Opportunity (27 page)

I sat in the car. Honestly. Get a grip. It was life. Things like
this happened all the time. People committed crimes. People
were inefficient. One got mucked about.

But these moments of feeling so unnerved. It was like
dropping an outer shield I'd worn all my adult life – like
returning to my raw younger self. I had an odd, fearful sense
that something — what? — was wearing thin. If I should
become weak in some way, lose my focus . . .. would fiction
and life blur again, would I lose the control I had over my
work? It was another way of saying I was afraid of death . . .

Oh, what nonsense. I drove out of the car park, fast.

I would buy a new bag. I'd cancelled my cards already; no
point in getting them back. I would just not worry about the
disks. Everything was stored on my computer. Forget it. Let
them keep the bag.

I pulled in to the garage. I walked down the path. The front
door was open. My heart sank. Was I forgetting simple things
now? The door one week; next, forgetting to put on my
trousers. Oh, really. All this brooding, it was maudlin. I
needed to ring an old friend, go out, have a drink.

There was an alien smell in the hall. I recognised it: sweat.

'Oh dear,' a dim little voice rattled in my head. 'Oh dear.'

And then I understood what had happened.

They had really been very efficient. My stereo, my precious
CDs. Paintings: a Pat Hanly. A small McCahon. A Louise
Henderson. Gone, all gone. Kitchen things: appliances, some
expensive bowls. The TV and DVD player. Ornaments. My
favourite, most valuable vase. I walked upstairs very calmly,
pressing my hands against my chest, thinking perhaps they'd
got tired; perhaps they had no room in their vehicle . . .

But of course the computer was gone.

I sat on the bed. When I was sure I could speak clearly I
rang my daughter, Dee.

'I've been very stupid and gullible,' I told her. And then a
terrible fear took hold of me. I ran downstairs as fast as I could
and closed the front door. But it was no use locking it: 'they'
had my keys! 'Trent' had simply got my address from the
letters in the stolen bag, had rung and tricked me into going
to the mall, then, once I was out of the way, had let himself
into the house.

I went out onto the deck. It started to rain. I lifted my face
to the white sky. So many feelings at once . . . I had to get them
under control. When I was young I was abnormally sensitive.
I would have been overwhelmed by that sensitivity if I hadn't
been able to write. If I began to flounder, if I couldn't write any
more . . .

Dee had said practical things. Ring the police. Get a
locksmith straight away. Change the locks. Insurance would
cover everything. She was coming over to help me sort things
out.

I felt unable to go back in the house and wait for her. It
wasn't just the thought of the burglary, or the misery of the
lost computer. I felt a deeper sense of anguish, unreality. And
I thought, suddenly, I must go for a swim.

I took my gear from the laundry and got in the car. I drove
away.

There were black clouds over the harbour. The wind was
blowing the sea into choppy waves. Out in the gulf, Rangitoto
Island wore a shroud of mist. It was past high tide and there
was only one other swimmer, a young man in a wetsuit who
swam out powerfully, past the buoys and away towards the
next beach. I got changed, and the wind blew cold against my
damp swimsuit. I hid my keys, checking that no one saw.

There was rain falling out at sea. The islands were indistinct,
distant. The water wasn't too cold, after the first shock. I struck
out, swimming my usual mixture of overarm, breaststroke
and backstroke. The rain began pattering around me. I was
calmed by my slow breathing, by the rhythm of the exercise. I
swam to the first buoy and paused to look back. The beach
was deserted. The cars drove slowly on the waterfront road,
headlights on because of the heavy shower. The sea was
rougher now. I looked at the distant marker I used to swim to,
before my heart problem. It was a long way out. I thought for
a moment. I swam towards it.

I ploughed through the chop, swimming on my back for a
while, turning to make sure of my direction. The outgoing
tide threatened to carry me off course, beyond the marker. I
had to readjust by swimming across the current. I stopped
once, treading water, and looked back at the wet beach and
the drooping trees and the cars with their lights on. The sky
was heavy, whirling with water; the afternoon was collapsing
into early, rainy dusk. Waves splashed into my face. I thought
of Dee, walking around in the dark, plundered house, calling
my name. I was out in the channel now, pushing against the
tide. The marker was still a distance away, and for a while I
made so little headway that I thought I wouldn't be able to
reach it. And then it was closer, and still closer, and finally I
was there, gasping, hanging on to the green, barnacled wood.

