by Hager, Mandy
‘Jiao, keep a look-out at the door,’ I say, while Trav and I go over to the curtain again. Pull it aside. Peer in. Holy hell. There are boxes and boxes of the stuff. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, explosives — even bloody hand grenades.
‘They’re coming,’ Jiao hisses.
We’re back through that damn curtain quicker than a boy’s first wank. I eyeball Mikey. ‘Don’t say a word. It’s dangerous.’
He nods, all solemn, and dives into the chair beside me at the table as I jerk the undies off his head.
Mum and Ray enter the hut, their gaze tracking around the four of us as though they’re ticking off a list. Their energy is coiled like high-tensile wire.
‘We leave in half an hour,’ Mum says. She even smiles at Mikey. ‘Make sure you’ve gone to the toilet before we go.’
Mikey stares down at the table. His cheeks burn pink.
‘So what’s the plan?’ My head is still filled with grenades and guns.
‘Can’t tell until we check things out,’ says Ray. ‘But you’re lucky — it’s a target we’ve already been watching. If you’re prepared to get involved, I’m sure both our agendas can be met.’ He walks over and lays his hand on Mikey’s shoulder. ‘Can’t they, little man?’
Mikey shrinks under his touch but Ray holds on. His smile freaks me out.
‘What’s with the sudden friendliness?’ I don’t care if I piss them off. Better they know not to sucker us.
‘You have to understand the kind of pressure we live under,’ Mum replies. She’s smiling too, and it transforms her face. For the first time since I’ve seen her I feel the ache of memories. I know that smile. ‘Now we’ve had a chance to talk it over with the others, we all agree you’re not a threat.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ I want to believe her. I really do. But the contents of that room behind the curtain shit me — though I’m certainly not going to let on that we know. I stand up and jerk my head towards the door. ‘Okay, Mikey, toilet run.’
Mikey shrugs Ray’s hand away and runs to join me. We head off to the stinking long-drop, but as soon as we’re out of sight of the hut I squat down and signal for him to do the same.
‘Listen to me, mate. If anything happens and we’re split up, I want you to find a telephone and ring the cops. Understand? Ask for Trav’s mother, Sergeant Jeannie Smith. You hear?’
He nods. ‘Sergeant Jeannie Smith.’ He looks so young and vulnerable, crouching next to me like this.
I haul him up and wrap him in a hug. ‘I love you, mate.’
His stubby arms snake round my waist and squeeze me tight. It’s so comforting I want to cry. ‘Me too.’
‘Who do you ask the cops for?’ I check again.
‘Sargon Jeamee Smith.’
‘Ser-geant Jean-nie Smith.’ I could be wrong in giving him her name, but whatever covert shit Jeannie might be up to — and, believe me, this niggles like hell — I still trust her a lot more than I trust Mum and Ray to keep him safe.
He pouts. ‘Said that.’
‘And what’s the number to call the cops?’
‘One-one-one.’ He grins now, knowing he’s answered this correctly. And so he bloody should: Dad and I have drilled this into him every day for years.
‘Champion, mate.’ His smile is worth the stress.
After we’ve survived the evils of the long-drop, we return and wait for Jiao and Trav to do the biz as well. Then we heft up all our gear and follow Mum and Ray, who lead us out along the same track we stumbled along in the dark. Their dirty white truck is parked beyond the trees, the windows of its solid canopy tinted black. We climb into the back, acutely aware of the way we were bundled in at gunpoint last night. At least this time we’re free. I hope.
Before she shuts the doors Mum holds out a thermos and a bulging paper bag. ‘Hot chocolate and sandwiches,’ she says. ‘There are blankets in the corner too.’ I reach out but she captures my hand. ‘You have no idea how good it is to see you both.’
‘Cheers.’ I’m so confused. One minute aggro and the next nice as pie. Is it really just because she had to check us out before she lowered her defences? How does that work when just this morning she wrote Mikey off? It’s all too bloody weird.
Mum climbs into the passenger seat and Ray fires up the engine. As we bounce across the rough grassland, I peer out through the tinted glass. It’s just on dusk, the light already steely grey. I try to get my bearings and search for landmarks, saving snapshots of the ridges and valleys on my useless phone. There’s bugger-all to go on, until we reach a gate that leads out of the paddocks to a shingle road. A sign wired to the fence declares: ‘Trespassers will be shot’. Nice. That, at least, is something tangible to trace if we get in the shit.
