Huia Short Stories 9

by Anahera Gildea

  Danny booted out the kickstand, almost being physically abusive to My Sheen. He leaned the machine to his left, letting the stand take the weight of his bike, threw his right leg behind him and stood up. With his boot-enclosed foot, he began kicking and scuffing at the weeds and stones on the verge. He was still pissed off when he acknowledged the approaching police officer.

  Looking up at the sarge then looking down to study intently a spot of ground between his boots, Danny’s greeting was a helmet-muffled ‘G’day Sarge.’

  The police officer knew that Danny knew that he was screwed. He acknowledged Danny’s greeting and replied a with a simple, ‘Danny.’

  Man-talk. Short, sharp, effective communication.

  The police officer didn’t ask for a driver’s licence. He knew Danny had one, current and legit.

  He didn’t ask Danny where he had come from or where he was going, cos he knew the answer would have been from the club rooms to home.

  The club rooms, where Danny had been with his father, older and younger brother and brother-in-law. Between them and his footy mates, a real family affair.

  He didn’t have to ask where home was; he knew that too. Just a couple of k’s up the road; twelve k’s from the club room.

  He didn’t ask if Danny had had anything to drink. With a winning score in today’s game and knowing Danny like he did, he took it for granted that Danny was over the limit.

  No need to waste time and resources getting him to say his name and address in a breathalyser unit. The answer would be, ‘My name’s Danny an’ I live up the road.’ Back Loop Road.

  No need to ask if Danny had been speeding. Yeah, he’d been speeding, but he wouldn’t know how fast. Somewhere between a ton sixty and maybe a ton eighty.

  No need to waste time in writing up a ticket either. A single farmer like Danny could pay then and there on the spot if the police carried mobile EFTPOS units. Hell, guys like Danny could’ve paid the ticket then and there with cash if cops could issue a receipt as well as an infringment notice.

  With a metal cooling, tick, tick, ticking, My Sheen was attempting to join in the conversation.

  Sarge held out his hand, palm up and open. ‘Hand ’em over.’

  Danny realised that it was an active act of futility but he knew he had to try anyway. ‘Aww, c’mon Sarge. I’m only a coupla k’s from home.’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘C’mon mate. Hand ’em over. I told you last time I’d take your keys.’

  ‘Yeah I know, but you said that the time before that and the time before that too.’ As the words tumbled out of his mouth and his brains caught up with his lips, Danny knew that he was suffering from a severe case of foot in mouth disease. He knew he was screwed. Whatever leniency the sarge was gonna show went out the window with that comment. The resolve of the police officer grew resolute as the smile dropped from his face. He quickly opened and closed his fingers, the international sign for ‘Hand ’em over’.

  Danny knew better than to argue. After all, he was a farmer, not a lawyer, politician or wife: people who could argue and win. He was a farmer, and he knew he had about as much chance as a husband has of winning an argument against his wife. None. The ol’ ‘It was just a few beers with the boys’ line would work about as well with the sarge right now as it would if Danny had had a wife. It wouldn’t. Instead he handed over the keys and asked, ‘What about My Sheen?’

  ‘Well, if you walk her home, I’ll drop the keys off later. If you leave her here, you can come and pick the keys up in the morning.’

  There it was: an ultimatum. Danny had done wrong and now was becoming an active participant in his own punishment.

  Swearing and cursing and throwing the toys out of the cot, Danny walked around the bike, kicked the stand up and started to push it back towards home. A short ride was becoming a long walk. As he walked past the sargeant he called, ‘Catch!’, and threw his helmet to the officer. No point carrying extra weight if he didn’t need to.

  Sarge caught the helmet easily, put the keys inside it and tossed it onto the back seat of the cop car. He was smiling again as he got in the car, executed a three-point turn and started to drive in the direction he had just come from: the same direction Danny and My Sheen were facing.

  About eight hundred metres past where Danny started to walk the bike, there was a sweeping left-hand turn, with a deep dip and rise in the road. At the bottom of the dip, hidden from view behind a shelter belt of poplar trees, was an old shed. Sarge pulled up in the bottom of the dip and, leaving the engine running, leaned over to the back of the car and grabbed a green Swanndri, the helmet, keys and a radio. He gave these to Rook and, with a head motion, indicated for him to get out. Rook got out and pulled on the heavy, itchy jacket. It was strangely comforting wearing a Swanni. Sarge offered him a hat. Rook just smiled and shook his head. Sarge dropped the redundant piece of uniform on the now vacant passenger seat. Wearing a hat didn’t make you a good cop.

