Dark Winds Over Wellington
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author's Preface
Acknowledgements
Heat Pump
A Good Cup Of Coffee
Last Chapter
Toot Tunnel
Fake Meat
Choices
The Things You See
Mongrel
Blood Bonds
Second Chances
Neighbourly
From The Deep
Whispers
About The Author
Dark Winds Over Wellington:
Chilling Tales of the Weird & the Strange
Tabatha Wood
Dark Winds Over Wellington: Chilling Tales of the Weird & the Strange
© Copyright Tabatha Wood, 2019
This book is copyright. Except for the purpose of fair review, no part may be stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording or storage in any information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. No reproduction may be made, whether by photocopying or by any other means, unless a licence has been obtained from the publisher or its agent.
Original cover artwork created by Tabatha Wood 2019
This version: ISBN 978-0-473-47018-0 (Epub)
Also available: ISBN 978-0-473-47019-7 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-0-473-47017-3 (Softcover)
For Dave. Who always believed in me.
Author's Preface
I moved with my family to Wellington in New Zealand, from the United Kingdom, in July 2017. I instantly fell in love with the city and everything it has to offer.
It is known as the Coolest Little Capital for its creativity, its multiculturalism, and for being a vibrant and welcoming place to all. Despite being pretty small for a capital city, there is always so much going on.
Good food and great coffee are a big deal here, as are the arts, entertainment, and looking after the environment. Wellington is home to an urban ecosanctuary, designed to protect and preserve rare and endangered native wildlife. It boasts a Botanic Garden covering twenty-five hectares of land. The Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, the country’s national museum, looks out over the harbour and waterfront.
There are so many amazing things to see and do: take a climb up Mount Victoria; swim in one of the beautiful bays; or walk one of the numerous tracks and trails which stretch out across the city and coast. Wellington is also host to numerous festivals, street fairs, exhibitions and shows, which take place throughout the year, and everyone can get involved in and enjoy.
Wellington is a loving, exciting and energetic place. The unusual and the unique are not only celebrated, they are encouraged. The city has a rich, culturally diverse background, and is home to many stories and legends, which are also an important part of Aotearoa New Zealand’s history as a whole. As an outsider, an immigrant, new to the Kiwi way of life, I wanted to take the time to immerse myself in these stories, to find out as much as I could about the city, its background, and its people. To give back the love it had given me. What I found inspired me in so many ways, and continues to do so every day.
The first story in this collection, Heat Pump, was my entry into the New Zealand Writers College short story competition of 2018, as a response to the prompt, “Nothing but hot air”. I have written and published three non-fiction books in the past thirteen years, but this was the first creative writing competition I had ever entered. I was very proud that it received an honourable mention, but beyond that, it motivated me to return to writing, and to begin crafting a series of short stories based around the capital. To take inspiration from elements of local legends and real events, to acknowledge them, and explore them in different ways.
All of these stories, and the characters they follow, are entwined with one another. They tell of a universe and a city, perhaps real, perhaps parallel to the one we know. They shine a light on the monsters who lurk in the shadows and prey on our insecurities and fears. They are not always tales of horror, but they do all harbour a dark twist. These are stories first and foremost about humanity. They explore themes of identity and acceptance; of love and loss.
Writers are always told to, “write what you know”, and for me, these stories are as much of an exploration into my journey and experiences as they are about Wellington. They have helped me find focus when I needed it, and brought me happiness and fulfilment through the creative process.
I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them, and maybe this wonderful city will inspire you too.
Tabatha Wood
Wellington, 2019
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all of the following people for your help, support, feedback and encouragement while I was writing this book: Ben and Liam Wood, Penny Jones, Nikky and Chris Winchester, Heather Christensen, Johanna Huntress, Cassie Hart, Debbie-Anne Benton, Sarah Lee, Cyndi Benn-Miller, Stella Carruthers, Jamie Delano, and many more.
My particular thanks go to David Wood. In the beginning, I wrote only for myself. It was you who encouraged me to be brave enough to share my words with the world. Without you, it would not have been possible for me to finish what I’d started. You motivated me, kept me focused, and kept me sane!
Heat Pump
It was the hottest summer since 1983, according to a story posted on Stuff, but I didn’t need an internet article to report what I already felt. Temperatures up in the high 20’s every single day for the past six weeks. The grass peppered with bare patches, crunchy underfoot. Water restrictions in place across the whole of the North Island.
It was a fat, heavy, smothering kind of heat. It had started out joyful and celebratory, but soon gave way to frayed tempers, poor sleep, and a pervasive sense of discontent. I hated the oppressive humidity, loathed the touch of the sun even more. I avoided it as best I could.
