Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  There was nothing else in the envelope.

  “Well?”

  “Well, apparently the Americans have invaded New Zealand and the majority of Kiwis don’t seem to even realise, according to this. They’ve covered the country in trees and cows which can then be made into fuel, which the Americans can use when all the oil runs out in a few years.” Even in the street–lit gloom of the car park, David could see his wife’s puzzled frown.

  “Trees and cows?”

  “It says here you can make fuel from mincing up trees, or from cows, which seems a little strange as we haven’t seen much of either yet.”

  “Well, we are still in the centre of Auckland.”

  “Which reminds me. How do we get out of the centre of Auckland?”

  They took it in turns to drive, two hours at a time, until six the following morning when the first light of dawn began to glow gently in the sky. Through the night they had headed south, driving through countryside they could not see. There was little sign of habitation. No towns, a few small villages, and once out of Auckland they counted no more than a hundred cars in eleven hours.

  Katherine had tried tuning the radio, hoping loud music would keep their senses alert. The seek button found four stations, two of them all–night phone–in shows where the presenter seemed to be deliberately taking an opposing view to elicit responses from the enraged, the insomniacs or the plain mad. It kept them entertained and awake through the small hours and endless driving.

  They discussed the contents of the envelope that had been left so conveniently in the car. It seemed to suggest an explanation for the money smuggling operation but, as the night wore on, their theories became more outlandish, until David raised the question of how to milk a tree, at which point, at six-fifteen in the morning, they decided they should stop driving and check into a motel and get some proper sleep.

  They drove slowly down the main street of a very small town, deciding to stop at the first motel that looked comfortable but cheap. They had driven through and out into the open countryside on the other side of town before realising the limited choice and made a U–turn on the deserted road before driving back and pulling into the sparsely populated car park of the cheerily named Dresden Motel.

  They lied to the night porter about having arrived in Auckland only a few hours earlier and having stepped straight off the plane to attempt the long drive south to Wellington. Tiredness had overcome them and they now needed a few hours sleep before continuing their journey. “It’s $130 a night, er day, in advance. I’ll need to swipe your credit card for security.”

  They both knew why they exchanged a nervous glance but the porter did not. Hesitation in presenting a credit card was an excellent way of arousing the suspicion of an underpaid and over–tired night watchman.

  It occurred to David as he handed over the card, that the man possibly did not really believe they were a happily married couple and that, in checking into a motel room at seven in the morning, their intention were far more sordid, hence the insistence on pre-payment for the room. The porter swiped the card with an inappropriately dramatic flourish before handing it back to David. He reckoned they had about five hours head start on whoever had just noted the card swipe.

  Katherine unlocked the door of the room. On the outskirts of Auckland, a blue Toyota was being driven away from outside a small apartment block, heading south. They could count on four hours fitful sleep at the most.

  * * *

  David’s head bounced suddenly on the warm bed and his whole body tingled. It was dark and he could not breathe. He felt as if he was having a heart attack. As he lifted his head, panicking, he realised he had been lying with his face buried in the soft down of the pillow, stifling his breath. The heart attack had subsided to a painless tingling in his chest. The mobile phone, the real source of the discomfort, was trapped in his shirt pocket, between his body and the bed, and had begun to vibrate. He rolled over, his face sweating and eyes instinctively narrowing, as the mid-morning sun flooded the thinly-curtained room. Fumbling for the phone, still humming gently, he sat up, squinting to read the small screen as it reflected the bright daylight.

  Theyre cuming U hve 15 mins.

  The short message told him someone was following them and someone else was apparently trying to warn them. David turned to wake Katherine but she was already sitting up, reading the text message over his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Leaving the motel car park, David turned right, back into town.

  “This is the wrong way. We’re going back in the direction we came from.” She was right but he had an idea.

  “Whoever is following us thinks we’re heading for the South Island. They most likely also know that the container with all our stuff has just arrived in Nelson. So, at some point, they either catch up to us, or get ahead of us and wait until we catch up with them.”

  “So .. ?”

  “So, we head back, but not just north. We go somewhere we won’t be found at least while we try to work out what to do next. I can’t think straight knowing someone is right behind us all the time.” There was a sign pointing left into a public car park. David pulled in and stopped the engine. He turned to Katherine; “Get in the driver’s seat and stay here. If anyone approaches the car, start the engine, drive off, and then call me. I’ll be ten minutes.”

  “But according to the text, so will they.” She looked worried.

  “It’s alright. We’re parked off the main highway. They’ll drive straight past, go to the motel and either the receptionist will tell them she knows nothing, or the nosey night porter will have told her about the dodgy pair in room 35 who said they were heading to Wellington. Remember, ten minutes. If I’m any longer, call to remind me, but I won’t pick up.”