  ‘Go wait in the shed for him. He shouldn’t be too far away. I’ll just be on the other side of the dip.’ That was the limit of the plan.

  Rook shut the door as Sarge gave a parting piece of advice. ‘Turn your radio on.’ Rook pressed the Push-To-Talk button on the Motorola walkie-talkie radio. He heard the squelch and static reply come from the cab-mounted set. No need to talk. That was the extent of the communication procedure and radio checks.

  With that, Sarge gunned the engine and left Rook to jump the fence and wait and watch the road from the comfort of the hay bales in the shed. It didn’t take long before Rook saw Danny trudging along, head down, sweating and using the dip to help him take the weight of the bike to get a run up to the other side of the rise. It didn’t work. Danny only made it halfway up the rise. Rook watched as he guided My Sheen down to the bottom of the dip, kicked the stand, parked the bike and parked his bum on the ground. Rook jumped out of the shed as Danny started to roll himself a cigarette and as Rook climbed the fence, Danny sparked up. Danny was puffing out blue smoke when he heard the twang of Number Eight fencing wire. He twisted and torqued his torso as Rook threw him his helmet. He neatly caught it, and inwardly smiled when he heard the jingle of keys emanate from the depths of the black cloth and padding. Rook took up a pew on the dandelions and clover beside Danny. Danny offered up a leather pouch, which held the crushed remnants of Port Royal tobacco and papers. Rook just shook his head as Danny placed the pouch between them. He might change his mind and roll himself one, and join Danny in the sweet bliss of committing legal suicide one breath at a time. He resisted the urge. Quitting was hard enough, and it was even worse when country etiquette dictated that you share your tobacco and that a cop can smoke and wear a Swanni and still be a cop cos he has a radio, even if he doesn’t have a hat on. Enjoying the way that the grass felt, Rook leaned back with his elbows locked to prop himself up. Danny lay back with the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, hands locked behind his head, watching the cumulo nimbus in the sky. Each man comfortable in the company of himself, the other, each other and silence. A long comfortable silence. Man talk.

  Danny stood up, crushed out his cigarette under his heavy foot. Rook followed suit: stood up and dusted the grass off the Swanni.

  ‘You wanna ride?’ Danny asked, as he threw his leg over and mounted My Sheen.

  Rook shook his head, almost imperceptibly, but not quite. Danny saw the movement.

  ‘He up over the hill?’ Using his eyebrows Danny indicated the knoll at the top of the rise. Rook nodded once.

  ‘You gonna walk to the top?’

  Rook shook his head again and held up his radio for Danny to see. ‘Nah. Got this but don’t need it. Sarge’ll be here soon enough.’

  ‘Whatcha mean?’ Danny asked, as he gunned the engine into life with enough power and noise to scare the livestock in the adjacent paddocks.

  Rook just laughed and shook his head, and as My Sheen’s engine roared he knew that the Sarge would be over the rise to pick him up soon.


  Sunday 5 April

  Ting, ting, ting. The sound of empty glass bottles coming to their final resting place in a mass grave of empty glass bottles.

  Ting, ting, ting. Green, white and brown. All ended up in the same place. Empty vessels were no respecter of colour. There was no racism at the bottom of the bottle. Not here anyway.

  Ting, ting, ting. The sound of the empty glass bottles slowly filling up the wool fadge one man, one bottle at a time, but somehow coming in twos and threes, and threes and fours, into the big bag.

  Ting, ting, ting. Woodstock, Tui, Steinlager, for the blokes and bros. All men here.

  Ting, ting, ting. Purple Goanna and a rainbow-coloured assortment of lolly waters for the sheilas, chicks and missuses. No ladies here.

  The sun had long since set and the stars were riding high in the night sky. The kids and family folk had long ago left the gathering. Only the lonely, bored, stalwart, foolhardy and pissheads were left at the park at the back of the clubrooms. The farmers who had seen their labourers at the gathering had written off Monday already. Most wouldn’t turn up to work, claiming a sick day, and those that did turn up wouldn’t be in any fit state to work.

