Had he ever been equal to anything he’d tried to do? Curtis Haines and his camera; his boom like a boathook, grappling salvage to him, none of it really his.
He was tired of all that. Tired of thinking and planning and executing everything with care, and purpose, and full engagement—and that being never quite enough. He was tired of putting himself back together again, a little differently each time, hoping that this time he’d pass muster.
And now there was this. He had tried to film the things people really should know, like how the teams had never thought to use the digger to push the bodies into their graves, how, instead, Jacob and Bub would climb into a grave, and Dan and William would hand the wrapped bodies down to them. But people wouldn’t want to see that, even if they should. How then could it be told? How could he refrain from horrifying an audience and still show how good, and tender, and civilised, the survivors were, despite the accepted wisdom about mobs, and riots, and the dissolution of the social contract that sets in whenever disaster strikes. Curtis had filmed things—long shots, dusk, the blue-painted swimming pool grave lit by car headlights; and close-ups, Bub’s hands gripping the end of a gory shroud, or the tray of the ute before it was washed. Tasteful things, suggestive things, the wrong things—and all because he couldn’t bear to be called immoral, or dishonest, or insufficient again.
He’d exiled himself from the others. Now he’d put this part of him—his past, his work—out of reach. He was in retirement.
It was very cold. His teeth were chattering so hard that he was worried he’d chip them. The slack tide went on and on, as if the sea had nowhere it needed to be.
When he was in his twenties, before surfers habitually wore wetsuits, Curtis had once stayed out for hours on a big break. He didn’t quit when he got cold, and after a while he stopped feeling it. When he did come in—because it was getting too dark to judge the oncoming waves—he found he couldn’t warm up. For hours he was sluggish and depressed and chilled through. It wasn’t until the middle of the night that his body reached a normal temperature. Then he found himself unable to sleep because he was jacked up on adrenaline.
Curtis had had exposure and survived it, and he knew the worst of it. So he rode out the shivering as the chill seeped into his core. Eventually, the cold lost its bite, and his jaw stopped its spasms. He was almost comfortable.
The tide began to go out, and the kayak swivelled to lie at an angle to the shore. Curtis held it still in the current. He meant to make sure that, when he let it go, it would leave Kahukura and drift far away, and through the No-Go.
The moon was out. It was about sixty degrees above the horizon in air that wasn’t quite clear. There were pits and snags in the transparency. Looking through the No-Go up close was like looking through a sheet of gritty ice.
When he was a boy in Invercargill, Curtis would arrive at school on frosty winter mornings to find ice on all the puddles. The kids would be elbowing one another aside to be first to scoop it up—a sheet of ice, rough with grit. They’d hold the dripping ovals above their heads and squint through them at a melting and wavering sun.
Curtis dropped his chin onto his chest. The moon reappeared, floating beside the kayak, sometimes wobbling and breaking apart like a drop of mercury. He closed his eyes. He felt serenely accomplished, as if he had paid back everything he owed the world.
He released the kayak, and his camera, then turned around and slogged back to shore.
Bub was up early. The first thing he did after putting on his clothes was let out the labradoodle, who was whimpering inside Theresa’s room. The labradoodle followed him to the swimming pool enclosure where the other dogs were. As Bub swam lengths, several dogs charged up and down beside the pool, barking at him. ‘This just won’t do,’ Bub thought. He got dressed, had an apple for breakfast and returned to the pool. He let the dogs out, then recalled them by shaving chunks off a dog roll and scattering the chunks around the lawn. The dogs wolfed the meat, then stood about, expectant, stiff-legged and trembling.
Bub regarded them with exasperation. He had hoped to have a proper breakfast, to sit down in the dining room with hot coffee, the heat pump making its slithery whisper as its vents opened and it got going. He wanted to see Belle. He had woken in the night and found her there beside him, wrapped in a coat on top of the covers. It was a man’s wool coat, with shoulder pads that flared up around her ears and bunched her blond curls. He wanted to stroke those curls. He wanted to thank her for staying with him, and see what her face did when he thanked her. But he hadn’t wanted to wake her, and in the morning she wasn’t there any more.
