by Finn Bell
But, no, upon inspection, I see that I’m caught around the hips by a tangle of branches that got pushed to the side by the truck.
It’s when I’m extricating myself from the tangle having to actually pull myself fully underneath the truck to get myself free, with no real plans beyond that, that I hear the first crackle and low dopplering hum.
And I think, oh God, it’s time now, Sean has lit the fire.
I have nothing left. I am shallows gasps of blank terror. I know what’s coming.
I can already smell it, and hear the noise grow to a steady, building roar as it spreads.
Too quickly, too quickly.
And my last fleeting, absurd, stuttering thought, beyond reason but horribly true, is that I’ve never really known anything, nothing good. I was born knowing nothing and now I’m going to die a fool without really understanding anything. All I can think and feel is I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasted it all.
CHAPTER 29
March 30, THREE MONTHS AGO . . .
“Why won’t you listen to reason, Finn?” Pruitt asks.
I’ve wondered that enough times myself, I think.
“Because I won’t live like this. I’m not running from them. And it’s my house,” I respond.
It’s been two weeks living with Tai and the girls, and my announcement that I’m going back to the cottage this morning has not gone down well. First with Tai and now with Pruitt. And I’m sure I’ll be getting an earful from Betty at therapy today, too. Small towns.
“Tai, you know it’s been good, but I’ve got to get back to my life out there,” I say, appealing to Tai again.
“What life, bro? You’ve got nothing out there. You don’t even have the cats now. This is just about the Zoyls, you won’t let go,” Tai replies.
“I have to agree with Tai on that, Finn. As much as I want an end to all of it, I don’t like this idea. Have you forgotten what Bobby said? I don’t think you’ll be safe,” Pruitt says.
“I can’t live my life at the convenience of the Zoyls, Pruitt. I’ve got the gun and I’m having the locks changed and an alarm put it, cameras and everything. I’ll be careful,” I say to placate them, but it has little impact.
“You could sell it, get a place in town,” Tai suggests. I know it’s not an unreasonable suggestion given the circumstances, but maybe I’m not that much of a reasonable man. Or maybe I feel I shouldn’t have to be. When people push you, you push back. Especially when the pushing people are people like the Zoyls, I think.
“Look, I’ve got to do some things in town but I’m staying there tonight. I appreciate the concern, guys, but my mind’s made,” I say as I head for the door.
A door which, as I exit it, unfortunately affords me the view of a police car parking on the road in front of the house.
We’ve had several meetings with the police over the last two weeks and, as predicted by Father Ress and Pruitt, nothing has come of it but tedium.
There were no prints or any other physical evidence found at my house, and the Maihis have stuck to their story of gambling at the Zoyl farm the whole night I said they broke into my house, so the truth has been thoroughly buried under a pile of well-placed lies.
And it’s very definitely me that “said” or “alleged” if you talk to the cops, who while sympathetic to me and suspicious of the Zoyls and the Maihis in equal measure, have got nothing to do but be politically correct at me whenever we meet.
But as they move up the walk to the front door, I see that it’s not just the same faces this time. These cops are new, and definitely not from around here.
Their faces that take me right back.
It’s moments like these when I realise how much I can miss Africa.
They are both tall and skinny men, who look to be in their early thirties and clearly come from Africa, with a deep, black tint to their skin. As they approach, they nod and smile in an identical manner.
Which suits, as they are clearly twins.
“Good day. Mr Bell, is it?” the leading of the two asks in a heavy accent you could almost mistake for French.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say with a smile and a pang of nostalgia as I recognize the accent. “You guys are a long way from Benin,” I add, playing a hunch.
Upon hearing this, the twins look at each other and share a smile before the second of the two responds.
“Yes, we are from Benin, sir. That is a remarkable guess. I had thought our accents were too soft to place now,” he says.
“Almost, but you’re also twins and I’ve been there, years ago. I was touring from Nigeria through to the Ivory Coast and I spent a few weeks there, staying in Porto Novo. I kept seeing the same people everywhere, over and over again in different places, wearing different clothes. I thought I was going crazy till one of the locals told me about Benin and all the twins there. What were the odds again?” I ask.
“Ah, the odds are about 5 per 100 to have twins in Benin, Mr Bell,” he replies. “More twins than any other country in the world. But as you know, having stayed in Porto Novo city, it’s much higher there, maybe 1 chance in 4,” he says, nodding.
“It’s what we are famous for; that, and being the best unrecognised soccer nation in the world, of course,” the other adds, smiling.
“I am Detective Lucas Faso and this is my brother, John. We are here from Wellington, and we need to speak with you, Mr Bell,” he says.
“You want me to sit in?” Pruitt asks as he comes up behind me, having witnessed our meeting.
“Yeah, maybe it’s good news,” I say to him. It would buck the trend, at least.
“Ah, you are Mr Pruitt Bailey perhaps? That is fortunate, as we were planning on seeing you next. Is there somewhere private where we can talk together?” Detective John or possibly Lucas asks, raising his voice over the sound of a heavy thud from the house followed by the outbreak of children yelling first at each other, and then for their mother, who then yells at them, and shortly afterwards by all of them yelling for Tai, who just laughs as he heads back into the house with a, “Seeya, bro,” thrown over his shoulder.
