Arms Race

by Nic Low

  Nic Low is an author and artist of Ngai Tahu Maori and European descent. Born in Christchurch, he now divides his time between Melbourne and a bush retreat near Castlemaine. Nic’s fiction, essays and criticism have appeared in the Big Issue, Monthly, Griffith Review, Lifted Brow, Art Monthly and Australian Book Review. He was runner-up in the 2013 Overland Short Story Prize, shortlisted for the 2012 Commonwealth Short Story Prize and won the 2011 GREW Prize for Non-fiction. Until recently he ran Asialink’s international writing program. He is working on his next book, a literary exploration of New Zealand’s Southern Alps. dislocated.org

  The Text Publishing Company

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  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  textpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © Nic Low 2014

  The moral right of Nic Low to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Early versions of some of these stories were published in Griffith Review (‘Octopus’), Overland (‘Rush’) and the Big Issue (‘Slick’).

  First published in 2014 by The Text Publishing Company

  Cover & page design by W.H. Chong

  Typeset in Garamond Premier Pro by J & M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Author: Low, Nic

  Title: Arms race : and other stories / by Nic Low

  ISBN: 9781922147981 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781922148988 (ebook)

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  CONTENTS

  OCTOPUS

  MAKING IT

  PHOTOCOPY PLANET

  RUSH

  SCAR

  THE LOTUS EATERS

  DATA FURNACE

  SLICK

  ARMS RACE

  FACEBOOK REDUX

  HOW MUCH COURAGE

  THE CULLER

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For Beth

  For Hikatea and Geoff

  OCTOPUS

  AT TEN the sun finally sets and the pub fills up and the news comes on. It’s my round. A couple of aunties up the back give me a nod but everyone else seems pakeha. The bloke behind the bar looks down at my tarred hands.

  You one of the roading boys? he says. I’m Don.

  Hey. I’m—

  Got any ID?

  When I get back with the jugs there’s a couple of trampers sitting at the end of our table. A story comes on the TV about the Ruatoki police raids, all helicopters and black balaclavas and shouting.

  Fucken rubbish, the first tramper says. Eight million bucks of surveillance and they catch some guys shooting pigs in the hills.

  More like shooting their mouths off in the pub, his mate says. Cops’ve been watching too many movies. They reckoned there’d be grenades and napalm, and all they got was three old rifles. Like there’d be Maori terrorist camps in New Zealand.

  Taihoa puts down his beer and leans in close. Nah, he says. It’s for real.

  What is? the first guy says.

  The training camps. Cops found nothing ’cause they’re stupid. The real guns are buried. My cousin went to that training camp. It was awesome.

  The two trampers go real quiet. They glance at each other.

  Cops only found the one camp, Taihoa says, but there’s heaps. That’s why we’re down here. Got work on the roading gang so we got an excuse to come to the island and train.

  He nods over at a bunch of fishermen at the pool table. Those fellas too. They’re hardcore.

  What do they teach you? the first guy whispers.

  Taihoa glances round, then leans in even closer. It’s the al-Qaeda training manual with a Maori flavour. Heavy weapons and explosives, but they throw in some taiaha and haka and a bit of cannibalism.

  The guy sprays his beer all over the table. JJ pretends to look for something under his chair so they can’t see his face.

  And bushcraft, Taihoa says. When we get the signal we gotta leave the cities and live off the fat of the land. Or the fat of our enemies.

  The two guys are staring at Taihoa. Now’s my chance.

  He’s just taking the piss, I say. The real threat is the octopus.

  At that the boys lose it. The what? JJ gasps.

  The octopus.

  Fucken yeah! Taihoa says. You tell ’em. The al-Qaeda terrorist octopus.

  I’m serious, I say. There’s a giant octopus in the bay. If we make a wrong move and wake him up, we’re done. All of us.

  The boys are crying with laughter. People are looking at us. Taihoa slides open the heavy sash window and tries to light a cigarette. The wind keeps blowing his matches out. There’s a buzzing sound coming from nearby.

  Hear that? Taihoa says. They’re out there training now. How to use a chainsaw in the dark.

  Shut the bloody window! Don the publican yells.

  Sure thing, bro, Taihoa yells back. He grabs a full jug off the table and climbs through the window, then closes it behind him. The whole place cracks up. Then the window opens again and Taihoa grins back at us.

  C’mon, boys, he says. Bugger the tab.

  The boys climb out the window in a sag-arsed tumble, leaving me there by myself. Something goes crunch inside.

  Octopus, bitches! I scream through the half-open window. I’m not comin’ out. There’s a mean-as mother-fucken octopus out there. You better run!

