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THE VAMPIRE IN SUMMER

by Mishka S. Ahrens

Copyright © 1995 by Mishka S. Ahrens All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. First Printing, 2014 Printed in paperback by CreateSpace. Typsetting by Sarah McCreadie at Digital Fable.

Contents Foreword.7 Part One  11 Chapter One. 13 Chapter Two 25 Chapter Three 33 Chapter Four 49 Chapter Five 61 Chapter Six 71 Chapter Seven 87 Chapter Seven (and a half.)97 Part Two  101 Chapter Eight 103 Chapter Nine 121 Chapter Ten 133 Chapter Eleven 143 Chapter Twelve 151 Chapter Fourteen 165 Chapter Fifteen 181 Chapter Sixteen 189 Chapter Seventeen 191 Chapter Eighteen 201 Chapter Nineteen (not much more than eighteen).215 Part Three  221 Chapter Twenty 223 Chapter Twenty One 237 Chapter Twenty Two 245 Chapter Twenty Three 251 Chapter Twenty Four 255 Chapter Twenty Five 259 Chapter Twenty Six 267 Chapter Twenty Seven. 269 Chapter Twenty Eight. 283 The End. 291 An Epilogue 305

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Foreword from Narelle Ahrens—the author’s widow. With the benefit of hindsight 1995 was a massive year in our lives. I married Mishka Ahrens, he wrote his first novel, and he was diagnosed with Cancer. We were 20 years old. I was in my last year at University and he was starting an art Diploma at The Learning Connexion. We married in February, just before my classes resumed, and lived in a falling apart bedsit in Mt Victoria, Wellington. We were completely poor, over-run with mice, and so, so happy in love. Mishka was bursting with creativity. He wrote poetry and short stories, painted pictures, and self-published his own comics. He carried an artists’ diary (he loved stationery) with him everywhere and would sketch out ideas as they occurred to him. Reading through it now, nearly 20 years later, I’m reminded how full of creative life he was – brimming with stories to tell. In April he decided to write a novel. [This was before everyone had a personal computer so typewriter it was]. It was an exciting time in my life. Every day I would come home to him and the next chapters of his book. I remember at a certain point he wouldn’t let me read any more. He wanted me to wait until he finished and read the last act in one go. One night I came home to an empty house, a finished manuscript, and a note telling me he was out for a walk. He said he’d come back when I’d finished reading. He was so nervous, excited, buzzing that he came back too quickly. He had to sit outside and wait for me to finish. I was amazed and so proud of him. 7

He sent it to about three publishers and received some good criticism and encouragement. He was proud of his first rejection letter. He hung it up on the wall in our lounge. Mishka had plans to re-write and edit the book. Rough ideas in his diary but mostly in his head. He was never well enough to do it. By his 21st birthday in September he was diagnosed with Ewing’s sarcoma. Despite immediate chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and a brief remission, Mishka died April 23rd, 1997. He was 22 years old. We, his family, decided to publish his book, as he wrote it, to celebrate what would have been Mishka’s 40th birthday in 2014. We know that he wanted to edit it but don’t think its raw state will prevent his friends and family from enjoying the work he created. Seeing his book published is something we’ve wanted to do for a long time. The world has changed so much since he died. He was trying to write and self-publish his works long before the tools existed that we have now. We are sure he would have embraced the digital publishing age to get his works out there. It’s a shame he missed it. When he started his novel he didn’t know who the Vampire was. He wrote in his journal: “ …Was it Peter with his late nights and awoken partying drive? Was it Sarah who sucks him into a life draining whirlpool…?” By the end, as he wrote the poem to Philippa, he knew that his Vampire is love. It’s a gift that might take from you. But, if you feed it, it makes you immortal. So Mishka, we are publishing this from our love for you. May you live in the summer forever. 8

From Mishka’s parents—Michael and Camellia Ahrens “He came into the world in a rush.” Aged five, Mishka announced he was going to be a Paleontologist. He didn’t deliver on that but did so much in his short time. Cartoonist, graphic artist, poet, novelist. A beautiful human being who left this world far too early.

444 Mishka S. Ahrens 12th September 1974 – April 23rd 1997

9

Part One •

Sing, Goddess, of a tale of the vampire, and its journey ’cross a portrait, grey and stark life palette, flawless in its faults.

