Soon (23 page)

‘I can't see how it can help. I might as well ring up the police. Miles
is
the police.'

‘Make it worth his while.'

‘He can't control police operations.'

‘I bet he can, if it matters enough to him and his beloved leader.'

‘It'd be illegal, also probably impossible. There must be checks against political interference.'

‘Well, yes.'

‘And why would he?'

Ford sat down next to him. ‘You said yourself you've done something terrible. You've also said, and you're right, that if it comes out it's going to affect all of them, because you're part of the group and you've done it while you're staying with them. So why wouldn't they do anything to make it go away?'

‘I can't tell them.' At the thought of it, an ancient, familiar sensation burned in him. Shame.

Ford stretched and rubbed his chin, scraping the rough, day-old stubble. ‘Maybe they'd just throw you to the lions and hope they can ride it out, but I bet they'd rather not.'

‘But I can't.' He couldn't face the idea. ‘They . . .'

‘They won't like you any more? All your rich and powerful friends. Poor Simon. You made it and then you blew it.' Ford's tone wasn't mocking now; worse, it was sad. Or
was
it mocking? An empty, falling sensation: was Ford leading him to disaster out of some evil impulse of his own? A ‘subconscious' one, even, now that Simon's position was threatened? Simon heard Aaron's bad laugh, saw his teasing eyes. He used to think there was something of the
slave
in Aaron; part of that was, if you were on form he'd leave you alone, be deferential even, but if he sensed you were weak he'd start circling, ready to attack.

Ford put his hand on Simon's shoulder. ‘One way to do it—'

Simon stood up, nearly went down again, the knee letting out a horrible click. ‘I'll deal with it myself.'

‘What?'

‘I shouldn't have bothered you. It's my problem; you don't need to be involved.'

Ford looked at him, searching. He put out his hand.

The clicking knee struck Simon's nerves, anger flared in him. ‘I'd better get back. I need to pop some more pills, this fucking knee.'

‘Listen, Simon.'

‘No.'

‘I understand. You don't want to lose . . .
all this.
' Ford waved a hand back at the big house, lit up now, yellow windows against the dark sky.

‘You don't care if I lose it. You think it's immoral, worthless.'

‘But I don't think
you're
immoral and worthless.'

‘You self-righteous prick. You'd like to see me in a cell, chanting some Buddhist mantra, learning the error of my materialistic ways. You forget about the people relying on me, my wife and kids, my patients.'

‘I don't want to see you in a cell.'

Simon hobbled, stumbling on a clump of marram grass. Ford got up and gripped his shoulders, steadying him. ‘Look at you, staggering around. You've got to get that leg looked at again.'

‘Fuck off.'

‘No, I'm not fucking off. I will help you. I want to help you if I can.'

‘How can I trust you?'

‘You can. Now listen, I've got some ideas.' He pulled Simon down on the seat.

When they set off towards the house it was dark on the dunes. Ford led the way and Simon followed, placing his feet in Ford's footprints. He had one hand out, ready to catch the back of Ford's shirt if the knee gave way and he fell.

Falling

Johnnie had run out of the house early, and joined them at breakfast. Now he was perched on David's knee and inspecting Simon closely. Simon inspected him back. Unnerving child. He needed to grow into his eyes, which were too big for his face. Having spent all his time around adults the boy had a watchful quality; Karen said it made her squirm. She often made negative comments about Johnnie; it was a way of criticising Roza.

Tuleimoka sat on a park bench on the other side of the lawn plaiting her hair, while Chad or Troy staggered back and forth carrying boxes from one outhouse to another and Ray and Shaun conferred on the path that led to the beach. The light flashed off their mirror shades. A breeze crossed the dunes, flattening the silver marram and rustling the dry bushes, swarming over the lawn and billowing under Tulei's skirt. It flew up and she grappled with the material, her glossy black hair tumbling free. Shaun put his head back and laughed, clapping a hand on Ray's shoulder. A boat droned out into the bay, smacking over the waves.

One of David's phones was beeping and vibrating on the table, another started to ring. He bumped the boy off his knee and gestured across the lawn at the nanny, who stood up and began to cross the grass, holding her skirt carefully bunched in one hand.

David ended one call, the phone rang again, he talked for ten minutes, walking back and forth between the bright flower beds. Simon shaded his eyes against the glare. The sun had burned through the humid, misty cloud; the light was already strong even though it was still early in the morning. At the beach the waves were breaking in long, even rolls, the shorebreak was big and churning and foamy, so pure white it hurt to look. A grey heron flew low overhead, its slow wings sighing,
creak creak
.

Roza, Karen and Sharon Cahane emerged, heading for the tennis court followed by Garth, who was lugging a bulky sports bag and wearing cuboid yellow shoes. Distant screech of Sharon's laugh. She stopped, one elegant foot up, balancing with a hand on Garth's shoulder while she adjusted her shoe, Roza waited and Karen, looking tiny next to the other two, stood at a slight distance. Simon waved but she was frowning off at the dunes. She looked vulnerable standing alone; he would have liked to join her and put his arm around her, to talk about mundane things.

