‘I thought you didn’t remember her.’
‘She’s come into focus, since you reminded me. Young. Crazy stack of blonde hair. Funny eyes.’
‘And who would harm me?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m thinking of Hartmann. The uber-criminal.’
‘Hartmann wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Oh sure, he’s been teaching you to feed chickens and play computer games. Actually, he’s a fugitive wanted by the United States. You seem extraordinarily naïve about him, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘He’s fine. He’s a big softie. With his golf carts. His chickens.’
‘Think he roasts his chickens for dinner?’
‘No! They’re his Zen.’
‘His Zen. Christ. We all need some Zen.’ Simon sighed and lay back with his feet up on the arm rest, as if he’d forgotten himself for a moment.
Look, Klaudia. His stubble, his curly hair, his big, steady hands.
‘What a sky,’ Simon said. ‘Red sky in the morning. I used to see in the dawn all the time with Elke. My little insomniac. She’d ask me strange questions. She said, Since you’re a doctor and you cut people open, would it be easy for you to kill someone? I told her, I fix people. When they’re hurt, I make them better. It was as if she were trying to work out what makes us human.’
‘I couldn’t be a doctor. I’m too squeamish.’
‘But when you know you’re doing good, fixing people, there’s no need for squeamishness. There’s great satisfaction.’
‘You can obviously stand the sight of blood.’
He said, ‘Yes, I’ve seen a lot of blood. I can stand it.’
‘The only dead person I’ve seen is Arthur.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I can see him now. He had a triangle of broken skull sticking up out of his head. His lips were sort of pursed. His neck was bent right over. There was stuff coming out his ears. And he had deep purple shadows under his eyes.’
‘He would have fractured his skull, broken his neck.’
‘It’s terrible to think of, isn’t it. Dying on the concrete, alone.’
‘Yes, it’s terrible.’ Simon said. ‘But he wouldn’t have suffered, and no doctor could have helped him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because of that triangle of skull you describe, the angle of his neck and the fluid from his ears. An ambulance wouldn’t have saved him.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. You have this idea you should ask questions. I think you feel a kind of guilt. But you shouldn’t torture yourself.’
‘I didn’t do enough.’
‘You couldn’t change anything. We all do our best. We do what we have to do.’
A tui started up in the flame tree by the stucco house. They listened.
Simon was lying on his back, his forearm over his face. After a long moment he said, ‘Want to know what I think?’
‘Sure.’
She waited.
He said, ‘You were angry with Arthur. He had this idea of being a “ruthless artist”. It meant he used things, private details, in his writing. You said he wrote caricatures of your mother. He used details from your life, too. Maybe he made light of stuff that was important, personal. And even though you understood the concept of the artist using material without fear or favour, you still felt invaded and hurt by it. You argued with him, and he started being a bit evasive. He stopped telling you what he was up to. You worried he might be cheating on you, right?’
Eloise listened. His voice, and behind it the chorus of the tui in the flame tree.
‘You felt insecure, uncertain about him. So you booked an earlier flight back from Sydney, and when you’d landed at Auckland, you didn’t ring or text to say you were coming home early. You wanted to catch him out. But here’s what troubles you most: if you’d rung or texted him, he might not have died.’
Eloise’s throat closed over.
‘If you’d rung or texted him, you could have changed the course of events. But you didn’t, because you were angry, and you were checking up.’
She wanted to speak, but she went on listening.
He carried on, ‘You have to accept, what happened was not your fault. You did what you did partly because of his actions. You didn’t ring him from the airport because you didn’t trust him. You felt he’d somehow crossed a line, and you were trying to deal with that. You were acting in good faith. Events took a bad turn, outside your control.’
Simon lifted his arm from his eyes. His words had taken on a kind of rhythm. ‘Imagine if something different had happened. Say you’d arrived earlier at the flat, you were angry, the pair of you argued. You told him he’d invaded your privacy by writing about you, that he’d damaged trust by keeping things from you. Say your dispute took place on the road outside and you decided to storm off, and there was some kind of tussle and he tripped and fell against the fence; it gave way, and he went over the wall. It wouldn’t be your fault. It wasn’t his fault either, it was a combination of circumstances. He played a part in it as much as you. It could have been you who fell down the wall, and in that case it wouldn’t have been his fault either. We’re all at the mercy of fate. The gods decide what’s going to happen.’
‘The gods …’
‘Call it the gods or fate or chance. Look at the sky out there. Look at the universe. Does it care? No.’
Eloise looked at the red and black sky over the dog park. A phrase came to her. ‘It’s riddled with light,’ she said, sitting up. She went to the shelves and found a book.
‘This was Arthur’s. Yeats.’ She consulted the index, turned the pages. ‘It’s a poem called “The Cold Heaven”.’
‘I don’t know any poetry,’ Simon said.
‘Neither do I, really.’ She sat down beside him.
Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment.
‘I took the blame …’ Simon repeated.
‘Out of all sense and reason.’
They said nothing for a while. The sky was changing from red to orange, the first faint tints of light green, almost blue, appearing.
‘So Arthur read poetry.’
