The stranger clicked his fingers and pointed at Danyl. ‘That is a very perceptive question,’ he replied. ‘How indeed?’ He said this again, softly, to himself. He opened his folder, flipped through the remaining papers inside it, then paused and licked his lips. ‘After all, my own thoughts … I could be part of the plot, and I wouldn’t even …’ He trailed off then, and after a minute of silence he coughed and announced, ‘I have to go now.’ He took the library list and photocopies and stuffed them into his folder, which he tucked under his arm. Then he stood. ‘Don’t speak of any of this to Verity. Keep an eye on her. Monitor her for unusual behaviour. Don’t tell her anything. I’ll be in touch.’ He hurried out of the bakery and ran across the road.
Verity returned from the bathroom. She watched the stranger vault the wall to Aro Park, catch his foot on the lip and fall out of sight behind it. She said, ‘Was that man sitting in my seat?’
‘Yes.’ Danyl finished the last of his tea.
‘Who is he?’ Verity picked up her handbag. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Steve!’
Danyl stood in the unlit hall. It ran all the way through Steve’s house. There were five doors leading off it: the back door was open, leading into the backyard. The other four led to the bedroom, lounge, kitchen and bathroom: they were all closed. Danyl paused on the threshold, sniffing the air.
The house smelled of sweat and urine. It felt empty.
The first door opened onto the lounge. It was even darker than the hall. He tried the light switch just inside the doorway, but nothing happened. The window was a vague rectangle to his left, covered by a heavy curtain. Danyl pulled ineffectively at the curtain. It was nailed to the window frame. He grunted and tugged harder until the fabric tore, admitting a ragged ghost of light into the room.
Steve’s lounge was never a well-decorated, harmonious space, so whoever pushed all the furniture against the walls and covered the threadbare carpet with a dozen foam mattresses had improved the decor. There were cheap woollen blankets scattered around the place. There was something missing, and it took Danyl a minute to realise what it was.
Steve’s decrepit, disgusting couch and chairs were crammed up against the wall where the bookshelves had once stood. The shelves themselves were disassembled and stacked in the corner, but Steve’s vast and precious collection of self-help books, neo-phrenology texts and horror novels were all gone.
Danyl returned to the hall and opened the next door. Steve’s bedroom. The bed lay on its side, tipped against the wall to make way for more mattresses. He checked the small closet built into the back wall: Steve’s clothes were all there—formerly blue jeans and formerly white T-shirts, all equilibrated to a muddy shade of grey by Steve’s inability to set the correct water temperature on the washing machines at the local laundry. Pinned to the back of the door was a scrap of paper. On it was written:
Thinking cannot accomplish anything—unless you THINK it can
Danyl smiled at this. Steve was addicted to stupid inspirational aphorisms copied out of his self-help books. They used to be taped up all around his house, dozens of cheerful sentences urging the reader to follow their fears and face their dreams. Now they were gone. His books were gone. Steve was gone.
Danyl returned to the hall and tried the next door. The bathroom was small. It contained a toilet, a wash-basin and a bath with a shower stand at one end. There was nothing else in the room except for another quote taped to the bathroom mirror:
YOU are NOT a butterfly dreaming you are a man
Because butterflies lack the neurological complexity to dream
Steve did not cook, so he’d converted the kitchen into a study. Access to the fridge and oven was blocked by a row of heavy filing cabinets. The kitchen table was empty. The linoleum floor was covered with scuffed, muddy footprints leading a complex dance back and forth then leading to the back door, which was open. Beyond the door lay another tan field of mud.
A gust of wind shook the door. It swung back and forth, creaking and bashing against a yellow rubbish bag which was trapped in the doorway. The bag had split, spilling its contents on the floor. Danyl sorted through them with the tip of his shoe.
Syringes. Latex gloves. A dozen empty bottles of disinfectant. Dozens of adult-sized nappies all swollen and reeking of urine. Some of these were things you’d expect to find in Steve’s rubbish. Others were a mystery.
