Conrad Cooper's Last Stand ePub

AUCKLAND, 1978

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Dear Tane,

I've never prayed to a god, so hope this is okay. If I get it wrong, don't strike me down with a thunderbolt or anything – I'm just a kid. There's no jail for kids, just grownups, so maybe gods have the same rules, like it doesn't count until you're sixteen. Hope so.

Anyway, I would've said hi before, but I didn't know you existed until after lunch. That's when Miss Cody reads to our class. Today she pulled out a book with green letters on the front and said, ‘Let's have a creation story, shall we? How about
Rangi and Papa
? It's all about Tane the forest god and – Jasper Harris, stop sticking your fingers in Conrad's ears.'

Cool book.

Not that I need to tell you. You saw the start of the world, which was probably way better than reading about it. Bet it looked nothing like the pictures. I mean, you lifted the sky off the earth, so your muscles must be huge. Do you lift weights?

Anyway, I had heaps of questions and so did the other kids. When it was done, Jasper asked, ‘Is it a true story, miss?'

She said, ‘No and raise your hand, you know the rules.'

I stuck up my hand and asked, ‘How do you know it's not real, Miss Cody?'

She tapped her lips. ‘Well, people used to make up stories to help them understand how the world was made, before they found out the truth. These stories are hundreds of years old and we call them myths.'

Jasper called out, ‘What's the truth?'

She didn't answer, seeing as he didn't put up his hand.

But that got me thinking. ‘Miss Cody, how do you know he's not real? Did people used to believe in him?'

‘I suppose the Maori people did a long time ago, before the British arrived.'

My hand shot up again, but Ravi got in first. He's the only Indian boy in our class; in fact, he's the only Indian in our whole school. ‘Miss, what about Durga?'

‘Who?'

‘The god mother with eight arms. Durga.' He said it like she was being stupid and some kids laughed, but not at Miss Cody.

‘Oh.' She stared at the ceiling, admiring our paper jellyfish art hanging from the rafters on nylon fishing lines. ‘I don't know about him.'

‘
Her
.'

This time Jasper waved his arm. ‘Will we all have to start believing in Durga, now the Indians have arrived, miss?'

‘I think,' said Miss Cody, ‘that it's time for maths.'

So that's it.

But I was thinking, Tane, people used to believe in you. Maybe they were right, it's a hard thing to prove. I know, 'cause I asked Dad if you were real and he couldn't answer. He just dragged Mum into our garage, closed the door and had a long talk. So …
maybe
you're real. Let's say you are. Otherwise I'm talking to myself and that's just weird.

So, where was I? Oh, right.

Mum and Dad have loads of ‘talks', which is weird 'cause it sounds more like yelling. I'm thinking, maybe you could sort out their problems? That's what gods do, right? They help people and, well … I think Mum could use some help.

Anyway, I reckon you're a great choice for a god. I'm not Maori, but you probably guessed that, seeing as I'm so pale teachers always think I'm sick. Still, you don't seem to have millions of followers, so I picked you. I figure that means you won't be getting pestered all the time for requests, so I'm first in line.

Right?

Yours sincerely – I mean, in the name of the Father and of his Son and wait – does that mean you've got a kid?

Sorry.

Amen.

Oh wait, um, PS. You're probably wondering who I am. My name's Conrad Cooper. I told the kids at school to just call me Rad, which means radical in a cool way, but it's not catching on. You can call me what you want.

Hey, Tane, how's things?

Me? I'm hanging out in my backyard, looking for my neighbour, Mrs O'Leary. You probably know her seeing as you're a forest god and she goes on heaps of bushwalks, but not big ones 'cause she's old and got corns on her feet, which it turns out are totally different to the corn you eat and … where was I?

Mrs O'Leary.

Wait, yeah, she's there, just past the privet bushes. Scrambling over the compost, I stand on our concrete-block fence, yelling. ‘Hey! Hey, Mrs O'Leary!'

She's hanging out sky-coloured sheets, her dark grey hair bobbing over the edges like a storm cloud. Pulling back a sheet, she says, ‘Well, if it isn't Conrad.'

That's just how she says hello. I don't think she's really surprised. I mean, I don't know any other kids standing on my fence, calling her name.

‘What'cha doing, Mrs O'Leary?'

‘I'm tiling the roof.' She waves a pillowcase over her
head. ‘What's it look like?'

‘Oh.'

She laughs and the lines on her mouth crease, folding skin like an origami grin. She's all right, Mrs O'Leary. She makes awesome apple tarts, little ones so you can eat lots without ever getting full.

Still grinning, she puts a hand on her hip. ‘Plan on standing there all day, or could you give me a hand with the pegs?'

‘Okay!'

I jump down and grab the peg box off the grass, holding it up so she won't bend her back. She's getting old, Mrs O'Leary, and her husband's dead. I dunno what she'd do without me.

‘Ah, you're a good lad.' She hooks up a white blouse with her wooden pegs. ‘I expect there's a biscuit or two in the tin, when we're done.'

I like the way she talks, the sounds curl around my head like arms. Not everybody can hug you with words but Mrs O'Leary can 'cause she's from an island called Island. It's a cool place, I've seen pictures on the tea towels her sister sent over for Christmas, covered with green clover and leprechauns. Weird, but the people from her country don't spell it right. The tea-towel manufacturers wrote it like I-r-e-land.

