The Last Time We Spoke (5 page)

Ghetto-star rollin, high on ice and shine; put a bullet in your back you cross my nigga line.

The words jettisoned out of the ghetto blaster and slammed into the walls of the bridge before escaping into the night to blend with the drone of traffic overhead.

The six of them sat huddled around the radio. The smell of rotting rubbish mingled with the sweet, marijuana air.

‘Fuck off, Ben, if you can’t hack it,’ Tate said, spraying spittle over him. ‘You just a wannabe or what?’

Ben wiped his cheek with his sleeve. He hated that word ‘wannabe’. It drove straight through him like the shame he felt after the hidings Ryan, his mum’s partner, dished out, bruising Ben’s body, but mostly his mind. Ben
was
staunch. He
had
cred.

‘TT, I’m just telling you what’s going down, man. My auntie says—’

‘I don’t give a shit what your auntie says. Fuckin’ motherfucker.’

That’s why Tate was leader. He’d been born with metal running through his veins like the wires in a fuse box.

‘The shit’s swarming all over the hood. I saw a cop car this morning in our street, bro.’ Ben couldn’t help himself. Words
just kept spilling out of his mouth, his bravado leaking like water through a sieve. He hated himself for his weakness.

Pumped and on point, and glock-shit-real; might roll in a grave, won’t never be your slave.

Tate straightened, his body thrusting forward in rhythm to the mantra. ‘If we go down, it’s cool, man. Cool. My badge of glory,’ he said, baring his teeth and picking at a piece of food stuck there. ‘Now pass the joint and shut up about the pigs. You been broken-arse ever since the one-eight-seven. It’s gettin’ on my wick.’

The others were looking at Ben with contempt in their eyes. It was okay for them to be cocky. The police weren’t hunting them. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Ben had done the farmhouse job to gain respect, move up the ranks. But things had spun out of control. He hadn’t reckoned on them wasting anyone. The initial buzz of being part of something real was evaporating as fast as weed. ‘Whatever.’

Suddenly Tate lunged forward and flicked off the stereo and torchlight, extinguishing the graffitied hideout.

‘What the—?’

‘Shut it,’ Tate said, making a slicing motion across his neck.

Ben tossed off his hoodie and tilted his head, tuning in to the noises of the night. Lewis sniffed; his nose was always dripping. Simi rubbed his fingers together, the dull chafe of skin on skin. Then they heard it, the beat of bass intermingled with voices. Clods of air moved down Ben’s throat.

‘It’s the GDBs,’ someone hissed.

A bottle whistled through the blackness and exploded on a concrete pipe behind them. Guffaws and high-pitched shrieks, then another random missile.

Ben felt the glass spray over his back like a passing shower. He
didn’t budge. None of them did, their eyes fixed on Tate, waiting for the command. Waiting.

None came.

No action.

The voices crossed over the bridge and faded. Ben breathed out.

Simi jumped up. ‘Let’s show them what’s bloody what!’ he said, wielding a razor blade, his voice caught between man and kid. ‘Time to dust them up’

‘Yo, Simi. Cool it,’ Tate cautioned, flicking on his torch and shining it into each of their faces like a searchlight seeking out the enemy. ‘We’ll tag the highway when the time is right. That’s gonna be our turf. We gonna own those motherfuckers.’

As Tate pumped the air with his torch, the light bounced around their lair, lighting up snapshots of concrete, mob messages, and a large cave weta clinging upside down to the dank roof. Tate gave a throaty laugh. Then they were punching the darkness with their fists, the echo of laughter swelling their numbers.

‘Hey cuz, where’d you get ya mean shiner?’

Ben patched his eye with his hand. ‘A hidin’ from Ryan,’ he said after a long pause, his voice robbed of power. ‘Got in the way when the dude was dealing to my mother, didn’t I?’

‘Cunt probably deserved it,’ Simi goaded.

Ben leapt up and grabbed the kid by the throat. ‘Don’t ever diss my mother. You hear me, or I’ll waste you, man. I swear I’ll waste you.’

