't talk to her.)

No answer. The man coughed and brushed something off his trouser leg. She slapped her hands on her knees and stood up and again Simon heard, or imagined, the jink of concealed weaponry as she rose. Her smile was sardonic. The fine golden hair: it was an eighties' hairstyle, short on top, long at the sides, think Rod Stewart, think Aslan . . . yes, he really was losing his mind, interrogated by a detective and all he could do was silently prattle
. Aslan
, indeed.

They left, he shut the door. He had a vague sense there'd been something positive in the end of the conversation. Was it . . . yes, it could be that she'd told him about the list with his and Mereana's names on it. Wouldn't she have withheld that detail if she thought he was significant? She's used to dealing with criminals; it wouldn't occur to her that a respectable doctor could be involved in a suspicious death. Weeks was interested in the Hallwrights, which perfectly explained the two short calls. She hadn't mentioned anyone seeing him at Weeks's. If someone had seen him there they'd have dragged him off to the police station for a full interrogation. It was a routine inquiry, he'd never hear from her or her colleague again.

But take care. The police assume nothing; they don't care about ‘respectability'. They proceed slowly and they trick you. They're in the business of tricking you.

He hurried past Clarice, locked himself in the toilet and sat down, his face in his hands. This will pass. But a list with his and Mereana's names on it, a forward-slash linking them. Mereana with her prison record. It was enough, wasn't it, with the phone calls, to put him in danger of further scrutiny. What else would they find if they went through Weeks's effects: more careful notes-to-self, references to Simon and Mereana, a memo about asking Simon to his flat. How could there not be more for them to find?

Oh Karen, what have I done
?

Driving towards the Harbour Bridge he stopped at an intersection and saw a dark-haired woman walking away from him, the light behind her, she stopped on the pavement and shaded her eyes, it was May.

He pulled over, got out and she turned towards him. Her mouth formed the words, ‘Tell Ford.'

A cat running low and fast across the road. May walking west, passing through long shadows. The sun sinking in the sky, the earth rolling on its way.

At Rotokauri, he drove alongside Ford, who was wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, an army T-shirt and peaked cap. He was carrying a book under his arm.

Ford drummed on the roof of the car. ‘Want to come for a swim?' And then, ‘What's wrong?'

‘Bad day.'

‘What happened?'

‘Nothing.'

He went on down the drive to the Little House and found Karen and Elke sitting at the table on the deck looking at photographs. Karen looked up, her eyes soft. He kissed them both, went inside to change, and caught sight of Elke's suitcase on the floor of the second bedroom. He walked out onto the deck.

‘What's happening?'

‘Looking at pictures,' Karen smiled.

He put his hand on Elke's shoulder and said, ‘You've come back.'

Karen gave him a quick look, warning him. There was that familiar sense between them that Elke would shy away if they made any sudden moves. But he was tired and distracted and said, ‘You haven't fallen out with Roza?'

Karen glared.

Ignoring him, Elke held up a photo. ‘This is the best one, Mum.' It was a picture of Karen and Elke on the deck of the Gibsons' boat, Karen with her arm around Elke's shoulders, the two of them leaning close.

Simon watched them, silent. Well. Wonders never cease. What had Karen done to get Elke to come back? There was something different about the girl, a self-consciousness. She lined the photos along the table, pointing things out, chatting. He remembered her expression when she'd slammed the door in Karen's face — the look he'd thought of as the essence of Roza, a sudden hardness, as if she'd understood the power she had over Karen. But now, when they both looked up, Karen had a little glow of triumph and the girl looked slightly vulnerable and strained.

He said, awkward, ‘What you been doing the last few days?'

‘Nothing much,' Elke said.

Simon sat down in a deck chair and put his feet up on the veranda rail.

Elke scratched a bite on her tanned arm, frowned. ‘There was one little drama.'

‘Mm?'

‘You know they've got that big white cat, Suzie?'

‘Suzie? Oh yeah. Izzy's always carrying it about.'