Chapter One. Peter hated to be late. But that didn’t mean he was on time. Pulling the suitcase, breaking nature’s laws, the castor wheel squeaking when it turned left and buckling when it turned right, dashing through the city streets, the quiet streets, the streets at noon so heavy, at dawn so light, and his eyes grainy, rubbing raw eyelids, unpolishable. The spoils of sleep deprivation. Crossing Queen Street, a grey street, a grey day, an early day, a rubbish truck reversing, the wheel squeaking and buckling, and that reversing noise – Beep! Beep! Beep! – from the truck, as if it could see him and his bulky battered hand-me-down case on one wheel, and in it all he wanted and needed to go away with, and no one to see him off, but that should be another story; this morning so early and chilly was a brand new chapter, a whole new book, in the short and bittersweet life of Peter, who didn’t like to be late. Days do not begin and end at twelves, they don’t stop because the clock tells them to, the clock is the reflection, the clock is the tool. The day begins and ends around four, but it can’t be counted, it can’t be timed. It is felt, it is heard. Suddenly the dark is not so dark and yet there is no more light. Suddenly it’s cold, but there is no wind. Soon will wake birds and bread trucks and busy people in charge of numbers, numbers wired to twelve instead of the cool time before dawn. 13

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He made his way through the dawn, with day on the way for at least two hours now, the service vans and trucks sliding along on a carpet of early morning air to deliver fresh things and new things, collect old things, again and again. He struggled with his case, it would have been nice to view the morning from a taxi with carpet on its roof. Wide roads and thin roads and thankfully as sweat broke out in waves the huge and golden aged train station lay in a parking lot before him and he grunted and crossed the street, a small pain in his back, but nothing that needed to be solved by a television advertisement. Within lay a grand hall, coloured off and old, abused and misused, and not needing a nightly coat of urine from passers-by but getting it anyway, and then out into the stale grey day, as clouds broke up and let the ray man through. It would be nice to note that the locomotive was a great and angry monster, black and spindly, steaming and waiting for Peter and his case and his small back pain that was rapidly fading and going numb. That it belched foul smoke that dripped coal and turned white shirts grey, that it sat on the tracks like a fat, powerful cat seconds before it strikes a mouse and flicks its small quivering body back and forth until its tiny bones snap. But it was just a skinny anaemic train that liked to give a slight toot occasionally, and didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Pretty disappointing after all that running. But reality can warp itself in strange ways around the sleep deprived and Peter thought he could see the monstrous engine underneath, imagined he was somewhere between 20th century New Zealand and a Victorian age station. The illusion didn’t last for long. A short fat guy with white hair was in charge of looking at the passengers’ tickets. Peter waited in a queue of five people – he noticed a blond woman, slightly shorter than him, in front; he could only see the back of her blond bob of hair so he could not tell if she was good looking, and there were a couple of nuns who seemed quite old. He never knew how to avoid a holy person’s (is that what you call them?), um, how you avoided a person of the religious persuasion’s gaze on 14

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the street, and having only been to church once (to impress a girl at sixteen) he was pretty unsure about the whole religious deal; nuns certainly seemed to be a rare sight around Auckland. And they were never singing or dancing, so he guessed movies lied. The guy with the tickets looked at them carefully, would indicate vaguely the direction of that passenger’s carriage, say the seat number that, though printed three times on the ticket, was still small enough to make one fearfully refer to it every thirty seconds, just to feel safe, then he would tear something, thrust luggage at an average-looking guy standing in the doorway of the luggage carriage after putting the appropriate colour-coded tags on and move to the next person. The nuns and a child with her mother (or caregiver or something) made their way on to the train. The blond bob in front handed her ticket over. The guy (you know the one – the ticket guy) asked her where she was going, pretty unnecessary figuring he had her ticket. Maybe he was short-sighted. “Wellington,” she said. Peter thought he heard a slight accent, but with one word to go on he didn’t have much of a clue where from – maybe American or Swiss or something in that group. Her voice was deep and throaty – maybe throaty wasn’t the right word – rich. Rich was better. Probably a real nice voice, which in Peter’s experience was good odds she’d turn out very plain-looking. Thoughts to pass the idle time away. Maybe he’d get a look at her face, instead of staring at the back of her head and trying to work out whether her hair was really that colour. “D3,” said the guy. Wait a minute, he thought. Looking at the inside cover of his ticket – D4. Tally-ho! The game is afoot! She went to board the train, offering not even a glimpse of her face. “Thank you,” said the guy as Peter handed him his ticket. The young traveller was slightly anxious to see her face, now that he’d found something mildly interesting to do so God damn early in the morning, though not too anxious, aware she could turn out to be of the type that if you so much as looked at them they talk to you for HOURS. Not good on an eleven hour train trip. 15

