The call, p.16
The Call, page 16
She shoved the stuff into the folder, the folder back into the bag, the bag under the bed, and started to move, but heard someone already limping through the living room towards the kitchen. She risked a glance up the passageway and saw an enormous back blocking the front entrance: Keg Kahane. She ducked back and was pulling shut the sliding door of the wall-length built-in wardrobe in the adjoining bedroom when she heard the other one, presumably Marty, come through into the shared en suite bathroom and take a piss. It must have been the adrenaline, but she had to bite back a giggle, and almost lost it again when Marty flushed: she might be trapped with a vicious thug and murderer, but at least he had good manners. And struggling not to laugh was way better than a panic attack.
But the pissing and the flushing had brought up another issue. She was busting for a wee and had no idea how long the wait might be. As the men moved about, she tried to picture what they were doing: the air-lock sound of the fridge opening and closing, the crack and phttt of a beer can, the sound of Marty (she assumed) moving back into the bedroom. A soft scraping noise as she imagined him sliding the canvas bag from under the bed. She had no idea if she’d put its contents back in their original order. The flicking noise of him shaking out a pair of jeans, a thump that sounded like him changing weight from one leg to the other.
For the second time that day, she focused on her breathing, on relaxing, on letting go — but not of her bladder, although perhaps squatting and quietly relieving herself might not be such a bad idea … She was reaching to unbutton her jeans when she heard the jangle of the landline and the sound of Martin’s uneven gait and his voice telling Keg that he’d get it. She slid the wardrobe door open and stepped out, trying to get close enough to hear: ‘Yeah … Yeah … You sure? Okay. We’ll go get (grab? go?) her … Yeah.’ Marty hung up then, and he and Keg left in a hurry.
The moment she heard the BMW reversing up the driveway, Honey took a hurried but glorious piss and left through the back door.
She had to get on the road, now. The photo she’d seen put Kloe in Rotorua and Rotorua was only a couple of hours up the road. From what she’d heard of the garbled phone conversation, it was possible they were on their way to collect her now. She might, if she floored it, be able to pick up their trail. The other possibility, of course, was that they were going back into Waitutū to pick up Honey herself. Either way, she needed to be the hunter not the hunted. Another thought niggled, but she was in too much of a hurry to pay it much attention at that moment.
It was only after she had squelched and slid along the track that had turned into a quagmire, then tried to back out the little Toyota only to confirm that she was hopelessly bogged, that she remembered the other problem. She’d arranged to meet Marshall at her place once he’d put the chooks to bed and done the milking or whatever. If Marty and Keg were planning to do her some bad, and they found Marshall there instead … ‘Fuck!’ she yelled, as she revved the engine and the wheels just dug in deeper.
Twenty minutes later she was still cursing, and it was still raining. She had let air out of the tyres to increase their grip, laid down branches and old nīkau fronds — and had gained around ten metres. She checked hopelessly for cellphone reception again, and anyway, Marshall Luddite had no phone. She could go to the house and use the landline to call Rhonda to rouse the cops (not even Constable Evans would be playing golf in this weather) but she would have some serious explaining to do. Breaking and entering isn’t generally considered a good career move. The folder couldn’t even be cited, as she’d seen it very illegally.
‘You right there, love?’ A straight-backed elderly man was approaching down the track. He paused to take in the car, nearly down to its axles. ‘Looks like you could use a bit of a hand.’
Honey gratefully agreed.
GORDON OWNED THE NEXT ‘BACH’ up the track, the blue place on stilts at the end of the driveway where Honey had turned in. He’d arrived home a while ago and noticed her car. As he hooked up his vintage boat tractor, Honey took the opportunity to quiz him about the big house.
Gordon regarded her from underneath eyebrows like big white hairy caterpillars. She was acutely aware that she was completely drenched and covered from head to toe in mud from her efforts to free the Toyota.
‘Don’t you know? I thought you were visiting.’
