Tauwhare came forward and knelt. Up close the man’s wound looked even worse. In the centre of the blackness was a thick crust, showing through it the glint of yellow. He reached out his hand and touched the skin of Staines’s cheek, feeling his temperature. ‘You are sick with fever,’ he said. ‘This wound is very bad.’
‘Never saw it coming,’ said Staines, staring at him. ‘Fresh off the boat, I was, and green with it. Nothing shows like greenness, on a man. Never saw it coming. Heavens, you are a sight for sore eyes! I’m terribly sorry about this muddle. I’m terribly sorry about your mate Crosbie. I really am. What kind of medicine did you say you had about you?’
‘I shall bring it to you,’ said Tauwhare. ‘You wait here.’ He did not feel hopeful. The boy was not speaking sense, and he was much too sick to walk to Hokitika on his own; he would need to be carried there on a litter or a cart, and Tauwhare had seen enough of the Hokitika hospital to know that men went there to die, not to be cured. The place was canvas-roofed, and walled only with the simplest clapboard; the bitter Tasman wind blew through the cracks in the planking, giving rise to a new cacophony of coughing and wheezing with each gust. It stank of filth and disease. There was no fresh water, and no clean linen, and only one ward. The patients were forced to sleep in close quarters with one another, and sometimes even to share a bed.
‘Half-shares,’ the boy was saying. ‘Seemed fair enough to me. Half for you, half for me. What about it, he says. Going mates.’
Tauwhare was calculating the distance in his mind. He could make for Hokitika at a pace, alert Dr. Gillies, hire a cart or a trap of some kind, and be back, at the very earliest, within three hours … but would three hours be soon enough? Would the boy survive? Tauwhare’s sister had died of fever, and in her final days she had been very like the way that Staines was now—bright-eyed, both sharp and limp at once, full of nonsense and tumbling words. If he left, he risked the boy’s death. But what could he do, if he stayed? Suddenly decisive, he bowed his head to say a karakia for the boy’s recovery.
‘Tutakina i te iwi,’ he said, ‘tutakina i te toto. Tutakina i te iko. Tutakina i te uaua. Tutakina kia u. Tutakina kia mau. Tenei te rangi ka tutaki. Tenei te rangi ka ruruku. Tenei te papa ka wheuka. E rangi e, awhitia. E papa e, awhitia. Nau ka awhi, ka awhi.’
He raised his head.
‘Was that a poem?’ said Staines, staring. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I asked for your wound to heal,’ Tauwhare said. ‘Now I shall bring medicine.’ He took off his satchel, pulled out his flask, and pressed it into the boy’s hands.
‘Is it the smoke?’ the boy said, shivering slightly. ‘I’ve never touched the stuff, myself, but how it claws at one … like a thorn in every one of your fingers, and a string around your heart … and one feels it always. Nagging. Nagging. You’d stand me a mouthful of smoke. I believe you would. You’re a decent fellow.’
Tauwhare shucked his woollen coat, and draped it across the boy’s legs.
‘Just until I find this tree on Maori land,’ the boy went on. ‘You can have as many ounces as you please. Only it’s the good stuff I’m after. Are you going to the druggist? Pritchard’s got my account. Pritchard’s all right. Ask him. I’ve never touched a pipe before.’
‘This is water,’ said Tauwhare, pointing at the flask. ‘Drink it.’
‘How extraordinarily kind,’ said the boy, closing his eyes again.
‘You stay here,’ Tauwhare said firmly. He stood. ‘I go to Hokitika and tell others where you are. I shall come back very soon.’
‘Just a bit of the good stuff,’ said Staines, as Tauwhare left the cottage. His eyes were still closed. ‘And after you come back we’ll go and have a nose around for all that gold. Or we’ll start with the smoke—yes. Do it properly. What an unrequited love it is, this thirst! But is it love, when it is unrequited? Good Lord. Medicine, he says. And him a Maori fellow!’
MARS IN AQUARIUS
In which Sook Yongsheng pays a call upon a very old acquaintance, and Francis Carver dispenses some advice.
