The Last Guests

by JP Pomare

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Sneak up on me in here.’

  ‘I didn’t sneak, you just looked busy.’ I say it like a question.

  He draws a breath. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not really, just…’ He lets the sentence die in his mouth, he’s zoomed out on the image now, but I know exactly what he was gazing at.

  ‘Who is she?’ I ask.

  ‘These are the next guests.’

  I lean closer, staring. She’s in a bikini, sitting up on her husband’s shoulders. ‘And you’re just staring at a photo of them, of her in particular.’

  ‘Of them,’ he says.

  ‘You were zoomed in on her boobs.’

  ‘No,’ he begins. ‘I…’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, dragging the spare seat closer. The leather is cool on the skin below my pyjama shorts. ‘She’s hot. I just find it odd that you’d sneak down here after dinner to have a perv, that’s all.’ I can smell the three beers and two whiskies from dinner on his breath.

  ‘It’s due diligence. It might save us a headache.’

  ‘I thought I was the paranoid one.’

  ‘I’m doing this for your benefit, Lina. So you can have peace of mind.’

  Maybe he’s telling the truth, he just wants to check them out, make sure they’re not suspicious. Then he saw her and decided to get a closer look. Why else would he search them? ‘So what did you find out about them, you know, other than how many abs she has?’

  ‘The wife, Lucy Swallow, booked it. She’s a recruiter. She works for a small HR company in Ponsonby. She has a sizeable network, over five hundred connections but she isn’t overly active on LinkedIn.’

  ‘Mustn’t be a very good recruiter then.’

  He continues running through the profile of the two guests. Somewhat predictably – given his muscles – the buff husband, Phil, is a tradesperson. Rain slaps against the steel roof outside.

  ‘She’s made the same post on Instagram as well as Facebook.’

  He brings it up now.

  Eatery suggestions near Rotorua/Tarawera… and go!

  Dozens of responses on Facebook, a few on Instagram.

  You’re going to Tarawera! Great. Check out the Downtown, excellent pub food near the turn-off outside of Rotorua.

  You’ve got to check out the redwoods.

  Go to Lucky Egg. Try the pan-fried gnocchi.

  ‘Lucky Egg,’ I say, jabbing him in the arm with my elbow. ‘Your favourite.’

  The message is accompanied with two thumbs-up emojis.

  ‘It’s just a little odd,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just they both started Facebook profiles less than a year ago. At around the same time.’

  ‘Is it any weirder than the couple who booked for next month who had a shared Facebook page?’ A yawn seeps out of me.

  ‘I suppose not,’ he says, but the way he says it, still staring at the page, makes me think he’s not sure at all. He turns back to me. ‘Most of her followers on Instagram have private accounts.’

  ‘You checked out her followers?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve been conditioned to be suspicious of strangers.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But this is paranoia now.’

  ‘Alright, bedtime.’

  I can see through his neutral expression to the uncertainty beneath, a strong current somewhere deep, despite the stillness of his face. ‘I actually came down to say goodnight,’ I say. ‘And to say good news about Axel and Claire. They’ll be great parents.’ The words have a bitter quality, artificially sweet. When we’re in bed together, for what seems the first time in weeks, I forget about Daniel, my necklace, the predicament. I’m simply myself, present in that moment as I reach for him. He seems to anticipate it and before we’ve kissed, before we’ve had time to do anything else, he’s inside of me. I need him now, I need his support and love. He’s breathing close to my ear and his fingertips dig into my hips. It’s how it was all those years ago, how it used to be. His blood is running hot. Just for a moment Lucy Swallow rises through the sensations, I look at my husband’s laboured face behind me. His muscled, scarred body, rocking. His eyes are barely open and it occurs to me that he’s imagining me as her. I groan with him. I imagine I am Lucy Swallow, just how he’s picturing. It’s odd to admit but as that deep rush comes on, I like being her.

  Peephole

  Live Cam Premium

  Stream: 033C

  Viewers: 013

  Fruitdrop:

  What did I miss?

