by Finn Bell
Minutes later, my eye fell back on the last newspaper and the name of the journalist at the bottom of the article. Pruitt Bailey. I slid the top issue aside and looked at the next; the same, Pruitt Bailey. I went through the stack and found his name at the bottom of every one; Pruitt Bailey, lead journalist for the Western Star newspaper.
Okay, I decide—if he’s still around, then I can talk to Pruitt. I felt quite relieved.
I realised then that I needed to talk to someone about this—itself an unusual instinct for me. It may be childish, but I didn’t care. It’s like Betty said, “You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, Finn. We teach kids that the bad things inside you lose power when you give them a name. It works for kids and it’ll work for you.”
I’m on the way to the front desk, meaning to ask Sharon if she knows where I can find the offices of the Western Star newspaper when I see that, with eerie luck, they are in fact right across the road from the library.
So I roll straight over, thinking I will ask if they knew if Pruitt Bailey was still alive and how I could get in touch with him when, to my further surprise, I’m informed that he’s out the back and I can head straight through the swing doors to the printers.
The printer room of the Western Star is a cacophony of noise and machinery moving, warm with the smell of paper and ink. I breathe deeply as it wafts over me. I always thought that if hope had a scent, then for me it would have to be that of freshly printed newspaper.
There’s only one other person in here. Pruitt is an enormously fat man, balding, with a scraggly, white beard and thick glasses. He’s seated behind a low desk with a mass of papers scattered across it, which he looks up from to give me an inquisitive stare.
“Good morning, Mr Bailey, my name is Finn Bell. I’d like to ask you a few questions if I can,” I say.
“Bah—usually that’s my line,” he replies with a smile as he gestures me closer. “What can I do for you?” he continues.
Here goes, I think.
“I recently moved into Emily Cotter’s place and I’ve been reading up on the history of the cottage . . .” I say, then hesitate, not knowing how to go further.
Pruitt’s expression becomes more serious and he pushes himself back from his desk.
“No, Mr Bell, you want to know about Alice,” he says, then sighs as he stands up.
I think he’s going to ask me to leave but he goes over to an ancient-looking file cabinet and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up without ceremony, then offers me the pack but I decline.
“Probably for the best. I’m down to a pack a day now and that only here at work. The wife won’t have them in the house, you see,” he says as he takes another drag. “She worries because I smoke, drink, and eat whatever I want. My position is that eventually something is going to kill you, you may as well enjoy the doing of it,” he says as he stares at the cigarette.
“Why do you want to know, Mr Bell?” he continues, without looking up at me.
“Please call me Finn, and look, I know it’s a strange thing to ask about and I can’t really explain. I’ve been in the cottage a while now and I’ve read the stories and well, I . . .” and I again trail into silence with a shrug.
“You know, running a newspaper in a small town is a tricky thing, Finn. It’s not like the big city where you can print anything you want—here you still have to live with the people in the stories the next day and the next year,” he says. “You see, I was still new to it all back then, didn’t think about the consequences of running those stories. What happened to Alice was news—I didn’t consider how it could really hurt this town. It took people a long time to forget. Many would say it’s best if it stayed forgotten,” he continued.
“I read your stories and a few days ago I actually met Emily and . . . well, I met the Zoyl brothers,” I explain.
“Well you have been busy then, Finn, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you need to know? This happened decades ago,” he presses.
“Look, I don’t know, I just want—need—to find out more,” I reply.
“And if you find out more—what will you do with what you learn? The Zoyls don’t come into town anymore and nobody goes out there. Emily is old now. Most days she doesn’t remember and she’s almost happy. Alice, God rest her, is gone. There’s nothing to find anymore. What good would it do?” he asks. “I can see you’re not a reporter, and you don’t sound like a cop, so why?”
And there’s the rub. I don’t really have a reason, just a need.
“I just need to know. And you’re right, I don’t really have a good reason. I’m not a cop and I’m not a journalist, and I don’t know what I would do with what I found out. I just need to know. I-I know this sounds crazy, but I met the Zoyl brothers, and don’t ask me how, but I just knew there was something wrong there. And then everything else just kind of followed from there and led me here,” I say. “Is there anything more you can tell me?”
“What we printed was already too much. First little Alice, then James. We did wrong. Some stories shouldn’t be told, Finn. I’ll not help you with this. Go home, leave this be,” Pruitt says as he stubs out his cigarette and blows the last lung full of smoke up into the air.
I’m back in my car having just started the engine when my mind catches up to my brain and I actually think about what Pruitt had said. “First little Alice, and then James.” Then James what? So with mild annoyance I go through the motions of getting back out of the car and back into the chair and back to the library. Pruitt may not want to tell me more now, but like he said, they put it all in print, didn’t they.
It takes quite some time to find the rest of it. It happened a year later—nearly to the day that Alice disappeared. The story isn’t on the front page and it’s only covered in one edition—maybe Pruitt Bailey had by then already regretted running the story. It’s cast as a missing person, presumed dead, and although Pruitt Bailey is again listed as the author, there’s no mention made of Alice or what happened the previous year. Apparently, James Cotter told his wife he was going for a walk along the cliffs by the ocean one evening and never came back. While he was officially listed as a missing person, the police representative is quoted as not being able to rule out suicide or accident. A body was never found.