Sook Yongsheng, after making his five-pound purchase at Brunton, Solomon & Barnes that morning, had immediately gone into hiding. The shopkeeper who loaded the pistol had been very plainly suspicious of his intentions, though he had accepted Ah Sook’s paper note without complaint: he had followed Ah Sook to the door of his establishment, to see him off, and Ah Sook twice looked over his shoulder to see him standing, arms folded, scowling after him. A Chinaman purchasing a revolver with cash money, laying down that cash money all at once, refusing to pay more than five pounds even for the item, and requesting that the piece be loaded in the store? This was not the kind of suspicion that one kept to oneself. Ah Sook knew very well that by the time he reached the corner of Weld- and Tancred-streets the rumour mill would have begun to turn, and swiftly. He needed to find a place to hide until sundown, whereupon he would venture, under the cover of darkness, to the rearmost bedroom on the ground floor of the Crown Hotel.
There was no one in Hokitika Ah Sook trusted enough to ask for aid. Certainly not Anna: not any more. Nor Mannering. Nor Pritchard. He was not on speaking terms with any of the other men from the council at the Crown, except Ah Quee, who, of course, would be in Kaniere, digging the ground. For a moment he considered taking a room at one of the more disreputable hotels on the eastern side of town, perhaps even paying for the week in advance, to disguise his motivation … but even there he could not guarantee anonymity; he could not guarantee that the proprietors would not talk. His presence in Hokitika on a Monday morning was conspicuous enough, even without wagging tongues. Better not to trust in the discretion of other men, he thought. He resolved instead to take his pistol into the alley that ran in parallel between Revell-street and Tancred-street. The alley formed a rutted thoroughfare between the rear allotments of the Revell-street warehouses and hotels, which faced west, and the rear allotments of the Tancred-street cabins, which faced east. There was ample opportunity for camouflage, and the alley was central enough to allow points of entry and exit from all sides. Best of all, the space was frequented only intermittently, by the tradesmen and penny-postmen who serviced the hotels.
In the allotment behind a wine and spirit merchant’s Ah Sook found a place to hide. A piece of corrugated iron had been propped against an outhouse, creating a kind of lean-to, open at both ends. It was shielded from the alley by a large flax bush, and from the rear of the merchant warehouse by the outhouse pump. Ah Sook crawled into the triangular space, and sat down, cross-legged. He was still sitting in this way three hours later, when Mr. Everard came running down Revell-street, shouting the news to the bellmen that George Shepard had taken out a warrant for a Chinaman’s arrest.
At Mr. Everard’s words a thrill ran through Ah Sook’s body. Now he could be certain that Francis Carver had been forewarned. But Ah Sook had an advantage Carver did not—could not—suspect: thanks to Walter Moody’s confidence, he knew exactly where to find Carver, and when. Warrant or no warrant, George Shepard had not arrested him yet! Ah Sook listened until the cry up and down Revell-street had faded, and then, smiling slightly, he closed his eyes.
‘What are you doing down there?’
Ah Sook started. Standing over him, his hand on the outhouse door, was a dirty youth of perhaps five-and-twenty, wearing a sack coat and a collarless shirt.
‘You’re not allowed to squat here, you know,’ the youth said, frowning. ‘This is private land. It belongs to Mr. Chesney. You can’t just hole up where you please.’
Another voice, from the warehouse: ‘Who’s that you’re talking to, Ed?’
‘There’s a chink—just sitting here. Beside the outhouse.’
‘A what?’
‘A Chinaman.’
‘He’s using the outhouse?’
‘No,’ called the youth. ‘He’s just sitting beside it.’
‘Well, tell him to get a move on.’
‘Get on with you,’ said the youth, giving Ah Sook a gentle nud
ge with the toe of his boot. ‘Get on with you. You can’t stay here.’
The voice from the warehouse called again. ‘What did you say he was doing there, Ed?’
‘Nothing,’ the youth called back. ‘Just sitting. He’s got a pistol.’
‘A what?’
‘He’s got a pistol, I said.’
‘What’s he doing with it?’
‘Nothing. He’s not making any trouble, as far as I can see.’
A pause. Then, ‘Is he gone?’
‘Get on with you,’ Ed said again to Ah Sook, motioning. ‘Go on.’
