by A C Praat
‘Damon?’ A hand shook his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
Darkness played at the edges of his vision; his heart raced.
He forced the computer back into Wil’s lap and bolted for the door. ‘Need some air.’
NINETEEN
‘Damon?’
Philip raised his head from the cradle of his arms as he crouched beneath the orange tree and listened. Grass swished and snapped at the head of the row of trees in which he hid. He shivered. How long had he been out here? Stars blinked at him through the leafy canopy and the orange blossoms reflected their distant light.
‘Time to come in.’ It sounded like Afra. A torch beam sliced the darkness.
He’d stumbled through two blocks of the orchard, tripping over the irrigation hose looped between the trees, and then adding new scratches to his scars from the thorny plants hiding in the long grass. He’d stumbled on everything except answers: did he leak the code? His brain refused to give up its secrets, but the feeling of dread drowning his organs told its own story.
‘Damon, please.’ The footsteps stopped.
He wasn’t going to keep this job this way – or even start it – and he needed some certainty, something to ground him until he’d figured out what to do next. ‘I’m here.’ Philip ducked out from under the branches of the tree and waded through the grass toward the voice.
Afra was waiting at the end of the row. ‘The articles upset you?’
He nodded.
‘Damon?’
‘I had a friend working at the institute. I can’t believe … I can’t believe he – anyone – would leak the code.’
‘Come. Let us walk. You think this friend is the one the media are speculating about?’
‘They said he took his own life. His friends, his family – they must be devastated.’ But I didn’t die. It can’t have been me.
‘You’re sure this friend is the one?’
‘They didn’t give a name. They said he was young and smart. It might be him.’
‘You could call him.’
‘It’s Australia.’
‘No matter.’
Who could he call? If it was him, the authorities might still arrest him.
Something was nagging at him about the last article. He needed to read it again. ‘Perhaps I could email someone. Or read the articles again.’
‘Of course. Tomorrow, after the mowing. Wil is confirming your placement with the WWOOFER organisation at this moment. Sleep tonight and tomorrow you will have a fresh perspective. Wil is so relieved you are here. He will want to start early.’
Philip frowned into the darkness. The phone from the drybag was charging in his bedroom – a separate cabin connected to the house by a wooden walkway. He could do more digging on that.
‘What time in the morning?’ he asked.
‘Breakfast at seven, work at eight. Lunch at around one and then your time is your own. There is so much to explore on the property. For instance, over there,’ she flashed her torchlight at a block of native bush, ‘there is a pathway down to the river. Overgrown a little, but passable. You can follow the river along to the waterfall. It’s quite beautiful.’
Plenty of places to hide if he needed to. But seven am? He wasn’t a morning person. The alarm on the phone had better work.
‘Damon?’
‘Seven sounds fine. Will you knock if I don’t appear?’
They were entering the fruit-tree block nearest the house, walking alongside a string of poplars whose leaves caught the outside light with their silver underbellies.
‘You remind me of my son. The older one. Mornings were not for him either.’
He’d noted the photographs stuck to the fridge and wedged into the cupboard surrounds and wondered why Wil and Afra’s family were not here helping at the orchard while their father was immobile. ‘Where is he?’
‘The Nederlands. With his wife and my granddaughter. Our youngest is visiting them. The timing, of course, is not so good.’
Even in the half-light Philip could tell Afra missed her boys and was piqued because her granddaughter lived so far away. It was weird what he was noticing now. Reading people had never been his strong point. Perhaps he was outgrowing his Asperger’s. He shook his head: not likely. The psychologists had assured them Asperger’s was not just a childhood illness.
Everything was so topsy-turvy.
‘Here we are.’ Afra stopped outside his cabin. ‘Towels in the ensuite. A jug on the table for water. Zoete dromen.’
