The Unknown Zone

by Phil Smith

  She sat next to him and handed him a frayed and yellowed typewritten journal.

  ‘Deposit-box records,’ she said, hooking a strand of hair back from her face with a finger. ‘I took a guess and figured you’d be looking for the real old ones. Some of these go back over a hundred years.’

  Hemi opened the book and scanned downwards from the top of the page till he came to numbers ten and eleven. The inscription read:

  T. Ratana,

  Kauri Forest Enterprise,

  Kaimiro,

  Via Whitianga

  ‘So what do we have, Hemi?’ said Rachel. ‘Anything to jump up and down about?’

  Hemi reached behind his neck and lifted the chain over his head. ‘Number eleven.’

  Rachel put out her hand and Hemi placed the key into it.

  ‘It does look like one of ours. Can I ask where you got it?’

  ‘I found it in the bush,’ said Hemi, hoping the lawyer would be satisfied with such a threadbare explanation. She just sat there looking at him silently, the gold seeming to radiate in the palm of her hand.

  ‘I found it when I was a boy,’ he said, pausing to gather his thoughts, to consider what to tell her and how much to omit. ‘It was that day in 1965 when we first met each other at Kaimiro. I found other things that day, as well. It was a day that changed my life. I gave up being Monkey-boy and became a man.’

  Rachel reached over with her spare hand and lightly touched Hemi’s shoulder.

  ‘Hemi, I’m sorry about that remark on the phone earlier,’ she said softly. ‘It was insensitive of me.’

  ‘I’m okay with it, Rachel, honestly. The great thing about growing older is that you learn not to take yourself so seriously. In fact I’m trying to come up with a hard-case name for you!’

  ‘Don’t try too hard,’ she grinned, and they burst into laughter. ‘Well, we’d better go and see if your key’s any good.’

  The pair descended a flight of tiled stairs to below street level. Hemi signed the register in the brightly lit basement and the security attendant swung open the circular vault door.

  ‘These are the boxes that were shifted from Thames, down at the back,’ said Rachel, stopping at the end of an aisle. ‘They closed the office there in the ’50s after a fire. Most of them have never been opened since then. I guess many of the owners have died, or they’re held by family trusts. There’re probably fortunes hidden away and the beneficiaries haven’t a clue they exist in spite of our every effort to contact them.’ Rachel drew to a stop. ‘Ah, here’s ten and eleven.’

  The guard stepped forwards with the duplicate key, a steel one.

  Hemi slid his key into the slot. The guard placed the duplicate into another hole, and they turned them together.

  The rusted bin was coaxed out with a screeching sound.

  Inside was a thick sheaf of folded documents and several large manila envelopes tied with ribbons. Hemi placed them on a nearby table and carefully opened one. It contained a hand-drawn map and several mining licences.

  He opened others, spreading the papers out on the table for Rachel to examine. She watched in silence for a time, then her eyes widened with surprise and she reached for one of the documents.

  ‘Something interesting?’ said Hemi, catching Rachel’s look.

  ‘Remember us discussing the other day how the titles to Kaimiro were lost?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right, no one can sort out who owns it. You called it “a real can of worms” if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Well, not any more, it’s not!’ she said, handing the paper to Hemi. ‘Look what we’ve got here.’

  The deed, dated 1894, was one of several recording the transactions between Tuapiro Ratana and the Crown for Kaimiro 6J 2B1 and six neighbouring survey blocks totalling more than 2000 hectares.

  ‘So what are we saying here?’ said Hemi, knowing exactly what he was looking at but still needing to hear, officially, what his mind insisted was impossible.

  ‘Are you related to Tuapiro Ratana?’

  ‘I’m his great-grandson. His only direct descendant.’

  Rachel turned to the guard. ‘Allan, would you mind seeing if Mr Bannister is still here? I think he needs to see this.’

  ‘Sure thing, Miss Revington.’

  Hemi continued removing the contents from the box, suppressing his excitement until the full picture emerged.

