Unspeakable Secrets of the Aro Valley

by Danyl McLauchlan

  VICTORIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

  Victoria University of Wellington

  PO Box 600 Wellington

  vup.victoria.ac.nz

  Copyright © Danyl McLauchlan 2013

  First published 2013

  ISBN: 978-0-86473-884-4 (Print)

  ISBN: 978-0-86473-940-7 (EPUB)

  ISBN: 978-0-86473-941-4 (Kindle Mobi)

  This book is copyright. Apart from

  any fair dealing for the purpose of private study,

  research, criticism or review, as permitted under the

  Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any

  process without the permission of

  the publishers

  National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  McLauchlan, Danyl.

  Unspeakable secrets of the Aro Valley / Danyl McLauchlan.

  ISBN 978-0-86473-884-4

  I. Title.

  NZ823.3—dc 23

  Ebook production 2013 by meBooks

  For Maggie

  Author’s Note

  The Aro Valley is a real place and is much as I’ve described it, although I’ve taken various geographic liberties: inventing shops, landscaping parks and moving streets around.

  ‘Aro’ is a Maori word meaning ‘understanding’. The Aro Valley is sometimes referred to as Te Aro which means ‘incomprehensible’.

  There are—to my knowledge—no hollowed-out tenement buildings teeming with cultists in the Aro Valley at present, although there are several buildings that would be suitable for such a purpose.

  Part I

  1

  Holloway Road

  The house was not how Danyl had imagined it. It was a derelict two-storey wooden structure perched on the lower slope of the hill, facing back down the valley. All the windows were broken and boarded up; most of the paint was gone. Grass sprouted from the rooftop gutters.

  Steve pointed to it. ‘This must be the place.’

  ‘I really don’t think so.’ But Danyl checked the street number—91—and it was correct and there was his box right there on the porch, just where Verity said it would be.

  They crossed the road and walked through the gate. The house looked even worse up close: the peeled weatherboards were covered in graffiti and mould; dead trees lined the garden path; rubbish lay strewn amid the tall weeds.

  Horrible, Danyl thought. Just horrible. Yet this was Verity’s new home. Her life with him was so unbearable she chose to be alone in this ruined shack instead. He hesitated at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t want to be there.

  It was late morning, midsummer. The rest of Te Aro was filled with sunlight, but here in the deepest reaches of the valley it was damp and cool. Danyl thought fondly of his bedroom back in his own home. At this time of day the sun streamed through the window. He should be in bed, drowsing in that warm glow, or outside somewhere—sleeping under a tree in the park, perhaps, his head nestled in Verity’s lap. Anywhere but here, at the foot of these broken steps.

  ‘Coming?’ Steve walked past him and started up the zigzag pathway leading to the house. Danyl followed.

  The box sat in the centre of the porch, in front of the front door. It was a waist-high cube sealed with electrical tape with the logo of the AAAAAA Storage Company printed on each face. It was larger than Danyl remembered. It looked real heavy.

  ‘It looks real heavy,’ Steve said.

  ‘It’s mostly empty.’ Danyl stepped onto the porch. A gust of wind rattled the branches of the dead trees, and the front door creaked open. He paused mid-step.

  Beyond the door lay an interior of absolute blackness.

  ‘Verity must be home.’ Steve called out, ‘Hey! Verity!’

  The wind died. Silence. ‘Verity?’

  ‘She’ll be at work.’ Danyl walked to the door and put his hand on the handle. From inside the house came the smell of damp earth; beneath it the scent of antiseptic, and another smell beneath that: something sour; something old. He heard a faint sound—metal tapping against metal. Was she home? Or was there someone else in there? She said she was living alone. But why would she choose such a huge place?

  Then he reminded himself: Verity is not your problem any more. He pulled the door shut and said, ‘She probably forgot to lock up.’ He gestured at the box. ‘Let’s get this out of here.’

  They bent down and picked it up, growling and baring their teeth, and carried it off the porch. They both faced forward: Danyl was in front, his hands behind his back and fingers bent backwards. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking man in his late twenties, with a scraggly beard, modest pot-belly and a halo of brown curly hair.

  Steve was in back: he was a few years older than Danyl, taller and thinner, with what some might call a winning smile, but he was prematurely bald. The box was between them. It was heavier than Danyl remembered.

  Looking down from the top of the path he saw that the overgrown bank in front of the house used to be a series of terraces descending to the street: the walls were crumbling, collapsed in places; the entire area was choked with weeds pushing up between the broken paving stones. A tangle of blackberry bushes concealed a ruined fountain. The dirt path criss-crossed the terraces. The ruin was so complete it was impossible to discern the old landscaping except from above.

  Steve saw it too. He halted and said, ‘What is this place?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Very interesting. Very strange. Notice that Verity’s house is more recent than the others?’

  Steve was right. The rest of the homes along the road were all built in the late nineteenth century: elegant villas perched on the hillsides, or worker’s cottages on the valley floor. Verity’s house was post-war.

  ‘And this whole section of the hill is levelled,’ Steve continued, ‘as if there was once a much larger building here. There used to be a hospital at this end of Te Aro. I bet these are the old grounds.’