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Stepping into a train carriage is much like stepping into any cylindrical man-made object – bus, submarine, space rocket. Sound immediately changes and your whole world is altered to a small, narrow place. Aboard a train the light is controlled, the sound is reinforced, gravity is different. There is no escape unless you are the foolhardy adventure type for whom leaping from trains going at high speeds while being pursued by Mafia hitmen is all in a day’s work. Peter felt he was on a different plane of existence even as he passed between the two narrow doors that gave entrance to the train. He stared down the aisle from the doorway with that feeling one gets when standing at a podium in front of a hundred Darwinian scientists about to hear that survival of the fittest is a load of old hooey. Everyone’s eyes were on him and he could almost believe that at that moment every single person on the train hated him. He looked at the numbers on the baggage shelf. D4. Right at the front hand side. Which meant ... The first time he saw her face he wasn’t floored by thinking ‘wow, she’s beautiful’, or even that she was anything more than pretty – which she saw. He noticed she had that strange quality of appearing more real than her surroundings, like she was part of some aura that made her three-dimensional against a flat cut-out train carriage. It’s the same look people who become “stars” have, some call it the X-factor, Peter called it reality, as real as in a movie on the big screen. Larger than life. She was looking out the window at the dawn, or at least what the dawn was revealing of the nearby buildings. The light caught the edge of her face in a searing ... she was too old for Peter to even think about picking up. As if Peter had ever picked up a woman in his life. Or as if he had the nerve. But it was something that as a man (or male, at any rate) he had been trained to think about automatically. She turned to him and smiled. Her smile was wide, showing pure white teeth and no deception, just a friendly feeling. Her face positively shone when she smiled, and her pale catlike eyes (not too pale) were bright, lit up like ... were they blue or hazel? Peter couldn’t see. “Hi,” she said, loud (for a train) and confident, betraying her 16

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American (or Canadian – was there a difference?) accent. “I’m sorry, I’m sitting in your seat, aren’t I.” She started to move. “No,” said Peter quickly, and altruistically, honest. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t like bright light anyway, and I’ll appreciate the legroom.” “Thank you,” she said, with another genuine smile lighting up her face, slowly fading away to a steady grin. She turned back to the window after resting her eyes on him just a bit longer. Peter shoved a small backpack on to the baggage shelf between a straw hat and a small knit bag. He sat down in the crimson seat, shuffled a bit, working out whether or not he was going to be able to stand it for a whole day. The arm rest went up and down, he discovered, and even folded further out to do God knew what. Pretty cool, anyway. He stretched his legs out in front of him – there was no need to put them in the aisle, the front row of seats had plenty of room, unlike the others. When he appeared settled the woman spoke to him again. “Thanks,” she repeated. “I like to look out the window on a long journey. It helps me feel a little less cramped in.” She grinned. Peter smiled back, aware how nice it is to be around someone who smiles all the time. Say something cool, he thought, say something cool so she’ll like you and she won’t think you’re a dick. “Hmmmm,” he said. Nothing happened for a while. No one got on the train after Peter, and apart from a slight increase in engine noise they didn’t seem to be getting very far. “Looks like you’ve plenty of legroom up the front here anyway, doesn’t it?” Peter looked up suddenly from his silent thoughts. “What? Oh. Yeah.” Silence again. “I wouldn’t know about being cramped in,” he said. She turned to him, perplexed. “I’ve never been on a trip this long before, it’s my ... normally I travel around in little bits at a time,” he finished. “Oh,” she said, now following what he was talking about. “So are you from Auckland?” She pronounced it “Ockland”. 17