  Whiteknight:

  wife and husband were going at it. Child is in the bath now.

  Fruitdrop:

  I can’t see the bath.

  Thefinisher:

  Cam 7

  Fruitdrop:

  ah there we go. what a sweetie, might stay here for a while and get a look at him.

  Thefinisher:

  Is there anything happening on any other streams?

  Fruitdrop:

  Big girl was in Stream 32B, they were fucking all day but they’ve checked out now. No one else in there yet. There’s a new channel, Stream 37B, old house by a lake. Nothing live yet but we will have a new peephole soon.

  Thefinisher:

  Mmm, goodie.

  TEN

  ‘IT’S FINE,’ HE says now down the phone. Cain is at the lake house cleaning up after our first guests, Dan and Cherry. ‘Nothing broken or stolen, dishes cleaned, sheets stripped.’

  It feels like a miracle. My fears of the house disappearing in an inferno and taking every memory of my grandparents were unfounded. Sometimes things aren’t nearly as bad as we expect them to be.

  ‘Cherry left us a lovely note,’ Cain adds, ‘and the recycling was all out too.’

  ‘Make sure you leave them a positive review,’ I say, eyeing Scotty beside me as he takes a bite out of his burger. He gives a small nod of acknowledgement. We’ve been talking about my anxieties about the guests and the house all day, in between calls.

  ‘Seems too easy now, doesn’t it?’ Cain says. ‘I’ll quickly set it up again and hit the road.’

  I hang up and take up my chicken wrap. When we’ve finished I turn to Scotty.

  ‘Can we quickly duck to the post office?’

  ‘Which one?’ he asks.

  ‘Mount Eden?’

  He screws up the wrapper of his burger, puts it in the paper bag on the floor and starts the ambulance. Too easy. So why do I feel this unease? I think about the way we’re using the lake house, hardly what my grandparents had in mind when they left it to me. We’ve scrubbed any trace of them from the house.

  ‘Here we are,’ Scotty says.

  The Mount Eden post shop, like everything these days, has diversified their offer. It’s easier to find books, toys, As-seen-on-TV merchandise than it is envelopes and stamps. I wait in the queue, inching forward. When I get to the front the man simply raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’d like to open a PO Box.’

  ‘What size?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What size? We only have letter size left. Is this for packages or letters?’

  ‘Letter size is fine.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘It’s two hundred and forty-five for the year and you’ll need to fill out this form.’ He bends, searches the shelves beneath the register, extracts a sheet of paper. ‘And I’ll need a copy of some ID.’

  ‘ID?’ I say. ‘But PO Boxes are anonymous, right?’

  ‘To the public, yes.’

  I turn back. Scotty is a couple of people behind in the queue with a roll of stamps in his hand.

  Two hundred and forty-five dollars, I think, and it’s not guaranteed to work. But I’m desperate. Why else would I do this with Scotty? I need to do it today.

  ‘Right, so no one could know it was me?’

  ‘No one except us,’ he says. ‘And, of course, the police, if you were to use it for illegal activity.’ His eyes seem to narrow slightly.


  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a crazy ex is all.’

  ‘Right. If you wouldn’t mind filling it out over there so I can continue.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, stepping away. The queue moves forward.

  After I’ve filled the form, paid and collected my new key, the man takes me to the side of the building where the rows of PO Boxes are and shows me which is mine.

  ‘Great. One last thing,’ I say, as he’s turning to stride back inside. ‘Do you sell sim cards?’

  •

  When we get back to the ambulance, Scotty says, ‘So what’s all that about?’

  ‘Oh,’ I exhale. ‘We’ve just noticed some of our mail has gone missing, no big deal.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, with a small smile. ‘And the sim card?’

  ‘I’m changing my number. Telemarketing, you know how it is.’

  He gives me a look. He’s not buying it. ‘You’re not making a run for it?’

  I conjure my best fake laugh. ‘As if,’ I say. The radio bleeps. We accept the call. Scotty reaches forward and starts the ambulance, hits the siren and lights, then we are moving again.

  On the way I take my mobile phone out and find that message. I have my ways.

