The Last Guests

by J. P. Pomare

  ‘What about me?’

  He smiles. ‘You did really well, you came across as a saint standing by her slightly deranged, deeply damaged man. It was perfect.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I think we did good in the end. We can put this whole thing behind us, and the money has landed,’ he says. I hope you’re right, Cain. He takes me in his arms, my sweaty top presses against his. ‘Cold out there?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I was distracted.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about the house.’ All the years with Grandpa and Grandma, summers in the sweltering heat, the first time Grandpa took me across to Hot Water Beach, when I wore his too-large life jacket and he didn’t wear one at all. The tiny outboard motor strapped to the back of the dinghy whined the entire trip.

  ‘It might be time to start thinking about putting it on the market,’ I continue. ‘It’s worth a lot and I just don’t know if this dream of starting a family there will be the same now. We could sell and buy somewhere else.’

  He lifts his chin, rests it on the top of my head. ‘Well, it’s your decision, Quin. I’ll do whatever you want.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, squeezing him back. ‘We’re starting a family, Cain. No point holding on to the past.’

  Cain nods. ‘Whatever you think is best.’

  I swallow. It still doesn’t feel right, it’s a sort of betrayal but what choice do I have?

  He releases me. Reaches for the bottle of beer on the benchtop.

  ‘What’s on for tomorrow?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’m fully booked,’ he says, taking a swig as he walks to the lounge, settles back on the couch. ‘Can you believe it? Wouldn’t have imagined a couple of months ago I would have a waiting list.’

  ‘I think we should probably get down to Tarawera soon, check in on the place. Pack up.’

  ‘Axel and Claire were pretty keen to see it,’ Cain says. ‘They’ve never been. Who knows, we might be able to convince them to buy it.’ He laughs.

  ‘Do you think you could stay there again?’

  ‘I think so,’ he says. ‘I mean, yeah. But could you?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, I might be a little scared but I think I can manage. I’ll text Claire, see if they’re busy.’

  •

  I think about those posts from the last guests. The ones they took in the house. Cain said there was almost no power usage for their stay. They’re easy enough to track down again on Facebook, and sure enough the photos are still there but there’s been no new posts since that night. No doubt Rata and his team have viewed them, but it’s only now I realise that you can’t see their faces. The photo of the man in bed simply shows dark hair on a pillow but whoever it is, they’re facing away. And in the photo in the mirror, the flash blocks the face so you only see blonde hair. And finally that photo before the fire, the glasses clinking together – again, there’s no faces, no evidence of who they are. I pause, staring at it, then zoom in.

  ‘Cain,’ I say. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘What is it?’ he says coming closer.

  On one of the glasses, you can see the windows reflected. It’s just a silhouette.

  ‘This is from the last guests, the account that had booked both the properties with cameras.’

  ‘I can’t see a face,’ he says. ‘It’s just a shape.’

  ‘A,’ I say. ‘Singular.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The photo is staged to make it look like two people are holding glasses but look, you can tell one of the glasses is resting on the table and in the reflection someone is holding the other glass. It’s just one person.’

  ‘People stage photos all the time,’ he says. ‘But why go to the trouble when someone else could just hold the glass?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. So if there was only one person staging the photos, then maybe there isn’t a second man. So who the hell has Daniel’s phone? Who sent the photo of us in the house in Auckland, and released the footage from Tarawera?

  ‘There was only one man,’ he says. ‘I knew it all along.’

  The threat that accompanied the photograph of Daniel and me was clear, so I know I must leave this theory behind. ‘There was only one,’ I say. ‘There was always only one. Daniel Moore.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  WE’RE IN CAIN’S car. Me and Claire in the back, Cain driving with Axel beside him up front. Taking that familiar route out of Auckland. We stop in at the Bombay Hills BP and Cain fills us up.

  ‘Snacks for the road?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. He saunters into the service station to pay, his right leg stiff.

  ‘Despite everything I’m actually looking forward to seeing the place,’ Claire says.

  ‘Well it might be your last chance. We’re putting it on the market.’

