by Alan Duff
They’ll pull her out of the boot, drag her through the bush in the dark, it won’t be a very deep hole, too fuck-lazy to do it properly. She’ll be dropped into the shallow hole, dirt over her poor li’l face, her final indignity, of bein’ poorly buried by fuck-ups.
They’ll be shakin’ when they get back in the mean machine, nowhere to look, nowhere to escape the deed jus’ done — Hold on a minit: there is. One or the other’ll cry in joy as he remembers a joint. The prez’ll give his cold-hearted smile, those snake eyes’ll glow in the dark, so’ll the joint passing between ’em, the smoke’ll do its work fast, it’ll have to, but at first it’ll magnify the deed to its enormous awful height, but it’s a matter of hanging in there till that passes. And when it does nothin’ll matter, specially not the life just taken, specially not that. The weed’ll turn murder to the dust the victim’ll eventually, in the by and by, become. The smoke’ll give the mind reason upon reason as to why it did what it did: righteousness will set in. They won’t be but ten minutes into the journey home when they’ll be considering the next righteous deed to be done, against him, fucken Abe Heke — he’s forgone the right to the name he took, Blackie — and the pain he’ll suffer first. Oh, yeah, the pain.
Out the window, hanging by his fingertips, letting go, falling into eternity, but ground not long in buckling him. (I’m alright?) Hurt an ankle bad but that wouldn’t stop him running. For home. (I’m goin’ home.)
TWENTY-SIX
THAT HE NOTICED the big, wall-enclosed house they were working close to was the Trambert place (and that must be the tree sticking up, all lush with summer growth and yet with my kid’s last moments somewhere with her presence) was troubling enough. They were the road and sectionworks contractor, his machine had to turn every few minutes into the view of the house and that damn tree. So in the end he switched his mind off from it or he’d have not been able to do his job properly. Which is what he prided himself on since his boss had told him those good things about himself, made him a charge-hand and now he had a van to take home even if he had to get up half an hour earlier to pick up the three men under him.
Then the man developing the Trambert land turns up, dressed how they do these white men and always looking confident, cocksure of ’emselves even when they’re li’l runts. Not that this fulla was a runt, but he wasn’t nothin’ special neither. Then one of the boys says it’s Trambert himself. And the first thing Jake Heke thought was, how much more fucken money does the man want? Then guilt that the man would know everything he thought he knew about him, Jake, the hanged girl’s father. And Jake seriously thought about quitting the job. Especially that it was the very next day he caught the man staring at him. Felt he couldn’t take going through it all again. (I done my time. Here on the outside.) But lucky for Trambert he nodded at Jake, though Jake wasn’t sure why the nod if the man knew what he thought he did.
But fuckit, he thought of the hunting times to come with the Douglas brothers, how different the experience’d be, they promised him. Which is why on Fridays he brought his rifle to work in the van, when it used to be his second favourite night for drinking and partying, Saturday being best cos it could start at around noon, but now Fridays, or if the weather allowed, were for hunting after their work; he had his hunting gear all ready to transfer to their four-wheel drive (and my gun). It was the job that afforded the hunting, his share of the vehicle petrol, share a tyre replacement, food and bullets even if the deer meat gave the boys a bonus, it still cost (like everything does, right Jake?) So he told himself forget Trambert, just keep focused on the job; and as he didn’t eat lunch he worked his machine through lunch and that way didn’t break his fixed focus. Job was only a two monther anyrate. He could last that long — couldn’t he? — if he’d lasted all this time with what people (wrongly) thought about him.
Every day Trambert would be there at some stage or other. Tall and a bit of a smoothie in that well-dressed way, one a them silk things around his neck, sometimes a brown-flecked jacket and tie, nice shoes, walking over the sections of worked soil starting to take shape out of where sheep’d grazed. Stopping every so often, a man in thought, as if this was the most important project of his (money-hungry) life. Car he had was a bit past it, for a fulla rich as him. Must be a tightarse as well. Prob’ly why he was rich. And there wasn’t a visit when Jake didn’t catchim looking his way, just glances, but, he had to admit, friendly enough; with that li’l nod they give, white men like him. Not like the boss who was also a honky but rough as guts, big moustache, big and strong and didn’t take no shit from no one. Not that Jake’d ever had reason or desire to give his boss shit; he was a good man. Worked alongside his men, could drive any machine and had several gangs on different contracts around town and a couple of highway jobs out of town. He spent a lot of time going from job to job, which made Jake’s position more responsible and one he took seriously. No particular reason why, other than it just seemed fair to the man that being a chargehand meant what it said: he was in charge. And if they didn’t like him not having lunch with them they never dared say, just gave a man looks and even they wore off when they realised he just didn’t eat lunch. He wasn’t trying to be a suckarse to the boss. (Who likes a suckarse?)
