by Ella West
And the window is new. The wood around the metal frame is unpainted as if someone has recently slotted it in, glass and frame. I look behind me and there are several small holes high up in the wall – shotgun pellets? Maybe this is the room Pete shot into that night. I’m trying to figure out how close the shot would have been if someone had been sitting at the desk, when a man comes in. He’s wearing dark pants and a cream shirt, which is obviously missing the striped tie, and he looks about the same age as my dad.
‘Sit down,’ he says, pointing at a chair. By the time I sit down, awkwardly, my schoolbag still on my back, he’s already in what appears to be his own chair behind the desk. He types something into the computer, using two fingers only, looking at the keys as he does so. Then he glances up at the screen and frowns, and that’s when I figure out who he is. I’ve seen that frown before. Just brilliant.
‘Annie,’ he says, leaning over his desk to shake my hand. I have to stand up to comply. His grip is really firm, but I try not to show it. ‘Sorry to pull you out of school. I hope you’re not missing anything important.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, which it isn’t. This is all far from okay.
‘Jack told me last night how you’d seen something in the Orowaiti River Saturday week ago.’
I don’t know what to call him. Jack’s dad, or Detective Robertson, or what?
‘It was just a raincoat.’
‘What type?’ He’s pulled out a pad from under the rubble on his desk and is writing stuff down, his pen poised above the paper now waiting for my answer.
‘I don’t know, just a raincoat.’
‘Black, red, green?’
‘Black, I think. A dark colour.’
‘And it was floating down the river, towards the sea? You saw it from the road bridge by the cemetery?’
‘Yes.’
‘About what time was this?’
‘I was biking to basketball practice in town, so it would have been about ten to nine.’
‘And it was just a raincoat? You didn’t see anything else?’
‘No.’
‘There were no identifying features on the coat, nothing that you remember?’
‘No.’
‘How was it floating?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was it all wound up, was it inside out, you just saw the sleeves? Describe it.’
‘It was floating hood first, down the river. I could see the outside of it. The arms were outstretched.’
‘So like this?’ He gets up and turns his back to me, stretches out his arms from his body.
‘Yes.’
He sits back down, writes something on the pad, draws a picture. I can’t quite make it out upside down.
‘You could see the hood?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the current didn’t swirl it around or anything?’
‘It stayed just like that the whole way until I lost sight of it.’
‘Anything else that you can tell me about it?’
‘No.’
‘You live down the end of Utopia Road, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He looks at me again as he’s thinking about something. It makes me feel uncomfortable for some reason, the way he does it.
‘Okay, thanks. You can go now. One of the cops at the front desk will take you back to school.’
He gets up as I do.
‘It was nice to meet you, Annie,’ he says and smiles again, and I try to return the smile.
It’s interval when I get back, which means the whole school is there to watch me get out of the police car and walk to where my next class is. They all just stand and watch and then everyone is talking and I know there is only one thing they’ll be talking about. Even the teachers on duty are all turning to each other and talking, their eyes still on me.
Mum rings exactly three minutes later on my phone. That’s all it takes, three minutes, for the gossip to get across town from one school to another. From a high school to a primary school. English is just about to start, so I have seconds to tell her that I’m okay before my teacher growls at me and threatens to confiscate my phone. No, Mum, you don’t have to ring the police, I just had to answer a few questions about something I saw in the river. I’m fine.
Which I’m not. I’m fuming.
Jack texts near the end of lunch: I’m so sorry. Beach? Four?
I don’t text back.
On the way home (why didn’t I bike today?) in the car, Mum’s interrogation is nothing like Detective Robertson’s. And we’re following a very slow milk tanker, so the trip takes forever.
‘They should have asked me to be there with you,’ Mum says and I cringe inside at the thought. ‘You are only fifteen. I still think I should ring them and complain.’
‘They just wanted to know what I saw. I wasn’t being convicted of anything.’
‘It doesn’t matter. And why didn’t you tell us about this raincoat in the river?’ Her voice is so loud I’m sure anyone on the footpath could hear her.
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘So how did the police know that you’d seen it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe someone in a car had seen me on the bridge at the time.’
‘They didn’t tell you how they knew? Didn’t you ask?’
‘Mum, the way gossip goes around this town, everyone knows everything, don’t they?’
‘Obviously not everything.’ She adjusts the window wipers so they go slower. The rain is slackening off a little. ‘You just should have told us. That day. When you saw the raincoat.’
The milk tanker has turned the corner into Utopia Road ahead of us instead of going straight. I sigh and stare out of the passenger window. Watch the graves in the cemetery as we pass them, think about how I can possibly answer her. How could I know seeing a raincoat floating down a river was important?
‘So what are you up to this afternoon?’ Mum asks before I can explain, her tone still the same.
‘I was going to take Blue out.’
‘You seem to be riding that horse a lot.’
‘So? He gets fat if he doesn’t get ridden.’
‘It is raining, if you haven’t noticed.’
