Unspeakable Secrets of the Aro Valley

by Danyl McLauchlan

  He nudged the gate open a little wider with his crutch. There was no sign of life.

  It was still very early in the day and the Campbell Walker was, Danyl knew, a nocturnal creature. He was probably asleep in his suite on the top floor, his body bloated with loathsome pleasures. The sun, rising above the far eastern hills, drowned the courtyard in shadows. He considered the distance to the basement. The way was clear, but the risk was too great. If he was seen he would be caught, and at the mercy of the Campbell Walker.

  On the other hand, when would he have another chance like this? What if the gate was usually locked, and he’d found it unlocked by happy chance? He opened it further and stepped through, ready to turn and flee at the slightest sound.

  Nothing.

  Shambling awkwardly on his crutches he made his way around the edge of the courtyard, keeping to the shadows beneath the high wall. He felt like a crippled insect negotiating the outer strands of a spider-web; although, he reminded himself, his goal was to penetrate the heart of the web, which an actual crippled insect probably would not do. He scurried across a patch of sunlight, pausing at the top of the ramp. He was drenched in sweat. His hands slipped on the rubber grips of his crutches, and he wiped them on his T-shirt and made his way down into the basement.

  Back when it was a tenement building the basement was a car park for the occupants. Then came Campbell: all the residents were evicted, and when Danyl first saw it the basement was a dumping ground for debris from the massive refurbishment project. Later, during the days of the DoorWay Project it was a way-station: food, chemicals, scientific equipment—all shipped in through the basement and loaded onto the freight elevator by teams of Campbell’s eager disciples, and they took everything up, up into the labyrinth above, to secret destinations for diverse and unspeakable purposes towards an ultimate goal none of them could comprehend.

  Then the DoorWay Project ended, abruptly, and Danyl and Campbell became enemies, co-existing in the valley under an uneasy truce. Danyl moved in with Verity and tried to move on with his life. He put Campbell and his fortress out of his mind, until one afternoon in early summer when he began work on his new book, and he went down to Te Aro Park with pen and notepad, seeking fresh air and inspiration.

  When he woke it was dark. He lay drool-faced in a patch of secluded shadow beneath a pohutukawa tree. From his perspective, lying on the ground, he could see through the park entrance and across the street to the driveway leading to Campbell’s building. As he watched, the gate—recently installed—opened and two dark figures slipped through it and into the park. They sat on a bench close by, where they lit cigarettes and spoke in hushed voices. Danyl lay very still while the scent of the tobacco smoke drifted over him, and he listened.

  ‘No more night work,’ said the first figure.

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  The first voice was quietly confident, the second sneering and insecure. It continued, ‘Besides, I like the night work.’

  ‘It’s a means to an end,’ the first voice said. ‘And it’s dangerous. Now the DHH has a secret tool—a weapon—to achieve that end.’

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ the first voice said. ‘We towed it into the basement this morning. It’s not what you’d think, but once you see what’s inside it—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s classified information. I can reveal it cost the DHH a fortune. Six figures.’

  The second cultist replied, ‘Secret weapon?’ He snorted. ‘I’m happy with the status quo. Speaking of which.’ They stood and flicked their cigarettes into the darkness and slipped into the darkness, heading up the valley.

  Danyl had stayed in the shadows until they were gone, coiled and plotting like a wise old snake. Who was the DHH? Was it Campbell? Did the owners of those voices in the dark work for him? And what was this secret weapon concealed in the basement? What did it all mean?

  He had considered these questions. This new information was interesting, he had decided, but not actionable. Campbell’s tower was sealed off behind walls and high gates. Whatever he had in his basement was irrelevant. There was simply no way in.

  But now there was. Danyl stumbled and knocked his crutch against the steel roller-door and it shimmered and boomed in the gloomy silence. Startled by the sound, he stood up and hit his head against the same door, sending countervailing waves of movement rippling through the steel sheet and competing crescendos echoing around the basement.

