by A C Praat
Or maybe now that people believed Philip was dead she could finally rendezvous with him in this out of-the-way spot without fear of being discovered.
Third, how the hell was he going to get through the airport without her noticing him? Just this once his buff, six-foot-four-inch frame was a disadvantage. At least he wasn’t wearing his uniform. He dug back into his bag for his cap and glasses, then risked a glimpse over his shoulder. She was much further back in the plane. Maybe he could get off first before she had a chance to leave her seat? But she’d spot him if she was looking toward the front of the plane. On the other hand, she wasn’t expecting to see him and, curves aside, she hadn’t looked that flash – hair escaping the clip at her neck, sunken eyes, bundled up like she had the flu. Through his panic he’d still felt a sympathetic pang for her. How did she do that?
Brett shrank into his seat, trying to figure out what this meant for his plans. He’d try and beat Mishra off the plane, see where she went, then pick up his rental.
‘Hi!’
Brett jumped.
‘Oh, sorry. Not a morning person, are we?’
She was twenty-something but looked younger with her mouse-blond plaits hanging either side of her face. Judging by the amount of kohl around her amber eyes she must have been up very early this morning, preparing herself for the day. She smiled at Brett. Brett smiled back.
She flicked her gaze from his face, down his seated body, and frowned at his knees. ‘Planes aren’t made for people as long as you, are they?’
Brett’s eyes widened. Was she being coy?
‘That’s the problem with designing things with the average person in mind. I mean, who is this average person? Do they even exist?’
Brett opened his mouth to respond.
‘You know, the US military had the right idea. They designed their uniforms with common body types in mind. Like, they did all these measurements of their service people, and then clustered body sizes together. How clever is that?’
Brett pinned a smile to his face. It could be a very long or very short trip depending on what else came out of this girl’s mouth. Either way it was a distraction. At the very least, with that smile and those boobs, she beat staring at the headrest of the seat in front.
* * *
More than four hours later Tanya had given Brett her phone number and exhorted him to call her when he was in town – Auckland – because she’d love to show him around. Brett shoved her number into his shirt pocket and tried to keep her engaged while he sussed out Mishra’s whereabouts. With Tanya filling his ear, they could pass as a couple as they exited the plane.
At security he managed to lose her and hurried through the nothing-to-declare gate into arrivals. Tagging on to the end of a group of young men – a rugby team by the looks of their dress uniforms and size – Brett was washed into the arrival hall. The smell of popcorn, donuts and expensive perfume and the murmur of hundreds of conversations greeted him, then a round of applause. He stopped. Rugby supporters, their scarves echoing the black-and-white colours of the blazers of the rugby team, whistled and hooted their boys home. He smiled, blending into their triumph.
Off to the right two people were distinguished by their lack of delight, their attention still focused on the gate. They looked familiar. The man was tall, blond and tanned, built like a brick outhouse, while the woman was shorter, with coffee-coloured dreads, cascading down her back, and gave off a don’t-mess-with-me air. It was bloody Raffe – Lexi’s new squeeze since Brett had dumped her – and Mishra’s flatmate, Rawinia. He’d only met them a couple of times – both when he was on the back foot, and at neither time had they been together – but he was sure it was them. Raffe was supposed to be in New Caledonia, while Rawinia … what was it Roberts had told them? Leaving to establish a health-care center? He hadn’t had time to understand what Rawinia’s mission was exactly – just that it took her home to New Zealand.
But here they were together, waiting at Mishra’s arrival gate. Roberts had been right – follow Mishra and find Philip. Or at least find out what the little band of Mishra’s mates were up to.
If he could just get out of this damned airport without them clocking him.
‘Mishra!’ Rawinia was waving.
Brett ducked behind the circle of people welcoming passengers home.
‘Mishra!’
And there she was, caught between a smile and a sob, stumbling toward them. She didn’t look like someone who was about to be reunited with her lost love. In fact none of them looked happy as they bunched together, then broke apart and waded toward the exit. Rawinia was playing with a large set of car keys. Maybe Mishra was planning to stay in Auckland.
