The Last Time We Spoke (7 page)

Debs was good value, though. She could make his mum laugh, and Ben liked it when his mother laughed. It thawed the cold, anxious bits inside of him. The only time he didn’t like her laughing was when she was pissed.

A long day stretched ahead. The crew would think he was hiding out if he didn’t pitch. And he couldn’t miss the build-up to their clash with the GDBs. But he wouldn’t risk taking Cody along.

There was a loud knocking on the kitchen window. Ben’s whole body jerked.

‘It’s Debs!’ cried Lily, running to the back door.

Ben breathed out. His mother looked at him questioningly. He looked away, avoiding her all-seeing eyes. She could read minds if you gave her half a chance.

Debs stepped into the room dressed in leopard-skin leggings and a mango-orange T-shirt that hugged the floppy folds of flesh around her midriff. Her morning hair had not yet been tamed and her lime-green fingernails needed a touch-up.

‘Well, well, well. So what’s the occasion?’

‘It’s Lily’s birthday,’ Cody blurted.

‘Lily’s birthday, eh?’ Debs said, wrapping Lily in a tight squeeze. ‘Just as well I popped round for a cup of sugar then, or I’d have missed the party.’

Ben knocked over his chair and headed for the hallway.

Debs raised her eyebrows. ‘What’s up with him?’

His mother whispered something. He turned just in time to catch her rolling her eyes.

You never met your
tīpuna,
Benjamin – your beautiful, gracious grandmother. You never experienced the weight of her presence and the wisdom of her words.
Auē!
For you were not raised within your culture’s
kite,
and have not known the comfort and constraint of its robust walls, walls that would have protected and held you, restrained and shaped you. You should have been
…

In the beginning, in the time of moa, that giant flightless bird, there was an order, a belonging. This land was marked out by the ridges of mountains and the belly of valleys into
rohe
– each region inhabited by those who shared a common ancestral tie – a tie which could be traced right back to one of the founding canoes that landed on these shores some eight hundred years ago. This ancestral strand has been woven through generations to form a giant basket holding all in its embrace – those from then and those of now. Months and years are arbitrary, the physical and the spiritual simply part of the same, for all of time is held within its clutch. And all of Māori. Connectedness is everything. Connection to our soil, our people, our past.

‘Got a problem?’ Tate shouted across the street.

‘Yeah, I got a problem. You tagged our turf, you motherfuckers.’

‘So what you gonna do about it?’ Tate said, his head tilted, his eyebrows nonchalantly raised. He looked so relaxed he could have been buying smokes at the corner store.

Ben never felt calm when his gang was about to rumble. He was so pumped up his hands were trembling and his nostrils flaring like a horse waiting in the starting stalls.

They were standing across the street from the GDBs, the potholed tarmac dividing the night into two. Blue versus red. Ben worshipped his blue bandanna. He could lose his name behind it and be just eyes. When he tied on the cotton kerchief and his hot breath blew back on him, he knew he was for real, part of something bigger. The clutch of cloth was better than any school certificate. It was a lifetime membership to everything that mattered.

Tools. Face. Gangsta-ready.

‘Gonna kick some arse,’ Simi said not even moving his lips, like some ventriloquist. Then he stepped off the pavement and pimp-rolled into the middle of the road. Halfway across he
stopped, pulled the finger at the GDBs, then turned and swung back to his crew.

‘Chancer,’ Ben said with a snigger.

Even though Simi was the youngest in the gang – a ‘noob’ – he had attitude. He came from a family of eleven, the youngest by five years, so he’d had to be a loudmouth to survive. But he was a rock in a bag of pebbles. All his brothers and sisters had done well at school – one was a sales manager at The Warehouse. Another, some celebrity chef in Australia. Then there was Simi. He’d been playing truant for as long as Ben could remember, hanging out at the dairy and earning his grades in dope smoking and tagging. People quickly forgot he was short and baby-faced, because his character filled any space, like the Michelin man.

Tate cranked up the rap pounding at his feet.

Don’t bring your bitches, just needles and riches; my place, not yours
…

A dog barked. Ben looked over his shoulder, his eyes fixing on a wrinkly old woman sitting outside on her porch. When she saw him eyeball her, she got out of her chair and scuttled inside like a little cockroach, dead-bolting her front door with a rattle and clunk.