  The barbeque had long since finished and the only thing fueling the fire was the constant burning of empty cardboard boxes. The wood smoke helped keep the mosquitos at bay. Despite the smoke, the small coals and cardboard let off a weak, feeble light. Just enough to outline the silhouetted uniform of every bloke and farmer: Swanni or a thick jersey, jeans and gumboots.

  The conversation was quiet and subdued. Humdrum. Comfortable silence. Nobody saw Danny leave. Nobody made a big deal when somebody left. They realised that they’d probably had enough, or run out of alcohol, and simply drifted off and melted back into the all-enveloping darkness. When Danny left he was simply swallowed by the darkness of the night. Nobody heard My Sheen as she was gently turned onto the road to find her own way home with Danny in the saddle. Exactly the same way as she had taken her man home a hundred and one times before.

  ‘Bloody ol’ man.’ Sarge cussed and cursed. This time he grabbed his hat as he grabbed his Swanni. The Swanni was to keep warm. The hat to look official when he went to see Ol’ Man Mac. Ol’ Man MacDonald had been on the sauce: home brew bitter beer that was more proof than methylated spirits. The community could set a clock by Ol’ Mac. Every two months. Eight weeks to the day, give or take.

  Ol’ Mac had a habit of letting loose with his twelve-gauge when he’d had a few too many. Something about Gooks, Charlie, black pyjamas and Vietnam. That was his excuse, but the real reason was more like being shit on by the Government and Ministry of Defence back in ’73. It was enough to make a bloke pretty pissed off, even some thirty odd years later. Especially some thirty odd years later.

  ‘C’mon, let’s go,’ Sarge said to Rook. It was the closest thing to an order that Sarge would give.

  Rook walked out the door wearing gummies, blue jeans and a shirt with the blue shoulder flash of the NZ Police all covered by the customary Swanni.

  It wouldn’t take long to drive down the Back Loop Road. It would take longer to wait for Mac to put down his shotgun. The dynamic duo would sit on the porch, hide the box of shells under the steps and listen to an old man tell war stories from the war that was still raging in his soul. Either that or wait for Mac to fall asleep, put him on the porch and cover him with an old grey army blanket, which felt strangely similar to a Swanni.

  Firearm incidents like this didn’t require the Armed Offenders Squad. The AOS were about as useful as tits on a bull out here like this. By the time they arrived here from the big smoke, Mac would be outta ammo or asleep, or more likely both, and Sarge didn’t want the hassle or the paper work.

  Sarge was lost in concentration, focusing on driving, when his thoughts were rudely interrupted.

  ‘Ya know, she likes him.’ Sarge answered Rook’s comment with a ‘Hmm’ that loosely translated to something akin to ‘What do you mean? Please elaborate. I am interested in your train of thought and generally curious about how you’ve come to your conclusion.’

  ‘Ya know, I reckon Aunty likes Ol’ Man Mac.’ Rook had long ago forgotten widow Yvonne Smith’s name. He just called her Aunty like everyone else.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Sarge asked.

  Rook shrugged, which was lost in the darkness. ‘Well, she called us, didn’t she?’

  ‘She always calls.’

  ‘Whaffor? She ain’t in any danger. Mac never shoots anyone and he’s too far away from Aunty’s for his pellets to do any damage to her place.’

  ‘She reckons it’s the noise. She can’t sleep with his Betsy going bang-boom boom-bang.’ Mac had named his twelve-gauge Betsy. Most guys around here had named their side-by-sides, under-and-overs, pump-action semi-autos and single-shot shotguns Betsy.

  Rook smiled. ‘Funny how the noise didn’t keep her awake when Mac and Uncle used to drink together. Ya eva notice how we’ve only been called up to sort out Mac since Uncle died?’

  ‘Yeah well, it’s been kinda hard on ’em both since Unc died. Ya know, Unc and Mac were in ’Nam together. Those kinda brothers can be closer than blood. B’sides I think Aunty’s just kinda worried ’bout Mac.’

  ‘Like I said,’ said Rook, ‘I think she likes Mac.’

  Sarge stifled a laugh, which made his laugh sound like a guffaw. Rook was right. Aunty liked Mac.