Jack already has Tassie in a lather by the time Blue and I find him. The black horse stands there for a moment when they see us then Jack trots her up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know he was going to do that.’
‘How did your dad even find me? You don’t know my surname. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘He’s a detective. How do you think he found you? How many girls are called Annie and go to school here and have a horse and live on Utopia Road?’
‘Did you know he was going to do it? Why didn’t you at least warn me?’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘I drove into town and had lunch with him today at that place across from the police station, and he told me then. He apologised, if it helps.’
‘My mum is so pissed off with me.’
‘You hadn’t told her about the raincoat?’
‘I haven’t told her anything,’ I yell at him as Blue shifts under me. ‘It was just a raincoat. That’s all I saw. What has it got to do with anything?’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Now he’s yelling too. ‘It wasn’t just a raincoat. It was a body wearing a raincoat. You saw the guy who was murdered that morning.’
‘It was just a raincoat.’
‘The police have been chucking raincoats into that river all morning after my dad talked to you, and none of them floated the way you described. The only way it would have happened is if someone was in it, face-down in the water, dead.’
I don’t say anything, look away, up at Mount Rochfort surrounded by the rain clouds.
‘You saw a body, Annie, and that’s why I told him last night. Because I thought it was important – and it is. It gives them a timeline. It verifies
the other witness’ story about seeing the people dump it in the river upstream. It’s all evidence.’
‘So you can a pin a murder on my neighbour?’
‘The guy who blew up the house and then escaped? He’s missing too, Annie. People don’t just go missing. They’ve been trying to find him for days.’ He stops yelling, seeing me fighting back tears. ‘He’s probably dead as well by now. I’m sorry. Did you know him?’
‘Everyone knows everyone around here. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’ I press against Blue’s sides with my knees and within two strides I’m cantering down the beach, angry at Jack, angry at myself.
A couple of minutes later there’s the sound of hooves behind us. But Jack and Tassie stay back, they don’t catch up, even though Blue slows slightly, wanting them to. But they just stay behind us, on the sea side. Blue tosses his head, telling me it’s all my fault. I don’t care. I look away from them, inland, at the washed-up driftwood and seaweed, still searching for a body. A body in a raincoat.
‘Annie,’ Jack calls from behind us. Blue stops and turns, even though I haven’t told him to. ‘I’ve got to get Tassie home.’
He’s pointing up at where the sand meets the scrub line and there, on a gravel road, is a horse float and four-wheel-drive. Jack is already walking Tassie towards it and Blue follows, head down.
The horse float looks almost new. It’s a double, able to fit two horses in it, and apart for some mud around the wheels is the cleanest float I’ve ever seen. Jack is already off Tassie and is lowering the back door. I jump off Blue and take Tassie’s reins for him. Neither of us say anything. He starts undoing buckles on the saddle and heaves it off, carrying it into the float.
‘You’ve got to dry everything here all the time,’ he mutters, coming back for the saddle blanket. ‘Some of Tassie’s stuff is already going mouldy.’
I don’t reply, just start trying to undo Tassie’s bridle, but I’m lost with which parts come undone and which stay done up. Jack has it off in seconds and fastens a halter over Tassie’s head in one practised movement. He clips a lead rope onto the halter and Tassie follows him up the ramp into the float. He doesn’t even look back to see how she’s going – it’s like they’ve done it a thousand times before. But then, they probably have.
Jack comes out again and closes the back door of the float.
‘Can we just sit in the truck and talk for a minute? Get out of the rain?’ he asks me.
I nod. He has another lead rope in his pocket and he uses it to tie Blue to the back of the float, clipping the rope’s end into the halter that I left on Blue under his bridle when I saddled him up, too lazy to take it off.
Jack disappears around to the driver’s side. I take the passenger’s.
The inside of the four-wheel drive is as clean as the float. Wet sand and mud are on the floor and a cardboard coffee cup from the Denniston Dog in the cup holder, but that’s it. Not a chocolate wrapper or anything. Jack eases himself behind the wheel and looks across at me as I close the door.
‘So do you have your full driver’s licence?’ I ask, to break the silence.
‘I got it a couple of weeks ago. Dad got me to get it as soon as I could.’
‘You’re eighteen?’
‘Seventeen and a half. That’s the earliest you can get it, even if you have a cop for a father. When you turn sixteen, make sure you go get your learner’s.’
I stare out at the rain through the windscreen, thinking about being old enough to drive, thinking about lots of things.
‘Does your dad ride?’ I ask, again breaking the silence.
‘No, it was Mum. She taught us how to ride. All her side of the family are into rodeo. Especially my uncle. How about you? Do your parents ride?’
‘No. I had to do the nagging thing to get Blue. And then it was just because he was offered to us. I don’t think they would have ever gone out and bought me a horse but it was me or the meatworks for Blue. Mum didn’t like the other option. I think Dad is still annoyed we had to get rid of the cattle so Blue could have the paddock.’ Silence again. ‘So what did he say about me? Your dad?’