Simi pushed him back into the wall. ‘Whoa! Cool it. Just joking, bro. You’re all wound up after your big night out with TT.’

‘I’m warning you—’

‘See what I scored today,’ Tate said, cutting into the aggro. He was holding up a white plastic packet. ‘Matte fuckin’ silver,’ he
gloated, pulling out the spray can and shaking it like some barman mixing cocktails.

When it was Ben’s turn, he sprayed the stuff into the bag, bunched it round his mouth and nose, and inhaled deeply. Then the chemicals were working their magic, wiping away the white boy crumpling under the shovel, the woman screaming as TT dealt to her, the old man writhing on the floor like an insect on its back.

It was soothing, numbing, cooling. Ben was cruising, wasted, joining his mates with their sticky silver lipstick – aliens high on matte silver.

I watch and I weep. You have diminished the mana gifted by your ancestors of the great river, by your forefathers on that first ‘great fleet’ of canoes. You have brought shame on
te tangata whenua
, on your
hapu
, your
whānau,
your
iwi.

But what do you even know of such words – of kinship, clan, family ties and tribe? You cannot speak
te reo Māori
, the language that guards your history, that recorded your past. Your roots have long since been severed. Like tumbleweed tossed at the whim of every passing breeze, you roll free of tie and connection, free of community.

I am not far from you, yet you cannot hear my lamentations, nor my
karakia
. So should I cease my praying and turn my back on you? You are not the first to bring dishonour to our people. You will not be the last.

No, I stay. For now. You see, this story, your story, goes back further than you.

It was hot and stuffy in the packed church. Two circles of perspiration were spreading out under the organist’s arms. She shifted on her seat and stretched out her legs to reach the pedals, puffy red flesh spilling out over her sandals like proving bread dough. The congregation stood.

Carla stared at the order of service. The pixelated image of her son looked back at her: languid brown eyes, disobedient hair, the thread of scar gently hoisting his upper lip.

A hymn filled the space outside her head, but Carla couldn’t sing. Instead, she allowed herself to be distracted by the children in the pews across the aisle. Rangi and Rebecca’s little girl was sliding her hands in and out of her dungaree pockets in an exercise of speed. Beside her stood a fidgety, flaxen-haired child with thin ponytails and transparent skin. She kept looking back, perhaps to see if Carla would break into sobs like she was supposed to. Then there were Bev’s boys, jostling and shoving as they tried to stand on each other’s toes.

Anxious to avoid eye contact with anyone, Carla tilted her head back and studied the dark beams of wood arching above her. She knew their pattern well, as she did the rest of the building – the
liturgical-purple carpet, threadbare in patches; the wrought-iron candelabra; the simple wooden cross. She hadn’t missed a service in years.

The music tapered off and Allan, the chaplain, cleared his throat. ‘One of Jack’s less well-known interests was his love of poetry. A passion he shared with his father.’

Allan had come round to Geoff and Mildred’s place on the Monday to discuss funeral arrangements. Carla had been staying with her brother-in-law and his wife since being discharged from hospital. Geoff, a wiry, hollow-cheeked man, was Kevin’s younger sibling. He owned several electronic retail outlets across Auckland. Over the years Carla had remained civil for Kevin’s sake.

Allan smiled down from the pulpit. ‘And many a wintry Sunday night at the Reids was spent around the fire reciting verse.’

Carla found herself smiling as she thought back to those Sunday suppers. Tangy gouda and pickled onions. The words of Fiona Farrell and Kevin Ireland. Jack’s friends sometimes joining in on saxophone or guitar to transform the evening into a soirée of sorts.

Allan continued. ‘I remember one particular evening enjoying this lovely family’s hospitality. Jack gave a great Sam Hunt impersonation.’ The pastor chuckled, then paused as if revisiting the occasion.

‘And Carla has asked me to read a poem,
this
poem, by Sam Hunt today.’ He looked down over his half-moon spectacles at the paper in his hand. ‘It is entitled “Winter Solstice Song”.’