‘No, I was just having a look around, a bit of a wander.’ She met his stare.
‘You’re not a local?’
‘From up the road, Waitutū.’
Gordon must have decided that made her all right, because he immediately suggested a towel and a cuppa. Honey wryly said she’d have to take a rain check. But once he’d pulled her up onto firmer ground and pointed the Corolla in the right direction, he answered her question.
‘The owner’s some bigwig from Auckland by the name of Bradley Morgan. Got rich playing with other people’s money is how I heard it. He’s got all the trappings. Wife number two’s a bombshell and knows it, son is a right little shit. Caught him spraying graffiti on my boat, gave him a cuff around the ears and made him clean it off. Said he’d have a lawyer on me. I have to say I don’t care for some of their house guests either.’
Honey was shivering now and regretted turning down the cuppa. Especially as there was no point in trying to pick up Marty and Keg’s trail now. If they were heading to Rotorua, so be it. There was nothing she could give the Rotorua cops, even if she could find one of them interested enough to follow up. She was more worried about Marshall seeing the Reapers hanging around and forcing a confrontation. She bade Gordon farewell, cranked up the car’s heater, jammed a Rolling Stones compilation into the CD player and pushed the poor little Corolla to its limited limits as she chewed over what she had learned.
The Reapers wanted Kloe badly (why?). They thought she might contact Honey (why?). They had gone to a truckload of trouble to find her, presumably to stop her (why?). To this end they had sent two experienced henchmen to watch Honey herself. This might mean that Kloe knew something (what?) the Reapers didn’t want her sharing with her. She’d heard of Bradley Morgan, of course. A lot of investors had lost their life savings helping him ride out the last financial crisis and he’d gone from strength to strength. She remembered a newspaper photo of him holidaying in Hawaii with a past prime minister. It stuck in the mind because both the bastards had looked so grain fed and smug. But what the hell was someone like Bradley Morgan doing playing with the Reapers?
THE LAND CRUISER WAS PARKED out the front of her mother’s house, but there was no sign of Marshall.
‘Marshall? Marshall?’
He came around from the side of the house. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
She was ridiculously relieved but covered by nodding towards the bunch of greenery in his right hand.
‘For me? You shouldn’t have.’
‘I just thought I’d give your mum’s garden a bit of a weed while I was waiting.’ He sounded uncertain. ‘Is that okay?’
‘That is totally okay!’
‘Good,’ he said, then looked her up and down. ‘If you’re going to have a mud bath, it’s better to take your clothes off first.’
‘You think?’
After a quick shower to wash off the mud, she ran a bath and let Marshall wash her back and then her hair while she told him of her adventures. He was unimpressed by the risks she had taken and relieved she’d escaped unnoticed, but that didn’t prevent him taking the piss out of her Keystone Cop approach. Honey could see his point. Stuck in a wardrobe, dying for a piss while a potential killer was limping about a few metres away, cursing, then finding your car bogged, being rescued by an old bloke with a tractor …
Marshall couldn’t keep a straight face. Honey splashed bathwater at him and tried to pull him in. He conceded and got in, fully clothed. She said he was crazy. He agreed: who else but a mad person would take her on?
Later, lying in bed, limbs entangled with Marshall’s, she picked apart his words — who else would take her on, indeed? Was that what Marshall was doing? Taking her on? The thought made her idiotically happy.
She must have drifted off then, because suddenly it was pitch dark and she was sharply awake.
‘Did you hear that?’
Marshall was also stirring. She motioned for him to be quiet.
Someone was moving around inside the house. Footsteps were coming up the hallway. Marshall didn’t hesitate — he was out of bed and pulling his trousers on when a figure appeared in the doorway and the light flicked on.
‘HOW I GOT HERE IS none of your concern. This is my house and what goes on under this roof is my business and that man is not welcome here.’
Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table and Honey had just brought her a cup of tea. Marshall stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Rachel,’ he said fearlessly, or foolishly.
‘Don’t talk to me.’