Philip watched her meander along the decked walkway back to the main house, stopping every now and then to remove a dead leaf from the lush border, or to inhale the blossoms winding through the pergola that covered the walkway. What was his own mother thinking right now? Did she know where he was? The urge to ring her was overwhelming.
He opened the door and scooped the phone off the bedside table.
100% charged, it told him.
He pushed the button to start it, then swiped the screen as he dropped to the bed. A keypad appeared over the wallpaper of flowers. A password? He thumped the bed. What the hell was the password?
No point in getting upset yet; he hadn’t even tried. Irritation rose as he tried his usual passwords and was knocked back once, then twice. How many times could he try before the phone locked him out?
Tossing the phone onto the bed, he opted for a shower instead. A solution would emerge if he allowed his brain to work on it. The ensuite was tiny but clean. And the water! He sighed under its near boiling ministrations. So much better than washing in the stream on the island. Salt and sand and pollen from the orchard sluiced away, and with it the tension in his shoulders. The scratches on his shins stung but it was so small a price to pay for the comfort.
One tear escaped. Then another. Philip crouched in the bottom of the shower and let them all run. When there was nothing left he buried his face in the towel – jasmine and sun-shine – then dried himself off. The mirror above the sink was steamed up and he used the towel to wipe a spot clean.
The man staring back at him was a stranger. A moustache, a beard and wild, wavy hair. The Philip he knew was clean-shaven and shorn regularly to stop his hair from becoming a full-on fro. But he wasn’t Philip, he was Damon.
Time to sort out the facts.
He wrapped a second towel around himself and lay down on the bed closest to the ensuite, switching off the lamp on the bedside table. He felt most comfortable in the dark – that much hadn’t changed. The night sky peeped in through the single window of the cabin and light flushed through the three-paned glass door. Hopefully they’d turn off the outside lights when they retired for the night.
To business. Three people he knew of were searching for him. Mishra McKenzie, Rawinia somebody and Raffe somebody. One of the articles had mentioned a Rawinia Te Whatu who had been a spokeswoman for a campaign Say No to Killer Robots. Their group had been pleased about the leak. Clearly they and – judging from the articles – other commentators believed the Australian military were developing a potentially lethal robotic swarm. That much he could confirm. The military was funding the project and they’d asked for modifications; just how lethal those were hadn’t been divulged.
Philip turned on his side. The military man said the person who leaked the project was confused about the purpose of the project, that he was troubled and had taken his own life.
He’d told Mishra about the project. Had she used that information to leak it to the media? But she couldn’t have accessed the code. Somebody else – someone on the inside – must have been involved.
Was he the leak? The possibility stopped his breath and his whole body lit with a molten rush. He needed to pee. On liquid legs, he stepped back into the ensuite.
If he’d helped them, why did he jump ship? He flushed the toilet and washed his hands.
Maybe it wasn’t him. He collapsed back onto the bed, squashing the phone under his shoulder. If only he could remember the bloody password.
Charlie Breen. The journalist’s name had appeared on the first article talking about the robotic bees, and then again when the code had been uploaded to the web. She might be able to help him. How could he approach her without giving himself away?
Philip wanted to believe he’d had nothing to do with leak. But the memory loss coinciding with the story breaking, his feeling of being hunted, his being here in New Zealand – none of that reassured him.
The only comfort was that, for now, nobody knew where he was. Not even Rex.
Damon Hunter.
Philip Templeton had been left behind. But with all those people searching for him was Damon Hunter any safer?
TWENTY
By Wednesday Mishra’s hope had become the last chipped cup at the back of an empty emotional cupboard. She sat on the steps of Ra’s cottage, mug of tea in hand, and let the wind buffet her hair across her face. Ra’s informal networks had yielded nothing and the police hadn’t contacted Raffe again either.
Mishra heard the truck pull up and a door slam. A minute later Raffe emerged from the bush.