  Through the window I see Tama sprawled out under the island’s one streetlight. He’s fallen over from laughing so hard. Taihoa pulls him up off the gravel and they head towards the wharf. They think the octopus is a helluva joke.

  Thing is, I’m not joking.

  The boys call me Little Shit. Mostly I’m just Little, when I don’t feel like leaving the house. I don’t believe anything those days. Other days I’m king of the world and up in your face, I get the full title. Those days I believe too much. Today’s one of them. I grab the window and crash it shut. I can’t see the boys out on the road anymore. Just the fogged reflection of everybody in the pub staring at me. I turn to face them, breathing hard. I’m still in my dirty work blues and orange high-vis vest.

  Crazy bastards, I say. They think I’m takin’ the piss.

  Nobody moves. They’ve all stopped talking. There’s just the tinny chatter of rug
by on the TV and the clink of glasses going down along the bar. Behind the till Don’s watching me through slit eyes.

  Dad told me to watch for signs out here. We’re six days into a summer building roads on Rakiura and I’ve found one. I step forward into the middle of the room, and start to preach.

  Listen up, all right? You fellas gotta be careful out there. When you leave the pub tonight and get in your cars you go in fear, ’cause I saw this huge octopus from the back deck of the launch. Yes, I did. He’s sleepin’ in the middle of the bay. You piss him off and we’re all dead.

  I turn to the fishermen round the pool table.

  You fellas must have seen him out there on the boats. He’s massive.

  The nearest fisherman looks at me real hard and gives this little shake of his head, like he’s trying to tell me something, but there’s no time to ask. The beach is right across the road and the octopus is right there, a black stain spreading under the water. I raise my voice and let it ring out the way Dad does at his sermons.

  He’s old too. Real old is Te Wheke. He’s got a hardcore long memory. He never forgets.

  I try to smile but it comes out wrong, all big eyes and teeth like a pukana grimace.

  Don comes out from behind the bar and walks towards me.

  C’mon, nut job, he says. Shut up, pay up and piss off.

  There’s no hope for this lot. I take a step back. What are you fellas looking at? I ask the room. Don’t you know, we’re the roading gang. We tried to warn you.

  I slide the window back up and half climb, half fall through it. Outside, the wind tears my clothes off. There’s only one thing for it.

  Run.

  At our place, curled in the dark trying to make myself sleep, I’m safe. But that’s not what a leader does. That’s not what Dad would do. The others are still out there. I put my boots back on.

  It feels like hours before I find them at the wharf. The wind’s up and singing through the masts. They’ve got the back door of the ferry terminal open. JJ’s up to his usual shit, banging round inside using his phone as a torch. Taihoa sees me and turns.

  Octopus! he yells. Run, you bastard!

  Tama cracks up, but then he sees my face. He’s got his hood up and his curly afro’s coming out the sides. What you on about this octopus, bro? he asks. You havin’ a Little Shit day?

  Yeah, I tell him. He’s somewhere out there, bro. I saw him. Eight arms and a big evil eye. We wake him and we’re done. Boom.

  I jab Tama in the stomach, harder than I mean to.

  Sorry, I say. But it’s not safe. We gotta go.

  Taihoa frowns. He cocks his head on one side. You’re not joking, are you? How you know there’s an octopus?

  Saw him from the ferry.

  How big is he?

  I lower my voice. Bigger than the pub.

  Tama folds his massive arms. Riiight, he says. Bigger than the pub.

  I tried to warn those guys but they didn’t want to know.

  Bugger them, Taihoa says, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. Pakeha get what’s coming. But it’s all good, right? This octopus isn’t gonna come for us?

  Waves surge against the wharf below. Taihoa’s being nice but I gotta tell the truth. If he gets pissed off, no one’s safe, I say.

  You’re crazy, bro, Taihoa says. He lets that hang there, then his grin flashes white in the dark.

  Let’s catch him.

  My heart bumps.

  Tama groans and unfolds his arms. Oh, here we go, he says. For Christ’s sake, Taihoa.

  Taihoa got his nickname ’cause it means ‘cut it out’ in Maori. He ignores Tama like he ignores everyone. How ’bout some late-night fishing? he says. We could grab one of these boats.

  How we gonna catch a giant octopus? Tama asks through clenched teeth.

  Dunno, Taihoa says. He turns to me. Your dad used to catch them, eh? Before he turned all god-freaky?

  Seriously, I say, you don’t wanna get his attention.

  Nah, man, we’d be like Maui. The great ancestor takes his jawbone and tames the sun—we tame the octopus. C’mon.

