Surrender (18 page)

Squatting back at the concrete ring, forehead resting on my handcuffed wrist, I fought back waves of nausea. I’d never believed in tying dogs up, and vowed if I was freed from here I would never, ever tie any animal up, ever.

Dog-god must have been listening. I’d just finished making the vow when I saw it: the rusting lid of an ancient tin can. Whimpering in anticipation, I lurched towards it, almost severing my wrist in the process. It had been hidden under the leaves I’d scuffed up to cover my foul-smelling discharge. With some clever toe work I managed to slide the lid close enough to grab it with my free hand.

Half an hour of sawing and slicing at the plastic tie and I was free.

I stood and fell over half a dozen times before accepting that my legs wouldn’t hold me upright. There was no option but to slide down the hill on my arse. It ended up being more a scrabble than a slide. What looked like a smooth slope of tussock turned out to be deep clay furrows with ridges covered in hair-plug tufts of sharp reeds. Forced to grab at them to stop myself pitching forward was like being stabbed by a handful of bamboo skewers.

As I scrambled, crawled, and skidded my way down, I thought this is why girls should never wear dresses — in case they’re abducted and raped, have their underwear stolen, and are held captive on top of a hill in freezing cold weather and forced to slide down a slope covered in tufts of pick-up-sticks. But sliding was still easier than trying to walk down the practically vertical slope with legs that didn’t work any more. When I’d manoeuvred myself about halfway down, the sounds that had been background noise for what seemed like my entire life became louder and more distinctive. What I’d thought was the grinding of teeth was the rattle of beach
pebbles being clawed back under by possessive waves.

When I couldn’t slide any more, I crawled on hands and knees. Half-moon shapes pitted the cracked, dry mud tracks. My spirits lifted. Hoof marks. Sheep! Not that sheep necessarily meant farmers but I let myself nurse this tiny spark of optimism.

The clay was softer now, and my heart pounded in anticipation of there being a puddle at the bottom of the hill. It helped me do what I had to do next. My knees refused to carry me any further. Stretching my body along one of the ridges, stomach flat against the tussock, chin tucked into my chest, I pitched myself off the edge. Niki and I used to roll down sand dunes. It was one of our favourite games. Actually, it was my favourite game because I usually won. We’d roll ourselves in beach towels until we looked like brightly coloured cigars, and then we’d pitch ourselves off the top of the dune. The one who rolled the furthest won. Only now did it occur to me that I’d rolled further because I was bigger and heavier than Niki. At the time, both of us had credited it to my incredible older-sister skill.

At the bottom of the hill was a small depression like a gutter where the track met the incline, and in the middle of it was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen in my life: a little pool of water the size of a saucer. I crawled towards it, whimpering pathetically, and then, dropping to the ground, I rested my cracked lips in the puddle and licked.

It tasted of salt and the acrid bitterness of animal piss. It was divine. The salt on my split lip stung like a bastard. I knew I probably shouldn’t drink it all but did it anyway. There’s no way I could have stopped myself. It was a tiny cupful of urine-flavoured nectar of the gods.

I lay in the ditch holding the pain at bay and figuring what to do next. The taste of water had given me new strength, but I knew
I couldn’t make it all the way back to Eastbourne. I knew too that I had no choice but to try.

Putting one foot down in front of the other, I could manage ten steps before my legs would fold under and I’d sink slowly to the ground like a camel. I’d count to a hundred, then make myself stand and put left foot, right foot again, one after the other, until I’d made another ten steps. I saw the blisters on my feet form, peel and then bleed. I didn’t feel a thing. I was too numb with cold, or maybe just too numb.

I used the tyre tracks in the middle of the road for the first few blocks of ten steps, and then realised the chances of finding water on the hill side of the trail were better, so moved closer to the bank for the next block. I staggered along like this, ten steps at a time, searching for any little dribbles of water leaking from the clay bank. My left wrist leaked blood into the crook of my right elbow where it was cradled.