One day Trambert came walking over to Jake as he sat in his front-end loader waiting for a late truck to dump dirt into. Jake found himself a little bit nervous at the approach. But he could hardly say anything. Just be ready on the defensive. Good morning. Morning. I’m Gordon Trambert. (So fucken what?) And you’d be Jake, is that right? Jake just nodded and got ready for some crap about Grace.
I saw you on the rugby field some months back. (Oh? And?) That right? You playing on the other side? (Take that.) Trambert laughed. No, too old and anyway not good enough. But I’m a very keen fan, very avid. (Avid? Keen?) Jake not used to these sorta words, not that he didn’t know their meaning. He just never used them and hardly ever heard them used. Wondering when the fulla was gonna bring up Grace. Bracing himself and hoping for that fucken dirt truck to turn up and save ’im.
Ended up talking for about ten minutes. But only on rugby, who was senior-club champion, what did Jake think of the All Black selection and how the game being professional had changed the game itself, made it faster, of higher standard. That sorta talk. Then he shook hands and went on his way. Nice fulla. ’Nless he was just being polite. (Unless he saw me stripped down in the heat and thought better of saying anything about my daughter. Alright, Rita’s right, I never gave my kids mention cos I never thought ofem. Dunno why, I just didn’t. But she said a few weeks ago, the first time I’d heard from her since we’d had that good night, best one of my life as I remember, or it was till she said what she did, she said I’m like a lot of men from shit backgrounds, I didn’t know how to be a good parent. Didn’t know how to be one fullstop So how was I gonna learn all of a sudden at forty-three? Never too late to learn, Jake, she told me like I was a kid, as if you can just say it and it happens — when it don’t. And if I up and took a interest in my kids where would I start? I asked her that. You start like you start a road job, Jake: a little bit at a time. Yeah, easy to say. Hard (impossible) to do.)
But at least Rita had turned up of her own accord and at least she said she’d been missing Jake. And at least he didn’t ask her jealous questions of who else she’d been seeing in the meantime since she’d taught him, in no uncertain manner, that her business was her business and until such time as she agreed to share it with someone, with any man be it him or who knows how many others, then it bloodywell stayed her business. Bitch was stronger than Beth. And they’d made love near as good as the last time, and he’d said afterward, Spose you expec’ me to say sumpthin’ about one a my kids? Well, I can’t. (Even if I’d wanted to. Been too long.) Been a long time, Ri. Since I even seen one a them. Wanting her to take back what she’d said and he’d make any other change she asked of him, even cut down his drinking, anything but the impossible.
She wouldn’t have it though
. Said again, he had to start somewhere. He asked her where, how, what did he do? But she shook her head and toldim it had to come from him, from his own within. Which took him a little figuring out how she put that last. (From my own within? Well who else’s within would it be?) But he did get it, by and by. But it didn’t come with any answers.
Few days later he sees a car slow right down on its way down the Trambert private road, a coupla football fields long, lined with skinny trees but nice cone shapes and pale green of leaf, but only half a field distant from the new carve-off of land they were turning into building sections. This woman in it, must be Mrs Trambert, stopped and looking out her driver’s window at the site (bitch is checking on her family money growing before her eyes. Lovely eyes at that, or the quite distinguishable face suggested they’d be. Very classy.) Snooty, to Jake Heke’s eyes. Then he realised she was looking at him. And she gave this li’l wave. And was that a smile? Drove on leaving him sitting on his machine feeling confused.