“Yes, I’ve got an office just up the road that’s quiet, it’s a short walk,” Pruitt replies as we all head back to the road.
“How long have you been in New Zealand?” I ask, curious, despite myself.
New Zealand is a melting pot of cultures with immigrants like myself from all over the world making their home here, but hailing from somewhere as obscure as Benin in the heart of central North Africa is definitely unusual.
“We’ve been here for several years now, Mr Bell. We were offered resettlement after Afghanistan. We were interpreters for the New Zealand Army there in Bhagram, and afterwards, when Al Qaeda started operating more in Africa, we were granted asylum,” Lucas answers.
“Afghanistan?” I ask.
“We speak several languages, Mr Bell. Our parents were both teachers, and aside from our native French, they also taught us English so we could work as interpreters for the American tourists in Nigeria. But then more and more Russians came looking for oil so we learned Russian also, to work for them. And then when the Russians went to the Middle East they needed interpreters who could speak Russian and English but also Pashto, so as we already knew two out of three we learnt Pashto also, and went to Afghanistan. And then there we worked for the New Zealand Army and found our way here to this beautiful country,” he says, smiling, without a trace of irony or sarcasm in his voice.
And I think, amazing story aside, that nobody born in New Zealand could ever truly appreciate living here like someone from Africa could.
* * *
Once the four of us are there, all with coffee in hand, it’s Pruitt who asks the first question, getting us back to business. “You’ve been speaking to Father Ress, haven’t you?”
“We have been speaking to many people, Mr Pruitt. But before we continue, I must ask that this conversation be held in confidence. We do not want to risk escalating matters, and we are not at lib
erty to discuss any developments with the press, only with you as affected individuals,” John says.
As a term, “Affected Individuals” just somehow doesn’t cover it, I think.
“Don’t worry, it’s off the record. We’re not running this story,” Pruitt assures them.
“Just so, Mr Bailey. We’ve been assigned from head office, and we met with Father Ress last night before driving down,” John continues.
“Why now?” Pruitt asks.
“Father Ress is still held in high regard, Mr Bailey, and he has made it clear to ourselves and our superiors that our involvement now may be of more help than later,” Lucas adds.
“Later being when one of us goes missing?” I can’t help but ask.
“No, Mr Bell, later when one of you dies,” John replies. “Let us not deny the risks involved here.”
“We are here to tell both of you that we are taking this situation very seriously. We are aware of the circumstances and the history around the case. And we have also made it clear to the Zoyls that they are persons of interest in what has happened recently, and will certainly be that if any further incidents occur. We will also today be interviewing all three Zoyl brothers, as well as the Maihis, personally, although I must say that we doubt there will be any new outcome aside from also assuring them that we still have them in focus,” Lucas says.
“Is that it?” Pruitt asks.
“No. Further, in the interest of your own safety, we would also ask that you strongly consider ceasing any further involvement in this matter. If you learn anything new or have questions that you believe need answers, please pass it on to the police and we will take it from there. Do not take matters into your own hands. Also, Mr Bell, we would ask you to consider moving away from the cottage, as all the incidents have occurred there. Given the circumstances, it is not a safe place for you to be. And from what we’ve been told, there is no pressing reason for you to be there. This is very possibly a life-threatening situation, and you are able to do things to make yourself safe. We ask that you please do so. We have been given to understand that you have only recently moved to Riverton and that you have no family ties here, no employment. Given the circumstances, we must ask you to seriously consider leaving Riverton, for your own sake,” he finishes in that same, undoubtedly sincere tone. Yeah, theme of the week, I think.
Shortly afterward, without anything else of import to discuss and eventually seeing that I wouldn’t be convinced to leave Riverton, the friendly twins from Benin make their excuses and leave us to ourselves. I’m left again with that same feeling of impotent frustration.
“So those are the twins,” Pruitt muses as we sit there finishing our coffee.
“You knew they were coming?” I ask.
“It’s why I popped by this morning. I had a call from Bobby last night. He was very pleased to let me know that the Faso twins have been assigned. Apparently it shows how seriously the police are taking all this. The two of them have only been with the force a few years and are sort of the department’s detective prodigies. Kept solving cases while they were still just constables and embarrassing senior detectives. So eventually they had to promote them to full detective early. And from what Bobby says, they pretty much get to choose their caseload. It’s a mix of new and cold cases, but all bad. Bobby says they have the highest resolution rate in the department. So maybe there’s more to them than just the friendly smiles.”
“But why come all the way out here to meet us and say what every cop has already said? You’re in danger, Mr Bell, but we can’t do anything. Please consider leaving Riverton. Seems a little pointless,” I say.
“I don’t think this is why they’re here. Bobby’s all priestly nowadays, but you should have seen him back then. He was cunning and calculated. The only thing that really mattered to him was catching the killer. He would have happily put anyone at risk if it got him what he wanted. Maybe these guys are the same. Maybe there are things they’re not telling us,” Pruitt says.