‘Some. I never used to read anything, myself. I just watched TV, went to movies. He was scandalised by that. I do read now, thanks to him.’
She let the book drop and said in a tranced voice, ‘You understand. I loved Arthur. I was angry he used our private lives as material. I was hurt by his ruthless side, his secretiveness. But the way you talk, you make it sound as if nothing’s anyone’s fault. As if no one should be blamed for anything.’
Simon rested his arm over his eyes again. ‘People have fewer choices than they think. Mostly they’re just reacting to what’s happening.’
‘But a criminal, a murderer, say, has choices. Decides to kill.’
‘Does he? Can one human being really change his circumstances? Where he was born, who his parents are, what they do to him, how he grows up, what random events life throws at him? How he reacts in any given moment? I don’t know.’
‘You’re saying we’re all animals.’
He lifted his arm, turned to her. ‘You told me yourself, Eloise. We’re all dogs.’
‘Look.’ She pointed. They could see a man walking along th
e edge of the creek, crossing the wooden bridge, following the path through the flax bushes. ‘It’s Nick. My neighbour.’
Simon stood up. ‘I’d better go. You should get some sleep.’
‘It’s too late. I have to go to work.’ She followed him to the front door. ‘Will you come back here?’
He looked down at her, expressionless. ‘Sure.’
‘I won’t be able to live here much longer. My husband wants to sell the house. I have to move.’
‘Goodbye, Eloise.’
‘Wait, I’ve just remembered. You’ve got no car.’
‘I’ll walk up to the main road and get a cab.’
‘Call one from here.’
‘No, I’d like to walk for a while. Clear my head.’
She watched him walk away up the peninsula road. There was a tapping sound; she locked the front door and went back through the house.
Nick was on the deck, his face close to the glass. She opened the ranch slider.
‘I saw the light on in the kitchen. You’re up early,’ he said.
‘Did you find them?’
‘Yes.’
‘In one piece?’
‘Both alive, fortunately. Relieved to be found. They were twenty metres off the track. In the bush, sense of direction’s the first thing to go.’
His South African accent was soft, pleasing. He sounded exhausted. She said, ‘Congratulations. Would you like to come in?’
She started making coffee, but by the time it was ready he had fallen sideways and was asleep on the sofa. She covered him with a rug.
It was nearly time to get ready for work. She sat down, drinking her coffee. Her temples were pulsing with weariness. Tiny sparks flashed at the edges of her eyes.
Nick, sleeping beside her, smelled of sweat and aftershave.
She went through the open door onto the deck and looked out over the dog park. The owners were clustered on the grass, the dogs speeding out from them, circling, running back. She watched a man throwing a ball, the dog tearing in pursuit, its body rippling as it raced over the grass. Nearby, on the edge of the creek, an old man led the way for an ancient, puffing corgi. The mangrove leaves shone in the morning light, the flax bushes quietly rattled, and all along the peninsula the early sun picked out delicate detail: the thin shadows of the cabbage trees, the tui high in the flame tree.
In the corner of Eloise’s eye there was a squiggle of light that mirrored the rippling effect of the running dog. It was like looking at her own thought, an electrical spark arcing along the neural pathway. At first it was only obliquely visible; if she turned towards it, it moved away. The ripple of brightness formed itself into a question.
The question was coming at her, out of a sky riddled with light. It was burning as it came nearer, hurting her eyes.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Okay. Tell me about the Mad Gasser.’
Scott had his feet up on the desk, a coffee in his hand.
Eloise consulted her iPad. ‘The Mad Gasser of Mattoon, also known as the Anesthetic Prowler, Fritz the Phantom Anesthetist, and the Mad Gasser of Roanoke. Widely reported to have made holes in people’s windows and shot poison gas into their houses, causing nausea, faintness and vomiting. Investigations concluded that many of the complaints arose as a result of reports that generated mass hysteria …’
She paused, frowned. ‘Scott?’
‘Mmm?’
‘You felt the shocks. They weren’t mass hysteria.’
‘You and I aren’t hysterical types.’
‘You mean other people are?’
‘Take Selena: the woman was hysterical the whole time.’
‘You refuse to take this seriously!’
‘Can you blame me? By the way, did I show you Thee’s photos? She emailed me a whole bunch. Have a look.’
He took his feet off the desk and brought up pictures on his big computer screen, mostly photos of Iris’s birthday party: Scott looking harassed, children running amok in the trashed house, a shot of the Sparkler and Iris jumping through a sprinkler on the lawn.
‘That niece of yours, Rachel Margery, she’s a bit of an old soul.’
Eloise looked at the crowded pictures, the domesticity, the careless, beautiful, romping children. She felt something, what would you call it? An ache, a pang.
She rested her chin on her fist and said irritably, ‘What does that even mean, an old soul?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You mean, she’s kind of a powerful child.’
‘Yeah. She’s intelligent. And confident. Very real and present.’
He clicked through the pictures. ‘Here’s the opera, Marriage of Figaro, look, the Hallwrights with that fundraising dragon, what’s her name, Lady Trish Ellison. Hamish Dark looking like Nosferatu.’
