The Last Time We Spoke (17 page)

The morning was brisk, the sky a frost blue and the air taut. Carla welcomed the changing season, winter at least more congruent with her reclusiveness. It was acceptable to stay indoors when it was cold; shunning the sun of summer was altogether stranger.

Her Citroën complained at the early start, heading up The Avenue in lurches and pauses. She turned on the radio and dialled through the crackles to find a station. Soon a light melody filled the moment.

The road was steep as it wound up the hill to merge with Paremoremo Road, a once regular haunt of hers. She used to visit the Curly Cabbage on a weekly basis, the farm store boasting the freshest produce in town. Good old Roy with his polio-short leg and flaming-red hair, always throwing in something extra with her order, and never tiring of sourcing the unusual ingredients she needed for her Mediterranean meals. ‘The Italian variety of parsley has a more subtle flavour, Roy. And the texture is altogether more pleasing than the curly-leafed variety.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Mrs Reid,’ he’d say with a chuckle, his ruddy cheeks dimpling into deep culverts. He’d eventually cultivated some for her from seed, in exchange for a jar of salsa verde whenever she made a batch.

She salivated now as she thought of the tangy blend of chopped parsley, anchovies, boiled egg yolks, garlic and olive oil – a condiment to be eaten alongside poached chicken or boiled meats. Roy just ate it by the spoonful!

A stack of taupe town houses now covered the slope where pumpkin vines had once rambled, the rows of affordable housing spreading greedily over the hills to transform the green curves into monotonous urban angles. The city had cast its net widely and without regard.

After a time, the landscape became more honest – the cabbage-tree skyline, orange-clay earth, and grey-green manuka, siding more closely with her memories.

Then she was on the brow of the hill. She slowed. Below her, crouching in the valley was Paremoremo Prison, dark and brooding.

‘No mobiles allowed, love.’ The guard’s accent was pure Cockney. He was gaunt, with impossibly high cheekbones and close-set eyes. He stood behind the counter in regulation green, the last letters of a tattooed name poking out from under his uniform.

Carla tried not to stare at his nose – an unsettling violet colour.

‘You can leave your bag in one of these lockers. You’ll need a locker too, sir.’

Carla turned to see a young man standing behind her. He had an open face and a head of loose blonde curls. He smiled. An ID badge – Social Worker – was clipped to his brown jumper. She could imagine him working in such a role; his pleasant face fitted.

‘I need to take this in with me,’ he said to the guard, holding onto his small red rucksack. ‘Got all my paperwork and that sort of stuff, mate.’

The other guard at the desk invited Carla through the metal detector.

‘Have a seat, Mrs Reid,’ he said, pointing to a wooden bench. ‘Mr Haslop shouldn’t be long. Just finishing up in a meeting.’ He tipped his head towards a door marked
Manager.

‘Is there a toilet nearby?’ Carla asked, her stomach a knot of nerves.

‘That door there, love. Unisex.’

She closed the door to the windowless booth. Someone had sprayed the air freshener too generously and a cloying scent of frangipani hung heavily in the air. The margarine-yellow walls had been scrubbed so that they shone and Carla could catch a silhouetted shadow of herself in them. On the back of the door was a handwritten note:
Please remove any pubic hair from the toilet seat. It is only courtesy. Rachel.
Life beyond the security of Carla’s daily routine was so surprisingly crude, so blatant.

Back outside, she sat down where the guard had first left her. The bench was hard, the bones of her bottom uncushioned by any extra flesh. She shifted, trying to get comfortable. It was cold and her jumper was thin. She should have brought a coat. She fiddled with her visitor’s sticker, pulling it on and off until she’d blunted its stickiness altogether.

‘Jesus, Bob. What we gonna do ’bout it?’ It was the Cockney guard, in a loud whisper.

‘Is … dog handler still … site?’ It was the other guard. ‘… here this morning.’

Her interest piqued, Carla strained to follow the thread of conversation.

‘I’ll ring down to Rachel and see.’

‘Stupid fella. What was he thinking?’

‘Look, it’s not our problem. Just wanna hand it over. Then me job’s done.’

‘Hiya. Rachel. Ross here. Good, yeah. Listen we got an incident
at the gate. Is the dog handler still with you? Yup. Great. Can you send him up ASAP?’

