Deep in the Shallows

by J. L. O'Rourke

  Closed doors. That was the next thing I had to gird my loins and deal with. The secret rooms and the hoard. It couldn’t be any more disgusting than the stuffed birds – unless it was more stuffed birds, crammed into mouldy boxes. Trying not to imagine the worst, I swung the bookcase door open and stepped through. It still smelt mouldy. The first room was practically empty apart from a pale blue Fender electric guitar resting against a cane chair in one corner. I wondered who had last played it. Through the next door, the hoard began. The boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling, with narrow pathways creating a twisting maze through the piles. I started with the box closest to me.

  It was full of books. So were the next four boxes. I squeezed through the maze, opening other boxes at random. They were all the same. I went back to the first box, dragged it back to the empty room and tipped its contents out onto the floor. Paperbacks. Not academic texts or collectable books that would add some value to her estate, just pulp paperbacks. I found romances, westerns, science fiction, even children’s books, some reasonably new and some aged, with yellowed pages and torn covers. I stuffed them back into the box, shoved it aside and moved to the next room. The same thing. Boxes of cheap books, even boxes of old magazines, although this time I noticed that many of the books were stamped with the names of second-hand book shops. Lots of different book shops. I began to wonder if Maggie Netherby had been a bit unhinged and had spent her time wandering through Dunedin bookshops buying cartons of books at a time, then storing them away like a pack rat. Had she ever read any of them? Or was she a prolific reader with eclectic tastes?

  Not that the answer mattered. It didn’t alter the fact that there were hundreds of boxes in each room and each box held at least twenty books, and I would have to check each one in case, amongst the trashy pulp fiction, there were any that were valuable. Dispirited, I pulled out my phone to call my boss. She answered promptly and I filled her in on the discovery of the hoard. I didn’t mention Jackson, I would leave that revelation till later. Her response wasn’t quite what I wanted. I had hoped that she would tell me to take as much time as I needed, but she did the opposite, reminding me of my next job and telling me to wind this one up as fast as possible. I hung up with the realisation that I would need to work well into the night for the next few days if I was to make her suggested deadline.

  I needed a plan of action. I decided to find somewhere outside to dump each box if there was nothing good in it. I would start making a pile then I could ask Tom if he would help me take the worthless ones to the dump. I picked up the first box that I had already checked and carried it through to the lounge but, as I juggled the weight of the box on my hip and struggled with the front door, Jackson bolted through the gap. Cursing, I dumped the box and ran after him but by the time I had reached the bottom of the stairs, he was halfway across the paddock, heading for Gunna’s caravan.

  “Jackson, come back!” I screamed as I chased him, but he wasn’t listening. I jumped the fence and hurried after him, calling his name frantically as I ran. When the ground started to feel squishy under my feet, and my light, still damp, shoes began to fill with water, his name got a few curse words added to it and by the time I caught up to him, standing hopefully outside the caravan door, I was ready to let off a Simon-style tirade about his manners and his pedigree. Jackson looked at me with his huge eyes and wagged his tail.

  “Oh you...” I flopped down onto the caravan’s small step. Jackson’s tongue lolled as he panted, making him look as if he was smiling at me and laughing. “You rotten dog. Now my shoes are soaking. Still,” I stood up and pulled on the caravan door, “while we’re here, let’s see if there’s anything in here that gives me a clue about those tags on the dead birds in the shed.”

  It took all my strength to pull the door open, then Jackson pushed past me to get inside first. I followed to find him sniffing the air, and I had to agree it smelt like someone had been eating food in there recently. I wondered if it had smelt like that when Carlton was in here a few hours earlier, or had someone been here since then. As Carlton had said, the caravan was very tidy, with no signs that anyone had been in it, but it didn’t feel empty. The bed was neatly made, covers pulled up with a straight edge on the top sheet as it folded down over the duvet, and on the shelf above the gas cooker, a plate, a mug and a breakfast bowl were perfectly lined up. There was something about the neatness that made me think of the pristine state of the laboratory-shed. Maybe Gunna was the taxidermist. He was obviously a neat-freak.

