Starlight Peninsula

by Grimshaw, Charlotte

  Silence. Nick coughed. ‘Eloise tells me Roysmith’s interviewed Andrew Newgate.’

  ‘Andrew Newgate! He’s right creepy, that one.’

  Eloise said quietly, ‘He was acquitted. He was found not guilty.’

  Demelza snorted. ‘The jury found him not guilty, but they were blinded by that smoke-and-mirror merchant, that Carstone. With his sports cars and his girlfriends and his lawsuits. Him, a campaigner for justice? Don’t make me laugh. It’s symbiotic, that’s what it is. You scratch my back and I’ll get you off a murder.’

  ‘That is an incredibly simplistic interpretation,’ Eloise said.

  Nick’s tone was polite, cautious. ‘So, Eloise, you and Roysmith are totally convinced?’

  ‘Roysmith’s always thought Newgate was innocent. There were too many holes in the evidence.’

  Demelza’s laugh made Eloise furious. She stared at her hands. Demelza said, ‘I’ve read Carstone’s books. All three of them. They’re badly written, unconvincing and without intellectual merit. Narcissistic, that’s what they are. He’s even put big glossy photos of himself in them. He’s fabricated the holes in the evidence. They don’t exist. Smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘Really,’ Eloise said.

  ‘And your Roysmith, with his emoting and his silly hair, he helped get Newgate acquitted. All through the second trial, the reporting was right biased.’

  ‘The jury isn’t allowed to look at news reports.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they don’t,’ Demelza said.

  Carina said, ‘I’ve read Carstone’s books.’

  ‘Well, you’ll know what I’m talking about then,’ Demelza said. ‘Load of rubbish.’

  Eloise banged down her glass. ‘We’ve all read the books. Okay, Carstone’s not a great writer, but that’s not the point.’

  Carina traced a line on the table with her index finger. ‘So, Eloise, are you going to go into the case, or is it going to be magazine-style, “the wronged man speaks about his new life”?’

  ‘The point about most television,’ Demelza said loudly to Nick, ‘is that it’s just not intellectually good enough.’

  Eloise turned to her. ‘So Roysmith’s thick.’

  Demelza sipped her wine and said in a hoarse, amused voice, ‘Not completely thick. But … a lightweight.’

  Nick said, ‘I heard Newgate’s supposed to have killed his parents when he was eleven.’

  ‘That’s just a malicious rumour. It’s just pure … tabloid.’ Eloise turned her glare on Nick, who flinched. His phone rang in his pocket and he jumped up to answer it, walking away across the grass.

  Carina said, ‘Want another slice, Mum?’

  ‘Has it got garlic on it? I won’t have that foreign muck.’

  Demelza was inspecting the Sparkler’s bag. ‘Fancy Roza Hallwright selling her Soon and Starfish books to Hollywood. She must have made a right fortune.’

  ‘She was rich to start with.’

  ‘Who?’ the Sparkler said, reaching for the bag.

  Carina told her, ‘Roza Hallwright is the wife of Sir David Hallwright, who used to be our prime minister. She wrote the Soon and Starfish books. Which were then turned into the cartoon, the movies and TV series.’

  She added, ‘I got the bag in LA.’

  ‘I’m not sure the books have much literary merit.’ Demelza gestured at the house. ‘I suppose Soon built this house. Since Sean works for Jaeger’s and they act for the Hallwrights. Since they made the Soon movie, the whole country’s gone mad. Terrence and I flew to Wellington recently; I couldn’t believe it. There was a gigantic statue of the dwarf — Soon — hanging from the departure lounge ceiling, looked like a right death trap if you were sat under it in an earthquake. And signs saying Welcome to Soonworld. And out on the tarmac there’s a 777 with Soon characters painted all over it. And when you get on the plane you have to sit through a Soon and Starfish safety video.’

  ‘There’s Soon and Starfish Lego now.’

  ‘Merchandising. Soon tourism. The Soon Village at Rotorua.’

  ‘The National Party will never be short of funding.’

  Carina said, ‘Although the party’s divided, since Hallwright’s faction’s backing Ed Miles. Miles is breathing down Dance’s neck.’

