Soon (8 page)

Weeks said, ‘So why do you want it? If you don't know her?'

‘You've got me curious about it myself. There's no photo of
you
in there, is there? Maybe I've got more right to it than you have. Why shouldn't I try to find out why she had my photo? And you don't know it was this Mereana person who took the picture — anyone could have taken it.'

Weeks said, ‘I'll help you find out. I like mysteries. And if you truly don't know her it,
is
a mystery, isn't it.'

‘It's her phone, her business.'

‘I like other people's business. I'm a journalist. I'm always looking for material. Anyway, Mereana's an old friend.' His tone softened. ‘You know, she's got the most amazing dark skin and green eyes — because her mother was Maori and her father was Greek. She's really striking. I was in love with her from when I was about twelve. I was always trying to get her to kiss me. She's clever . . .'

Simon thought of her, on a beach, aged twelve. Something bad went through him, the thought of Weeks trying to kiss her. He said, cold, ‘Where is this bach, your parents' bach near her land?'

‘In the Far North, beyond Kaitaia.'

‘Do your parents still go there?'

‘Yeah, sure, about four times a year.'

Simon was silent. Mereana had told him about her father hitting golf balls into the sand dunes, about a little house so close to the beach they could fish from the front veranda.

Weeks went on, ‘I write for
Metro
,
North and South
. I've written a couple of things for TV. And I've made some short films. One I made last year's going to Sundance.'

‘Give me the phone,' Simon said.

Weeks looked up quickly. ‘You
do
know her.'

‘What if I do? Why is it your business?'

‘Because she's disappeared. People are looking for her.'

‘Not very seriously, by the sound of it.'

‘So, should they file a missing person's report?'

Simon said, ‘Most people are just living their own lives. They don't want to be disturbed. You say she was always escaping from you. Maybe you should leave her alone. Maybe you're stalking her. Is that why she's disappeared?'

‘I'm not stalking her.'

‘Are you stalking
me
?'

‘No. Honestly, they asked me to find her address. I'm just doing what they asked.'

‘Well, I've got work to do.'

Weeks said, ‘I'll write down my details, in case you think of anything. Give me a call, any time.'

He wrote numbers on a scrap of paper. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.' He took a DVD out of his pocket. ‘Can I give you this too? Three of my short films. I made these a while ago now, four, five years. I based one of the characters on Mereana.'

‘Sure.' Simon took it and tried to smile.

‘By the way,' Weeks said, ‘I've read about your adopted girl, how she's the daughter of Roza Hallwright. So you're quite closely connected to the PM.'

Simon looked at him.

‘That's so interesting.' Weeks's grin was eager, slightly buck-toothed.

‘Is it.' Simon turned away.

Back in his office, there was no chance of concentrating now. He did what work he could, mechanically, before driving home to check on the house, which he found all in order, and Claire diligently studying in an upstairs room. He talked to her for a while to satisfy himself she was all right — he worried about her — and then set off to drive back to Rotokauri.

He frowned ahead at the road — and his frown felt impossibly weighty. He was oppressed by a feeling of confusion. He thought of Weeks's description of Mereana as ‘clever' and ‘beautiful', the wistful mention of her on the beach aged twelve. He recalled the photo of himself, laughing and reaching towards the camera. ‘You look happy,' Weeks had said. But he knew nothing, the presumptuous little bastard. Simon hadn't been ‘happy' back then, he'd been desperate. The very details of the picture showed the wrongness and squalor of the affair — the shabby backdrop, the beer can and fag packet.

He had recovered himself; he was back in the real world, and that was where he would stay. This sentimental busybody, this Weeks, would have to be kept at bay.

Training

Roza said, ‘I've got to do my session with Garth.'

‘I don't like Darth.'

‘Garth. What's wrong with him?'

‘He's got a big chest.'

‘That's because he lifts weights.'

‘He's got big tits.'

‘Don't say “big tits”, it's rude. He has big muscles.'

‘Make Soon talk.'

‘God! Can't we just be Mummy and Johnnie for a while?'