  I felt guilty but that didn’t stop me poking around, opening all the tiny cupboards, although I didn’t see anything of interest until I gave up, grabbed Jackson by the collar and turned to leave. Above the door, tucked into the door frame, was a photograph; a candid snapshot of three people, all dressed in Swanndri jackets and hiking boots, all carrying shotguns and posing with an array of dead rabbits. I assumed that the woman was Maggie Netherby. I wasn’t sure about the older man with the long, grey hair and straggly beard, although I guessed he could be the mysterious Gunna, but I definitely recognised the young man in the middle. Bruno McTavish.

  Holding Jackson firmly by his collar, I manoeuvred him out of the caravan and back across the swampy ground. When we reached the firm grass of the paddock, I let him go, hoping he wouldn’t run away again. I was wrong. He raced away like a rocket, his thin body curving and stretching as flew over the ground. At least he was heading in the right direction. I followed at a much slower pace, cursing my soggy sneakers with each squelching step. By the time I climbed over the fence, Jackson was already on the deck, bouncing with excitement at the Swanndri-clad figure leaning casually against the doorpost.

  As I climbed the steps Bruno straightened up, flicking the errant lock of hair back from his stunning blue eyes. I blew out a long breath as I reached the top step, hoping that he thought I was just puffed and not realise I was trying to calm the feelings that erupted at the sight of him. Damn the man.

  “Hi,” he drawled, reaching down to scratch Jackson behind his ears. “You’ve got Jackson.”

  “Um, obviously.”

  “Yeah, that was a pretty stupid statement, wasn’t it. I mean, I didn’t know you had collected him. I thought he was still in the pound. But I am so glad you’ve got him. Are you going to keep him? Or are you going to give him to the Atkins boys?”

  “The Atkins boys? Oh, is that the J brothers? I don’t think so. The pound lady talked me into taking him. Well, Jackson’s big eyes helped win me over. But she was adamant that he not go to them because he isn’t a hunting dog and wouldn’t survive in a kennel.”

  “She was right, not in our winter at his age, he won’t. So what are you going to do with him? I’ve been trying to find someone suitable, so I can keep asking around if you like.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I have no idea how I am going to work it out, but even if it means getting a new apartment in Wellington, I’m going to keep him. Unless he runs away from me again, in which case he’s...,” I glared at Jackson with my best angry face but he wagged his tail to show he knew I was joking, “going...to...be...my dinner.”

  Bruno didn’t believe me any more than Jackson did. He laughed.

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, I saw you coming up from Gunna’s van. Did you go inside? Is he there? Is there any sign of him?”

  “Yes, no, no,” I answered all his questions at once. “Yes, I went in but no, it doesn’t look as if anyone’s been there.” I didn’t mention the smell of food as it could have been nothing. Maybe the caravan always smelt that way.

  “Damn! I’m really starting to think that arm must be his. I keep hoping that he’ll turn up at the pub and say it’s all a prank, but that’s getting less and less likely.”

  “Do you know him well? I saw a photo down there with you in it. I presume the others were Maggie Netherby and Gunna.”

  “Yeah, The annual rabbit drive over in Cromwell. Maggie cleaned up that year. She was a damned good shot.” He paused, a question forming i
n his mind. “Are her guns still locked up safely? And is Gunna’s one with them?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t seen any guns. Where would they be?”

  “In the gun cabinet.” He made it sound as if I was the village idiot for having to ask.

  “What gun cabinet?” I asked, trying to match his belittling tone with some attitude of my own. “So far, I haven’t found one.”

  “Really?” Bruno’s brow furrowed in confusion. “It’s in one of the back rooms. Knowing Maggie, it’s probably got something ordinary hanging in front of it so it doesn’t look obvious. She was pretty tight on gun safety.”

  “I will add it to my list of things to sort through,” I said.

  “Okay, let me know if you find it.” Bruno checked his watch. “I’d better be going. I only stopped by to see if I could check out the caravan, but if you’ve done that and Gunna isn’t there, I’ll keep going.”

  “Okay. Senior Sergeant Carlton checked out the caravan earlier today. He’s looking everywhere for Gunna too.”