Ben sniggered. He wasn’t planning on hurting the old duck, but it felt good to have his power respected. Her house was a state house special: peeling, sherbet-green weatherboard box, two windows, one door. Next one along was identical, except mallow-pink. The one after that, Pineapple-Lump yellow.

‘This joint is messing with my brain,’ Ben said to no one in particular.

‘We gonna put you in the dirt, you cunts,’ Tate shouted across the road, hooking his forefingers into the waist of his jeans.

‘Totally,’ Simi said, shaking his short legs like a wrestler readying for a match.

‘Oh yeah?’ from across the street. ‘Big words for a pussy army. Go home, it’s past your bedtime.’

An empty vodka bottle rocketed through the air and shattered, the taunt exploding at Tate’s feet. He didn’t budge. A bubble of blood sprang up on his shin. Slowly and deliberately, he bent down and wiped it off with his forefinger, then stuck the bloodied finger in his mouth and sucked.

‘Hey, bros,’ he said turning to the rest of the gang. ‘I taste blood. I say, red is straight dead.’

‘All words, no action,’ came the reply from the GDBs’ woolly-haired leader. ‘Trick and treating like some ho. Go to church if you scared of the bash.’

Ben didn’t see Tate throw the piece of concrete. He just saw it strike the guy in the belly, dropping him instantly. One down. Tate was a smooth operator.

While the enemy army gathered around their fallen man, the DOAs savoured the satisfaction of their first hit. Then like a pack of wild dogs, the GDBs slunk forward.

Ben fingered the cold metal in his pocket.

The flick of knives. The rush of rubber. Fence paling on skull. Wood on bone. War! Sneakers skidding on bitumen. Machetes carving up the night. Dogs barking. Voices roaring. Flesh exploding. Frightened eyes in lolly-coloured boxes peeping out from behind threadbare curtains while the bros ruled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben spotted someone hoofing Danny. Rage exploded inside his head. Danny was family. No one messed with someone in his gang. Danny, Tate, Simi, Matt, George – they were his love and hate, his every day, his personality and purpose. They were his answer. Without them, he was nothing.

‘Cunt!’ he screamed, moving in on the guy with the evil smirk.
Ben’s fist connected with his pockmarked face. It felt good. His anger, tonight at least, had found a home.

His enemy stumbled and fell, before managing to scramble away. Ben picked up a broken bottle and gave chase, dodging and diving through the disorder until he’d caught up with his prey. Then he was bottling the guy, again and again and again. Suddenly a fishing knife came out of nowhere and sliced through Ben’s hoodie, his T-shirt, his skin. He didn’t feel anything at first – just saw his sleeve gaping. Black spots started dancing in front of his eyes, and he realised that the blood dripping into the pool of red was also his – blue mixing with red.

Grit pressed into his cheek and his ear felt as if it was folded in two. He tried to lift his head to relieve the pain, but it was as heavy as a wheelbarrow full of rocks. The tarmac tilted. He opened his eyes wider, trying to stop the halo of blackness from seeping in.

‘It’s the pigs!’ someone shouted above the din. Instantly, the tangle of bodies and roar of hate evaporated, hazy shapes melting into the night, to leave only Ben and the bottled boy behind.

Ben’s mind cleared as stills from the farmhouse night flashed in front of him. He had to get away.

He hauled himself up. Spots crowded his vision.

For a moment, he teetered there in the bubble of red and blue light; then his legs began to bend like plasticine softening in the sun, and he crumpled again to the kerb.

It was a relief to give over to being caught. It had been hell the past six weeks, lurching between sweet oblivion and cold, sober fear. His nails were ragged stumps and his eyes racooned with tiredness. His abs were now so flat they were hollow, the meat sucked right up against his bones like heated plastic wrap, and his nerves were all frayed and worn. He thought about the time he and George
had been out in the Manukau Harbour in George’s dinghy when a storm blew up. Being finally flung into the water had come as a relief after hours of trying to keep the boat afloat.

‘Look straight at the camera.’

Ben stood against the whitewashed wall, his jaw locked, his eyes staring down the lens.