‘Hey, Mrs O'Leary?'

‘Conrad?'

‘I've been thinking. I can't ask my parents, seeing as they don't believe in anything, but … can I ask you a question?'

‘Sounds serious.' She clears her throat and sticks a couple of socks on the line. ‘What's on your mind?'

‘How do I get a god to help me? I mean, it's hard to tell if they're even listening, seeing as they don't answer right away.'

‘
A
god?'

‘Well, there's lots of religions in the world. Isn't there?'

Mrs O'Leary stares up the sky, probably checking for rain 'cause she wants to get her clothes dry.

‘That,' she says, ‘is a matter of opinion. But, to answer your question, nobody knows. You just have to trust. That's why they call it faith instead of knowing.'

She's a smart lady, Mrs O'Leary.

‘Okay, but gods take care of everything, right?'

‘Well, I suppose, that's the general idea. Why, what do you need help with?'

‘Umm.' My hand tightens and I look down at the pegs, rough against my fingers. ‘Just … stuff.'

She looks down, squinting like she's trying to spot a dirty mark on my nose. ‘Stuff at home?'

Mum says we shouldn't bad-mouth our own family and especially not to talk about stuff with Mrs O'Leary, who knows everyone. I dunno what to say. I nod, which isn't talking, so we're not breaking any rules … yet.

‘I see.' She jabs a towel onto the line. ‘And does this have anything to do with, uh, your parents' … conversations?'

I nod again, they do talk
very
loud. Let's be honest, they're screaming arguments, really. She'd have to be deaf to miss them.

Mrs O'Leary stops stabbing the line with pegs. Her fingers curl around the wire like she's afraid it'll spin away and leave her. Gripping tight, she asks, ‘Is everything okay? I mean, are
you
okay?'

I nod again and she turns away, saying to the sheets, ‘Well, that's the main thing.'

Dunno what she means, but I can't ask because this would need more words than I'm allowed to use. I just say, ‘I'm a bit worried.'

Mrs O'Leary mutters, ‘Saints preserve us, I'm sure you are.'

The only preserves I know are jams Mum makes from the plum tree in our yard every January. I wonder why Mrs O'Leary's god wants to turn people into jam, but I don't ask. She's right, people get funny about religion. One time, I offered Ravi a beef sandwich and he tried to hit me with his lunchbox. Apparently cows are sacred to him. I just hope he never walks into the frozen food section of Woolworths 'cause he'll be in for a real shock.

‘Look,' she says, ‘I can't tell you without bringing the wrath of your father down on my head.' She nods at my house. ‘But to answer your question, if people try their
best and have faith in their hearts, their prayers usually get answered.'

‘Try to do their best at what exactly?'

If the answer is improved spelling or double-lined subtraction, I don't have a chance.

‘Oh,' she answers, waving one hand like she's shooing away flies. ‘You know, just being good.'

‘Really? That's … excellent! I've had plenty of practice at being good, you should see my star chart. It's covered in stickers.' But Mrs O'Leary's looking at me funny; maybe there's a catch, something she forgot to add. So I ask, ‘Are you sure it's that easy? I mean, I've just got to be good and I can ask for whatever I want?'

‘Yes, and sometimes you don't have to ask. The thoughts inside your head can be answered, not just the ones coming out your mouth.'

‘So gods are like heroes with powers? They take care of people and they've got, like, super hearing and they can read minds?'

‘Oh dear.' Mrs O'Leary hangs up the last towel. ‘Um, something like that.'

‘Fantastic!'

‘Well …' She takes the peg box out of my hands, hanging it on the line from a faded plastic hoop. ‘If you say so.'

Hey, Tane? Can you hear me? Do you mind if we talk, any time I want? If you're doing anything important or
private I don't mind waiting. Do gods use the toilet?

‘Conrad, I was thinking …'

I look up and Mrs O'Leary's staring over the fence at my big lawn with the hydrangeas growing along the side and a bunch of other plants with names I don't know, like the scratchy one at the end of the drive. Bet you know all their names, Tane, being the guardian of the forest and everything. So if I'm going to be good, I'd better do something for trees …

She's still talking. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about? You know, if you feel like it.'

‘Mrs O'Leary, I
was
just wondering …'

‘Hmm?'

‘Would starting a forest be a good thing to do?'

She blinks at me, the golden rim of her glasses shining in the sun. ‘Uh, I suppose …'

‘Great! I'll plant a native bushwalk, right in our backyard, maybe next to the compost. That'd be the best soil, right?'

Mrs O'Leary's throat gurgles like a blocked drain. ‘Excuse me.' She coughs into the back of her hand. ‘Um, how about I lend you a book on saints? That should give you some ideas on being good. Ignore the bit on martyrs though, we don't want you being eaten by lions.'

Lions? Do we have lions in New Zealand? And what've they got to do with being good? Come to think of it, what's being eaten alive got to do with –

‘Conrad, you know you can come here any time you want.'

‘Yes, Mrs O'Leary.'

She doesn't take her eyes off my backyard. ‘I mean it, Conrad. Whenever you feel like it. My door is always open to the likes of you.'

‘Yes, Mrs O'Leary. Thanks.'