The footprints on the lino headed straight towards the doorway and the rubbish bag. Beyond it they inverted into depressions in the mud leading directly to the shape of a human body imprinted in the ooze, arms outstretched, about two metres from the door. The footprints then reversed direction, weaving an unsteady route back to the house. Danyl stepped over the bag and walked across the mud to the indentation. He knelt beside it.
Whoever fell here had landed face down and made a surprisingly clear imprint. The area above the back porch was sheltered by a corrugated plastic roof, and this had protected the footprints and the impression from the rain. The fall could have happened this morning, or days earlier. Danyl could make out the shape of the buttons on their jacket, their outstretched fingers. Their face.
The circular pattern of footprints around the imprint reminded Danyl of something. He stared at the mud, and then his hand touched the notepaper inside his pocket: the etching of the spiral pattern he found in Verity’s notebook. He remembered Eleanor—his confrontation with her that morning. Her parting words as she stood in the door to her restaurant. There is no mystery. There is no plot. Forget about Verity, and this valley, and whatever you think is happening here.
He’d almost believed her; almost abandoned his search for Verity and left the valley. Now he stared down at the finely detailed imprint in the mud and made a low growling sound in the back of his throat; because the face that was so clearly outlined there was Eleanor’s.
7
The entrance to the labyrinth
The night rose from the ground like a tide. The shadows brimmed and pooled, flooding the streets, drowning the valley. The lights from the streetlights and houses were tiny remote dots separated by a great sea of darkness.
Danyl stood in the sunken depths of the service alley behind the Dolphin Café. The sliding door leading to the dining room was closed but not locked. He pulled it ajar, admitting a sliver of radiance into the dripping alleyway, then he slipped through and eased it shut behind him. He circled the dining area and hid under a table near the hall. He listened.
Ten hours had passed since he’d discovered Eleanor’s face imprinted in the mud outside Steve’s cottage, and Danyl had not been idle. First he took a nap on the sofa in Steve’s lounge. He woke eight hours later, keen-witted and ready to act. Next he finished the packet of cereal he found in the kitchen and then left the cottage, making his way through the empty valley. It was twilight. Rush hour. Even in the depths of winter there should have been people getting up and going out to teach yoga classes, or to beg for change from commuters in the Capital. But when Danyl turned on to Aro Street he saw no one. There were few lights on in the houses. The windows of the apartment buildings were grids of darkness. Everywhere was deserted. Abandoned.
Everywhere but the Dolphin Café. Now Danyl hid in its dining room. He heard the wind outside. The distant hum of refrigerators in the storeroom. Low voices. He took his shoes off and put them in his satchel, then crept to the hall.
A burly kitchen hand stood in the door to Eleanor’s office. Eleanor’s voice carried past him. Danyl waited for a second but the kitchen hand seemed stationary, his back to the hall, so Danyl tiptoed in the opposite direction, making for the kitchen. The man did not turn around.
The kitchen was empty. Two stoves were set against the far wall: broad stainless steel ranges with massive extractor units above them venting into the roof. A bench ran between them. Dozens of copper pans hung from hooks on the wall at head height. Danyl checked the hall, then hurried over to the stoves and set to work.
He took down the small
est pot he could find, set it on a stovetop and lit the gas burner. Next he rummaged through the drawers under the bench. They were filled with jars. He took out a jar labelled ‘Bay’ and dumped all of its brittle leaves into the pan. He repeated this again on the other stovetop with another pan and another jar of dry herbs. The room soon filled with the scents of toasting oregano and warm bay leaf.
The kitchen hand was still in the doorway listening to Eleanor, whose voice came down the hall in low, unpleasant waves. Danyl crept back to the dining room and hid. He waited, and in less than a minute a web of smoke drifted along the hall. It grew thicker. A few tendrils entered the dining room and a voice cried, ‘Fire!’
Danyl ducked his head beneath the table. Footsteps pounded. When they reached the kitchen, yells broke out. Danyl waited for a few more seconds in case of a latecomer, then he crawled across the floor and looked down the hall.