  ‘What do you make of these?’ he said, handing her more maps and survey plans. Most were in coloured ink and showed the coastline, the original boundaries, the location of gold finds, the old logging camp, the rolling roads and the kauri dam.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said.

  Tied by a yellow strand of plaited pingao was a sealed parchment scroll. This was a document titled ‘The Last Will and Testament of Tuapiro Ratana’. In a few sentences it instructed that Tuapiro’s entire estate should go to his son, Ururangi, and to his offspring after him.

  Their eyes rose at the same moment and they held one another’s gaze for several seconds.

  Something else demanded examination: a letter dated June 10, 1901.

  Hemi read it aloud.

  Kia ora!

  My name is Tua Ratana and I am spending my last days in my little whare above Kaimiro.

  If you are reading this then you must have climbed the tree and found the key. Good on you! For your bravery I’ve left a reward.

  The enclosed documents entitle my descendants to freehold ownership of the Kaimiro Valley and surrounding lands. Will you kindly ensure my heirs are informed of the existence and whereabouts of all these papers.

  Please leave my remains as you found them. I am aged sixty-eight and I have lived a wonderful life. But my body is burdened with illness and I cannot go on.

  I am sorry to have just vanished like this and to have caused sorrow and pain to my loved ones. But I think this is the best way.

  I wish you every happiness and success in life, whoever you are.

  May your victories be many, and may your wounds be few.

  Kia ora katoa.

  Signed:

  Tuapiro Ratana

  In the bottom of the box was another key bearing the J&B logo and the number ten.

  Allan and Hemi turned the keys to the adjoining box. It would not move. The security man removed his leather belt, wound it around the steel handle, and both men hauled on it.

  ‘Must be rusted shut,’ said Hemi. ‘Keep trying.’

  With the aid of a screwdriver the bin began to budge and they inched it open. The entire bottom of the bin was covered with two layers of neatly stacked gold ingots, forty-eight in total.

  Each showed the hallmark J&B Thames, the figure 99.999, and the 10-ounce weight.

  ‘No wonder the thing wouldn’t move,’ said Rachel, removing one of the bars, feeling its silky texture and surprising weight. ‘I never knew this much gold existed outside Fort Knox.’

  At the back of the box was a bundle wrapped in beige canvas and a letter in a weathered parchment envelope, sealed with wax.

  Just then a bearded man, in his sixties and wearing a navy pinstripe suit, strode into the strong-room.

  ‘Afternoon, Dexter,’ said Rachel. ‘Hemi, this is our senior partner, Dexter Bannister, grandson of the firm’s founder. Dexter, this is Hemi Ratana. I thought you should witness an historic occasion.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘I was just on my way home,’ said Dexter, bowing slightly and straightening his Grammar tie. ‘I heard that one of the early boxes was being opened. This certainly is historic. This section is referred to as the unknown zone because of the mystery surrounding it. Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Hemi. ‘Join in the fun.’ The situation had a theatrical aspect to it that enthralled him.

  ‘Ah, of course, Tua Ratana. You know, Mr Ratana, my grandfather, Robert Bannister, he knew old Tua well. Made certain all his interests were well represented. There’s always been substantial speculation abo
ut the Thames boxes. Now I can see why.’

  Rachel handed him the titles.

  ‘Seems like Mr Ratana has inherited a sizeable piece of the Coromandel Peninsula,’ she said, plainly now in full solicitor mode. ‘Plus other tangible assets.’

  Dexter stroked his beard thoughtfully and leafed through the papers.

  ‘Well Mr Ratana,’ he said, ‘This could be remarkably fortuitous for you. Do you happen to have your driver’s licence on you, or any other identification? We don’t want to jump the gun and get prematurely emotional, do we?’

  Hemi pulled out his wallet and took out the licence.

  ‘Yes, well then,’ said Dexter, now more jovial. ‘Do you mind if I call you Hemi? This certainly verifies that you are who you say you are. So, it’s my pleasant duty to inform you that in addition to the contents of deposit boxes ten and eleven, you’re also about to acquire a not inconsiderable sum of capital.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Hemi. He already had plenty of possessions and maintained heavy bank balances so the prospect of inheriting more wealth did not set his pulse racing.

