by Tabatha Wood
Maurice gasped and threw himself backwards in his chair, feeling the plastic push into his spine as he held his body rigid. The smothered feeling returned again, his breathing became harsh and ragged. He didn’t know how long he held himself like that, feeling like he was merely clinging on to consciousness. A hand touched his shoulder; he yelped and jumped in fright.
“Are you alright there, mate?” One of the librarians stared down at him, concerned.
“I’m fine. Sorry,” Maurice stuttered, relaxing his posture and straightening his shirt. He offered the man no explanation, merely smiled at him and willed him to go away. After a few moments he seemed to get the hint.
“Alright. Take care, eh?” The concern was still clear on his face as he started to move away towards the other side of the stacks. Maurice simply smiled and nodded, painfully aware of his strange, rictus grin. His teeth locked together like pearly tombstones.
A young woman a few tables down from him, with a pushchair parked next to her, watched him warily, probably wondering if he were ill, or maybe even drunk. He grinned at her too, acknowledging her curiosity while trying to dispel her obvious unease. He felt her eyes stay on him even as he turned away and focused on his laptop once more.
The words were still there, he hadn’t imagined them.
I got caught up in the moment, he thought. I must have typed words without realising. Maybe my imagination is so good it tricked me into seeing him. I just wrote what I saw in my mind.
It was a nice idea, but he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He knew what he had witnessed. Even though it made his blood freeze, and his ears ring, and his heart rattle crazily in his chest, he knew that had seen Jebediah Cole. His character brought to life and made flesh, striding casually around the city that was written as his fictional home. Every part of him screamed out that there was no way it could be him, it was not only illogical but completely impossible, but he felt it in his soul that it was true.
A thought popped into his head unbidden, and somehow, in the craziness of the moment, it made perfect sense.
“I need to catch him. I need to talk to him!”
He rose quickly, gathering his notes and his laptop. Aware of the many pairs of eyes on him, he realised awkwardly that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. He smiled and nodded at those who momentarily held his gaze, and shoved his things into his bag, struggling with the zipper on his backpack. A pen dropped to the floor and as he bent to retrieve it, another hand grabbed it and handed it to him; the librarian. The man handed the pen to him without a word and then clapped him again on his shoulder.
“You take care, mate,” the man told him, and yet, instead of feeling his concern, Maurice perceived the words to be more like a threat. His throat felt full, a ball of phlegmy angst, hard and tight in the hollow of his neck. He cleared his throat noisily, and muttered an awkward thank you as he stuffed the pen quickly into his bag. He slung it over his shoulder and walked briskly towards the stairs. He took them, two steps at a time, to the ground floor.
The stranger had a good five minute’s head start on him he knew, but with a little luck, he might catch sight of him on the waterfront. He ran out of the library and sprinted towards the steps leading to the bridge, his backpack jostling up and down on his shoulders. He was old, unfit and out of breath. He panted and gasped as his thigh muscles screamed in pain, unused to being put under so much pressure. Startled people ducked out of his way as he lurched across the quad towards them.
Dear God, don’t let anyone recognise me, he thought, as he pushed through a throng of bodies — a gaggle of public school girls eating ice-cream in the sunshine.
He reached the top of the steps and looked out towards the harbour and across the bridge. The waterfront was teeming with people; tourists and locals all enjoying the glorious heat. He scanned the many bodies, searching the crowds for a glimpse of black leather or dirty blonde hair. His chest felt tight, his breath came in wheezing gasps as he tried to catch it and calm himself. He felt the frantic thump of his pulse, hard and heavy in his chest.
A deep voice, as rich and oozing as melted caramel, spoke from somewhere behind him, and he felt suddenly lightheaded, as if all the air had been sucked out of the world.
“Took you long enough.”
Maurice spun around so fast that he was surprised he could move with such speed. His grace however, was lacking. He felt his left ankle pull and pop, exploding in a searing pain.
The man was standing by one of the wooden sculptures erected on the bridge, somehow almost hidden in shadow despite the glare of the sun. He wasn’t as big as Maurice had first thought, perhaps only an inch or two taller than himself, but he gave off an air of largeness, of filling the space around him. He sucked on a cigarette held between two nicotine-stained fingers and exhaled, his other hand pushed casually in the pocket of his jeans. His face showed very little emotion; hard, yet also not immediately unkind. Now he was closer, Maurice could see a thick, white line tracing a path through his stubble, from the edge of his chin to just below his left ear.
Maurice was captivated and unsettled all at once.
“Do I…?” he began, but his words came out as a squeak, barely audible. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Do I know you?”
The man gave a wry and humourless laugh, his lip curling in a way Maurice did not like. He sniffed, looked out towards the water and said nothing. Maurice could hardly stand the silence, a thousand thoughts filled his head. He needed to be clearer, more assertive. He tried again, tried to lower the tone of his voice, to sound more gruff and ‘manly’. To appear less frightened than he felt.
“I do know you, don’t I?” He could still hear a slight tremor in his voice. He hoped the man hadn’t heard it too.
The stranger turned his eyes to meet his once again, slowly and deliberately. He held him in his gaze. Maurice felt his ears buzz, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention, along with the goosebumps on his arms. What seemed like several minutes passed.