I spent some more time scanning through the rest of the papers—actually working my way all the way up to 1996, but found nothing else and I assume that’s it.
So Emily Cotter lost her daughter and a year later her husband and then nothing, no bodies, no certainty, no endings. She just stayed there in that house till now. Part of me hopes Pruitt is right and that now she just doesn’t remember, but I know it’s just a fool’s hope. I saw how she looked at that wall of pictures of Alice and James. Suddenly my problems don’t seem nearly as bad.
I’m on the way out of the library again when I bump into one of the Tuis heading in—who in my mind I now distinguish as Hot-Water Tui—and I purposely try to be friendly, seeing as we’ve met a few times when my hot water-deprived self probably wasn’t the most welcoming. Like Pruitt said—it’s a small town, and you have to live with these people tomorrow and next year—and I may need hot water again in future.
“Hey, Tui, how’s it going?”
“Oh good, good, Mr Bell, nice to see you about—didn’t know you were a bookish type,” he says as an easy smile further creases his weathered face.
“Oh, just doing some research about the history of the area. Riverton is an interesting place. How about you?” I say, not wanting to sully the mood with more talk of Alice and James right now.
“I’ve come to see if Sharon will finally marry me!” he jokes, getting a laugh from Sharon as she comes up to him with a stack of books.
“Here you go, Tui, they are all there,” she says as she hands him the books.
“Ah, choice, thanks, dear,” Tui says as he takes the books from her. “It’s all about tats, you know.”
“Tats?” I say.
“Tat
s, you know, tattoos, body art—it’s my thing,” he says as he pulls up his sleeves to show off his skinny, tattoo-covered arms, moving his head from side to side to show the ones creeping up both sides of his neck.
“I’ve done most of them myself, see—started out when I was young, and then had to slow down when I turned 50—done run out of skin!” he says, and I can’t help but laugh with him.
“But then I turned 60, and realised everything is now so loose and saggy that I have more room again—you gotta make the best of things,” he says and laughs, setting off both myself and Sharon again at his logic.
“So I’m doing some reading up on doing ones in colour—haven’t never done ones in colour yet. But hey, if you’re interested in the history of Riverton, then you gotta go talk to Black Albie—he’s my cousin—direct descendant of Bloody Jack Tuhawaiki. Bloody Jack was chief of the Ngāi Tahu tribe, he was. Albie knows everything about everything for the last 100 years. He keeps everything, too, every book, paper, picture . . . knows all the stories and who grabbed who in the dark, too,” Tui says with a wink and a comical leer at Sharon, who just laughs again as she walks away.
CHAPTER 11
June 4, PRESENT DAY . . .
Bloody Jack Tuhawaiki—Black Albie told me the nickname “Bloody” comes possibly from his reported penchant for swearing at European whalers back when they came to establish the town of Riverton as a whaling outpost in 1836. That or because he allegedly later bought a cannon from those same whalers and blew up a whole bunch of Māori warriors from a neighbouring tribe. People down here were always practical about adopting new technologies and cultures.
But why am I thinking about that now? It’s just keeping me awake, and it’s hard enough for me to get to sleep. It’s when I try to settle more comfortably against the rocks that I realise this train of thought has some holes in it.
I jerk back to reality, realising that I’ve been drifting off again. Maybe it’s the blood loss or maybe hanging upside down so long out here, but it’s starting to feel kind of peaceful. Why did I end up thinking of Bloody Jack?
Because it’s that day that I missed it, that one, small, crucial thing, the day I met Black Albie and he showed me Bloody Jack’s legacy. That’s when I made the mistake, missed the one thing that would have meant I wouldn’t be out here dying now.
And what’s almost as bad is that no one will know.
I think James Cotter figured it out but didn’t get the chance to tell anyone, and it looks like it’ll be the same in my case. Dear God—if Pruitt Bailey knew the truth, even he would have said this story needs to be told, no matter how dark.
As I look around me, my gaze again settles on Darrell’s body beneath me and I remember what I had forgotten.
And I think—what have I got to lose? I find a way to loosen my caught leg and try to aim my fall for his body. Darrell was a big man. It is probably going to hurt, but maybe his body will soften the landing enough that I’m still able to drag myself around to the beach? Maybe get back to the car even?
And in the end what choice do I have—I’m dead if I stay, either by Darrell’s hand or that of his brothers when they find me, and I’d rather die by my own if I had to.
Okay, no more thinking.
I’ll just talk myself out of it.
I reach for my free leg and pull, and when the wheelchair creaks again I pull harder, and then harder.
When it happens I’m still not ready for it. There’s no last crack or slip; all of a sudden I’m just falling. Aiming for Darrell’s body becomes impossible; it doesn’t happen in slow motion, either.
I barely have time to throw my arms in front of my face before I hit. Hard.
Even though I hit square on Darrell’s chest, it still knocks the wind out of me and my head spins and there’s blood everywhere, a lot of it in my mouth.