He shook his head when he saw her. Each day he drove into range of the cell network and checked the fake bank account they’d set up for Philip under his alias, Damon Hunter, and rang the cellphone. And every day he came back shaking his head. If somebody had been taunting them with the drybag they’d decided not to come out to play anymore.
They were no further ahead than they had been at the weekend. The continuing silence on Philip’s whereabouts was wearing them thin and making them cross with each other.
Ra joined them on the veranda and handed Raffe one of the two steaming mugs she carried, filling the air with the aroma of coffee. She sat next to Mishra on the step and flicked her braids over her shoulder with one hand, holding her mug over the grass with the other.
‘He could have hitched to Wellington by now,’ Ra said.
Mishra turned her burned-out gaze on Ra. Sleep eluded her, and when it came her dreams were full of water and bodies. Sometimes the body was Philip’s and sometimes Catherine’s, her eyeless death-stare more condemning than her words had ever been. ‘You think I should go?’
Ra sighed. ‘We’re not achieving anything here. Been up and down that coast …’
‘That’s what the note implied.’ Raffe sipped his coffee. ‘Heard from my parents. They’ve decided to fly in and crew the yacht back themselves. Arrive in Kerikeri on Saturday.’
Mishra hadn’t considered Raffe’s parents’ yacht at all. Of course they’d be missing it.
‘What are you going to do?’ Ra asked Raffe.
Raffe looked at Mishra, a question tilting his head.
‘You may as well go with them,’ Mishra told him. ‘There’s nothing – I mean, I don’t know what else we can do now.’
Raffe folded his legs beneath him, sinking onto the sandy path. ‘I just never thought it would turn out this way.’
She was so tired of this. ‘I’ll go to Wellington. Not that I think it will make a damn bit of difference.’ She stood up and thrust out her hand. ‘Keys.’
Raffe handed her the keys as she walked past him to the truck. She thumped the seat forward so she could reach the pedals and turned on the ignition. The truck revved to life and she gunned it, too fast, over the ruts and bumps of the gravel track up to the road.
When her cellphone showed life, just before the gate, she stopped, her heart racing, and her insides jarred from the journey. It was oddly pleasant to feel something other than washed out, even if it was discomfort. First she arranged flights to Wellington; Saturday afternoon was the soonest she could leave. Then she called Astrid Lyon in the psychology department to let her know she was on her way. She jumped out of the cab while she waited for the call to connect, leaning on the side of the truck, blinking in the sun.
‘Mishra, I’m so glad you’ve called. People have got wind that you’re here. Several people would like to talk to you about your work. The AI stuff is so topical and what with …’ Astrid stuttered to a halt.
‘What with recent events in Adelaide?’ Mishra prompted.
‘Yes. Though I’m sure people won’t want to pry.’
Like hell, Mishra thought.
‘Do you think you’d be ready for a fireside chat next Tuesday?’
‘Next Tuesday? A fireside chat?’ Right at this moment she didn’t feel prepared for anything
‘An informal conversation with a bunch of people. There’s a bit of pressure to push it out to other campuses.’
‘Not so fireside then.’
‘You’re a popular girl, Dr. McKenzie. I could try and fob them off …’
‘No, no, don’t bother. That sounds fine.’ Maybe thinking about something else would help her feel better. It would change the monotonous track in her head at least. ‘I’ll be there Saturday at two.’
‘I’ll see you at the airport.’
Mishra walked round the truck, flattening the grass, sending clouds of insects into the air. She was leaving Northland. Was that giving up? Admitting defeat? Maybe Ra was right. Philip could be making his way to Wellington, or he could be there already. She’d be able to check in with Charlie Breen too. Sol had given her Charlie’s address when he’d dropped Mishra at the airport. He’d been sure Charlie would know nothing more of Philip’s disappearance, but Mishra wasn’t leaving anything to chance. She’d been deceived before.
Before she left, she needed to search the beach one more time.
