The Last Guests

by J. P. Pomare

  At some time around ten, after Axel has been away for a few hours, I doze off against her shoulder and we don’t wake until I hear the door close, and see Cain’s bandaged head emerge from the top of the stairs.

  I stand, and rush into his arms. He bends, squeezes me. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans I don’t recognise. He has two black eyes.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he assures me. ‘It’s over now. I’ve got you.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, hopeless tears pressing at my eyes again. ‘Are you okay?’

  He steps back, gives me that smile that’s all dimples, but it’s pained. ‘I feel like I’ve just gone thirty rounds with Tyson Fury, but I’ll survive.’

  ‘Gone thirty rounds and somehow come out on top,’ Axel says, giving him a thump on the back that might have sent a smaller man sprawling. ‘Home now, mate. Safe and sound.’

  ‘Spoke with the police again before I left,’ Cain says, thumbing his tired eyes.

  ‘What did they say?’ I ask as we move back into the lounge and sit down. Could they have made the connection between Daniel and me? Would they share that information with my husband? It’s late, the fatigue has settled deep into my marrow but my mind is not ready for sleep.

  ‘Not much really. Still piecing everything together. I wouldn’t hold my breath.’ He winces as he sits, a hint of the pain he’s in. The painkillers from the hospital must be wearing off. I want to tell him about the baby, I want to give him good news but I’ll wait until we are alone later tonight, or perhaps in the morning.

  I kiss him now and speak gently, close to his ear. ‘I’m so glad you’re home, I’ve been missing you like crazy.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  THEY’RE ALL USING the same photo of Daniel. We see it on the news the next night – barely out of high school, clean shaven, free of tattoos, hair a boyish fuzz but with those deep green eyes. It’s strange seeing him now, so much younger. Fresh and ready to face the uncertain future. I’ll never understand why the media choose to use the most inappropriate photos for victims and criminals alike. I don’t want to see this happy photo of him, this normal boy on the fringes of adulthood. I just want to see the real Daniel, the one that was going to kill me. I want the world to see him accurately. I don’t want to carry this guilt around.

  ‘As much as I hate what he did to us, I almost feel sorry for him. He just looks like a normal bloke,’ Cain says, beside me on the couch. ‘Doesn’t look like the sort of person who would do all this. Mind you, I saw blokes, normal blokes, become animals over there.’ Over there being his favourite euphemism for war.

  When he turns to me, he realises I’m crying again – there’s been a lot of it lately.

  ‘Sorry, Lina. That was dumb. I don’t feel sorry for him. I don’t know why I said that. He’s a monster.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. I can’t quite place this particular sadness. It might be the fatigue catching up, or maybe new hormones from the pregnancy. It could be everything. I remember the flash of the gun, the gurgling sound. Then I walked away and left him to die. ‘Bad people, people like him, don’t make their badness obvious. They look normal from the outside. They hide it away.’ I find my mind inexplicably going to Scotty now. He’s the type of guy that can hide something away from the world, his drug use, certain attitudes he has.

  I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. From the window you can see the media out on the street with their cameras and their vans. I wonder what the neighbours think. The international media has picked it up too, all running the same footage from down at the lake house.

  I go back to the living room and fall into the couch. On the TV a heavily made-up reporter in a puffer jacket traipses about at the top of the lake house’s driveway, the blue-and-white police tape rocking against the twilight breeze. They’ve staked out both our places now. The image zooms over her shoulder to the upstairs bedroom, where the tarpaulin still hangs over the broken window.

  ‘I’ve organised a carpenter,’ Cain says. ‘Insurance will cover the bill but we need to get it fixed to keep the weather out. It looks like the rain ruined your grandpa’s old chest, along with the carpet and bedding.’

  ‘Thanks for organising,’ I say. Cain turns the TV up.

