The council worker had taken up a pen and was tapping it against his teeth. He was looking around his co-workers, feeling strangely guilty, as if he was listening to something illicit.
‘Are you still listening, boy? What’s that tapping noise?’
‘Nothing, I’m still here.’
‘Do you have a pen?’
‘Yes, I’m holding one.’
‘Good. Now, I’m going to give you a date. It’s when the moon is full and passes closest in its orbit to the earth. Write this down – it will happen on 20 March.’
There was an abrupt click, and the council worker was left with the soft howl of the disconnected tone in his ear. Self-consciously he hung up the phone and looked around his co-workers. None seemed to have paid any attention to his end of the strange conversation.
He did not mention the phone call to anyone that day. He spent that evening stewing over it. Surely he could not pass on Joe’s prediction? No, it would be madness, and he would be taken for a fool for giving it any credence. Even worse, there might be some people who would believe it. In that case, it might create panic.
The next day he arrived at his desk in the morning, and saw the note that he had written down. Full moon – haowhenua – 20 March. On his lunch break, he wandered the streets and saw office workers queuing at sushi bars and in cafes. He saw high school children crowding the park, all chatting about everyday trivia and enjoying the sunshine as they ate their bought lunches. He looked up at the older buildings, vulnerable in their brick and glass. They only stood there on the sufferance of the land, Joe had said. It was eleven days until 20 March. He decided once and for all that he would not tell anyone. They would all remain ignorant.
On the day of 20 March he called in sick. His girlfriend came around that evening to see if there was anything she could do to look after him. She was surprised to find him perfectly healthy, but in a very nervous state. He would jump at the slightest sound, particularly when a large truck drove past or as the washing machine vibrated through its spin cycle. That night, he surprised her further by placing water and tinned food and a torch next to the bed. She went to sleep beside him readily enough, but he did not close his eyes for many hours. I don’t believe, he repeatedly reminded himself, as he looked up with dilated pupils at the full moon that filled the skylight.
He awoke to the sound of the toilet flushing and the shower being turned on. He looked at the radio alarm clock next to his bed, where the LED display said 7 a.m., 21 March. The morning had come around without a visit from Haowhenua. He got out of bed and happily he admitted to himself that he had taken Joe much too seriously. The old man was, after all, crazy.
Not long after, the council worker received a visit at his desk from the manager of the policy division.
The policy manager just said, ‘you know this guy, don’t you?’ With a smile of mock generosity, he deposited three thick folders of paper on the council worker’s desk. Then he walked away, his gait noticeably lighter and more upright, as if he had just liberated himself from a great burden.
The council worker opened the files and found them full of letters in Joe’s handwriting. The letters were hardly legible, but seemed to rant on the same topics: the Council’s lack of preparedness for a major emergency, and its incorrect mapping of the fault.
The council worker decided that he was not going to spend the rest of his working life answering Joe’s correspondence. He would deal with this kanohi ki te kanohi, face to face. He put on his jacket, took the keys from their hook and entered his trip in the log book.
The gate at Joe’s house was banging in the wind. The trench was still there in the front yard, but it was filled ankle-deep with muddied rain water. Somehow, the council worker immediately knew that Joe was dead. He hammered on both doors and received no answer, and then made a forced entry through a toilet window that he found ajar. He wandered through the darkened house and found Joe slumped at the table, his face to one side and his eyes closed. The council worker called for an ambulance and waited with Joe for the medics to come and confirm the obvious.
As he heard the siren come wailing down the road, the council worker took down Joe’s quakeometer and slipped it under his jacket. Surely none of his family would want it. Better that the Council should keep it to ensure that Joe’s work lived on in some sense.
The next day, back at the council buildings, the council worker hung it on the wall, where it glared out over the office floor. Its hand hovered static at Joe’s last setting of it; at the boundary between moderate and high.
Growing Up
Ann French
The beginning
The car smells like vomit, old food wrappers, McDonalds, KFC, sweat and fear. Pete says his little brother spilled a bottle of milk in it two weeks ago. Then he farts and that adds to the mix.
The four of us sit, waiting and watching. Pete has parked under a tree across the road from the shop so we have a good view of anyone coming or going. In the past half hour, two middle-aged women, an old man on a walker and three kids have come and gone. None stay for more than a few minutes.
The rain is heavier now, and water finds its way through rusty leaks that riddle the car, Pete’s pride and joy. No one’s sure how it ever gets a warrant.
We have only known one another for a few months, and although I like Pete, who is sixteen and only one year older than me, I’m not too sure about the twins, Henry and Puke. They are seventeen, pretty thick and always in trouble. When I first met them, they had just done some shoplifting from The Warehouse, and to listen to them talk, you’d have thought they had robbed a bank, not two Snickers bars, some coloured pencils and a box of fairy glitter.