  Before I can say anything he’s down the wharf. He stops at a little dinghy at the far end. Aw yeah! Taihoa yells. Late-night fishing is on.

  While he’s untying the ropes, I get this real clear feeling that he’s right. We have to go fishing. Dad’s always telling us there’s a reason for everything, everything for a reason. Tells it to his congregation too, chairs pulled up on the lino in our kitchen on a Sunday morning. He says it so gentle. A reason for everything, everything for a reason. So there’s a reason I got kicked out of school and got a job out here, and a reason I saw the octopus. That’s the sign. I’m not shit on the end of a shovel today. Over the surf I can hear Dad’s voice, clear as.

  Watch for signs and you’ll know what to do.

  I say a prayer under my breath. Lord bless the pakeha in the pub who don’t want to know, and bless us and the boat, and we’ll go do some fishing in your name. Ko Ihu Karaiti, to matou Ariki, amene.

  All right, I shout. Let’s fucken go!

  We’ve just about got the ropes clear when there’s a shout from JJ inside the ferry terminal. Check this out, boys!

  What is it? Tama calls back.

  Just come, dick. Have a look.

  We shamble over to the doorway where JJ’s standing with this long black bag. He flips it open. By the light of his phone I can see it’s a gun case. Three rifles snug in grey foam.

  Shiiit, Tama says. Where’d you find that?

  Locked in the office, JJ says. Must be some hunter going back on the morning launch. There’s no bullets, though. They store them separate.

  It’s another sign. Everything’s becoming clear. Sweet as, I say. We can shoot the bastard. I reach into the bag and take a rifle. It feels cold and smooth and good to hold. I point it out to the bay. Bang! Right in his big horny mouth.

  Taihoa’s grinning like mad. This is his kind of game. He grabs the other rifles, hands one to JJ and keeps one for himself. C’mon, he says. Help me find the bullets.

  No way, Tama says. That’s heavy shit. Let’s just—

  We’re so busy with the guns that we don’t notice the truck pull up till its headlights blaze across us. The doors slam and three huge blokes come marching up the wharf. They’re just black shapes against the light. We’re too stunned and drunk to move, and in a second I see it’s the island’s one cop, a heavy Maori guy in a Swanndri and black beanie, and Don from the pub, angry as. Behind them’s one of the trampers.

  Yeah, that’s them, I hear him say.

  Shit shit shit, Tama hisses. Put them away—

  Oi! a voice booms. What in the hell—

  The cop’s voice dies when he sees us for real: four scruffy mainlanders, hoods up against the cold, pants slung low, rifles glinting in the yellow glare. I’m still wearing my high-vis vest, lit up in the headlights like an angel. The cop reaches out his hands, palms down, real slow.

  What’re you boys doing?

  I’m still trying
to find my tongue when Taihoa starts taking the piss.

  It’s Tino Rangatiratanga, eh, he says.

  Eh? the cop says.

  JJ starts giggling.

  Time to make the white man pay, bro, Taihoa says.

  I feel Tama stiffen beside me, mouthing What the fuck?

  We’re the roading gang, I say, stepping forward. We’re the four road workers of the apocalypse.

  The cop’s only metres from us but he turns and runs, grabbing at Don and the tramper on his way past.

  Taihoa cracks up. Tino Rangatiratanga! he yells at them, then: Fuck the police, nigger!

  In a second they’re in the truck and screaming back down the road towards the pub. We just stand there in the growing silence, caught between shit-scared and that mad humour that gets you when you’ve gone too far.

  Time to get the hell out of here, eh boys, Taihoa says. His clean-shaven cheeks are glowing.

  Where the hell we gonna go? Tama demands, and our laughter dies. Go hide out at ours? Like they don’t know where we live? Only two hundred people on this bloody island.

  Man, we’re just messing around, JJ says. They know that.

  Are we? Taihoa says. Do they?

  No, I say. We take the boat and go after the octopus.

  There’s just the road end, the wharf and the boats. Everything else is a black wall of bush and water. There’s nowhere else to go.

  We gotta, I say. It’s our calling.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tama says. Let’s go—look.

  There are lights outside the pub, lights going on in houses up the hill, cars heading our way. We stumble to the end of the wharf and climb down into the boat. JJ and Tama find a couple of orange plastic oars and we push off into the bay. The sound of the waves is the octopus breathing. I cradle the rifle to my chest and hope I’ll know what to do. Taihoa’s laughing, crouched low in the back of the boat, yelling insults in Maori that the wind snatches away.