Eloise felt a hand on her arm. ‘Sorry Dad? You want the water? The salt? Oh, the wine!’
‘Me too,’ Carina said.
‘More,’ Terrence mouthed, making tipping motions.
Demelza went on, ‘I’ve had a bit of spare time. So I’ve read just about the whole of Dickens. I’ve got it on my Kindle. It’s wonderful. Exhilarating, really. Sparkles darling, have some chicken. I was fortunate to be able to cook it this morning, before the day got too hot. Go on, dear. Now Luna, I meant to tell you, I wrote to the judge.’
Luna drew down her brows, solemnly leaned forward. ‘Ah, the case.’
‘Exactly. The case.’
‘What case?’ Carina said.
‘A dreadful, dreadful case.’
‘Dreadful,’ Luna echoed.
‘Whoops.’
‘Christ.’ Carina clicked her tongue with exasperation and gently repositioned her daughter’s chair, handing back the fork she’d dropped.
Demelza spread her hand over her chest and said in a thick voice, ‘I’ve had sleepless nights, thinking about it. You must have read about it in the papers.’
Luna nodded, with a soulful expression.
Carina shrugged. Terrence made a small snorting sound.
‘What, Dad?’ Eloise said.
He shook his head and raised his eyebrows. He had his eyes on Carina, who laughed.
Demelza drummed her fingers. ‘The Parkinson case, Carina.’
Luna said, ‘The poor woman, Terrence, Sheryl Parkinson.’ She turned to Eloise and Carina. ‘She was left caring for her autistic grandchild. Her daughter, the mother, had run off. The child was impossible to deal with. Woke every night. Would sing at the top of her voice at 3 a.m. The grandmother, at the end of her tether, she … It’s tragic.’
‘She killed the child,’ Demelza said in a deepened voice. ‘And there’s been such an outpouring of self-righteousness, I can hardly stand it. They convicted her of manslaughter and she’s been given a huge jail sentence. Just huge. My heart goes out to her. People’s cruelty. The inhumanity. I’ve been so moved that I wrote to the judge to protest.’
‘Courageous of you,’ Luna said. ‘Bravo.’
‘You can only do what you can do.’ Demelza squared her shoulders. ‘I believe in telling the truth, see. The truth. That woman was pushed to the limits of her endurance. Oh, I know people will think I’m unconventional. That I’m not thinking of “the victim”. But no one’s thought of that woman, and what she went through. I know.’
Luna drew in a deep breath, through her nose. ‘The suffering,’ she said vaguely.
‘Human beings,’ Demelza said, with a shudder. ‘Man’s inhumanity to man. The way they’ve thrown a woman to the wolves, who …’
‘How did she kill the child, just out of interest?’ Carina asked.
‘Oh don’t,’ Luna said, putting a hand to her neck. ‘It’s too …’
‘She drove her to a bridge and strangled her.’
‘And how old was the child?’
Demelza met her daughter’s gaze. ‘She was fourteen. But you know this.’
‘Yes, I know this.’ Carina didn’t look away. ‘Must have taken quite a bit of doing, strangling a teenager.’
Silence.
Luna gazed at Carina with watery eyes. ‘Demelza’s always been like this. She’s able to care about all human beings, even those society’s thrown on the … on the …’
‘Scrap heap,’ Carina said.
Demelza shook herself, as though from a reverie. ‘Anyway! Would you like some ice cream, Sparkles, darling?’
She looked sideways. ‘Of course you could have ended up coming a cropper, Carina. You weren’t afraid of authority, see. You had a wonderful spirit. Such independence. That’s why you were expelled from school. And ended up in custody all those times. The police saying to you, Get in the car! Oooh, it was a time, Sparkles, when your mother was a teenager. Terrence and I would get the call, and your mother would have done some new rebellious thing. And then she’d be appearing in the District Court, or some big copper would be at the door.’