  With that Rook leaned back into the seat, enveloped again by the silence and darkness, while both men pondered and wondered about playing cupid with the single man and the widow.

  Coming up to the dip, Sarge gently applied the brakes, to take some of the speed of the vehicle, which slowed from 110 to 85 k per hour and easily took the corner.

  ‘Ya know, it would save us a barrel of hassle,’ Rook said, continuing the conversation about Mac and Aunty.

  Sarge just chuckled. Yeah, right. Without Sarge saying a single word, Rook knew that he agreed with him.

  Coming around the corner and with the vehicle lights facing down to the bottom of the dip, they noticed something lighting up a broken fence line. Rook pointed as Sarge saw what looked to be a single torch beam.

  My Sheen was lying on the ground. The front end was buckled and mangled, but the back wheel spun lazily, almost gently, free from the chain. The 250cc engine was tick, tick, ticking as the metal was cooling down. As far as AMI Insurance would be concerned, the Kawasaki 250 Ninja was a write-off.

  ‘Get Mac,’ Sarge said quietly. ‘Get Mac, now.’

  ‘But he’s pissed. He’ll be rotten,’ Rook objected.

  ‘Get Mac now,’ Sarge repeated. ‘And show him this.’ Sarge showed Rook a simple gesture: the three middle fingers of his left hand pressed to his outside upper right arm and then a closed fist put to his forehead. Rook copied the motion, which physically imitated the triple chevrons of a sergeant’s hooks and the military symbol for ‘come here’. Rook’s look questioned the gesture. Sarge didn’t elaborate. There were some things that he didn’t need to share, and there were some things Rook didn’t need to know.

  Rook left Sarge sitting beside Danny. The drive to Mac’s house only took a couple of minutes: Mac’s was less than 1500 metres from where My Sheen lay lying on her side.

  He got out of the car but left the engine running, for a quick and hasty get-away.

  ‘Clear off. Go on bugger off an’ lemme alone!’ Mac wasn’t in the mood for niceties. The shotgun was pointed at the ground. He wasn’t in the mood for niceties, but he wasn’t going to point his shotgun at anyone, much less a cop. ‘Go on, I ain’t hurting no one.’ Mac knew better than most the damage a shotgun blast could do.

  ‘Go on!’ he screamed. Rook wished that he could go but knew he had to get Mac. Danny needed help, even if it was help from a drunk maniac weilding a twelve-gauge.

  ‘Hey Mac, Mac!’ Rook yelled at the crazy farmer, trying to get his attention. ‘Mac, Mac, hey Mac!’ Rook was shouting at him while hiding behind the cop car, keep
ing his profile to a minimum.

  ‘It’s my land. I can do wha’eva I want on my piece o’ dirt.’ Rook wasn’t going to argue with Mac. Not because the farmer was drunk or because he had his Betsy out for the night. Rook wasn’t going to argue because he needed Mac to help out down the dip in the road.

  ‘Yeah, Mac. It’s your land and I ain’t here to stop you, but look, I need your help.’ This in an effort to placate the farmer.

  ‘Yeah, whacha want?’ The old man was suspicious of the young cop.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Whacha mean ya dunno?’ Mac questioned as he walked closer. Right now Rook was cursing his senior. Why couldn’t he be down there with Danny and Sarge up here with this fruitcake looney nutcase?

  ‘I got a message for you, Mac.’ Rook was getting ready to walk back around the vehicle.

  ‘Yeah? From who an’ what is it?’

  ‘Put the gun down first and then I’ll tell you,’ said Rook, in a feeble attempt to gain control of the situation.

  ‘Get stuffed. If I was gonna shoot you I’d’ve already done it by now. I ain’t gonna shoot you, Rook. You ain’t worth the nightmares, kid. So what’s the message an’ who’s it from?’

  ‘It’s from the sarge,’ Rook explained.

  ‘An’ wha’s he gotta say?’ said Mac. ‘An’ where is he?’ he continued, as it suddenly dawned on him that Rook had turned up alone. ‘Is he alrigh’?’

  Rook answered the grizzled old farmer. ‘Yeah he’s OK, he’s just down the road. He just needs your help.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. What he want?’ enquired the trigger-happy farmer.

  ‘This,’ said Rook, as he slapped his three fingers on his upper arm and then put a fist to his forehead.