by Des Hunt
In the end it got too dark to see them clearly. I returned to the house, disappointed that I didn’t have at least one corpse to show off. Yet I was no less determined to get them. I’d given my promise to Steph, and I would keep that promise. Those magpies would die, no matter what I had to do to make it happen.
Chapter 14
The women made Christmas Day different to any we’d had before. Some of it was good, but a lot was bad. The good part was the food—much better than Dad, Grandad or I ever prepared. The bad parts were Steph’s never-ending Christmas carols, the stupid, paper hats at dinnertime, and the hug Vicki tried to give me when thanking me for her present. Plus, the magpies ate all of their Christmas dinner without waiting for me, so I never got a shot at them.
Boxing Day was a much better day. We went to Whale Pot Bay for a picnic. The surf was good enough for Dad and me to take the boards out. For two hours we surfed together, just as we had before the women came into our lives. I got the feeling that Dad was trying to reassure me that, even though big changes were happening, some things were going to stay the same. I was thankful for that.
When I picked up my board after lunch, Steph asked, ‘Can I have a try?’
‘At surfing?’ queried her mother, obviously surprised.
‘Yeah,’ Steph replied. ‘I might not be able to stand up, but I should be able to ride it lying down.’
I shook my head. I didn’t want to take the responsibility for her in what was reasonably heavy surf.
Dad said, ‘Swap boards, Jake. You take mine and let Steph have yours. It’s closer to her size.’
There was little I could do but accept that. Anyway, the opportunity to try Dad’s board was too good to miss.
The tide was unsuitable to access the sea using the rocks, so we had to paddle out. Straight away I could see that she knew how to do it. Her legs might have been next to useless, but she could paddle faster than I could. I’d almost forgotten that she’d once been a champion swimmer. When her father was alive, she’d probably spent a lot of time in the water. She was expert enough to beat me out past the breakline.
‘You’re pretty good,’ I said as I pulled up alongside her.
She beamed. ‘This feels so good. It’s almost better than swimming.’ To demonstrate, she paddled furiously, heading out to sea for a while, before returning with a huge smile. ‘OK,’ she ordered, ‘teach me how to surf.’
So I did. She quickly learnt how to judge which wave to try and when to start paddling. I took the same waves so that I was alongside her and could be there if she tipped over. But she never did. While she couldn’t get out of a wave after she’d caught it, she was happy to ride it all the way into the shallow water. Then she’d paddle back out again and wait for the next one.
It was on the fifth ride that she tried something different. Instead of lying down for the entire ride, she got up onto her knees and rode it that way.
Two hours later we’d had enough. As we walked up the beach, she skipped in front of me so that I had to stop. ‘Thank you, Jake,’ she said, her sparkling eyes looking into mine. ‘That was so cool.’ Then after a pause she added, ‘I’ve now officially forgiven you for what you did that first day we met.’
I nodded, unsure that I’d be able to say anything sensible. For a moment I thought she was going to touch me. She must have thought better of it, because she turned and continued up the beach, leaving me feeling strangely disappointed that it had ended like that.
From then on, Steph and I went surfing every day. We would go out whether the waves were big enough or not—she was rapidly becoming a fanatic. It was on one of these days that we saw the elevator come down from Tarquins, the first indication that there were people back in the house. When it reached the bottom, Melanie and Colin came out with their arms full of equipment: the dig was about to begin.
On that first day, tents were raised and lots of equipment brought down from the house. Only then did any digging happen—we dug out the weeds so that we had a clean site ready for the serious work.
The next day was just as boring, coming up with nothing more than some rusty bottle tops and a coil of barbed wire. I stayed around only so I could keep an eye out for Scatworm—nothing much was happening there either. A couple of visits to the gulley revealed no changes since I’d found the pills. Maybe he was waiting for Milt to return, or perhaps he’d given up on the whole thing.
On the third day, a posthole borer was put to work. It could have dug a deep hole very quickly, but that was not the intention. After digging for ten centimetres, it was stopped so that the dirt could be studied. The top layer was all sand. Then we got into broken mudstone identical to the cliffs on that side of the bay.
Eventually the borer got through the mudstone and down to the sand of the original beach. It was there that we made the first important find—a thick layer of shells below the mudstone. These were mostly horse mussels, which normally live out past the wave-break; the only time they get washed up on the beach is after a big storm. No storm I’d seen had ever come anywhere near the boats—so in the past some mighty big waves must’ve rolled into the bay and pounded against the cliffs. Melanie’s idea was that these waves had caused the cliff to collapse. There was even the possibility that there had been a disaster and that people might have been trapped underneath. If that were so, maybe we would be digging up skeletons.
When I told Grandad and Dad about the big waves, they wouldn’t believe it. Grandad had known the bay for nearly sixty years, and he said that no storm had ever washed up as far as the boats. He didn’t think it was possible. But possible it was—the shells were proof of that.
Chapter 15
On NewYear’s Day, Milt returned and once again the Union Jack was flying over Tarquins. Soon after arriving, he came down to inspect the dig. By then the borer had been put away and we were using shovels and spades. When it looked like something had been found, we’d change to smaller implements, such as trowels and knives.