A flash of silver-white light.

‘This way.’

Another flash.

Ben stared at his ink-printed fingertips poking out from under the sling. He couldn’t feel three of his fingers.

‘I’ve booked ’em, Ray. All under age. Two from the Glenfield GDBs and one from the DOAs.’

‘DOAs?’ the old cop repeated, looking to Ben for more information.

Ben sucked his teeth.

‘Dead On Arrival,’ the other cop translated, filling Ben’s silence. ‘New North Shore feeder gang.’

‘Bloody lucky he
wasn’t
dead on arrival.’

They both snorted.

‘One’s gone on to Middlemore Hospital with facial injuries and a punctured lung. This one had a laceration to his forearm. It’s already been stitched.’

The doctor had said the scar on Ben’s arm would be a significant one. Ben was pleased. He’d have something to show for it.

The older cop sighed. ‘Take him down to the cells. He can sober up on the concrete.’

Carla went rigid as the cold metal slid into her vagina, the speculum forcing her open.

‘Just breathe deeply and try to relax.’

Relax. Carla grimaced at the absurdity of this directive.

‘Hopefully this will be the last of these for a while,’ her GP, Naomi, said, peering down the beam of light into her.

Carla stared at the perforated ceiling, following the pattern of dots to different dead ends.

‘The good news is that I can’t see any blisters,’ Naomi added, feeding the swab into a long plastic tube and sealing it. ‘But keep taking the Zovirax. It’ll reduce the frequency of further outbreaks.’

Carla nodded and started to sit up.

‘Just a sec, Carla, while I have a quick feel of your abdomen.’ Naomi rubbed her hands to warm them. Carla gave an involuntary shiver.

‘Is the pelvic pain settling?’

‘Uh-huh.’

After pulling on her slacks, Carla sat down in the chair beside the desk while Naomi typed up the consultation notes.

Carla looked around.
My husband wears the pants, but I choose which one’s he wears
– the slogan on her doctor’s forgotten mug
of cold tea. Naomi’s twin boys smiled down at Carla from a solid pine shelf, their faces positioned between
An Atlas of Common Skin Conditions
and
Counselling the Grieving Patient
. On the wall above these was a crayon drawing of a stick figure with a big speech bubble:
Thank yoo docta abil for mayking me beta
.

Carla had been with Naomi for five years, ever since Linda Metcalf had retired. Naomi was refreshingly young and exceedingly competent. Even Jack had been happy to join her books; not that it was ever for much – a strained calf muscle, tennis elbow, a bout of glandular fever.

The printer began to whirr. Naomi looked up and stretched out a hand to Carla. ‘How are things, Carla? Honestly?’

Carla lowered her hands onto her lap. ‘Alright, I suppose. I haven’t been sleeping that well, though. Not since Kevin’s discharge. He wakes most nights with nightmares.’

Naomi nodded.

‘We’re in a motel now, too. I couldn’t stand it at Geoff and Mildred’s any longer. The doctors at the head injury unit are letting Kevin attend rehab clinic as an outpatient, much to Geoff’s disapproval, of course. But I needed Kevin home with me. The motel is on a main road. It’s very noisy.’

Naomi didn’t say anything. Carla liked that. Her GP was a good listener, unlike some doctors who talked more than they listened.

‘It’ll be better when we can get back to the farm,’ she added quickly, feeling suddenly guilty for complaining. The waiting room outside was packed full of sick people.

‘We could up his medication,’ Naomi suggested, checking Kevin’s discharge summary, then searching through the chaos on her desk for a prescription pad. ‘Perhaps we should also reconsider starting
you
on an antidepressant.’

Carla clenched her teeth.

‘Your brain is in a state of chemical imbalance, Carla, after all
the stress. Poor sleep, loss of appetite, feelings of hopelessness – these are symptoms that your body is not coping.’

‘We have to sell the farm,’ Carla blurted out. ‘I won’t be able to manage it with Kevin the way he is.’

Naomi looked up. ‘It’s early days. I don’t think you should make any big decisions for at least six months. Let me try to arrange more assistance for Kevin in the meantime. Is the district nurse still visiting?’

Carla nodded.

