Soon

by Charlotte Grimshaw

  ‘What you got planned?’ he asked her.

  ‘Shopping!’

  His girls and their differences. Claire: acutely sensitive to every nuance. Her quickness and blushes and sudden rushes of mirth, her infinite capacity for taking offence. She was too sensitive to act natural, she was so busy reacting. She noticed everything, could be shrewd, was intolerant of human failings, had a strong sense of justice. Was scathing about her mother and yet wanted to be loved. Hard for Karen to love a daughter whose capacity for contempt was limitless. During a recent row Claire had looked thoughtfully at Karen and said, ‘The Hallwrights. They couldn’t care less about you. You know who they care about? Each other.’

  ‘Oh fuck off,’ Elke now said to her phone, genially chewing, texting. She was regularly stalked by suitors.

  ‘Some boy?’

  ‘Hm. How shall I play this?’ She was able to text without looking.

  He said, ‘Marcus seems to be acquiring quite a collection of girls.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I know! God.’

  After a moment she said, ‘I talked to Mr Cahane.’

  ‘Did you.’

  ‘He watched me have my tennis lesson with Garth.’

  Simon frowned. He would have enjoyed that, the bastard. Elke bouncing around in her little white skirt. He’d seen her going off with Garth that morning. Escorting his pupil across the grounds the trainer had looked censorious, as if he wasn’t going to be distracted by all this feminine glamour, and Simon had thought, Good. Garth’s gay. Garth and Dean: it’s David’s arse they’re after.

  He shifted in his seat, his knee burned.

  ‘We went for a swim. I needed to cool off, it was boiling.’

  ‘You went for a swim with Cahane.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  How to explain the wrongness. ‘He’s a . . . strange person.’

  ‘Whatever. He’s really nice. Actually.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘He asked about the family, about me and Mum and Roza and David and you.’ She sent another text.

  Simon swore, braked, swerved.

  ‘Dad. Slow down.’

  He eased his foot off the accelerator. ‘You should be careful what you say to people about private stuff. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I don’t mean Cahane, but other people, strangers. People make things up. They get some real details for authenticity and then twist them. Will you make up your mind.’ He tooted his horn at the car ahead. An arm emerged from the driver’s window, an emphatic finger.

  ‘God, Dad. Relax.’

  Elke had taken her feet off the dashboard and was sitting up straight.

  Simon glanced at her. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  He listened. ‘What noise?’

  ‘That kind of thumping. Like there’s something banging in the engine.’

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  After a while he said, ‘I tripped last night, did something to my knee. I wanted to go for a run this morning, it was no good.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘I might have to get it X-rayed.’ He flexed his hands on the wheel. ‘So. You’re moving into the big house.’

  ‘Johnnie wants me to. Roza says all he wants is me and Soon and Starfish. It was her idea. She said she was sick of him asking for me.’ She looked pleased, hiked her feet up on the dashboard again. ‘Hey, you know what old Cahane asked me? What I’m going to vote.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, God, I don’t know. I probably won’t bother.’

  ‘You have to. It’s important.’

  ‘But I don’t care.’

  ‘It affects everything, who’s in government.’

  ‘Well, I’ll vote for David then, but honestly, I don’t care.’ She added, amused, ‘Anyway, Cahane went on like you, saying it’s important to vote and I said OK, you’ve convinced me, I’ll vote for you. He liked that.’

  ‘I bet he did. Sounds like you were flirting.’

  ‘With that old man? Anyway. You know what Claire says? You vote for the one you’d go out with.’

  He thought about it. ‘That’s only a political test if you’re political. If you’re like Claire or Ford and you’d be turned off by someone who doesn’t have the same opinions. Whereas Roza says she’s not political, so . . .’

  ‘Whatever.’

  He waited, then said, ‘We’ll be hoping you come back.’

  ‘From the big house? Why does it matter where I sleep?’

  ‘It doesn’t. Course.’

  ‘Johnnie is actually my brother. My real brother.’ Her tone was wronged, self-righteous — unusual for her.