Not that we were finding much that was interesting. We were digging at the back of the mound where a metal-detector had located something. So far, we were still working through fallen mudstone and the only finds were small fossil shells.
At least twice a day Steph and I would take to the water for some surfing. As soon as she saw Milt, she had to show off her skills. He made appropriate noises, but declined an invitation to join her, saying he’d go by himself later when it was cooler. It was a lame excuse: he was scared of being photographed. He need not have worried. My surveillance for Scatworm and other parasites had revealed nothing around Whale Pot Bay.
However, there was something I was keeping a close eye on, and that was a green car that cruised up and down Hauruanui Valley. I kept seeing it when I went out to shoot the magpies. Yes, they were still alive, and looked like they’d stay that way unless I tried something different. By then I was no longer trying to kill them to please Steph; it was a matter of them versus me. I wasn’t going to be beaten by any magpie—somehow or other they were going to die.
When the others went to Masterton to take Grandad back, I volunteered to stay at home to serve petrol if needed; I wanted to try a new approach with the magpies. If they wouldn’t come out of the tree when I was around, then I’d go up into the tree to meet them.
My idea was to put the bait up the tree near their nest. I would then climb the hill behind the tree so that I was at the same level as the bait. There was a place close to the road where I could hide in some bullrushes and still be in range.
Getting the bait into the tree was exciting. Macrocarpas are reasonably easy to climb, but not if you’re being dive-bombed by magpies. They were determined that I was not getting up into their tree, and I was just as determined that I was. In the end I won, and the bait was in place on a branch halfway between the ground and the nest.
Next, I settled myself into the bullrushes and waited. The birds eyed me suspiciously from higher in the tree, working out the odds. Eventually, one was prep
ared to take the risk. It alighted on the branch with the bait. This was my chance. I took aim and fired—and missed.
Of course the magpie took off, flying back to the top of the tree. It would be hours before it would come back again. I climbed out of my hide for a stretch and a look around. That was when I noticed the green car parked alongside the road, no more than fifty metres away: someone was in the driver’s seat, watching me.
I watched back. After a while the door opened and a man climbed out. He was dressed in the same drab green colour as the car. But the most noticeable feature about him was his shaven head: that and the gun he was carrying.
It was not pointed at me, but when someone walks towards you with a gun it’s frightening, no matter where it’s pointed. The idea of running away crossed my mind, and then I thought that he might be able to help me with the magpies: the rifle looked powerful enough to blast anything out of the top of the tree.
However, the closer he got, the more concerned I became. By then I could see that the drab green clothes were in fact camouflage gear. He was dressed up as if he was going into battle. Not the normal sort of person you see walking along a country road.
‘Been hunting?’ I asked when he was a few steps away, thinking that a friendly approach was probably the best.
His eyes locked onto mine. They were wild, unsettling eyes—this guy was far from normal.
After a while he said, ‘Yesss,’ dragging the S out into a hissy whistle. ‘Vermin,’ he added, still staring me in the eyes. ‘I’ve been shooting vermin. There’s lots of it around here.’
‘Rabbits?’ I asked, more calmly than I felt.
‘Rabbitsss, posssumsss, haresss, stoatsss,’ he hissed, continuing to stare at me until I had to look away. ‘All vermin.’ He looked up into the tree. ‘I see you’ve got vermin as well.’
I nodded.
‘Then we’d better do something about them.’ He started climbing the fence before stopping at the top and asking, ‘Can I come onto your property?’
After some thought I said, ‘Yeah, that’s OK.’ Although I did wonder what might’ve happened if I’d said no.
A moment later he was standing beside me staring up at the magpies, who were now staring back at us.
‘I’ve seen you. You’ve been after them for daysss and daysss, haven’t you?’
‘Off and on,’ I admitted. So, he had been keeping an eye on me. Was that the reason he’d been driving up and down the road? Something wasn’t right here at all. A shiver of fear passed through my body.
Then without any warning, he raised the rifle and fired. There was no explosive sound. Just a poof noise, followed by a half-squawk as a magpie fell out of the tree and thumped to the ground below us.
‘That’s one down,’ he said, smiling and lowering the rifle. ‘One more to go.’
‘Has that got a silencer?’
‘Supressor,’ he said, patting the barrel. ‘This little baby’s got everything. Perfect for vermin. They don’t know what’s hit them, and neither do their mates. See.’ He pointed up to the nest.
I looked up and saw the other magpie gazing around searching for its partner—it didn’t have a clue what had happened.
He didn’t leave it looking for long before lifting the rifle and shooting again. This bird fell backwards and halfway down got caught in a branch. Again he fired; this time three shots into the body in rapid succession, dislodging the corpse so that it fell to the ground.
‘Good shooting,’ I said, trying to act casual.
‘Yesss,’ he admitted. ‘It helps if you’ve got a good rifle.’ Then after a moment he held the gun out to me and asked, ‘Do you want a go? You could shoot the nest, just in case there’re some chicks in there.’
‘No!’ I said, almost too quickly.
‘You ssscared?’
‘No!’ I cried. But I was.