  ‘Yes, you see the ownership of the property has obviously remained unchanged throughout the duration in spite of the bureaucratic entanglements we’ve encountered in administering it over the years.’

  ‘Go on.’ Hemi listened carefully and thought of his father’s words.

  ‘For most of that time the occupants, which I imagine to be your family, have been paying rent to an entity called the Kaimiro No 1 Family Trust, administered for many years, rather ineptly if I might say, by the Department of Maori Affairs, and more recently, and more efficiently, by our firm.’

  ‘We were told that all the titles had been lost or destroyed, that the original surveys were inaccurate and the records had vanished,’ said Rachel. ‘Was that your understanding, Hemi?’

  ‘We all believed the land was multiple-owned Maori land,’ he said. ‘I heard it was administered by a law firm in Auckland. For years and years we kept paying the money to the trust.’ Hemi felt sorrow turn to resentment and resentment to anger as he thought of the hard times, the hungry nights, the bare feet on the frost.

  ‘That’s right, and the rent all went into the trust’s account.’

  ‘So there’d be a bit of interest compounding as well, then?’ said Hemi, pulling himself back into focus.

  ‘Oh very much so, indeed. Including interest, the fund presently stands, I would guess, somewhere in the vicinity of seven or eight hundred thousand dollars. And if you are the sole beneficiary, as I am satisfied you are, then the accumulated funds, including interest, and minus our modest fee, of course, are payable immediately to yourself.’

  Hemi concealed a smile. What a character old Bannister was! Why did he use so many words to say something? Maybe he got paid by the word!

  ‘What Dexter’s trying to tell you, Hemi, is that you’re rich,’ said Rachel, keen to provoke some response from Hemi. ‘You’re supposed to get excited!’

  The scenario struck Hemi as hilarious and he laughed for so long that he had to take several deep breaths in order to regain his composure.

  ‘I think we’d better put everything back in the boxes,’ said Hemi. ‘I need some time to think about all this.’

  Like obedient children putting their toys away, they placed the maps, the documents, the will and the ingots back in the boxes and locked them.

  Hemi retained the canvas bundle and the sealed letter.

  Dexter Bannister shook hands with Hemi.

  ‘Congratulations, Hemi,’ he said. ‘You’ve come into a rather substantial estate, haven’t you? May I, at this point, take the liberty of recommending that — if you haven’t already availed yourself of legal representation — then it might not be imprudent to appoint a suitably qualified and reputable person to assist in your affairs.’

  Hemi glanced at Rachel. She flashed him a smile. He felt they’d become partners in a conspiracy.

  ‘A good idea, Dexter,’ Hemi said, picking up the package and the letter and placing them under one arm. ‘I’d like to offer my business to your firm, with the stipulation that Rachel be assigned to my account.’

  ‘Thanks, Hemi,’ said Rachel, raising her eyebrows with a touch of irony. ‘I’m always glad to play on a winning team.’

  ‘A capital proposition!’ said Dexter. ‘That’s precisely what I envisaged. Now, since it’s ten to seven on a Friday night may I suggest we all retire to an appropriate venue and celebrate. It’s on the firm, naturally.’

  ‘Excellent, Dexter,’ said Hemi, fascinated by the barrister’s verbosity. ‘And maybe you can show me how to enlarge my less-than-voluminous vocabulary!’

  This time his laughter was infectious and curtailed only by the security guard ostentatiously looking at his watch and jingling his keys.

  19

  The two tribes

  Almost engulfed by native bush, Rachel Revington’s Lockwood house was down a meandering driveway off Konini Road, in the hills of Titirangi. If it weren’t for the lights of Auckland twinkling through the trees, it might have felt as if it were in the middle of nowhere.

  Rachel wore a green-and-white striped halter-neck top and faded denim bell-bottoms with the knees worn out. Her hair was tied in its usual casual ponytail and she wore no make-up or shoes.

  ‘Kia ora,’ she said. ‘Haere mai!’