‘Well, Suzie's had cancer, and he got so sick he wouldn't eat. So we went with Roza to the vet on the other side to have him put down.'

‘Suzie's a boy?' He added, ‘Sorry to hear that.' He rubbed his weary eyes.

‘We like said farewell to him and they took him away and we waited in this room and then they brought him out dead in a cardboard box that looked like a pizza box. Izzy was crying and Roza . . .'

‘Poor old Izzy.'

‘And Roza laughed. She laughed but she hid it. When she lifted the lid of the box and saw Suzie in there.'

‘Oh . . . Awkward moment, I suppose. Sometimes people . . .'

‘I don't know if Izzy saw her laugh.'

‘People laugh nervously, some situations.'

‘No. She thought it was funny. I could tell she was thinking, like, Dead Cat Pizza.'

‘Well. Anyway.' Simon glanced at Karen.

Elke went on, ‘You know how she tells Johnnie stories about a dwarf called Soon. Well she's put Suzie in the story. Suzie dead. Soon's got a new friend called the Dead White Cat.'

‘Like a ghost,' Simon said, uncertain, looking over at Karen again.

‘Charming,' Karen said. ‘Let me guess. Johnnie thinks it's hilarious.'

‘He just accepts there's a new character, a dead one. All he wants is Soon stories. Him and Roza, it's like they've got their own language. She's controlling the story but he makes it up too. They have arguments about the plot.'

Karen said, ‘A dead cat. How lovely for Izzy. Making fun of her grief.'

‘They don't do the Dead White Cat when she's around.'

‘Thank goodness for that. I probably shouldn't say this . . .'

Simon caught her eye, frowned.
Then don't
.

She ignored him, ‘I probably shouldn't say this but it does sound a bit weird, this Soon thing. It sounds a bit intense. If it replaces normal . . . interaction between parent and child. I've never heard it, of course,' she added, censorious.

‘Dad's heard it. He hears it all the time,' Elke said.

Karen turned. She said, sweetly, ominously, ‘Really. Does he now.'

He said, ‘Only every now and then. It's harmless. Vaguely annoying.'

She folded her arms. ‘Well. Aren't you lucky. Hearing about the secret dwarf.'

‘It's just kids' stuff, it's background noise. Drives you mad after a while.'

‘Really.'

Elke giggled. ‘Maybe she's put us all in the story.'

‘I wouldn't know,' Karen said. ‘Are we all in it, Simon?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘You'd
like
to be in it, Dad,' Elke said.

There was a silence. Karen looked from the girl to Simon.

He said roughly, ‘I don't know what you mean, Elke.'

Karen had moved close to Elke and was smoothing her hair. Their expressions were odd, and he had a sudden understanding of what it would be like to lose them.

‘I'm going to find Ford.' Making a big effort, giving Elke a friendly pat on the arm, he added, ‘And we'll be going home soon and you've got university to look forward to.'

He persisted. ‘Anyone coming for a swim?'

They shook their heads. He was irritated by the loaded silence and wished Karen would stop stroking Elke's hair. She had such a crude, corny way of claiming the girl, as if only she could protect her from the world. He saw how it would anger Roza, how she might feel she was being obliquely insulted. As for the dead cat, all that nonsense, it wasn't his fault Roza and Johnnie had a secret language. Nice if Roza was relaxed enough to tell Soon stories in front of him, but he'd be just as happy if she didn't, since it meant he couldn't get a bloody word in; he was continually talked over by a dwarf and a starfish. And a village idiot. And if Karen knew the trouble he was in she'd stop looking at him in that self-righteous, damp-eyed way, the fucking stupid
bitch
.

Clarice. Can you help me with this terrible file, this dog's breakfast? The days and days. There are things I have done. There are things . . .

The Ghost of May

Ford was down at the shoreline, hands on his hips, inspecting something on the sand. Simon watched his brother: the way Ford absorbed himself in things. When they were boys Ford could lie for hours on his bed reading, whereas Simon found it hard to focus, especially when their father was working up to one of his rages and the air was loud with tension.