  ‘He is indeed. Good. It’s important.’ It cost him something to add, ‘You and Johnnie look alike.’

  She was texting again and Simon, speeding up the passing lane, took advantage of the space to get ahead of four cars. Gaining his place in the queue just as the lane narrowed, he powered over the ridge and coasted down the long straight. When he was young, he and his friends, coming back from trips up north, had used this hill to compete for speed records; surprising they survived in the old cars they used to drive, rusty bombs that overheated and broke down, the old Ford Cortina so dilapidated the bottom was falling out of it, he’d ended up selling it for scrap.

  They were on the motorway, the city ahead of them. They crossed the Harbour Bridge to the jittery flashes of light from the hundreds of white masts in the marina, rigging and flags and cables blowing in the breeze, sun moving on white hulls, the wake of a ferry a pure white V in the blue. Cars moving on the marina road, cars heading up onto Shelly Beach Road, up onto the Southern, movement but no sound except the roar of the air conditioning.

  He said, ‘I’ve just remembered a dream. I was trapped in a train station, there was a terrorist attack. A guy stood in a doorway and killed a woman. He stood there with her dead at his feet, then he slammed the door. The funny thing is, him slamming the door was more scary than the killing.’

  ‘Weird,’ Elke said.

  ‘Why was that, you think?’

  He remembered the violence, the speed, the finality of the slam. The closed door. He’d woken in a sweat.

  ‘Maybe you had one of your headaches.’ She received a text. ‘Can you drop me in Newmarket?’

  ‘Going to be a big shopping session, is it?’

  ‘Yes — pooh, can you smell that?’

  ‘I can actually. Burning rubber.’ He peered at the dials on the dashboard.

  ‘I hope you’re not about to blow up, Daddy dearest.’

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. He dropped her off, watched her sauntering away, still texting. She was beautiful and droll and unknowable and he felt the weight of loving her.

  As he pulled away there was a pinging from the dash and a red light came on. He caught the faint smell of burning rubber again.

  It was still early so he drove home to check on Claire. She was out on the deck, the table covered with notes, a laptop, empty cups. Before heading to his surgery he sat down with her and had a coffee, asked how the studies were going. He told her about his dream. He was still wondering why all the fear was in the slamming of the door.

  She said, ‘Maybe because it seemed arbitrary, irrational. Harder to make sense of. It meant he could attack again without warning. You wouldn’t see him coming and you wouldn’t be able to reason with him. Lack of communication is scarier than violence. Or makes violence scarier.’

  He gave her an affectionate little punch on the arm. ‘The strange thing is, the brain constructs the story — creates the fright with one part of itself in order to scare the other part.’

  She tilted back her chair, yawned. ‘And then spends a whole lot of conscious ener
gy working out what its own story actually means.’

  He thought about this, looked at the crooked parting in her fair hair, her freckly, pleasant face. Her nose and jaw were shaped like Ford’s and she’d inherited Simon’s ungainly figure, worse luck, his shapeless legs, big bum and heavy bones. No, she wasn’t beautiful like Elke, but her eyes were lovely: striking and full of clear intelligence. She could stare you down. He thought: eyes like a physicist. You see a physicist interviewed on some TV documentary, he’ll have those searchlight eyes, those lamps.

  He said, ‘Who are you going to vote for next election?’

  Amused curl of her lip. ‘Not the rich prick.’

  ‘What’s his being rich got to do with it?’

  She hesitated. ‘I talked to David about politics.’

  ‘I know, you asked him about “third-world diseases”.’

  ‘There was that, but there was another time, when you and Mum weren’t there.’

  ‘Oh God. How did that go?’

  ‘It’s strange. He’s not political. It’s like, with him it’s personal. Don’t you find it weird that they don’t talk about politics at Rotokauri? There’s just a stream of inanity about movies and tennis and workouts. They talk about what’s happened on CSI New York. They’re totally anti-intellectual. Don’t you die of boredom?’