  ‘The sleepy community of Tarawera has seen little action over the years. Locals talk about the campsite at Hot Water Beach being ransacked once, or the occasional boating accident, or the time a squatter had camped out in vacant holiday homes around the lake, but there has been nothing like this. A home invasion, hidden cameras with footage the police can’t locate, a woman handcuffed to her fireplace, then escaping and saving her husband. It’s the stuff of Hollywood movies, not small-town New Zealand.’

  I can’t even imagine the feeding frenzy that would come if they found out I’d had a one-night stand with the dead man. That I am pregnant as a result of it. Although it could be Cain’s. I made sure that it was possible, that afternoon I’d climbed on him in his office chair. I made sure the timing was airtight.

  The guilt strikes me again, the sort that bends me in half like an uppercut. I cheated, I killed Daniel, and despite how much I justify it in my mind, the feeling won’t go away entirely. Earlier, when I’d taken the rubbish bins down to the curb, the reporters hurled their questions, and one gave me pause.

  ‘Did you try to resuscitate him, Lina?’

  I’m sure many are wondering the same thing: a paramedic shoots someone, what next? Do their healing impulses take over? Do medical oaths override other instincts of self-defence, revenge, justice?

  ‘Wonder how long this will go on for?’ Cain says now.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll move on.’

  A news story about a water shortage for dairy farms plays next and Cain changes the channel.

  ‘We’ve had more requests,’ I say, ‘to speak to the media. Sixty Minutes this time.’

  Cain exhales. ‘We could do with the money, Lina.’ I think about the investigation into Trent Skelton. The media pursuing interviews from Cain, Axel, the rest of their unit. He doesn’t yet know about the baby; costs will likely go up for us, but I can’t do it. What if I say something wrong? What if they realise I knew Daniel before and the entire story unravels? What if they suspect I planned to kill Daniel, to silence him?

  ‘I don’t want to talk to the media about it, I know how they twist things,’ I say.

  ‘Well, just keep the money in mind. It’s there for us if we need it.’

  •

  I have the next two days off work. It’s hard to get out of bed, it’s hard to cook or do anything at all. I just keep thinking about it, seeing things whenever I close my eyes. Cain bound in the sheet, the blood, Daniel’s face. And that flicker of movement behind Daniel. Was it another man? Or some trick, some figment of my imagination? What if someone is still out there? Someone who was there that night?

  There were all those eyes on me, hundreds of viewers. Who were they? Why were they watching? Did they see a second man? I’m reminded of a film, a thriller I once saw, but the title evades me. There’s a scene where the main character arrives at her home. She enters and sees the room is dark except for the trembling light of TV static, then as she rounds the corner into the room she finds a family sitting there all watching the pictureless TV. Their heads are bobbing as if listening to music, then they turn, eyes finding her and mad grins spreading. I don’t know why this comes to me now, something about the eyes. Being seen. I have that same feeling I had at the house, the same terror, but Daniel is dead now. So why am I still so afraid?

  I changed my number, deleted the messages. No one saw us. There is no evidence of us together, except that one photo he sent. But what about his phone? The one he was contacting me on. They didn’t find it at the house. If it turns up and they go through his messages it could all come out. And the app. The police will make the connection. That’s the last piece of the puzzle. I deleted the app, but not my profile. I listen out for Cain, he’s still downstairs. I download the app again. Daniel’s face app
ears in a ring at the top of the screen, but all the messages have been deleted. So why is he back in my inbox?

  A roar from Cain down in his study, those flat knocks as he thumps his desk and lets out his schoolboy laugh.

  I don’t go to him right away. The horse racing is concerning but not as important as this. I touch the message and see what Daniel has sent.

  I’m waiting near the lake … when will you be back here?

  It’s from that night, moments before we got home. It’s chilling. I can’t tell the police about the other video he showed me. The one of us in that WeStay in Auckland. There will be doubts about the baby, doubts about the story of what happened at the lake house. No, I can’t do that now.