That little trickle of water the ducklings had made use of had to be close by. I convinced myself it was just around each bend in the winding track, and each time it wasn’t there the disappointment was overwhelming. I staggered on, ten steps at a time, and died a little death every time I came to a bend and it revealed another identical bay and no little trickle of water. There was no end to this track.

On the left side of the path, waves clawed and raked at the foreshore. Oyster catchers prodded their bright orange beaks at stones, trying to convince themselves a slimy morsel was underneath, and shags perched on jutting rocks, their iridescent wings outstretched as if offering an embrace. I remembered this was where the
Wahine
survivors had huddled together waiting to be rescued. I’d seen photos of survivors on the backs of pickup trucks, grey emergency blankets wrapped around their shoulders,
their faces revealing nothing but a kind of shamefaced acceptance. They knew even then that they’d be known as ‘the lucky ones’ forever after. They’d seen their fellow passengers drown out there in the crazy madness of the storm, or pummelled and shredded on the rocks as they tried to swim to shore. Not many of the survivors wanted to talk about it afterwards, except perhaps to honour someone else’s act of heroism. Mostly they wore that guilty look all survivors have. Why me? Could I have done more to save others? Am I pleased it was someone else who died instead of me? Was it a mistake? Were they supposed to live and I supposed to die?

I must have been walking for half an hour, but it wasn’t really walking, it was more a shuffle, and progress was tortuously slow. I reckoned at this rate it would take about three days to get to the Eastbourne gate. I knew I couldn’t make it, but was determined to keep going until I couldn’t get up any more. Each time I slumped to the ground, it took longer to struggle to my feet again. And then, finally, I knew the next time I folded would be the last.

I stumbled around yet another bend, and there in front of me, right in the middle of the track, was a goat. We looked at each other, that goat and I. He was definitely the prettier sight. Those amber marble eyes gazed at me with no sympathy. It was as if it had been waiting for me. Maybe it’s a hallucination, I thought, and stumbled one step closer. It stood its ground and just looked at me. These were the devil eyes I’d seen as I slipped in and out of consciousness up in the bunker. The creature had massive devil horns too.

Despite my exhaustion, I was curious now. Was it real? Was this thing simply a goat, or had the devil come to claim me, as the nuns had always told me he would one day? I staggered another step towards it. It stamped a petulant hoof in response, and then turned its head to look behind. For one moment I thought that head was going to turn right around and back again like the possessed girl in
The Exorcist
, but no such luck — it turned its baleful look back at me before walking stiff-legged towards the bank and leaping up it. Swaying on my feet I watched the unlikely legs continue to climb the hill to where an audience of smaller goats huddled together, waiting.

I told my foot to lift but it wouldn’t. I waited for my legs to fold — and that was when I heard it. The crack and pop of tyres on gravel. There was a vehicle coming towards me on the track. That’s what had spooked the goat, not me. Unable to move, I waited in the middle of the track, focusing the last of my strength on staying conscious. The truth of it was that I no longer knew if I
was
conscious. The driver would have water. I was sure of that. But now, at the end, I almost didn’t even care about water. Didn’t know if the mythical nectar I thought of as water even existed. Maybe I’d dreamed its existence like I’d dreamed the devil.

I was aware of a car coming into view and skidding to a stop in the middle of the track in front of me. I was aware of the cloud of orange dust, the sound of a car door slamming, someone coming towards me. It was all I could do to lift my head to look at my rescuer.

It wasn’t a rescuer. It was Chris Ross. He was carrying a rifle. He didn’t need it. I was dead anyway. My legs gave way, and I sank to the ground. It was over.

A
hand, Ross’s hand, clasps around mine, trying to close my fingers around something. Plastic. Cool. My palm is bleeding, raw from all that crawling. The thing he wants me to grasp drops to the ground, bounces once then just lies there. It’s a bottle of water. The water refracts light through the transparent plastic. I don’t care any more.

Ross picks it up, squeezes a little pool of the liquid into the palm of his hand, places his other hand on my neck and tilts my face into the water. I don’t want to drink, don’t want to help my captor bring me back to life, but at the taste of what it’s been craving my unfaithful body responds. I lick and suckle his palm obscenely, and then, when he lifts the plastic nozzle to my lips and squeezes a cool stream of water down my throat, I gulp the pure life-giving ecstasy of it until my gullet aches.

