One Night Out Stealing (19 page)

Mrs Harland? (Mrs Harland? Mrs Harland? Mrs Harland?) A hundred times he’d practised that opening; in his mind, under his breath, self-consciously aloud in the couple of hundred kilometres of being driven in Jube’s car from when Jube first got the idea. Mrs Harland? Mrs Harland? Sonny had the opening imprinted on his brain.

And now, it was about to become reality, as Sonny Mahia stood in a Wellington city telephone box listening to the dial tone going
brr-ip
brr-ip
–
brr-ip
brr-ip.
With sweat popped out all over his forehead, hand holding the receiver covered in the stuff. (Mrs Harland?) Mrs Harland? he’d practised to say, yet never had it occurred to him how she might respond back.

Brr-ip
brr-ip
–
brr
– click. The sweat flowed. He felt he knew her so well; from the countless watching of her and daughter in piano duet, first introducing herself then her self-assured daughter doing her introductory bit on that home-made video. Her voice, Mrs Harland’s, slightly husky, and very posh. Now, it was echoing in his ear: Penny Harland speaking. And he, the caller, couldn’t speak.

Heart hammering, brain spinning, and with Jube parked right outside watching everything, and a man couldn’t get himself to speak.

He coughed –
arrgh
– to clear the restriction in his throat. He wanted to put the phone down: (I’ve done my job: she’s home. That’s what Jube wanted to know.) But there was more.

Um … is that Mrs Harland? Yes.
Arrgh,
again he had to fight the seeming swelling of throat. Yes? she asked again and in a voice sweetly innocent. Um … is Mr Harland there please? (Please
please
let him be home …)

No. Sonny could hear her as though from a vast distance. He’s
at his office in town, do you have his number? No, I – What more to say? Just wanting to put the receiver down. Then he got the idea that he could lie to Jube, tell him Mr Harland was at home, that the office with his framed credentials – and punched out by Jube’s mad fist shattering the glass enclosure – was indeed his workplace, so the whole plan was off since this wasn’t going to be an armed robbery or nothing like that. But then again, what if Jube did the check for himself? What to say then?

Uh, no. No, I don’t have that number. Stiffened when she asked, in a changed tone, May I ask who’s calling? So Sonny put the receiver down. Slumped both hands against the wall. Watched drops of sweat drip from his face onto the phone. And his legs felt weak. And for some reason the voice of the bass singer came into his mind … as though some haunting, ill-omened musical passage trying to warn him. But then a car horn sounded, made Sonny startle; then anger. Out he went, wrenched open the passenger door, What’s with the fuckin horn, buster? Glaring at Jube, who was staring calmly back, So how’d it go? He there? He’s not, is he? Yes? No?

No, Sonny turned away, stared out at a row of warehouse buildings, the comings and goings of vehicles and people, mostly men in overalls. What, no he’s not at home? No, he is. Come on, Sonny. No, he’s not at home. And man, I don’t think this such a good idea even though he ain’t.

But Jube’d already started the engine, and a glance at him said he was raring to go. So did the speed at which they accelerated away from the kerb. But no smiles of the usual chicken counting before they’d hatched. Not even a hint. Just this picture of grim-something, Sonny couldn’t even call it determination, it was more a kind of mad fixation. And so Sonny lit a cigarette and buried himself in the clouds of smoke. (I want to sink deep deep into the clouds. I want to be swallowed. My cowardice, my nothingness, my being thief, I want to lose it. Lose it. Just fuckin lose myself somewhere …) As an engine roared out front of him.

The night (last night) the Jube-driven night (and all the nights and anguished days of his fixed deciding) now come, of three weeks and a few days of physical healing and mental determining, the night the night was come. And now (now, Sonny) it was gone. They were
transported, uplifted of home, of no prospects moving to the
exaggerated
hope of other town prospect. Face wounds mostly healed, cracked ribs near gone of their pain, infection staved off by the medicines prescribed by the doctor Sonny had summoned in; the nights, the days, the nights of nursing the man – you’re the only friend I got, Son. (Yeah, man, sure. While you need me.) Sonny’d not been fooled – had to change his dressings, cook for him, even wipe his arse the first few days because of the rib injuries.

The nights and delirious days of physical pain – oh I hurt bad, Son – but the mental pain was even worse – we’ll get em, Son. Every man jack ofem, we’ll get em. Soon as we hit the front again, go back to our fancy house bank – HAHAHAHAHA!! – down there in the capital city, bro, we’ll soon be doubling our money, Son. And then, bro. Then. The big house, Sonny, the big house’ll save us again like it did the first time; member that, Son, hahaha. From a nightmare to a fucking dream, eh Son? That’s how it was then, weren’t it?

