The Last Time We Spoke (11 page)

Mike Adams sat at his PC, trying to fulfil the three-thousand-word brief. He wanted the piece out of the way and done with. His wife was at a baby shower, so the evening was all his; he had no excuse. Yet the story refused to flow, every phrase vetoed en route to the screen.

Word count: 207.

He stood up and rammed his chair back under the desk. The computer screen flickered, threatening to shut down. The Word document reappeared. Adams quickly pressed
Save
.

Out of the apartment window the black cone of Rangitoto Island was silhouetted against a bleeding sky. Very apt, he thought. That’s what Rangitoto meant in Māori – ‘bloody sky’. So he hadn’t forgotten everything he’d been taught.

He loved their tiny apartment for the view alone. Rangitoto was as haunting as the
Mona Lisa
, revealing the same silhouette irrespective of the viewer’s vantage. He always felt a calm come over him when gazing upon the dormant volcano. It never failed to take him outside of himself and make him feel part of something bigger.

The smell of lamb vindaloo wafted up from the takeaway below. He was hungry. He grabbed his wallet and headed for the door.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ said the little Indian man with Dr Spock ears. So Adams decided to take a stroll along the waterfront instead of paging through out-of-date magazines.

It was high tide and waves pounded against the sea wall, spraying a cool, briny mist over him. It felt surprising, the wetness, in contrast to the stale air of the apartment. It felt real.

The sound of a bicycle bell jolted him out of his reverie; he’d crossed into the cycle lane.

‘Keep your hair on!’ he shouted after the orange Lycra apparition, even though he knew he’d been in the wrong. But he was unsettled and angry. The interview with Toroa’s mother had been a disaster. His worst. And he’d nearly got thumped in the process. More than that, though, it felt as if the very ground under him had shifted. His journalistic aspirations seemed suddenly artificial and academic. It had been a strange past few weeks as it was, with the pending arrival of their first child ushering in a raft of powerful emotions and a period of self-scrutiny.

What had he hoped to achieve interviewing her? Give the underdog a voice? Identify the reason criminals were becoming younger and younger? Instigate some social reform?

Had he really believed he could write something of depth that would inspire people to stop, think, and even change? He’d once aspired to becoming a lawyer – been in love with the notion of helping his fellow man. Who was he fooling? A career in law had all the allure of
Pākehā
prestige and offered a safe distance from his past. When he didn’t get into Law School, he opted for journalism, espousing the same idealistic motivations. Perhaps his intentions had once been pure, however they’d long since been buried beneath a much stronger drive – to sell the story, impress with the manipulation of words, win awards. Those were the real sirens leading him on and gradually eroding his integrity.

Today’s interview had been different. It had unexpectedly pierced his carefully cultivated mantle.

Adams thought back to the afternoon. He felt confused and conflicted about it. He was angry with the woman for smoking when she had a baby on the way. For even having another child when she’d already had six, one of whom was a murderer.

Yet the purple bruises encircling her arms, they troubled him. And her tired, pregnant body. The vehemence in her voice too, when she spoke about her son. It reminded him of …

And she painted! He shook his head and laughed out loud. An elderly couple out walking their dog turned and stared.

Miriama Kāpehu painted. Beautifully. Despite all the crap in her life, she still painted.

He was frustrated with himself for losing his objectivity, for letting emotions cloud the journalistic process. He was also angry at his own dishonesty.

His mum.

He hadn’t thought about her in the longest time.

The waves sucked his thoughts out to sea, then brought them crashing back.

It was too hard – the confusing debate in his head. Had he been fooling himself all this time?

Suddenly he felt unanchored and lost. He had a child on the way. He owed it authenticity. Owed it a code of living he subscribed to, not merely paid lip service to. But who was he? What was he? He’d turned his back on his heritage. That surely spoke louder than three thousand words.

He stopped and stood in the shadow of a giant pohutakawa tree. Three night-kayakers were carving lines through the moon-silvered water. A girl jogged past, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side, then a couple passed pushing a pram. This was the sedate
Mission Bay landscape he and his wife had bought into. He’d thought he belonged. He’d worked hard enough to lose any trace of his upbringing, to lose the shame. He sniggered. Even his Māori greeting with Kāpehu had clunked awkwardly.

Adams turned and wandered back along the water, catching glimpses of
Pākehā
lives through warmly lit windows. At the restaurant, he collected his order and headed back to his apartment, but the turmeric-stained container never got opened. He had lost his appetite.

‘Miss Carla. Miss Carla. You inside?’

The thumping woke Carla. She groaned and rolled over.

‘Miss Carla?’ the high-pitched voice persisted.

Carla pulled herself upright, a crack spreading through her head like expanding concrete. ‘One minute!’

