Gravity's Chain (19 page)

‘So why now?'

‘I'm not sure she really knew. I think she saw your life as being fragile, almost at breaking point, and felt she could have made a difference.'

‘Why didn't she just say it was her? What was with all this cloak and dagger stuff? Why didn't she just sign the fucking notes? I would have come, Heather, I would have come straight away.' I felt the first tears come. They slipped down my cheek. ‘I would have come. I would have come.' I wiped the wet away. ‘Why didn't she just say it was her?'

‘Because she was afraid you wouldn't come and see her. She couldn't have lived with the rejection if you'd known it was her
and hadn't come. This way she knew there could have been other reasons for you to stay away.'

‘If I'd known I would have come, I would have come anyway, but it's all too late now.'

‘Would you like some time by yourself, Jack?' She noticed the slightest tip of my head and with considerable effort levered herself from the mattress and left the room.

All I could hear was the occasional hiss of tyres on a wet road. I tried to recapture what it might have been like with Mum and me in the room, but nothing came. There was just emptiness and now the additional sound of the baby crying as Heather opened the back door. Then that, too, was gone. The room was empty and I was empty. There was nothing in this place for me, but still I felt compelled to stay, as though some last trace of my mother was there that would disappear when I left. I needed to take in every last detail of the room, so I walked to every corner, along every wall. When I returned to the mattress and it sank under my weight I saw the smallest of white triangles against the wall. I reached over and pulled out a photograph. I thought it would be of me as a child, a treasured link with the past she had abandoned. To my surprise, no, to my disbelief, it was a picture of Dad. Taken recently, no doubt, on a prowl past our house. How old he looked, how bent and destroyed. I passed my hand over the glossy surface. Why had the photo been taken, and why had Mum held on to it? Did she pity Dad? Before this meeting I might have thought that she had kept the photo because she blamed him, but that was all wrong. I had conjured the darkest of thoughts about what he might have done behind closed doors to force her to leave, but now I knew it had been just my mother's whim, just a fucking whim.

I thought of taking the picture with me, but it belonged in this empty space, in this vacuum where once there might have been the hope of atonement for past mistakes, so carefully I slipped it back from where it came. You never know, perhaps she might return for it. With a final look and a trickle of tears wiped away with the back of my hand, I turned and left.

Heather watched as I trudged back through the long grass and negotiated the slippery wooden steps. I was thankful that Trudy and the baby had left the kitchen. The old woman whom I'd met just an hour before held out her arms and I hugged as tightly as I've hugged anyone in my life. We didn't speak; there were no appropriate words. Slowly we released our grip and parted.

The car was a place of comfort and I sat there for some time, trying to regain my composure smashed in the last hour. Finally I started to return to the barren, sterile house that Dad inhabited rather than lived in. There was no point in telling him. The information could never ease his pain and confusion. And so I entered his kitchen, its museum-like quality more poignant after I'd been so close to Mum, and pulled a bottle of whisky from the cupboard. There was a voice from the front room. Dad had a visitor.

This was as unexpected as finding life on the moon: Dad never had visitors. He had no friends and only modern neighbours who kept themselves to themselves and studied the pavement when walking past. During the days of my return he'd spoken to no one and received no phone calls.

Detectives Ryan and Orton sat next to each other on the old blue sofa at the far end of the front room, Dad facing them in the old armchair he'd sat in for as long as I could remember. He'd been there just days before when I'd returned unannounced,
greeting me with a nod and a hello as though my appearance was the most natural of occurrences. He had the same look now, as though he regularly received visits from the police looking for his son who hadn't lived with him for ten years. His face was passive, unresponsive to the strangeness around him.

‘Mr Mitchell, at last.' Ryan replaced his cup on saucer with an unpleasant scrape of china. ‘I was just telling your father here that we've been trying to catch up with you for a couple of days now, but that you don't seem too keen to talk to us. You should turn your phone on, Jack, you never know who might be trying to contact you.' His voice was heavy with an irony that both he and Orton seemed to find amusing.

I made no move. Ryan and Orton remained seated and Dad continued to sip his tea with loud slurps.