  “I’ll bet he isn’t,” Bruno spat. “He’ll look like he’s looking but I bet he’s hoping to find him dead.”

  “Wow! That’s nasty. He looked and sounded like a policeman doing his job. He’s checking everywhere in case Gunna’s lying somewhere injured. Are you doing that?”

  Bruno drew himself to his full height to fend off my insult, his eyes flashing as he stepped forwards, making me step aside to let him past.

  “Yes. Yes I bloody well am. And, unlike that weasel, I actually care.”

  As he stormed off, I grabbed Jackson by the collar to stop him following. Without waiting to see Bruno drive away, I pushed the dog through the door and locked it behind us. If Carlton was a weasel, that infuriatingly good looking hunk was a stoat, or some other equally horrid, sleazy, low-life creature.

  Damn him and damn the fact that my feet were wet and freezing cold. Muttering an apology to Maggie under my breath, I pulled off my sodden sneakers and socks and padded barefoot through to her bedroom where I rifled through the drawers, borrowing a pair of heavy wool socks and a pair of purple, fluffy slippers that sat in her wardrobe alongside several pairs of stout lace-up leather shoes and a well-worn pair of hiking boots. They were too large but I didn’t care as they were warm and comfortable.

  Then I remembered the box of books that had started the earlier drama. It was still on the deck where I had dropped it in my haste to catch Jackson. I stared at it through the glass door. It could stay there for now, I would go to Plan B and instead of taking them out one at a time as I finished with them, I would stack the checked boxes in the first secret room, which meant I could do my favourite thing and procrastinate. I could put off thinking about getting them outside until I had no other option left.

  I worked steadily through the boxes, widening the pathway through the maze and I had almost cleared a path through to the boarded-up window in the far wall when the encroaching darkness stopped me seeing what I was doing. What little light that had been filtering through the small gaps between the boards had dimmed to almost nothing and I was struggling to read the book titles. I stood up, my back cracking as I stretched to relieve the ache in my muscles.

  The room that had contained just a guitar and a chair was now full with boxes stacked as high as I could easily lift them. Maggie’s stacks were two, sometimes three, boxes higher so she must have been a strong woman. With a satisfied look back at what I had achieved, I stepped through to the lounge and pushed the secret door shut. The lounge was dark but I wasn’t planning on staying any longer, so there was no reason to turn on the lights. Instead, I fumbled in the gloom for my sneakers, grimacing as the dampness penetrated Maggie’s thick socks.

  “Okay, Jackson,” I called to the blanket mound on the couch, “let’s go.”

  Jackson walked placidly beside me out the door and all the way to my car before he bolted. Just as I reached forwards to open the door, he was gone, crossing the fence in a fluid leap and racing across the paddock. I sighed. Another soggy trip to the caravan and, this time, in the dark. Why had I not clipped his lead to his collar? I had a lot to learn about owning a whippet. I didn’t bother wasting my breath calling his name, I had already figured out that he went deaf when he was running. I hunted around in the depths of my bag and found my torch, cursing its pathetically small beam. Still, it was better than nothing. Marginally.

  I gave up on the torch before I climbed the fence, shoving it into my jacket pocket when I needed both hands to hold onto the post and the wire as I swayed and floundered my way over. If this was the fastest way to get from the house to Gunna’s caravan why had they never built a gate? Or even an old-fashioned stile? In the paddock I stopped to get my bearings, hoping my night vision would improve before I got to the tricky part. I peered towards the caravan, trying to make out a doggy shape in the gloom. Then I saw him. Again, it was too late to call out as he was running, but not towards me. Chasing something only he could see, Jackson raced sideways across the paddock towards the boundary and the woolshed that I had thought was Maggie’s, forcing me to change my direction and trudge after him, praying that there were no hidden rabbit holes to fall into, then praying that it wasn’t rabbits Jackson was chasing and that he wouldn’t follow them underground and get stuck. At least my night vision was getting better and I could almost make out what I was tripping over as I stumbled along, puffing and swearing.