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“Um, yeah,” said he. The more he looked at her the prettier she looked – even that wasn’t right, she surely transcended pretty. That sounded altogether too patronizing, especially as she was at least in her late twenties. But then again, Peter was a lousy guesser at age. Beautiful? Sure. That sounded a lot better. He noticed her eyebrows were dark. Ah-ha, he thought quietly. “Oh ... sorry, what did you say?” His body shivered warmly as he shook off his silent gazing. “I said,” she paused for breath, “what are you going to Wellington for?” “Oh, right, um, university,” he muttered. “Really? Victoria?” “That’s the only uni there.” “Yeah,” she said. “First year, is it?” Peter sighed. “That obvious, is it?” “Just a good guess.” She smiled again. “I’m Sarah Howe.” Peter was just slightly taken aback by how quickly she introduced herself; people he met hardly ever seemed bothered about properly introducing themselves. “Um, Peter,” he breathed, slightly intimidated by her friendliness while at the same time strangely at ease. “Peter,” she almost laughed, nicely, as if happy to hear his name, she talked almost in a giggle, definitely very American, or his idea of an American at any rate. “Do you have a second name, Peter?” “Yeah.” He reddened. “And it is ...” she led. “Peterson.” Her smile vanished for a split second and then it flew back across her face. “Really?” “Yeah, really. I can show you my driver’s license if you like.” “No, that’s OK., Peter Peterson, I believe you.” “Thanks,” he said. “When my mum got divorced she later decided to change back to her maiden name, and I was too young to mind. It was just a silly little coincidence, and I’ve never felt like changing it so I guess I’ll just live with it.” Peter suddenly realized that 18

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the train was going, and must have been going for a few minutes. He didn’t point this out to Sarah in case she thought he was stupid. Then the intercom buzzed into life. A distorted and slightly effeminate male voice echoed through the train. Peter didn’t really listen, he’d heard similar on shorter journeys to Tauranga, Hawke’s Bay and other sunny getaways. “My name is Bob, Debbie and I will be looking after you today ...” He started looking out the window past Sarah’s face, at the farms and the road, and then he started looking at Sarah. Her jawline was so strong – it was beautiful, not the least unsightly or too big. Her mouth was determined under that awesome smile, but pouty, like a collagen warzone. Quite a sculpture; he giggled inwardly. He wondered how old she was, and where exactly she was from, and why she was on this train, and why she was so bloody nice to talk to. “... and may I remind passengers that smoking is not permitted anywhere on this service, and that doing so may result in prosecution in court.” Peter first felt puzzled by that remark and then started to laugh. So did Sarah, and she turned to laugh with him. Embarrassed to be caught looking at her Peter turned away. “My god!” she said. “I can’t believe he said that!” “Neither. What a dork,” laughed Peter, getting the courage to look at her slightly. “... and if you aren’t going there, then don’t get off the train.” Now, Sarah and Peter, they were laughing away pretty damn hard at this strange announcement; meanwhile, in the rest of the seats, the carriages, other passengers were either wondering about the two weirdos in the front seats, probably high on drugs or drunk, or they were unamused, because it’s useful to hear these things and a smoke would go down really well, you’re basically seen as a terrorist if you smoke these days, aren’t you, or they were in a world of their own, how many hours, wish the cheap old bastard would pay a little bit extra for a flight, instead of wasting a whole day – how many hours is that? Besides look at those two, she’s old enough to be his mother. Americans. “All items on sale may be purchased and taken back to your seat.” 19

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“Oh, God, what an idiot!” Sarah was enjoying herself; perhaps she was laughing at the stupid hick Kiwi conductor, but Peter didn’t think she was that kind of person. “What a fuckin’ stupid job to have,” he chimed in, laughing heartily until he stopped with his mouth forming an “oh, I swore” look, hoping he hadn’t offended her. But if she had a problem with it she certainly didn’t indicate so. He breathed a sigh of relief inwardly. Whew. The man on the intercom prattled on about toilets, fire extinguishers, emergency stops and not falling off the train. Peter remained largely oblivious to it now, caught up in a strange nervous knot over this Sarah woman. Who was she, why was he talking to her so easily, and how come she wasn’t making fun of him? “... a bit about the train, when early New Zealand rail engineers were faced with some of the dilemmas of the New Zealand landscape ...” Sarah didn’t notice the way Peter was staring, or if she did she paid no mind. She said something about “Monty Python” and an Eric Idle routine. Peter smiled back. “... a spiral that goes around and through the hills for hundreds of ...” “What!” he said suddenly. Everything was wrong, it was lying on its side. God, the train must have derailed – no, Peter realized, he was lying down, over the arm rest. His head was on someone’s lap. Hands were on his head. Was he OK? Trying to think through several bales of wool, he twisted around until he saw Sarah’s face staring down at him. “Hello!” she chirped. He sprang up, nearly colliding with her head, without realizing it. “Oh, God, I’m sorry – I–” he spluttered, and then stopped, confused. She smiled and set him at ease. “You fell asleep and then slid over here. You looked so sweet, I just didn’t have the heart to wake you.” “Oh, God, I’m sorry, man, I’m really sorry,” he pleaded. She leaned over and put her hand on his. “It’s OK Peter. Really, lighten up – it’s no big deal.” He relaxed his muscles slightly. “You can be however you want to be around me.” Their eyes met. He felt an urgent need to go to the toilet. Getting 20