  As Scotty races through traffic, siren blaring, I draft the message, deliberating over each word before hitting send.

  Hi Daniel,

  Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you! my father is very ill and I am going to care for him over the next weeks or possibly months. I’d love a drink and catch up when I get back but I won’t have the time or energy to do anything until then. That necklace and ring are family heirlooms and if he took a turn for the worst, I’d like to have it with me so I need it urgently. For now would you be able to send it in the post? This is my mailing address.

  I add my brand-new PO Box and a series of x’s at the end of the message for good measure. He may not send it to me, he may insist on waiting and giving it back when I return, but it’s worth a shot. I don’t know how much longer I can lie to Cain about it. What if he offers to pick up the resized ring from the jewellers? How long does it take to get a ring resized anyway?

  The ambulance lurches as Scotty presses the brake hard, I look up and find we’re parked outside a tiny brick flat.

  ‘This is the one,’ he says.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and climb out, striding towards the door.

  The call is an elderly widower. Every paramedic has these cases. Lonely elderly people who call in for emergency assistance for false ailments, whether they believe them to be false or not. Some have other issues – mental health conditions, chronic pain – but almost all of them are simply lonely. Today I’m the lead. I find the woman lying alone in her living room. She had triggered the emergency alarm she wears on her wrist.

  She’s eighty-seven and has lived alone for twenty-one years. Most of the people in this block are elderly. The flats are single level, most single bedroom by the looks of them. Ramps installed out front.

  ‘Hello, Anne,’ I say, crouching down on the floor. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve had a spill,’ she says. I check her over then gently help her to her feet and run through her vitals; nothing is amiss. We get her to the couch. She’s not moving entirely freely but she’s doing well for her age.

  ‘Everything looks okay, you be careful in the future.’

  ‘Before you go,’ she says. ‘Would you put the kettle on for me?’

  Scotty and I share a look. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘If you’re having a cuppa, mind if we stay for one? We’ve been run off our feet today.’

  He’s got that big grin going now and the light through the door illuminates his ginger hair. There’s something about the way he talks today, the care he takes with his consonants, speaking slowly like they might shatter in his mouth. And he completes each small task, like pushing his torch back into his belt, with exaggerated care.

  ‘We’ve got time, don’t we, Lina?’

  It seems like a kindness, but the cynic in me suspects it’s laziness. We can’t accept another call until we are done here and Scotty might be killing time to bring about the end of the shift faster. I give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Oh that would be lovely,’ she says. ‘I’ve got some biscuits somewhere here too.’

  I’m there on Anne’s plastic-wrapped couch beside Scotty who looks ridiculous with his saucer and tea rested on his thighs, when my phone vibrates again. I pull it out to find another message from Daniel.

  Yeah, I think I can do that. When would you need it by? It might be easier for me to drop it off to you. Are you out at work or are you off today? It gives me pause. ‘Out’ is a curious word to use. I told him I worked at Middlemore hospital, so why would I be out. Does he mean out as in ‘unavailable’? Is this yet another coincidence like the Rotorua connection, or something else? He never told me how he got my number.

  Something feels off but I can’t fixate on it. I’ve got work to do.

  Yes I’m working and I’ve got long shifts until I go. It will probably be too difficult to meet up and I’m really not in the mood for company, sorry. Let’s catch up when I get back. xx.

  Scotty quickly uses the bathroom, then we head back to the ambulance. It’s late in the afternoon when we leave but another job comes through. A family barbecue. The father’s birthday. Suspected stroke, paralysis on his left side. I sound the siren, racing through traffic. It’s just starting to rain and on the windscreen specks of water appear, grow tails, slide up.

  The family is at the bowls club, the flat manicured greens are empty as the rain comes down but I can see masses of people inside. Scotty climbs out, rushes to the entrance as I park the ambulance. I run towards Scotty who is kneeling down beside the man. A woman, I assume the wife, is sobbing while another man holds her. Children are nearby, little brown-headed things with thunderclouds passing over their faces.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ says a burly man with muttonchop sideburns coming forward through the crowd. ‘He just collapsed; he was on his way inside to get a beer.’

