From Under the Overcoat (19 page)

‘Come back later, George. Come alone, bring a knife. Bring a knife, or a club. Bring something to end this.’

I WAIT UNTIL LONG
after midnight before returning. I am wet with sweat, the smell of my fear follows me down the path. The key clicks as it turns in the lock. On the other side, your whisper comes through the darkness.

‘Thank you, George.’

The cool metal bar is in my hands. I reach out and find your head, your hair. You are kneeling, your back to me. I press the tips of my fingers gently against your skull then down, down until they rest against the nape of your neck.

‘Now,’ you say.

The metal bar is heavy and high in the air. Your hand folds
over my clenched fists. I can’t see you but your breath is on my face.

‘No,’ you say. ‘You will die too. They will make you wait, wait, wait, like me, before you hang for my death.’

The metal bar drops at our feet; a thud on the soft earth floor.

‘Why, then? Why did you ask me to do it?’

‘To see if you would.’

MIGHT HAVE. MIGHT HAVE
turned out like that, yes … Could have … We’ll never know, will we Maketu? Wasn’t brave enough to come back with a weapon … Went home and pleaded with my father instead, asked him to bring the execution forward … He talked about due process … Time to pass between conviction and execution … Ensuring justice for the condemned. Threatened to forbid my visiting you again …

Should have told you. Would you have thought better of me, Maketu, if you’d known? … Heavens. Worrying about it now — what you think of me! … Matters to me … More than anything …

Raindrops: you’re blurred … Dark smudge going up the steps of the platform … Lord … The hangman … Don’t know him … What’s he saying, Maketu? The noose in his hand … He’s trying to make you lift your chin. Of course you won’t: you’re waiting, still waiting, for the blow … If I could climb that platform now, I’d do it … Would … Would … Promise you … Ah … Wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t …

‘
COME BACK LATER, GEORGE.
Come alone, bring a knife. Bring a knife, or a club. Bring something to end this.’

I am in bed. It is after midnight, but I’m awake. Under the bed, there is a long, cool, heavy, metal bar. I hid it there after visiting you.

The picture rolls around my head, as though I am watching someone else. I see me sneaking down the path, the cool bar in my hands. A click, as the key turns in the lock of the jail door. The next thing I see is me, on the floor of your cell. You are standing over me, the bar in your hands. It is coming down, down, towards my head.

It is nearly dawn when sleep comes.

COWARD. NO BETTER THAN
my father, no better than Brewer …

Eyes wet … Not rain … Rope around Maketu’s neck … So quiet … Birds stopped. Can’t look … After so long, can’t look—

‘Excuse me, please, I’m trying to get to the back. Let me through, if you would.’

… Let me through … Horrid, sick … Wide eyes … Faces: everyone stretching to see, the excitement … Idiot, child on his shoulders! …Th is is too much …!

Better … Back … Space … Breathe, breathe, air, breathe … Better … Pull yourself together, George Clarke Junior … Name change? What? Maketu Wharetotara? Ha! Yes! Show my father … Show Brewer too … White ghost …

No … Never dare … George Clarke Junior, always will be.
Too much of my father in me … Too much …

Dear God, please stop … The crying … Can’t stop … How to stop? Think about this morning, that’s the way … Think about Maketu’s so-called final wishes. The real words …

MAKETU SITS ON THE
step speaking in Maori, his hands and feet tied. It is sunny and warm. On one side of him is my father. Brewer loiters nearby, waiting for my father’s translation of Maketu’s words.

‘There are plans already under way, word spreading through the land, a message travelling through the treetops in the forests and along the rivers and from the tops of high mountains,’ says Maketu.

‘Plans? What do you mean?’ replies my father in Maori, turning the Bible slowly in his hands.

‘Plans to beat the Pakeha at this waiting-to-die game.’

‘How do you know?’

Maketu smiles. ‘I hear. In the night.’

‘Impossible. You’re locked up.’

‘I hear. Through the crack under the door … that gap up there, between the bars.’

‘Pray tell, Maketu. What do you hear?’

Maketu leans forward, eyes gleaming. ‘I will tell you.’

‘You can trust me,’ says my father.

‘Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if I can trust you or not.’

‘Why?’

‘You can’t stop these plans. No one can stop these plans.’

Waiting … flip, flip, flip the Bible jumps palm to palm. ‘Well, then, tell,’ my father says.

‘What’s he saying?’ Brewer asks my father. My father doesn’t reply.

Maketu laughs.

‘The next time there is fighting, and Pakeha capture our people, the chief will give a secret sign. He will speak out loud, praising the bravery of the battle. But the speech will end with an agreed word — nothing to do with war, in case the Pakeha can understand — and when that word is spoken, our people will turn on each other.’