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up quickly he mumbled, “Have to go to the loo,” and fled to the tiny little cubicle, paying scant attention to his surroundings. The trains rocking knocked him all over the walls as he struggled to sit down. He was filled with that feeling you get, all adrenalin and heaving breath, when you come into contact with what seemed to Peter to be “real” life. He could still feel her hand on his. “A dollar-fifty.” Peter nearly coughed up a furball when he heard the price for the packet of chips, but he bought them anyway. It was one of those tiny foil sealed packets (packed for freshness!) with about three cheese and onion rippled chips inside, but what the hey, he got an over-priced Coke as well. If only this dining car had sit down seats like on some of the other trains he’d been on, then he could stay here some more while the train flew across the land forever, avoiding Sarah, avoiding her eyes, avoiding her American (or Canadian) ways. Why? He didn’t know. She was an older woman who couldn’t possibly be interested in him. She was gorgeous, he knew that now, and she put butterflies in his stomach and uppers in his veins. She might not be interested in Peter, but she sure as hell made herself appealing to him. He should just enjoy the whole cool thing. Just a cheap thrill. Enjoy the excitement. Enjoy the mysterious woman on the train so you can think about her in the weeks to come and kick yourself and wonder why you didn’t try to be a little more suave, or cool, like Harrison Ford. Be laid back and don’t worry about a damn thing. Why not? Why not even talk to her, find out where she’s from, what she’s doing here and what her hair colour was originally? Why not? ’Cos you’re a chickenshit little boy, that’s why not. He sipped his Coke. He mentally splashed water on his face and tried to breathe. He went back to his seat. They sat in silence for a while, she lost in thought, he lost in her, and wondering about the grim spectre of enrolment week. The horror stories he’d heard about queuing for hours and hours and numerous form filling made him seek refuge in thoughts of Sarah as much as 21

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possible. Finally he spoke. “So, where are you from, exactly?” She turned to him blankly. “Hmmmmm?” came a voice, from another planet. “Uh,” Peter hesitated, “where are you from?” “Oh, right.” She shook slightly, the light came back into her eyes, her smile made her lips seem so much fuller. “I’m from California,” she said. Cool, thought Peter. “Cool,” said Peter. “Eyeah.” She shrugged her face; maybe it was cool, maybe it wasn’t, but it weren’t no big deal. “Before coming here I was living in San Diego – you heard of that?” “Uh-huh,” he nodded, “they had the America’s cup there.” “Yeah, I guess. I move around a lot. It’s my first time in New Zealand.” She pronounced his country’s name like all Americans seemed to – made it sound like a place you never heard of, made you feel like an alien or something, like it’s a place to travel to, an exotic third world destination but not a real land where real people live and have the same things Americans do. Only cleaner, greener, smaller, bigger, fresher, nicer, more and less conservative, and a million times slower, so put that in your pipe and smoke it (in a smoking zone, of course, you arrogant Yankee pig dog). It’s a good bet we’ll live longer than all of them, mused Peter, and yet they’ll still complain when they’re in our green and happy little island that we don’t sell Twinkies or whatever similar icon. And for the record, New Zealand is bigger than the UK. “Wow. You must be the first Californian I’ve ever met.” She laughed. He reflected a bit more. “Actually, you’re the only American I’ve met. I think. Isn’t it funny to think you know so much about something without ever ... having, um ... come into, like, contact with it?” She twirled her head slightly and asked with a sly smile, “And what is it you New Zealanders think of us Americans?” and she was so genuine, no malice, only curiosity. His chest felt light, his head felt 22

