Cry of the Taniwha

by Des Hunt

  Hone, however, had other plans for them. He’d got leave for the day and was going to take them to all the rides he’d promised. At first Matt was peeved that it couldn’t be some other day, but that soon changed when they climbed into the gondola and rode up Mount Ngongotaha to the luge courses. For three hours they rode down the mountain on the luge trolleys, and back up on a chair lift.

  Jackson was a natural, beating Matt every time. He was prepared to take more risks and didn’t mind crashing—he appeared to be immune to pain. On the mountain, he was just a kid having fun. All the gang bravado had disappeared. It seemed as if Hone’s plan was working.

  Next stop was drift-racing on go-karts. Again, Matt was beaten. The same thing happened on the quad bikes, but he didn’t mind—never before had he had such concentrated fun.

  They arrived back home too tired to do anything except eat and sleep. Before Jackson went home, Matt took him into his room and told him about Eve and what she’d found out. Jackson became excited by the suggestion that the strongbox might contain gold and diamonds. Afterwards, they sat and stared at the thing as if willing it to open.

  It didn’t, but somehow it inspired Jackson with an idea. ‘I know how we’ll open it,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tell you tomorrow. I’ve got to arrange sumtin first.’

  Matt looked at him, sternly. ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you? More shoplifting?’

  ‘Nah, man! Stay cool. I just got to organize sumtin, that’s all. We’ll do it in the ay-em.’

  Jackson came over just after ten in the morning. ‘It’s all set,’ he said. ‘Bring it over my place and we’ll open it.’

  Matt was suspicious. ‘How?’

  Jackson tilted his head. ‘You’ll find out. C’mon! Let’s go.’

  Reluctantly, Matt picked up the box and trailed after the boy.

  There was a battered vehicle parked in the driveway that Matt hadn’t seen before. If it was Mere’s car, then shouldn’t she be at work already? He began to feel nervous. Something wasn’t quite right here, but he couldn’t work out what.

  He soon found out.

  Sprawled on the chairs in the lounge were five members of the WXK gang. Matt would have turned around and walked out if one of them hadn’t stood and moved to lean against the doorjamb.

  Sitting at the head of the table was the one with the skull tattoo: Scott Murray, also known as Skulla.

  ‘So this is Matt Bogan,’ he said, looking Matt up and down. The others sniggered noisily.

  ‘It’s Matt Logan,’ said Matt, staring at the man.

  ‘Not to me it isn’t, Matt Bogan. Or maybe I’ll just call you Bogan. I’m the leader round here, so I can call you what I want. But you have to call me Skulla.’ He pointed to the tattoo in the middle of his forehead. ‘That’s so’s you’ll know who I am.’

  He then turned to the guy guarding the door. ‘And that one over there’s my deputy, Diz. And over there is my other deputy, Croke.’

  Croke gave a little nod. Close up, he looked even scarier than Matt remembered from the sighting a couple of days before: his mohawk looked like it would cut you if you touched it, and the tattoos at the side were now identifiable as the letters WXK with a dagger cutting through them.

  Diz didn’t look anywhere near as scary. There were no obvious tattoos and, apart from the shaven head, he looked much like lots of other people you’d see walking the streets. Yet he was the one who had dangled Jackson over the crater: the one Hone said was real dangerous.

  ‘So, Bogan. You want us to open that box?’

  ‘Yeah, s’pose so.’ Matt said, although he really didn’t want it opened with these guys around. If it contained anything valuable, then he knew he’d never see the stuff again. He was regretting not taking it straight to the police.

  Croke took the box and placed it on the table in front of Skulla. Then he fished in his pocket, removing a huge set of keys and put them alongside. It was the biggest bunch of keys Matt had ever seen; a dozen or more key rings all linked together to form a chain. There must’ve been close to a hundred keys.

  ‘Gather round folks,’ said Skulla, ‘and let’s see what treasure we’ve got here.’