‘You were lucky you had such an enlightened mother,’ Luna said richly. ‘Imagine if you’d had parents who were repressive. It’s marvellous, really. You’ve been lucky, Carina, and you, Eloise.’
‘You can only do what you can do.’
The willow cast its drooping shadow over the drive. Beyond the branches the moon was pinned like a stud in the dark, swelling sky. All day the clouds had piled up in the west and yet there was no storm, and now the promise of rain was broken and the moon was out, shining down on the parched city.
Demelza’s lawn, fed by sprinklers in breach of hosepipe bans, glowed a rich, unnatural green under the garden lights.
Carina took a plastic bag from the car boot.
‘Now you’re not going to drive. You’re going inside and ringing for a cab.’
‘Yes. Promise.’
Carina handed over the bag. ‘Here’s Arthur’s stuff.’ She paused. ‘Listen. Something’s just occurred to me. If there was something funny going on at Rotokauri and Arthur found out, which is obviously very unlikely, but if there was …’
‘If the missing woman was murdered …’
‘If there was anything funny, and David Hallwright and Ed Miles were involved, then I suppose you should ask …’
‘You should ask what happened. I am asking. I want to know.’
‘Not just what happened, but who would benefit from finding out.’
‘Arthur would benefit.’
Carina opened her mouth, hesitated. ‘Um, Arthur’s dead.’
‘Arthur’s ghost would benefit.’
‘Christ. Okay. Arthur’s ghost would benefit. But who else? Cui bono? Theoretically. If your fanciful idea of something funny was remotely possible.’
Eloise, who had been drinking with some dedication, put her hand over her right eye, looked up at the moon and said, ‘Dunno.’
‘The Prime Minister would benefit,’ Carina said. ‘Jack Dance would benefit.’
Eloise started up the Honda. Arthur’s file lay on the seat beside her. She’d considered hiding it at her parents’ house, but thought better of it. You couldn’t hide anything in a house occupied by Demelza.
You couldn’t ask her to hide anything for you either, Demelza being such an open book. If you asked her to keep a secret, she’d try her very best, but it would just pop out. Eloise’s husband has left her for another woman. A very attractive actress, I understand. Carina’s been feeling much better since she had her piles seen to. Oooh, did I say the wrong thing?
She was always remorseful; it was just that she couldn’t tell a lie. The more important it was that she not mention a secret, the more likely it was that Demelza would come out with it. Carina had complained about this, and Demelza had explained (while Eloise listened).
‘Now Carina, I can’t help it! I’m the victim of the power of suggestion! It’s the fear of doing something, chuck, once you’ve thought of it. Take this example, Carina: when you were a young girl, there were a phase when I was right depressed. Terrence was off with one of his fancy women, Eloise was a dear little baby, and you were a challenging child. Every time you came near me, chuck, I couldn’t look at knives. Why knives? It was fear of the power of suggestion!’
Cold-blooded old times. Eloise pointed the Honda towards the street. She had to be over the drink-drive limit. Carina would have taken the car keys off her, but she’d sensibly buckled up the Sparkler, and soberly driven away. Eloise had waved them off, before ambling inside in search of a nightcap or two for the road.
Suitably refreshed and fortified, she’d taken her leave from her mother. As they stood on the veranda looking over the suburb spread out below them Demelza said, of her sister, ‘Poor Luna. She’s entirely unreflective. She insists everyone sees things her way. It’s a serious neuroticism, I’m afraid. She’s quite mad.’
Stepping back to avoid any possible drunken attempt at a farewel
l kiss or embrace, Demelza added, ‘Hurry home, dear. I won’t come out to the car. Sure you wouldn’t like another nip of brandy for the road? There’s plenty more. No? Well, it’s late. Drive carefully. Don’t spare the horses. The motorway’s quickest. Godspeed!’
The engine whined as Eloise flew up the dark driveway. At the top, she reached out and freed part of the hedge from the windscreen. And then she started driving very fast.