  ‘Who’s Ed Miles?’ The Sparkler, leaning on Carina’s chair, was interrupting for the sake of it — her way of signalling she was getting tired.

  ‘Ed Miles is our Minister of Justice.’

  ‘Who has hopes of overthrowing our current prime minister, Mr Dance, according to the gossip. With the help of David Hallwright.’

  ‘With the help of Sooncorp.’

  ‘Roysmith says Miles is leaking against Satan Dance, that it could have been Miles who leaked that Dance knew Kurt Hartmann was being spied on illegally.’

  ‘Miles is so after Dance’s job.’

  ‘Dance managed to deny he knew anything.’

  ‘But the leaker went to the Opposition, and they’ve said there’s going to be proof.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That Dance knew Hartmann was being spied on illegally. Proof Dance acted illegally.’

  ‘The internecine stuff is really heating up.’

  ‘Funny that the Hallwrights are “Hollywood money” now.’

  ‘Was Hartmann’s website ripping off the Soon and Starfish movies?’

  ‘No doubt!’

  ‘Do you think Satan Dance’s the father?’

  ‘Of Baby O’Keefe? Not him, surely.’

  ‘The way he used to look at O’Keefe, like he was licking his chops.’

  ‘He looks at everyone like that.’

  ‘Most men look at her like that.’

  ‘Except not any more. Not the front bench.’

  ‘They look away, guiltily.’

  ‘Nervously.’

  ‘Heard any clues, Carina? Any rumours at the paper?’

  ‘No one’s found out anything as far as I know.’

  ‘I thought maybe David Hallwright.’

  Nick came across the grass, putting away his phone. ‘David Hallwright what?’

  ‘We’re wondering who’s the father.’

  ‘Oh, Baby O’Keefe? What about Ed Miles.’

  ‘He’s only interested in power.’

  ‘O’Keefe wouldn’t go for him. He’s too chilling.’

  ‘When it’s born we’ll know. There’ll be a resemblance.’

  ‘Babies usually look like their fathers.’

  ‘A tiny Satan.’

  ‘A tiny Ed.’

  ‘Oh these men,’ Demelza said, picking up Gerald.

  Nick clapped his hands. ‘Anyway. Do these dogs know how to play fetch?’

  ‘Course.’ The Sparkler’s piping voice, all competence and scorn.

  ‘Got a ball?’

  The Sparkler produced a tennis ball from her bag and they coaxed Silvio and Gerald down to the grass strip by the path. Eloise watched, imagining Nick in a white karate outfit. He had a strong throwing arm, was well co-ordinated. The sausage dog couldn’t keep up, and resorted to jumping on the spot and barking insanely. She noticed Nick glancing across at her.

  Later, Demelza rose to her feet and lightly kicked Silvio, who was trying to get at a pizza crust under the table. ‘Look at your silly dog, Carina. What a ridiculous name you’ve given him. Funny, he looks gay to me.’

  She leaned down to Silvio. ‘Are you gay? Are you gay, little pussy cat?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Well, I must love you and leave you. Carina, here’s the keys. If you could just …’

  She shook the jingling bunch at Carina, who stared at her for a further beat of seconds before rising from her seat, taking the keys and leaving the table.

  When Carina had manoeuvred the car out of its park and positioned it on the road outside Eloise’s house, ready to be driven, Demelza kissed the Sparkler and Nick, neatly side-stepped Eloise, turned her back on Carina, and worked her way into the driver’s seat. Gerald bobbed in the back seat, h
is long nose sliming the window. They waited respectfully while Demelza put on a different pair of glasses and pressed the button to lower the back window, allowing Gerald to poke his nose and one long ear out.

  She revved the motor and engaged the gears. The engine whined and a scorched rubber smell rose. They heard a last hoarse bark from Gerald, a toot, and she was gone.

  Eloise, Nick and Carina cleaned up while the Sparkler and Silvio slept sprawled together on the sofa.

  Nick put his hand on Eloise’s arm. ‘Want a brandy at my place?’

  ‘I’ve got to stop drinking so much.’

  ‘Do you good.’