“Now you sound like a reporter.”
“Oh, it is part journalistic cynicism, part wishful naïveté, I’m afraid. I’ve been in this job so long I know everyone has secrets. And I also really hope theirs are good enough to end all this. But in truth, I don’t think so. We, none of us, have anything. They’ve been getting away with it for decades. Nothing changes,” he says as he takes out his cigarettes and lights one up.
I can’t help thinking Pruitt and I are similar in many ways—you’re faced with some wrongness in the world and your first impulse is to be that bit more self-destructive in response.
“I don’t know, Pruitt. Maybe things will move of their own accord. Whatever they were looking for at my house, they didn’t find. Maybe they’ll try again,” I say.
Upon hearing this, Pruitt sighs and looks out the window, shaking his head.
“And maybe they’ll succeed, Finn. I’ll not try to dissuade you again, as you’re clearly going to move back there but for God’s sake, be careful. If they get you as well I’m afraid I’ll have to abandon my journalistic attachment and become part of the story,” Pruitt says as he stubs out the cigarette.
CHAPTER 30
March 30, 3 MONTHS AGO . . .
It’s when I roll up to Betty’s house that I realise I’ve actually already realised some things, but of course, true to form, have done so without realising. Funny how your mind will go off and do things while you’re busy with something else.
I’m still fitting words around it, parked in front of Betty’s desk, when she pushes me for it.
“Okay, I can see something has connected in there so out with it,” she prompts.
“It’s that thing we did with the bees. I think I get it now. Those bees swarmed me no matter what I was feeling but with you, they were on and off and on again like they could actually tell the difference. They only swarmed you when you were thinking sad thoughts and pretty much left you alone when you were thinking happy thoughts. And it’s just a bunch of bees, right? They’re not smart or anything, they just respond. So if they actually do respond to how we feel, then that means I didn’t feel different, not really, the whole time. I didn’t change anything by thinking something else. When I thought about happy things they just kept swarming. So what does that mean?” I ask.
“Keep going, what does that show you?” Betty replies.
“It shows me that . . . that when I thought I was thinking happy thoughts, I really wasn’t?” I say, not sure if I’ve got this the right way around.
“Well, it took you a while, but you’re certainly getting there. It’s all the same bees, right? So now, if you think about how they reacted in different ways to both of us that day, tell me, how are you different from me?” she asks.
“When you think of happy things you actually are happy, but when I do it I’m not, not really,” I say, and I think, yeah that fits.
“Okay, hold that thought there for now and look at this,” Betty says as she opens her desk drawer and takes out a small, dark, brown glass pill bottle and puts it on the desk between us.
“When I was 25, my husband died, liver cancer. It was quick, too, didn’t take more than a few months from him feeling bad to being gone. It was bad timing. I’d just had our second daughter and the eldest wasn’t out of diapers yet. We’d just bought the house and had a lot of debt and I hadn’t worked in over a year. Up till then, nothing had actually gone wrong in my life. I didn’t know how lucky I had been up to then, I just thought life was that good.
“I wasn’t prepared for that much tragedy. I couldn’t understand how the things that had given me so much joy now caused so much hurt. It was like all I could feel was pain. So I went out one night, not really with any plan beforehand, and just walked into the sea. Some fishermen saw me and pulled me out before I could properly drown myself,” Betty says in an even tone.
Looking at her now, it’s hard to picture the steady, strong woman in front of me as anything fragile.
“Things were a lit
tle different back then. First it was priests and family, but eventually they got me in front of a psychiatrist from Auckland who diagnosed me and gave me these,” she says as she taps the bottle of pills in front of her, “and it changed my life.”
Then Betty picks up the bottle and hands them to me. As I inspect it, I see that it’s still full. The seal has never been broken.
Okay, there’s always more happening here than what I think, I tell myself. There’s a point to her telling me this now. Like there was a point to the thing with the bees and the mirror and everything. I just wish I could see it.
“Why didn’t you take the pills?” I ask.
“That’s my business. The question is, why you do?” Betty counters.
“I’m not following.”
“Remember our recurring discussions on the matter of dead lemons. They don’t change. And mostly they don’t change because they don’t learn. And they don’t learn because they can’t stand pain. And like we said last time. To learn, you need pain. If you avoid the pain you don’t learn, and if you don’t learn, you don’t change. And that means you stay the same. You stay who you are and where you are. You do the same things, you feel the same things. You become repetition. Every obstacle that’s too much for you will be too much for you forever. Everything that hurts too much to bear today will be too much tomorrow. You’ll never change or grow beyond it as long as you’re trying to avoid the pain inherent in the learning.
“My husband died and I lost my house and I didn’t have enough money to take care of my babies—that’s a lot of pain to have at once. And I didn’t know how to deal with it so I got quite depressed. So they gave me anti-depressants. To take away the pain.
“Now when we experience pain, people do four things, remember?” Betty prompts.
“First we try to fix it so the pain stops. And if that doesn’t work, we try to escape from the pain. And if that doesn’t work, then we either accept it or kill ourselves,” I answer without having to think, as that has stuck by me since our very first session.