The pastor’s voice faltered over the swear word, which he’d chosen to abbreviate. Mildred frowned. Geoff cleared his throat. Carla felt a fleeting freedom.

The ensuing silence was broken by a baby’s cry, then the blowing of noses and a stifled cough.

Kevin was still in a coma. He needed a miracle.

The organist started up again.

‘Carla, it’s time,’ Geoff said, a guiding hand on her elbow.

It all felt so wrong. So unreal. Kevin at least should have been there beside her. Instead she was alone at the funeral of their only son, surrounded by
other
people. The Reid unit had been disassembled and the individual parts now much less than the sum of them. She felt like a lone piece of Lego.

Carla turned and followed Geoff robotically to the coffin. Blake, her pimply nephew, stood next to the casket with a bunch of irises in the crook of his arm. Jack and Blake had never got on, so why
was he standing right beside Jack’s coffin, handing out the flowers? This was the funeral of
her
child. Blake was alive; Jack was dead. It should have been the other—She stopped herself mid thought. That she could think such a thing.

Carla took a single stem and laid it on the simple blonde box. Geoff had suggested a more ornate coffin; Carla had remained firm on this at least.

‘Jack,’ she mouthed, her throat too tight to release any more than a soft distortion of his name. Then, flanked by Allan and Geoff, she stepped to one side, and friends and family filed forwards to pay their final respects. Soon iris stems were scattered over the coffin in purple chaos.

Russell, Jack’s best friend, lingered at the coffin, his eyes red and his face puffy. He had his hand around the waist of a young woman with long auburn hair and eyes that were a catch-your-breath blue. She looked down quickly to avoid Carla’s gaze. Russell broke away and came over to Carla, crushing her in a clumsy embrace. ‘Mrs R, I’m …’

As the last of the mourners filed out of the church, Geoff’s family and Carla were left alone for the final blessing. Then she was being ushered out into the startling white light of day.

Two sallow undertakers dressed in death-black suits stood like sentries beside the hearse. They nodded solemnly, then made their way past Carla into the church. She felt a flash of panic. She couldn’t leave Jack alone with them. She wanted to shout, ‘Stop!’ She wanted to cradle her boy for one last time, feel his warm skin against hers, smooth his wild eyebrows and ruffle his hair. She wanted to cry and sob and scream. She wanted Kevin. Needed him to hold her close and chase away these horrible people. She hated them all.

She looked back into the church. The casket stood beneath the stained-glass window, bathed in ecclesiastical sunlight.

Her mind drifted to familiar scenes on television of women in war-torn lands weeping over disfigured corpses – faceless foreigners wailing and cursing and giving vent to their pain. How she longed for that freedom, to anonymously abandon herself in the full embrace of grief. But as Geoff helped her into the Jaguar and the door closed with an expensive thud, her pain was tidily contained.

You realise you’ve just dashed your father’s dreams
. Her last words to Jack had been in anger. Now regret was tattooed onto her heart.

They gave her a sedative before the wake at Geoff and Mildred’s house, the two tiny white pills drying up any residue of emotion and cloaking everything in an even fog. At the house, she escaped to the bathroom and hid there for a while until someone outside pretended to cough, making their presence known.

As she made her way back to the living room, Carla bumped into a couple who’d just arrived. She didn’t recognise them, but directed them towards the refreshments. Five minutes later, the couple realised, much to their embarrassment, that they were at the wrong function; they were meant to be at a birthday luncheon two doors down. For Carla, this bizarre incident was entirely in synchrony with the day. Nothing made sense. The funeral of her son was some crazy mistake.

She floated through an afternoon of hushed voices and strained expressions, while people from some other life sipped lukewarm tea, scoffed club sandwiches, and spoke in carefully modulated tones as they complimented Geoff and Mildred on their spectacular view.

Later, she persuaded Geoff to drop her at the hospital. ‘I’ll be fine. Really. I just need some time alone with Kevin. I hope you understand.’

