by Nick Spill
Then last week as he walked with her down the steps to Oriental Parade, Kathy had asked, “Have you ever had anal sex?” Alexander had been concerned where she was going with the question. It was a long walk to her apartment in Thorndon.
“He started with one finger. You know? Then he put in two. Next thing I knew he had his entire dick up me. It hurt at first, but I got used to it and now I can’t get enough. He’s an animal. Politics must be a big aphrodisiac. I mean, I’ve never had anything like it before,” she gushed.
Alexander did not know how to respond as he tried to keep a straight face. Why was she telling him the gory details? He did not understand. He kept walking along Cable Street, next to the harbor. There was no wind or rain to shield him from his friend’s confession. He looked out over the harbor and only desired to appreciate the unusually mild weather, the lack of traffic and noise and the fresh sea air. “He turns you on?” was all he could finally muster.
“Yes! Exactly. It’s amazing.”
Alexander walked her home and was careful to not say another word or move too close to her. He assumed Kathy wanted to confess her sins, like the good Catholic girl she wasn’t, and she knew he never gossiped to her and therefore her secret was safe. When she got to her front door, he thanked her for the evening and quickly walked away.
Chapter Three
Wiremu Wilson pushed his chair away from the wooden table, stood up and held a newspaper clipping in front of Moana and Rawiri. He was so big he knocked the bare lightbulb back and forth above the table. “Captain Cook is coming to Auckland.” He paused. “And we are going to kidnap him. For Maori land!”
“What?” Rawiri, his older brother looked up. “You’re planning the crime of the century?” The light played shadows across his lined face.
“Yes,” Wiremu whispered. He sat down and looked at their expressions of astonishment. The family kitchen had seen better days. Cobwebs were thick in the corners of the ceiling and papers and crumbs lined the cracked linoleum floor.
Moana scratched her head. “Isn’t he dead already?”
“How long have I been out?” Rawiri asked.
Wiremu had come across the article in the Herald the previous week and had been thinking of a plan to steal the most valuable painting in New Zealand, the symbol of colonial dominance. He had been monitoring the new seedlings growing in hidden plots in remote areas around Hokianga, on the south side of the harbor in native bush. Having lost his entire crop in February, he was determined to cultivate and sell the biggest harvest Auckland had ever known next year, and cash in on another expected marijuana drought. The Captain Cook caper might appear a distraction but both plans concerned Maori land rights, and Wiremu believed all the land marches and sit ins and protests and letters to the editor would amount to nothing. Only hard action would produce results. Only hard cash would buy back their lands.
Chapter Four
Two days before, at seven o’clock in the morning, Rawiri had been let out of his cell by a Corrections officer. On the landing he said goodbye to everyone waiting to be unlocked at seven thirty. It was obvious he was popular and respected. A powerful presence with his wide shoulders and barrel chest, he looked taller than he really was as he followed the officer through the sally port to a long corridor and the receiving office. He was handed his clothes and property in the canvas bag he had when he was incarcerated four and a half years ago. He was escorted past Central Control and along another long corridor to the last sally port, and the stairs and through the metal grille. A young Maori woman in a short red floral dress waited for him in a small office, accompanied by two more Corrections officers. She was on her toes to press noses with him; as he bent down so her long black hair fell over his shoulders.
“Hey, cuzz!” he said.
The two walked over to the visitor’s carpark. He heard the click of the big metal lock behind him and grimaced.
He looked at the sky and was blinded by the sunshine. He squinted and saw his cousin walk up to a 1974 cream Holden Kingswood. “Your car? Christ, Moana!” he exclaimed.
“It’s my boyfriend’s. He let me borrow it for the weekend.”
“Let’s go. I want to get away from here.” He swung his bag into the back seat.
Moana planted her foot on the accelerator and the eight cylinders growled. She slipped into first gear and eased up to the boom, the V8 rumbling. She roared through the barrier as it was raised and turned left onto Paremoremo Road. All that was left in the prison parking lot was a cloud of smoke.