  Jackson and Matt moved closer. Jackson nudged Matt. ‘Skulla can open any lock,’ he said proudly. ‘Can’t you, Skulla?’

  Skulla ignored him.

  Matt looked at Jackson, wondering if the boy knew what was going to happen when the box was opened. Had he intentionally set it up so the gang would get the gold and jewels? Or had he just wanted to show off and not thought of the consequences?

  The room was silent as Skulla began. Clearly, the man liked being the centre of attention. He exercised his fingers for a while before shifting the metal cover from the lock and peering inside. Then he made a big performance of going through the keys until he found the one he wanted. This was inserted into the lock and turned. Something clicked. Skulla smiled and leant back in the chair as if expecting applause. None came, so he moved forward to lift the lid.

  Nothing happened.

  He strained at it for a moment, before returning to the lock and applying more pressure to the key. Again a click, but again the lid would not open. Matt’s hopes began to rise: maybe the man couldn’t open it.

  Diz stepped forward and held out a knife. ‘You want this,’ he grunted.

  Skulla just stared at his deputy, who stepped back, folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

  After that, the silence in the room grew deeper. Skulla was getting angry and no one wanted to attract his attention.

  He searched through the keys until he found a thin wire with a hook on the end. This was forced into the lock next to the key. A bit of fiddling resulted in yet another click. Skulla took a deep breath, before giving the key a third turn. This time it went all the way around. He took another breath and tried the lid. This time it lifted. There was a collective sigh of relief. The gang members grunted with approval. The only sound from Matt was the gurgling of his churning stomach.

  Still Skulla didn’t open the box fully. Instead he turned to Matt. ‘What you think’s in here, Bogan?’

  Matt shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell this man about his dreams.

  ‘Gold?’ suggested Skulla. ‘Jools? More money? Juzza says you gave the feds all the money. Bad move, Bogan. You don’t give the feds a thing.’ He stared at Matt as if he might be a fed in disguise.

  Then he looked around his gang, eventually letting his eyes settle on Croke. ‘Hey, Croke! You can have the pleasure,’ he said, pushing the box towards his deputy.

  Croke beamed. He went through a stupid loosening-up exercise before placing his hands on the box, and slowly opening the lid. If they’d been expecting beams of golden light to fill the room, then they were disappointed. The only thing that came from the box was a stale, earthy smell.

  The source of the smell was clearly a piece of polished ponga wood tucked in one end of the box. It had a fat candle stuck through the middle. The rest of the box was filled with objects wrapped in soft, suede leather.

  Skulla looked at them and smiled. ‘Looks like we’ve got us some jools.’ He nodded to Croke. ‘Open it.’

  Croke pulled out one of the leather-wrapped bundles. The others moved closer, anticipating a great find. One by one the corners were folded back until the contents became visible.

  ‘What’s this crap?’ asked Croke.

  Sitting on the leather was a bottle filled with water and sealed with wax.

  Without speaking, Skulla grabbed another bundle and unwrapped it, revealing yet another bottle.

  The third one was different. It contained a slab of white, silica rock, smooth on one surface but jagged on all the others where it had been broken from some larger structure. The fourth item was another piece of rock—this one slightly reddish.

  That was it! Two bottles of water, a couple of rocks, and a ponga candleholder.

  The gang members looked at it in disgust. Diz put
their thoughts into words. ‘Where’s the jools?’

  Matt was smiling inside. There were no ‘jools’, at least nothing that the gang would consider valuable. Yet he had a feeling that to some people the rocks might be very valuable indeed.

  Suddenly, Skulla raked the table with his arm, sweeping it all to the floor. ‘Now clean it up, Bogan,’ he snarled. ‘Bringing your crazy shit here. Making us think it was valuable.’ He leant forwards as if he was going to take a swing at him. Matt ducked down and began to pick up the bits, putting them back in the box. The rocks were a bit chipped, but fortunately the bottles were made from thick glass and were unbroken.

