by Finn Bell
“And I know I made it worse. I was the local reporter, had connections in the police, the coroner’s office, and I found things out. The police told her and James they found some remains, but they said no more than that when the second search for Alice started. They strongly intimated that she was dead. I was the one who told her the truth—that Alice was still alive when they took that bone out of her, six weeks later. I told her about everything.” He fell silent as he ponderously lit up another cigarette, taking several deep pulls before continuing.
“I should have lied. There was no good in knowing that. But Emily was so desperate, so desperate,” he says, shaking his head. “I would have done anything for her. It was her idea to put it all in the paper, too. She was convinced it was the Zoyls. She thought that if everyone knew the exact horror of what had happened, then maybe somehow that would help, make people search harder, break more doors down, whatever. I nearly lost the paper because of running that story. But I didn’t care, you see. I had planted that seed with Emily. I gave her the grim hope that maybe Alice was still alive. That’s all she heard, her and James both. All the suffering of it was okay because at least it proved that Alice was still alive six weeks later. It’s like they both caught the same kind of madness that fed upon each other’s.”
Then for the first time since he’d started talking he meets my eye. “And I promise you that is really it, there is no more. Nobody ever found out anything else. There’s nothing I didn’t put in the paper. And they both kept searching. It had taken over their whole lives, Emily and James both. Asking questions and looking around. James must have crisscrossed that entire coastline more than once. He even went to confront the Zoyls a few times; once he and Emily went out there with a gun. But they just took it off him and roughed him up and left him there. Didn’t even call the cops. A year later James says he’s going for a walk—which was what he said when he went searching for Alice again, and this time he’s just gone.”
Pruitt’s cigarette has burned right down to his fingers but he seems not to notice.
“What do you think happened?” I ask.
“To Alice or to James?” he counters.
I shrug but say nothing.
“People knew there were bad things that happened around the Zoyl family. It had been that way for years. They mostly kept to themselves way out there so it was okay. And of course there’s no proof. Honestly, Finn, I don’t know what happened to Alice. And as for James, I think he fell from the cliffs and the sea took him or something. I won’t believe that he was the type to kill himself. He’d never leave Emily.”
“So the Zoyls . . .” I prompt. Pruitt is quiet for a long time before he answers.
“I like to think I’m a man of reason, Finn. Maybe it’s my line of work. But you have to have proof. Did the Zoyls kill little Alice? Do I know it? No. Do I believe it? God help me, yes, I believe it. I believe it because I can feel it.
“It’s a strange thing to have to live with. Sometimes when I think of it, I’m almost certain I got it wrong and it’s all in my head and the Zoyls are just people. But then I see them down at the wharf or I go visit Emily and it all comes back to me and I know it had to be them. Had to. What you’re doing now, asking questions, wondering, obsessing; I did that for years. Years. Poring over old evidence, re-interviewing people. Sitting up nights going over things again and again. And I can tell you, in the end, you’ll have nothing to show for it.”
I think to myself that he probably knows what he’s talking about—this Zoyl business is like playing with those special fake Rubik’s cubes. You keep going because you think you can work it out. It looks like something that can be solved, but in reality, there is never going to be an end.
And even as I sit here I can feel the anger dissolving—over my cats, and maybe over my life, too. Maybe that’s what attracted me so, and hearing Pruitt admit feeling the same way as me, that it’s not just me, somehow relieves some of the pressure in me. The Zoyls are so obviously wrong, they are Bad People—like the Nazis in the Second World War. Thinking about people this way makes everything simple. Makes it about Bad People and by extension about you being Good because you stand up to them. It’s easy and simple. You don’t have to judge yourself anymore, just them.
Like my granddad told me once years ago, when he got too drunk not to talk about the war—“We were lucky, Finn my boy, lucky those German buggers turned out to be so bad. If they weren’t, we wouldn’t have been able to live with ourselves over what we’d already done to them.”
I’m on the way home, tired and numb from the day, not really thinking, when I register that the oncoming truck is the old rusted one belonging to the Zoyls. My chest tightens as I briefly make out the three shapes of the Zoyl brothers arrayed inside before they flash by. Probably heading back to their boat, I think, then make a conscious effort not to give voice to any of the other thoughts passing through my mind.
Back at the cottage, I purposefully don’t notice the mound of earth by the gate where my cats are buried, either.
CHAPTER 19
March 5, THREE MONTHS AGO . . .
He comes at me from the side. It happens so fast I barely register he’s there before he hits me. My chair goes over and I almost fall awkwardly but luckily, my arms and hands are spared the jarring impact as I just manage to break the fall with my face.
It’s becoming my signature move.
I can just make out the crowd cheering through the ringing in my ears—Murderball has been living up to its name.
Even though here at the tournament it’s called Wheelchair Rugby.