I hear his murmur in my ear telling me to sip not gulp it, and a desperate fear comes over me that he’ll take the water away. I grab the bottle off him and squeeze it and gulp the liquid until there’s none left. My stomach heaves, and there’s stinging bile in
my throat, but I swallow it back down, gagging.

Maybe time had passed, maybe not. Sitting on the road directly in front of me was Ross, the rifle rested casually on his raised knees, his back against the Holden’s number plate. He was talking, but I’d tasted water and now all I could think about was how to get more of it. Instead of sating my thirst, that little tease of water had increased my craving tenfold. I had to have more.

I dragged my attention back to focus on what Ross was saying. I watched his mouth flap up and down, open and shut, noise coming out … I forced myself to concentrate. It was an unpleasant mouth, too sensuous for a man. Big lips the colour of loganberries with a darker defining line around the edges, as if he spent a lot of time licking at them.

Concentrate! The lips were saying..

‘… embarrassed? Damn right I was. I sure as hell never told my wife about it. No need, anyway. I was never going to ask her to be involved in something like that. I always wanted to be a good husband. Good father. I did my best to lead a normal life. Then it all just started to wear me down. I couldn’t control it. Eventually I rang one of those help lines. They told me to get help. I said, “That’s what I thought I was ringing you for,” and the little faggot says, “We don’t give
that
kind of help,” like I was some … I don’t know. He said, “You need to get
professional
help.” And so I did. I’d never been to one before. Never really wanted to. I thought they were dirty. Diseased, you know. All that.’

His words were coming at me and I heard them, but they had little meaning. To me, anyway. It didn’t look like they meant much to him any more either. I don’t know why he chose me to confess to.

‘I met the other one first and she set it up, and that’s how I met your sister. Tell you the truth, I really liked Bonnie. She was … sweet. I thought she was a nice girl. Shows what kind of judge
of character I am, but at the time I’m thinking, this isn’t so bad. I mean, no one’s getting hurt here. It was kind of expensive, but you know, it wasn’t like I had to do it that often or anything. Some people would spend more than that on booze or cars or whatever.’

He hefted the gun and I waited for him to point it at me but he just laid it on the ground, his hand resting on it.

‘A week later my twelve-year-old daughter brings me in a package she says was on the doorstep. It was a movie of the whole thing. Your sister had set me up. I knew as soon as I saw it the nightmare was only just starting. Sure enough, then came the big freak demanding money. I paid up. Yeah, I know, stupid sucker that I am. And it just went on and on. Even after she was dead, it went on. In the end I had nothing left to give. I was going to lose my house. I had no choice. I decided to come clean, I mean, my wife loved me, our relationship was okay I thought. I didn’t expect her to understand or anything but I thought she’d … I don’t know. So anyway, I told her. I told my wife about my — my problem. And I told her how your sister set me up, and that I’d paid, but she was still after me. Some part of me thought maybe she’d … I don’t know.’

He looked directly at me and I tried to look back, but I could feel my eyes sliding away from him.

‘Have you seen it? The movie? Have you seen what Bonnie and I did?’

I managed to shake my head. No, I hadn’t seen what he’d done to my sister. I’d seen the still photo of Niki dressed up in a kid’s clothes sucking a lolly pop in a twisted, distorted version of what a child is. That had been more than enough for me. I didn’t ever want to see the film of him fucking my little sister dressed like that. I remembered her too vividly as a child to want to see a sick, perverted version of that. She’d been such a lovely kid. I remembered the soft down on her shoulders when she was really
little. The fragile little shoulder blades like the promise of wings.

As if reading my thoughts, Ross leaned forward. ‘I didn’t have sex with her, you know. We didn’t have sex. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t sexual. It was just dress-ups. We both dressed up as …’ His voice broke with the difficulty of confession, but he picked it up again. ‘We dressed up as kids and played at having a … a tea party. That’s it. That’s all we did. That’s all I … had a need for. That’s what she threatened to put on the internet. That’s what I had to tell my wife.’