There was an awful lot of smoke in the air. Even the door to the kitchen was hazy. He saw two moving blurs beyond it: Eleanor and the kitchen hand. They were yelling at each other, their words interrupted by fits of coughing. Danyl turned away as his eyes stung and, squinting, with his arm over his nose and mouth, he hurried down the hall into Eleanor’s office and shut the door behind him.
That was better. Still a bit smoky though. He drew back the curtains and opened the window, partly to clear the air and partly to jump out of it if anyone came through the door. Then he turned his attention to Eleanor’s desk.
There was an antiquated laptop which was not switched on. A box of tissues. A paper tray containing utility bills. Scattered multicoloured Post-it notes with names and numbers scrawled on them. Nothing useful.
There were three drawers. Danyl tried the first one. Not locked! That was the genius of his plan. If you set fire to something, people are unlikely to waste time securing their workspace. The drawer contained pens, a stapler, cold medication, packages of tissues, hand cream and a large roll of cash.
He frowned at the money. It was an odd thing for Eleanor to leave lying around, especially in a restaurant that didn’t have any customers. His hand hovered above it, then withdrew and shut the drawer. Danyl was many things, but he was not a common thief. He was here for knowledge and revenge, and possibly art and love.
He opened the next drawer. A box of teabags. An accounting ledger. He tossed these on the floor and uncovered … Eleanor’s cellphone. Jackpot. He picked it up and touched the screen. The display flashed on. No PIN. No password. Danyl slipped it into his pocket, shut the drawer and made his way to the window. He raised one leg over the sill, then withdrew it and walked back to the desk, opened the top drawer and took the roll of cash. He slipped out the window and into the Te Aro night.
He ran across Aro Street, putting distance between himself and the restaurant. He stopped when he reached the park.
Sooner or later Eleanor would figure out she’d been robbed and come looking for him. He needed to get off the streets. He saw a narrow pathway between two large apartment buildings and jogged towards it. A car engine coughed in the distance; he broke into a sprint and reached the safety of the path just as headlights swept the empty road. He flattened himself against a brick wall. The car hissed by.
It was raining again but only a light drizzle. Danyl felt good. Very good. His cheeks flamed; his heart beat with a strong, proud rhythm. His blood sang in his veins. He wondered: if he were still on his medication, would he feel this joy? Would he have the wit and courage to set fire to a restaurant and then rob it? Surely not—the very idea would have seemed insane. And where would sensible old Medicated Danyl be now? Nowhere. Lost and bewildered, certainly not hiding in an alley holding Eleanor’s stolen cellphone, his pockets stuffed with her cash.
He touched the screen of the phone. It lit up with a ghostly blue light. He tapped his way through to Eleanor’s address book then scrolled down to the end of the alphabet. Verity was the last entry. He tapped it. The phone auto-dialled.
Verity. At last. What should he say to her? Give her his pre-rehearsed speech? Demand answers? Beg her to go out with him again? He didn’t know. Danyl had a tendency to overthink things; he knew this about himself. He schemed schemes, formulated elaborate plans and then when things didn’t go the way he hoped he was lost, he fell apart. Much better to improvise. Go with the flow. Like he did at Eleanor’s restaurant. He’d gone in without any complicated, pre-conceived plans, started a fire and come out smiling. That was the way to get things done.
The phone kept ringing then forwarded him to voicemail, where an electronic voice invited him to leave a message. The phone recorded his silence for a moment. He hung up. He’d try again in five minutes.
While he waited, he explored the alleyway. It was not a cheerful place. Its entrance was lit by light from the street, but that did not extend into its depths. Dark apartment buildings loomed on both sides. Rain dripped from steel stairways and the landings of fire exits high overhead. The walls were plastered with posters advertising the two-month-old community council election.
Danyl was about to try Verity’s number again when he heard footsteps. Someone was walking along Aro Street, splashing their way along the footpath. They moved at a slow, hesitant pace. An innocent passerby? Or a burly kitchen hand? Danyl shrank deeper into the shadows, backing down the alley as the footsteps grew nearer. There were several large skip bins here. He ducked behind one and watched as a lone figure appeared on the path. They stopped and turned to face him: a shape outlined by a halo of lamplit rain. Danyl froze. He could see the shadow’s breath steaming in the cold, and he held his own breath and waited.