  Simon sighed. ‘They don’t conduct business at the dinner table, no. They run the country, then they go and have dinner and unwind.’

  ‘But it’s so unsatisfying — it’s all wrong. There’s no ethics, the only thing they worship is money. They’re not Conservative or conservative or anything. And with David, there’s all this stuff going on underneath. He . . . hates something. He wants to kill something in himself.’

  ‘He probably wants to kill you.’

  She ignored this. ‘There’s a reason why you and he fit so well together.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘For one thing, he’s in love with you. Or he loves the idea of you. Wants to be like you, maybe. But Dad,’ she turned serious. ‘I worry.’

  ‘Oh, do you now.’

  ‘Roza. She and Mum are best friends, right. They do everything together. But Roza . . . she hates Mum. Hates her.’

  ‘Oh come on.’ He thought, You hate her. Don’t project your own feelings on others.

  She said, ‘I worry. Because—’

  ‘You’re imagining it. Roza’s good friends with Karen.’

  ‘No. You’re wrong.’

  He sighed. ‘Why would Roza hate Karen?’

  ‘Elke.’

  He thought of Ford, and Aaron. Aaron’s genetic legacy: suspicion, paranoia. The old man was so minutely attuned to undercurrents that it killed off all his spontaneity and generosity. Simon thought, Maybe the less sensitive you are to signals from the animal kingdom, the easier it is to love and be loved.

  He said, ‘You worry too much. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘If Roza could hurt Mum, she would.’

  ‘Ah, that’s crap, Claire.’ He thought, Why would you care? You’ve been hurting your mother all your life.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. Just because I don’t get on with Mum, you think I’m not telling it like it is. But I’ve seen—’

  He cut her off. ‘OK, I get the picture. Thanks for the warning.’

  Irritated, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She shied away. Outside, he got a cold feeling, didn’t want to leave her like that. He went back in.

  ‘Claire.’ He put his arms around her. ‘Don’t worry. I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Count on it. I understand what you’re saying. Never think I don’t. And you’re the cleverest person I know.’

  He held her tight. ‘Just don’t be so . . . imaginative.’

  ‘Watch this space,’ she said.

  ‘Darling, you’re just ridiculous.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘See you later. Drama queen.’

  He took Karen’s little Honda, thinking he would call an AA mechanic later to check his own car. He cleared off a pile of ChapSticks and lipsticks and worked himself gingerly into the driver’s seat, amused at the tininess of his wife — how did she fit? His knee throbbed as he made room for himself, pushing the seat back, rearranging the mirrors. On the passenger seat she’d left a stack of brochures and magazines and tubes of hand cream and a tangle of netball bibs and a pair of running shoes and two Nike caps.

  The car was an automatic, the only kind Karen would drive, its tinny engine whining and lurching its way between gears. After driving his big smooth beast it was like being crammed into a pedal car. He much preferred manual gears and took a moment to adjust, hitting the brake once, thinking it was a clutch. What a risible vehicle; he should buy Karen something better. He drove leaning down to massage his painful knee.

  He was driving along the street towards his office building when he saw Arthur Weeks. Swearing softly he pulled over, lowering the window. His phone started to ring.

  Weeks leaned down. ‘I knew you were in town today. I called your receptionist.’

  Simon looked at his phone. Clarice calling. He let it go to messaging. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The young man hovered with an anxious, twitching smile. ‘Come for a coffee.’

  Silence.

  Weeks raised his voice, eager, urgent. ‘Quick coffee at my flat, it’s not far away. I want to tell you a couple of things. And I’ll give you Mereana’s phone.’

  Simon shook his head. But he thought of what Claire had just said. Lack of communication had its own risks. Perhaps it was better to know what Weeks was up to.

  ‘Come on, what’ve you got to lose?’ Weeks said.

  Simon’s phone started ringing again; he looked at it, distracted.

