Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

‘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.