(How it was how it was, but what of the
is
?
How do ya
make
of this fuckin life!) Sonny trembling close to bursting out yelling, or even screaming. As if he was going to crack. And as if he did not belong to the world. Not in any way unless it was negative.
Laughing
ironically inside to himself at himself. (I’m here on this Earth so people can throw stones at me,
hahahaha.
But whaddid I do? whaddid I do?) As Jube took a corner on a lean. And no chuckle came from him as it always did. (Mrs Harland? Mrs Harland, we’re on our way. But not to hurt ya, lady. Not to do you no harm.) Turning to Jube, Man, no nasty business neither. And, getting no response, added, Ya hear me, man? In a voice that surprised himself for how commanding it sounded. I hear. Sonny waited for
something
to follow, and when it didn’t: And? And don’t gimme no fucking orders, man. Do
you
hear?

I hear alright. But I’m staying with what I said, man: no nast – Fuck up. Okay? No okay, I – Sonny, I’m warning you. No! Sonny turning fully in his seat so he was facing Jube. We didn’t agree to nothing bad, man.
Look
at me, man!

Yeah, sure. And crash us while I’m at it? Juss so I can look at your ugly dial? Jube drawling. And who said anything about
nasti
ness? Not me. Well ya didn’t not say nothing about it either. Didn’t I? Jube gave him the sleep-eyed look. And drove.

(The nights, the days and nights of healing this guy. Him crying
out in his pain, even in his sleep, he coulda been a baby. Oh Sonny, my ribs’re on fucking fire. Oh Sonny, my heart feels torn apart with what them dudes did to me. Oh Sonny, oh Sonny don’t leave me man.) Was this the same man? (Come sit on my bed, talk to me, friend. You’re the only friend I got. Yeah, and you too for me, man. (And Jane. Jane of my sure mind that I’ll meet her one day.) Dabbing at the sweat droplets constantly beading on his forehead, dabdabdab. There ya go, man. Oh Sonny. What’d I do without you, man. But we’ll be back on top, Son, just as soon’s I’m better. The big house, bro, we’re going back to the big house. You remember that, Son, with them angles of the dangles outside and in? Man, it was some weird pad, weren’t it? But what a find, huh Sonny? Like, what a fucking find we found, hahaha. And it’ll be the same, Son. I know you say it won’t, that it’ll be alarmed up, but it won’t. It won’t, not when we hit it it won’t. Oh Sonny, we’ll make it up, you’ll see.)

Got the balies? Well, not nless someone’s shifted em from down on the floor here at my feet, Sonny sarcasming as he reached down and took up the two woollen balaclavas every thief has lying around, two sets of gloves by them at the ready. The taking up of disguise jolting Sonny the more with this reality.

Driving alongside the sea for a bit, pretty flat; houses and apartment blocks other side. The fountain some ways out in sea surround in proud display of some straight’s ingenuity and others’ imagination. (Whilst we …) Jube slowing to make the turn up a hill, with houses stuck to it. Up a steep climb, a sharp hairpin, more of the climb, a church (hello, God), some shops, and a cigarette sign reminding Sonny to light up while he could since it’d be but a few minutes more if that. But not lighting as he customarily did for Jube, not this time, it didn’t fit. Not an act of even mild friendship. Staring ahead as he waited for Jube to protest where was his smoke. But Jube said nothing, nor did he light up his own, they just sat beside him, between the pair, on the torn upholstery, a packet of Pall Mall filter and a Bic lighter a yellow one.

Sonny sucked in the smoke as deeply as he’d ever. Held it there for longer too. (Anyone’d think this was my last smoke.) As Jube slowed and Sonny’s eyes went left, looking for the house, told Jube the number from the telephone book, it’s thirty-five. Then there it was, just another letterbox with brass numbers on it: 35, and a
dugout
of driveway deep into cliff face turned to a double carport, and Sonny heard Jube gasp as he went, oh well, swung hard left and
parked beside a sleek car, a sports model with a soft top and red skin.