  I delete the message, deactivate my profile on the app and delete it again. Then I open my WeStay app. I create a new account, this time just for me, using my work email. I go back to the booking and click the listing. I see the couples who’ve booked our place.

  I find the house in Auckland. The calendar suggests it’s booked out most weekends over the next couple of months but there are a few free nights coming up in the middle of the week. I don’t know why, but I need to understand what happened that night. Why me? Why did he do this? There’s also a chance, as small as it is, that my ring might be there, hidden under the bed. The earliest available night is Wednesday. I could go there Thursday morning on the way home after my shift finishes at 4 am. I fill in my credentials, my email and click book.

  I hear Cain’s footsteps coming up the hall towards me. I slide my phone into my pocket.

  ‘Lina,’ he says, breathless, with laughter still in his voice. ‘Come look at this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  I follow him to his study. It’s just what I thought. I can hear the quick clipped voice of the racing announcer, see the betting page in one monitor and the horses galloping along in the other.

  ‘Cain, what? What happened?’

  He hunches forward and points at something on the screen. I narrow my eyes, lean a little closer.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I just picked up the trifecta. It’s twenty-one grand!’

  ‘How did …’ All other words fail me. I just frown at him, confused.

  ‘I won the trifecta,’ he says. ‘A big trifecta.’ He gives that boyish laugh again. ‘Twenty-one grand, Lina. We just won twenty-one thousand dollars!’

  I’m too gobsmacked to do anything other than squeeze him. ‘You won it?’ I grab his waist and pull him against me. A voice in my head nags, How much has he been gambling? How much has he risked and lost? But it doesn’t matter. It’s so much money. Enough to make a lot of our problems disappear.

  ‘I can pay Axel rent, start advertising for summer. Clear the credit card.’

  I sink into him, I try to be happy but I still feel a pang of betrayal or disappointment. He promised no more secrets, but this is a secret. His betting. He’s so happy, I can’t raise this now though. I think about something else, how much we need this money, especially with the baby. Now is the time to tell him.

  ‘Cain,’ I say. I feel my chest trembling against him. ‘I’ve got news.’

  He stops, his smile falters. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s happened again,’ I say. His eyes go wide. ‘It’s happening, Cain, I’m pregnant.’

  He steps back, his hands gripping my forearms, and stares at me like a man peering into a chest of gold. ‘You’re serious?’

  I begin nodding and by the time his smile breaks I feel tears. Exhausted, happy tears. He seems to have forgotten about the money. He jerks me towards him so hard my face knocks his chest.

  ‘After everything. Finally something to celebrate. It’s beautiful, Lina. A baby. Our baby.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  HAND IN HAND, we are leaving the maternity ward of the hospital after a positive scan, seeing our baby’s little heart frantically beating away. Cain is effervescent, and that wry smile is unshakeable. It reaches his eyes and stays there. The money and the baby.

  We eat lunch at a nice, modern cafe to celebrate. He has black coffee and I have a chai latte, while we watch the people moving about the CBD. We eat avocado on toast and reflect on the good news: a healthy foetus.

  We’ve been talking about the baby news all morning and when Cain finally changes the subject it’s to explain his betting scheme to me. But I’m not listening, my attention is focused instead on a narrow man with a plaited ponytail, all in black. He brings a camera up to his eye.

  I don’t point him out at first, self-consciously bringing my hand up to my face, scratching my temple.

  ‘Sorry, I know it’s boring,’ Cain says. ‘It’s just I want you to realise it’s legitimate. Everyone thinks betting is gambling, but it’s not always the case.’

  ‘It’s not that, Cain.’ I glance up again. He’s still there, the photographer. ‘I think we were just papped.’