Carla was deep in the intrigue when a door to her left swung open and several people emerged. One, a very tall man with a fluff of grey hair and dense black eyebrows, moved towards her, his hand outstretched in greeting.

‘Mrs Reid? Sorry to have kept you waiting. Jim Haslop. Do come in.’

The prison manager had an easy smile, a strong handshake, and a warm office.

The room was frugally decorated with a wide wooden desk off to one side and a navy leather couch pushed up against the wall. A rubber plant, its leaves dulled by dust, stood under the window beside a fish tank, which was home to two sluggish goldfish.

Carla sat down on the couch. The seat, clearly just recently vacated, was still warm.

Haslop went over the procedure for the day, his manner a careful blend of kindliness and pragmatism. He didn’t fit the Hollywood image of a truculent prison warden that she’d been expecting. This was no Karl Malden of Alcatraz.

Once the preliminaries had been dispensed with and the red tape cleared, walkie-talkie commands were relayed, and Haslop and Carla began their descent into the bowels of the building. They moved briskly through a warren of corridors, their progress clatteringly arrested as gates were electronically unlocked and then re-secured under the watchful eye of closed-circuit cameras. Carla had to move quickly to keep pace with Haslop’s long strides.

The room set aside for the meeting was empty except for six blue chairs spaced evenly in a semicircle. A red plastic chair completed the ring. Déjà vu. How the intervening years fell away.

One by one, four other officials arrived: Toroa’s unit manager,
a caseworker, the prison psychologist, and a member of Victim Support – not Lorraine, though; she’d moved to Nelson.

There was much preliminary discussion about the format the meeting would take, with considerations diplomatically vocalised and recommendations made. Carla peeled off her jumper. Despite the group consisting of only a handful of people, the acoustics left the room feeling cluttered and overcrowded – too many words echoing around the room and already muddling her thoughts.

When the door off to her right finally opened, it came as a relief. She sucked in a stuttering breath. This time she could get a proper look at him. The boy had unfurled into a man, his teenage skin shed, his lankiness filled out, his Adam’s apple absorbed into the thickness of manhood.

He walked across to the red chair, his boyish swagger replaced now with a steady stride.

Even when the caseworker opened with a
karakia,
Carla couldn’t stop herself from staring at him – the three-day-old stubble, the jagged scar puckering his smooth brown cheek, the tattoo spreading out over his fingers like a spider’s web – long, tapering fingers reminiscent of scrawnier days. Those fingers. That wrist. That fist.

‘Ben has prepared a statement of regret.’ Haslop’s voice punctured Carla’s stupor. ‘Stacey will read it out.’

The caseworker opened the manila folder on her lap, swept a strand of hair off her face and began to read. ‘When I committed a crime against your family I had no thought for my actions. For this I am sorry. I have seen the errors of my ways. In prison I have found God. He has shown me the way. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.’

‘Thank you, Ben,’ Haslop said. ‘This is an encouraging first step.
To ask for forgiveness, you have to first acknowledge wrongdoing, and today you have done that. Well done.’

Carla felt flat. Nothing about this ‘momentous occasion’ rung true. Toroa’s words were simply words on a page and devoid of any depth. They were not even spoken by their author. Not even acknowledged with his eyes. Nothing about Toroa’s demeanour, not even his exaggerated solemnity, suggested there was any sincerity behind them.

‘Mrs Reid?’

The group looked on expectantly. Toroa was flicking his thumbs against his forefingers.

Haslop leant towards her, inviting her participation. ‘Mrs Reid, is there something you would like to say in return?’

‘Yes,’ Carla said after a long pause.

Haslop’s face relaxed. Toroa’s tightened.

She bent down and picked up her handbag. Unhurried, she unfastened the clasp.

‘I too have something to be read,’ she said.

Haslop smiled.

‘And since we are reading each other’s words,’ she continued, ‘perhaps Ben could read it to us?’

The prison manager tilted his head uneasily, clearly uncertain as to whether it was sarcasm he’d detected in her voice. He fixed his eyes on the tatty mauve envelope in her hand.

Carla held it out. Toroa’s eyes flicked up and down, but he made no attempt to reach for it. Haslop intercepted the delivery and cleared his throat. ‘Is this your victim impact statement, Mrs Reid?’

‘Of sorts,’ she said. ‘It’s a card from my son, Jack, given to my husband and me on the day he moved out of home to go flatting in the city. I think it should give, uh, Mr Toroa, a clearer appreciation of the impact his actions had on my family.’