“You should. You of all people should, eh?” the stranger said, his accent thick and syrupy. Maurice didn’t know how to respond, couldn’t make the words make sense in his head.
“Are you...?” He tried, but the man silenced him with a glare and a sneer.
“I’ve got no time for pleasantries, mate,” he began, although Maurice didn’t feel any pleasantness in the man’s demeanour at all. “You and I, we both know who we are, and what we have to do. Our purpose is crystal clear. What I’m here for, and what I really want to know your answer to is — why the fuck are you trying to kill me?”
He leaned in close, so close that Maurice could taste the reek of him; smell stale smoke, old coffee, and the musk of dried sweat. The stench, the realness of it, hit him harder than any fist could have done, and he reeled backwards with a yell of surprise.
He struggled to find the words he needed. To ask questions, to give some kind of indignant come-back. All he could manage was, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He whimpered and keened like a terrified puppy. Nausea overcame him and a tunnel of white light smothered his vision. He felt his legs give out from underneath him, and the concrete floor rushed up to kiss his cheek.
He awoke in a room in a hospital. Wires and electrodes were attached to almost every part of him, bandages covering the whole of his legs. A tube down his throat made him gag and retch, and instinctively he tried to yank it out. An alarm began to wail from the monitor next to him. A nurse rushed to his bedside and grabbed his hands. More medical staff came to join her and they set to work, both on various parts of him and on the machines he was connected to. They removed the tube. They poked and prodded him. They adjusted the needles in each of his arms, and shone a light into almost every orifice. Eventually they seemed satisfied that he was fit to be left alone. A middle-aged doctor with a bald head and grey stubble approached him with a gentle smile.
“Kia ora, Maurice. It’s nice to have you back.”
Katarina arrived soon after, her arms overflowing with gifts of grapes and fizzy pop, and an obnoxious yellow teddy bear. For the first time in twenty-five years, since Maurice had first met her, she was oddly silent. Her eyes were full of fear.
His throat was sore and swollen thanks to the tube, but he managed a hoarse croak of a welcome.
“Hey.”
She forced a smile. He saw the beginning of tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
“It’s so good to see you, Maurice. You had us all worried.”
Maurice blinked and gave a barely perceptible nod. He wasn’t used to seeing Katarina like this, so quiet and serious and sad.
“They told you what happened?” she asked.
He blinked again, forced the words out as carefully as he could.
“Accident.”
“Yeah, serious one. You were so bloody lucky.”
“I fell.”
Katarina looked momentarily confused.
“Fell? Nah, mate. You were in a train crash. Massive derailment on the Kāpiti line. You don’t remember?”
Maurice felt his pulse quicken, a wave of anxiety poured over him. The lines on the monitor by his bedside began to twitch and spike.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Try and calm down, eh? You’re okay now.”
His voice scratched and tore at his throat as he tried to get the words out. A memory so strong and harsh it almost pained him.
“Jebediah there. Real. Real person.”
“Ah, mate, it must have been really bad. You got pretty banged up. You know, lots of people see strange things in those kinds of situations.”
He shook his head as vehemently as he could, feeling the pain in his broken body. The monitor started to beep a loud warning, numbers on the display rising with the pitch.
“No. No train. Saw him on the waterfront. I fell.”
Concern washed over Katarina’s face, she reached out her hand and touched him gently on the hand.
“Maurice, calm down. You need to rest.”
He shook her hand away, his frustration rising with his panic.
“Saw him, Kat. Knew I wanted to kill him.”
“Maurice,” she began, then paused and breathed deeply before replying. “You’ve been crook for nine weeks. We nearly lost you. You took a bloody big bang to the head, and God knows everywhere else. Your legs, aw mate, I mean, you got really badly burned.
“Look, if you’re worried about your manuscript or something, don’t be. Everything you wrote is in the Cloud, and I’ve got to say, it’s some of your best. I can’t wait to get it out there.”
“Manuscript?” Maurice choked.
“Yeah, what you were working on before your accident. I mean, I know this isn’t exactly the time or whatever, but I was pretty blown away. I’m glad you took my advice in the end, decided not to kill him off.”
Frustration gave way to confusion. There was no manuscript, of that much he was certain. Wasn’t he? He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember anything much prior to his meeting with Jebediah. The train? He was on the train like always. He never could write well at home; too many distractions. Then he went to the library, his usual place. He had a notebook, his laptop as well. There were words that appeared without him writing them. No, that sounds crazy. How?
“I think…” he began, as a hospital orderly backed his way into the room, pulling a trolley of food.
The man turned. He picked up a plate, removed the plastic lid covering the meal, and placed it on the table at Maurice’s side.
Maurice looked up. He took in the dirty blonde hair two months past a decent haircut. Saw the week’s worth of stubble engulfing the man’s face and neck. The white line tracing his chin and neck. A tall, broad, imposing man, made entirely of ego and muscle.
He leaned in close towards the bed, flashed a shark-like grin, full of teeth and no humour.
“So, how are you feeling today, Maurice?”