‘Let's walk,' David said. ‘Let's limp together, you and I.'

They took their usual route through the dunes, followed by Shaun and Ray and preceded by two other men who had been inspecting the beach and were now standing by the long wooden boat ramp, kicking their feet in the sand, watching.

David asked about the knee, Simon told him: it was his anterior cruciate ligament; he'd be seeing the orthopaedic surgeon next week.

‘I nearly had my leg amputated, you know that?' David said. ‘When I came off my bike, the car actually came to rest on it. Passersby lifted it off. I got to hospital and they were going to take the leg off it was so mangled, and then the shift changed, some new surgeon breezed in and said no, let's have a go piecing it back together. It was a bit of a punt, and a marathon effort they told me.'

‘You were lucky.'

‘Very. And now I'm full of nuts and bolts.'

Simon waited, then said, ‘I need to talk to you.'

‘Yes?'

‘Something unusual's happened the last week or so.'

A phone went off. David checked the screen, let it ring out. ‘Unusual how?'

Simon paused, squinting at the glittering sea. ‘I've been visited by the police.'

‘Police. Here?'

‘In the city, they've come to my rooms when I'm working.' Simon looked around. There were a few people at the water's edge, some early swimmers, Ray and Shaun and the other men keeping pace but not close enough to hear.

‘What did they want?'

‘While I've been staying here a man called Arthur Weeks rang me. He was some kind of journalist. He got hold of my cell number, I'm assuming from my secretary, and rang me, fishing. He wanted to know about Rotokauri, about all of us. Gossip in other words. Once I realised he wasn't a patient I hung up. He tried again, I told him to go away. Remember those magazines kept ringing Karen all hours of the day, wanting to know about Elke and Roza. I thought, more of that.'

‘Right.'

‘Now, apparently, he's died.'

David glanced behind: Ray picking up a shell and skimming it into the sea, Shaun talking on his phone.

‘Died.'

Simon made himself talk slowly, casually. ‘He's had some kind of fall and died, and the police came to me because they found he'd rung me. They had phone records. I thought nothing of it, just a routine inquiry. But they came back, once when I was at a medical conference, of all places. I don't know why they thought it was so urgent. I felt slightly as if they were harassing me.'

Silence.

Simon went on, ‘They didn't tell me anything, just asked why this Weeks would have rung me. I told them he was obviously fishing for information, gossip.'

‘Sure. That seems pretty straightforward.'

‘But there was more. They said they'd discovered he was writing a screenplay about a Prime Minister, a National Party one, they'd found it in his flat. I said that explained exactly why he'd rung me. He must have wanted material.'

David let out a sound, dismissive, possibly amused. ‘A screenplay.'

‘Anyway, it's not important, only I thought I should mention it because it's the police, and I thought you'd want to know. And also because they asked one odd question that concerned me: they asked whether I thought anyone would want to harm Weeks because of what he was writing. I asked what they meant by that . . . I got a bit, I don't know, indignant; it seemed a cheeky thing to ask. The man's certainly been snooping around, but that's hardly something you'd care about.'

David's phone went, he looked at the screen, answered it. ‘Colin. Ten minutes.'

He took Simon's arm, signalled to Ray and Shaun, they all turned and started walking back towards the house. ‘So what are they thinking, this Weeks person was ferreting around, wanting to write about me, so I had him thrown off a cliff? That's a nice story.'

Simon waited.

‘How long's this been going on? Why didn't you mention it to me?'

‘I'm sorry. I'm telling you now. I assumed it was nothing at first, just a minor, routine police inquiry.'

‘You should have told me straight away.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Does anyone else here, anyone at Rotokauri know about this Weeks? He talk to anyone else? Or have you?'

Simon looked at him, expressionless. ‘No one. Far as I know.'

‘And what's in his screenplay about a prime minister?'

‘They didn't tell me. They just said they're reading it.' Simon added, ‘Apparently it's about a tall, fair-haired, left-handed National Prime Minister who walks with a limp.'

David snorted. ‘Well, in that case it had to be me who killed him. Obviously. Although couldn't I just have sued him?'

Simon tried to smile.

‘Or does he make this blond, left-handed leader out to be a great man? In which case they might say I was paying him.'

‘This Weeks was some sort of arts person, probably made the PM out to be a prick, but who cares. It hardly matters.'

David took a Blackberry out of his pocket, checked it. ‘I'll talk to Miles.'

‘Right.'

‘You said he fell? Did they actually say the death was suspicious?'

‘All they said was he fell and died, I don't know where or how. It could have been an accident. I assumed they thought it might be suspicious because they're asking questions.'

‘So they didn't give much away.'

‘No. But they asked that one odd question, would anyone want to harm him?'

‘I'll mention it to Ed. In the meantime don't tell anyone about this, not Karen, not your socialist brother, and definitely not Cahane. This is the kind of non-issue journalists love to turn into an issue.'

‘Of course.'

‘I don't want Cahane getting wind of anything unusual. He's an opportunist and he's virtually clairvoyant, so don't even think about it while he's here. It's about time he left, by the way. I've given him enough hints. He can't tear himself away from Roza, can't blame him there.' David sighed. ‘Arthur Weeks. Have I heard that name somewhere? “The weak shall inherit the earth.”'