‘Nice one of you and Mariel.’
‘Mmm. I’m not sure about the suit. Do you like that one?’
They looked at pictures of Scott. His expressions, the dial, as always, slightly turned up: rapt attention, joyfulness, frowning seriousness. There was Hamish Dark listening to the Sinister Doormat while studiously ‘keeping a straight face’. The Hallwrights in conversation with a red-faced woman, Roza Hallwright looking beyond her, across the room.
Scott’s phone rang, he answered.
Eloise went on clicking through the photos. There was one of herself, flushed, raising a wine glass and looking on as Scott talked, a group of women eyeing him. Another of the Hallwrights among a circle of the invited guests: an actor, a DJ, a TV executive, Jack Anthony. One of the film director, Sir Peter Jackson. A shot of a plate-glass window with city lights shining in the darkness behind it. Leaning against the glass, Mariel Hartfield and Simon Lampton, both talking on their phones, so close their elbows were nearly touching.
‘Hartmann’s here,’ Scott said.
‘Why?’
‘He wants to talk about the interview. I should have told him we’re busy with the Phantom Gasser. Can you go down to reception for him, E. I’ve got a headache. Hartmann gives me a headache. He gives me mass hysteria. I can’t understand what he’s talking about half the time.’
‘You need Fritz the Phantom Anesthetist. No, you need some Panadol. Go and take some drugs. I’ll see what he wants.’
‘Thanks, E, you’re a pal.’
She went down to reception. Hartmann was leaning against the desk, conferring with Chad Loafer. Eloise paused, struck by the sight of Hine, the receptionist, looking minuscule next to Hartmann’s giant frame.
‘Eloise Hay,’ Hartmann said, turning with a smile that struck her as genuine, even sweet. Tossing his scarf over one shoulder, hitching up his pants, he told Loafer impressively, ‘Chad. Wait here.’
‘You look pleased about something,’ Eloise said.
He came close, squinted down at her. ‘I have something for you.’
‘Okay. I’ll take you up to Scott.’
The lift doors closed on Chad Loafer, on Hine. They were alone in the metal box. Hartmann said quietly, without looking at her, ‘You have an office? Let’s go there before I speak to Scott.’
They went to her room — more a nook than an office — and closed the door. Hartmann’s bulk filled the small space. She could hear the rasp of his effortful breathing. He took some sheets of paper out of his bag and held them up.
‘I have located historical exchanges, mostly email and Facebook messaging. I will not tell you how I got them, except to say an expert friend accessed them from a website that had suffered a denial of service attack, leaving it vulnerable for a short time. I’m going to show them to you because you led me to them.’
She reached out, but he held the sheets back.
‘You have a personal interest in what’s recorded here. But I want to make something clear between us. I found the material — actually my friend did — so I am going to retain the right to use it in the way I see fit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to decide how to use the material. I want your agreeme
nt on this.’
She felt like Scott: unable to understand what he was talking about.
He seemed to be waiting for a reply. When she didn’t say anything he went on, ‘Eloise, I think you want to see what I’ve found. But I will only show it to you if you agree that I control it, and you keep this conversation between us. No telling anyone about it, or about the material. If you don’t agree, I won’t show it to you.’
‘Okay …’ She thought about it. ‘How can I agree if I don’t know what you’re talking about?’
‘It’s your choice. Agree now, or I go away and we don’t speak any more.’
She folded her arms. ‘What if I agree now, then look at the stuff and change my mind — decide I do want to tell someone about it?’
‘You won’t want to do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It wouldn’t be in your interests.’
‘Is that a threat? You mean you’ll set your tiny bodyguard on me?’
He smiled, showing his wicked little teeth. ‘No threats. Just a gentleperson’s agreement.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am only going to show it to you, not give it to you. I’m not going to leave you today with any proof. So if you wanted to talk about this material, you’d have to work pretty hard to convince people it really exists. Without proof, you face a lot of trouble. Also a defamation suit. I’m sorry but that’s the only way I can proceed. You want to see what I’ve got, don’t you?’
‘So, let me get this straight. I’ve apparently helped you to find something, but you’re going to keep it all for yourself.’
‘Precisely, Eloise. Sorry. But you would not have been able to find it.’
He was holding out his hand. She shook it.
‘These are exchanges between Roza Hallwright and Mr Ed Miles, at the time they were on holiday at the Hallwright residence, Rotokauri. They are exchanges made before people knew this kind of messaging is not secure — that it can never be secure. They thought they were speaking in absolute privacy.
‘Let’s sit down, and I will show you. See, here is the date, the time, and here are the names of the pair talking. Roza and Ed.’
Who is he? He rang one of the numbers in the main house. He spun some line and got the idiot girl to bring me the phone. He mentioned Jung Ha. He said something about ‘your housekeeper’. She’s always spied on us. I think she gave him the house numbers. It’s got to be her. He asked about Elke, about my past, my AA/NA and he talked about my friend Tamara Goldwater. Whose name he could have got from Jung Ha. I’m going to fire JH today. He’s asking about very personal stuff. He knows stuff.
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