‘So how about it? Shall we try you on a low-dose antidepressant?’

‘No!’ Carla said, abruptly lifting her handbag onto her lap.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ her doctor said evenly. ‘You’ve been through so much. You’re not going to become addicted, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

A tablet for this, a tablet for that! What about just getting on with the hand life dealt? Anyhow, what did they all know? Nothing anyone could glean from medical school or
Counselling the Grieving Patient
. Some small pill was not going to miraculously bridge the divide and re-enrol her in living.

Carla stood up. Naomi was typing up the remainder of the consultation and as she scrolled down the screen, Carla saw Jack’s name flash up, heading a February consultation. She froze.

Naomi quickly closed the file. ‘Silly computer. It has a mind of its own.’

Carla hesitated. ‘You saw Jack recently?’

‘Yes,’ Naomi said, her face colouring. ‘I did.’ Then she stood up and gently steered Carla towards the door. ‘I’ll see you in a week. Try to get some rest.’

‘Uh, yes … Thank you, Naomi.’

‘No charge as usual, love. Direct to ACC,’ said Marge at reception.

Carla turned, preoccupied with what she’d just seen, and collided with Vera Wilkinson, secretary of the tennis club, all cloying perfume and green polyester.

‘How are you?’ Vera cried, dousing Carla in a cloud of stale cigarette breath. ‘The police confident of an arrest, I hear.’ Her bosom heaved with excitement. ‘Saw it in the
Herald
,’ she added quickly, obviously anxious to distance herself from the salacious rumour mill.

A hush settled over the stuffy waiting room.

‘That’s what they tell me,’ Carla managed, a sense of panic rising within her. She tried to edge past, but a child was playing with a Buzzy Bee on the floor, blocking her escape.

‘Just a matter of time, then, before they catch the bloody animals. Excuse my French, but really, not worth the air they breathe.’

Carla contemplated climbing over the child.

‘Such a lovely lad, your Jack. What a tragedy, love.’

Carla’s chin began to tremble.

‘And who’s going to foot the bill when they do finally catch them? Who’s going to keep them fed and watered? I’ll tell you who. You and me, honey! Our taxes. I hear the new prison they’re planning to build will have central heating! Central heating, mind you!’

Carla’s cell phone started to ring deep within her handbag. She sucked in a stuttering breath and excused herself.

Outside, she steadied herself against a parked car and fumbled with her phone.

‘Hello?’

It was Marge, the medical centre’s receptionist. She’d witnessed the Vera encounter from behind her desk and had rung Carla to facilitate a getaway.

Back at the motel, the stiff maroon curtains were still drawn and Kevin was still in his pyjamas, dozing in an armchair. It was almost midday. She’d left him there at nine. The only difference was that now a pallid banana smoothie stain was weeping down his front,
and the sour stench of urine hung in the air. A children’s programme was screening on the television, all glitter and pink music.

Carla screwed up her eyes, trying to squeeze away the pain of seeing Kevin like this. She put her parcels down.

‘Sorry I’m late, love,’ she said, mustering an artificially upbeat tone. ‘Naomi was running late. I had to wait for over an hour before she saw me. I’m gasping for a cuppa. Will you join me?’

Kev shook his head.

‘Sure? There’s some of Bev’s shortbread left.’

‘I said no!’

The doctors said his recovery would be slow. It could take up to two years and the endpoint remained uncertain. Could this be the Kevin she’d be left with? He never used to be abrupt or rude. Never …

She sat down on the arm of his chair and ran her fingers through his thinning hair, tracing the crease of puckered purple skin zigzagging across his scalp.

‘They said we can go back to the farm next week. Lorraine – you know, from Victim Support – called. It will be good to get out of this place. Back home, eh?’

He shrugged.

‘Ke—’

‘Not that way, stupid!’ he blurted as a cartoon rabbit scampered across the screen.

Carla closed her eyes. Then her cell phone was ringing again.

‘Carla, Steve Herbert here.’

‘Yes, Steve.’

‘I’ve got some news.’

Carla’s heart vaulted in an internal gasp of apprehension. ‘Would you and Kevin be able to come down to the station? It’s not something we can really discuss over the phone.’