  Logic told Danyl he should run and hide, but instinct told him to crouch down by the wall and cover his head with his hands and that’s what he did until the sound died away and his heart-rate returned to normal. No one came to investigate. Eventually he stopped whispering abuse to himself, lowered his arms and looked around.

  The basement was much as he remembered it: a vast, low-roofed region of concrete and gloom lit by air vents spaced high around the walls, just above ground level. The gratings on the west of the building admitted a dull gray halo; the eastern vents glowed with sunlight.

  A service elevator was built into the far wall. There was rubbish everywhere: stacks of paint cans; huge sheets of discarded stained-yellow glass; a pyramid of rotting boxes. Danyl walked through it, the rubber stoppers of his crutches grating on the rough floor. He was looking for . . . something. An object of value. A secret weapon. He didn’t know, but he knew he would know when he saw it, and he did. A vague, looming bulk hidden away in the furthest corner from the entrance came into focus and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  It was a cage.

  It was built into the corner of the basement: a wall of steel bars with a roller-door. There was a dark, bulky object inside. It resolved itself as Danyl approached: it was a campervan.

  Danyl peered through the bars. He didn’t know much about vehicles—he couldn’t drive—but even he recognised the Mercedes symbol. The curvature of the hubs and the hood suggested a construction date in the 1960s. All the windows were blacked out: it looked as though they’d been painted over from the inside. He tried the steel roller-door at the front of the cage. Bolted shut: the lock was in the centre of the door, a sealed, steel unit with a U-shaped keyhole.

  This van was the secret weapon, he was sure of it. The cultists mentioned it being towed down here. But what dread purpose could Campbell have for such a thing? Perhaps it wasn’t the campervan itself but something hidden inside it?

  He walked around the side of the cage again, inspecting the van’s windows. They were all shut except for one in the side-door panel which had a gap of several centimetres at the top. Danyl stood on tiptoes, pressed his face against the bars and peered in but saw nothing. A lightless void nested in the vehicle’s interior. He squirmed with impatience, irritation and the fierce need to urinate. He was so close to an intelligence coup; a real insight into Campbell’s schemes and plans, but yet again fate defied him.

  He considered his options. He could search the piles of trash for a makeshift club that he could fit between the bars, smash open the windows of the van and see if that yielded any secrets. Or he could leave and come back when his leg was healed: sneak in alone, at night, with a high-powered torch and see what was inside it, maybe even destroy it. That way he could have his revenge on Campbell and then make a swift escape. That would be the mature thing to do.

  He turned and headed back towards the exit and then stopped, picked up a steel rod and shuffled back to the cage. He slid the rod between the bars, positioning it to strike at the side-door window, and then shifted his weight onto his left crutch. He covered his face with his arm to protect from flying glass and made ready to swing . . .

  He froze. Voices! He could hear voices. He frowned and lowered the rod and turned. They were coming from the elevator shaft, floating down from the upper floors: the building was waking up.

  He had to leave. Now.

 
He dropped the club, wistfully, and headed for the exit then stopped again—halting dead in his tracks as he was struck by a plan so brilliant and so perfect he had no choice but to execute it.

  He approached the cage a third time, grinning with malice and anticipation. Then he tugged his running shorts down around his knees. Aiming carefully he pointed his penis at the half-open window and relaxed his bladder.

  The urine splashed against the glass, then, with minor adjustment, arced into the darkness within the van making a satisfying pattering sound.

  Danyl grunted while he urinated: a savage, prehuman growl, a mixture of triumph and overwhelming relief. Funny how life worked, he reflected. He’d gone running to cure his depression and now here he was: injured and alone, deep in his enemy’s territory pissing inside his secret, priceless vehicle. If this didn’t lift his mood, nothing would.

  It was rush hour back on Aro Street. A stream of cars drove toward the inner city, cyclists and joggers and power walkers and old people sped by, while Danyl struggled along on his crutches, sweating heavily.