‘You don’t mean …?’ my father gasps.

‘Yes,’ laughs Maketu. ‘I mean to say that our people will use their tomahawks on one another — the men will deal with the women and children first, then each other. There will be no long wait for death.’

‘No!’ my father screeches, like a bird in the wind.

Flip flip; the Bible barely touches his hands, it’s moving so quickly.

‘What’s he saying?’ Brewer asks again. ‘Clarke — tell me!’

My father’s eyes are changing — blue to grey to white. His face shines. Smiling madness.

‘Mr Brewer, this man has renounced the ways of the savage. He has just stated to me that he wishes to convert to Christianity. It is his desire to be christened before he dies. He wishes to repent.’

‘That’s not true, Father! Mr Brewer, it’s not what he said, not at all. Those aren’t his words … those are my father’s wishes, not his.’

Maketu doesn’t understand. His gaze falls on me, then my father, then me again.

My father’s eyes turn to Heaven. A beatific smile.

‘Oh yes it is. Enough, George. Quiet. This man, Maketu Wharetotara, is to join the Lord’s flock, albeit at a late hour in his sinful mortal life. It is his wish to cast off his name — a name that will for ever be associated with evil — and to be recognised from this moment forth as Wiremu Kingi. Mr Brewer, excuse me. I’ll fetch Reverend Churton immediately.’

‘No! Stop! What are you saying?’

A blur of skin, my father’s hand across my face, pain. Then, the walk home.

HERE AT THE BACK
, so many natives … New dialects: not just locals. Been a long time … Of course word has spread … Over there, Middle Island natives? … Stewart’s Islanders …?

There! Maketu’s people! From the trial … Do you remember me? … Your eyes locked on the gallows, nothing will distract you. Your faces … What is it? Confusion? Shaking your heads … Savagery … But this is something else again …

What is it … So hot and wet … But I’m freezing … What’s happening? Not sick … Something else. Gripped, coming from them, sure of it … Heathen spells, seeping in through my skin — taking me … Can it be? … Them, the look, terror … Terror and horror … What’s that they’re saying? Move closer … Closer still …
Such a long wait, and now this
… Such a complicated contraption … They’re shocked … So cold … Can’t stop shivering … Sweat too, all over … Please don’t! Don’t look my way …

WHAT’S THAT?
…
THAT
sigh … Never heard such a … Oh,
shivers, up and down my back, all over … The sigh, like one huge beast breathing out … Heard it before … Know it … Know it … Where? Shivers, shakes … Too much … Know it, yes. A sigh, a hiss … End of war song … Ssss …

… Maketu …? 

THE EVICTION PARTY

T
he breeze should be up by now. Ronnie’s been counting on that breeze to blow away the stink and the heat. It comes down the valley most evenings around five o’clock, flicks the tops of the pine trees to announce itself. But not tonight. Not the night she wants it most.

Her car’s parked away from the party, across the rough little paddock they call the lawn, under the macrocarpa tree. She leans against the dented door and lights a joint. The smoke vortexes her body, settling like a pale blanket over the agitated, unhappy thing inside her.

‘Last one.’ She says this softly to herself, touching her belly. ‘Just this one, then no more. Promise.’

She’s tried ginger, herbal teas, some natural remedy from the health shop. Nothing takes the edge off the
all-day
sickness except weed. But the wind is bound to come up later — shift the revolting stench of the mill, make her feel better. And when that happens, when she can face it, she’ll tell Pete. There’s the right moment and the wrong moment to bring things up with him. She’s seen it plenty of times, what happens when you don’t get it right. Not that anything’s happened to her, but to other people who’ve fucked up. Earlier today, she faced up to the fact that she was just putting it off. So it will be tonight, later on. And when it’s done, once he knows, that’ll be it.

She’s eight weeks. Lots of her friends partied hard when they were this early on, not knowing. Theirs all turned out okay. Two arms, two legs, normal. You couldn’t call it a baby anyway, not yet, she thinks, flicking ash onto the gravel. Even if it already has opinions about things. Even if it can’t stand the smell of its home town.

RONNIE’S LIVED IN THE
shadow of Kinleith all her twenty years — but she never
smelled
it until a month ago. Twenty-fifth of January 1989; a date she’ll never forget. She woke that morning to the suffocating stink of raw, wet timber and chemicals and putrid vegetation. Every gasping retch over the toilet bowl dragged more of the stench back inside her. Something tiny pushed — no, pushed was too strong a word — pulsed at the smell, forcing it back. On and on went the little war.