Brett waited until they’d left the terminal, then joined the crowd of people on the pavement at one of the motel pick-up spots.
They were walking to a carpark, Mishra tucked under Raffe’s arm. Brett frowned. Lexi and Mishra? The guy was a babe magnet. All that money – that yacht – couldn’t hurt his chances. Though he didn’t seem Mishra’s type; she was all about rights, not material things. But she did like to dress well – heels, bracelets, that dress she’d worn to Philip’s dinner party when Brett first met her. He inhaled and whistled out through his teeth, aroused by the memory.
An airport shuttle pulled up and Brett edged away from the crowd, moving along the pavement to keep Mishra and her friends in view.
They’d crossed the road and Rawinia was tossing Mishra’s gear into the back of an old truck with a solid canopy. Brett noted the colour, make and license plate before finding his own rental car agency.
‘Where would I purchase a set of kitchen scales?’ he asked the assistant.
The assistant arched one dark eyebrow at Brett from behind his tablet, then stood and swiveled the tablet around for Brett. ‘Sign here, and here.’ He handed Brett the stylus. ‘Briscoes, Harvey Norman. They would be my suggestions. But I am not the one cooking in my family. That is my wife.’ The man’s head shook a little as he spoke.
‘Thanks.’ Brett signed the forms. ‘You are fortunate to have a wife who cooks for you.’
‘Bay A21. Here are your keys. Enjoy your time here, sir.’ The assistant was sitting before he’d finished his sentence. Asking about kitchen scales had somehow put his nose out of joint.
SIX
In the airport carpark, Ra unlocked the boot of an ancient, mud-spattered truck and heaved Mishra’s case into the back while Raffe draped an arm around Mishra’s shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry, Mish. I wanted to tell you. It seemed the right thing to do at the time.’
Mishra had endured a low-level and clandestine crush on Raffe ever since they’d met, but she’d long since given up hoping he’d see her as more than a friend. And then she’d met Philip and her crush had eased away. And Raffe loved Lexi. Or had. Closer now, Mishra could see the grey sheen of fatigue beneath Raffe’s tan and swelling around his eyes. When had he last slept? She felt for him, but he’d let her suffer this whole month. How could she trust him again? Him or anyone else. ‘Let’s just find him, Raffe.’
Raffe’s shoulders sagged and he nodded. ‘Ra’s got some ideas.’
‘The woMAN with the plan,’ Ra said. ‘Come on, parking costs a bloody fortune around here.’
Mishra climbed into the passenger seat and looked at Ra, who winked at her, before thrusting the keys into the ignition. ‘Tell me about your visit from Roberts.’
Mishra again described the brief meeting at her house.
Ra shook her head. ‘All that time he never said a word.’
‘He’d hardly be a credible investigator if people knew he was Philip’s father,’ Raffe said from the backseat.
‘You think he’s still looking for Philip?’ asked Ra, pulling into the double lane of traffic streaming from the airport.
‘He didn’t say what he was going to do,’ Mishra replied. ‘But he wouldn’t ask for my help if he wasn’t looking himself, would he? His relationship with Hebden has turned sour.’
; ‘And …?’ said Ra, interpreting her pause.
‘Roberts said he’d turn Philip in if he thought he’d leaked the code. Says rules prevent atrocities.’
‘Seriously screwed up family,’ Ra said.
‘Roberts was worried about Hebden. Apparently Hebden’s dangerous. Roberts even said Philip would be safer in custody. I got the impression that Hebden believed Philip might still be alive. The media story was a cover-up to stop people prying into their work.’
‘Maybe the ADF think Philip could do more to threaten their project – that he could convince people about the real reason for their interest in the bees,’ said Raffe from the backseat.
‘How?’ Ra asked as they pulled up to an intersection and waited for the lights.
‘If he kept a copy of the code. Or could re-create it.’
Mishra swiveled in her seat so she could see Raffe’s face. ‘What do you know, Raffe?’
‘I know that our drybag is missing.’
‘Your what?’