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dizzy, and Petey was an honest boy. “That you’re all stupid.” He was only slightly embarrassed; she laughed a whole lot. “Yeah, I guess we are at that.” Turning to him, continuing. “But it seems most people are, no matter where I go in this world”. “You mean me.” Wide-eyed, probably. Silly little boy. “No, Peter. I don’t know you well enough to call you stupid. You seem bright to me – hell, you’re going to college, aren’t you–?” “Uni.” “University, sorry, so you can’t be really dumb.” “Well,” he said, “that doesn’t mean much, not if you knew some of the people I know that are going. Having the money is mostly the biggest hurdle.” “And what about me?” Sarah asked, a laugh in her throat. “What about you, what?” Peter trembled, playing dumb. “What about me? What am I?” “You?” he thought out loud, adrenalin clouding his brain. “I think you’re the nicest person I’ve met in a long time.” “Thank you,” she said, very, very sincerely. “And you’re not dumb.” “No, I’m not.” She clapped her hand on his shoulder. “You’re an honest man, Peter, man it’s refreshing.” Peter blushed big time and said “Ta”.

23

Chapter Two He hadn’t realized it at the time, but the short fat guy who took the tickets was really Buddha. “Seek and you shall find,” he said, and Peter looked, and there she was, standing surrounded by cloud from the train, or was it fog? Rolling in up the street, through skylights, in his eyes, up his nose. He looked back at Buddha (short fat guy) and was told “Go now, lord, take her into your lair, make her one of us.” Buddha had lost weight; he was skinny, had red eyes, and was Peter. “That’ll be three dollars. Thank you!” He gave Peter two bucks change. Peter left Peter and went to Sarah, walking on luggage, trying not to fall over. She was naked. Her breasts were full. They smiled at him. She opened her wide mouth and they embraced and she was tearing at his throat and devouring him whole in the middle of the train. She was holding a cup of coffee in each hand; they spilled slightly from the train’s motion, but at least she didn’t drop them. “Here you go, Petey!” “Fuck!” he yelled. In retrospect he was amazed she hadn’t let the cups fly all over him, burning him to a cinder. She must have damn good nerves. She was sitting in her seat regarding him with amusement as he came to grips with the fact that she wasn’t eating him alive. Go ‘darn it, he thought cleverly. Clever my ass, you pig. Sorry. Sleep fell from him quicker than usual. It was high noon, his face felt on fire, it needed ice. They were rocketing along in the middle of 25

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nowhere. She handed him the coffee just as he’d described it before he fell asleep – “Real strong, spot of milk and a quarry load of sugar.” He sipped it carefully, but it was cool enough for him to gulp. He sat back and closed his eyes and sighed. “That’s a good caffeine spike. For instant,” he said. She smiled as he peered at her through scratchy eyes. “Thanks Sarah.” “Hey, what are friends for.” Friends. He could almost believe it. He did believe. They’d talked for several hours straight, an animated corner of a dreary tin can full of dead tuna in their own juice. But these two fish were still kicking. They’d talked about themselves a little bit, mostly about relevant and important things like movies, philosophies, memories, places, just deep and fulfilling small talk. And there was so much he wanted to say, wanted to ask, just as soon as his heart started going again. Ahhh, there – it jolted. “How much do I owe you?” “Forget it.” Sarah made a dismissive motion. “No, really, these days you can’t afford it. Take care of the pennies, my mum used to say...” answered Peter. “What does she say now?” Peter thought for a moment. “Pay for it yourself. I can’t afford it. And sometimes, why don’t you ask your damn father?” Sarah laughed. Peter was glad, he’d meant it humorously. She understood him so well, he felt, like no one he could think of. “Seriously, Peter, you’re going to have to realize I practically throw money away. And what with the university throwing more my way, it’s just plain ridiculous.” “OK,” he said happily. He’d finally gotten around to asking where she was going and he’d fully appreciated the irony of it; she was taking a lecturer’s position at the uni where he’d soon be a poor student. On top of that, it was history, which not only did he intend to study, he (mostly privately) adored. And while not teaching in any courses, he was hopeful she’d still run in to him. She had said as much herself. Additionally, she’d revealed she was very “well off ”. Inheritance 26

