Witi Ihimaera - The Thrill of Falling - Stories

‘What about your phone?’ Whero asks, giving Petera a run for his money. ‘I rang the number … nothing.’

Petera shakes his head, looking disappointed with himself. ‘Global bloody roaming. Didn’t realise I’d need it …’ He’s like quicksilver, circling Whero, confusing her. ‘You know there’s no buggah around these parts selling hokey-pokey ice cream? Enough to make you wanna go home, eh?’ Then he moves in for the kill. ‘You reckon you got the strength to survive London … alone?’

‘Alone?’ I ask him. ‘You bastard, Whero has me.’

He ignores me. ‘You don’t miss home? What about your mother?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘She’s worried about you. Like father, like daughter …’

‘Fuck off.’ Whero is causing a scene. People are looking at her, giving her a wide berth.

Petera backs off, his hands up in the air. ‘Okay, Whero, okay. But you’ve been wishing you had somebody like me for a long time. That’s why I’m here. I’m overdue, I know that, but I’m here now. How ’bout we meet at your flat? Oxford Street’s not really the place to hold a family reunion, eh? You need me, Whero.’

And then he grabs my chin, his fingers digging into my cheeks, and forces me against a pane of glass.

‘You, Red, you’re not invited, geddit?’

Nope, not my freakin’ day at all. Nor does it get any better when Whero and I return to the flat. Why? Because Dermot’s back and we can hear the thunk, thunk, thunk in the front bedroom and, well, why should he and Tupou be happy when I have to deal with fuckin’ Petera coming back into our lives?

They both come out of the bedroom with silly grins on their faces and pretend that they haven’t been at it. Tupou starts a celebratory glass of bourbon and, as Whero enters the room, passes her a fat spliff of hash.

‘Gee, am I a lucky sonofabitch Irishman?’ Dermot says as he cuddles her. ‘Two beautiful Polynesians welcoming me home? Let me give you a hug, darlin’, we’re all on the up and up.’

‘What are ya?’ Whero asks with a smile. ‘My mother? You get a kick out of dictating my life?’

‘I ain’t dictatin’ shite. I’m just … cuddlin’ up to my investment.’

Suddenly we hear something vibrating. ‘What the hell is that?’ Tupou asks drunkenly. He points accusingly at Dermot. ‘Your pants are moving, hon.’

‘Aw, feck,’ Dermot dips into a pocket and pulls out his phone.

Tupou giggles. ‘And there was I, thinking you were getting horny … again.’

Dermot ignores him. ‘Yeah? Dermot here … yeah, that’s me. Karl! How you doin’? What are you wantin’, pal?’ His eyes light up with excitement and he makes a thumbs-up sign to us. ‘Yeah — yeah, for sure. That sounds grand. Maybe we could meet up later this week? Discuss the details further, yeah? Lovely, Karl. You’re a feckin’ legend.’

‘Well?’ Whero asks.

Dermot feigns ignorance, so Whero and Tupou pile on top of him. ‘That was Karl Jeffs, wasn’t it? What did he say?’

‘He loves your feckin’ demo tape!’ Dermot yells with glee. ‘Says that your voice is phonogenic. That it takes to recordin’ as if it was made for it. Says that sometimes singers in bars and clubs don’t sound as great when they’re recorded but you, girlfriend, you only sound better. And he really loves your original songs. So, he wants to talk serious talk with me about … a recordin’ contract.’

‘Woo-hoo!’ Whero yells. She gives Dermot a massive hug and pulls him up and into a dance.

‘Does this mean we’ll stay in London?’ Tupou asks.

‘You bet your beautiful ass,’ Dermot answers. ‘Soon we’ll be snortin’ coke through gold-plated straws. But …’ His eyes get that faggoty Irish grin: ‘… if there’s an album, wouldn’t the primo place to launch it be …’

‘Please don’t say Dublin,’ Tupou groans.

‘Oh ye of little feckin’ faith,’ Dermot sighs as he begins again. ‘Wouldn’t it be … Auckland?’

It takes a while for Dermot’s idea to sink in.

Then, ‘Yay,’ Tupou says, ‘the dingo hasn’t stolen my baby.’

And Whero, grooving on the idea, says, ‘Everybody there would love your accent. Everything Irish is fuckin’ sexy.’ Then the bitch gets weepy. ‘It’s as good as it gets. It’s home.’

Tupou restores some realism. ‘I was going to say that it’s constantly overcast and it’s surrounded by about fifty big fuckin’ volcanoes. Big … and, well, dead.’

‘And y’play football with your hands, eh.’

‘Are you demeaning our national sport?’ Tupou yells. ‘It’s not football, it’s rugby, you dumb Irish piece of shit.’ He takes off his shirt. ‘Stand up.’

Dermot is already standing but, hey, who’s being pedantic. ‘What for?’

‘Gonna show you how to do a haka, the way the All Blacks do it,’ Tupou answers. He takes off Dermot’s shirt too — skinny Irishman, Jeez, put the shirt back on. ‘Now, bend your legs like this, Grasshopper.’ Tupou goes into the classic haka stance and Dermot tries to imitate him.

‘Kia rite!’ Tupou shouts, scaring the shit out of all of us. ‘Waewae takahia!’ He starts to stamp his feet. And then he’s away. ‘Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora!’

And it’s so funny to see Dermot following Tupou’s directions: ‘Cross trainer, cross trainer! Ski, ski! And cross trainer again!’

Tongue poking, knee slapping, chest pounding, it’s comedy time, which turns into something gruesome as they sex it up together. At the end of it, we all fall about laughing.

‘That was primo,’ Whero says.

‘I’ll make a haka boogie man out of you yet, Dermot,’ Tupou tells him.

And Dermot beams like a fuckin’ Irish elf.

‘Auckland it is.’

Here we are in the middle of Heathrow meeting Tupou before we go to see Karl Jeffs. Dermot is also due soon; Jeffs doesn’t live far from Heathrow.

When Tupou arrives, he’s eating an ice cream. ‘Hey,’ he says to Whero in between licks, ‘how are you feeling about signing the contract?’

‘Okay, I guess,’ she answers. ‘Is that hokey-pokey?’

‘Actually, Heathrow is one of the few places outside New Zealand you can get it.’ He sees Whero looking at the ice cream and edges away from her. ‘And you can’t have it.’ Then he remembers something. ‘Oh, Dermot gave me something this morning — it’s for you. Can I give it to you now?’

He pulls a large package from his backpack. As soon as I see the wrapping I know immediately what’s in it. Pills. I’ve been hiding them away from Whero for months. How the fuck did Dermot find them?

Whero looks at the package, uncertain, and then takes it. ‘Thanks,’ she says.

‘Dermot was all secretive about it. You know me and secrets! So I opened it. What are they for?’

‘Nothing.’ Whero turns away.

‘Nothing?’ Tupou says. ‘Dermot tells me that you haven’t been taking them, you naughty girl, you.’ Slurp, lick. Watch out, Tupou, curiosity can kill a cat.

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘My sometimes intolerable boyfriend won’t tell me what’s going on, and now I’m in the company of a sometimes intolerable bitch.’ Whero remains tightlipped and Tupou gives up. ‘Okay, don’t tell me anything. It’s not like I need to know anyway.’

And after that outburst, Dermot arrives and sits down next to Whero. ‘He’s given you the pills already? Please take one before we go to see Karl. Will you do that for me?’

‘Fuck off.’

But Dermot is insistent. He sees Whero looking for me and his eyes narrow. ‘Red can’t help you, girlfriend. So you won’t take a pill now? Ah well … promise me, Whero, you’ll start takin’ them soon. I mean it, Whero, soon.’