‘Our drybag. We use them to store things on boats, usually for day trips. It looks like he’s taken his clothes and the other items we’d stashed for his new start – cash, passport, debit card, sleeping bag and a fake driver’s license. A drink bottle too, I think. And a USB I’d given him that had fake references and CVs on it. Everything we thought he might need to start again.’
‘Passport and debit card?’ Mishra’s eyebrows raised all by themselves.
Raffe shrugged. ‘Under his new name, Damon Hunter.’
‘Damon Hunter?’ Her voice was following the cue from her eyebrows. ‘But how? I mean, where did he get the identity documents from?’
Ra glanced over her shoulder at Raffe.
‘Raffe?’ Mishra asked.
He sat up and took a deep breath. ‘We’ve been doing it for years.’
‘We?’
‘Sol helps out where he can. We’ve been helping people resettle – refugees. Legally if we can, but if not there are other ways.’
‘Sol helped you get the documents for Philip?’ She glared at Ra. ‘Did you know?’
Ra shook her head.
‘Mishra, it was just me. No one else,’ said Raffe.
Mishra’s mind reeled as she reviewed what she thought she’d known about her friends. Their human rights support went so much further than she’d realised. Could she have kept up the friendship, knowing the risks they were taking – the illegality of their actions? She didn’t like deceit. Yet she agreed that Australia’s immigration policies – those awful detention centers – were perpetuating human rights abuses.
The betrayal and their lack of trust in her stung.
But Raffe had used his contacts to help Philip. She couldn’t hold that against him. And her own initially reluctant attempts to befriend Philip, just to glean information about the robotic bee project, left no moral high ground for her to stand on.
Mishra batted away her confusion and said to Ra, ‘You’re happy about people bypassing immigration processes into your own country?’
‘Far as I’m concerned he’s one of the good guys, Mish. And he isn’t displacing legitimate newbies because he’s come through the back door. Any friend of the campaign …’ Ra glanced at her, then tossed her head toward the window. ‘It used to be market gardens round here. That vineyard is one of the last. All that productive land under concrete – that’s development for you. Stupid, eh?’
Mishra didn’t care about the vineyard. ‘Ra –’
‘Right now there’s nothing we can do. Why don’t you just relax and soak up the scenery?’
Ra was back to protecting her – or was it coddling her? ‘You said you had a plan.’
‘We do. Two plans.’
‘I need to know, Ra. I need to know now.’
‘I can see that.’ Ra glanced at Raffe in the rear-view mirror and raised her eyebrows above the frame of her sunglasses.
‘I think we’re back to one plan if Roberts is poking around,’ said Raffe. ‘We thought we could launch a missing person’s enquiry using the Damon Hunter alias if the authorities weren’t looking for Philip anymore. But maybe the less formal route is better.’
In the front seat Ra was nodding.
‘Which is?’ Mishra asked.
‘Using my networks,’ Ra said. ‘Got whānau working up and down the coastline: tourism, Department of Conservation. Hospitals too. We could use his picture in our private social media groups. See what comes up.’
‘What if somebody went to the police?’ Mishra asked.
Ra shook her head and scowled. ‘No love lost there, Mish. The authorities haven’t done us any favors. I got a cuz working in the police. But whānau is whānau. Our first loyalty is to each other.’
‘Philip isn’t whānau,’ she persisted. ‘He’s British.’
‘Metaphorical whānau. Nobody wants these freakin’ robots. He risked everything, going against the system. People respect him.’
They were entering a tunnel now, clogged with traffic, and Ra stopped talking to focus on the lanes ahead.
Mishra understood struggle. Her mother’s family had suffered in the actions – aksi – to overthrow Suharto in their Indonesian home, though Mishra’s mum had married Mishra’s Australian dad and left before Suharto was finally deposed. Her brothers had been glad to send her away and keep her safe. Even Mishra’s dad, with his Scots heritage, held a quietly negative opinion of the English. He’d been disappointed when the last Scottish referendum for independence had narrowly supported staying with the United Kingdom. Perhaps she was wrong to doubt Ra’s plan. She didn’t have a better one.