The sea rose and washed against me, splashing stinging
water up my nose. Another shower swept across, the drops
hissing on the surface. I was alone, far away. I could feel the
shush shush of my heart. The sea heaved and broke against
the marker, the rain blurred my eyes. Far away at the port a
container ship showed its lights. It was frightening to be out
here so late. I looked at the bush slopes of Rangitoto, rising up
to the crater. I thought of striking out towards it. Swimming
toward the black volcanic rocks, the silence of its cold stone
shores. Above me gulls were flying. They skimmed down to
the waves, swooped up into the rainy air, turning, pearly white
against the grey sky. I was filled with fierce happiness. My eyes
stung with tears. I said something out loud, something stupid
and dramatic. And then salt water splashed into my face,
bringing me to my senses, and I set off overarm, counting the
strokes in my head.

It took a long time to get back. Halfway back I grew tired,
and could only do a slow breaststroke. There was a hot
heaviness in my chest. When my feet finally touched the sand
I looked back at the lonely marker out in the channel,
surrounded by rough water. That I had been all the way out
there, in this weather. I laughed. I wanted to punch my fist in
the air. But when I raised my arm it felt so strangely heavy and
sore . . .

I dressed and drove home. I was light-headed, shivering.
My heart was going full tilt. I turned on the radio and sang at
the top of my voice to a ridiculous pop song. I did something
wrong at the lights. There was a squeal of brakes. Someone
tooted long and hard. I parked outside the house and hurried
down the path.

Dee had been waiting at the window. She came out.

'Where have you been? It's terrible. Your paintings. The
computer — all gone.'

I flew to her. 'Dee. It was marvellous. I went out there, all
the way. The sea . . .'

I put my arms around her, folded her in my happiness. 'It
was wonderful.'

Oh, Dee made all sorts of responsible noises. Said I was
'hysterical.' Made hot sweet tea. She even stood, frowning, like
a pretend nurse, and listened to my pulse. It 'sounded funny',
she announced. She went upstairs and made a phonecall, said
she wanted to take me to the doctor. I sat on my sofa with a
blanket over my knees, looking at the patch on the wall where
my Pat Hanly used to hang.

She came back in.

'I'm so sorry about the burglary,' she said.

I smiled at her dreamily. I took her hand. My head was
light. I was dizzy, seeing stars. I could hear a strange, new
banging in my heart, a little drum of happiness.

'You're a funny colour,' she said, alarmed. She fiddled with
the rug on my knees.

I said, 'It was magical out there. Frightening — the dark
coming down, the rain, the beach so far away . . .'

But your computer,' she said. 'Was there work on it? Your
stories . . .'

'Stories?' The idea of writing seemed distant, unfamiliar.
There was something bright and swelling and immediate in
the way. I heard her voice, although, funny, I couldn't see her
very well.

'Your
Opportunity
stories. Remember you told me: they
"contain all your crimes". '

I had a rush of feeling, irritation almost. Didn't she
understand? I hadn't felt like this since I was young.

'I'm alive,' I said. 'I'm
alive
. What do I care about those?'

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 978 1869792213

Version 1.0

This collection was written with the assistance of a grant from
Creative New Zealand.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

A VINTAGE BOOK
published by
Random House New Zealand
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
www.randomhouse.co.nz

Random House International
Random House
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London, SW1V 2SA
United Kingdom

Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney,
New South Wales 2061, Australia

Random House South Africa Pty Ltd
Isle of Houghton
Corner Boundary Road and Carse O'Gowrie
Houghton 2198, South Africa

Random House Publishers India Private Ltd
301 World Trade Tower, Hotel Intercontinental Grand Complex,
Barakhamba Lane, New Delhi 110 001, India

First published 2007

© 2007 Charlotte Grimshaw

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN: 978 1869792213

Version 1.0

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Design: Katy Yiakmis

Cover images: Katy Yiakmis, Matthew Trbuhovic, gettyimages (truck)

Cover design: Matthew Trbuhovic