Milkshake (13 page)

“Have we been kidnapped?’ whispered Katherine

‘I’m not sure” replied David.

“Because if we have, and I think we have, then now would be
as good a time as any to put a stop to this once and for all. Go to
the police, give ourselves up, or turn ourselves in, or whatever it
is we have to do to actually start our lives in this country
properly.” With that she clicked open the car door and started to
get out.

“Where are you going?” David hissed.

“Nowhere, I just want to see how far he’s going to let me
get.”

He grabbed her arm; “What if he’s got a gun?”

“Well you have a go, then!”

‘Ok, get back in and don’t move. Just keep
a close eye on him. If he makes a move, or you see a gun, just
cough loudly or something.”

As he carefully manoeuvred himself from the back seat through
the small gap between the front seats, David felt his heartbeat
start to increase and his scalp flush hot. Desperately trying to
move smoothly and quickly, he found himself having to squeeze his
torso and legs over the transmission tunnel and into the driver’s
seat without moving the car and alerting Hone to his
actions.

He was now in the driver’s seat. The engine was still purring
and Hone was still perched against the bonnet talking.

Forwards or backwards? If he drove forward, he risked pushing
Hone forward also, possibly under the car, and he had no reason to
injure him. They just wanted to escape from him. If David put the
car into reverse, Hone would no doubt fall back with it and then he
would have to drive round him.

David took a chance. Expecting the car horn to be there, he
pushed hard on the centre of the steering wheel. The sudden loud
noise made the startled Hone spin round as David put the car into
gear, pulled the steering wheel down hard to his right and drove
sharply forward. Hone instinctively jumped clear but the wing
caught the top of his left leg and he spun against the passenger
side of the car and fell to the ground, shouting as he did so, a
strange unexpected cry of disappointment.

“Wait. It’s not safe! Don’t be so bloody stupid!”

It was too late. The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as
David accelerated down the hill as if expecting Hone to be running
after them. He approached a sharp right hand bend and, realising he
was going far too fast, braked hard to avoid missing the curve
completely and sliding over the steep hillside into which the
snaking road had been cut. The car shuddered and rolled violently
as he pumped the brake pedal, the smell of burning rubber entering
through the air vents.

Hone had not even attempted the downhill sprint David had
somehow expected and was nowhere in sight. He brought his speed
back up to 60kph and continued quickly, but safely, down the
switchback mountain road. As they followed the road north, back
towards Auckland, it occurred to David that they were now being
pursued by the police, some American secret agents, and whichever
organisation Hone and his companions were allied to.

It seemed as if a significant proportion of the entire
population was now on their tail.

Chapter 8

The map confirmed Waiheke Island lay to the east, in the
Hauraki Gulf. It looked like a three hour drive to the coast
opposite the island, just outside Auckland. If they were being
followed, David hoped the city would conceal their exact location,
at least until they caught the ferry.

They approached the suburbs, David pulled into the car park of
a small shopping mall and stopped the engine. Katherine looked at
him, puzzled. He explained, “We need to mingle, lose ourselves in
the crowd. Grab what you need, put it in your back pack and let’s
find a bus.”

Opening the boot and taking out some essential clothes and
toiletries, Katherine watched as her husband did the same. “The
trouble with you,” she said, “is you watch too much TV.”

They walked a short distance until they found a bus stop, then
stood looking down the road expectantly for what felt like hours,
feeling vulnerable and self–conscious. As each car passed, the pair
instinctively lowered their heads a little, carefully avoiding the
gaze of each driver whose last thought would have been to stare at
the innocuous back packers standing at the side of the
road.

The bus glided through the city. After about twenty minutes
the driver indicated they had reached the ferry terminal. By now it
was mid-afternoon. The next ferry was due to depart at four. David
booked two tickets and, realising they had not yet eaten today,
they walked the short distance to a small café for a coffee and a
sandwich. As Katherine savoured her large flat white, David noticed
the free internet computer. Perhaps Ed had seen his message and
answered it?

You have 1 new message.

David quickly opened the reply, apprehensive at Ed’s response
to what must have seemed a bizarre request.

Got your message. Bit of a blast from the past? Looking
forward to catching up after all these years. Sorry, haven’t
updated my profile for a while. Bit of a career change. No longer a
vet, now own the Mushroom Café on Waiheke, not far from the ferry
terminal at Kennedy Point. Just ask for directions. See you
soon.

David rushed back to the table. “Good news, Ed got my email.
He runs a café on the island, so we’ll go straight
there.”

They boarded the small ferry, crowded with casually dressed
commuters, islanders who had been over to the mainland shopping,
and a few of tourists. It headed out of the harbour towards
Waiheke, assuming a rhythmic pitching motion in gentle time with
the clear wind–lapped Gulf waters beneath.

David and Katherine made their way to the stern rail and
watched as Auckland slowly receded, the cityscape a thin line of
hastily scribbled humanity caught between the twinkling ocean and
the milky blue of the late afternoon sky. David admired the view
whilst scanning his fellow passengers.

Katherine noticed what he was doing and smiled. “I was right
about you watching too much television. You’re treating this like
some big murder mystery drama.”

He could see her point. “To be perfectly honest, it feels more
like a Scooby Doo mystery at the moment, especially as we seem to
be getting to the part where we arrive on Skull Island. Get that
map out and let’s have a look in case this island is, like,
skull-shaped, Scoob - gulp!” His Shaggy impersonation was rubbish.
They both laughed, a quick, false laugh intended to ease the real
tension they were both now feeling.