I was living alone in a rented house, a short distance outside of the city. A nice, neat little suburb, with a view of the sea in the distance. It had been a great find. Despite harbouring the usual problems of damp and condensation, any issues were offset by the benefits of a mostly decent landlord, friendly neighbours, and a thankfully short bus ride into the city.
It was a far cry from what I had been used to, put up with, and moved away from. It had felt strange at first, living on my own, especially after spending so long always sharing my space with others, yet I thoroughly enjoyed my newfound freedom. I was young, newly single — so long, Jason — and I had an exciting job doing what I loved. Best of all, I was getting paid good money to do it.
All the t’s had been crossed, all the dots placed on the i’s. To the surprise of almost everyone, perhaps even myself, I’d aced both my interviews, packed up my meagre belongings, and kissed my few family and friends goodbye. In the city, however, not everything had been quite so straightforward. The office building where I was to work had been closed off unexpectedly. It was yellow-stickered, and scheduled for possible demolition.
“Earthquake damage,” my boss had told me. “Absolutely no-one is allowed inside until it’s sorted. But don’t worry, there are plenty of shared spaces you can use in the city. Or we can set you up to work from home.”
They’d given me a laptop, a rucksack, some company ‘swag’, and a list of apparently great places I could go. The shared spaces weren’t bad, but they were too fraught with noise and smells for me to be productive. I’d never found it easy to work among others; I always craved the silence that solitude brought, and the subsequent improvement to my focus. Even with my headphones clamped tight around my ears, the insipid tweet and buzz of busywork and meaningless small-talk always filtered through.
I found myself one Wednesday morning — after fighting to open windows which had been perplexingly painted shut — with an AC unit that would do nothing but belch out hot, stagnant air, and a putrid smell of used socks. It wasn’t a real AC of course, merely a commonplace heat pump with a cold air function.
The house was stifling. I opened both doors, and as many windows as I could. My skin was slick and shiny with sweat, clad in only a singlet and shorts. My hair, frizzy and difficult at the best of times, was an untameable mess.
Even worse, the heat pump now refused to turn off. Unless I isolated it on the switchboard, and effectively cut the umbilical, nothing would stop its relentless purge. I’d read through the manual, checked all the settings, even reset the electrics at my landlord’s suggestion, all to no avail. I called him again later that morning, asking him to help.
“I’ll send someone round,” he’d assured me. “They’ll sort it out. Can you leave them a key to get in?”
I’d told him I would be present, working from home as I was, and he promised to let me know when to expect someone. I received a text a little later. Someone from Sparky Bloke Electrics would pop round that afternoon, exact time unknown.
I spent most of the afternoon working as best as I could and yet feeling slightly on edge. I hate waiting for visitors. Even more so when I don’t know exactly when to expect them. It’s always been one of those few things that give me inexplicable anxiety. I worry that I might miss the knock at the door, and I’m always unsure how to talk to and act around strangers. The anticipation of inviting someone I don’t know into my house makes my skin crawl. Stupid really.
At almost three o’clock a booming thump on the front door signalled the arrival of Sparky Bloke, or at least one of their designated employees.
“G’day, darling,” he drawled in greeting, looking me up and down. He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, one hand on his hip, the other on an oversized tool bag. He sported a worn and tattered grey T-shirt emblazoned with the company logo, matching shorts with frayed hems, and an apparently intentional dirty-blonde mullet. I shook the hand he held out for me — surprisingly very clean.
“I’m Vinnie. For the heat pump.”
I nodded and introduced myself, and beckoned for him to follow me into the front room.
“The switchboard is in the hall there,” I told him, gesturing. “And the heat pump is over here.”
He grunted a reply and set his tool bag down on the floor. He stared up at the unit mounted on the wall, both hands on his hips.
“Bloody hot one today,” he remarked. “Any chance of a drink of water?”
It was a simple enough question, but somehow he managed to make it sound like a demand. As if he was used to having women wait on him, to bow to his every whim. I nodded and went into the kitchen to fetch his water, leaving him to continue doing nothing. When I returned, he’d flipped the fuse switch on the circuit board and the heat pump had hummed into life.
“You know it wasn’t turned on, right?” he asked me with a smirk. “Won’t work without electricity.”
He took the glass from my hands.
Watched me.
I stared back at him, trying as hard as I could to keep my expression blank despite the ire I felt.
“I know. I had to turn the electric off to make it stop. It just keeps throwing out heat otherwise.”
“And did you make sure you set it to ‘cool’?”
I took a breath before replying.
“Yes. I went through the manual and checked everything I could. I even reset the master switch outside, but it still just heats up. And it smells strange.”
“Smells?”
“Like sweaty socks or something.”
He sniffed and scratched the back of his neck. Looked bored.
“Yeah, that happens sometimes. Wouldn’t worry about it.”
“But it makes the house smell awful. It’s almost worse than the constant heat.”