The dogs watched Bub with eager attention. Bub sighed and walked away, whistling them to him. He set off through the arboretum behind the spa, the cavalcade of canines trotting after him, tails up, each stopping now and then to sprinkle a ration of urine on this tree or that. Bub found a stick, and when he got to the meadow he threw it and the dogs raced away, the terrier and boxer reaching the stick almost simultaneously and tussling with it, the others turning back to watch for more sticks. The tiny Bichon Frise only floated off in the stick’s approximate direction, moving blindly through the long grass like a blob of blown foam. Eventually, after several sticks had been shredded, Bub and his canine entourage continued on to the predator-proof fence, then walked beside it, where the going was easy because the grass had been mown and was still short, for the surge of spring growth had so far only conjured the thistles, dandelions, vetch, and soft sprigs of broom.
The bush inside the reserve was loud with birdsong, mostly tui making their combined noises: of waterfalls, ice falls, breaking glass, a truck backing, and steel reinforcing rods rolling on the tray of a truck. The Nokia ring tui was there too. Its song brought tears to Bub’s eyes. He said to the dogs, ‘Would someone please answer that bird,’ and they regarded him with looks that seemed to say they were confident they’d understand him one day, once they knew one another better.
Bub walked the dogs all the way to where the No-Go came up to the fence near the reserve’s eastern boundary. It was there he found Sam.
Sam was flicking lit matches over the line of fading fluorescent spray paint, and watching them fall, quenched and almost smokeless, into the dry grass. She was laughing in a sweet, shiftless way. Bub realised that he’d never heard Sam laugh.
Stoical Sam, who, throughout the burials, had followed orders without equivocation, only very occasionally needing a reminder to reinforce what she’d learned. Who had worked tirelessly, never complaining, and without seeming to need anything at all but a shower and meal at the end of the day. Sam, who was, in fact, the most low-maintenance female Bub had ever encountered, since even tough ones like Theresa and nice ones like Belle must be respected in a certain demonstrative way—bless them.
Bub was surprised by Sam’s private mirth, and how comfortable she looked, as if the thing that was keeping them all imprisoned was an occasion of delight, like warm summer sun or fresh snow. ‘Hey!’ he said, incensed.
Sam stopped what she was doing and put the matchbox in her pocket. ‘It’s not going to hurt me,’ she said, then stood very still, examining Bub and the dogs, who he had gathered to him, their collars in his hands, except the Bichon Frise, who was tucked under his arm. Sam pressed her lips together till she was smiling a sort of upside-down smile. ‘How are you holding up, Bub?’
‘I’ll be better for a day off,’ Bub said. ‘Do you think you can help me sort out these dogs? We can’t keep them shut up by the pool. I hate the poop. And the other day I saw Warren thoughtfully flicking his cigarette lighter at the collie’s tail. I say we clear out that shed at the back of the laundry. You know—the one where the ride-on mower is stored? We can scavenge some blankets from one of the houses we’ve cleared, make beds, and put all the dogs in there.’
‘Sure.’ Sam looked once more at the strip of painted grass that marked the No-Go, then came over to Bub. One of the dogs
butted its muzzle into her hand and licked her fingers. It let out a small nervous whine. Sam caressed its ears.
‘I need my breakfast,’ Bub said. ‘An apple doesn’t go very far.’ He let the sensible dogs go and set off downhill, whistling to them, and to Sam.
She caught up with him. ‘What will we do today?’
Bub handed her the Bichon Frise. ‘Apart from sorting out a dog run? Probably the first thing I should do is have a word with that guy who is living on my boat. My firefighter. He seems to understand English. And once I’ve talked to him I guess we fill in the motel swimming pool.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Sam—this time sounding dubious. The Bichon Frise was in squirming ecstasies. Sam tilted her face up to avoid its licking. After a moment she said, ‘Swimming pool?’