Roused to motion at last, Ah Sook slipped out from beneath the corrugated iron, and hurried away—feeling the puzzled eyes of the youth on his back, as he did so. He ducked behind a laundry line, and into the oaty-smelling stables at the rear of the Hotel Imperial, keeping his head down and his pistol clasped tight to his chest. Above the whickering and stamping of the horses he could hear that the two men were still calling back and forth, discussing him. He knew that before long he would be pursued; he needed to hide himself, and quickly, before someone sounded the alarm. Ah Sook ran to the end of the stalls and peered over the half-door. He looked along the row of allotments, at the lean-to kitchens beyond them, the baize doors for the tradesmen, the privies, the pits for waste. Where would he be safest? His gaze came to rest upon the small cluster of buildings that formed the Police Camp, and among them, the wooden cottage in which George Shepard lived. His heart gave a sudden lurch. Well, why not? he thought, suddenly bold. It is the last place in Hokitika that anyone would think to find me.
He crossed the small track between the stables and the Police Camp fence, walked up to George Shepard’s kitchen door, and rapped smartly upon it. While he was waiting for a response he looked furtively about him, but the alley was quite empty, and there was nobody in the yards on either side of where he stood. Unless someone was watching from inside one of the hotels—which was very possible, the cockled glass shielding all view of the interior—then nobody could see him, standing in the shadow of George Shepard’s lean-to, pistol in hand.
‘Who is it?’ came a woman’s voice, through the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘For Margaret,’ said Sook Yongsheng, leaning his mouth close to the wood.
‘Who?’
‘For Margaret Shepard.’
‘But who is it? Who’s calling?’
It seemed to him that her mouth was very close to the wood also; perhaps she was leaning close, on the other side.
‘Sook Yongsheng,’ he said. And then, into the ensuing silence, ‘Please.’
The door opened, and there she was.
‘Margaret,’ said Ah Sook, full of feeling. He bowed.
Only when he rose from the bow did he allow himself to appraise her. Like Lydia Wells, she too seemed virtually unaltered since the scene of their last encounter, at the courthouse in Sydney, when she stepped forward with the testimony—the false testimony!—that had saved his life. Her hair now showed a strip of silver down the central part, and it had turned brittle, such that the few wisps that had escaped her hairnet formed a haze about her head. Apart from this small token of her advancing age, her features seemed more or less the same: the same frightened, watery eyes; the same buck teeth; the same broken nose, broad across the bridge; the same blurred lips; the same look of fearful shock and apprehension. How well the memory is stirred by the sight of a familiar face! All in a rush Ah Sook could see her sitting down in the witness chair, folding her gloved hands neatly in her lap, blinking at the prosecutor, coughing twice into a scrap of lawn, tucking it into the cuff of her dress, folding her hands again. Telling a lie to save his life.
She was staring at him. Then she hissed, ‘What on earth—’ and gave a laugh that was almost a hiccup. ‘Mr. Sook—what—what on earth? There is a warrant out for your arrest—did you know that? George has taken out a warrant!’
‘May I come in?’ said Ah Sook. He was holding the pistol against his hip, with his body half-turned to shield it: she had not seen it yet.
A gust of wind blew through the open door as he spoke, causing the interior walls of the cottage to shudder and thrum. The wind moved visibly over the stretched calico.
‘Quickly,’ she said. ‘Quickly, now.’
She hustled him into the cottage, and shut the door.
‘Why have you come?’ she whispered.
‘You are very kind woman, Margaret.’
Her face crumpled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’
Ah Sook nodded. ‘You are very kind.’
‘It’s a terrible position you’re putting me in,’ she whispered. ‘What’s to say I won’t send word to George? I ought to! There’s a warrant out—and I had no idea, Mr. Sook. I had no idea you were even here, before this morning. Why have you come?’
Ah Sook, moving slowly, brought out the pistol from behind his back.
She brought her hand up to her mouth.
‘You will hide me,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ said Mrs. Shepard, still with her hand over her mouth. She stared at the revolver. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Mr. Sook.’
‘You will hide me, until dark,’ Ah Sook said. ‘Please.’
She worked her mouth a little, as though gnawing on her palm, and then snatched her hand away, and said, ‘Where will you go when it gets dark?’
‘Take Carver’s life,’ said Ah Sook.