The darkness drops out of the sky all in a rush, and soon the only light glows from the headlights and the odd distant house. It’s so surreal, like we’re watching a movie of last night’s terror played out in reverse, except this time the fear comes from the known. Thing is, the further we wind along these crappy gravel roads, the deeper into shit we could be driving — though at least we’re heading towards civilisation. I think. I’m hoping like hell that alone is worth the risk.
We reach the sealed road at last and the truck speeds up. As we share a cup of hot chocolate I dole out the sandwiches. Next thing I know we’re passing through Raetihi, heading south. I know I should be paying more attention, but last night’s dramas, coupled with the motion of the truck, is making me so drowsy I can barely lift my lids. I’m not the only one: it’s like the comfort of the hot chocolate has lulled us all. We curl up under the pile of doggy-smelling blankets and fall into a dozy silence, one by one succumbing to the lure of sleep.
I rouse briefly as we’re driving through lit streets and figure we’ve reached Whanganui — then rouse a second time just as the engine chokes to a stop. It’s black outside and all I can see is the glow of Ray’s cigarette as he and Mum talk up front. The third time I stir it’s just on dawn and my bladder’s ready to explode. Mum and Ray are nowhere to be seen. I wriggle out from my sleeping place and try the back door. Open. Thank god.
We’re parked up near the ruins of a house with boarded windows. The place is so unkempt the cladding has weathered to a silver-grey. Skeletons of tractors and cars crouch behind clumps of bracken. An old satellite dish hangs off a water tank out the back. I edge behind a huge toitoi to relieve myself as Mikey stumbles, sleepy, from the truck and pisses on the back tyre like a dog. He glances round, panic stirring in his face until he spots me.
‘Ashy!’ He runs over, blind to all the subtle signs that maybe I might want to piss alone — like waving him the hell away. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Okay, okay. There might be a sandwich or two left in the back there.’ I zip up my fly and head back to the truck just as Jiao and Trav emerge.
‘Man, I feel hungover,’ Trav says.
Jiao rubs her neck. ‘Me too. In fact I feel like I’ve been drugged.’
Come to think of it, my brain feels gluggy and slow as well. Something in the hot chocolate? Nah, that’s way too paranoid. ‘Most likely fumes.’
Trav glances around. ‘Where’s Mata Hari and James Bond?’
That would be so much funnier if he wasn’t referring to Mum. ‘I guess they’re in the house.’
But when we try the front door we discover it’s been nailed shut. We go around the back and in through a doorless porch. Apart from one room with two ancient-looking wire-sprung beds, the place contains nothing except old bales of hay. No sign of Mum or Ray.
I return to the truck to ferret out the sandwiches but there are none left. Mikey must’ve had a secret midnight snack. In the front I find a note stuck to the dashboard with chewing gum. Back by lunchtime. Damn. More hanging around, with no idea of where we are. The only thing that’s helpful is the bag of apples lying on the seat.
I hand the whole lot over to Mikey. ‘Here, mate. Breakfast.’
We agree to give Mum and Ray until just after lunch. If they
haven’t come by then, Trav reckons he can hotwire the truck and drive us home. Thank god he knows about these things. I haven’t got a bloody clue.
Once Mikey’s eaten, he’s more than happy poking around the old wrecks with Trav. Jiao has her stack of books. I start to search the vehicle, looking for clues. To what? Fucked if I know. But I have to keep my brain busy or I’ll self-combust. Trouble is, after an hour I’ve done the whole thing over, I’ve found nothing, and it’s still not even nine.
But now I have a truly mint idea. The perfect stress relief. I rifle through Trav’s pack — and, bingo, what do I find? That nice wee stash of weed. Sorry, Trav old mate, it’s tax time. Quickly, I roll myself a nice thin little number and trek off out of sight (and smell). I lie down in the long dry grass and light it up, toking deep. Hold the smoke inside my lungs. Toke again. Already the tension is washing off me, and by the time I’ve finished I’m mellow for the first time since the cops came to my door.