  The others grouped around to watch him. Matt’s fear rose again as they moved in closer. What were they planning to do after he’d cleaned up?

  When he’d finished, he stood with the box cradled in his arms, dwarfed by the bodies surrounding him.

  ‘Come here, Bogan,’ ordered Skulla, who was still seated. The others parted to let Matt through.

  Matt stood in front of the leader, expecting some sort of violence. Instead, Skulla put out his hand to grab the keys that were still hanging from the lock. He sorted them into some sort of order before handing them back to Croke.

  ‘You’ve wasted my time, Bogan,’ he snarled. ‘But I’m gonna be good to you. I’m gonna give you the chance to make it up. You’re gonna find sumtin really valuable. I want that gold and diamonds Juzza talked about. So you better get searching with that machine of yours. Understand?’

  Somehow Matt managed to give a nod.

  ‘Good! Now get the hell out of here and take that load of crap with you.’

  Just as Matt was about to go through the door, Diz put out his arm to stop him. He stared straight into Matt’s eyes. Now Matt could see what Hone was talking about. This man might not look scary on the outside, but behind those eyes was something more terrifying than any tattoo or haircut.

  Diz flexed his muscles as if getting ready to attack.

  ‘Leave it!’ ordered Skulla.

  Diz’s head snapped around to glare at his leader. Skulla glared back, and eventually Diz had to look away. He turned back to Matt.

  ‘I’ll be watching you, Bogan. Anything you find, you bring it to us. If you don’t, then…’ He formed a fist and held it close to Matt’s eyes. That’s when Matt saw that Diz did have a tattoo: on each knuckle was a letter, and together they spelled the word ‘BASH’. Despite himself, Matt started shaking.

  Diz smiled, and pulled his arm away. ‘I see you got the message. Now, leave!’

  Chapter 12

  Matt knew he should go straight to the police, but he didn’t. There had been a lot of publicity on television about gang violence and how they went about settling their problems. If he went to the police, then his troubles with the gang could increase. Instead, if he went through the motions of looking for things, then sooner or later the gang would probably get bored and forget about him.

  It wasn’t until after lunch that he’d recovered enough to study the objects in the strongbox. He’d had a feeling about the rocks and bottles when he’d first seen them, and now he knew he was right. They were valuable, but only to the right person. He needed to get them to a geologist. He recalled that Lew had mentioned one—a Dr Ian somebody who had identified the age of the skeleton. Lew had said he worked for Vulcan something or other.

  Five minutes searching through the telephone book gave him everything he wanted. Dr Ian McMillan worked for Vulcan Aotearoa, which was near to the forest research place. Another fifteen minutes and Matt was standing at the reception desk.

  ‘Yes, Dr McMillan is in,’ said the receptionist. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  Matt gave his name, saying that he was the one who’d found the skeleton in the forest. That was enough for a tall, bearded man to appear and escort Matt through to his workspace.

  This was a large room with benches and lots of scientific machines. Two technicians had the cover off one of them, exposing complicated glass tubing surrounded by lots of wires. Another person was working on one of several computers in the room.

  ‘Call me Ian,’ said the scientist as he ushered Matt into a side office. ‘So you found the skeleton, eh?’

  Matt nodded.

  ‘That was very interesting. Until I started digging around it, I didn’t realize that the nearby hydrothermal crater had been formed during the Tarawera eruption. Sometime, I’m going back there to have another look around. It could be very helpful with the research I’m doing on magma and groundwater.’

  Matt smiled. This was his moment. He opened his bag and pulled out the two leather packages containing the rocks, unwrapping them on the desk. ‘These things here might help.’

  The geologist watched in silence. Then he picked up the pink sample, turning it around in his hand. He squinted at the back for a while before reading out: Pink Terrace, Rotomahana. 8 June 1886. Then he picked up the other: White Terrace, Rotomahana. 8 June 1886. Suddenly he stood, moved to the door, and yelled, ‘Allan, come and have a look at this!’