  ‘I’ve got to get up early, so …’

  She imagined going to his house, drinking brandy, waking in his bed. Did she want that?

  But he was already saying, ‘Good night, ladies …’

  After he’d left, Carina stood on the deck smoking a cigarette. She blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘Strange guy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Intense. Hard to place. He likes you, he stares at you. Did you see him playing with the dogs, checking to see if you were watching? He fancies himself — bit of an athlete. He’s got a good torso. Works out.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Did you say he lives alone? Is he a “loner”? Gay? What’s he doing at your place?’

  ‘He’s my neighbour. He’s separated. Single. He hasn’t been back in the country long.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He owns the house over there, and he’s inherited some other property. He worked for an NGO in Africa. He does karate. There was something about trying to decide what to do next, doing up houses in the meantime.’

  ‘Well, he’s interested in you.’ Carina looked up at the windows of the stucco house. ‘Do you mind being here by yourself?’

  ‘It’s intense. I like it.’

  ‘Is there anyone living in that house?’

  ‘No, that’s the one that was raided.’

  Carina ground her cigarette butt on the deck rail. ‘I thought so. But I saw someone upstairs.’

  Eloise looked uneasily at the blank windows. It was a still night with a clear sky. Out by the dog park the trees were humped black shapes; beyond them the city lights sent up a white glow. The air smelled of smoke. Below the gardens the slow tide was creeping through the mangroves, over mud and roots and crab holes. She heard the harsh, chilling cry of a possum in the flax.

  ‘I had a dream about Andrew Newgate. The killer, as Mum would call him.’

  She heard restraint in Carina’s reply. ‘It must have been interesting, meeting Newgate.’

  ‘He was very pleasant.’

  ‘Oh, well, good.’

  ‘So what are you saying, you agree with Mum he’s guilty?’

  ‘Well, I hardly ever agree with Mum, but …’

  ‘He seemed ordinary. Boring even.’ Eloise frowned.

  Carina flicked her dead cigarette off the deck. ‘Well, trust your instincts. You’ve always been observant.’

  Eloise looked at her in silence.

  Carina put on her coat. ‘It’s late. I’d better get home.’

  Eloise looked over at the stucco house. The night air seemed close, something electric in it. Sudden memory: a wooden staircase, warm rain outside, a view through a window of the garden, green underwater light. The door of the flat standing open, a footprint on the doormat, something spilled and trampled back over the threshold …

  She helped carry the little girl to the car. The dog climbed into the front passenger seat, where he sat staring solemnly ahead.

  Carina said, ‘You want me to lend you Silvio? He’s an excellent guard dog.’

  ‘No thanks. He’s sweet but he stinks.’

  Eloise went from room to room, locking doors and windows, which made her uneasy. She drew down the sitting room blinds, but once she’d shut out the view she felt as if she were trapped in a large, silent white box. She listened to her own breathing, the loud clink of her glass on the coffee table. How could she keep watch if the blinds were lowered? She pulled them up and faced the black windows.

  Out there, beyond the glass, the night had a glossy sheen.

  At the computer, finishing off the wine and roaming through cyberspace, she searched aimlessly, not knowing what it was she wanted.

  What is the question? What is the thing I look for and can’t find?

  She tipped back her glass, but the wine wasn’t doing its job. She peered at the bottle. What was this toy drink? Some lite or diet brand brought over by Carina? Sober, alert to every sound, she drank, and felt no warmth.

  Only something tipping her sideways, out into the night.

  The possum sent out its eerie cry as it crashed around in the undergrowth, making the flax spears clatter. Smoky air mixed with the stench off the estuarine flats, and the stream banks were alive with clicks and splashes, the plop of a rat hitting the water, the running of the tide in the channel.

  She hesitated at the edge of the dark. The keys were in her pocket. She’d pulled the back door closed, but not deadlocked it, and in her hurry she’d come out with no jacket, her shirt half-unbuttoned. She crossed the path, entered Nick’s garden and saw him standing in his lighted front room.

  Eloise buttoned her shirt by feel in the dark. Combed her hair with her fingers. It was like being in the wings, about to step onto a lit stage to deliver lines that seemed unreal, unconvincing, and painfully important. Changed my mind. Brandy after all. Why not.