Dutch courage. Why am I here? Dutch courage. Like on the plane: the turbulence, the funny noises, and then you have the pre-dinner gin, a couple of wines and it’s okay, let it bump and roll, let it swoop and shudder — you’re laughing.
See, I’m laughing — and so are you. Because it’s funny me turning up at ten-thirty on a hot night on the peninsula, saying just passing, and haven’t seen you for days and hi neighbour, and guess what I’ve got a dog now but it’s only a lend, and I love him. Already I love old Silv, the heat and weight of him, the smell, his golden eyes, because we all want to be touched, we’re all dogs, we’re pack animals, we want to lie against each other, to be held close to the people we love. We’re all animals, Nick.
That was just on the doorstep. And none of it was said.
He stood in the lighted doorway, wearing a jacket and jeans, scratching his chin, his eyes tired. ‘I’ve been out. Just got in.’
‘You smell of smoke.’
‘Couple of friends were smoking cigars.’
‘I love the smell of cigars.’
‘Come in.’
‘Is it too late?’
‘No, no, come in, Eloise. I’m glad you came over.’
‘I just wanted to tell you I’ve got a dog.’
‘I’ve looked for your wolf by the way. Haven’t seen it.’
‘I saw it again. It was howling.’
He smiled with his mouth closed. He looked weary, tolerant, his hair messy; he sat, leaned down and unlaced his boots, rested his hands on the arms of the chair and slumped, feet squarely placed. Eloise took in the jeans, the unlaced boots, the stubble on his chin; he looked pleasingly rough but there was something elegant about him, too: the skin on his cheeks just slightly blurred and softened, the expressive hands. Think of him out on the peninsula, coming along the path in the hard light, the way he pauses, goes still, looks sharply at you and then dips his head, relaxes and comes forward, all his movements suddenly fluid.
She said, ‘I saw someone in the stucco house. But it’s all sealed up.’
‘It must have been a ghost.’
‘Do you believe in ESP, Nick?’
‘No. Yes.’
He poured a drink. ‘You know, I went to Chernobyl once. The men who work in the Exclusion Zone call themselves Stalkers, after a Russian movie called Stalker. You heard of it?’
‘No. What were you doing in Chernobyl?’
‘Working for an aid agency. In the Russian movie, there’s a guy called the Stalker. The Stalker takes two clients into the Zone. In the Zone is The Room, where anyone who goes inside will be granted wishes. But here’s the thing, The Room grants subconscious wishes, so it’s dangerous; you don’t get what you think you’re going to.’
‘The Zone …’
‘I don’t believe in ESP. Just the subconscious. Have a drink, Eloise.’
‘Dutch courage. It’s why I’m here.’
‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Eloise. Come here.’
She woke up in bed with the dog. The clock told her it was almost time to get up and go to work. She lay on her back, and the night replayed itself, a series of scenes.
He said, Come here. He kissed her. She wanted him, but then she pulled away.
I have to get back to Silvio, she said. I came straight here. He needs an airing.
So he’d walked her home, over the blackened toe toe stumps and across the lawns, and together they’d aired the dog. Silvio ambling about in the spill of light from the back door, lifting his leg against the blackened bushes. The night full of sounds, the clack of the flax spears, the cheeping of crickets, the sigh of the tide running in the creek.
He kissed her again. He smelled of smoke. She wanted him to stay, but then she came out with some awkward cliché, what was it? Rain-check? How awful!
She woke once after he’d gone, and experienced a feeling of regret so intense she sat straight up. When it was light she came down to the kitchen and found he’d left her a note, signed with an x.
On the way to the bus she went out to the Honda, opened the boot and slid her hand under the carpet matting. Arthur’s file was still there.
She went to work. Kurt Hartmann was appearing in court again on another matter, his frozen assets: they were due at ten to film.
Leader of the Opposition Bradley Kirk was facing questions: had he met with Kurt Hartmann to discuss the internet tycoon’s spying allegations against the Prime Minister? Was Hartmann working with the Opposition to bring down the government of Jack Dance?