‘Mum!’
‘No, fair enough. Do you want me to go, Honey?’
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘And for the record, Gillian was visiting her sister and offered me a lift, and I had every right to check myself out. It’s a hospital, not a prison. All their tests and observations are a waste of time. I’m not a lab rat. They just don’t want to admit there’s not a thing in the world they can do for me.’ She sipped her tea deliberately, not looking in Marshall’s direction.
Honey decided two could play at this game. She moved towards Marshall.
‘Okay, if you go, I’ll come with you. Is that what you want, Mum? To be here on your own?’
‘Up to you.’ Rachel was not giving an inch.
‘Great.’ She was her mother’s daughter. ‘I’ll just grab my stuff.’
Marshall wisely kept silent while Honey gathered up her coffee and stovetop espresso machine and put them in a shopping bag. A stray thought intruded. It was just like Gemma all over again, her mother trying to control who she could be with.
‘There’s plenty of food in the fridge — milk and cheese, eggs and some bacon.’
‘I’m off dairy, you should know that. And processed meats.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Honey carried on at the kitchen table, packing up her laptop and cable. Marshall was looking at her in a way that screamed ‘I should leave you with your mum’, but Honey, bloody minded, shook her head.
Then Rachel said, ‘I don’t expect you to take care of me.’
‘Mum, I came up from Auckland to care for you. Why do you think I’m here?’
‘I’m sure you have your reasons.’ Eyes narrowed in Marshall’s direction.
‘Yeah, I do. You’re the reason.’
‘Then why are you leaving?’
Honey wanted to scream.
Except that Marshall cut in. ‘Rachel, I know you don’t like me …’ Rachel snorted, but Marshall was locked on target. ‘And you’ve got good reason. I treated Scarlett badly, and I have to live with that.’
Rachel said nothing, just looked away.
‘But that was a long time ago and this is now. I care about Honey a lot and we’re not going to stop seeing each other, so you can either find a way to deal with that or you’re going to make life way more difficult for yourself than it needs to be. You’re sick and you need Honey, so the smart thing to do would be to suck it up. You don’t have to like me. To be honest I’m not that keen on you. But if we can agree to get along, things will go way better for all of us.’
Honey waited for the explosion. Instead, Rachel stared into the middle distance for what seemed like an age.
‘Mum?’
Rachel’s eyes were unfocused.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’ Honey put her hand on her shoulder.
Gradually a light came back into Rachel’s eyes and she looked directly at Honey.
‘I want to go to bed now,’ was all she said.
AS SHE SPOONED WITH MARSHALL, she ran her day over in her mind. The panic attack was the worst in a long while. PTSD, obviously, but giving it a name didn’t make it any less real. She should report it to the police shrink at her next appointment. If there was an appointment. The last thing she wanted was to be assigned to a desk for the rest of her career. If she still wanted a career … Marshall was right, the break-in had been a comedy of errors and she still didn’t know why she’d done it, apart, maybe, from the need to face her demons. But it had yielded results. She knew the Reapers were looking for Kloe, who was almost definitely still alive. And they thought Honey could somehow help them find her.
She doubted there was any point in going over to Rotorua or asking the cops there to check it out. If Kloe was living under her own name, the Reapers would have found her already. It was worrying that they had got hold of the surveillance footage of her in the first place. Assuming their mole in Auckland had provided it, how did they know where and when to look? Did the Reapers have a mole with the Rotorua police as well? She decided she’d put in a call to a mate in the Organised Crime Unit in Auckland for a strictly unofficial update on the Reapers and take it from there.
Finally, her review of the day’s events took her up to the bit where Marshall told Rachel that he cared about her (a lot) and they weren’t going to stop seeing each other. It made her want to purr. But on closer examination what did it even mean? Were they really not going to stop seeing each other ever, or just until Rachel was in a nursing home and Honey went back to her real life in Auckland? Did he think she would move back to Waitutū permanently? To be what? Country cop? Biodegrading at his place, baking loaves and doing interesting things with charcuterie? It was as ridiculous as the thought of self-sufficient, man-of-the-land Marshall in the city, content with tending a few potted herbs in her Sandringham courtyard.