  David walked the short distance down the side road and back onto the main street. He could still not get used to the fact that it was July and cold. A week ago they had been saying emotional goodbyes dressed in T shirts and shorts.

  At any moment the car that was pursuing them would drive into town. The location of the small shop he had spotted on their earlier drive in, and where he was now heading, meant he was walking with his back to the south facing traffic. He was unlikely to be recognised if they happened to pass him in the next thirty seconds.

  The small shabby–looking internet café was gloomy and smelled damp. There was a counter which held a large impressive-looking coffee machine and a dozen computers placed in two rows back-to-back down the centre of the room. The place barely lived up to its description. A fat greasy–looking man sat staring intently at the only flat screen monitor in the shop, the one behind the counter. Having glanced round, David walked up to the counter and, for some reason, enquired, “How much for ten minutes?” in a French accent.

  He had decided that if the guy thought he was French, if his pursuers were clever enough to track him to this location, they would be truthfully told, “No, no Poms in here today, just some French fella.” Then he reconsidered. But he’s seen me. He just has to describe me. By then it was too late. He was stuck with a French accent, at least for the next few minutes.

  “Well its three dollars for fifteen minutes. Most people usually take longer once they get online. People on holiday can’t resist a quick surf at the news back home.”

  “Merci.” David knew he had to be quick but he was confident he knew exactly where to find what he wanted. He had looked at his old school reunion website frequently, mainly out of curiosity as to what people he had last seen twenty years ago were now doing with their lives. It was surprising how many had never left the small town where he had grown up, whilst others had moved away, some overseas. David was counting on a fleeting recollection of an old friend.

  The website prompted him for his user name and password. This was not his own computer where normally a cookie would have remembered him. Putting his details into this computer would leave an easily trackable log of subsequently visited pages. He may a
s well go down the street and wave the car down now. David needed to log on as someone else. He stood up and walked back towards the door, remembering the phoney accent just in time. “I am sorry, I am changed my mind.” The accent was so Inspector Clouseau that he decided a measure of bad grammar would not go amiss. “Is there, ‘ow you say, a travel agent nearby?” he said, enjoying the softness of ‘agent’ in a French accent.

  “Three doors down.”

  “Sank you. Au revoir.” Thank God he would never see the man again. The accent was making him sound distinctly camp.

  The door to the small travel shop buzzed as he pushed it. Three desks were occupied by three middle-aged women in identical suits, vaguely resembling airline hostesses, as if this would fool potential customers into thinking that by booking a holiday with them they were in some way personally responsible for the complete future holiday experience.

  David approached the youngest-looking of the three. He was no longer French. “Hi, this is going to sound like a really strange request and, yes, I know there is an internet café just next door, but I need to borrow a PC to log onto the internet for about ten minutes, then I want you to book me a flight.”

  The young woman looked at the other two for guidance. They shrugged back. “Sure, why not?”

  He checked his watch. He had been gone over five minutes already. Without further explanation he took the vacated seat, clicked onto the internet, and typed in the website address he had tried in the internet café just a few minutes earlier. This time he clicked on and set up a new account.

  Enter Name: John

  Enter email address: ___

  “What’s your email address here?

  David typed in the address and clicked Register.

  Your activation password has been sent to you. Once activated you have twelve hours free access to the site. Once that has expired you must then pay the annual fee of £5.

  He turned to the adjacent desk. “Right, now about that flight, where’s the nearest airport to here?”

  “Hamilton will get you anywhere in the country.”

  “The furthest south?”

  “That’ll be Invercargill, right at the bottom of the South Island.”

  “OK, could you book me two seats tomorrow morning from Hamilton to Invercargill?”

  “Sure, let me check the availability for you.”

  David had no intention of catching the flight; he just wanted to use the credit card to lay a false trail.

  “There are seats on the 10.25 from Hamilton to Invercargill, that’s flying with Air New Zealand, changing at Wellington.” Changing? Like changing trains? He was familiar with changing flights when travelling internationally, but from one end of a small country to another? It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going anyway.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Book it for me please.”

  “Any return or onward destination I can book for you, sir?”

  He thought about how much of a trail of deceit he should lay at this stage. “No, I’ll probably be touring round for a bit, probably hire a car and then drive back north.”

  She confirmed the flight details once more as David did his best to sound interested. “How would you like to pay for that?’

  “Credit card.”

  Once again, he pulled the lone card from his wallet, and she swiped it.

  “PIN number?”

  He entered it without checking the cost. By now, he thought, the car must be very close, possibly in the main street already. The card had been swiped, the electronic message was being sent, and he only had a few more minutes to complete the task. She confirmed the booking with a click of the mouse. “And you appear to have an email.”

  David nearly pushed the woman from her seat to avoid her opening his reply which had luckily minimised itself to the bottom of her screen as she had been booking his flight.