  Nick was leaning on the glass ranch slider, his arms folded. He changed position, looked up at the ceiling, lifted his elbow and rolled his arm around in its socket. He gestured with his hand, looking into the room. It looked, oddly, as if he were speaking to someone.

  Eloise stepped back into the shadows. Beyond the flax the moon had risen, and the estuary glittered. A cricket cheeped in the long grass.

  Was she, after all, despite the fake wine, very drunk indeed? When she closed her eyes, the light off the water superimposed itself on her lids. Tiny sparks exploded and scattered outwards and she registered the suggestion or rumour of one of her migraine attacks.

  The night and the dark were entering her mind. When she blinked, emerald sparks flew out of her eyes and up into the black sky, mingling with the stars. The warning of migraine made her feel as if she were some tiny creature, hunched down under a vast, threatening sky. She wanted to be touched, held.

  But there was a man in the room with Nick.

  He was wearing black. He was tall, with a hawkish face and thick black hair. She saw his long wrists and bony fingers, the jacket sleeve riding up as he leaned against the glass. The back of his hand. She stared, light flowed around him as if his fingers were on fire. He was talking. Nick listened to the man, shook his head and made a quelling gesture, palm down. His manner was different, he was at ease; he looked handsome, alien and tough.

  The visitor was so unexpected, she couldn’t think what to do next. Her eyes throbbed, a stab of pain. She saw a waterfall of light at the edge of her vision and a trickle of nausea made her mouth dry. In the grass the cricket relentlessly sang. She blundered back across the lawn and up the path. She would go to bed, sleep it off.

  But her back door was standing open.

  Ahead of her was the boxed air of the hallway, with its bright, forensic stillness; behind her the peninsula was alive. The wind rustled the flax spears, clouds crossed the moon, striping the grass and casting patches of blackness that could be shadows or the holes opening in her vision. Moonlight on the mangroves, on the tidal basin, a big patch of sky near the moon that was clear and full of stars. She faced the hallway again and the stars had lodged in her eyes, their silver glare obscuring something dark that moved beyond the brightness.

  Had someone crossed the doorway at the end of the hall?

  Her phone was lying on the small table inside. She listened, then ran into the hall, grabbing for the phone and sending it flying off the table.
She scrabbled for it on the floor and seemed only to be chasing it with the clumsy tips of her fingers. There was a sound somewhere in the house, and she went still, crouched on the floor. Her fingers closed around the phone. She straightened up and walked to the door, pulling it closed it behind her. Then she was away up the path, not looking behind.

  From the pub at the top of the peninsula, she rang her sister.

  She lay in Carina’s spare room in a bed that smelled of dog, with a flannel over her eyes. Scattered on the table beside her was a collection of pills mined from Carina’s bathroom cupboard. At intervals she would moan, and reach blindly up, and shakily crack the seal on another foil tray. Pain made tiny, evil seams of light that pulsed in her brain. Pain was a network of lines in the darkness, as fine and bright as a spider’s web.

  SEVEN

  Dr Klaudia Dvorak’s office was the back room of an elegant old Herne Bay shop, its French doors open to the garden. A grey-haired woman gardener tended the flowerbeds on the lawn outside.

  Eloise listened.

  ‘I have always had a special interest in violence,’ Klaudia was saying.

  The Nazis, Eloise thought.

  ‘This started because of the war, the role of previous generations of my family in …’

  Genocide, thought Eloise dreamily, watching the old woman cross the lawn, knocking earth out of a plant pot with a trowel. The tapping of the trowel against the clay pot, the drone of a car in the distance.

  ‘I was thinking more of my mother,’ Eloise said.

  Klaudia smiled. ‘Ah. Your mother, yes. She worked in your father’s business, you said, now retired?’

  Eloise leaned forward. ‘That’s right. My father is an architect. My mother was his assistant. She didn’t go to university actually, but she reads a lot. By war, I meant domestic warfare. All the aggression under the surface. Isn’t life hard enough without it? It’s all so …’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘It’s all so unnecessary.’