‘Sorry, Ra,’ she said as they emerged again into the light and sped past green suburbs she’d probably never know.
‘That fella’s been beside himself,’ Ra said, nodding back toward Raffe.
In the backseat Raffe’s head was nodding, his arms and legs jumping as his body settled to sleep. ‘And Lexi’s dumped him?’
‘Looks like,’ Ra said. ‘I’d be pretty pissed too if my romantic cruise around the Pacific turned out to be an illegal threesome.’
Mishra pressed her lips together. Maybe Ra had a point. But she wasn’t ready to forgive Lexi yet either. They’d all deceived her. ‘What if she goes to the police? Tells them all about it in exchange for her own neck?’
Ra shook her head, but her brow creased at the same time. ‘We need to have more faith in each other than that.’
Mishra’s eyes were hot and tight as she glared out the window. Suburbs gave way to fields, only for a new set of developments to emerge further on. The sun hurt her eyes and she dragged her sunglasses from her bag and rested her head against the seat. She needed to see Raffe’s yacht, to see where Philip had been. ‘Where are we going?’
‘My place,’ said Ra. ‘Another few hours.’
‘Where’s Opua?’
‘Not far from there. Want a drink? My aunty packed us some food. It’s in the basket in the back.’
‘So they know about Philip?’
Ra nodded. ‘Yep. Reckon he’s one of the good ones.’
Mishra smiled. ‘He is, Ra.’ Her eyes ached as the signal for tears ignited. ‘Or he was.’
‘None of that now, miss,’ Ra said. ‘Kaua e mate wheke mate ururoa.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means don’t die like the octopus, die like the hammerhead shark.’
‘I don’t want anyone to die!’
‘It means put up a massive fight.’
She wasn’t a fighter – she was an academic. And she was rubbish at standing up for herself. It was easier standing up for others; she could probably claim some credit there.
‘Not so pretty when he’s asleep,’ Ra said.
In the backseat Raffe’s head was tilted at an awkward angle against the window. A thin line of drool connected his open mouth to his chest. He snorted and his eyes flew open, before rolling back into sleepy oblivion.
Physically Raffe reminded her of Philip. Raffe wa
s an older, more muscled version – all that time in the gym – and he had oodles of self-confidence, whereas Philip shied away from social contact. Her memories didn’t hold an image of Philip asleep. They’d been together for only a few weeks before he’d disappeared. How would he make a new life for himself here?
She folded her arms across her stomach and bent over, leaning into the familiar pain of her grief and worry and – if she was honest – guilt. Philip wouldn’t be missing if it wasn’t for her.
Ra rested a hand on her back. ‘We’ll find him. If that’s what he wants, we’ll do it.’
Mishra closed her eyes. If that’s what he wants?
SEVEN
Philip’s arms itched. Before he formed a conscious thought, he pushed off the prickly material and squeezed down on the irritation. Hell, that hurt. His breath grated through his lungs, filling his nose with the tang of blood and mould. Through his eyelashes the light blurred, shapes forming and fading.
‘Damon?’
The man’s voice wasn’t familiar. Philip waited.
‘Damon Hunter? That you, bro?’
The breath on his face was warm and stank of cigarettes and coffee. Philip closed his eyes as panic swelled his stomach. This wasn’t his bed in Adelaide. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he tried to change the course of the nightmare, but succeeded only in coughing.
‘Damon.’
Go away.
‘Damon, I’m leaving for a bit. There’s tea and bread on the bench.’
Boots clumped across a wooden floor, and a door squeaked open then shut, sending a cold draft of air over his face. Outside, a dog barked.
Tess? Where was she?
Though it didn’t sound like Tess; the bark was deeper, more guttural. The thought of his border collie launched a fresh wave of distress. What was wrong with him today?
He opened his eyes. Rough-sawn boards formed a wall inches from his face. When he rolled onto his back there were boards above him too – the bottom of a bunk. Where was he?
Sitting up sent spasms of pain through his head. Perhaps he’d finally surrendered to the invitations offered by his colleagues at the institute for a quick drink after work. Maybe he’d had too much and ended up here to sleep it off.