Simon thought about this: he was hypersensitive to noise. He winced at high-pitched sounds, knives on plates and fingers down the blackboard, but he especially hated repetitive sounds.

Cold-blooded old times: when Aaron was drunk, and sometimes when he was sober, he would tease Simon by singing fragments of songs over and over. His voice was a perfectly tuned instrument of torture. It was during those times when Aaron was tormenting him for his own amusement that Simon had perceived the blackness in his father, expressed in distorted nursery rhymes and advertising jingles and silly songs that had him clamping his hands over his ears in helpless misery and rage. If you begged him to stop, if you shouted and threw things, he'd just get louder. Aaron had turned his voice into a weapon, maybe expressing his frustration that he'd never done anything with his musical talent, a fact he blamed on his family, the loser. Teasing Simon, he'd always made out he was joking, just singing. He hid his hostility in fooling. The evil clown. Ford developed the ability not to hear and Simon got in the habit of avoiding: closeness, people, repetitive noise. When his own kids had been young and had got some innocently repetitive chant going he would feel himself tipping into fury, would have to restrain himself.

He thought of Arthur Weeks banging on the glass.

The large woman with twin daughters came stumping through the soft sand, the girls following in their matching T-shirts and caps. A boat headed out through the estuary, its bow hitting the waves with a hollow, smacking sound. Ford stooped, picked something up then skimmed it away into the waves. He came jogging up the beach and stood towelling his hair.

‘I keep thinking I've seen May,' Simon said.

Ford tilted his head, shaking water out of his ear. ‘I see her all the time. In crowds, on the street. She turns up in dreams.'

‘The ghost of May.'

Ford dried his hair. ‘If you see her ghost, does it exist?'

‘If no one hears the tree fall, does it make a sound?'

‘If you hear the sound it exists. So if you see the ghost it exists.'

‘Or you're hallucinating.'

‘Speaking of hallucinating, are you still mentally ill?'

Simon sighed. ‘I'm not only certifiably mad, I've done my knee in and I can't go for a run, which was my best defence against madness. But Ford, I need to tell you something.'

Ford narrowed his eyes and said tonelessly, ‘You want to get out of the clutches of these shallow, materialistic right-wing shits and rejoin decent society.'

‘Ah, fuck off.'

‘But Karen won't let you. And you've got used to the help. And the celebrity lifestyle, and the
New Idea
photographers hiding in the bushes. All the fabulousness of hanging around with the tin-pot ruling elite of our tiny, tin-pot nation.'

‘Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.'

Ford went on, ‘You know what our great Prime Minister Norman Kirk died of? He took ill one morning after struggling to open his garage door. On his way to work. As the Prime Minister. Can you imagine Barack Obama struggling to open the garage door? Can you ima­gine him struggling to open anything? That's how ridiculously tin-pot this country is.'

‘But Norman Kirk, that was a long time ago. Why is it relevant?'

‘Because Karen thinks David's grand. Whereas he's just . . . shallow. And tin-pot. Even though he's got a biggish house and a whole lot of gay servants called Thor and Schlong and Zeus, he's still ridiculously small beer.'

‘Right. So we're all second rate. I hope you've enjoyed your holiday. In these second-rate surroundings.'

Ford rubbed his face hard with the towel. ‘No, I've had a good time. It's a beautiful place. Thanks.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘Despite the tin-pot company.' Ford gave his annoying, sideways grin.

‘I assume you don't include Roza in that.'

‘Well, I'm not quite sure why she married
him.
'

‘Why? Because he's the only one who can deal with her.'

‘You think?'

Simon leaned forward; the exchange was making him even more tense. ‘Everyone else is scared of her.'

‘Maybe.'

‘You think she's superior to David because you're in love with her. But he's cleverer.'

Ford said, teasing, ‘I'm in love with her, am I? And you're in love with
him
.'

‘According to Claire he's in love with
me
.'

Ford was amused. ‘That Claire.'

‘You like that idea, don't you?'

‘I like all Claire's ideas.'