She lurched towards the door, one foot sinking lower than expected, the other rising too high in compensation. She fiddled with the deadlock and finally succeeded in opening the door.

Her neighbour, Mingyu, stood in the hallway, her perfectly oval face creased with concern. There followed an uncomfortable pause.

‘Hau, Miss Carla, you fine? You not look so good.’

‘Yes I’m fine,’ Carla said irritably. ‘Thank you.’

Mingyu stepped back out of the reach of Carla’s breath.

‘What is it?’ Carla asked.

‘Is two o’clock in the pm. I’m worry because your garbage is not outside. The truck, already he come. I think maybe you are sick, no? You up very late last night. I see your light.’

‘No, I’m not sick. I just slept in.’

The petite woman craned her neck to see past Carla, her eyes narrowing on the empty vodka bottle on the floor.

Irked by her neighbour’s nosiness, Carla made to close the door when Mingyu smiled and quickly said, ‘You like cup of tea?’

Carla hesitated. Her first impulse was to decline. Something stopped her. Perhaps it was the thought of the door to her duplex closing once again to leave her alone with just her damaged thoughts for company. Perhaps it was the fear that she would reach for another bottle.

‘That sounds nice,’ she managed, careful to enunciate each word.

Her neighbour grabbed her hand excitedly. She had very delicate, cool hands.

‘I’ll just put on shoes.’

There was a neat row of footwear outside Mingyu’s door, so Carla removed the sandals she’d just put on.

Her neighbour’s apartment had the same layout as hers, however being a corner unit, got more sunlight. The chrome light fittings and black-leather furnishings were not to Carla’s taste, yet were strangely comforting in their difference.

It smelt different too – of people, and apples, and real living. And the windows were open, so the air felt new. There were three large red apples in a wire fruit bowl on the bench top, a cloud of fruit flies proof that they were not ornamental. A radio played softly and a dishwasher sloshed and gurgled in the background. In the middle of the living room stood an ironing board, and beside it, a plastic basket piled high with crumpled washing. Carla took it all in.

A pressure cooker started to whistle, startling her. The steam released was sweet and meaty.

‘Mmh, smells good,’ she said, feeling almost hungry. ‘What are you cooking?’

‘I make leek and pork soup,’ Mingyu said, beaming. ‘My baby, she start to eat solid and like very much.’

As if on cue, they heard a little grunt coming from behind the laundry basket. Carla peered over to see an infant laid out on a sheepskin rug. It was a baby girl, her features as delicate as an orchid in first bloom, her hair a wispy black mohawk. She was sucking her toes and pulling on a mint-green bra, which was hanging over the side of the washing basket.

‘Hello, little one,’ Carla said, bending down to tickle its feet. The baby’s skin was the colour of toffee. ‘How old are you?’

The infant’s face puckered, her bottom lip quivered, and then she let out an almighty wail.

‘Six month on Friday,’ Mingyu said, hoisting her up and smothering the child in kisses.

Carla drank in the scene before her – the splodgy sound of lips on skin, the smell of baby shampoo and talcum powder, the little feet and dumpling toes. Then her heart was racing and panic was climbing up her throat. She needed air. Needed to get out of this place. It was too confronting. She had to get back to the security of her own apartment. Back to where her emotions could be kept in check.

Her eyes swept around the room and out of the window to her own kitchen. It was strange to see it from this vantage point. She half-expected to see herself standing there beside the bench, sipping a mug of tea.

But the room was dark and empty.

She didn’t want to go back.

Not yet.

‘Green tea or English Breakfast?’ Mingyu asked, touching Carla lightly on the elbow. ‘I’m not good at make coffee, sorry.’

‘Green,’ Carla said without thinking. She hated the taste of
green tea, but she’d been distracted by the fingers on her elbow, the brush of another’s skin, the imprint of warmth.

Mingyu covered the dining table with a white lace cloth and poured tea into willow-patterned bone china cups.

The tea was unexpectedly bland at first, each sip amounting to nothing, yet the amalgamation surprisingly satisfying. Carla had two cups and three almond tuiles. Everything was so delicate and genteel; she felt quite grotesque in comparison.

‘You not happy.’

She was caught off guard by her neighbour’s directness. She hadn’t been prepared for anything more than light, courteous chatter.

Carla pretended to misunderstand. ‘No, the tea is lovely. So, how long have you been in New Zealand?’

Mingyu fixed her with a no-nonsense stare. ‘You are pretty lady. Too thin, but pretty. Why you live alone? Why no one visit?’

Something in Mingyu’s childlike, uncomplicated concern cracked Carla wide open, and before she could stop it, the flotsam and jetsam of her life gushed out.

For a long while she huddled in the crook of her neighbour’s arm, crying quietly, while Mingyu rubbed her back and murmured foreign words that soothed and calmed.