As I move my shoulder, I see that my head is right by Darrell’s, almost like I was sleeping with my head on his chest. Up close I can now see the inside of that chest, as I must have broken open his ribs with my landing. Now I wish for the small mercy that the blood in my mouth is actually my own.
But this all is happening as background music to the pain—which feels like it is coming from pretty much all over me, and I dimly realise that the continuous moaning sound I’m hearing is actually coming from me. I really do try to fight it, because I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to wake up again, but consciousness just leaks out of me.
My vision slowly starts to tunnel and my breathing evens out, and then blackness.
CHAPTER 12
FEBRUARY 8, FOUR MONTHS AGO . . .
Everyone’s back in Riverton—everyone in this case being Tai, Patricia, and Betty—and it makes me simultaneously grateful and sad. That I have people in my life I actually want to see again, and that after 37 years of life there are so few.
But I force myself to purposefully lean towards gratitude. Your last chance doesn’t have to be pretty, just there.
And I’ve got to start filling up the empty spaces in my life beyond Murderball and therapy sessions and this Zoyl business in any case. I didn’t have a fully detailed plan when I came down here—it was mostly about getting away from myself and starting clean. Between selling my business and the house in Wellington and my disability payments, I’ll be okay moneywise. And I bought the cottage for what I thought was a steal—now maybe I’m not so sure.
I don’t yet have the rest worked out. Now that I’m not a full-time alcoholic with a busy agenda of alienating loved ones and focussed self-destruction, my schedule is pretty open. The wheelchair probably closes the door on a few professions, I think. My life is still under construction. But I’m happy things are in motion again—I’ve got a Murderball game this week, and I’m even feeling good about restarting my therapy sessions with Betty. Yesterday I named the cats, which makes my life here seem just that little bit more real.
I had Hot-Water Tui come over and install a cat door yesterday and while he was here, ever the hands-on type, he informed me after due inspection, “Looks like you’re a ladies man—all these kittens are female. Bit odd, that.”
“Really, all female—so I now have five female cats, okay,” I reply. It’s strange, I’d never pictured myself as a cat person, or even a pet person, but now the idea of giving any one of them up feels wrong.
“What’d you name them?” he asks as he gently rolls all four kittens together into an excited, writhing mass of flailing paws and whiskers, softly cooing at them all the while.
“I still haven’t, actually,” I respond.
“Bad luck, that is. Animals have wairua—spirits—you know, and they belong to you now so you gotta name them,” Tui says.
Later that day, as I was sitting out on the porch watching the kittens explore the new cat door I thought, well, I already call the mom cat Mom Cat anyway—so at least that’s one name done. Maybe that’s a good format for names. So after some careful observation and deliberation, I am now the owner of Momcat, Fastcat, Babycat, Bigcat, and Dopeycat. It makes sense to me and that’s enough.
I felt a little nervous leaving them alone and being able to get out of the house through the new cat door, but then thought that’s probably Momcat’s worry, not mine.
On Tui’s recommendation, I’m going to go meet Black Albie today. I told myself it’s something to do that gets me out of the house, and it’s good to learn more about the town I’m living in, and if nothing comes up about the Zoyls or Alice, then that’s still fine too.
I don’t even really know what to call this—it’s not a hobby and it’s not an investigation, it’s more like hearing a song played halfway and trying to remember how the rest goes in your head.
I just keep coming back to it.
The drive out to Black Albie’s place is a scenic one and takes you along the coast by Colac Bay, where they say on a clear day you can see the whales out in Foveaux Strait.
Tai told me that whaling was how Riverton started. Whalers came to set up
a trading post after the first one, Preservation Inlet, was deemed as too harsh by the whalers.
Tai says it was the wrong start. The local Māori tribes believe that whales are sacred, and building a town around killing them tainted the Europeans who came here. It was only years later, after the sealing and whaling booms ran out and the people turned to fishing and farming, that the Māori actually forgave them.
Many times before then they actually debated killing them all and flattening the town. The strange thing is that Tai says that for all those decades, none of the white people even knew their risk. They never asked, and the Māori never told. That’s people for you.
Preservation Inlet is also where Black Albie lives.
It’s a beautiful spot of native bush nestled amongst high hills and a dirt track terminating at a sprawling, if dilapidated-looking, farmhouse that looks like it’s been cobbled together from the leftover bits of other houses.
Soon the place starts living up to its reputation as I notice all kinds of random, ancient-looking things stacked against the house and scattered across the yard. Albie is, by all accounts, an obsessive collector of historical artefacts, known for hunting all over and hounding people to either give or sell their old oddities to him. I’m told also that he’s known too for almost immediately then losing interest once he’s acquired it.
The figure who walks out to me fits the scene well, decked out in his large camouflage hunting jacket and wide-brimmed straw sun hat. He’s a big man. You can see he’s related to Tai, and I guess he’s somewhere in his fifties. But for an older man he still moves with ease, although he has the prematurely aged and weather-worn face of a man who has spent most of his life outdoors.
When I meet him he matter-of-factly introduces himself as “Black Albie,” I’m again reminded of the uncomplicated sense of humour of people down south here. Black Albie is Māori, hence thinks of himself as black, and he’s also an albino. Black Albie.