  A hospital? Danyl looked about. They were at the dead end of Holloway Road: a long leafy street beginning at the end of the Aro Valley and winding into the emptiness of the hills south of the city. Most of the road was sealed, but for the last hundred metres it degraded to gravel and dust. The hills were high; the valley was narrow and sunless.

  ‘Funny place to build a hospital. What happened to it?’

  ‘I think it burned down during the war. The First World War. There were rumours of arson. How very interesting that Verity would live here. Let’s take a look around.’

  ‘Let’s just go. Please?’

  Steve assented. They set off down the path and passed through the gate. Danyl glanced back at the house. Maybe Steve was right—he knew many strange and obscure things, picking up odd bits of knowledge from old news archives and local historians, but often his wisdom was mixed with folklore and urban myth and the ramblings of the mentally ill, along with his own private delusions, and so diluted down into nonsense. Perhaps Verity would know the house’s real story. She lived there now.

  They walked through the gate and onto the road.

  The old man came at them out of nowhere. One instant the street was empty; the next he charged at them, screaming and waving a shovel.

  Danyl and Steve dropped the box onto the gravel and stumbled backwards in divergent directions. The old man paused, considered them both and ran towards Danyl, his shovel held high.

  ‘Stop,’ Danyl commanded.

  ‘Arghhhhh,’ said the old man. He was tall and thin with tufts of white hair sprouting from indiscrimin
ate regions of his face and head. He wore a shabby black suit with a white shirt and no tie; ropes of spit hung from his mouth. He swung the shovel, missing Danyl by about a metre.

  ‘Steve! Help!’ Danyl tried to grab the shovel but the old man backed away and jabbed it at his face.

  ‘I can’t get involved.’

  ‘Why not? Get behind him!’

  ‘I’m a scholar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can only observe. I can’t interfere.’

  ‘Arghhhhh.’

  The old man charged Danyl, who stepped into the swing and attempted to grab his assailant’s arm but somehow missed and landed a solid blow on his throat. The shovel fell to the ground with a clatter; the old man staggered backwards and collapsed onto the road, throwing up a cloud of dust.

  ‘My God.’ Danyl rushed over to him as he lay gasping by the verge. ‘Are you OK?’

  The man coughed and spluttered; his face turned red.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit you. Although clearly, it was justified—’

  Steve pushed Danyl aside. ‘I think you really hurt him.’ He knelt down. ‘Can you hear me, buddy? Can you breathe?’

  The old man’s lips moved. A faint whisper, all but inaudible. Steve leaned closer. ‘What’s that?’

  The old man’s fingers tugged at Steve’s sleeve, drawing him closer still. ‘I—’ he rasped, then coughed and swallowed. ‘I—’

  ‘You can tell me anything,’ Steve assured the old man. ‘I’m a psychologist.’

  The man shuddered, jerked his head back and spat directly in Steve’s face. Steve recoiled, yelled, ‘You animal,’ leaped to his feet and drew his leg back to kick the old man in the gut, but Danyl restrained him. ‘Let’s just go.’

  ‘Let’s take his wallet.’

  ‘Let’s leave him be.’

  Steve wiped the spit off his face and fixed the incapacitated old man with a vengeful gaze. ‘This isn’t over,’ he warned.

  They walked back to the box and lifted it and set off. When they reached the bend in the road Danyl looked back at the old man, who lay on the curb hissing and whispering, and at the derelict house on the hillside and he saw—for a second—a figure watching him from a high window, its face obscured by reflected sunlight.

  ‘This is awkward.’

  Steve shovelled another fistful of berries into his mouth and looked at Danyl. They had stopped to rest in an allotment halfway down Holloway Road. It was a vacant lot above the street, positioned to capture the sunlight. Someone had planted it with vegetables and fruit trees, and borders of companion flowers. They lay on a patch of sun-warmed grass, leaning against the box at right angles to each other. A small pile of stolen fruit sat on the ground between them. The air teemed with butterflies. Bees and other beneficial insects went about their industry.

  Steve said, ‘Awkward in what way?’

  ‘Verity didn’t say why she left me, exactly,’ Danyl replied. ‘But before she went she said something that’s been preying on me. A comment about my . . . mental health. I wanted your semi-professional opinion.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ Steve devoured more berries. ‘Unburden yourself by all means.’

  Danyl hesitated. ‘This is hard for me to say. Verity said . . . The reason she left . . . She thinks I’m depressed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What do you think? How much do you know about this?’

  ‘Depression?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Um.’ Steve thought. ‘Nothing, basically.’

  ‘Nothing? Aren’t you nine years into a doctorate in psychology? Don’t you lecture to undergraduates?’

  ‘Sure, but it’s a broad, uh, field. My work is more cognitive. Depression is a disease of the mind. But I ask: what is the mind? Does it even exist? And if not, what does that mean for my research? Do you see what I’m saying? Does that make you feel better?’

  ‘You must know something,’ Danyl pleaded. ‘I sleep all the time. It’s the only thing I enjoy any more. Isn’t that a symptom?’

  ‘Sure. I guess.’

  ‘Do you think I should see someone? A clinical psychologist?’