Jocko was about forty-five. He had a red face, brassy-yellow hair, and a belly that hung over his belt distorting the tattoo of a serpent. He didn’t talk much and sucked his teeth continuously. When he did talk, it was with a fast rise-and-fall Scouse accent. He was also in the habit of keeping the television on full volume till lights out. On the plus side, at least Ben had scored a cellmate with a TV.

Jocko, however, was not as content with the match. He cussed and complained for days before finally settling into a sulky resignation. The first thing he did was draw up a list of rules, which Ben was warned to abide by if he didn’t want to cop a hiding. Rule One dictated that Ben face the wall whenever Jocko was using the toilet, this ordeal sometimes lasting for up to an hour. Ben was also forbidden from climbing off his top bunk after lights out, which meant he had to relieve himself in an L&P bottle if the need arose.

The cell, with its pitted concrete floor and metal bunks, was pretty sparse, except for Jocko’s few posters of semi-naked women. One small basin, discoloured by a yellow stain where a non-stop drip had left its name, hung off the back wall beside the toilet with its broken black seat. High in the wall was a small window that
sometimes let in cold stripes of sunlight – the warmth long since sucked out of them.

Ben barely slept his first night on East Block. For one, he couldn’t get warm. A guard told him he could put in a special request for an extra blanket if he wanted, or get his family to bring in warmer clothes. But it wasn’t just the cold keeping Ben awake. He was scared … of the next day … of the bash … Being a member of the DOAs didn’t feel quite so cool any more. Those long empty days at home had never looked so appealing.

He’d been awake forever when the morning buzzer finally sounded and a wave of clanging metal moved down the corridor as the guards conducted their first muster of the day. Inmates spilt noisily out of their cells into the passageway.

Ben decided against a shower, unsure whether the rumours about what happened in boob bathrooms were true. Instead, he swung over to the trestle table where breakfast was being served. The porridge smelt good. He collected his bowl and plastic spoon and looked around for somewhere to sit.

‘Back to your cell. Lockdown again till eight,’ barked a huge Samoan guy sporting a tall chef’s hat.

So Ben settled himself back on his bunk with his breakfast. The porridge slipped easily into his stomach. Five spoonfuls and it was finished.

‘Seconds?’ Jocko burst out laughing, his mouth wet and red, his swollen belly stiffening as if about to burst. ‘This ain’t no holiday camp!’

At eight their cell was unlocked again and Ben joined the queue of East Block boys as they were led through a run of gates into an exercise yard.

The sunlight was a rude shock after a day inside. Ben rubbed his eyes and looked around. An almost invisible ceiling of fine
wire mesh covered the yard. It was so fine that if he closed an eye the roof of the coop disappeared into the cloudless blue. Contraband thrown from Grafton Road met a wasted fate here. Fifteen-metre-high walls topped with rounds of barbed wire bordered the space. Snagged T-shirts and punctured balls hung like trapped insects in the web of wire.

The inmates broke off into small groups.

Ben headed for the benches at the far end, trying his best to look nonchalant. The morning heat helped, soon melting his tight innards. But he still kept a skittish eye out for what was going on around him.

‘Yo. Nice trainers.’

Ben squinted into the sun. Then the light was eclipsed.

‘Roach sends his compliments.’

Ben turned to walk away.

A hand hauled him back. ‘He don’t much like being ignored.’

Ben shook off the heavy’s grip.

‘He’d like you to join him behind the privacy wall.’

His first thought was to run, but where? He was locked in to this space till eleven. He shot an eye up to the bridge where the screws kept lookout. The windows of the tower were made of one-way glass, so he couldn’t even see if anyone up there was actually looking his way. He figured if he just stayed in full view, nothing too bad could happen.

From nowhere, a huddle of bodies materialised and quickly surrounded him. They were so close he could smell their sweat. They chatted and fooled among themselves – an innocent gathering to the onlooker’s eye – as they jostled Ben toward the prefab privacy wall.

Behind the wall were two toilets. Sitting on the lid of one was a scrawny guy covered in ink. His most striking tattoo was on his
forehead – a dagger dripping blue blood onto his right eyelid.

‘The noob with the trainers,’ was Ben’s introduction.

‘Just get the fuckin’ shoes.’

Ben turned to gap it, but his breath was stolen by a king hit, and by the time the guards saw his body poking out from under the privacy wall, the pack had long since scattered.

‘Code One, remand yard! Code One, remand yard!’

He spent eight days in the sickbay with a broken nose and a cracked jaw, sipping meals through a bendy pink straw. When an enquiry into the incident was lodged, he said he’d tripped and hit his head. He didn’t need any survival guide to know this was the correct answer. And the Nikes fitted Roach perfectly.