  ‘I didn’t realise you spoke the language,’ said Hemi. This lady was full of surprises.

  ‘I’m part-Maori. On my mother’s side. I speak four languages. Te reo was the easiest.’

  The house smelled of varnish and leather. It was built out on poles over the steep hillside, and had floor-to-ceiling windows. The rear entrance was built into an excavation whose retaining embankment supported a profusion of flowers.

  Hemi placed his shoes by the door and walked in his socks across the polished matai floor to a window that looked into the upper branches of a colossal puriri.

  ‘I had no idea there were parts of Auckland like this,’ he said. ‘You could be in the back of beyond.’

  ‘Yes, it’s beautifully quiet and secluded, but it’s only thirty minutes to the office,’ she said. She was standing beside him and she emanated warmth but Hemi was gazing into the tree. He imagined …

  His hands on the bark,

  His feet against the bough,

  Stretching out to a fork up there,

  Heaving, hauling himself up onto it

  Reaching up once more,

  Fists gripping the branches,

  Holding his life in his hands,

  Eyes narrowed with determination,

  Placing bare soles against the puriri bark,

  Hauling higher, higher still, higher yet again,

  Rising out of desperation, darkness, despair,

  Lips drawn tight in resolution, tense with concentration.

  ‘You should come here in the daytime,’ Rachel was saying. ‘It’s beautiful. That puriri’s a marvellous climbing tree. You should see my son scampering around up there. He’d show you a thing or two about climbing trees.’

  ‘You have a son?’

  ‘Yes, I do. His name is Morgan. Morgan is an old family name. He’s six.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s at his Granny’s tonight, in Papakura. She’s dropping him off in the morning.’

  ‘So you’re …?’

  ‘Married? No.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought …’

  ‘We lived together for a while. For Morgan’s sake. But the pain outweighed the pleasure. He made me feel worthless. Then he decided he wanted more. Needed to discover his inner self. Heard enough?’

  ‘I know how that feels,’ said Hemi, with a chuckle. ‘Poor bugger!’

  Hemi glanced around the room. It contained beautiful and expensive things. There were no clues to the presence of a child, nothing to suggest that Rachel did not live there alone.

  ‘Do you know much about your family?’ he said. ‘Do you know your whakapapa?’r />
  ‘English ancestry. Some hint of aristocracy, I think. Bit of an adventurer somewhere from what I can make out. Father’s family were from the Coromandel. How about you?’

  ‘I’m Maori. Mum was an Arawa from Maketu, father Ngai Tahu, from the South Island. They were killed in a car crash when I was a boy.’

  ‘Yes, I remember hearing about that. And I remember the Hapetas called you the orphan.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory.’ He was pained by the recollection and Rachel saw his brow furrow.

  They turned away from the view together and moved across to the low, black leather armchairs. Above them the ridge of the roof consisted of a skylight that revealed low cumulus moving east, tinted orange by the sodium glow of the city. Hemi realised his attraction to Rachel was based on his assumption that she was single.

  ‘So, if you don’t mind my asking,’ he said, unable to curb his curiosity any longer. ‘Is there a man in your life right now?’

  ‘You’re joking!’ she cried. ‘All the ones worth having are either married or gay, or they have dominating mothers. What about you, Hemi?’

  ‘A few short-term flirtations,’ he lied. ‘One or two romantic interludes. Haven’t had time for a serious commitment. I’m a bit lacking in social skills, I’m afraid.’

  At least this much was true!

  ‘Too busy making money, I’d say. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Sure. What are you having?’

  ‘Gin.’

  ‘That’ll do me.’

  ‘Water and ice?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She held his drink out to him and Hemi noticed the fine muscle definition of her arms and shoulders.

  ‘Here’s to social skills,’ she saluted him, with a wry smile, and they clinked glasses.

  They sat opposite each other, sipping their drinks, a wide, glass-topped table between them. At one end was a crystal vase containing tall birds of paradise.

  When he arrived, Hemi had placed the envelope and the package from the safety-deposit box on the table.

  A Bach flute sonata was playing. Auckland winked and glinted through the puriri.