Ronnie put it down to too much of everything the night before. It’d been massive. Tequila, speed, fuck knows what
else, she was hopeless once she got a head of steam, grabbed everything coming her way. So that morning she crawled back to bed and lit up a joint she found on the bedside cabinet. Pete slept on beside her.

But the mill kept getting at her, day after day, forcing itself down her throat. She started stashing her weed by the bed. If she was quick enough in the mornings, she could get the first hit before she was properly awake. Before the nausea sent her staggering to the bathroom.

Pete went off to do a double shift in the bush. She waited for the virus — she was sure it was a virus — to pass. By the time he came back she knew. She’d intended to tell him — that’s the truth — but then he started niggling about the amount of weed she was getting through. Just the odd little comment; he was pissed off having less to sell. So what was she supposed to do?

One Saturday morning she was all ready to lay it out in the open with him. It was a nice day, he was in an okay mood. Until he walked up the track to the main road, to collect the mail from the letterbox. Ronnie heard him coming back, heard
Fucking wanker
and branches being snapped off the trees. Then he stomped around the last bend before the house, chin shunting the air. The words sliced through the calm.
We’re getting chucked out
.

The eviction letter went on about the tiles falling off the roof, faulty wiring, floorboards rotting and collapsing underfoot. Too expensive to repair, no longer insurable as a rental. Unliveable, condemned.

Finding somewhere else to live, moving their stuff out and organising the party, with the big surprise at the end
of the night. With all that shit going on, and her sneaking off to throw up every half hour, when was she supposed to bring it up?

NOTCH’S VALIANT IS RIGHT
by the house. He’s hooked speakers up to his car stereo and put them on the roof of the car. There’s no electricity any more — no nothing now, all their gear is gone. Everyone’s outside, hanging out round the keg on the tree stump, drinking beer out of plastic jugs. The girls are starting to dance, picking up the lazy reggae beat.

Redemption Song
’s booming, keeping time with the heat headache smashing at Ronnie’s temples. She moves closer to the tree trunk, to where the shade is best. She never wanted a party. It was hard enough just getting through the day and what was the point? It wasn’t as though they were leaving town. That was the trouble with Tokoroa. Parties just sort of germinated. One casual comment about a couple of beers on a Saturday afternoon became
A few beers at Pete’s
became
A party at Pete’s
became
Pete’s massive eviction party
.

Pete’s easy to spot across the way, taller than everyone else. He’s wandering round, topping up beer jugs from his own. Ronnie watches him, doing the bro handshake: fist to fist, elbow to elbow. He’s the man. People are drawn to him like ants to a jam jar. He’s got mana; though he’s Pakeha, so it’s not mana but whatever the equivalent is. Funny to watch it from here, from a distance. Like watching a wildlife programme. Ronnie half expects that Pommie guy, what’s his name, Attenborough, to start whispering in her ear, the way he does on TV.
And here we have the Tokoroa Species
…

She giggles. It’s the weed.

Pete’s looking around. Ronnie slides her body down the tree trunk, sits back against it so he can’t see her.

Behind the house, further across the paddocks, the mill looms like a massive painted backdrop on a stage, sits over everyone, everything. Ronnie’s never rested in this spot before, never looked at the house from this angle. The sun low behind the mill stacks, big orange burning through the thick dark smoke. She can’t stop staring; not just at it — at the whole picture. The mill, their house, their little puppet friends at the front of the stage.

She’s seen people do what she’s doing. Pull over to the side of the highway, stand and stare at the mill. Hold their noses, fan their faces with their hands before jumping in their cars and driving off to somewhere pleasant. They’re strangers passing through, distracted for just a moment by the size of the mill, by the way it seems to have sprouted like a giant mushroom out of green farmland.

Six-thirty. Still no wind, not a breath.

Dust along the track. Ronnie stays where she is, against the tree. Crosses her fingers that it’ll be someone she doesn’t know. Just a few more minutes on her own is what she wants. But it’s Sandy and her boyfriend, Jack, the new vet. Jack’s ute slows and pulls in next to Ronnie.

‘Hello Ronald,’ he grins up at her, all gums, delighted at his own humour. He blinks at her through his round, rimless glasses. On the back of the ute, barking, tails wagging, two dogs with lampshade things around their necks. Jack’s patients, though who knows why he’s brought them to the party.

‘Jack. Hiya Sandy.’ Ronnie bends down to see who else is
in the ute. Sandy’s brother Liam is in the back and a woman Ronnie doesn’t know.

‘How ya going, Ron?’ Sandy’s round the front of the ute, giving Ronnie a hug.