I heard part of what he was saying, all broken up and fragmented, but that gorgeous bottle of water he’d given me had been miraculous. I was alive. I was pain-searingly, ecstatically,
I am going to survive this even if it kills me
, alive.

Ross was sitting about four metres away from me. He’d picked up the gun again, and it was now cradled in his lap, his hand held loosely around the stock. Maybe at any other time I’d have felt sympathy for Ross. Okay, dressing up as a little girl and having a tea party isn’t my idea of normal, but if he was telling the truth and there was no sex, then really it was more sad than bad.

But if I was ever going to feel sorry for him, it wasn’t now. I didn’t feel sorry for anyone or anything, not even me. I didn’t feel anything really. Feeling could come if I ever survived this.

I wondered if I was strong and quick enough to run at him and wrestle the gun from his grasp. I knew I wasn’t, but was about to make my move anyway, when suddenly he stood, gun hanging at his side, index finger resting on the trigger. I’d left it too late.

‘I didn’t kill Bonnie,’ he said. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. Not even that big freak who was threatening me. Though they both deserved it for what they did to my life.’

Given my history with Ross, I admit I probably wasn’t the best judge of his character, but I had a strong hunch he was telling the
truth. I didn’t know how I felt about that, but now seemed as good a time as any to ask for another truth from him.

‘Did you rape me?’ I asked, lifting my head to watch him answer. ‘I need you to tell me that.’

He was silent for a long time — long enough for me to know the answer.

‘I used to come out here fishing with my brother when we were kids,’ he said, squinting into the dull, flat light of the horizon as if the memory was out there somewhere.

Casually he hefted the gun, barrel pointed towards me. I wanted to look away, but was transfixed by that little round black hole. I wondered if I’d see the bullet coming towards me like in a cartoon, and then was amazed at how well I was taking this — my final moments. Maybe it’s only possible to look death in the face for so long before it becomes just like any other face. Maybe you just give up. ‘Learned helplessness’ I think it’s called.

Remembering the term made me angry. I hadn’t been helpless since I was a baby, and I wasn’t prepared to accept dying in such a pathetic way, sitting in the middle of a dirt track on a lonely windswept coast. I wasn’t going to be slaughtered without a fight. Even that stupid goat would have charged him, and surely I had more fight in me than a bovid!

I’d just made up my mind to rush at Ross and tackle him, when he suddenly strode towards me. I hunkered down, waiting for the blow. He paused in front of my crouched body for a full ten seconds — I know because I was counting them — and then he walked on past me.

I just sat there, pulling the air into my lungs and then releasing it. Breathing. Feeling my big, fat, red, alive heart beat. I didn’t turn my head to watch him go, but I listened to the sound of his feet on the gravel, heard the sound become fainter until eventually it was
completely gone. The baa-ing of the goats on the hill started up again, and the seagulls picked up their argument exactly where they’d left off. I sat on the gravel track, listening to them squabble, and I waited. I was waiting to die or to be found. The choice wasn’t mine. I was a disinterested bystander. It seemed to me that some time later I heard a shot in the distance, but maybe I dreamed it.

That’s where the two hunters found me, slumped in the middle of the road. They saved my life, so it’s a pity the subsequent Armed Offenders’ Squad search for Ross put an end to their day’s hunting, but at least it meant the stupid goats got to live another day too.

One of the hunters must have called it in while the other was helping me into their four-wheel, because Sean was already waiting for me as we drove up to the Eastbourne gate entrance to the track. There were half a dozen plain-clothed detectives milling around self-consciously. I recognised a couple of the big guys from Central wearing duffel coats and with beanies pulled down over their ears, and appreciated that they discreetly kept their distance as Sean wrapped a silver survival blanket around my shoulders and shepherded me towards the ambulance parked with its back door open to receive me.

I baulked and refused to get in. There was something about the smell of it, the white sheets and chrome coldness. I just couldn’t do it. The paramedic wasn’t too happy, insisting I needed immediate attention, but I was having none of it. I just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. When it looked like the medic was about to forcibly sedate me, I agreed to the compromise of having Sean drive me directly to the hospital.