  He passed the park and walked through the town centre, a collection of shops and a covered open space housing the Aro market. The stalls were all empty; the area was deserted except for an Indian family unloading fruit, vegetables and flowers from the back of a flatbed truck. He passed by ‘Les Boutiques’, a series of villas converted into shops back in the early 1990s: vintage clothing, jewellery, the art gallery where Verity worked. They were all closed. They opened whenever the owners or the staff felt like it, which was often not until mid to late afternoon and in some cases not until autumn.

  He was almost at the bottom of Devon Street. Almost home. The elation from his daring raid was gone; now he just wanted to lie down. Relax. Savour his victory.

  But was it victory? Had he done the right thing? It felt so right at the time but now Danyl was free from the tower and back on the streets with a clear head and an empty bladder, he wasn’t so sure. What if Campbell discovered the urinated-in campervan? He’d see Danyl’s footsteps in the dust, trace them back to the gate in the wall and down the secret pathway. He’d see the odd, single-footed indented tracks and know he was looking for someone on crutches. How long before he identified Danyl and tracked him down?

  Not long at all. Then Campbell would consider the truce between them void, and wreak an awful revenge and Danyl, crippled, would be even more powerless to defend himself than usual. Had he just made a terrible mistake?

  No, he rebuked himself sternly. No more second-guessing. No more doubt. That was half the cause of his depression. He, Danyl, was a writer, an artist, and that meant behaving like one. Living in the moment. Following his instincts. Pissing in Campbell’s secret campervan. The greatest moment of his life and he should treasure it, not spoil it with self-doubt. He had done the right thing. He passed the German Cafe and turned onto Devon Street.

  A man in a heavy black robe stood on the footpath near Danyl’s house. The robe had silver trim around the hem of the sleeves and a hooded cowl drawn forward over his head. A long beak-like nose protruded from the shadows where the man’s face should be. As Danyl watched, the man turned towards him and the shadows hiding his face dissolved in the transverse radiance of the dawn.

  It was Campbell.

  6

  Notice

  Danyl ducked back into Aro Street, flattening himself against the wall of the cafe. Impossible! How could he have linked him to the urine so quickly? Yet there he was. Why else would the Campbell Walker wait outside his home at sunrise? And why was he wearing a robe?

  Danyl peeked around the corner. Actually, Campbell wasn’t directly outside his house—he was two houses up, in front of an old bungalow. Two more men in black robes emerged from the front door of the bungalow carrying black canvas bags. They called out to Campbell—they were too far away for Danyl to make out the words—then crossed the road and climbed into their gleaming new stormtrooper-white van parked on the curb.

  Danyl ducked back out of sight. Campbell was obviously on Devon Street on non-urine, non-vengeance, non-Danyl-related business. He owned many of the houses in the valley—he had once owned Danyl’s—maybe he’d bought the bungalow, and he was showing it off to his new flunkies, who all dressed up in black wizard robes for some reason. Whatever they were doing, it was nothing to do with the thing in the basement. Danyl sagged with relief, forgetting that he was only standing on one leg, and almost toppled over as he fumbled with his crutches for balance.

  The van rounded the corner. Danyl turned aside and covered his face with his arms, looking as casual as he could in his skimpy running outfit and crutches. The van crawled past then accelerated away, heading towards Campbell’s building.

  He breathed out. Disaster averted. But then he checked the street and Campbell was still there, walking up and down the footpath, talking into his phone and waving his arms around. Danyl ground his teeth in frustration. He could see his front door. It was so close!

  Then Campbell stopped pacing. He reversed direction and headed towards Aro Street at speed, still yelling into his phone. Danyl flattened himself against the wall of the cafe again. Campbell was coming right for him. He had to hide.

  All the shops were closed. His gaze fell on the community centre across the street. It was often open in the early hours for fitness classes or dawn druid ceremonies. The doors were shut but hopefully not locked. It was his only option.