I have to wait for Jack’s answer. He’s staring out at the rain as well. He’s turned the key and is flipping the wipers on and off so we can see out of the windscreen. I’m keeping an eye on Blue in the rear-vision mirror outside the passenger window, or rather he’s keeping an eye on me.
‘He said you were very polite,’ Jack says finally.
‘Polite? Is that it?’
‘Okay, and very nice.’
‘Very nice?’
Jack sighs. ‘Okay, you really want to know what he said?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said you were beautiful and that you were only fifteen and that I shouldn’t break your heart.’
‘I’m almost sixteen.’
‘I know. You’ve said.’
‘So what did you say to your dad?’
‘I said you were the daughter of a West Coast coal train driver and you were tough and could take it and you were fearless on a horse.’
‘No, I’m not.’
He gives me a sideways glance.
‘The bit about the horse, that’s all you’re going to object to?’
‘Can I object to the rest?’
‘Probably not. You’re steaming up the windows.’ He hits a button and his window slides down but it doesn’t help stop the windscreen from fogging up. He turns the heater on as well. ‘Now the rain is coming in. Honestly, how do you live with this every day?’ He brings the window back up.
‘I should go,’ I say, my hand on the door.
‘Annie, you know I’m sorry about everything that’s going on.’
I nod. He leans over and kisses me and I kiss him back. Suddenly it’s like it’s normal, expected, that’s what we do when we leave each other, we kiss. I slide out of his arms, open the door. He starts furiously wiping the windscreen with his arm.
Mum and I are still not talking to each other by the time Dad gets home, although there’s something else that’s now taking precedence.
‘There is a thing in the washing machine,’ she says to him as soon as he comes in.
‘What sort of thing?’ Dad asks, taking off his jacket in the laundry. I’m stirring cheese sauce on the stove for tea and I have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘A thing that can survive the heavy-duty cycle, hot wash and washing powder. I was washing your overalls and it must have crept into them when they were hanging in the carport.’
‘Is that why the juice container is on top of the washing machine?’ he asks.
‘It’s the heaviest thing I had in the kitchen to stop it getting out.’
‘Do I need a gun?’
‘Maybe.’
I look from one of my parents to the other, trying to work out whether either of them is being serious and whether I should dial 111.
Dad takes the three-litre bottle of juice off the top of the washing machine, hands it to Mum, and slowly lifts the lid a fraction, peering inside.
‘Kitchen tongs,’ he says. Mum angrily slaps the tongs from the kitchen drawer into his hand as if he’s a surgeon and they’re forceps or a scalpel or something. Dad turns back to the washing machine.
‘Got you!’ He holds up the tongs for us to see. ‘It’s just a weta.’
The insect’s legs are wriggling in the tongs. It’s about the size of my hand.
‘See its tusks?’ Dad says.
Mum has a plastic container ready and holds it out to Dad at arm’s length.
‘See, real scary,’ he says, trying to wave it in her face.
‘Just put it in the container, please.’
Dad finally does what he’s told and Mum slaps the lid on and passes it to me.
‘You’re the animal nut,’ she says. ‘Go find a nice tree for it to live in outside.’
‘Okay,’ I say, carefully taking the container.
‘And far away from the house. I don’t want it back insi
de,’ she says, stirring the abandoned pot of cheese sauce.
I throw on a raincoat and take the container down to the bush on the edge of Blue’s paddock. He comes over to see what I’m doing and snorts at me.
‘Apparently they bite, so be careful,’ I tell him, opening the container carefully and holding it up against the tree. The weta’s legs scrabble uselessly against the plastic, so I have to half tip it out onto a branch, and then it’s gone. Camouflaged perfectly.
I start to head back to the house but hear still-raised voices inside. This time they won’t be about a tiny weta, they will be talking about me and my visit to the police station. Maybe I should just stay outside in the rain for a bit.
‘You won’t mind, will you, Blue?’ I ask him. He whinnies back. Get inside, don’t be so pathetic, he’s saying.
Later on, after tea, when everything has finally quietened down (the cheese sauce got burnt and was chucked out, so we had to eat the cauliflower without it – which was about as nice as the mood in the house), I’m sitting on my bed looking at Facebook on my laptop. Now that he knows my last name from his dad, Jack, surprise, surprise, has sent me a friend request. I will be his two thousand and fifty-sixth friend. I accept the request and check out his details. Home town is Christchurch. No family members listed, no relationships. I scroll down his feed. There are lots of rodeo pictures – Jack with horses, with other cowboys, lots of great shots with dust and hooves flying, in New Zealand, Australia, the United States, Canada. And there are lots of pictures of a girl who can only be Stella. She’s tall, blonde, dark-eyed and beautiful. Lots of photos of Jack with his arm around her shoulders, both holding up trophy saddles and belt buckles, smiling at the camera, happy together. I don’t want to look anymore.
‘So have you heard about the new guy in town?’ Samantha asks me on the way to our first class for the day.
‘What new guy?’ I reply, rolling my eyes. Boys, or the lack of them, or the uselessness of them, is a favourite topic of conversation for Sam.