Since that awful night, her every moment had been filled, her every emotion moved on before it had had time to develop depth or meaning. Left to catch mere glimpses of her new reality, Carla now craved the solitude that would permit the particles to separate out and settle. She needed to take an inventory of her life, identify and more fully comprehend what had been taken from her and what left behind.

Kevin lay similarly robbed of self by drugs that conspired to blanket his consciousness. His chest rose and fell with punctuated regularity as air was forced into his lungs and then squeezed out, each beep willing the next to follow. His wounds were healing, already mellowing the brutality and closing over the horror. Dried blood was less frightening than the glistening red stuff. The skin on Kevin’s temple had knitted together and his black bruises were dissipating to a lemony hue.

Carla propped up a photograph on the monitor at the head of his bed – a picture of Kevin taken a few months earlier at a friend’s barbecue. His wry grin. His sturdiness. His glow. She wanted those tending to him to see the man, not simply the broken body. How could they possibly visualise his stature and command, his intellect and kindness, from just those skin-draped hollows? He looked so small and feeble lying there, connected to a power point.

She drew the curtain around him, shutting out the misery of his Intensive Care bedfellows. His lips were dry and cracked, his mouth fetid. She leant down and kissed his forehead. He smelt of stale sweat. Then her tears were running down
his
cheeks, and it looked like he was the one crying.

Lifting the cool white sheet covering him, she saw that he was still naked, his grey skin punctured and patched and interrupted by plastic. Even his limp penis was a shrivelled conduit for a tube. She grasped his left hand – the only part of him apparently spared
in the beating – and held it up to her nose. But it no longer smelt of him, just of hospital.

The doctors had encouraged her to speak to him. Read to him. But he couldn’t hear her, could he? And what would she say? She’d not tell him about Jack; it would finish him off. She couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps she’d never even get the chance. She bit her lip.

‘Mrs Reid.’ It was the young, already balding, registrar. ‘How are you?’

She wiped her face on her sleeve.

‘Nice photo,’ he said, looking at the picture propped above the bed. ‘Gosh, he’s got different coloured eyes.’ Kevin’s eyes had been closed all week.

The doctor turned to her. ‘So how are things?’

She shot a glance back at her husband, at his small face stuck onto the front of his bandaged head. ‘We had the –’ then she mouthed, ‘– funeral today.’

‘That would have been hard.’

Carla looked away. She didn’t want compassion. Couldn’t cope with it. It pulled up feelings that owned themselves. Anarchy lay in wait if she succumbed.

‘It was time,’ she said briskly. ‘The delays were the hardest. Waiting for the post-mortem and all.’

He nodded.

‘How is he?’ she asked quickly.

They both turned to Kevin. It was easier focusing on him.

‘He’s made some real progress these past twenty-four hours,’ the young man said, resting a hand on her arm.

She stepped away.

‘We removed his chest drain this morning, as the tear in his lung appears to have sealed itself. Also,’ he said, picking up one of the charts hanging at the foot of the bed, ‘his kidney function is
improving. The next couple of days will be critical. If he continues along this trend,’ his finger traced the upward turn on the graph, ‘we’ll attempt to remove his breathing tube and wake him up. Hopefully he’ll then start to breathe on his own. Of course, the biggest uncertainty remains his level of brain functioning. But one step at a time, right?’

She nodded.

A bit later they came to do a portable chest X-ray. Carla was in the way, so she slipped out unnoticed. There were still forty minutes left before Geoff was due to pick her up.

Once on the ground floor, she headed for the main entrance. As she stepped out into the weak afternoon sunlight, she tripped over the drip stand of a woman in a hot-pink dressing gown, sucking on a cigarette.

‘Jesus, lady! Watch where you goin’,’ the woman yelled, her lips curling back to reveal a mouthful of stained, yellow teeth. ‘You nearly fuckin’ ripped this out of my arm!’

‘Oh, go to hell, why don’t you!’ Carla said, regaining her balance and heading down the ramp, the residue of the expletive strange and foreign in her mouth.