‘Perhaps we could take a walk outside,' Ryan invited me with a wave of his arm. For a moment I thought Dad was going to follow, but he turned to the kitchen instead as the three of us stepped outside. ‘There really was no need to avoid us like that, Jack.'

‘Sorry, I've had a few things to deal with.'

‘This is all a bit unexpected, isn't it? This return to New Zealand, I mean. We called Bebe to contact you and got quite a surprise when he told us we could find you back here.'

‘That bad, is it, that you have to find me so urgently?'

‘Guilty conscience, Jack?'

‘I'm tired of games, Detective, so if you don't mind, perhaps you could just tell me what it is you want.'

‘Is that what happened with Jo—a game gone too far? I went to the funeral, you know—a sad affair. When someone that young dies it really hammers home how fragile we all are. Her parents were distraught.'

‘I'm sorry I missed it.' And I was.

‘I've come to tell you that we've completed our enquiries and we won't be laying any charges.' He searched my eyes for a reaction. ‘Are you surprised?'

‘Why should I be?'

‘We can find no corroborating evidence, Jack. I find this depressing and it angers me, because quite honestly, I'd have liked nothing better than to pin your sorry arse. You deserve prison for what you did to that woman and for the oh-so-smooth cover-up that you and your gofer Bebe executed. But I guess that's what Taikon money buys: the best cover-up in town. The whole thing was too good for me to crack. I know you were there, but I can never prove it. So you're a free man, Jack.'

‘Why don't you like me?'

Ryan laughed at the question, shook his head and studied his shoes. I wasn't used to being mocked: it was quite refreshing, almost enjoyable to be treated with contempt. And today was as good a day as any to be abused. ‘It's not a case of liking or disliking you, Jack. I just think you've wasted your gifts. The rest of us have to slog away at everything, but you have the lot and somehow it's not enough. You want more and in taking what you want you fuck it up for us normal people. Ordinary people like Jo.'

‘Thanks for coming round, Detective, I appreciate you letting me know.'

‘I've already told Bebe. I expect Taikon will be pleased.'

‘I expect they will.'

I watched them leave, pausing to talk to Dad, shaking his hand and disappearing. For the first time I realised how much the wind had picked up and I pulled my jacket tightly around my body. The
relief I expected from Ryan's news refused to materialise. I felt dirty. Perhaps Ryan was right to dislike me. As I stood under a thickening sky Dad joined me. ‘Everything all right?'

‘Fine.'

He tilted his head to the sky and almost seemed to sniff the air like a dog latching onto a familiar scent. ‘They say there's a huge storm on the way. It's going to hit Northland tomorrow.'

‘Do you think the bach will be okay?'

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘When was the last time anyone checked the place out?'

He didn't even bother to answer this time, just walked away. That was that, the sudden appearance of the police dealt with in a simple question and answer. He didn't need to know any more about me; perhaps he didn't want to know any more about me.

Bebe was on the phone that evening, happier than he'd been for weeks and bubbling with enthusiasm. Everyone at Taikon was excited, it seemed; even George Mason felt the future was now secure. Details of my visit to the clinic were already confirmed and the future after that mapped out. The company had negotiated a much-expanded American tour followed by more dates across twelve European countries; then there was talk of a major documentary shot like a feature film and released as a Hollywood blockbuster. It would mean several months of filming in the States after the European tour ended. That was that then. All was rosy on planet fame. Bebe had already booked my return to England. I had just two days left in New Zealand. I wanted none of what was so meticulously mapped out for me. Is this how Mum felt? At least she manufactured an escape; there seemed no such relief for me.

Early next morning I put the meagre possessions I had with me
into the hire car, bought several bottles of tequila and whisky and drove to the bach: it was the only place I wanted to be. The wind was stronger, as the storm relentlessly ground its way towards land. It was the first time I'd been to the bach since Caroline's death, the first time anyone had visited in all that time. The place was dirty and dark with cobwebs hanging from the corners. Sand, driven through cracks by years of wind, covered the floors and crackled under foot. Despite the weather I opened the windows and set about cleaning the rooms. I was thankful for the work.