Rawiri had one hand on the dashboard, the other on the door handle. “The Chinese guy I heard about, with the bomb?”
“He’s a third-generation New Zealander and his name’s Ricky, Ricky Wong. How did you know about the bomb?”
“Nothing we don’t know in there.”
“Ricky bought the car after what happened to his brother and his cousin.” Moana expertly steered through tight corners and blind bends as they made their way along a tight two-lane road lined with bush.
“How is Wiremu?”
“He’s good. Sends you his best. Dying to see you, but knows you have to make your journey first.” If Rawiri turned around he could catch glimpses of the sunken fortress of concrete and barbed wire they called Parry amid fields of green grass and mature trees.
“Yeah. Let’s not talk about it now. And I have to see my probie within twenty-four hours.”
“In Kaikohe?”
“Yeah.” Moana accelerated in the straights then braked hard at each corner. Rawiri held on with both hands. He looked at the green hills, the intensity of the light. He kept squinting; the colors blinded him.
“Above you.” She pointed to his visor.
He pulled the visor and a pair of wraparound sunglasses fell into his lap. “Cool! Now I can rob a post office!”
She jammed on the brakes and Rawiri almost hit the windscreen. She glared at him.
“Just kidding, Moana. It’s all I’ve heard about from some jokers. You’d think they’d learn.”
“Well, we all have to learn. I was naive.” Moana stepped on the accelerator and Rawiri held onto the dashboard and the door handle again. She turned to Rawiri. “A little country girl seduced by the big city.”
Rawiri pointed to the road and Moana swerved to miss a dead opossum.
He had been sentenced to seven years for cultivating and dealing in cannabis. Harvested, cured and distributed from secret plots on Crown land. Rawiri never admitted to the crime and never implicated anyone else. He had been arrested driving a large truck full of high-quality marijuana. At least 100 kilos.
Originally classified as a security risk, he had been sent to D Block in Paremoremo maximum-security prison but had been a calming influence on other Maori inmates. He had applied for and earned a BA in English literature, and successfully petitioned the classification committee to let him stay in Parry till his release this morning. He had at least two years to go, on probation, before his sentence was finished. Once he had reported to his probation officer he was to enroll at a Department of Social Welfare office and look for a job. His brother, also a graduate from Parry, whom he would live with, had promised he would help. There was the problem of associating with, let alone living with his brother, an ex-felon but Rawiri was sure Wiremu could smooth that out with his probation officer. All the other general and specific conditions he could manage—apart from not drinking alcohol, especially all the beers he was looking forward to. He thought such a restriction impractical and unreasonable.
“We’re gonna take the main highway and go across 12 to Dargaville, okay? We can go past Waipoua forest.”
“You’re driving. The big kauri tree. Too much excitement for a poor little Maori boy like me. Shit! I haven’t been in a car for years!” He gazed at the green paddocks with cows before him, a big smile on his face. “Hey, can we get a burger and a shake? I’m starving.”
Moana turned left when she got to the junction of State Highway 12 and 14, otherwise she would
have missed most of the town. She doubled back to Victoria Street where a takeaway shop was open. Dargaville was a collection of one-story shops along the main street: what had once been a thriving center for gum traders and kauri-timber merchants was now a quiet farming community that seemed stuck in the 1950s. Rawiri ate two cheeseburgers and drank three passionfruit milk shakes at the takeaway. Moana paid for them. When they came out of the shop the sky turned dark as if all the color had gone out of the street.
In the time it took Rawiri to wind down his window, Moana had left the town. He burped several times, looked at his driver who ignored him, and breathed in country air: grass, trees, cows, cow dung, truck exhaust. He leaned his head out of the car and enjoyed the wind blowing through his hair.
“Still the same colors, the same smells. Nothing changes here.” He looked back at the town, the muddy Wairoa River and the narrow road north.