‘The meek.'

‘Eh?'

‘The meek shall inherit — Oh, nothing. It doesn't matter.'

‘Whatever, this is the kind of little detail Graeme Ellison specialised in. Anything where delicacy was required. He would have had a quiet word with this one and that one, finding out. Knew everyone, finger in every pie, old Graeme. He kept Ed Miles in line too.'

‘Oh?'

‘Ed's a zealot. Every now and then he needs a leash. Roza calls him the Disciple. Or the Handmaiden. She's very cruel about poor Ed, but he's a good soldier.'

‘The best, I'm sure.'

‘Ed and I go back to the beginning, before the Ellisons. The Ellisons gave us money and advice and contacts but Ed's a fixer. I tell Roza, leave Ed alone. He's a believer. And a brilliant operator. We wouldn't have the high popularity without Ed, he's always known exactly how to frame our policies, pitch them to the punters. If you're popular you can sell people anything, even policies they don't like.'

Simon looked away. Was David using the royal we? The chrome blue sky, seagulls riding over the glassy swells, the hazy outline of a distant island in the gulf. He said, ‘Great to have people you can rely on.' His mouth was dry and he heard the strain in his voice but David was distracted, fiddling with his iPhone, and didn't seem to notice. He sent a message, touched Simon's arm. ‘Don't quote me on any of that.'

‘Of course not.'

‘I can talk to you in the way I could talk to Graeme. I value that.'

‘Good.'

‘Petty politics. You and Roza are above it. Take it as a compliment.'

——

He palmed an Arcoxia and two painkillers, poured water, rattled ice out of the dispenser in the Little House fridge and knocked back the pills, the cold making his scalp shrink. The pain was still playing a tune in time with his heart. He dressed, suit and tie, black socks and shoes, and as soon as he put it all on he was sweating. He passed the tennis lesson, Garth standing behind Sharon Cahane and showing her how to angle her forehand smash while Roza waited, languid, elegant, faintly bored, standing on one leg, a foot lightly resting on her calf. Across the court Karen rose up on her tiptoes and nodded and listened, her face flushed, blonde hair sticking to her plump cheeks. He called out and they waved him off; he limped to the car, paused, went back, hooked his fingers in the wire. He called to Karen, ‘Want to come?'

‘Oof. Sorry! What's wrong with me today?'

She stooped for the ball, annoyed. ‘What, Simon? I'm trying to focus.'

‘We could drive in together, you could check on Claire, we could have lunch.'

‘Claire? She won't want me interrupting. She loves having the house to herself.'

‘You could do some shopping.'

He wanted her next to him in the car chatting, a string of details about the children, the house, a new holiday destination, an idea for renovating the kitchen; he wanted to reach over while he was driving and squeeze her arm lightly, a touch, just a touch.

Garth was poised, racquet extended, ball held in position, about to serve. Roza bounced her palm against the taut strings; Sharon waited then put her racquet between her knees and retied her ponytail. They all looked at Karen.

‘Honestly, Simon. We're playing a game here.'

‘OK. See you.'

Garth unleashed his serve; Karen lunged and hit the ball with the frame of her racquet, sending it smacking into the wire next to Simon. He ducked.

She didn't look at him, went for the ball, frowning.

Marcus and an unidentified suntanned girl strolled past, sharing an iPod, one earpiece each. Saves having to talk to each other, Simon thought. No awkward silences. The boy gave him a slightly defiant smirk. He heard, ‘That's my dad . . . Yeah, I
know
.'

At the exit one of the silent muscle crew behind the glass, Jon or Shaun, made his fingers into a pistol and saluted. Ray opened the gate, an insolent little smile on his chiselled face. Simon stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel. This was crime: you couldn't go past a policeman without your heart speeding up. He rubbed his thigh, trying to redirect the nerves that spread fire from his knee to his heart to his head, a highway of pain, the pills taking their time to kick in. He pictured a remote beach, no sound except the sea, blazing enamel sky, his knee burrowed into the hot sand and Karen next to him, pressed against his side. Her lovely head on his arm, her breath on his cheek, talking to him: furniture, foreign travel, credit card bills, school reports, car maintenance, problems with the help, her words, familiar, loved, ordinary, safe, would rise and fall, blur and lull.

He overtook a truck, drove faster, sped on, as if he could outrun the pain.

The hospital doors opened and a young couple came out: a woman holding a toddler by the hand and a man lugging an infant seat, the newborn baby's wrinkled head just visible in its cocoon of wrapping. The young father reached down to arrange the covers, his expression so reverent and solemn, so burdened with love that something came loose in Simon and he actually reached for his phone; it would take one call, they would come for him, they would show him to a room and he would tell them what he had done, killed a defenceless young man, left him dead on the concrete; he saw the sprawled limbs, the curled fingers, the shoeless foot in its boyish sock.

A shiver of glass, the doors opened again. ‘Simon! There you are. The situation's changed since I rang. And it's not one situation now, it's two!'