There are seagulls wheeling in the updraughts, so I reckon we can’t be too far from the coast. They loop and dive, circling as if they’re spelling out some kind of message — maybe an SOS. Though why would they be worried? They’re free, they’ve got the perfect scavenger life, they don’t have any messy politics — or do they? Maybe there’s some kind of right-wing seagull senate meeting at this very minute, planning to invade those noisy bastards, the Tui Gang, who live inland. Yeah, now that’s the kind of—
The air is rent by the boom of planes, and my seagull mates vanish as six sharp-nosed fighter planes scream past. The sound vibrates deep in my guts. I close my eyes, imagine what it must be like inside those things, going so fast the g-forces steamroller you flat. The very suggestion pins me to the ground and steals my strength, until I’m lying here defenceless. And now all the shit I’ve tried to lock away surges up in a fucking great tsunami of grief. It’s so intense I can’t even cry, just lie here rocking as wave after wave crashes over me. It dredges up my nightmares — and my memories. But that’s not all: the retreating tide drags me way, way back, to when Mum left. I didn’t even think I could remember back that far. I’m four years old, crying and crying — calling out for her like Mikey yells for Dad. Not cooperating. Not comprehending. Not able to make such a huge adjustment in my head. And hating Dad: thinking he’s the one who’s driven Mum away.
Next thing I know Jiao is here and she lies down next to me, patting my back. Now I really cry — it’s like she’s pulled the plug that’s been stopping me up — and I’m making so much bloody noise I bury my head into her beautiful breasts to stifle my shame. It’s so soft, so warm, such total primal comfort. I start to nuzzle, kissing the flesh that overflows her shirt, up her neck, behind her ear. Roll over so I’m on top of her and I can take the whole of her mouth in mine—
She pushes me off, at the same time ramming her knee into my balls. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Her face is glowing red as she shoots up and straightens her shirt.
It’s almost impossible to think past the pain in my nuts. ‘I’m sorry. Oh fuck. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘If you ever try that again, our friendship is over. You understand?’ She’s blazing. I flop back down. My brain’s still dog-paddling through cracked nuts and dope. ‘I promise.’ I sound like a remorseful Mikey. ‘It’s just so hard to resist your tits. They really are bloody spectacular.’ Damn, why did I say that?
She laughs then, and my stomach unclenches. The worst is over and she’s still here. ‘Bad luck, dick brain. Flattery won’t work. These spectacular babies are off-limits to anyone with a penis.’
‘You’re absolutely sure you don’t want to get in a little extra practice time with me before you find Ms Right?’
She slaps at me, but I can tell she’s no longer mad. There must never be a next time. Ever. It’s not worth the risk.
‘And you were worried Travis was a deviant,’ she says. She stands up and brushes herself off. ‘You okay now?’
‘So long as we’re still friends.’
‘That’s up to you,’ she says, serious now. ‘Don’t ever cross that line again.’
We return to the truck and are subjected to a long and painful reprise of Little Red Riding Hood before I decide to crawl into the back to sleep off the last of the joint. I’m woken by the sound of a car horn, and emerge in time to see a rusty beige Toyota lurch to a stop. Mum and Ray climb out.
They’re smiling, and hand out hot mince pies — a point or two in their favour, judging by the smile on Mikey’s face. ‘Where the hell are we?’ I ask, not so easily suckered in, though there’s no denying the pie tastes bloody good.
‘We’re only about twenty kilometres south of Eltham,’ Mum says. ‘We’ve just been up to recce the place.’ She glances at Ray, who nods in agreement. ‘We’ve devised a plan.’
‘So you think it can be done?’ Jiao’s voice snags in her throat. It’s the first time she’s ever directed anything straight at Mum.
Mum smiles back at her, all sweetness and light. ‘By tomorrow night you’ll be reunited with your folks. I guarantee it.’
‘And what’s in it for you?’ I ask.
‘Anything to piss them off.’ Ray giggles, the sound about as reassuring as fingernails down a board. ‘Sometimes the best weapon is to show the enemy up as incompetent dicks. Especially the UPR. They fucking hate that.’
‘Why do you guys want to piss them off so much? I thought you were anti-government.’