Haslop looked down at the floral design on the card. ‘May I?’ he asked, and on her nod, opened and perused it, then he held it out. ‘Ben.’

Toroa looked up, but did not take the envelope.

‘Ben?’

Stacey, the caseworker, touched Haslop on the elbow. ‘Jim,’ she whispered, ‘Ben can’t read.’

Carla thought she must have misheard.

Haslop flushed. ‘Of course! I forgot.’ Quickly, he passed the card back to Carla. ‘Mrs Reid, Ben can’t read. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to.’

‘Can’t read?’ Carla blurted out in disbelief. Everyone could read! Toroa was a grown man. Was this yet another ploy on behalf of the thug to retain control of the situation and steer it in whichever direction he wished?

Ignoring Haslop’s outstretched hand, Carla looked across at the prisoner. She was momentarily thrown; his self-satisfied eyes were now downcast and his brazen body had folded in on itself. His slouch spoke more of defeat, than disinterest. Confused, she hesitated, unsure of how to proceed.

Everyone was waiting.

Flustered, she left the envelope in Haslop’s outstretched hand and began to recite the words from memory.

‘“Mum and Dad”,’ her voice quivered. She clenched her teeth. ‘“Mum and Dad, you’ve always believed in me and made so many sacrifices on my behalf. Thank you! I leave the farm today with a rucksack full of your love. This is all I need to succeed. I hope to do you proud. Love Jack. PS. I’ll be back, Mum. Don’t worry”.’

After a long pause, Carla looked slowly around the room at the six other faces.

‘This is my loss.’

Ben Toroa’s face was again set strong, his posture once more defiant. But Carla had glimpsed something else, and for the first time she felt a little less hostile towards him.

As she headed out of the prison that day, through the metal detector and past the British guards, she spotted the man who’d followed her in a few hours earlier – the social worker with a brown jumper and red rucksack. He was sitting glumly on the bench beside a policeman. His rucksack lay open on the counter beside a plastic bag, which seemed to be stuffed with dry green leaves.

The days following her visit to the prison freewheeled into chaos and Carla’s carefully honed routine collapsed. Conflicting emotions, revisited memories, and puzzling thoughts had been stirred up in the cauldron of her mind.

Every morning for the rest of that week she drove up The Avenue, then down into the valley where the concrete and barbed-wire beast waited for her to slow, do a U-turn, and head home again.

One day, after returning from this pointless pilgrimage, she decided to drop in on Kevin. She always visited in the afternoon, but it had just gone ten o’clock when she pulled into the grounds of the facility, hopeful they’d let her in.

Kevin had graduated to the hospital wing, where he could receive more specialised nursing care. The previous few months had seen him suffer a series of setbacks: one bout of pneumonia after another, a deep-vein thrombosis, and recently, a bladder infection, which had spread to his kidneys and was still challenging the doctors.

However, regardless of what condition Carla found Kevin in, whether he was aggressive, in a drug-induced stupor, or simply
slow and bewildered, her vigil was never less than a full three hours, the maximum allowed for a visit in the medical wing.

Mostly she knitted squares for Hospice while sitting beside his bed. Occasionally she paged through a magazine. Never a book. No longer able to engage with fictional characters, she hadn’t read in a very long time.

‘Oh, Mrs R, it is a surprise to see you so early,’ Lisi, the kitchen aide, said as she rattled down the corridor with a tea trolley. Tucked into her sharp black curls was a salmon-coloured hibiscus bloom.

Carla smiled. ‘Yes, Lisi. Just to keep you on your toes. Can I please slip in and see him?’ She herself wasn’t sure why she was there. Everything was out of kilter.

Lisi beamed, flashing her beautiful milk-white teeth. ‘All good. You just in time for tea.’

‘Oh, I’d love a cup.’

‘You look good today, Mrs R. Something different?’

Carla shrugged. ‘Washed my hair.’

Lisi chortled. ‘No. Something else. White, one sugar, right?’

‘I don’t know how you remember everyone’s preferences.’

‘Just the special ones,’ Lisi said with a wink and passed Carla a heavy-duty, thick-rimmed cup.