‘Are you suggesting that the swimming pool was a bad idea? I don’t get it, Sam. Since when did you have an opinion about things like that? I think it’s been brilliant. What else were we going to do? Dig a series of smaller and smaller graves in people’s back lawns? Try the school again and hit the water mains?’
‘Oh, I see. Swimming pool,’ Sam said.
Bub felt guilty. Sam was normally so passive and compliant that it seemed wrong to discourage her from expressing an opinion. Bub stopped and set his hands gently on the young woman’s arms. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s okay to ask questions.’
‘I’m going to have to,’ she said. She set the dog gently on the ground.
Bub examined her. How did she manage to look so fresh? Sam was healthy and good-looking and—despite her injury—had always had the sleekness that goes with all that. But she looked better still today—better than yesterday. She looked really beautiful.
‘How’s your chest?’ Bub said.
‘It’s okay.’ She moved away from Bub’s touch and they went on down the hill. Bub had to recall the dogs, who were nosing at the graves by the wrecked helicopter.
Sam said, ‘I’ve forgotten—do we know who they all were?’
Bub had given her permission to ask questions and on their way down the hill he explained who the people in the helicopter had been and what kind of lawyer William was—a litigator—not that Bub knew anything about that.
Did Bub think William should be running meetings since he was a lawyer? Sam asked. Well, Bub said, if we had meetings we’d have to decide who should run them. ‘We’ve been so busy with the burials that we haven’t really stopped to talk things over.’
Then she wanted to know whether Bub could call a meeting. Could he do it today?
Bub dealt with this barrage as best as he was able. He supposed that it had just occurred to Sam—a person probably used to letting others do her thinking for her—that there was next to no sign that anyone else was thinking. Sure, they were using the ziplock bags to protect papers they placed on each body to identify them. They were using empty swimming pools as mass graves. They had gone to work as if work was an act of supplication to the civilisation beyond the No-Go. They felt they were being watched and judged. They hoped they were being watched and judged. But none of this was exactly thought. Sam probably couldn’t understand why there was so much they’d never talked about. She’d been waiting for someone to show her the way.
They returned the dogs to the enclosure. Warren was in the pool. He’d finished swimming and was now hanging by his elbows at the deep end and smoking his morning joint. Bub told him that he and Sam were going to sort out some more suitable accommodation for the dogs.
‘After you’ve talked to the man on your boat,’ Sam reminded Bub.
Bub took the young woman’s arm and led her to the dining room, where breakfast was in full swing. As he came in Bub saw the cleaned coveralls and scarves and gloves draped on the room’s empty chairs. He stopped dead. Then he found himself yelling. ‘You said we were finished!’ He hadn’t meant to express himself at volume. He was startled by it, and by the surge of panic, resentment, and distress behind it, pushing forward into his body. He began to shake.
His yell was followed by a pulse of stillness; people froze with spoons dipped and cups raised and stared at him.
‘Okay,’ Jacob said, cautious.
Theresa emerged from under the blanket draping her head. She was hanging over a steaming bowl, her nose red and running. ‘We are. Holly was on autopilot this morning.’
‘Sit down, Bub,’ Belle said. ‘Have some breakfast.’
Bub had alarmed himself. His ears were ringing. This wasn’t him—he never lost it like this. He sat beside Belle and fumbled around under the table till his hand found hers and clasped it.
Sam took a seat opposite him and, much to Bub’s bemusement, continued to stare at him, as if he were the only illuminated object in a field of darkness.
Holly bustled in from the kitchen and shunted plates across the table till Bub was surrounded by bacon, sausages, toast, and grilled tomatoes. ‘Enjoy,’ she said. ‘We’re coming to the end of the tomatoes. I had to clean out all the fruit and vegetables at the supermarket. I was able to leave the potatoes and yams and onions and so on. They’re still fine.’