Using the word rugby probably just makes it worse.
New Zealanders are rugby crazy.
If it’s even vaguely related to rugby, there’ll be a New Zealander involved, usually in some kind of enthusiastic collision.
It’s beyond a religion—men, women, kids—doesn’t matter. They’re good at it, too. New Zealand will routinely beat the world’s best, even though they are only a tiny country of just over four million people.
They’ve been all kinds of world champions in it as well.
In fact, New Zealand never did well in Murderball, lost to just about everyone. Back in 2004 they were ranked sixth when only about seven countries really played it seriously.
Then, also in 2004, they held the first international championship at the Athens Paralympics and made the mistake of using the R-word and renaming it from Murderball to Wheelchair Rugby.
New Zealand found out about the name change and promptly won.
Tai told me in an awe-filled voice that some of those players are actually here. I think he thinks that me knowing that makes it somehow easier to get banged up the way I am.
It’s been two straight days of bruising encounters for me with my long background of doing this. I still only need two hands to count the number of days I’ve spent playing.
In truth, Tai needn’t have bothered, because I’m having the time of my life.
I couldn’t care less if I suck. I hardly feel the knocks, because when you’re out here you’re in a world beyond words and rules and doubt.
Here everything in you comes alive and time goes all weird and takes your former self along with him while we become part of one big, heaving, striving, joyous thing.
As I’m helped off the court, my brain runs on along its own slightly woozy track.
Time can be funny like that. Ever notice how fast time seems to go when you’re doing exciting things, and how slow it goes when you’re doing boring things?
But then strangely, when you think back on the exciting things, it seems like so much time passed while you were doing them. But when you think back on the boring things, it seems like no time passed at all. Like how time feels when you think back on your most exciting week on holiday and your most boring week at work versus how time felt actually living through them.
And what’s even weirder is that the older you get, the faster time seems to go. I remember how long I ha
d to wait for my next birthday when I was a kid. Now it’s like they just fly by.
Maybe that’s what most of us are doing with our lives—slowly dying of boredom, content not trying to make things better today ironically because the boredom makes it feel like we’ve still got forever left. Calmly filling up the years with nothing.
I think about this now, possibly because I’m concussed, but also because the past few weeks have been like being young again.
So much fun that the days seemed really short to live through but long when remembered.
I’ve been training and helping with the planning for this tournament, current appearances aside, and just generally hanging out with the team and it’s been really good. I’ve gotten right out of my head.
I actually forgot that I can like people and that they, no accounting for taste, will sometimes generously decide to like me back.
I’ve not been to therapy and I’ve not thought of the Zoyls or the cats.
Life has offered me Murderball and I’ve grasped it with both bruised hands.
Life has also offered me the lap of Patricia as, without any complaints from my side, I find myself again looking up at Patricia as she cradles my head in her hands, not unlike that first day we met in the hair salon. Why do I always find myself looking up at her?
“You know, we have to stop meeting this way,” I say up to her with a smile.
“Oh, good, a cliché—maybe there is brain damage after all,” she responds with a deadpan expression.
“Now, does any of this hurt?” she asks as she moves my head gently around. Patricia, aside from the hair salon, also volunteers as a part-time paramedic. She’s been working here at the tournament the last three days.
Given how bad I play, we’ve done this a few times but, as before, I’m cleared with no obvious concussion or neck injuries, which is nice. The view is fine too.
“What?” I say, when I register that Patricia said something.
“I said you can get up now,” she repeats, smiling down at me. Which doesn’t make the prospect any easier, I think, as I return her smile and reluctantly pull myself back into a sitting position.
You can tell that Patricia has spent a lot of time around Tai. Around people in wheelchairs—because she doesn’t try to help me up.
Then she adds, “I’ll be here all day, and you still have another game left. Plenty of chances to get it right and go for a full concussion, maybe even some fractures, yay!” she says with mock excitement.
I think like most rational, sane adults, Patricia doesn’t quite understand why we do this.
I don’t fully understand why we do this.
But I know enough to know that it’s something I can’t not do now that I’ve done it.
I wish everyone could have something like this in their lives—something that takes away your freedom without you even caring.
And after two losses and two wins we are, if only just, still in this, with a chance to win.
And luckily our strategy—which mostly consists of various different ways to pass Tai the ball—is still working.
* * *
It’s after the game, after our planning session for the final we made it to tomorrow, when I find myself still too buzzed for sleep and I finally have enough time to stop and consider myself.
The past weeks I’ve slept like a baby. Not really had any thoughts bringing me down or felt things were too much, too hard, too empty, or just in general, too.
Even Tai’s noticed: “You know there’s something wrong with you, bro. It’s almost like you’re happy.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“You’ve been looking at people,” Tai says, “looking them in the eyes when you talk. You don’t usually do that.”