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from her parents who’d died eight or so years ago in an accident involving a drunk schoolteacher gave her plenty of play money in her early twenties and she’d spent those years killing time before wising up and excelling at a flash college somewhere in New York. And now she was here, at the bottom of the world because of a dart on a wall map and an enthusiastic history department who were delighted with her qualifications. This had led to the question of her age. He had until the end of the week to guess – she’d provided a little bet, instead of the oh-so – droll “it’s a woman’s business.” Whoever won, got a favour. Unconditional. Peter felt like he was in some sort of heady game where he couldn’t lose. It was all so much fun, so exciting. She excited him. Understatement. And he wasn’t thinking in puerile sexual terms anymore, either. This was not only the best eleven hour train trip he’d ever had, it was the coolest day he’d had in at least two years, since … well, story for another time. He started yapping with Sarah again. Mountains grew closer. “How often do you write?” asked Sarah. She had her “serious conversation” look on, as opposed to her “smile and give the world warm fuzzies” look. Peter was relieved she wasn’t an airhead. “Um, not for – a year or two maybe? It’s not very good stuff, mostly angst-ridden poems. I mean, I did a little bit while I’ve been bumming around for the last few months.” She asked him if he had any with him. He reached up to the luggage shelf and got his backpack, pulling out the battered graffiti-covered hardback exercise book filled with the emotional outpourings of Peter Peterson since age fifteen. “Um,” he muttered eloquently, “what do you want to read?” “You choose. And you read it.” “Oh.” He flicked through the book. “Hang on.” There was no noise but the clickety clackety of the train, accompanied by a hollow rumble, as the postcard landscape flew by with no sound at all. Above it all was the slow turning of pages and the tiny sound of a Walkman in the seat behind the pair. “How come you keep falling asleep? You narcoleptic or something?” 27

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Peter went “Wha–?” absorbed in reading. “Narco what?” “Narcoleptic. It’s like a disease where you keep falling asleep, uncontrollably, or something similar.” Her “professional curiosity as a traveller of the world” look. “Um, no. I just stay up too late. I’m not much of a morning person.” “How late?” “Early late. As in, early in the morning. All night, last night. The only sleep I’ve had was on your lap, and before.” He was starting to notice the grotty feeling in his stomach as he remembered he was hitting a twenty-eight hour stretch. “Sleep deprivation is much safer than doing hallucinogens.” “True,” she agreed, “but less colourful.” He half laughed, not sure whether she was joking. “You get some groovy times, anyhow,” he continued, “and especially if you’re sleeping through the day, your dreams get so vivid,” – breasts full and round, teeth at his throat – “it’s like having hundreds of movies going off at once. It’s awesome.” “Is that why you don’t like bright light? Because you’re a night person?” “Yeah, ‘I’m melting, I’m melting!’” he mimicked. “Bad habit I’ve picked up, being a lazy slob.” “You’re not a slob. Look at the way you dress, how you carry yourself.” Peter responded with a blank look. “I am lazy,” he argued. “I’ll take your word for it.” She smiled. “C’mon, you little vampire, read me something, read me something!” She acted like a little girl on Christmas day as well. The “little girl” look. He loved her lack of restraint. She was cooler than Elvis. Maybe even as cool as Han Solo. “I’ve got just the thing, now that you’ve mentioned it,” he replied enigmatically. “It was never finished, but–” “Anything, anything!” She pulled her legs up to sit on the seat cross-legged and sat against the window, attentively, shoeless feet poking out into space above the armrest. He folded it back for her; her feet slid onto his leg, covered in shiny dark stockings. He didn’t mind. 28

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It was the first time he registered what she was wearing, one of those long floral dresses that was the fashion. Safe, nothing daring, but quite alright with Peter. “OK, hold your horses.” He turned to the place. She slapped his arm – “C’mon, c’mon.” He ahemmd and said, “OK, OK. “‘The vampire in summer’,” he read. She squeezed his arm. He continued. She stands beneath a midnight sun, her hair as soft as raven’s wing, burnt black and fine to catch the moon it flutters in the breeze. This wind it whispers through her locks past golden eyes of fire, green flame inside them keeps her warm to let her muse the more. Paused inside this silver realm, the night her only cloak, bare feet atop the bristly grass, the sound it comes again. A witch’s screech, a warlock’s door, the chains swing back and forth, and now beneath a globe of grey a figure perched on wood. The girl skips near, a lighted soul, curiosity becoming at this darkened ghost of morbid play who flies straight through her sight. Swinging to and fro as hinges squeak, groan and protest, the figure stops and turns his head, a call upon his smile. Come play with me this holy night, the coal deep eyes insist, she tiptoes forth and bats a grin and then they join in flight. And now her view changed of the night as descent shows her the ground, then back past leaf and dirt and snail as stars glow once again. Hours or days, it matters not how long this journey lasts, till both 29