Bub took some tomatoes and some black pudding and a slice of bread—Holly baked it fresh every day.
Sam sighed. ‘Those people out there—why don’t they talk to us?’
Theresa coughed and retreated under her blanket. She complained that her nose felt as if someone had been at its interior with a bottle brush.
‘We haven’t any idea what’s going on out there,’ Jacob said. ‘We can see the satellites, but that’s all.’
‘The satellites would be there even if no one was monitoring them,’ said Belle. ‘Even if the No-Go had engulfed the whole planet they’d still be there.’
Theresa sneezed, and said in a muffled voice, ‘If the No-Go had wrapped the world there’d be way more dead fish washing up on the beach—just for a start. What I think is this: either they can’t see us, or the only way they can is from directly overhead, and they can’t signal us from space.’
‘But you still like to imagine we’re performing for the satellites,’ said William. ‘Being our best selves.’
Holly said she was going to make more coffee.
Theresa frowned at William, then got up from the table. She left, trailing her blanket, and looking like a cowled spectre.
Bub regarded his scarcely touched food and pushed his plate away.
‘Are you sure you’re finished?’ Belle said, concerned.
Bub waved at Sam’s place. Sam hadn’t had anything but coffee, which was odd, since Sam was usually a dogged eater, possibly following the example of her Mary Whitaker people who, whenever they were off their feed, would still have made an effort to eat, being of that generation raised to waste nothing.
Bub told Jacob about his plans for a dog-run. Jacob said, ‘Good idea,’ and, ‘Are you going to help Bub, Sam?’
‘Sure.’ Sam assumed a look of almost comical enthusiasm. ‘Does anyone know Morse code?’
Again everyone stopped what they were doing and stared. Bub thought how often they did this—like a herd of deer lifting their heads at the scent of danger. On this occasion, though, there was a striking difference. Usually there was one person who had gone on doing whatever it was she was doing—with a kind of dutiful attention to the material, to whatever was immediately before her—and that person was Sam. This time Sam was exempt from the pulse of stillness, because she’d caused it.
Belle said, ‘None of us knows the Morse alphabet.’ Then, ‘What on earth made you think of Morse, Sam?’
Sam didn’t answer.
Jacob said, musing, ‘I wonder if there’s anywhere we can go to look for Morse, since we can’t use Google.’
‘There’s bound to be an old set of encyclopaedias somewhere in Kahukura,’ William said. ‘Or a CD with Encarta. Remember Encarta?’
Dan suddenly thumped the tab
le. ‘We have to do something more than just dig graves. Don’t we have—like—a duty to try to escape?’
‘As if this is Stalag 17,’ said William, amused.
Dan glared at him. ‘You’ve got brains, try using them instead of being a dick. I hate the way you get super calm whenever anyone else is upset.’
Belle said, ‘That’s true. When we’re freaking out you do tend to get above it all.’
‘It does come across that way, William,’ Jacob said. He looked uncomfortable, and added, ‘You know—as a failure of feeling.’
William listened to this criticism and reflected that perhaps it was just that he was simply better at coping with uncertainty. After all, he had been here before, very early, waiting for someone more powerful to notice his suffering and take his part—just like Theresa waiting for a sign from her unfeeling satellites.
William had been eight and his sister thirteen when they were taken from their mother. After a short time apart in different foster homes, they fetched up with their father’s family. The arrangement was better for them—though, after phoning once or twice, their father never did show.
They had one happy summer playing in the woods, or the scrubby mess of broken-down cars and tossed refrigerators just off the dirt road to their uncle’s house. William’s biggest cousin taught him how to shoot—then went into the army. William broke down and clung to him at the bus stop, while the adults and other kids laughed in that casual, mocking, meaning-no-harm way they had. Fall came and William toughened up to the mockery, and to the periodic alarms of all-night drinking sessions.