‘Make Soon talk!'

Roza lay on her back on the sand, with Johnnie sprawled next to  her.

Soon and Starfish, who along with the Village Idiot had avoided the High Priestess Germphobia by taking refuge in the forest, now came out of hiding and joined the Green Lady in front of the castle. All the friends were assembled; the Weta and the Praying Mantis struck up a battle tune; Crackers had sobered up; the Bachelor and his Cassowaries were mounted on his bed and hovering above the trees, the Cassowaries gaudily decorated in battle feathers and hissing threateningly; and the Red Herring and his colleague, Tiny Ancient Yellow Cousin So-on, had climbed onto a tree stump to address the troops with some wise words. There was a blast of shotguns as the Guatemalans arrived late in the clearing and then the Red Herring held up his hand. An expectant silence fell.

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he gravely began. A cheer went up. He went on, “A stitch in time saves nine.” Another cheer. “But most of all, my friends, a cat may look at a king, and . . .” He paused and looked around the clearing, “A leopard may change its spots!” Everyone cheered, much heartened and refreshed by the Red Herring's pearls. Beside him Tiny Ancient Yellow Cousin So-on had lit some mysterious incense and an eerie, smoky scent wafted through the crowd, sending the friends into dreams of jewelled gardens. Now they would be calm and strong for battle.

Roza shaded her eyes. ‘Here he comes.'

Simon looked at the cords and ropes of muscle in the trainer's neck. Garth wore a T-shirt so tight you could see his pectoral muscles twitching as he came stumping through the dunes.

Johnnie drummed his legs on the sand. ‘Make Soon talk!'

‘I'm going for my torture session, darling. Garth bends me into all these interesting shapes.'

‘And how's it going,' Simon asked politely, ‘with David's bum?'

‘Mm, good, I think. Dean's got special exercises for him and a potion to drink — some kind of protein. It's probably steroids.'

‘Is the bum getting any bigger?'

‘Well, it's early days. Dean's very optimistic.'

Simon flopped on his back with a mirthful sigh.

‘You could use Garth if you wanted, Simon. He does Karen and Juliet.'

He knew this, for that very morning he and David, eating scrambled eggs together on the veranda, had watched Karen, Juliet and Sharon Cahane lying on mats on the lawn and scissoring their legs in the air. Garth had them on a light programme: a round of exercises followed by a brisk walk to the gate, and then a warm-down, which took just as long and involved Garth lying with them on the mat and manipulating their muscles. The ladies seemed especially keen on this part. David had watched Juliet, who was wearing baggy khaki shorts and bright pink sneakers, having her plump, freckly leg stretched and pummelled by Garth, and said, ‘What's he supposed to be doing to her? It's just sort of foreplay, isn't it? He's a sex tool.'

Simon had said, ‘Is that what it's like with you and Dean?'

‘Well, no, we don't get that close. Not yet, anyway. He stands with his hands on his hips and looks at my arse from all angles. Sort of making plans . . .'

Now, on the hot beach, Simon rolled over close to Roza and whispered, ‘All that massaging and muscle-flexing — it's just sex.'

‘Garth's totally professional. He has ethics. And a degree in PE. So has Dean.'

‘Oh, bollocks.'

‘He's doing great things for me. I'm going to have a body to die for.'

‘You've got that already. Don't let him turn you into him.' He smoothed the sand with the flat of his hand. ‘Anyway, what was the character's name in
Howard's End
? The lower-class one.'

‘Mr Bast.'

‘So the higher-born Miss Whatever falls in love with him?'

‘Miss Schlegel. She has his child. She has an affair with him, because she's impulsive and a romantic and she has a sense of justice — she looks beyond class. The Miss Schlegels are a bit like Eleanor and Marianne Dashwood.'

‘Oh?'

‘
Sense and Sensibility.
Have you read it? No? Well, never mind. Mr Bast is rather superior, but thwarted by class.'

‘Oh.'

‘Why do you ask?'

Simon said, ‘It's not that she just fancies the oik in him?'