  ‘You are?’ Axel says, with a note of sadness. ‘It was your grandparents’ place, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We’ll find something else.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ll be in Auckland for a little longer,’ he says. ‘But I’m really sorry, Lina. I know it was a special place for you.’

  ‘Better go out in style,’ Claire adds, turning to me across the back seat. ‘Have one last good weekend down there. Weather is supposed to be nice.’

  ‘Gets up to twenty-four on Saturday,’ I say.

  Cain is coming back now. He climbs in, tosses a Snickers bar on Axel’s lap. ‘You beauty,’ he says, tearing it open.

  ‘I know your only vice,’ Cain says, before starting the car and setting off again.

  It’s a nice easy drive down, and the boys are talking about training together for selection. Reminiscing. Although Axel’s never outranked Cain, he’s always seemed to carry an authority over him. I’m watching them, grinning as they recall a time when they were eight days into the gruelling SAS selection process. Most had already dropped out. Crossing the Waiouru desert in the centre of the North Island, their food intake had been restricted every day and they were on a pack march carrying one twenty-kilogram jerry can of water each and one extra to be passed between the group throughout. They were at the outer limits of what humans are capable of, physically and psychologically.

  ‘It was thirty degrees, remember?’ Cain says now.

  ‘I can’t remember much, just thinking I was going to die. We were about fourteen hours into a twenty-hour march. My legs were jelly and no one had said anything for about two hours.’ He’s already got laughter in his voice, they both do. ‘And out of nowhere someone decides to loudly –’

  ‘Very loudly,’ Cain adds. ‘Like a grenade.’

  ‘– pass gas.’ Axel is struggling to speak, through the bubbling laughter.

  ‘My brain wasn’t even functioning,’ Cain adds. ‘It barely registered. Then in the debrief someone said – ’

  ‘It was Trent who said it,’ Axel says, they’re both telling the story now, speaking at the same time.

  ‘Right, fess up, who farted back there, you almost killed me.’

  They’re roaring in the front seat. I smile and Claire flicks her eyes up. Boys will be boys. They’re talking about Trent Skelton. I think again about what Cain had told me. Cain killed someone. It shocked me, but it shouldn’t have been surprising. The man was a farmer. This detail alone is lodged in my brain. I’d read the notes in the news. It’s so much worse given that the man was innocent. Now I know Trent Skelton didn’t kill the entire family. Cain killed the father and Trent killed the daughter and mother.

  ‘I just can’t believe we’ve not been down here,’ Axel says. ‘Can’t wait. Might get a swim in today.’

  ‘It’ll be cold.’

  ‘I like it cold,’ he says. ‘Remember Wanaka?’

  ‘That was cold,’ Cain says. Another boys’ trip, Cain’s stag do. The stories start again.

  For the rest of the trip down, Cain and Axel are talking about the new gym Axel is opening. Cain has been trying to convince me to go in on it with him using som
e of the proceeds we’ll get from the house.

  ‘Military training for office workers,’ Axel says. ‘Who would have thought?’

  Not me. It didn’t work for Cain, not until our fifteen minutes of fame defibrillated Commando Fitness.

  ‘No phones for the weekend,’ Axel says.

  I notice Claire roll her eyes again. ‘He’s trying to detox. Don’t drag us down with you.’

  ‘I like it,’ Cain says. ‘See if we can last until midnight.’ He tosses his phone in the glove box.

  ‘Good man.’

  •

  ‘Wow,’ Claire says, when we pull in. ‘It’s beautiful, Lina. You actually grew up here?’

  ‘Mostly, yeah. My grandpa built it. It’s got a few quirks, but I love it.’

  ‘Deck could do with some work,’ Axel says, teasing Cain who built it.

  ‘Cheeky prick.’

  There’s no police tape, no sign of what happened that night. I can see the freshly painted patch where the weatherboards have been repaired from the shotgun holes in the side of the upstairs bedroom. The new window looks much tidier than the rest, but the paint on the new boards is just a touch off the others. It hasn’t faded like the rest to the sand colour it will end up.