As she turned the truck around a flash of blue filled the rearview mirror. She stood on the brake and whipped her head around. Above the overgrown fence a blue sedan was disappearing around a bend in the road. Was it the same as the one at the lookout on Sunday?
She pulled on the handbrake and jumped down from the cab, running until the cattle-stop, which she tiptoed across, then stood on the fence examining the grass verge along either side of the road. A few meters down on her left, in the opposite direction to which they usually travelled, the grass was flat. Though it grew in prolific clumps – even taking over fences as it was threatening to do on this farm – the kikuyu grass wouldn’t completely conceal a car. But if you weren’t expecting to see one maybe it would be enough to not notice it? Had they overhead her phone conversation?
She climbed back into the truck, slamming the door, and drove down to Ra’s cottage. ‘Saw that car again,’ she announced as she entered the kitchen.
Raffe turned toward her, tea-towel in hand. ‘The car from the lookout?’
Mishra nodded. ‘There’s a flat patch of grass outside the gate.’
‘I don’t like it. What are the chances? We’re in the back of beyond,’ he said.
Ra pulled the plug out of the sink, filling the silence with gurgles.
‘Anyway. I’ve booked my flights. Leaving Saturday.’
‘I’m sorry, Mish,’ said Ra.
Mishra shook her head. It wasn’t Ra’s fault they hadn’t found Philip yet. ‘I want to go back to the bay.’
‘I’ll drive you tomorrow,’ Ra said. ‘They’re forecasting a massive storm for this afternoon and we don’t want to be caught up in that. Thought we could poke our heads in at the Health Centre – help with the finishing touches.’
‘I’d like to help out today, Ra, but I want to go back on my own tomorrow.’ Her mind still rejected the idea that Philip could be dead, yet some part of her needed to say goodbye to the bay – the last point of contact.
‘I’ll take you as far as Aunty’s. You can walk around from there or over the headland, depending on the tide,’ said Ra.
‘Sure you don’t want company?’ Raffe’s voice was kind but not hopeful.
‘Not this time.’
TWENTY-ONE
While Mishra was making plans to fly to Wellington, Philip was battling with the mower on the orchard. Mowing in a straight line was tougher than he had expected. The gears of the old red tractor had taken some getting used to and the mower dragging behind it swung out in odd directions, especially at th
e end of a row. Branches snatched at his cap and headphones and he was in a constant quandary about how long to look forward to keep his line, and when to look back to make sure the mower didn’t catch on the irrigation hoses. Four blocks of trees, and two passes with the mower – the first to bring the grass to knee height, and the second, to the middle of his shins – had taken him all the way until lunchtime. As he ate his cheese and salami sandwich he realised he’d enjoyed the break from his own problems.
Wil sat opposite him at their slab of a dining table, perusing the local rag and junk mail, giving equal attention to both, and sipping his tea. Like Philip, his jersey was covered in grass clippings and the odd leaf. They’d left their boots – Philip’s borrowed from them – at the door.
‘Looks like a storm’s coming.’ Wil peered at Philip above the rims of his spectacles. ‘Good thing you mowed this morning.’
When should he ask to use their computer?
‘Afra would like you to drive her to town.’
Under the table, Philip’s toes curled in frustration inside his woolen socks. ‘When?’
‘Depends. Would you like milk in your coffee, or are you happy with soy?’ Wil grinned at him.
He recalled the steaming bowl of milky coffee Afra had brewed for him this morning. They didn’t have a microwave, but they did own an old-fashioned percolator that worked off the gas hob. It had been heavenly. He must have polished off the last of the milk. ‘Milk.’
‘Better sooner than later.’ Wil finished his tea and stood up. ‘No fun driving in a downpour. I’ll find her.’
Philip agreed, but for different reasons: the sooner he was back, the sooner he could check on Mishra and her friends online and contact Charlie Breen. If anyone knew the identity of the anonymous source it would be her. The easiest way would be to set up a fake email account. He’d already chosen his alias.