The shadow stepped into the alley.
Danyl’s instinct was to run but he stopped himself. He didn’t know where the alleyway went. It might have a dead end, and he was well hidden where he was.
The person came closer. They stopped just short of the bin and rummaged through a bag, muttering something. It was a woman’s voice, and as she neared he could make out the words. ‘One. One three seven. One. One three seven.’ She took something from the bag and pointed it. Danyl flinched, blinded, as the alleyway flooded with light.
A torch. She had a torch. Danyl squatted on the ground, exposed, watching helplessly as the woman examined her surroundings. She peered at the graffiti on the walls, which was the usual incomprehensible multicoloured scrawl. She shone the torch down the stairway leading beneath one of the buildings. Finally she shone it at the skip bins, lighting him up like a nude on a spotlit stage. She looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hi.’ Danyl shaded his eyes.
‘Are you looking for the entrance?’
He squinted, confused. ‘The entrance?’
‘To the labyrinth.’
‘The what?’
She dipped the torch. Danyl blinked away the afterglow, and when the blotches of light faded they were replaced by the face of a very, very pretty woman with short spiky hair, and features so sculpted and delicate he checked her ears to make sure they weren’t pointed. She wore jeans and a black raincoat, and carried a black leather handbag over one shoulder. ‘Wait.’ She stepped closer. ‘I know you. You go out with that photographer.’ She clicked her fingers trying to remember. ‘Verity. Am I right?’
‘That’s right. But we don’t—’
‘I knew it. What’s your name again?’
‘I’m Danyl,’ said Danyl.
‘I’m Joy.’ She stepped forward again and extended her hand. Danyl came up on his knees, held out his arm and shook it. She stepped back. ‘How is Verity?’
‘Well, we broke up. Now she’s vanished.’
‘That’s too bad.’ Joy made a sad face. ‘You’ll meet someone else,’ she assured him. She flicked the torch around the alleyway. ‘Maybe not here, though. Take a dance class. That’s where I met my boyfriend.’
‘Thanks. That’s good advice.’
‘No problem.’ Joy shone her torch back into Danyl’s face. ‘So what are you doing here?’
/> Danyl wasn’t sure how to answer that. He didn’t want to get bogged down explaining everything about Verity, and Eleanor, and the fire and all the rest of it. Instead he just said, ‘Working.’
‘Whaddya do?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘Ah.’ This seemed to make sense to Joy. She relaxed her posture, turned her back on him and went back to studying the graffiti. She walked the length of the alley. She examined the fire exits and the steel doors leading into the apartment buildings and made disappointed noises when she found they were locked. Then she walked back to Danyl. She said, ‘A lot of my clients are writers.’
‘Clients? What do you do?’
‘I’m a drug dealer. Here—’ She tucked her torch under her arm, rummaged around in her purse and fished out a business card. He ventured forth from the shadow of the bin and took it, then squinted at it in the spill from her torchlight.
Joy
BSC Chem Msc Pharmacology
Ask me about my Phenethylamines
He turned it over. On the back was a phone number and an address on Norway Street. ‘Nice. Are you here on business?’
‘Not exactly,’ she replied. She looked around the alleyway again and stepped closer to Danyl. ‘Let’s stop pretending,’ she whispered. ‘We both know why we’re really here.’
‘We do?’
‘Of course. We’re both looking for the same thing. But I left the blue envelope at home—with my boyfriend—and I don’t remember the signs.’ She shook her head, rueful. ‘I wish I wasn’t so high right now.’
‘You’re on drugs?’
‘Just a little pot. And a low-grade hallucinogen. And a few wines to loosen me up. Maybe that’s why I can’t find the way?’ Suddenly her eyes widened. She reached out and grabbed Danyl’s arm. ‘I know what we’ll do. We’ll team up.’
Mysterious Mysteries of the Aro Valley Page 5