Their lives had suddenly, and without notice, been taken over
by something that was obviously much bigger than them alone. It had
supposedly been going on for years and affected millions of people,
yet, up until a few days ago, it had never knowingly entered their
consciousness. Now it had not only crossed their path, it had
crashed into it, climbed onto their backs and was somehow
controlling every step they took.

David stared aimlessly into the water as the boat bounced
swiftly through it. Suddenly, as his eyes focussed on the surface
of the water, he felt sick and took a few deep breaths of cool sea
air. Looking beyond the stern of the boat, back towards the thin
darkening jagged Auckland skyline, he tried to imagine how many of
the million people who lived there had any idea that at that moment
their country was being invaded.

Katherine was thinking the same thing. “Just think, right now,
as four million New Zealanders go about their daily lives, probably
some of the hardest working people in the country - forestry
workers, cattle and dairy farmers - are all unwittingly helping to
lay the foundations for an invasion which is going to decimate
their economy, probably bring down the government and hand the
whole country over to foreign businesses who are going to
completely destroy the flora and fauna in the interests of mass
energy production. So how come this isn’t news?”

“What do you mean?” David responded. “We’ve only been here a
couple of days, and with everything that’s been going on we haven’t
exactly had time to sit down and watch the TV news, let alone read
a paper.”

“I know but you would think an issue like
this would be world news. Other countries should be up in arms. The
Save the Planet greenies should have this issue plastered all over
the media, but nothing. In all the stuff we read about coming here,
I don’t remember reading a single thing about exploitation of
natural assets or how this country is going to solve the planet’s
energy crisis, which is the spin you would expect to have heard.
But I can’t recall anything.”

“We’ll ask Ed when we see him. He’s lived
here for years. He’ll know if anything’s going on.”

David asked one of the deck hands if he knew where the
Mushroom Café was. As it was his last crossing of the day, if they
waited on the quayside while he tied up the boat, he would give
them a lift as it was on his way home.

It was a five minute drive from the small ferry port. The deck
hand, a large middle-aged Maori called Jono who had worked on the
ferry for five years, had a wife and three kids, and had never been
to Europe but met a lot of European tourists in his job, brought
his car to a sharp halt in the middle of the street. “There you go,
guys. Never eaten there myself. Bit too veggie for my taste.
Anyways, enjoy the rest of your day.” He drove off, leaving them
standing outside the café.

Katherine entered first, pushing open the door to find a small
eating area with a bar on one side and a counter along the back
wall on which rested display cabinets containing neat piles of
fresh Paninis, wraps, pizza slices and large trays of pasta dishes.
There was a pleasant garlicky smell, none of the unpleasant fatty
odour she often associated with these smaller eateries. They
appeared to be the only customers. From a doorway behind the
counter, a middle–aged man emerged, tall with a mass of curly grey
hair. This spilled down his cheeks, meeting in a white beard on his
chin. His face was deep brown and lined. David thought the man
looked at least five years older than him, but he wasn't. They had
been in the same class at school.

“Bloody hell. Dave Turner!” This was Edwyn Collington,
Professor Ed as he had been nicknamed at school. He bounded across
the room and engulfed David in a rather over-familiar bear hug
before standing back, both hands still on David shoulders, trapping
him awkwardly as he looked him up and down. “Well, well, Dave
Turner.” Still clasping him tightly, as if he had just caught him
and did not want to let him go, Ed shouted; “Honey, Dave’s here –
you remember, the guy who sent the email about the .… you
know.”

‘Honey’ emerged through the same doorway,
wiping her hands on a towel. Ed’s wife was a Kiwi called Anika whom
Ed had met when her first marriage had broken up and she had
brought a sick cat to his practice in Mount Eden. They fell in love
and moved to Waiheke where Anika had grown up. There they
established a successful vets’ practice. After eight years, Ed sold
his share of the business to the other partners and opened the
Mushroom Café with the proceeds, specialising in organic wholefood
and local wines.

This story, heavily extended, together with the Turners’ own,
took all four of them to the bottom of a second bottle of Cable Bay
Pinot Noir as they sat in the café, eating from a bowl of fresh
salad greens accompanied by a platter of local cheeses which Ed had
asked his chef to prepare. Occasionally he would break off from the
conversation to greet customers, most of whom appeared to also be
personal friends, before going to the doorway of the kitchen to
collect the next course and then return, via a guest’s
table.

By nine-thirty, the last couple were leaving. Ed broke off
once more from the twenty–five year catch up to escort them to the
door before bolting it behind them. Around the small dining room a
solitary waitress tidied up and prepared the tables for the next
morning.

Ed walked back to where they were sitting and, with the
delicious but potent Pinot having an effect, he slumped heavily
into his chair as if he had just completed an evening’s hard
labour. His glass; although now half empty, still contained a
generous amount of wine. Holding it level with his face, he
contemplated the deep ruby liquid. “I’m glad we bought this place
when we did. Fifteen years in practice was good, but when we moved
here, things started to change.” He lowered the glass heavily onto
the table, his head now starting to loll from side to side as he
spoke, “When we moved here and opened the practice, the whole
emphasis seemed to change. Sure, we were still treating pets; cats
and dogs like in the city, but here it was more stock, which was
great, don’t get me wrong, more variety than a city practice, but
suddenly we seemed to get bombarded by the pharmaceutical companies
expecting us to sell stuff the hard-up farmers didn’t really need -
hormones for this, growth enhancer for that. When we were kids, you
got one kind of milk and it came in a glass bottle with a silver
top. Last time I looked there were nearly a dozen different kinds
of milk, not including flavoured obviously - technology hasn’t
advanced quite far enough yet to actually get cows to produce
strawberry milk, but I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of
time.”