Selena was clearing out her office and talking litigation. She and the Sinister Doormat had fallen out: each accused the other of defamation and theft of stationery.
Management put out a statement: they were processing a number of complaints from staff about the alleged ‘shock’ issue. Enquiries were progressing well, and experts were being consulted. Details to follow.
In the course of a long phone call to Eloise, Demelza mentioned that Andrew Newgate had appeared in a women’s magazine, talking about his quest for a girlfriend. Women would have to convince him, Newgate said, that they were ‘not just interested in his fame’.
‘I can’t believe it, chuck. Lord Muck. They have to convince him. Nothing about him having to convince them he won’t murder them in their beds.’
In the same women’s magazine, it was foretold that Mariel Hartfield and Hamish Dark (both in their forties), would be trying for another baby, if that was what they were doing when they were seen near a building that possibly housed an IVF clinic. (A rival magazine had recently photographed Mariel walking near a children’s clothing store and announced: Mariel: Twin baby joy.)
On TV, Mariel wore sky blue and announced: Jack Dance’s polling woes deepen. She went on: Opposition attacks continue, amid allegations Mr Dance ordered or at least knew about illegal spying against Kurt Hartmann. Justice Minister Ed Miles has refused to comment on the US bid to extradite Kurt Hartmann, other than to say that the extradition procedure is ‘on track’.
Jack Anthony, in a summer-blue suit, explained: The true economic toll of this summer’s drought.
The Sinister Doormat stood at the door of Q Wing’s hair and makeup suite and hissed, ‘Stuff you, bitch.’
Not just a pencil-thin blonde with huge breasts but a qualified meteorologist, the Sinister Doormat’s job was to ‘add value’ to the weather. The weather formed a significantly large segment of the evening news. The Doormat and the weather had had a lot in common these last few months. They both went on and on being beautiful and golden, and not changing, and never getting old.
SEVENTEEN
Eloise sat sweltering in the Honda. The air-conditioning wasn’t working, and the car was parked in full sun at the top of a quiet suburban street. She started the engine and drove slowly, checking mail boxes. Number 18 Pukeora Place, the Epsom address she’d found in an electoral roll at the local post office, was a sizeable white villa with a landscaped garden, a beautiful stained-glass front door in blues, greens and reds, and an orange tiled roof. There was a fig tree on the front lawn, which was fronted by a dry stone wall.
The slope of a small volcanic cone, Mt Matariki, rose steeply beyond the line of houses. She got out, went to the gate and leaned over to check the mail in the letter box. She took hold of an envelope and pulled it out. It was addressed to Mrs Karen Lampton.
Now she stood, glazed, her eyes fixed vacantly on the blue wooden bench on the front porch. It would be easy to open the gate, walk up past the twin ornamental trees in pots, ring the bell beside the stained-glass door. But what then? The thought of trying
to explain made Eloise feel exhausted. She went back to the car and drove away.
At home on the peninsula, Silvio lying across her legs, a glass of wine at her elbow. Trying to frame it: a sad story. Long time ago now. There are things I never asked. So sorry to bother. There’s just this thing I’ve wondered about. If you wouldn’t mind. Your name.
Your name and the name of a missing woman. Mereana. The detective, Marie Da Silva. You remember, with the odd-coloured eyes? She must have. Did she? You see, the man I loved. The man I wanted to marry. The love of my life. He wanted to write a screenplay about a National Party prime minister. He had brown curly hair, deep-set eyes, he was tall and thin. Did you ever? His name was Arthur Weeks.
Arthur.
Scott rang. They talked about Kurt Hartmann, who was trying to seek discovery from the Crown to support his bid to resist extradition. Scott passed the phone to Thee, who made Eloise laugh.
She rang Nick, but he wasn’t picking up. She rang Carina, who read extracts from the Sparkler’s school report: Rachel Margery has achieved the highest marks in her class in Maths. (Maths!) Also the highest mark in reading and spelling. A very capable student who must learn not to chat so much to …
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