“What do you mean?”
“Been away such a long time and now I’m out and it’s like, everything’s the same.”
“What do you expect? Another planet? It’s Dargaville. New Zealand.”
Rawiri adjusted his sunglasses. He looked out at farmland, large flax plants pointing to the grey sky, the sheer green of the grass covered hills. An occasional totara tree standing alone in a field surrounded by sheep. Squashed opossums by the side of the road. A harrier hawk riding the thermals. Pukekos, fat swamp hens, with their distinctive walk in paddocks next to the road. Everything looked familiar but different. He took his sunglasses off to squint in the sunlight and reassure himself the colors were so intense. He put his glasses back on and turned to Moana. “What’s your boyfriend going to do now? Rebuild the Hungry Wok? It had a reputation in Parry.”
“Really? Nah. Too awful. Think he’s going to concentrate on his martial-arts supplies and his other business. You know? Needs to clear his head. It’ll take time. And get the insurance company to cough up the dough. Greedy buggers.”
Moana concentrated on driving for a few minutes. “The Hungry Wok? They knew about that?”
“Yeah. Lots of boob-heads ate there. If they weren’t talking about scores they were talking about food, or, you know.”
Moana swerved to miss another dead opossum. She adjusted her steering and kept her eyes on the road. “Boob-heads?”
“Yeah. Lots of slang inside. Want to leave it all behind.” Rawiri turned and studied Moana. “My little cousin. You’ve turned into some young woman, girl.” He sighed and kept looking at her. “I haven’t heard from Wiremu since Hone.”
“He’s keeping quiet. Lying low. A social worker for the local council, would you believe? He’s not his former self. It’s like he’s lost his mana.”
“And all his pot and plans.”
“Yeah, it was a huge shipment. The best Hokianga weed ever, from what I’ve sampled. Would have bought a lot of land with the drought and all.”
“Do you have seedlings growing?”
“Do we ever. It’ll be a bigger crop. All tucked away in places no one knows about, let alone cops in helicopters.”
“Can’t wait to see it!” Rawiri rubbed his hands. “After I’ve spoken to my probie. Do you have a radio? Any music?”
“Wondered when you’d ask.” Moana switched on the radio and the car filled with the sound of “Bohemian Rhapsody”. She floored the accelerator and Rawiri held onto his arm rest.
Chapter Five
Mark Rose stopped at the junction as a cream Holden roared past. He adjusted his long black hair behind his ears as he leaned on the steering wheel to get a better look at the car. It looked familiar. His city drug dealer had a similar model, though the driver wasn’t the Chinese guy, Ricky, but a young Maori woman he hadn’t seen before, together with a huge Maori he didn’t recognize either. New Zealand is a small country, he mused, and wondered what Ricky’s car was doing here. Why would Ricky lend his car to a Maori girl? He would have to find out. Not for a moment did he think Ricky had had his car stolen. No one in their right mind would steal anything from Ricky. Not after what had happened to his brother and the Hungry Wok. Mark had heard a rumor that the explosion on the Southern Motorway was somehow related to Ricky and his relatives in Pukekohe.
Anyone who messed around with explosives had to be taken seriously. He should know. A few years ago, he had a 44-gallon drum of gelignite in his living room for a week, as his comrades plotted to blow up various targets around Auckland. The gelignite was old and starting to break down into the unstable nitroglycerine. The sweating drum gave out the most obnoxious fumes. His visitors got headaches, and none of his student girlfriends would come over to his Parnell flat, so he figured a way to put the drum onto a rowing boat and tow it out to the Devonport naval base. He had estimated the current would draw the boat to a docked ship and cause a large explosion. The boat sank in the harbor. He decided gelignite was unstable. The small quantities they had used previously had made little damage but had created enormous headlines. He had learned a valuable political lesson here, how small, random acts of violence, however poorly planned and imperfectly executed, could send the authorities into absolute panic and confusion. And Mark Rose had endeared himself to Nikolai Raganovich, a Soviet diplomat.