‘Well, she's so like you she could be your daughter.'

Silence. They looked at each other then they both laughed and shook their heads. Ford punched Simon on the arm.

Simon frowned at the horizon, the sea with its swimming sheen of evening light. He said, ‘If David was Labour he'd still be small time. We're a small country.'

‘But if he was Labour he'd have a social conscience. He wouldn't be venal, money-obsessed, vulgarly commercial, inane, shallow, blind to the suffering of the poor, a beneficiary-basher. Chattering about Angelina Jolie while Rome burns . . .'

‘All right. Jesus, Ford.'

‘That's the National Party. In my humble opinion.'

‘Oh yeah, you're incredibly humble.'

‘As for you, it's
not good enough
to be apolitical. It's not intellectually good enough.'

‘That's right, Ford. Some of us are not good enough.'

‘Ah, you were always a lazy little shit.'

‘Lazy! This is my first holiday in a year.'

‘But politically, intellectually, you're the lazy little shit you always were.'

Simon thought about the frantic effort of his life, how hard he'd worked, for how long. What he'd worked
at
was getting away, from his father, from the miserable little house they'd grown up in, from shame. He'd achieved and succeeded; he had money, respectability, status; and here was Ford pulling on his ripped old T-shirt and his dingy denim shorts and telling him it wasn't good enough. Calling David Hallwright not good enough. What a laugh.

Ford said, in his clairvoyant way, ‘It's not enough just to “succeed”. You've got to succeed in the right way. I mean, Hitler was a raging success, in his heyday.'

‘Hitler, now. Hitler, no less.'

‘All Hallwright's crap about “aspiration”, standing in for real politics. It's rubbish. What's the point of becoming the Prime Minister if the whole purpose was just to get to the top? With no thought for the society you're supposed to be leading?'

Simon picked up a stick and stabbed it into the sand. ‘I do good. I work hard for my patients. I've adopted a child. I pay taxes. Karen fundraises for charity.'

‘Not good enough.'

‘Fuck off, Ford,' he said distractedly. The pale fronds of marram grass, blowing like hair, had reminded him of the young policewoman, Ms Da Silva. If Ford knew the half of it. Simon had achieved and succeeded and yet a counter-impulse had risen in him, one that threatened to sabotage everything.

He'd fallen in love with Roza and, in the confusion of that, in seeking to sublimate so many forbidden emotions, he had gravitated to the tiny, shabby South Auckland house, so similar to the one in which he and Ford had grown up, and begun an affair with Mereana, a woman who couldn't possibly fit into his successful life. And that had meant Arthur Weeks had come searching . . . It was an irony; after all Simon's striving after respectability it was Ford, who didn't care about it, who'd achieved it. Ford had married the woman he loved, had never cheated on his wife, had never killed anyone
. Killed anyone.
Simon hunched his shoulders. It was grimly funny.

He thought of the photo in Mereana's phone. The sunlight on the bare wooden wall, his blissed-out expression. He remembered how it had been, those visits to her house. He'd had the sensation of everything slipping away, a sensual feeling of letting go, of giving up the clawing and striving.

How did the line go?
I have been half in love with easeful Death
 . . .

And then, when he'd recovered himself, he'd had such a revulsion to Mereana and to the surrender she represented that he'd redoubled his clawing and striving, had turned away, had actually wished for proof that she was dead. He had, it was odd to think, taken out his love on her. And had he (face it now), had he taken out his frustrations on poor, lonely Mereana because she'd seemed expendable?

He traced the horizon line with his stick. ‘I suppose you'd like me to bring Hallwright down.'

‘Bring him down? I'd like the people to bring him down.'

Had he killed Mereana, as well as Arthur Weeks? No, that was too much. He had loved, not her exactly, but her kindness and warmth. But could you separate her from her kindness? It was part of her, just as Ms Da Silva's eyes
were
her soul, and not some curiosity distinct from . . .

Ford was speaking. ‘. . . like you've got something on your mind. And you look a bit thin, mate.'