  My palms are damp. Until recently, the lake house hadn’t seen much action: the squatter sleeping in the empty house for those months before moving on to another home, and that day Mum came to take me away. She could barely walk, let alone drive. I always tell myself it was an accident, it was the booze. The official cause of death was accidental drowning, but she was unconscious before the car hit the water. There were no brake marks. I could have hugged her, that day before she left, I could have told her I loved her, whether I believed it or not. I could have told her she couldn’t take me away but she could still visit.

  ‘Lina,’ Cain says now, his arms loaded up with bags. ‘Coming inside?’

  I turn from the house, smile. ‘Yeah.’

  •

  The boys cart the food and bags into the living room, Axel insisting Claire and I don’t do any lifting. So I go ahead and open the place up. It seems just the same as always inside, as though nothing happened, yet I feel anxious, fearful of going into rooms alone. The fireplace is there, right where I was cuffed. The blood has been cleaned from the carpet, the floors. When they come in, Axel drops his bag near the door. ‘Sorry,’ he says, rushing past me to the bathroom. ‘I’m busting.’

  ‘It’s just down the hall.’

  He turns back. ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  I look around the room, memories of my childhood overlaid with memories of that night. A sickening double composition. I don’t know if I can make it upstairs, face the spot where it happened.

  ‘Where are they sleeping?’ Cain says, holding Claire’s bag.

  ‘Do you mind sleeping upstairs?’ I say.

  ‘I’m happy with that,’ Claire says. ‘Wherever you want to put us.’ I lead Claire upstairs, pausing at the top. I look down and swallow. There’s no sign of what happened that night, not even here, yet my breath catches in my throat. ‘In here?’ she asks, stepping past me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. Cain comes up, drops the bags in the room for her and heads back downstairs.

  I breath out and step into the room. ‘Wow,’ Claire says. ‘Pretty view. So isolated.’

  I hear the boys walking through the house. They emerge outside on the lawn below us.

  ‘Look at them,’ Claire says. ‘Axel tries to be macho but they’re just a couple of little boys when you get them together.’

  ‘I was just thinking the same.’

  Cain pushes the swing he hung, it twists on its rope. Can I really sell this place? I watch as Cain points to something across the lake, then Axel throws his head back in laughter, his hand cupping Cain’s shoulder.

  ‘It must be scary being here again?’ she asks, turning her eyes away from the boys to me.

  ‘Not scary, just off. I don’t know, it’s nice to have you guys with us though.’

  •

  Claire helps me prepare dinner and we eat at the table, fresh snapper, salad and asparagus. Cain and Axel are already a few beers deep. Claire brought non-alcoholic wine but it tastes like someone mixed apple juice with dishwater. We drink it anyway.

  ‘So,’ Axel says, resting on his forearm over the table with a spear of asparagus hanging limp on his fork. ‘What’s the story with the cameras? Any updates?’

  ‘They’re hopeless,’ Cain says. ‘Lina’s been chatting with a cop, they reckon they’ve almost got access to the website that hosts the videos.’

  ‘The streams,’ I correct him.

  ‘Sorry, the live streams. The cops have been trying to get access but it’s not easy apparently.’

  ‘Right,’ Axel says, thoughtfully. ‘Who is the cop?’

  ‘You know any?’ Cain says.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a few contacts.’

  ‘Rata,’ I say. ‘Detective Rata.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. I hope they bust them anyway.’

  Cain drains the last of his beer. ‘Another one?’

  ‘Yep,’ Axel says. Cain goes to the fridge. Claire sips her fake wine. Makes a zombie face at me.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ I say, forcing a mouthful down.

  ‘So what’s the plan for after dinner?’

  I look to Cain, he’s already speaking. ‘Could take the dinghy over to Hot Water Beach, should be quiet this time of year,’ he says, pausing and taking a slow thoughtful sip of his beer. It’s a natural hot spring plugged into a seam of native bush, running to the sand. ‘Although we would need to fix the boat. Might be best if we do it tomorrow.’