I
rang Mary only to say goodbye, but my story about Mum melted her ice. I never meant it to happen, there was no searching for sympathy—I simply wanted to tell her I was leaving New Zealand. Mary knew all about loss, though, so my account of meeting Heather hit a sympathetic nerve. Suddenly she wanted to see me. I could hardly believe her change of mind, but I accepted the gift and thanked Mum under my breath. That same afternoon was the only time before my departure Mary could see me. I offered to return to Auckland, but she was keen to see the bach again, so, despite the storm warnings, she arranged to visit.

To fill in the time before her arrival I set about protecting the house from the imminent storm. Many years ago, Dad had made storm shutters to protect the sea-facing windows. Ours was the only bach to have them and I felt a sting of pride the first time we erected them in the face of the torrid remains of a tropical storm that had ravaged the coastline. None of the other beachfront baches actually suffered any damage, but whereas the other residents spent an anxious evening fretting about the strength of their buildings, Dad and I sat inside safe in the knowledge that we were protected. I remember we pretended
to be in the Blitz, eating dry biscuits as though they were all that remained from our rations. We huddled close together when the thunderclaps came, protecting ourselves from bombs falling on the streets above our shelter. I loved him so much as we sat on the floor with blankets draped over our heads, making faces in the torchlight. That was before Mum left, before nights like that were stolen.

I found the shutters in the boat shed where Caroline hung herself. It was quite an effort entering that place again—I hadn't set foot there since I'd found her. The first time I tried to enter I turned back, went to the house, had a couple of stiff whiskies and returned with the bottle in hand. At the far end, behind where the
Winston
was parked, were the shutters under a heavy blue tarpaulin. I'd never had to handle them alone before and they weighed a ton. How strong was Dad? I remember him swinging them around as though they were made of plywood. Unless I moved the boat I wouldn't be able to manoeuvre the boards out of the shed, so what started as a whim became a full-scale task for which I was grateful. To remove the boat I needed the tractor, but it hadn't been started for years. I had no hope of it firing, but in a defiant moment I tried and to my amazement, after some coaxing and priming, the damn thing started with a huge belch of smoke. I worked steadily, taking sips of whisky to keep me going. I removed the boat, pulled out the shutters, replaced the boat and then, one by one, manhandled the dead weight of the shutters to their windows. A final search of the shed produced the padlocks to secure them and after three hours I was able to rest. In the afternoon light the boards cast an eerie golden light into the front room. It was unnerving to sit there without a view of the sea, but still hear the waves as they steadily strengthened.

After an hour or so, and about the time Mary was due, the afternoon waned and the light suddenly dipped as though a sheet had been thrown over the house. The place creaked for the first time, a sure sign of the wind's increasing strength. I went to the deck to survey the storm's approach. The darkness on the horizon was clearly boiling storm clouds rather than approaching night. Waves thundered on the shore as the depression pushed billions of tons of water to the coast. The wind had a real bite now and a couple of stronger gusts knocked me off balance so I retreated inside and, glass in hand, continued the wait for Mary. The slow tick of time was almost unbearable.

Without further warning the storm hit. In the midst of a huge gust of wind, rain smashed against the wooden shutters as though someone outside had sprayed them with a fire hose. Immediately the rain increased in ferocity, beating against the wood, driving in harder and harder. I paced the room, the noise almost deafening in the dark confines of the coffin-like room. Ten minutes later my phone finally rang. In that short time the storm had strengthened and I could hardly hear Mary above the rain. She was still in the next bay, unable to drive the connecting road because the sea was washing over the road. She was afraid to try walking through. I shouted for her to wait and said I would come and collect her. I pulled on the thickest clothes I had, claimed the newest oilskin from the collection kept downstairs and pulled on the highest boots. I tried three torches from the collection in the cupboard and, having found one that worked, braved the elements.

Immediately the storm embraced me, clawing at every part of my body as I crossed the short stretch of grass leading to the beach. I half scrambled, half fell down the slope to the sand and,
head bowed, battled my way into the battering wind. The rain drove into my face as I raised my head to navigate. It was a half kilometre walk to the rocks, which marked the beginning of the narrow road that linked the bays. The wind came from my left and it took almost all my strength just to hold a straight line. Halfway to the rocks I rested in the lee of an old pohutukawa tree: even its solid trunk, which would have seen worse storms than this, swayed.