He turned the car heater up to full and handed me a bottle of Lucozade to sip on the way. I burrowed down into the scratchy woollen blanket Sean had nicked from the ambulance, and fought the urge to sob my heart out. Sean knew better than to say anything.
Well, he knew me, full stop. He drove the car fast and smooth and kept silent, giving me time. At Days Bay he leaned over and switched the car’s radio on. The Phoenix Foundation were singing ‘This Charming Van’ — sweet, easy, and oddly comforting.

It was good of Sean to give me the time I needed, but I knew the guys back at Eastbourne would be twitching, pacing, waiting for any word about who had kidnapped me and where the perp was now. I realised with a guilty jolt that they needed to know Ross was armed.

‘It was Chris Ross,’ I said, and was amazed that my voice sounded so normal. A bit scratchy, but a lot stronger than I felt. Sean slowly leaned over to pick up the R/T, turning the radio down in the same movement.

‘That was his Holden on the track where they found me. He’s carrying a Browning A5 semi-auto.’

I stared out the passenger window while Sean relayed the information to the guys back at Eastbourne, keeping his voice relaxed-sounding, conversational, talking in police-speak code, partly for my sake, but more to keep the prying, police short-wave radio listeners off the scent. My feet were starting to thaw out, and the pain was already excruciating. I hoped I could get some painkillers into my system before I was forced to start screaming — never a good look in a police car.

Sean casually flicked the emergency flashing lights on, reached his arm out the window, and stuck a blue cherry on the roof. I didn’t tell him not to. Without turning my head to look, I could sense him glancing in my direction, keeping an eye on me. For one unworthy moment I liked that, but it was fleeting and it wasn’t fair.

‘Quit worrying. I’m fine,’ I said, and then realised it was true. I was hurt, damaged but not broken.

I saw Sean’s shoulders relax. ‘We’ve got men all over the hills
and the coastline. We’ll find him, buddy.’

The pet name. It was so tempting to bask in it, the salve of old love. I should have gone in the ambulance. I sipped the Lucozade. Sweet and salty. When I finally relinquished it there was blood on the rim of the bottle.

‘You went after him, didn’t you,’ Sean said, making it a statement only this side of an accusation.

‘Not exactly. I was checking out where he lived. I fucked up. Ross saw me, knew who I was, and got it into his head I was going to blackmail him like Niki did. So he came after me.’

I had a sudden flashback of Ross coming towards me, felt the punch. My body flushed hot then cold, and pinpricks of sweat broke out on my forehead. Shit. How long was this going to go on for?

‘I told you I’d checked him out,’ Sean said as he slowed, then sped through a red light. ‘What set you off on him, anyway?’

I pictured Vex telling me how much Niki loathed Ross — what a sicko she thought he was.

‘Vex picked him out,’ I said. At that moment we hit the Petone foreshore stretch, and I saw a woman in an emerald-green coat throwing a stick for her dog, a Golden Labrador. Every time the dog leapt in the air it twisted its body, and the drops of water flew off its coat in an arc. It was beautiful. It was all beautiful — the green of the woman’s coat, the joy of the dog as it threw its body in the air, the far-flung arc of the droplets.

I felt the lump in my throat swell again, and I knew that if I started to cry now I’d never stop. I forced down a painful swallow of Lucozade and waited for the lump to go away. Sean knew I was struggling, and pulled back from his questions. He wove the car expertly across the lanes, going well over the 100 km an hour limit, but I felt safe. I’d always felt safe with Sean.

‘Is Wolf okay?’

‘He’s fine.’ I saw Sean glance sideways at me and make a decision to add, ‘Trust you to take up with an ex-dog handler.’

I let that sink it. Let it wrap itself gently around me. Robbie must have been the one to realise something was wrong and set the alarm bells ringing. He must have contacted Sean … a wave of exhaustion washed over me. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to piece together what had happened in the real world. I felt as if I’d been away in a foreign land, a place where I didn’t understand the people, the land or the language. The last few days were already taking on the feeling of a dream, a nightmare I was still in the process of waking from.