Ronnie holds back, fearful the angry thing in her womb will somehow kick out at Sandy, alert her to its plight.
Help me. Child abuse. Get me outta here
. ‘Yeah, good. Just grabbing some music out of the car.’

‘This is Lucy,’ says Sandy, touching the stranger on the arm. ‘She’s just moved here. A reporter at the paper.’

‘Hi,’ says Ronnie. She’d make an effort to be more welcoming, she really would, but this happens all the time. New people arrive in town, professionals, all bright-eyed, keen to
Get to know the locals
. After six months they’ve had a better offer somewhere else, moved on. Besides, look at Lucy. Make-up, expensive haircut all bouffed up at the back to make it look like she’s just crawled out of bed. Come-fuckme stilettos which are going to make great viewing when she tries to cross the paddock.

Lucy steps forward, holds out her hand to Ronnie. Pale, smooth,
nice
skin. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘Hope you don’t mind a gatecrasher?’

Golden retriever, Ronnie thinks; blonde and glossy and keen to sniff local butt.

‘Lucy, did you say it was?’ asks Ronnie, grinning at Sandy. Sandy’s dog, a big, goofy Lab is called Lucy. Jack treated it a while back — that’s how he and Sandy met.

Sandy smiles. ‘Yes. Newshound, aren’t you, Lucy. After the big scoop,’ she says.

‘Woof woof,’ says Ronnie.

Sandy gives Ronnie the go-easy-on-her look.

‘Oh, you know. Not really,’ says Lucy, not getting the joke.

Lucy’s got a sweet grin, Ronnie thinks. The guys will love her.

‘Can’t be easy, reporting in a small place like Tok,’ Ronnie says. ‘Nothing happens here.’

‘There are stories everywhere,’ says Lucy, tossing her hair sympathetically in the direction of the township.

‘Gossip, you mean? That’s all
that
paper prints. Gossip and ads.’

‘Journalists call it human interest. People love that stuff.’

‘Sure,’ says Ronnie evenly. Her gut churns. She breathes through her mouth.
How can they?
How can they all stand here, chatting, and not be suffocating in the stench?

‘Is it true, what Liam said? This is an eviction party?’ Lucy asks. She’s looking over at the house. With the scrappy old curtains gone, you can see right through it, in one window and out the other. Ronnie follows her gaze. The Port-a-Loo they hired from town for the night looks posh compared to the house. She guesses what Lucy’s thinking: how funny that they
had
to be evicted.

‘It’s just, you know, I’ve never been to an eviction party before!’ says Lucy.

‘Really.’

Lucy nods enthusiastically. ‘Any special plans?’

‘Special plans?’ Ronnie is so tired. Of the party, already, and of Lucy in particular.

‘Oh God, listen to me!’ Lucy singsongs. ‘Ignore me. All questions, that’s me.’

Ronnie laughs because she has to. She has to either laugh, or tell Lucy to piss off.

‘Getting back to your first one, Lucy. We don’t mind gatecrashers. Not at all. As long as they leave their notebooks and tape recorders at home.’

Silence.

‘Anyway, Lucy. I’ve got a question for you. What do you think of the smell?’ Ronnie asks. She nods towards the mill but Lucy’s not looking at her, none of them are. They’re all eyes on the party.

‘The weed, you mean? Don’t worry. I won’t be making headlines.’ Lucy laughs.

‘I meant the mill. The smell from the mill.’

‘Don’t even notice it. Used to it already,’ says Lucy. She teeters off, arm in arm with Liam, across the paddock.

RONNIE WAS WORKING THE
day shift at the truck stop at the north end of town. It was her summer job, before she started university in Auckland. She was seventeen.

The third time he came in, he asked her name.

‘Ronnie,’ she replied.

He reached across and shook her hand. ‘I’m Peter. Ronnie … is that short for something?’

‘Veronica,’ she said, blushing.

‘It’s just different. Ronnie. For a woman, you know.’

She liked how he said a woman, not a girl or a chick. She liked how the word somehow became more sexy because it wasn’t actually sexy at all. She’d never seen him before. It was hard to tell how old he was — his hair was shiny jet-black but his face and big hands were leathery, weathered. Nice eyes, dark brown. Twenty-something, she guessed.

She cooked his burger and fries, and brought them to his table. He put the paper napkin across his lap and ate the food with a knife and fork: slowly, delicately.

Ronnie stared.

After a bit he put his cutlery down and looked up at her. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, blushing. ‘You’re using … a knife and fork.’

‘So sorry. I’ll tear it apart with my teeth.’