By the time I reached the rocks, the wind seemed to have gained even more strength. Waves crashed and thudded against the ragged rock line. Water, tipped with foam, spilled over the road, but it was passable—a considerable relief given Mary's desperate description. At worse the water was fifteen centimetres deep so I sloshed my way through. A larger wave sent spray across my path and filled my boots with cold water. I waited for the sea to wash back across the road before continuing. When I reached the end of the rock outcrop I saw for the first time the lights of Mary's car parked about a hundred metres from the end of the road. She was so grateful to see me that she hugged me before planting a warm kiss on my wet cheek.

Mary was driving an old Honda. I didn't fancy our chances of guiding it through the water—one decent wave, the electrics would blow and we'd be stranded—so I parked the car further back on the beach where I hoped the sea couldn't reach it. Any attempt to talk was ripped away by the wind, so we mimed our intentions and found an easy understanding. The trees edging the beach buckled against the wind's power and, in brief pauses in the gusts, whipped back to their old shape before a fresh onslaught bent them again. The afternoon light was all but gone now, so I pulled the torch
from my pocket as we began the trip back to the bach.

At the rocks marking the beginning of the road, Mary stopped and looked at me. There was fear in her eyes and she was shaking, pleading to turn back. I held up a thumb and shouted that all was well, but my words were immediately stolen. Reassuringly I touched her shoulder. I knew the worsening storm had made the return far more difficult but I was not to be denied now. My mind was set on getting to the bach. The wind cranked up yet another notch, forcing waves to break over the rocks and wash across the road to where it cut through the headland, making a cliff on the left-hand side. The narrow stretch of tarmac was now a river with the waves surging along its length. We started along the road, walking close to the solid cliff. A huge wave crashed onto the rocks and across the road some thirty metres ahead. Spray, as heavy as the rain, washed over us, followed by a high surge of water that rolled down the road like a mini tidal wave. It hit us above the knee with considerable force. Mary reeled and flailed with her arms to regain balance. I managed to catch her elbow and we easily rode out the smaller afterwaves that followed like children chasing their father.

We reached the curve where the road was most open. The wind drove harder at this exposed point, forcing us to turn sideways. I turned in time to see a mountainous wave cover the rocks with the greatest of ease. Mary, still turned away, let go of my hand to adjust her jacket. Desperately I tried to regain it, but failed and shouted at her. As before, my words were greedily eaten by the wind. The wave marched toward us, seemingly oblivious to the land attempting to break its progress. It made the previous monster look like the weakest sibling of the family. Frantically I tried to grab Mary as the water hit. I managed to catch her sleeve,
but my hand slipped on the greasy material of her coat.

The water smashed like a massive punch in the back, throwing me forward. I gripped the rock I was thrown against and felt my chin sting as it glanced the sharp shards of the rock face. Mary was swept away, her arms flapping like orange flags, carried back to the sea by the now receding water. As it retreated, the water lost its strength. I tried running after her, but the wind blew straight into me and with the water still above my knee I was unable to make any real progress. Helplessly I watched as the water gently plopped Mary on the last outcrop before the sea. Like a monkey she gripped the rocks with all four limbs. A secondary wave swept over her body, but it didn't have the strength to loosen her grip. I battled on toward her, finally reaching the first rocks at the road edge and splashing through the pools left by the retreating water.

Mary was on her knees when I reached her and I crouched down over her body like a mother protecting its young. I gulped for air, my strength close to consumed. I gripped Mary's wrist, pulled her arms free of the rocks and held her hands. Mary tried to respond, but her energy was gone, so I adjusted my stance, grasping more tightly. We wouldn't have time to get back to the road before the next wave came upon us so we had no choice but to ride out the onslaught where we knelt. I could hear it breaking in the distance and I braced myself.