‘You should have seen us bro,’ Puke said (he was the dumbest of the two). ‘We just waltzed in there, wandered around, then Henry picked the stuff off the shelf and stuffed it in his pockets. Some old woman saw us but she was too frightened to say anything. She knew we’d get her if she did.’ He laughed, but he’s full of shit. He and Henry might look fierce, but underneath they’re as soft as butter.
We all know the story of the cats, so we don’t make any comment.
The cats
Puke and Henry like going to the dump on a Sunday afternoon. They don’t worry about the stink, and wander through the piles of rubbish, searching for hidden treasure. The Council locks the gates at 3 p.m. on Saturday, but that’s no problem for the twins, who have a talent for picking locks.
That’s where they found the kittens. Henry pushed over a mildewed mattress and saw a plastic bag move that was lying on the ground. At first he thought it was rats, and if there’s one thing Henry hates more than spiders, it’s rats. Puke told us later he screamed like a girl: back-pedalled and fell over in the muck. But then he realised it was too small to be rats, and tore open the plastic. Four kittens fell out – one ginger, two black and white and a grey.
The boys took them home and, while their mother was out, washed them in the kitchen sink with detergent.
Only the ginger kitten and one of the black and whites survived. The other two were buried in a shoebox in the backyard, where their father grows pot. ‘Waste not, want not’ is his motto, and his boys live up to it, though they don’t really know what it means.
The weed was quality stuff that year, and Henry and Puke put it down to the furry fertiliser.
Taking one kitten each, they reared them, trying to turn them into the cat equivalent of pit bull terriers. The ginger cat, called Spike, is Henry’s, while Puke’s is called Claw. Both cats have balls the size of watermelons!
Now the twins shoplift flea powder, food bowls, collars and a variety of cat toys. Those boys love their cats.
The weapon of choice
Tonight is the big one. This is when we find out if we have what it takes to be in the gang. The gang’s called the Red Mambas, and although I don’t know who made up the name, it sounds pretty cool. Pete tells me that it’s after a deadly snake: one bite and you’re dead, and that sound
s pretty cool as well. I can’t wait to join, but first we have to prove we’ve got balls the size of the twins’ cats. That’s why we’re here in the pouring rain waiting to rob Mr Singh’s dairy.
In preparation for becoming members, we’ve pooled our money and bought cheap jackets. They’ve got buttons, not zips, but it’s all we can afford. At least they’re black. Henry reckons he’s the best artist, and with a can of red paint, he draws snakes on the back of each one. Only they don’t look like red mambas but like big, smiling willies. Anyone who sees them will fall over laughing, but the twins say we’ll beat them up if they do. I sigh and wonder if I can find a way out of wearing my $7.90 jacket with the fat cock on it. I’m not hopeful.
We don’t have weapons in our gang, but one night Tommy Hayes brought along a bat he says his old man used to beat the shit out of Tommy, his brothers and sisters and Mrs Hayes, when he’s drunk. You could see the dents where, according to Tommy, his father had whaled the hell out of the family. It looked more to me like someone had used it for bashing nails into a piece of wood. There’s also an old rusted knife kept in a box in the clubhouse, which Pete reckons once belonged to a dude called Adolf Hitler who went around knocking people off, and if you look closely and use your imagination, you can see the initials ‘AH’ scratched on the handle. Some of the gang say it’s more likely to belong to Alfred Harding, a local fisherman who’s a bit nutty and convinced Japanese trawlers are pinching his cray pots.
But the pride of the ‘collection’ goes to the gun that Pete claims was owned by Billy the Kid. It sure looks old enough. No one has ever fired it, but Henry has it tucked in his belt tonight for ‘The Job’, as he keeps referring to it.
The plan
The rain comes down harder than ever, and Pete’s car is leaking like a sieve. Nerves are getting the better of us. Pete farts again. If ever we needed something to get us motivated and out of the car, that’s it.
It was Puke’s idea to rob the dairy, and for that reason alone, because he’s such an idiot, I should have said no in the beginning. ‘It’ll be easy,’ he’d said in that whiny voice he uses when he wants you to believe one of his stories. ‘The old man is on his own most of the time. We just go in, wait until he’s distracted, go behind the counter and take the money.’
It sounded simple when Puke said it, but that’s what happens when idiots make sense to other idiots.
The decision is made that Henry, Pete and Puke will go to the back of the shop and start yelling, shouting and pretending to have a fight. Meanwhile, because I’m the smallest, I’ll go behind the counter and steal the money.
The trouble is I know Mr Singh, the owner, and I go regularly to the shop to buy bread and milk. I don’t tell the guys this because I never thought they would go ahead with the plan. To make it worse, I really like Mr Singh, who is always neatly dressed and has the best moustache and beard I have ever seen. Pure white and curling at the tips, they match his turban, which sits coiled neatly around his head.