The next day when Trambert made his regular inspection, this time with another fulla in a suit carrying plans and both doing a lot of pointing, Jake was sure Trambert’s greeting lacked something. It did from earlier times when he would come over to Jake if Jake wasn’t on the machine working it, and talk rugby. Last time he asked about a young player called Toot Nahona. Said he’d seen the game when this Nahona fulla’d — well, gave you a hard time, Jake. Jake remembering the flanker, and how he’d really got one in for Jake no doubt about that. And won the confrontation, hands down. Well this visit if Jake’d walked up and asked about a specific rugby game he got the feeling Gordon Trambert would have been colder of attitude. So someone’d been talking to him. Turned a man into his shell. And why shouldn’t he?
SO IT’S HIM? Yes, it’s him. Jake Heke, they said at almost the same moment, which got a little smile from her (for a change). He’s big, isn’t he? I don’t know, I’ve seen bigger. Every Saturday senior rugby I see them even bigger than him. It’s not so much his size as a certain presence. Well, that’s probably what I meant, Gordon. A certain crude charisma. Yes, I think it would be fair to describe him as that; I’ve talked a few times to him on the site. Without ever realising of course. And then Gordon Trambert realised something else.
Do you remember I told you of returning past the cemetery after the Heke girl’s funeral and — Don’t call her the Heke girl, Gordon. She had a name: Grace. Alright, fair enough. Grace. Well at Grace’s graveside was this rather astonishingly moving sight of a young man with wild, frizzy locks, lurching his way to the grave, myself parked up at the roadside, two sextons frozen poses of eating their lunch. And this grief-stricken kid, this teenager as though out of a jungle, as though some tragic part in a melodrama, fallen to his knees and — And there he was like a dog howling inconsolably to the — well in this instance a rather grey sky. An unforgettable sight. Had me in tears. You in tears, Gordon? Cocking that eyebrow how she did at him. But at least this was communication and brought about, as happenstance would have it, by the father of Grace, tragic Grace Heke.
Then he told his wife of one day seeing an outstanding rugby player as being one and the same youth but several years, a shaven head, older. And now it was explained why Toot Nahona had so ferociously targeted Jake Heke on the rugby field, he had been Grace’s friend. And of course Jake had come under suspicion that he had sexually abused his daughter, until tests showed it wasn’t him, according to one of Isobel’s golfing friends, a real ferret for private information on near anyone. Estrangement or not, they sat there in the living room with drinks he’d got while they were at it (actually sharing a moment together), a quiet astonishment at how this funny old world sometimes turned out.
So how are your costs on this development? Why Isobel, you’re actually interested? I’m interested to know if it’s you-know-what. Go on, say it. You mean another disaster? Yes, I do mean that. Is there reason I shouldn’t? After all, there is a track record. I agree, oh pessimistic wife of mine — No, not pessimistic. Cynical, Gordon. Cynical.
Our costs, my dear, are exactly as they were contractually fixed at. And you may be interested to know that Lloyds no longer want our blood, they’ll settle for a few pints shall we say. Gordon wondering in his heart what his wife would settle for to put end, or at least start the process, to this estrangement. But he didn’t ask. What, and there are pints left to give? Just, dear. Just. Oh, well, that’s a relief. I’ll have another drink while you’re up.
She talked about their son, Alistair, and how he appeared to be taking a somewhat dramatic turn for the better. Perhaps it was a case of late maturing. Whatever the reason, it was enough to cheer a father, indeed a husband for having his wife at least share this with him, feeling the better. It might have been the drink, or what he thought he was seeing, or hearing, in her eyes, her tone, that stirred a sexual urge in him. But dammit (no), he’d not grovel for it. Put it out of his mind, he’d not let it show. He might, if he had the strength, ignore her hint if that was what he was seeing increasingly as he made her a third gin and tonic. (Yes. I shall ignore her overtures. Then we’ll see about my being a man to respect.)
And they kept returning to him, Jake. Jake Heke, well well well. Innocent, Isobel? Or guilty? Oh, definitely innocent. Are you sure? Of course she was sure. What, are you worried he’ll come here with an eye for me? Gordon couldn’t help himself: He’ll have to line up behind me then. Don’t be disgusting, Gordon. Yes, yes, I know it’s been a long time. No, he lifted his hand. Don’t even mention it. It comes when it comes. Is that your crude idea of a pun, darling? (Is this your idea of a long awaited hint, my darling?) The first time she’d used any form of endearment in some long time. He changed the subject. He wasn’t that easy.