The wave thundered into the rocks. The angle of the wave's impact and the rocks to our right protected us from the break; it was the water receding our way that threatened our safety. The now familiar wall of water rushed across the road and back to where we waited. I braced for the impact, crouching over Mary, holding her as tightly as possible without squeezing the
air from her lungs and crushing ribs. We survived the initial hit, but the relentless weight of water forced me to take a step and my balance was gone. I knocked Mary and, like a parachute jumper, she instantly disappeared from sight as the water sucked her from the rock. I saw her bobbing in the water like a piece of driftwood, gulping for air just ten metres from the rocks.

I fell to my stomach and hugged the rocks, which tore the sleeves of my oilskin and jumper almost to the skin. The remnants of the wave washed over me and with nothing of similar size following I relaxed my grip. Up I crawled onto all fours, wiping salt water from stinging eyes. I'd lost sight of Mary and for what seemed like long panicky seconds I scoured the sea for the familiar orange of her coat. Gulping in great lungfuls of air, I bellowed her name at the grey water. It was useless but I kept shouting so loudly that I imagined my throat exploding. I couldn't let her go, I couldn't lose her.

Suddenly there she was, just metres away, her head popping out of the water like a cork, her mouth gulping air like a beached fish. When she saw me she thrashed her arms, but that only turned her in a fruitless circle. Her head slipped under the water and I watched helplessly until she reappeared, closer this time as a fortunate swell pushed her toward the rocks I grimly inhabited. The sea was building for another drive. I held out my hand and watched her close in on me so slowly it reminded me of one of those grainy old black and white films of an Apollo spaceship docking. Another swell lifted her toward me and I grabbed her hair, yanking her head so I could catch hold of her jacket collar. She was weak and lifeless with hardly the strength to move her arms. Hand over hand, centimetre by centimetre, I hauled her onto my rock. In the distance I heard the smack of a new
wave and knew it would be just seconds before another wall of water was upon us. Mary was almost out of the water—just her legs dangled in the sea—but there was no more time, so I pushed her flat and lay across her body, holding the rocks on either side. Thankfully the wave lacked the ferocity of some of its predecessors and water washed over us with a power I was easily able to withstand.

Quickly I was on my feet and pulling Mary clear of the water. She stood, but there was no strength in her legs and she buckled under her own weight. Half carrying, half stumbling, I managed to get her across the rocks, over the road and to the shelter of the cliff where we leant against its solid face, panting for breath. The waves were calmer, but I knew it was just a matter of seconds before bigger ones would come again. I hauled Mary over my shoulder, dropped my head and ran as fast as I could. Another wave crashed over the rocks and swept down the road, but I kept my balance and pushed on regardless. Finally, with no further monster waves, I came to the end of the road and felt the welcome softness of sand. Clumsily I lowered Mary and sank to my knees, panting. Mary was awake but silent, her body convulsed with shivers. Her cheeks were white and her lips blue. The hollow look in her eyes frightened me and I knew there was a new threat now. Although far from rested I stood and hitched her back onto my shoulders.

Fatigue attacked as I was halfway back to the bach. Wind and rain still tore at me, but their discomforts were nothing compared with the screaming complaints of my body. Shoulders, legs, back and arms were all stretched to breaking point. I imagined muscle and tendons breaking strand by strand with almost audible pings.

I couldn't climb the bank from the beach to the bach with Mary on my shoulders so I ended up dragging her. I'd crawl, then turn and start hauling her dead weight up the slope, the sand giving way and slipping us back, but never to the starting point: each time there was a gain. Several times Mary groaned and feebly pushed out a leg, but her efforts were hopeless. Once we were on the grass at the summit of the bank I could only pull her to the bach as though she were a dead body ready for burial. The last act was to drag her inside and slam the door shut on the storm.

I didn't even contemplate the stairs but got Mary into the downstairs bedroom where I'd last seen Caroline alive. She lay on the floor, murmuring as her body shook with cold. Upstairs I found some old trackpants and a sweatshirt. Mary was now close to unconsciousness, her eyes rolling in their sockets. I fought with her sopping clothes, yanking at trousers, jumper and shirt. She wore no bra. The sudden revelation took my breath away. Her breasts were as I remembered, pale and strong, the dark nipples erect from the cold. Slow with guilt I bent and laid the lightest of kisses on each nipple.