‘Er, no. Shall I lend you a copy?'

‘Thanks, I've got a book to be going on with,' he said.

Garth reached the top of the neighbouring dune and started down the other side. His head was too small for his powerful body. There was a scalloped crease in the centre of his chest and his muscles — chest, arms, barrel-shaped thighs — were so prominent that he had a permanent air of strain, as though he might explode. He was a warning against overdoing it, Simon thought. But then, you could only look like Garth or Dean if you were twenty-four, and exercising all day long.

‘Gidday, buddy,' Garth said to Johnnie.

Johnnie scowled and looked down. ‘Hello.'

‘Can I borrow your mum?' Winking at Roza.

‘No,' Johnnie said.

‘Sorry, champ. Mum's got to do her workout!'

Garth had a very small chin, Simon noted. And a big bum. He was faintly camp — with his twinkly ‘buddy' and ‘champ' — and amiable, and he had tight blond curls and pale, prominent blue eyes. His big arse projected his torso slightly forward. He had a habit of clenching his fists, and looked as though he should have little horns and cloven hooves. Simon reminded himself to suggest to Roza that Dean and Garth were secretly a married couple.

She was gathering towels and gear.

He said, ‘My brother's coming.'

‘Oh, good. Ford. I really want him to.'

‘He said he'd come for a day, but I've told him he can stay in the Little House.'

‘Did you tell him it's my idea? He can stay as long as he likes.'

‘Yeah, I did. It's kind of you. When you've got all these extra people. Ford's . . . well, he's lonely, since Emily left him. He's a bit spiky and fierce; I hope he doesn't annoy David. He tends to be quite, you know, left wing.'

‘Don't worry about that. Now Johnnie, we'll go and find Elke. She and Ray and Shaun are going to take you for an ice cream. Would that be nice?'

Johnnie brightened. ‘I saw Ray's gun.'

‘His gun? He didn't show it to you?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Oh. He shouldn't do that, should he, Simon?'

‘I don't know,' Simon said, lazily watching the waves breaking into lines of pure white foam. ‘What's the etiquette with guns?'

‘Well, you're not supposed to wave them about. You're not supposed to brandish them. At the
children
. Um, would you mind taking this? And this? And this? ' She loaded Garth with towels, togs and a bucket and spade. ‘Bye Simon. See you for lunch.'

‘He lifted up his shirt,' Johnnie said.

‘What about his trouser leg?' Roza said. ‘I've always imagined he'd have a gun strapped to his leg, just above his boot. Shall we ask him? Are you all right, Garth? Could you just take this little one as well? And if I just pop that on the top . . .'

They went off across the dunes, Roza and Johnnie hand in hand and Garth balancing his teetering load, following a short distance behind. She would be making Soon talk.

Simon spotted Sharon and the Cock down at the water's edge, carrying swimming gear and a beach umbrella. He lay low in the dunes, watching through the marram grass as they passed by. A minute later a couple of David's bodyguards ambled past.

There was no shade. The sun was directly overhead and the hollow in the dunes grew hotter until he started to feel light-headed. He dumped his bag down on the shore and waded in, swam out beyond the waves, floating over the swells and watching the gannets diving. Sharon and the Cock were two wavering shapes in the distance; they'd gone all the way to the estuary. He swam further out, until the gannets flying overhead made him nervous and he turned back, imagining a missile of beak and talons plunging towards his scalp. When he reached the shallows he found the water had swept him some way south and he had to walk back for his bag.

He crossed the lawns. Voices drifted from the pool. Marcus and the Gibson boy had managed to import a trio of girls into the compound, and were engaged in strenuous and loud attempts to impress; there was much splashing and shouting, shrieks from the girls. The Little House was empty. He stood in the warm, sunlit room, listening to the creak of the wooden walls and birds squabbling over the roof tiles. The light was green, shining in through the grapevine that grew across the veranda trellis. In the bedroom he took the DVD of Weeks's films out of its hiding place and put it in the machine.