  Danyl stepped into the traffic, moving awkwardly between the vehicles. A truck blared past in a blast of diesel fumes. He reached the far side and, glancing back, saw the fluttering hem of Campbell’s robe just around the corner. He lurched up the steps of the community centre and fumbled with the door handle. It opened! The door swung inwards and Danyl stumbled inside, his crutches clattering against the frame, and he slammed it behind him.

  Had Campbell seen him? He’d been visible for at least a second. He opened the door a crack. Campbell was on the other side of the road walking quickly, engrossed in his phone conversation.

  The Campbell Walker was an ugly man, his face acne-scarred and oddly elongated, like a Modigliani portrait. He had aged since Danyl had seen him last, which was only a year ago. New lines in his face, wisps of grey in his beard. His face red, he yelled into his phone something about ‘good faith’, something about a hole.

  Danyl closed the door and pressed his forehead against it. He took long deep breaths through his nose. He’d read somewhere that this calmed the heart.

  Five minutes. He would wait that long, then make a break for home.

  He looked around. He was in the foyer, a confined area with wooden floors and a noticeboard. The doors leading into the centre’s main hall were closed but through the windows he could see a yoga class in progress: symmetric rows of men and women in loose-fitting clothes stood on one leg, the other foot raised and pressed against the inner thigh of the standing leg, their hands held in prayer position above their hearts. Every face in the room looked focused, serene. Danyl sneered at them and turned away.

  Then he noticed the noticeboard. This always made for amusing reading, granting an insight into the degenerate culture of the valley. Danyl had often toyed with the idea of writing a novel based on a dozen unrelated notices posted up here, and now he inspected the board with this project in mind.

  ‘Single non-monogamous female wanted to share meadow of wildflowers with twelve others.’ ‘Car for sale, bad rust damage, no wheels.’ ‘The truth about Influenza!’ ‘Poet urgently required.’ ‘Death to Iceland.’ ‘A box was stolen from outside my home.’ ‘Learn Ayurvedic self-defence.’ ‘Boer War truth evening.’

  Boer War truth. Classic. Danyl reminded himself to come back later with a notepad and write them all down. The inspiration for his next book was right here.

  Time to go, he decided. He opened the door a crack, perceived no immediate threats and hurried down the steps. The crutches mad
e it harder to go down stairs than up: he was finally at the bottom, turning towards Epuni Street for a last, desperate hobble to his front door when he was jostled from behind.

  He staggered and turned, snarling territorially, and his assailant spun around and walked away. It was a pleasingly shaped female wearing a red silk outfit. She moved fast, and was some distance away before Danyl identified her as the healer from the Wellness Centre.

  ‘Hey!’ He lurched in her direction and called, ‘Stasia?’ Was that her name? She did not stop or turn. He started to shuffle after her and dropped something on the ground: a small red envelope that had been tucked between his crutch and his arm. He bent down and picked it up. It was addressed ‘From Stasia the Healer to the Crippled Danyl’.

  He watched as she drifted through the traffic and disappeared into the park. He would never catch her. He leaned on his crutches, tore open the envelope and unfolded the note inside:

  Dear Seeker of Wellness,

  Trust no one. Forget everything you have ever leaned.

  Keep your injured foot elevated on a bed, couch, footstool or box.

  Use a . . .

  Box? The word tugged at Danyl’s short-term memory. He frowned. He said aloud, ‘Box.’ He put the note back in the envelope, struggled up the steps to the community centre, back through the door and over to the noticeboard. He scanned the mosaic of print-outs and flyers.

  There. Right in the centre.

  ‘A box was stolen from outside my home on Holloway Road on Friday morning. Please call S Parsons on the number below if you have any information.’

  Danyl thought for a second, then tore the notice off the board, put it in the envelope and hurried from the hall.

  7

  The life of Wolfgang Bludkraft

  Danyl stood in his room-between-rooms, glaring at the box on the floor. Unbelievable. He’d taken the wrong box from the wrong house, and now he’d have to call up this S Parsons and have him or her come and take it away. And Danyl’s own box was still at Verity’s. He’d have to phone her too, tell her about his crippled leg, make arrangements to pick up his box when he could walk again.