Jube switched off. They sat there for an eternity of only moments, waiting for something till it didn’t happen, then they got out at the same time, paused, both, at their opened doors and looked at each other. One’s eyes glistened with tear film, the other’s were hard to read, empty and yet filled with something. Detached, that’s how Jube’s eyes looked. Detached and cold. Let’s go, his mouth with its moustache removed from when the doctor said it had to go to lessen the chance of infection now a few days of stubble, light brown stubble. And the smell of the rum Jube’d been drinking on the way down of six and a bit hours of fast driving, with Sonny sipping tokenly so Jube wouldn’t call him a piker, straight from the bottle, a forty-ounce one, and over half drunk, mostly by Jube, now fuming off him this mid-morning in autumn Wellington.

A last look at each other that just happened that way: of Sonny trying to read right into Jube and Jube in turn giving back, and mouthing the words, This is it, mate. And so for an instant his eyes looked warm and of a kind to those observing him. Out of the carport. Steps. Must be over a hundred of them. Concrete faced with grey stone almost black.

Stubbing his hardly smoked cigarette out on the ground, Sonny went after Jube. (Man oh man, but this don’t feel right.)

Lawn bathed in a weak sunlight, chill air with light breeze in it. Trees studded everywhere off to their climbing left, a line of them along the boundary to the right. House visible only in part, owing to the angle as well obscuring of trees. Breaths the faintest of vapour cloud frequent in puffing expel. Smell of Jube’s rummy breath like a continuous cloud Sonny had to step up into. Sonny getting the thought – absurd it was too – that his own breath was barely tainted by the same smell since he’d hardly touched the vile, straight-from-the-bottle stuff. Absurd because he got this image of himself kissing Mrs Harland. (Kissing? Me?) He wondered if he might be going (finally) mad.

Breath cloud and booze stench and labouring lungs rasping a three-part lifetime of smoking. Insects in the cool air. Sweat starting to feel like sloshing around in sticky liquid.

In constant tree shadow of boundary line, snatches of lawn in glittering dew jewel. Other parts dark patches of shadow and foliage overhang. So very private. Such a twinned intrusion, one of
them thinking, though more as a feeling than in words since words had left him some little time back. Intrusion turning to violation when Jube began swearing, Fuck. Fuck. This is fucking hard work. Though he strode on, those long, grubby-jeaned legs stepping up, two at a time.

Flurry of bird disturbance from nearby tree. A pause in Sonny’s stepping at eyecatching of birds on wing, an outburst of twitter from tree shape, soaring into safety of sky. Of blue sky gap between white and grey cloud islands. Background drone of city traffic a faint register. Not a neighbouring house to be seen, just trees. And well-tended lawn in between.

Sea slice. With tall building segment, or broken clear against a blue and white background of sky. Sky, and two thieves moving and panting in its lower reaches.

Nearing the top so Jube’s head going from left to right. In animal mode, for danger signs. His breathing sounding like his original rib-broken pain. Couple more steps to go, house very visible from the angle, in cream and broken by timber brown and grey shingle roof in fan shape, a cleavage, an inventive imagination gone not quite wild since it all looked controlled. No, balanced. (
Balanced
.) Biggish tree on the left. Jube stepping off the pathway into tree shadow, and straight down on his knees with hands and heaving breath. And Sonny following suit.

Balies, Jube puffed, as he straightened and pulled his balaclava over his head and down around his neck. Sonny did same. On with gloves; Jube’s black leather, Sonny’s grey wool. Not planned, just what they’d found at home. Home now so far away, and yet as if they’d never left. (As if we’re still there, but we’re here too, we’re in the everywheres of our thieving comings and goings, that’s why this sense of being back at the flat: it’s cos we bring ourselves with us. Our intentioned, but unchanged selves.) Breathing easier. Regained. Lessgo. Jube. Jube in command.

Up onto a paved area, a kind of big courtyard. The breathing much better but the sweat like he, and no doubt Jube too, was soaking in it. Clothing clinging to skin, salt taste in mouth, stinging eyes, and woollen-enclosed neck and throat throttling. Across the paved area, which they’d not noticed last visit, night that it was. Front door entrance, with its little overhang walkway of pitched roof with same grey shingle covering, on wooden poles that green
plant curled from the ground to the underside of roof. Same as last time except the little light of doorbell didn’t glow like an eye in the dark of last time here. Not in the broad daylight. And not when the door was wide open.

And music issued from the shadowed opening. Classical music.

Into Sonny’s heart it floated, at first sweet and highly familiar, then it turned discordant as it somehow played against a clashing background of his own memoried recordings, stolen (stolen) from this very house. Like some messaging dreamscape message trying to tell him something, except he wasn’t hearing, not with the clashing of sound between reality and memory; stolen memory. Jube? Man, I don’t like this, his whispering seeming so stupid of this
bright-enough
mid-morning. But Jube was already moving.