‘All right. Pleassse yourself,’ he said, before lifting the rifle and firing five bullets into the nest. ‘That should kill them.’ Then he moved back to the fence. ‘Anyway, I’d better be going.’ When he was over the other side, he turned back to me. ‘If you’ve got any other vermin you need killing, give me a shout. I’ll be around the place a lot from now on.’
I watched as he marched back to his car and then drove off towards the pub. I was about to move away when I sensed that the car had stopped. Moving to the fence, I saw that it had pulled in by the junction. Then a figure appeared by the passenger door and climbed in. Soon the car was back on the road and lost in a cloud of dust.
My heart was pounding in my chest as I ran back to the house. The passenger must have been snooping around the garage or the house. I felt that I would soon know which. If it were the person I thought it was, then a telltale odour would be left wherever he went.
I found the smell in the house. The stink of cigarettes was in every room, but was strongest around the computer. When I’d left the house earlier that morning, the screen had been showing a screensaver. Now it was displaying Pimi’s tracking map. Steph checked it every morning and must have forgotten to close it before she left.
Everything was there on the screen: Pimi’s current location; where she’d been; the name of the website; and most worrying, the all-important ID number. I knew then that Scatworm had seen the sheet of paper on his previous visit to the house. He’d seen it, but hadn’t got the details—so he’d come back and now had it all.
I sat on the sofa with my head in my hands. What a fool I’d been. I should have known something was up when I saw the camouflage gear and the shaven head. I’d been too intent on killing the magpies to recognize the man for who he was. He was the guy from the sports shop who’d first told Scatworm about Milt’s surfing. Scott Grey—the man the shopkeeper considered dangerous. Having met him, I couldn’t help but agree. I had the feeling that if you crossed Scott Grey, you would quickly find out just how dangerous he could be.
Chapter 16
When I’d first volunteered to kill the magpies, I’d had visions of sauntering into the house, dumping their bodies on the table and saying, ‘There! They’re dead! What do you want done next?’
I certainly couldn’t do that after Scott ‘Vermin’ Grey had killed them. Dad would know that they’d been shot with something more powerful than an air rifle. So I cut off their feet as evidence that they were dead, and then buried the rest of their bodies. I also sprayed the house with air-freshener to get rid of the cigarette smell.
Only after I’d finished did I realize that I was covering things up. I’m not sure why I did that. Maybe because I didn’t want to admit that someone else had killed the magpies for me. Whatever it was, I didn’t tell anybody that Scatworm had entered the house and stolen information about Pimi. All I told the others was that the magpies were dead, after which I presented Steph with the four feet, so that she would have a keepsake of the event. She was suitably impressed and promised to hang them on her wall, although I don’t think she ever did.
As things turned out, it was just as well I’d kept quiet about Scatworm’s visit or people might have started blaming me for what happened as a consequence.
The first hint of the approaching disaster came with the arrival of the morning’s paper.
Superstar saves whale
screamed the main headline. Then below that:
Calf dies, but mother lives,
thanks to Milton Summer
Alongside was a photo of Pimi in the water with us trying to move her out to sea. The only face clearly visible was Milt’s. It was a good photo, considering that Scatworm must’ve taken it from his hideout which had to be a hundred metres or so away.
The article was accurate enough, even if it did overplay Milt’s role in the rescue. There was nothing on the front page for us to worry about. It was only when we turned to page three, where the story continued, that we began to get concerned.
At first it looked OK. There were two more photos, including a spectacular one with Milt on the tractor beside me. The scoop co
ntaining the dead calf covered most of the frame, with Milt and me in the background, looking very upset about what we were doing.
The bad news came at the end of the article. This was a full description on how to locate Pimi: the website to access; the buttons to click; and the ID code to enter. Anyone could now locate and visit Pimi. She was now in danger—and all because she had been touched by a rock star.
While we were discussing the matter and its implications, the telephone rang. It was Milt.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ he roared, loud enough for us all to hear.
‘Yes,’ replied Dad. ‘We were just talking about it.’
‘We’re going out there,’ Milt said. ‘We hope to get close enough for Colin to change the ID number. If we’re quick enough we might get it done before anybody else arrives.’
Dad thought for a moment. ‘Do you think it’s such a good thing for you to go? That might attract more interest than we want. I could take my boat out instead.’
‘No, I’ll take that risk. It’s because of me that she’s in danger, so it’s my job to sort it out.’
‘OK,’ agreed Dad. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Yes, that’s what I was calling for. There’s room enough for all of you, if you want to come. We’ll be leaving in quarter of an hour.’
Dad turned to us. ‘Who wants to go on the boat with Milt to see Pimi?’ Of course we all did. ‘They all do, Milt. We’ll see you in quarter of an hour.’ Then he added, ‘You never know, we might be the only boat out there.’ But by then Milt had hung up.
Milt’s boat was a sixteen-metre jet-powered catamaran. It had to be a jet, as they were the only boats that could be launched from Whale Pot Bay because of the sandbanks; any other vessel would get its propellor stuck in the sand. Even with the jets, it needed a special sort of rig to launch it far enough out to float.