‘Carver—’
She groaned and moved on quick feet away from him, flapping her hand, as though motioning him to put the gun away, out of sight.
Ah Sook did not move. ‘Please, Margaret.’
‘I never dreamed I’d see you again,’ she said. ‘I never dreamed—’
She was interrupted. There came a smart rap on the door: the front door, this time, on the far side of the cottage.
Margaret Shepard’s breath caught in her throat; for an instant, Ah Sook feared that she was going to vomit. Then she flew at him, pushing his chest with both hands. ‘Go,’ she whispered, frantic. ‘Into the bedroom. Get under the bed. Get out of sight. Go. Go. Go.’
She pushed him into the bedroom that she shared with the gaoler. It was very tidily kept, with two chests of drawers, an ironframed bed, and a single embroidered tract, stapled to the framing above the headboard. Ah Sook did not have time to look around him. He fell to his knees and slithered under the bed, still with the pistol in his hand. The door closed; the room darkened. Ah Sook heard steps in the passage, and then the sound of the latch being lifted. He turned to the side. Through the calico wall beside him a square of lightness widened, and a patch of blackness stepped forward into it, clouding the centre. Ah Sook felt the sudden chill of the wind.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Shepard. I’m looking for your husband. Is he at home?’
Ah Sook stiffened. He knew that voice.
Margaret Shepard must have shaken her head, for Francis Carver said, ‘Care to tell me where he might be found?’
‘Up at the construction site, sir.’ She spoke barely above a whisper.
‘Up at Seaview, is he?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ah Sook cradled the Kerr Patent in both hands. There would be nothing easier than to slither out from beneath the bed, and stand, and press the muzzle to the wall. The cartridge would rip through the calico walls like nothing. But how could he be sure not to injure Mrs. Shepard? He looked at the patch of darkness, trying to see where Carver’s shadow ended, and Mrs. Shepard’s began.
‘The alert’s gone up,’ Carver was saying. ‘Shepard’s just put in for a warrant. Our old friend Sook’s in town. Armed and on the loose.’
The gaoler’s wife said nothing. In the bedroom, Ah Sook began to ease himself out from under the bed.
‘It’s me he’s after,’ Carver said.
No answer: perhaps she only nodded.
‘Well, your husband’s done me a good turn, in sounding the warning,’ Carver went on. ‘You let him know that I appreciate it.’
&nb
sp; ‘I will.’
Carver seemed to linger. ‘Rumour has it that he’s been in Hokitika since late last year,’ he said. ‘Our mutual friend. You must have seen him.’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘You never saw him? Or you never knew?’
‘I never knew,’ she said. ‘Not until—not until this morning.’
In the bedroom, still with the pistol trained on the calico shadow, Ah Sook got to his knees, and then to his feet. He began to move towards the wall. If he angled the pistol sideways—if he shot obliquely, rather than head-on—
‘Well, George did,’ Carver was saying. ‘He’s known for a while now. Been keeping a watch upon the man. He didn’t tell you?’
‘No,’ whispered Mrs. George.
Another pause.
‘I suppose that figures,’ Carver said.
Ah Sook had reached the timber frame of the bedroom doorway. He was perhaps six feet away from the square of lightness that was the front door; the doubled sheet of calico was all that stood between him and Francis Carver. Was Carver armed? There was no way to tell, short of opening the door and confronting him face to face—but if he did so he would lose precious seconds, and he would lose the advantage of surprise. And yet he still did not dare shoot, for fear of hurting Mrs. Shepard. He peered at the shapes on the fabric, trying to see where the woman was standing. Did the door open to the left, or to the right?
The blackness of the calico shadow seemed to thicken slightly.
‘You’ve spent your lifetime paying for it,’ Carver said. ‘Haven’t you?’
Silence.
‘And it’s never enough.’
Silence.
‘He doesn’t want your penance,’ Carver said. ‘Mark my words, Mrs. Shepard. Your penance is not what he wants. He wants something that he can take for his very own. George Shepard wants revenge.’
Mrs. Shepard spoke at last. ‘George abhors the notion of revenge,’ she said. ‘He calls it brutish. He says revenge is an act of jealousy, not of justice.’