  The patient can’t be any older than fifty. Scotty is focusing intently on his stethoscope as he unwinds it to check the man’s vitals, while I chat with the burly man. Come on, Scotty, hurry up.

  ‘How long did you wait before calling us?’

  ‘Someone called straight away,’ he says, without pausing. ‘The moment he collapsed we knew something was wrong.’

  ‘Did he do anything before he collapsed? Did he hit his head or stumble?’

  His eyes find the ceiling as he thinks. ‘Shit, what did he do? He sort of reached up like this.’ His hand comes to his sternum.

  The observations suggest a stroke, the fact the left half of his body is frozen supports this. He’s conscious but can’t move. One half of his face is screwed up as if in agony and the other hangs, frozen and melted. But why did he reach for his heart?

  ‘Definite stroke,’ Scotty announces. ‘Let’s load him up.’ He’s not even finished checking his vitals.

  I turn back to the man. ‘He grabbed his chest?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Right before it happened.’

  ‘Scotty, what was the blood pressure?’

  ‘Eighty-five over ninety-seven. Not too bad.’

  ‘Check again,’ I say, the urgency in my voice springing tears from the daughter, who can’t be older than seven. The mother moves to the children, her hands gripping their shoulders. I turn back to Scotty.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he says as the reading comes up, his eyes slowly rise to mine. ‘Eighty over seventy.’

  ‘Heart rate?’

  ‘Ninety-two, I think.’ A tiny shake of the head.

  ‘Get the stretcher, I’ll take over.’

  ‘What?’ he says.

  Scotty’s still not right, I saw it at that woman’s house. A slowness about him, a silly smile he almost never wears. He’s missed the signs here. ‘I’m taking the lead. I’ve seen a case lik
e this before.’

  I remember it from medical school before Grandpa died and I dropped out. The patient’s blood pressure is falling because he’s bleeding somewhere. If I’m right then this isn’t a stroke at all. I lower my ear to his mouth, he’s hardly breathing. Triple A. Abdominal aortic aneurysm. It comes to me like an elbow to the throat. His right subclavian artery is torn, it feeds blood to the left side of the brain which is why he’s frozen down that side as if from a stroke. We’ve got minutes at most to get him to surgery.

  I turn to the wife. ‘Get the kids out, now.’ The hospital is close. I radio, brief them for our arrival. Scotty is running the stretcher back. I’ve got to get the patient breathing again by releasing the blood that’s filling his chest, pressing down on his lungs, before the pressure impedes his heart.

  ‘Ventilate him, Scotty,’ I say. Then again to the mother. ‘Get them out now.’ Finally she pulls the children away. They don’t need to see this.

  Scotty gets the tube down his throat, starts the ventilator. I take a scalpel; this is the part these children would never forget if they were to see it. A lifetime of nightmares. I cut his shirt away, insert the scalpel just below the ribs to make an opening. Finger thoracostomy. I’ve not done one in years, but when I move the tip of my finger in through the gap in his skin and feel the hot rush of blood spray out, I know it’s worked. The pressure slowly eases as the blood continues to drain from between the chest wall and lungs. Scotty, eyes wide now, rallies a second man to help us get the patient onto the stretcher. My finger is still there, holding the gap open to allow the blood to escape as we get him into the ambulance. He won’t die of asphyxiation now, but he’s a very high chance of bleeding out. I climb in, close up the doors and Scotty shoots us out through the parting traffic, the siren screaming, the wheels humming over the wet road.

  The man’s blood pressure is still crashing. I peel his eyelid back, see the black ring, all pupil. That familiar sinking feeling inside me. The brain pressure has collapsed the iris. Brain death is now the best-case scenario. As we’re pulling into the hospital, I think about the children and feel the heat at the back of my eyes, unwanted tears forcing their way to the surface, but I won’t let them. A parent gone. I sniff, scrape my eyes across each shoulder before Scotty opens the back doors and pulls the stretcher out.