‘I do have a lot on my mind.' He wanted to tell Ford everything, to appeal to him for help. But what could Ford do? He had no power to change anything. Others had the power.

‘What do you mean bring Hallwright down?' Ford was looking at him closely. ‘You said you had something to tell me. You wanted advice. Do you know something?'

‘No. Let's go back.'

The impulse to confess had passed. They walked slowly back over the cooling sand. The marram grass rippled in silvery waves, oystercatchers ran back and forth. Down at the shorebreak the sea churned itself into pure white foam, the waves spreading up the beach slick as mercury, pushed by the incoming tide. They walked along the top of the dunes, Simon following Ford, his eyes on his brother's broad back.

Ford went off for a shower and Simon walked alone through the lavender bushes towards the pool. It was sheltered here, the evening air warm and still. He could hear Roza's voice. She and Johnnie were sitting on a wooden bench under the pohutukawa, a pack of cards arranged between them, although they weren't playing. Johnnie was kneeling on the seat and Roza was shuffling cards and staring intently ahead, concentrating on something unseen. Her low voice:

The messenger gave the Green Lady the grave news: Barbie Yah had called on the evil power of the Ort Cloud's Wife, and despite all the efforts of the friends, she had succeeded in luring Soonica away. The Green Lady summoned her men. Soon and Starfish, along with the Village Idiot, abandoned their plans to go hunting and went to the clearing.

The Green Lady was in conference with the Red Herring, and did not speak. The Bachelor's bed appeared, the Bachelor himself magnificent in a turquoise robe, and the Cassowaries gaudy, cold-eyed and ferocious, shedding feathers and squawking as the bed swooped over the trees and landed in the clearing. The Bachelor, holding a cocktail, stepped off the bed and approached the Green Lady.

“At your service, Madam,” he announced, but she only glanced at him, nodded impatiently, and went on talking to the Red Herring. The Bachelor stalked back to his bed, waved the Cassowaries off it and arranged himself in a louche pose to wait for his beloved. Time passed. The Green Lady summoned Tiny Ancient Yellow Cousin So-on. Crackers stole close to the Bachelor's drinks cabinet but was driven away by the shrieks and pecks of the Cassowaries.

Soon, who didn't really mind at all that Soonica had been kidnapped, and looked on it as a good excuse for a bloodthirsty battle, got bored and began playing with matches, but after he'd set fire to a bush and then to the Village Idiot's hat, the High Priestess Germphobia got hold of him and smacked him with her scrubbing brush, at which pandemonium broke out. Soon yelled, the Cassowaries hissed and flapped, the Guatemalans fired off blasts from their shotguns and Starfish uncharacteristically laughed.

“Starfish, you're a traitor,” Soon shouted, and Starfish guiltily apologised.

“Ha ha,” said the Village Idiot, waving her blackened and smouldering hat.

Now the Green Lady made her way towards the crowd. The Bachelor stood up, straightening his turquoise robe.

“Dear Lady,” he began, “your flashing eyes, your splendid complexion . . .” But the Bachelor was the only one who dared speak, and even he fell silent. For when the Green Lady turned to face them, all who had waited for news of Soonica drew back in fear at the expression in her eyes. It was like looking into the blackest and most distant part of the Universe, a place where no mortal pity could survive.

Johnnie was kneeling up on the seat and running his hand over the rough bark of the pohutukawa. He turned and regarded Simon expressionlessly.

How alike they were, mother and son. They had the same stillness and watchfulness. But it was when they laughed that the resemblance was plainest, something mocking and anarchic in the way they confronted the world.

A voice called across the warm dark garden: ‘Johnnie, path time.'

Tuleimoka appeared in the space between the hedges, wearing a white flower behind her ear. Her hair smelled of coconut oil, reminding Simon of school. Sudden nostalgia. All the Island kids had greased their long black hair with coconut; the classrooms used to reek with the heavy, pungent scent. It was sad there were almost no Pacific Islanders at his own children's expensive schools. Only one or two brown faces among the Pakehas and Asians.