  ‘And they’ve not found the guy’s phone?’ Axel says, still fixated on that night.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘They can’t figure out where it is.’

  It takes effort to keep the conversation going with Claire while the boys sink deeper into their session. I’m tired and fading fast. She makes the most of our chat but I’m only staying up so I don’t have to go to bed alone. There’s still fear, and the high-pitched hum of anxiety. Cain will climb in eventually, with that dampness of drink. Years ago, when we had first met, he was more courteous about it – taking a shower after an evening at the pub, brushing his teeth and delicately slipping in beneath the covers.

  When I eventually get to bed, I can’t sleep. From the downstairs room, I can hear the music clearly through the walls. They’ve put on Metallica. Any pretence of sophistication those two have sober is stripped away when they get a few drinks in them. They’re back in their late teens, a couple of wannabe soldiers drinking themselves into oblivion and listening to heavy metal. Fortunately, I brought down melatonin, after half an hour of lying there I find myself reaching for it. It doesn’t take long to feel the lulling effect, soon I’m dozing off. I hear more music. It’s a song I recognise. My grandfather used to play the Rolling Stones a lot when I was a child. The plucky intro of the sitar. Then that marching percussive thump of the tom drums. What is this song? It comes to me in the first line of lyrics. ‘Paint it, Black.’

  BREAKING: POLICE CONFIRM DANIEL MOORE ACTED ALONE

  A spokesperson for the task force investigating the alleged installation of cameras in WeStay properties has confirmed they now believe Daniel Moore acted alone.

  The news comes days after The Herald broke the story that a second property located in Mount Eden also contained evidence of cameras.

  The cameras were removed prior to their discovery. No footage or camera equipment has been recovered but guests who stayed at the property have been notified.

  A WeStay profile that is believed to be linked with Daniel Moore had previously booked both the Lake Tarawera property and the Mount Eden property.

  Police indicated that they’re not looking at any other suspects at this stage, and that the method of installation and equipment along with other factors indicate Moore was responsible for both.

  Police also acknowledged that there
is no evidence that Moore had an accomplice the night of the home invasion. Their attention will instead turn to tracking down the footage and pursuing those who have viewed and shared the material online.

  More details to follow.

  THIRTY-SIX

  IT’S LATE, OR very early. A peel of moonlight passes beneath the curtains and Cain’s breath tells me the whisky came out after I went to bed. I don’t know what woke me but I’m awake now. I close my eyes again.

  The rest of the night passes in gasps of restless sleep. I find myself inexplicably crying for my grandparents at times, for the house and my past. If we sell, where will we end up? When morning eventually arrives, I wonder if I can stay another night here at all.

  Light fills the house. Cain goes straight to the fridge, pulling out a slab of bacon and the carton of eggs. Axel is on his phone on the couch.

  ‘What’s the plan for today?’ I ask.

  ‘I was hoping to get the boat out on the water,’ Cain says. ‘If we can get it going.’

  ‘I’ll have a look at it now,’ Axel says, glancing up from his phone.

  ‘Good idea. Lina, can you show him where it is?’

  I unlock the back door and take him out to the tiny boatshed.

  ‘So this guy was inside the entire time?’ Axel asks.

  I meet his eyes. ‘Yeah, I think so,’ I say. I reach for the padlock and push the key in but it doesn’t turn.

  ‘Careful,’ he says, taking the padlock now from my hand. ‘Last thing we want is the key breaking in it.’ He tries it himself, but still it won’t turn. ‘Give me a moment.’ He strides back to the house and returns with a can of lubricant. He sprays it inside the padlock, tries the key again. It doesn’t open. ‘You sure this is the key?’

  I peer at it closely. ‘Maybe not.’

  He pulls it out, holds it up to the sunlight, looks at it closely. ‘They always look the same, don’t they?’ he says, with a grin. ‘You got any others I could try?’

  I try to remember the last time we opened this shed. It’s been three or four years at least. ‘In the basement there’s a shoebox of junk where we keep old keys. Could be in there. I’ll run and grab them.’