  ‘Oh God no.’ Steve shook his head. ‘Don’t tell anyone else about this. Ever. Once you’re in the system—’ He made a throat slitting gesture, and then picked at the pile of stolen fruit. ‘These lemons are delicious. They’re so sweet.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I think they’re some kind of lemon-mandarin hybrid.’

  ‘But you must know something.’

  Steve leaned his head to one side. ‘I’ve heard that exercise is good for depression.’

  ‘Exercise?’

  ‘Exercise and Vitamin B. I read about it in a magazine somewhere. It works for me. I run every morning, irregardless of weather. It keeps me sharp. On the edge.’ Steve clicked his fingers in the air. ‘Where I gotta be. You’re welcome to join me. Sunrise, buddy.’

  ‘I think my problems go beyond lack of exercise,’ Danyl said dismissively. ‘They’re deeper. More complex. Maybe I need medication?’ He brightened at the thought. Then a car came around the corner, heading towards the top of Holloway Road, and his eyes widened in alarm. ‘Hide,’ he said.

  They flattened themselves on the ground. Danyl looked up as the car went by, his mouth open and filled with half-eaten berries. It was a police car. It roared out of sight around the bend.

  Steve said, ‘Do you think they were looking for us?’

  ‘Yes. Do you think the old man called them?’

  ‘He had communication problems. I think someone else, probably a neighbour, saw you assault an elderly old man and leave him lying in the gutter gasping for air, and they called the police.’

  ‘He came at me with a shovel.’

  ‘I make no judgements.’

  ‘You tried to kick him when he was down.’

  ‘I have no memory of that. Do you think they saw us?’

  ‘No,’ Danyl replied. ‘We were obscured by the broad beans. But we should leave.’

  Steve agreed. They shovelled the last of the fruit into their mouths and wiped their hands on the grass, then stood and picked up the box and carried it down to the road.

  ‘I don’t want Verity to hear about this,’ Danyl said. ‘It wouldn’t improve things between us.’ He thought about the derelict house again. Why would she move to such a terrible place? Perhaps it was just temporary. Perhaps she hadn’t really left him: she was just sending him a sign—a signal of her displeasure. That made sense. That had to be it. And this thing with his box, accidentally shifting it to her new house and then asking him to move it back—this was a test. Would he perform this small kindness for her? And he had! There had been a tiny setback—the fight with her elderly neighbour and the involvement of the authorities—but she never had to hear about that. He’d done pretty well, all things considered.

  ‘I think they’re coming back.’

  Danyl heard the sound of the car engine. ‘Run!’

  They scuttled to the far side of the road, through the trees and down the bank to the Waimapihi stream, which at this time of year was just a ditch filled with muddy ooze. The car rushed by above them.

  ‘They came back pretty fast.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Steve. ‘Maybe they’re checking the streets for two men carrying a cardboard box.’

  They stood in the bed of the stream, slowly sinking into the mud. ‘Then we’re cut off,’ Danyl said. ‘We can’t use the road.’

  ‘We’ll just follow the stream.’

  ‘It goes underground at the end of Holloway. Then what? We can’t just walk down Aro Street. We’d be in plain sight the whole way.’

  ‘I know another way,’ Steve replied. ‘A secret way.’

  2

  The Secret Way

  This tur
ned out to be an abandoned council track. It started near the bottom of Holloway Road, climbed into the foothills on the southern end of the valley and then wound through the regenerating native forest covering the slopes. The first stage of the track was a vicious climb up a flight of steps cut into the sandstone of the hill.

  ‘This is really very heavy.’ They rested the box on the top step and stood, panting in time with each other. Steve took off his T-shirt and wiped the sweat off his face.

  Danyl asked him, ‘Why do you think the old man attacked us?’

  ‘The mad have their own logic,’ Steve replied. ‘It’s not for the sane to divine it.’

  ‘You think he was crazy?’

  ‘He spat on me. Of course he was crazy.’ He tapped the lid of the box. ‘Let’s keep moving.’

  They picked it up and walked in silence for a few minutes until they reached the ridgeline and the Aro Valley came into view.

  The overall character of the valley was leafy and shabby but cute. The houses were mostly old, mostly white weatherboard villas, mostly in a state of genteel decay. Aro Street was a crooked line running along the base of the valley. The village centre lay midway along it: it was made up of shops, a community hall, cafes, art galleries and the food market. Beyond that stretched Aro Park, a pale green field dotted with trees. They could see dozens of tiny figures moving around the valley. The people in the village centre moved back and forth between the shops; the people in the park all seemed to be sleeping.

  They continued up the path until they reached a fork. Steve led them south and further uphill. ‘This will take us up to Mortimer Terrace,’ he said. ‘From there we can take another track to Ohiro where we can walk down behind the treeline to Aro Street. From there it’s only a couple of dozen metres along the main road then across it, up Devon Street and home.’

  Danyl was impressed. This was a side of Steve he’d never seen before, a Steve who knew something that had actual practical value in the real world and he said as much. ‘In so far as the Aro Valley can be considered part of the real world,’ he added. ‘How do you know about all these trails?’