  The woolshed was built into the slope of the hill so it was two-storeyed on the downhill side I was approaching from. I peered through a large gap in the rusting tin cladding, hoping it was Jackson I could hear inside and not a pack of large, hungry rats. Whatever it was suddenly moved and snorted. I pulled back in panic. Pressing my back against the outside of the woolshed, hoping the thing inside wouldn’t see or smell me, I sat, shaking, forcing myself to breathe. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Jackson and it was way too big to be a rat. It snorted again. I didn’t want to know what it was but I had to know. Not knowing was much more terrifying than anything it could possibly be. I knew Otago seemed like a step back in time from Wellington, but it wasn’t Jurassic so I wrote off T-Rex as a possibility and started to think logically. The beast grunted. I plucked up all my courage, sucked in a deep breath, pulled out my pathetic torch, flicked it on and shone the beam through the gap in the wall.

  In the beam the beast’s eyes glowed red. All four of them. I clapped my hand to my mouth to choke back the scream, muttering “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god” as I sank back against the wall. Four eyes. It has four eyes! What monster has four eyes? Then I almost giggled. Two monsters. Two monsters with two eyes each. I looked again and was almost relieved to make out their huge bodies. At least they were something I recognised. Pigs. More bloody pigs! Huge pigs, even bigger than the one I had seen on Bruno’s Land Rover. I shuddered at the sight of the tusks protruding well past their noses.

  “I wouldn’t want to meet them in the dark,” I whispered to myself, then smiled as I realised that I had actually done just that. However, that didn’t solve my problem, it just made it more difficult. I still hadn’t found Jackson and now I would have to get past the pigs to get inside. Unless there was another way in.

  I stuffed my torch back in my pocket, relying on feel to make my way around the edge of the building, searching for a door. On the tallest side of the building I found myself under the ramps that would have taken the sheep back into the paddock after they had been shorn in the main floor of the shed. There was a small doorway under the ramps and it was open as the door had long ago fallen off its hinges and rotted on the ground. I stepped over its remains, ducking my head to get through the tiny gap. The smell was intense.

  As a Wellington office worker, my only dealings with pigs were ham sandwiches and rashers of bacon. I had heard stories of pigs being dirty but I wasn’t prepared for the smell that hit me. More than just dirt, this was decay. Once in the early days of my career, I had been given the task of valuing a property where an old man had
died, then lain for several weeks before he was found. Although his house had been cleaned, the smell of his decomposing body had still been present, tainting the walls, and this was the same. There may have been two live pigs under the woolshed, but there was something else under there, something well past dead. I needed to find Jackson and get out of there.

  Above me, on the main floor, the floorboards creaked. Could Jackson be up there? I was about to back out the door when the floorboards creaked again with the distinctive sounds of human footsteps. I froze. Someone was up there. Then a voice spoke and I realised that, like the pigs, there were two of them. I could tell from the depth of the voices that they were male, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying, or what they were doing. The footsteps went backwards and forwards above my head, then there was a loud thump as if they had dropped something heavy, followed by scraping as they dragged whatever it was across the floor. I squeezed myself into a tight ball against the wall, barely daring to breathe in case they heard me.

  Who were they? What were they doing in Carlton’s woolshed? Could it be Gunna? Could the dragging be someone injured, desperately trying to pull themselves to safety? Should I go and check? I rejected that idea quickly. Carlton had already checked the woolshed for Gunna. If he was up there, injured, he would have been found already. So, who else would it be? Hadn’t Carlton told me people liked to steal stuff from him? Maybe I should tell him. Fumbling in the dark, I pulled out my phone and, with a bit of searching through my pockets, found the rumpled business card Carlton had given me. I used the light on my phone to squint at the card, then thumbed in the number and hit dial.

  Above me a phone rang. Startled, I cancelled my call, then felt foolish. It must be Carlton upstairs, in his own woolshed, doing whatever he was entitled to do in his own place, even if it was at night, in the dark. If he had answered, I could have just admitted that I was down with the pigs, looking for Jackson, but I couldn’t ring back. I would feel too stupid trying to explain why I had hung up. I sat back on the damp floor, hoping he would think it was a wrong number and ignore it.