Toot Tunnel
We called it the ‘Toot Tunnel’, ever since we were kids, although of course that wasn’t its official name. Mount Victoria Tunnel, part of State Highway 1, connected Hataitai to the centre of Wellington, running through the mount that divided them. Back then, we didn’t know the reason why those who lived locally referred to it by it’s moniker, or why so many motorists would lean on their horns as they passed through. We would listen, enthralled, to each blast as it echoed loudly through the length of the tunnel, and rebounded off the dingy walls. Sometimes the toot would be returned, sometimes not.
My dad was always very much against the idea, and positively refused to join in, despite mine and my sister’s constant pleading. He said it was idiotic, and served no sensible purpose. To us kids, it was an act of gleeful rebellion. We relished hearing the different toots surround us, as our father drove straight through and grumbled under his breath.
Later, and quite randomly, I found stories on the internet that offered a number of explanations for the toots. Some said it was common sense, that the tunnel was initially very dark and narrow and people tooted to avoid colliding with other motorists while inside. Some said it was in tribute to a young woman, allegedly murdered by her lover while the tunnel was being built in the 1930’s, her body buried underneath the fill. Others took the story of murder and death even further. They claimed the tunnel was haunted, and the toots were necessary to ward away any ghosts that might follow you as you passed through.
Whatever the reason, and however it started, there seemed to me that few things could be more fun than blaring my horn as I drove through Mount Victoria. When I passed my driving test at nineteen, and my dad helped me buy a battered Hillman Avenger, I finally got my chance. Although, never with my dad in the car.
Fifteen years on, the Avenger replaced by a banana-yellow Suzuki Swift, my love of the toot slowly diminished. Not every journey through the tunnel demanded a honk on my horn, not unless someone else tooted first. I was more mindful of pedestrians passing through on the elevated tunnel path, or the time of day. I began to understand in some small way why my father was so opposed to the idea, how ridiculous the notion really was.
It wasn’t too long before passing through the tunnel became a normal, boring part of my day, and the toots lost their appeal completely. Much like everything else in my life.
January, eight years ago, I married Julie Murphy, my high-school sweetheart. It was a strange summer; initially blisteringly hot for days on end, only to fall into week after week of dull grey and constant drizzle. Our wedding was a complete wash-out. My mother-in-law was particularly furious that her specially purchased and expensive hat was ruined by the rain. Julie’s cousin, Allan, crashed his car on the State Highway on his way to the reception. He was fine, but the car was a write-off. My uncle Thomas took a funny turn after reacting to something he ate and had to be carted away in an ambulance. We laughed about it at the time, joked that maybe it was an omen, but four years later and it seemed like the bad luck had held. Julie moved out of our house and in with one of her workmates, deciding she liked Sandra much more than she liked me.
To be honest, while I was disappointed, I carried on pretty much as normal. I think deep down I’d known it wasn’t going to last, and I was always a little bit too boring for her. She liked hiking and climbing, and surfing off Lyall Bay. I preferred a beer and a good sausage sizzle, maybe a bit of a lounge around on Oriental Bay Beach. I was happy enough to just chill in the back garden, take it all easy. Sure, the more I relaxed, the more my stomach grew, but I just wasn’t the type of bloke to go charging around for fun. An old football injury in my early twenties had left me with a dodgy knee. A convenient excuse to just stay put.
Julie had a zest for life, she grabbed it with both hands. She was passionate about everything in her life: her hobbies, her friends, and her career. She was always keen to explore new things and places, to seek out her next grand adventure. I just took what I was given, and did the best I could with it.
I got a job as a
taxi driver. It wasn’t amazing money, but it was enough. Certainly since there was only me to think about. Mum and Dad went up the west coast, settled in Raglan with the rest of the retiree crowd. My sister lived with her husband and four sprogs on a quarter-acre in the South Island; too busy and too tired to make the trip over the Strait. I could probably have spent time with Julie and Sandra, they always said there was no reason not to stay friends, but it felt awkward and, honestly, I was much happier on my own. I spent my days and nights out driving, and that was alright with me.
I made a lot of trips to the airport, a few journeys up the coast, but mostly it was suburb to city and back again. Regular daily routines. I passed through Toot Tunnel easily a dozen times a day. I never tooted while I was working though. It wouldn’t have been right. My employer would not have approved. Some of the out-of-towners used to ask me what it was all about. Others begged me to reciprocate. I never did. At least, not until I met the girls.
I picked up the three of them from Willis Street near the Hotel St. George one Thursday night. They said they had been exploring Wellington for a while, but now it was time to go home. One of them gave me an address for a street in Hataitai. The trip from the city would take us through the tunnel to the other side of Mount Victoria.
They were all quite young really, probably none of them out of their twenties. They had a slight awkwardness about them, as if they hadn’t yet grown into themselves. Perhaps it was just a little youthful naivety. None of them were local as far as I could tell, and although they seemed Kiwi, I could detect an Irish lilt to their accent as they spoke. They were friendly and exceedingly polite, and they introduced themselves to me with their full names, even though they didn’t need to — Mary-Anne Keating, Hannah Coffy, and Agnes Conlin. Three young chicks enjoying their youthful freedom in the city.