Puke, Henry and Pete go into the dairy. I watch them from outside and see Mr Singh look at them as they make their way to the back where he keeps the milk, ice cream and butter. There is a lot of noise, and a crash as something falls from a shelf. Mr Singh comes from behind the counter and hurries towards where the noise is getting louder. There is another crash, and I hear the old man call out ‘You boys, what do you think you are doing?’ His voice trembles, and the words come tumbling out like puppies from a sack.
This is my cue. I push open the door and dash to the counter where the till is sitting. I have no idea how to open it, and panic fills me. My heart bangs away and feels like it’s coming into my mouth while I thrash away at the keys that I’m sure must open the drawer where I think the money is. It springs open and I give a whoop, but there’s not much money: just a few notes and some coins. I scoop them out and realise I have nowhere to put them. There’s a plastic bag on a hook, and I grab it and throw the money in.
Disaster! There’s a split in the bag, and all the coins fall through onto the floor: ping, ping, plunk.
Mr Singh comes charging round the corner. He’s not frightened or worried any more, – just fighting mad.
‘I know you,’ he shouts at me. ‘You’ve been coming here for a long time. Why are you doing this? I will be telling your mother you naughty boy and she will be clouting you round the ear.’
I know he’s right, and the thought of Ma and what she’ll say and do is far worse than anything I can think of. Worse than pimples or the flu.
While I’m standing there, I see Henry, Puke and Pete behind Mr Singh. The twins have tins and boxes of cat food, while Pete has two cartons of ice cream he keeps juggling from hand to hand. His hands are so cold I see steam rising, and eventually he drops the containers on the floor and sticks his hands under his armpits to warm them.
Henry gives Puke the cat food, then pulls out Billy the Kid’s gun and waves it at Mr Singh. ‘Now old man,’ he says, trying to sound like Clint Eastwood, ‘Give us your money!’
I can’t believe he’s aiming the gun, and I hold up the plastic bag to show him he doesn’t have to threaten the old man, when the last of the coins falls through the hole – plink!
The gun goes off. It disintegrates, and the explosion is huge. No one sees where the bullet’s gone, but the barrel flies through the air and with a ‘thunk’ hits Mr Singh on the head, knocking off his turban and sending him flying backwards. I’m amazed to see he’s bald, although there are small clumps of white hair dotted around the edges of his scalp like the patches of weed in our lawn. A thin trickle of blood weaves down his face onto his collar. Kneeling down, I wipe it away, and breathe a sigh of relief to see it’s only a scratch. But the old man seems stunned, so I take his hand, which is wrinkly and feels like leather, and say ‘You’re going to be OK Mr Singh. It’s only a little scratch.’
Mr Singh holds my hand tight, and he might be old but he’s strong like Ma, and has the same sort of grip. I wonder if it’s an age thing, as my fingers start to go numb.
‘Come on,’ says Puke. ‘We gotta go. The police could be coming.’ And as he says the words, we hear the sirens.
‘The old bastard must have pushed an alarm,’ says Henry, and he makes for the door. His face has gone grey but his pimples are bright red: he looks like he’s been stung by an angry wasp. Pete and Puke look at me but I don’t move. Then they look at one another and I see they’ve made a decision.
They collide trying to get through the door, and I hear it smack shut behind them. There is the sound of running feet, car doors slamming and then the car roaring down the road, backfiring as it goes. They are screaming and yelling, and I wonder why I ever thought they were mates.
I sit down next to Mr Singh and he looks at me and smiles. ‘You’re a good boy. I promise not to tell your mother.’ What he doesn’t know is that Ma has a built-in radar about things, and she will find out what has happened whether Mr Singh tells her or not.
Cops
The cops come through the door, which I think must be pretty sturdy to stand up to all the banging and thumping it’s been through tonight. One of the men, big and tough looking, lifts me off the ground and stands me against the wall. Another one, who looks like his brother only bigger, bends over Mr Singh, asks some questions and listens as he talks. He straightens up, and looks at me and then around the store.
There are pieces of gun everywhere – the barrel over by the packets of chips and a metal piece that could be the trigger down the aisle by the biscuits and sugar. Sounding as though it’s looking for its mates (a bit like me), one bit, which turns out to be the butt, makes a clang and falls off a bread rack onto the floor.
An ambulance arrives and whisks Mr Singh away. He waves to me as he’s carried off, then with lights flashing and siren screaming, the ambulance takes him into the night. I am left with the two cops, who are not happy.
The really big one stares at me hard, and my stomach flip-flops. I know he doesn’t believe I’
m innocent. ‘Mr Singh says you were just passing by when the robbery took place. Says you weren’t involved. Is that right?’ he asks.
I nod my head up and down like one of those toy dogs on springs you see in the back of cars. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I didn’t see anything. Nothing at all.’
Huia Short Stories 9 Page 4