Ricky was not only skilled in explosives, Mark reasoned, but he grew the most mind-blowing pot Mark had ever smoked. Mark did not grow such potent sensimilla at his commune, and his brand was well known, and expensive. He would have to find out what Ricky Wong and the Maori girl were doing.
Mark Rose, peace-loving activist and general busybody, pushed a favorite old cassette into the new audio tape machine he had fitted into his truck and turned up the volume to hear Bob Dylan play “Maggie’s Farm”. This tape had a special meaning to him, as he’d had to rethread it with a pencil after it had become unspooled. He thought that was a metaphor for his life. He had become unraveled, and now he had found a woman who made him feel wound up again, whole—Annie, the earth-mother Samoan nurse he was dating. He looked forward to seeing her again but couldn’t remember a Dylan song featuring Annie, otherwise he’d have played it. He slid into first gear and started his journey home with a big smile on his face.
Chapter Six
“What’s happening, Wiremu my brother?” Rawiri hugged Wiremu. They were the same size, same solid build, tight black curly hair, sharp brown eyes, wide shoulders.
“Rawiri! It’s good to see you. You look older. I hope you are wiser. I swore to myself I would never go back, you know, and so far it’s working. I pray it will be your way as well, little brother.”
“You know how many relatives have said that before they were arrested again?” Moana muttered but neither brother heard her nor paid her any attention. They were too busy staring at each other. “I can’t get over how you look!,” said Rawiri. “There were rumors you were defeated. You’d lost your mana. I’m telling it to you straight, brother. I would never say anything behind your back I wouldn’t say to your face.”
“I appreciate your honesty. It’s been a tough year and I’ve been worrying about seeing you again, and what you have become. But I see from your presence, your mana, you are ready to get into the fight.”
“Parry was designed to break the spirit of the Maori. It failed.”
“We can’t fail on our mission, can we, brother?”
Rawiri shook his head.
They walked across the metal road down the paddock to the edge of the harbor and the stone beach. Two harrier hawks rode the thermals. The brothers watched the birds, the tide going out and bubbles surfacing from shellfish. There were no boats on the water, only the sound of small waves. Wiremu explained how he had spread rumors that he had lost his drive, his ambition to reclaim their lost land, he had retired from growing marijuana, he had abandoned the huge plots spread over Northland. Instead, he committed to helping young Maori find themselves and their place in the changing world. How young Maori could realize what they could do for their iwi, and their power within tangata whanua and how Pakeha and Maori coul
d live together.
They returned to the porch that overlooked the harbor. The house, a one-story wooden villa built in the early 1900s, used to belong to their mother, Whina Wilson, who in turn told the story of an aunt who had inherited it from a kauri-gum trader she had married and who had died shortly afterwards. When Rawiri turned eighteen, he discovered that Whina had left it to her three sons, Rawiri, Wiremu and Hone. With filigree carvings and fretwork around the front porch, the house still looked majestic despite not having seen a paintbrush or a hammer for a long time.
Wiremu had two beer bottles in his hand. He bit the top off one and handed it to Rawiri. “There was a young samurai lord,” he said, “who was brilliant and had a quick tongue. But when he came to court, he realized what a dangerous place it was and how many potential enemies he had. So he acted dumb. He never said anything to anyone and pretty soon the court forgot about him. One day, after a court uprising and all the other courtiers were fighting each other, the quiet one stepped forward and declared himself the leader. He fought two of the top men and he became their new lord.”
“Are you going to fight me, boy?” Rawiri screwed up his face.
“No! Are you playing stupid now? I’m telling you the story because I’ve been lying low and playing dumb, at least to outsiders. I don’t want any attention. I got interviewed by a whole clam-bed of cops who came here and blew bubbles but didn’t do anything. They just sank into the sand when the tide turned.”