The first film opened with a rural scene, in summer. A man and woman were living in a small wooden house by a beach. They were poor, their lives were basic and their relationship was troubled. Simon watched, bored. He wanted to find something significant, a clue to Weeks.

He paused the DVD and sat dreaming in the warmth. Beyond the open door the tuis squabbled in the bushes and rosellas flew between the trees, bright flashes of colour. He thought about his daughters: conscientious Claire, alone at home with her books, and Elke, who had, that morning, signed up for tennis lessons with Garth. Simon was now grateful for Garth's campness; it was a relief, what with all the male virility hereabouts. Elke wandered though the compound in her minuscule, loose bikini, her shirt slipping off one brown shoulder, and with her sweet manner and her vague, distracted air she seemed unaware of the eyes that followed her. Could she really be so artless?

Simon had watched the Cock ogling her by the pool, and David watching the Cock, and the Cock noticing David watching — and that minor tension seemed part of a deeper unease between David and his deputy. As lazily apolitical as he was these days, Simon had noticed a personal chill between the two, and he supposed the Cock was straining to rein in his ambition.

But David had it over the Cock. The PM was not only popular; he was the most psychologically acute and manipulative person Simon had ever met. After an evening with him, Simon sometimes felt exhausted and drained. David expected certain responses and this required an adjustment in Simon's conduct — only a minor deviation from his natural manner, but maintaining it made him tired and hollow. And yet he went on conforming; they all did, as if mesmerised. Only Claire hadn't responded to the demands of David's court; she had rebelled, and been excommunicated.

The Cock was subtly challenging, but the Cock wasn't quite sure of himself and he was distracted — he couldn't keep his eyes off David's women.

Simon frowned. ‘David's women.' But Elke wasn't David's.

He tried to look at it in a detached way. These days he grappled with the private sense that since Elke was his daughter and Roza was her mother, he and Roza belonged together. But then there was David: Roza was his wife and the mother of his son, and his wife's daughter resembled his son. Ergo, David felt that Roza was his, and Elke was his . . .

Did he hate David?

The idea gave him a jolt. Everyone remarked on how attached David had got to him, how David always wanted Simon around, insisting he be present on expeditions and at functions, how he reserved a seat for Simon next to him, had a trick of drawing him aside for private conversations, leaving others awkwardly looking on. The court was jealous and suspicious, but Simon was spared its worst machinations by the fact that he wasn't a politician. With the exception of the Cock, who kept a cool distance, David's staff and friends made sure to ingratiate themselves with the Lamptons. Until recently Simon had been ‘family', but now they'd started calling him David's best friend.

Admit it, he did enjoy the obsequiousness of the staff and the way David's circle deferred to him. He and David (like Roza's Mr Bast!) had both grown up poor. David had been an orphan, farmed out to relatives in Tokoroa. Simon and his brother Ford were the sons of crazy, drunk taxi-driver Aaron Harris, from whose South Auckland house the family had fled in terror. Their mother had struck it lucky in the end, marrying Warren Lampton, their stepfather, a good man. But the rented house where Simon had visited Mereana had been no shabbier than the dump they'd lived in with Aaron.

He and David and Ford had dragged themselves into the middle class, although David still sounded like a yob, always getting his words wrong. The Cock was a mandarin, with his private-school education and his university degrees; he was smoothly fluent. But David's inarticulacy made him popular.

Simon watched the birds dancing this way and that around the bird table, like bossy women with large, fanned skirts — women at a Trish Ellison fundraiser. In what spirit did David stare at Elke? Was his attention ‘fatherly'? You could never tell what was in David's mind. But Simon kept part of himself hidden too. One necessary precaution: making sure David never suspected how deeply he felt about Roza . . .

After dozing he woke feeling sharper.

He pushed play and watched episode two of
The Present
, set on a beach (pohutukawa, white sand, heat haze over dunes). The story, about people living in the Far North, starred a young woman with long hair and green eyes. She was lively, slim and dark-skinned, and had a way of looking at you sideways which gave her a sly, ironic air. Simon sat very still. It was a portrait of Mereana.