The smile drops from Mum’s face. ‘Come on, Ashley. Don’t play dumb. Nothing is as simple as that.’
There’s a whole other discussion we should be having now, about why the hell they do all this in such a covert way and why they’ve carried out attacks on Kiwis too. But this is not the time. The main thing is we get Jiao’s parents out of there, then scram. As for seeing Mum again after all this, I’m not sure.
‘Okay?’ I look at Trav and Jiao. They nod their heads, grimly determined. Jeezus. I hope we’re not about to make a really huge mistake. I suck in a steadying breath. Blow it out nice and slow. ‘Okay. We’re in. Now tell us what we have to do.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘RAY’S GOING TO HEAD OFF again to organise some gear,’ Mum says. She smiles, looking from Mikey to me. ‘It’ll give us a bit of time to get to know each other.’
‘But what’s the plan for rescuing Jiao’s parents?’ Screw happy families. I want to get this over with so we can go home. ‘What’s happening at the farm?’
Ray drags on his cigarette. ‘They’re installing extra electric fences right around the boundary — kilometres of the bloody stuff — and posted gooks on every side.’ Gooks? What the hell are gooks? ‘Most of the slope-heads—’ He glances at Jiao. ‘Sorry. Most of them are being drilled in how to use weapons when they’re not working on the farm. And, by the way, you’re lucky your mum and dad are at Niúni, not Nifěn.’
Jiao’s cheeks are flushed. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Rumours are that some of the workers tried to break out. The gooks rounded them up and shot them. Forty-odd of their own people.’ He aims his fingers like a pistol to his temple. ‘Pow!’
There’s a horrible silence as we take this in. That guy Simon wasn’t joking when he said things could get deadly. But this confirmation begs an obvious question.
‘If everything’s so well guarded, how the hell are we going to get in? We need to understand all the logis tics here.’
Mum glances over at Ray, who nods for her to proceed. ‘Supply trucks go in and out every day. If we stop one before it enters, we should be able to sneak you in the back. Don’t worry that the gates are guarded — we can create a distraction. Once you’re inside, find your targets as quickly as possible, then get them out.’
Should? Can? Not very convincing words. And what the hell is up with targets? It’s like she’s watched too much TV. ‘Don’t they search the trucks when they go through the gates?’
Ray nods. ‘Yeah, but our little surprise s
hould deal to that. Plus, once you’re inside the compound, we’ll set something off on the north side of the farm — that’ll give you the time you need.’
‘You’re sure about this?’ Trav looks unimpressed, and I don’t blame him. They don’t exactly inspire confidence.
‘I will be by tonight.’ Ray slaps his hands down his knees and rises to his feet. ‘I’ll be back later, when I’ve sorted all the details.’ He leans over and kisses Mum. I swear the prick rams his tongue right down her throat. ‘See you later.’
I have this awful sense of foreboding as I watch his car vanish over a rise. So much of this plan seems to depend on Ray getting his facts right, and us trusting that he and his band of thugs somehow share our interests here. I need to talk this through with Trav and Jiao. Alone.
Mum stands up and stretches, the grubby sweatshirt she’s wearing riding up. Her stomach’s crisscrossed with silver stretch-marks. I’d love to ask her how it felt to see them every day for the last fourteen frickin’ years. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s Frisbee.’ She digs around in a backpack and takes out a plastic disc about the size of a plate.
‘Let’s what?’
Mum laughs. ‘You don’t know what a Frisbee is?’ She holds it out in front of her with an awkward grip, then flings it away. Bugger me. It floats through the air like a UFO, before neatly landing at Mikey’s feet.
His eyes light up. ‘For me?’
‘Absolutely,’ she says. ‘Bring it over here and I’ll show you how.’
For the next hour or so we take turns trying to perfect the technique. It’s way harder than it looks to throw and when I try to catch it the bastard veers away. Of course Mikey’s a bloody natural: he has some kind of sixth sense for where it’s going to land, and gloats like an Olympic medallist whenever I stuff up. Mum’s right up there with him — she moves lightly for someone her age. And she’s weirdly into it: clapping, cheering, giggling like a schoolgirl, even cracking lame jokes.