Where did that leave them? Honey knew it was a conversation they were going to have to have. But as she lay there, listening to his gentle breathing, she remembered a puppy her father had brought home from the pub, a Labrador bitsa, too young to have been separated from its mother. Rachel had complained and threatened to take it to the pound first thing, but come morning Honey found the puppy in a blanket-lined laundry basket with an old alarm clock ticking beside it. She’d seen a rare softness around her mother’s mouth and eyes as she explained that the ticking sounded like its mother’s heartbeat and stopped the puppy fretting.
They had kept the puppy and he had become Legend, and when Honey’s father left, Legend slept on the end of Rachel’s bed and followed her everywhere until he was too old and arthritic to keep up. Honey put her head gently against Marshall’s chest and heard his heart beating. He shifted a little but didn’t wake. Yes, it was a conversation they had to have.
22
KLOE WANTED TO DIE, REALLY, just lie down under a bush, and close her eyes and never wake up. Her body hurt every day. Dust and grit got up her nose, in her eyes; sweat rashes ebbed and flowed like red tides of pain and discomfort. Her nights were just as exhausting — replays of iridescent green globes of avocado and bright orange mandarins hanging against a backdrop of mud-stained black plastic. Her back, neck, hips, shoulders and legs ached. Her calves cramped so badly it was like thick rope coiled under her skin, and she woke yelling.
‘Don’t worry, lovely,’ Mika told her as she helped force her foot back, cruel to be kind. ‘Everyone feels this way to start.’
They were sharing a room in an old shearers’ quarters where the kitchen and bathroom facilities were basic but cheap. At the end of each day Kloe forced herself to stay awake long enough to eat. Later, Mika would natter away about the Kiwi boy who broke her heart, or how an uncle used to make magical sauerkraut that cured stomach cancer and how wasteful New Zealanders are with their bountiful gifts from the land. Sometimes she’d ask ‘Maia’ to tell her something about school or her childhood or family or boyfriends, and Kloe would carefully skirt the truth. Pretty soon, like a cheerful golden retriever, Mika would be reminded of a story of her own and Kloe could lie back and listen, tossing out an occasional ‘uh huh’ and ‘shit eh’ where appropriate. She marvelled at how someone like Mika could survive being so enthusiastic and open. Why hadn’t life fucked her up already?
Kloe had always been cautious in revealing too much about herself — except maybe to Honey, but that was different, that was like a confessional and look where it had got her anyway. She knew instinctively that personal information was a weapon that could and would be used against her. It had certainly been the case at school, where she was bullied for her druggie, embarrassing mother who even came to class once, completely off her tits, and tried to drag Kloe out to retrieve the lunch money she thought she’d given her. She’d never really talked about her feelings to her friends, certainly not to her boyfriends, obviously not Jason. A good lie was safer.
Maia’s story was a work in progress. She had been a successful cleaner, even owned her own small cleaning company, but then came Covid and, besides, her husband was a lay-about and gambler and spent all her money and gave her the bash and it had worn her down to the point she’d started drinking just to get through the day. She lost her job (or the company) and finally one day she knew she had to get away and clean up her act and had done just that, which was when she’d been lucky enough to run into Samson and his crew. Whenever gaps appeared she filled them creatively.
Early on she got caught out talking about children, so she fessed to having two who were living with her very successful sister and brother-in-law who couldn’t have children of their own and gave them everything that Maia couldn’t. The fate of her children had moved Devi to tears, and he insisted she could have his old phone for next to nothing, pay him when she could, he intended to upgrade anyway. He helped her set up a fake Instagram account so that she could stalk her real kids and keep up with their lives. Nico posted constantly and Aria was often in his photos. She also stalked Shyla on different sites, but knew better than to post anything herself.