“Well, you can just keep the windows open. Burn some of those scented candle things or whatever it is you girls always seem to have around the place. It usually goes away. Heat pumps are useless for cooling the air anyway, you might as well just leave it off.”
You girls.
I was fighting the urge to pull him up on that, to question what he meant by it, but I knew this wasn’t the time or the place. Better to go along with it and swallow the words that rose like bile in my throat. Words that had got me into so much trouble with men like him in the past. I wanted him to do the job and get out of my house as soon as possible.
Still, I also wanted to say something. Show him I wasn’t merely a child he could brush off or belittle. That I was both competent and intelligent. Likely even more so than him.
“I read on the internet that it can be a sign of decaying organic materials, stuck inside the heat pump. Is that…”
He held up a hand to cut me off, and waved it dismissively.
“Yeah, nah. That’s hardly ever the case. UV light, you know, regular sunlight, it kills off most of that stuff. You just need to get right up there with the vacuum cleaner when you’re doing the housework, clear out the filter regularly.”
He turned his back to me then and took a long gulp of his water, draining almost half the glass in one go.
I knew his type, well versed in the kind of ‘bloke’ he was. I’d been surrounded by hundreds of them in Hicksville. I expected them in the Back Of Beyond, but I thought there would be less of them in the city. All he was missing was a flannel shirt and grubby snapback, a cigarette stub dangling from his dirt lip. People like him were one of the many reasons I had moved. That, and all the trouble with Jason. I’d grown sick of the torch-and-pitchfork crowd, those who took one look at me and judged me in an instant. I’d craved freedom and the ability to be anonymous, lost among the throng of the city. I’d needed a change.
In hindsight, I knew that I’d got more than I expected.
I took another deep breath.
“So, can you at least stop it from pumping out hot air right now, or get it to turn off properly?”
He sighed and scratched his neck again. I saw the thick vein at the side twitch and dance as his fingers moved. I felt my nostrils flare involuntarily.
“Well, I’m not strictly a heat pump guy, you know? I just do electrics. And, clearly it’s working, so…” He shrugged.
“My landlord called your company, surely he explained the problem?”
He sucked his teeth, screwed up his face.
“Well, yeah, sort of. I think he thought it was just a fuse or something. Or you’d not been using it right.”
He turned and looked around the room, no doubt taking in the scarcity and lack of furniture. A few books and DVDs were piled on the floor. A sofa and chair had come with the house and had seen better days. My laptop and headphones rested on the only flat surface in the room, a cheap vinyl camping table from The Warehouse with a matching black chair.
“You’ve not been here long then?”
I shrugged.
“Living on your own?” he pressed.
I wasn’t about to answer that.
“I see a lot of girls like you, in my job. Not many of them as pretty as you though, eh? I always tell them the same thing. Living alone, it’s not a great idea, you know? Everyone says it’s a good country, and there’s so little crime, but women on their own... Yeah, nah. You need a good, strong man around, to help out. To do the heavy lifting for you. Someone to keep you safe.”
He winked at me then, and I felt sick.
“Are you going to be able to fix it?” I asked quickl
y, yet also as politely as I could manage.
He stood still for a moment, looking at me slowly, his gaze wandering across the whole of me, settling somewhere south of my face. He sniffed thoughtfully and looked up to meet my eyes, before draining his glass and replying.
“Yeah. I can take a look. For you.”
His words made my stomach drop. Old and unwelcome feelings came rushing over me. A sudden surge of blood and sweat.
I knew right then I should tell him to leave. I should get him out of the house. But I didn’t. I don’t even know what stopped me. Maybe a small part of me was still naive, still wanted to believe only the best in people. He was simply here to do a job, I reminded myself. Just let him get on with it and go.
He handed me his empty glass, his fingertips brushing mine as I took it. An involuntary and uncomfortable shiver traced its finger down my spine. The thick pulse of adrenaline beat in my head. I rushed to the kitchen, placed the glass on the worktop and breathed as deeply and as slowly as I could, trying to regain control. I could hear his footsteps behind me, a heavy yet unhurried tread.
“You alright?” he asked me. There was perhaps a tinge of concern in his voice. Mixed with some cruel amusement. I didn’t want to look at him. I could hear his smirk without seeing it. Jason had been exactly the same.
I knew what he was doing. I’d been through this before. He was playing the role of a hunter, no doubt imagining I was his prey. We were both simply acting out our parts, dancing towards the inevitable end. The climax he'd wanted from the start.
“I’m fine, thank you. Just a little thirsty. Please, just do what you need to do. With the heat pump.”
I could sense him behind me still, waiting in the doorway, only a few steps away. I willed him to move, to go back into the front room and leave me alone, but he stayed there, watching me. I could hear him breathing, the pace a little quicker, a little heavier than before.