“I’ve been having a good time. Don’t ask me why, but this Murderball thing just works for me. I’ve never been into sports before,” I answer.
“You can’t understand happiness, fool, just feel it. Way I see it, if you find something good, load up on as much as you can get. Don’t waste time asking questions. Just let go already on who you think you are. You didn’t just lose your legs, bro. You can’t be you the way you were you. You have to be you in a different way now, you know? Catch, dummy,” he finishes as he passes the ball back to me.
That’s Tai for you. Comes out with these deep things you’d expect from Yoda, then throws things at your head and laughs when you’re still distracted.
I wish I could be cool like that.
Later, there’s a word I’m looking for to describe how I’ve been feeling the past few weeks, lying still wide awake, in bed.
I’m still just able to make out Tai’s ridiculously loud snoring from across the hall of the hotel.
It’s like your leg has gone to sleep and it’s waking up and you get that sharp, tingly-prickly feeling all over. It stings but it also feels good—like that—only it’s happening in my brain.
I’ve still got all the same problems and issues, nothing has changed outside of me—it’s just that all the bad stuff, while still playing, seems to have the volume turned way down.
Maybe I’m turning a corner with my life. I’m actually looking forward to seeing Betty again. She’s so good at figuring out what’s gone wrong with people—maybe she can put a name to what’s going right. Maybe she already knows. Maybe it’s the therapy and looking in mirrors and everything.
* * *
It is two days later and close to midnight when Tai deposits me back on my front porch and drives off, waving, and I’m still elated. We lost in the final but it was still an awesome game, and like John-John said afterwards, “They may have won, but they did it like losers. We lost like real winners. Big fuck heroes the lot of us! Chahoo!”
You had to be there to understand.
There’s a card stuck on my door. It’s from the police, saying that they had visited the property yesterday for their follow-up interview and would return tomorrow.
There’s also a note from Hot-Water Tui saying that he’d been by to reset my electricity earlier today.
Both things, in my mind, relate to the Zoyls and are sobering, but don’t damage my calm much—I’ve actually given the Zoyl business some new thought on the way back and have decided to take Pruitt’s and Tai’s advice and just let it go. But for different reasons than before.
I don’t want to do this anymore, but not because it makes me unhappy. I believe the whole business is still wrong. But it’s going to take up time I’d rather be spending on better things. Better things I’ve actually already found without meaning to.
It’s like some quiet part of me has gotten tired of waiting for the rest of me with all my bullshit and has just gone ahead and become happy at something without my permission.
And Tai’s right, I could build a life out here.
Murderball and some friends; who knows? I could become an actual person again.
It’s with these positive thoughts that I go to sleep and, still with the same sense of wellbeing, wake up during the night.
At first I think groggily that maybe the cats woke me up, then I remember I don’t have cats anymore.
So what’s that scratching noise?
Then I hear what is clearly the click of the front door and the creak of the floorboards.
Someone is in the house.
I just know it’s the Zoyls.
My first thought is to get to the gun.
Hell, my only thought is to get to the gun.
It’s mounted in my closet right next to my bed, but then I realise the key is on the chain with my car keys, which are in a bowl by the front door. Right next to my phone.
I try not to breathe or make a sound and the house is perfectly quiet.
I have to get out of here.
There’s another creak; there’s more than one person in here now.
Getting into the chair is going to make too much noise, so in desperation I grab hold of my pillow and blankets and roll them with me off the bed in
what is hopefully a well-muffled escape.
Once on the floor, I’m at least ready to try and make my way quietly to the back door. Maybe they won’t hear me or see me.
But it’s too late; they are already in the hall, even though I’m sure I didn’t hear them advance. I only see the stark-white beam from the flashlight as it slowly pans across the wall.
Not really having any further plan but delay, I pull myself as quietly as I can in under the bed just as the light from the flashlight plays across my room.
I think I can make out two gum boots in the doorway and there’s a smell; it smells like a mixture of sweat and soured beer.
That’s when I realise that I must be adapting to being in a wheelchair quite well now. You see, when I pulled myself under the bed, I had forgotten about my legs.
Both of the stupid things are still sticking out.
CHAPTER 20
June 4, PRESENT DAY . . .
The Zoyls are back.
Today, only hours after they left.
On a fishing trip that should have seen them only come back on Tuesday.
On a day when they left Darrell at home, when they always take him along.
And I’ve just spent all this agony getting up here, only paces from where they are now.
My trail clearly marked out in blood behind me in case they miss me.
Well fuck you too, karma.
This time I remember the gun. My hands are shaky, but maybe the fear and adrenalin have given me a boost because my vision clears a little and I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out just now.
Well fuck it, I reckon, as I take the safety off and aim up the hill.
I may as well at least try to take one of them with me.