ONE OF THE bruthas, drunk and stoned, had cut a big hole in the wall upstairs so it looked down on the main floor area of the Browns’ HQ where everyone got together and got nightly, daily if there was bread enough, drunk and anyway constantly stoned on dope. He did it, he said, to remind him of being in jail looking down from a landing, HAHAHA! using a Stanley knife which some of the bruthas carried for cutting faces not lino, but cut through the gib-board like cake been sittin’ in the sun a few days. And he’d yelled out from up there: Num’a one landing! in an imitated screw’s voice. Down f’ breakfas’! And the boys and sheilas down below beside ’emselves with laughter and aksing was it bacon an’ eggs or just fucken porridge sludge? And over the months utha bruthas’d cut a piece out so it was a length of viewpoint a good eight studs in width and enough to show from below, if anyone looked up, of head and shoulders lookin’ down jus’ like in a jail. ’Cept there wasn’t a net like in jail for the jumpers, the commit sideways wannabes who’d had enough, couldn’t do no more time. It was jus’ straight dirty floorboards and elbow-height tables like in a public bar for everyone to lean on as they got drunk (again). Yeah, jus’ missing a net for those fullas who couldn’t do no more time.
Like Mulla Rota couldn’t. (I just couldn’t, man.) Not one more week. A day in the copshop lock-up, a week on remand, yeah. A man must expect that. But a sentence? Hell no. A man was all used up inside. And nor did he laugh at the pun. Not now.
He was looking down reminded, as always, of being on the firs’ landing of a jail, hearing inis mind those echoes of grilles opening and closing, screws’ keys jangling, the constant voice explosion and all the bad expressin’ that sounded worse echoing in a concrete-walled chamber. He was lookin’ down then suddenly eased back from view at sight of Chylo, mad, murder-potential, achin’-t’-happen Chylo. With Gloria. And fucken Jimmy Bad Horse. In a talking huddle. And Mulla peeping down on ’em his heart breaking in two. (She’s dropped me cos I didn’t wanna do it. The job was my idea. Now she’s gone for Chy cos he’ll do anything.) Including, it was also clear, having her, as Chy’s hand went on her hip and she turned into the touch, oh, yeah, he could hear her sayin’, and Mulla could imagine Chylo’s eyes glass ovah cos sex weren’t just sex with him, not with Chylo. It was what
he and every man wanted but it frightened him, or it was inis head as sumpthin’ a normal or even a half fucked-up gang member’d not recognise. He’d be the type to beat up a woman in the middle of fucking her. Or pull out his Stanley knife and giver a cutting. And now she was unwittingly offering herself to Chylo (cos I wasn’t havin’ none of her do-anything to get a deposit on a new house). And when Jimmy Shirkey put a hand on her tight-jeaned arse and her laugh echoed up to Mulla, he felt like diving ovah landin’ on the floor dead at their fucken betraying feet. Specially her feet. (Man, I loved you.)
Confused, even suddenly nauseous and dizzy in his terrible hurt and betrayal, Mulla Rota lurched back to his room, shut the door behind him. Had thought of only wanting this feeling, this awful sense of himself, this fucken whole existence that’d been lived through, endured — just — and then thought he’d come out the utha side only to end like this, of it may as well bein’ a true end. Wanted to kill himself. (May’s well die, man. May’s well end the fucken thing. Whassa use? Whassa use of even bein’ a good person and you get shat on?) And he lay down on the bed, a tall man, a facially tattooed man with Maori warrior designs, same patterns same pain of bearing silent electric needling as them two down there plotting with his woman, and wept like a man stripped of his warrior status, stripped of meaning, stolen of love, taken of life jus’ when it’d started to be and mean sumpthin’. That’s how Mulla Rota wept.
Though there remained, or came, one last spark of life in him. Which did inform his broken self of its presence. You got one more spark lef’, Mulls, it said. So who’s it gonna be? When the cryin’s done, when the life can’t be no more, who’s it gonna be to give it some sorta las’ meaning? And he did have a face clear in even his distraught mind.