  We are still the story as much as Daniel. Daniel’s movements from his home in Rotorua, stopping for petrol, telling his friends he’s ‘going to meet a girl’. Interviews with his neighbours, his old teachers, his ex-girlfriend. He had arrived at our house about fifteen minutes before we got home, waiting out at the road until we were inside. We haven’t given the media anything, yet they’ve still written about us, Cain’s history in the military, my job as an ambulance officer. People are most fascinated about the cameras, about the idea of this normal man, this man described as ‘shy, friendly, an average bloke’ installing cameras in our house. The gun was loaded. He was going to kill us. It’s almost as though this information is secondary, ancillary to the fact of his otherwise normal character. Every time there is breaking news I shiver and brace for something about the date we went on. Maybe someone at the pub, the barkeeper with the bowl cut who gave me soda and lime sans vodka. Would he remember my face, and would the police put two and two together? That’s how I imagine it happening, those sharp-nosed detectives from old movies turning up, asking leading questions, trapping me in my lies.

  ‘They took a photo on their phone, you mean?’ Cain says, scanning the passing crowds. I glance over to where the man was but now he’s not there. Maybe he was shooting something else?

  ‘They’re making me out to be a drunk,’ he continues. ‘I should have been the one to save you. Then you never would have had to do it. I wish I could have protected you and now the media …’ His voice trails off.

  I check the time. ‘I’d better get to work.’ I push my keys and my phone into my bag. ‘I’ll be home in the morning.’

  I lean down and kiss his cheek, the stubble rasps my lips. ‘We’re going to be parents, finally.’

  ‘I know, I can’t wait,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

  I move quickly towards the car, striding in my soft black shoes before setting out for the ambulance station.

  •

  I put my bag in my locker, and head out to the ambulance to wait for Scotty. By five to four, he’s still not here. For all his faults he’s never been one to be tardy. Then at four o’clock on the dot the ambulance door opens. I have a sigh ready for him. Buzzer beater, I’m going to say – our old running joke – but it’s not Scotty who opens the door.

  ‘Hi,’ the girl says. ‘I’m Sara.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘You’re rostered with me today?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I’m new.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How new are you?’ I keep my tone light and friendly but I’m a little irked. It would have been nice if Scotty had texted me to let me know.

  ‘This is my third month. I’m mostly doing relief shifts but it looks like we’re working together a lot.’

  I can’t be angry at her; it’s not her fault. If we’re going to be partnered up for a while it means Scotty is off for a while. I hope he’s not unwell. There is another possibility. He may have changed stations or, worse, asked to be partnered with someone else. But even after what happened, I�
�d hope he’d tell me if that was the case.

  ‘Well, nice to meet you Sara,’ I say, reaching over and taking her hand. She wears a little make-up and has a sweet, bright smile, untempered by the flood of trauma she will soon see on the job. ‘You don’t need to apologise.’

  ‘Okay, sorry,’ she says. Then a nervous giggle. ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘No more today, okay? You’ve got to be confident.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All set?’

  Twelve hours is a lot of time to spend with someone. Sara’s shy at first but, after a little encouragement, she gushes words like a broken water main. By the end of the shift I know where she grew up, what her parents do for work, the fact she was recently dumped, her grades at high school and all about the first time she ate avocado. She mentions that thing down at Tarawera, but thankfully doesn’t realise it happened to me. I also learn that she caught the bus to work. So when we knock off at four in the morning, I offer her a lift home and she reluctantly accepts.

  ‘You need a car,’ I say.

  ‘I’m saving for one,’ she says, sitting in the front seat with the heater blaring.

  ‘Do you mind if I quickly grab my mail on the way?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Unsurprisingly, there’s no one beneath the streetlights at the post office in Mount Eden. I cross the street and use my key to enter the room lined with those small red boxes. I find my PO Box, and push the key in. When the flap opens, I see a small envelope.

  Anna is handwritten on the front above the address. It’s from him, it has to be. He knew my name though, so why put Anna? Why not Lina? I don’t hesitate in opening the package, tipping the contents into my hand. It’s my necklace and the wedding band is still looped through it. I check the envelope again, postmarked for last week. There’s a short note scribbled on a piece of paper that falls out. I pick it up, unfold it and read.