Kevin was snoring loudly when Carla opened the door to his room, a bubble of mucus ballooning from his left nostril each time he exhaled. She wiped his nose gently, careful not to wake him, then kissed his brow. He smelt of the fragrance-free, hypoallergenic hospital soap that swam in the soap dish of his small sink. She pulled up a chair. The whole wing had recently been redecorated, the tired pink decor making way for new beige walls and donkey-brown furnishings. The reflected light lent Kevin a more sallow hue. Or perhaps it wasn’t the light.

Carla’s tea was safely lukewarm with tiny globules of fat floating
on the surface. Lisi had also smuggled her in a freshly baked scone. It was still warm and the knob of butter on top had melted, leaving a glistening smear of gold.

Carla opened the canvas bag she was carrying and cursed. She’d brought the wrong bag. In her mind’s eye she could see her knitting lying beside the sofa where she’d fallen asleep the previous evening,
Campbell Live
swimming into
Firstline.

Three hours stretched ahead of her, and of all days, today she needed some distraction.

She rearranged Kevin’s toiletries, repositioned his slippers under the bed, and gave his basin a clean with a wet-wipe, removing the grey blobs of toothpaste that had hardened around the rim. She switched on his radio, quickly turning the volume down. Rock music! Every day she turned it to Concert FM, and every day someone changed it back.

She looked around. There was little left in the generic cubicle of space to link to Kevin. His few belongings had been further whittled down in the latest shift – a gradual paring back to naught.

She peered through the thick glass water carafe, screwing up her eyes and playing with the visual distortions it created of the photograph behind it. She reached for the frame, recapturing the clear lines of the three people in the picture. Moisture had crept under the glass and a milky stain now discoloured an already sun-faded family. In the centre stood the farmer – sun-brown, leathery skin, strong muscles, bright eyes – one hand resting on his young boy’s shoulder, the other wrapped around his wife’s tiny waist.

Carla put down the photograph and looked over at the wretched figure in bed – folds of transparent skin pleated over sunken eyes, a crumbling frame collapsed into the soft mattress … She sank back in the chair and closed her eyes.

‘Carla?’

She started. No one else was in the room.

‘Carly.’

It couldn’t be. He hadn’t called her that in ages.

Kevin’s eyes were open and shining, as if cloudy cataracts had just been stripped away.

‘Kev, you’re – you’re awake!’

‘How are you?’ he croaked, struggling to sit up.

She jerked into action, slipping an arm through the crook of his, and behind his back, pulling him in to her. He was so light. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She cradled his wafer of body against her while using her other hand to puff up the pillows. Then she lowered him gently back down.

He sighed and shut his eyes. ‘How are you?’

‘Me? Oh me? I’m – I’m fine.’

‘That’s good, snoeks.’

Snoeks! Was she losing her mind? Had she finally succumbed to the madness that ever hovered in the wings?

‘Well, maybe not so good,’ she found herself saying.

Kevin coughed, tenacious strings of phlegm netting across his airways. ‘Not so good,’ he repeated.

In an instant the years concertinaed and they were again sitting out on the deck at sundown, sharing a drink and the day’s events.

‘… and when I gave him Jack’s card, he couldn’t even read it. He can’t read, Kev! How can he understand what he’s taken from us when he can’t even read? I mean, it’s like he’s a child in the body of an adult. God, I almost felt sorry for him. Can you believe it? I must be mad.’

Kevin stretched out his hand – a web of raised purple veins and sunken furrows. Her heart swelled with the connection, the voluntary touch of his skin on hers.

‘You are a teacher,’ he said slowly.

‘I
was
a teacher.’

He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘You are a teacher,’ he repeated. His hand was cold and bony and pulsed irregularly with life.

Tears ran down her cheeks. The relief of a problem shared after all this time.

She slipped her arms under him and lifted him again towards her, his frame like a wisp of air in her hungry embrace. ‘Thank you, my love. Thank you.’

Then she felt his body gradually deflate and the breeze of his thin breath on her face grew still. She laid him back down. A faint smile pulled at the corners of his chapped lips.

She waited for the next bubble of mucus to balloon from his nose. It never came.

Jack’s ashes were put alongside Kevin in the casket. Carla would not have her husband cremated like she’d done with their son. She wanted him to be laid to rest somewhere beautiful, surrounded by gracious old trees and an undulating lawn. She wanted him to be somewhere permanent – a rectangle of grass that resembled his exact height and girth, a patch in the sunshine she could tend, visit, talk to.