  Allan was the person working on the computer. In a moment, he too was studying the two rocks. ‘This is fantastic,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to get a whole profile of the changes in the deposits almost up to the day of the eruption. Where did they come from?’

  Matt told them the story.

  Allan nodded. ‘Great work!’ He turned to Ian. ‘This is almost as good as having water samples.’

  Matt laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve got some of those, too.’

  The two scientists watched disbelievingly as he pulled out the bottles of water. Ian picked one up and read the label. ‘Same date,’ he said in wonder. ‘It’s the same date. Two days before the event. Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!’ He turned to Matt. ‘Do you have any idea how these things got there?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’re working on it.’

  ‘Excellent! That could be helpful.’ He held the bottles out to Allan. ‘Look, can you get onto these right away?’

  Allan chuckled. ‘Yes. I suppose you want to use the results in your presentation?’

  ‘You bet I do. This will make them all sit up and take notice. And get some cross-sections done of the last few millimetres for both terraces. And—’

  Matt picked up his bag and left them to it. They’d already switched off to him. Chances were they wouldn’t even notice that he’d left. For the scientists, the only things that existed at that moment were the samples.

  Matt spent the rest of the afternoon talking to Eve in the hotel. He’d been too tired to meet with her the night before, which had brought a terse text message asking him what was happening.

  She had nothing new to tell, which gave him the feeling that she just wanted some company for a while. He was quite happy to provide it.

  After carefully recording Matt’s report in her notepad, Eve changed her theory that the body was one of the Bashams. She was now convinced that it was a burglar, and all the things found around the scene must’ve been stolen from the Bashams while they were visiting Rotorua. She said she’d follow it up in the library the next day.

  Then Matt told her about his problems with the gang. This was the first she’d heard of any gang. She was horrified. Apparently, they didn’t have street gangs in Margaret River. Her only knowledge of them was from television, and she seemed to think that they spent all their time murdering people. Matt found that he had to downplay the gang involvement to calm her down. He was only half successful, and left the hotel annoyed that he’d ever mentioned the word gang to her. It had destroyed the whole afternoon, just when they’d been getting on so well. Skulla and his mob were wrecking everything.

  Later, Matt lay on his bed with the strongbox open in front of him. The piece of ponga was alongside. He studied them, wondering how they fitted into the drama. Did they belong to the Bashams? It was surprising that neither the box nor the contents had any identifying feature. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to collect the samples from the terraces; he
would have expected some sort of name in case it got lost.

  Maybe there was one under the thin layer of rust. However, a few moments with some sandpaper revealed that there wasn’t. Yet he did find the stubs of two rusted screws that had clearly once secured a nameplate. It had either been removed intentionally or rusted off in the many years since it was buried.

  While he was thinking about this, he flipped the lid over and looked inside, expecting to see the other end of the screws. There was no sign of them. Surely they must’ve been screwed all the way through? His heart rate quickened as he realized that what he was seeing was not the other side of the lid, but the underside of a hinged plate that fitted into the lid. There were even some threads suggesting that a ribbon had once given access to the hidden area.

  None of his tools were fine enough to fit under the tightfitting edges, so he tried a sharp knife. Even that hardly fitted. However, bit by bit, he levered the thing clear. By then his heart was really going for it—maybe there were ‘jools’ after all.

  The hinged plate creaked as he opened it the last few centimetres, exposing a leather book. It had a nameplate in the middle.

  Mary Basham New Zealand Natural History Expedition 1886

  ‘Well done, Eve,’ he said, excitedly. ‘You got it right.’

  When he opened the book, he soon recognized that it was an inventory of some sort. Each page had a heading which was the name of some natural history object: kiwi eggshell, tuatara skin, moa bone, and the like. It was a list of things that Mary hoped to collect during her ‘New Zealand Natural History Expedition’. The things already collected had notes about where they were collected and when. The entry for the Pink Terrace rock read:

  Edward kicked down on the surface with the heel of his shoe. A large piece broke free which was then broken into smaller pieces.