  ‘It’s literally two minutes’ drive away,’ the young man urged, repeating the address, the phone shrilling again. Simon said, ‘Yes, OK, I’ve got it. Just go away, will you? Let me deal with this and I’ll come.’

  ‘OK. See you in two.’

  Simon watched him walk to his car and drive off. He checked his messages. There was nothing urgent, just Clarice making work for herself.

  He started driving then stopped the car, trying to decide what to do. Was it a mistake to follow Weeks? The phone rang again. Clarice. He had an irrational sense that the phone was Clarice, a little nagging, spying outpost of her that he had to lug around. Would she be able to tell if he turned it/her off? Irritated, he put the thing on silent, and when it went on vibrating and flashing he got out of the car, walked along the street and slipped it into his office mailbox in the gatepost. He glanced around. From a window opposite two small white dogs stared down at him. They had patches of black around their eyes, two little ghosts, their ears twitching.

  The flat really was only two minutes’ drive away, at the very top of a small, quiet street running up the side of Mt Eden. The young man was waiting, and he led Simon up a flight of concrete stairs to his flat. The rear windows looked onto the grassy slope of the hill; from the front there was a view of the suburbs stretching away across the isthmus.

  Weeks showed him to a concrete deck out the back and bustled inside, saying he would make coffee. Simon sat on a canvas chair. Across a wire fence the paddock rose sharply towards the summit. It was a dazzling morning, bright sunshine, and there was a rich, hot smell of grass and manure. The traffic sounded distant below.

  Weeks came out with two coffee cups. He said, ‘Strong brew. I need it. I don’t sleep, insomnia. It’s got so bad I’ve started taking sleeping pills. Then in the morning I need coffee to clear my head.’

  Simon didn’t look at him. ‘That’s called a vicious circle,’ he said.

  ‘I know. Anyway. How’s your holiday going? You’ve been staying at Rotokauri with the Hallwrights. And the Cahanes. Ed Miles, our charming Minister of Police. I read it in t
he paper. Must be interesting. That Cahane — knows everything, finger in every pie. Apparently he’s interested in Norse mythology? I was thinking about him — he’s quiet, but there’s that intensity, what is it, patrician anger? A vast sense of entitlement? Ambitious, incredibly right wing, fanatical; you can imagine him being a kind of hysteric.’

  But what did he know about Cahane, or any of them? Anger rose in Simon like gas. One spark and he’d go off.

  Weeks went on, ‘I’d like to meet them. Hallwright. Cahane. Ed Miles. The beautiful Roza Hallwright. And your Elke Lampton, Mrs Hallwright’s daughter.’

  Neither spoke for a moment. A butterfly fluttered lopsidedly over the long grass, the cicadas clicked and crackled. Avoiding Weeks’s sharp little black eyes, Simon fixed his gaze on the paddock, the bees climbing and toppling in the grass stalks, the drunken flight of the butterfly. He heard the coy voice lingering on the loved names: Roza, Elke.

  Weeks said, ‘Speaking of the beautiful Roza Hallwright, are the rumours true?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mrs Hallwright and an extremely wild youth? Possible recent relapse? Suggestion of drugs? I met a glamorous woman at a party, her name was Tamara Goldwater. She was drunk, she said she had a tale to tell about Roza Hallwright. She mentioned the Hallwrights’ main housekeeper. Mrs Lin Jung Ha . . .’

  Simon controlled his anger. ‘So you want to meet them. But you’re not just some hack, you’re a “movie director”. Only a failed one. With your “short films” and your “Sundance”. Just an ageing kid hanging around the real people. Making up ugly gossip. Trying to find some life. Because you don’t have one of your own.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Weeks put up his hands.

  Simon looked at him, sensing the young man’s ego properly flicked.

  ‘When did you last see Mereana?’ Weeks asked. His voice turned hurt and hard now.

  ‘I don’t know her.’

  The young man was pale, his face pinched, untouched by the summer sun. His eyes were like wet stones. ‘So you won’t mind me mentioning to people that I’ve got her phone with your picture in it.’