  “Do you mind? It’s a bit private.” He read the email before writing down the activation code on a scrap of paper and deleting it.

  Back at the empty desk where the website sat, still open, he keyed in the code. Now he could start the search. He knew where to head for but could not remember the precise name. The mobile phone in his pocket vibrated. Glancing at the screen as he instinctively put the phone to his ear, David could see that Katherine had been meticulous as always and could see her name on the screen. He answered, in the expectation the phone was being eavesdropped or the call recorded.

  Katherine spoke. “You said you wouldn’t pick up. Where are you? Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just stay where you are. Don’t say anything on this line that could give away where you are. I’m just sorting something out and it's taking a bit longer than I thought. I’ll be another ten minutes. Keep the windows shut, lock the doors and if anyone approaches just pull away casually and drive round for a bit. If you’re not where I left you when I get back, I’ll give you a call. Love you. Bye.”

  David had a vague recollection someone he had been at school with had moved to New Zealand. He remembered seeing it on the website but he had not looked at it for at least six months and his memory was hazy. He clicked into 1980 and began scrolling through familiar names, trying to recall which one had jumped out at him as someone else who had decided to make their life on the other side of the world.

  It had to be someone who had been clever at school. The names of the intellectually gifted in his year ran through his mind as he scrolled through page after page of people he had spent nearly every day with for ten years of his life and who were now just memories. There was a computer engineer who now lived in Seattle, an architect in Hong Kong.

  A mild panic swept over him as he ran out of possible names. Then, 'Hi everyone – remember me? Left school, went to Bristol Uni & studied animal pharmacy, then travelled for a bit, ending up in New Zealand.' This looked like the one. 'Married a Kiwi, now living on Waiheke Island NZ and a practising vet. Look forward to hearing from anyone who remembers me.'

  This was him! David clicked on.

  Send a message to your school mate.

  What could he possibly write in an email to someone he had not seen or spoken to for over twenty years? Would he even begin to explain the events of the last few days and the fact that actually he was in trouble and needed somewhere to stay? He decided the best course, especially in such a publicly accessible place as a travel agent’s business computer, was to make innocent contact, inviting him to make the next move, and hope for the best.

  He typed, 'Hi Ed – Dave Turner here. Remember me? Married now and just emigrating to NZ. Already here, in fact. Just remembered seeing you on this website so thought about meeting up for a few beers so you can fill me in on how to survive here. Email back if you’re interested, Cheers.'

  It sounded overly-friendly considering there had been no contact between them for so long, but this was a school reunion site. If Ed had wanted to remain anonymous, he would not have signed up to it.

  David clicked send then spent a few seconds deleting the history, ensuring no one would be able to uncover his trail. He got up to leave. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “Not a problem, you’re welcome. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

  Hopefully he had left enough of an impression that they would be able to give a good description of his intended movements.

  David walked back to where he had left Katherine. He looked around for their car but in its place there was now a glaring space. He expected to spot the familiar dark blue of the roof, but the car park was almost empty.

  As he reached for his phone, it made an unfamiliar sound. It was a text message.

  Im on the mn rd cu ther

  David ran, retracing his steps back to the main road where, looking left, he saw Katherine on the opposite side of the road, driving towards him. He crossed in front and waited for the car to draw level. It stopped slowly and he got in.

  “What happened?”

  “A police car came into the car park. I panicked and drove out, went up t
he street to the roundabout, pulled over, texted you, then went round and came back.”

  “Did it follow you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Why would it?”

  “Well, why panic, then?” There was an uncomfortable few seconds of silence which David broke. “Anyway, we’re facing the right direction, so let’s go.”

  “North?”

  ‘Yes, I’ll explain as we go. Just don’t go breaking any speed limits or anything. We don’t want to risk attracting the police again.”

  They drove out of town, retracing their earlier route. David explained how he had hopefully made contact with an old school friend who now lived at a place called Waiheke Island which was near Auckland. They had to drive back and catch a ferry to the island, and then ....

  “Then what exactly? Let’s just take stock for a moment, shall we, because this is getting more bizarre by the minute. Here we are driving around New Zealand because you think we are being followed by someone who wants that bloody credit card which was supposedly planted on you to smuggle into the country.”

  David put this sudden unexpected outburst down the fact that Katherine had barely slept in the past forty-eight hours.

  She continued, “So why don’t we just go to the nearest police station like I already said, walk in, hand over the card, tell them the story so far which they probably know anyway because they will have already been emailed a bloody great wanted poster with your passport photo on, and then ask to see someone from the British Embassy?”

  She had a very good point. All David could see was the tangled conspiracy and drama of his situation, confused and clouded as his mind was by having had even less sleep than his wife.

  Chapter 7