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these travellers, light and dark, plant feet upon this earth. She giggles, hand up to her mouth, he grins and bares his teeth, they glint and shine and make her giddy, his eyes make her insane. The chains be stilled as they alight, the swings now calm as castles, the heat tonight it leaves him flying, she stands burning bright for more. It’s clear to him in searing sense that a child of the light is she, and he, a creature of the dark cannot resist the glow. His wicked tongue across his teeth will bind her heart and mind, his own dark need be not fulfilled, tonight a shared temptation. Light child, you know not what I am nor what I seek to give, be it death spawned by my sacred hunger or life eternal in my kiss. She smiles in bemusement, disbelief of dark intent on such a crisp and moonlit night as this, the mood is just too perfect. Strange gentleman, I fear you seek to scare me from this place, as if the night were but your own and not meant to be shared. He cocks his head, hair unruly, face slightly at smile, and with his coat invites the girl to walk with him and listen. Night’s beast I am, the scourge of light, not evil and not good, the dark I simply be to snuff the glow out of the day. This time is hard for all my kind, for sun we may not see, bright burning rays stay up too late and rise again too soon. The pair pass through a lighted wood, bathed in moon’s blue glow, as creatures small and fearful break the bracken all around. 30

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Neither said anything for a while. Eventually, Peter gave in – “I know, I’m a terrible poet, and it’s not finished–” “No, no,” she insisted, gleefully grabbing his shoulders. “I loved it. I really did. I want more.” He looked at her reproachfully. “Hey are you just ...?” “Peter, I don’t care what other people may think about poetry. Most of them have no talent. But that was, to me, beautiful. And that’s all that matters.” “Really?” he gasped hopefully. “Petey, I promise I am not in any way pulling your dick,” she said, in a tone that sounded as if she was explaining it to a six-year-old. He blushed incredibly as his thoughts made lewd comments. “I don’t know if I like you calling me Petey,” was all he could say. “Was that what you were thinking just now?” she asked, in her “giggly nice person” voice. “Is that what the tomato imitation was?” “Hey, c’mon,” he protested. She’d taken his hands, he felt like the sheep that just saw the slaughterhouse. His hooves felt like they’d bolt any second. “Peter Peterson, shut up for a second and listen to me.” Peter shut up. “I like you. A whole bunch. And I figure you like me too. There’s nothing wrong with us getting on. OK?” He sort of nodded, but not very well. His face burned. She placed a finger under his chin, pushing his head up. Her nail pressed hard into his skin, his heart was somewhere in his ears. “I think you’re a great guy, and no matter what YOU might think, YOU’RE NOT A KID! You don’t act like a kid, you don’t act like a dork.” He recoiled in half-surprise, half-shame. His mouth opened and nothing came out. “Please, I can’t help the way I am.” He stared into her eyes as she spoke, numb in an internal white water rush. “I don’t want to offend you, I’m not trying to hit on you. I just want to be friends.” She shook his hand with both of hers. His body shook with them. “GOOD friends. Can we just take it from there? I’m just Sarah, and you’re just Peter. Or Petey.” The cheek. And that pretty much summed up why he liked her. 31

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He thought for a while, seeing nothing. She was right. He had all these preconceived ideas, he guessed, but home was far behind, a whole new world was ahead, and here was a part of it. But when he thought about it real hard with his eyes screwed up tight and everything, he realised he didn’t feel an age difference. Just a really cool feeling. And when he looked at her he didn’t see an old person, or one of his older sister’s friends. He saw Sarah. And besides, her skin was so flawless, and her eyes ... “...” he said. She sat there. “I think I love you,” he said. She smiled a BEAUTIFUL smile with her tongue caught between her teeth. “No, not yet. But give us a hug, huh?” They embraced, his eyebrows flew up and his heart did a little boogie.

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Chapter Three The train screeched into Wellington about 8 p.m. Coming in was one of the most beautiful things Peter had ever experienced. He and Sarah hunched up at the tiny window, one arm clinging around the other’s middle, the other arm shielding the light so they could see the city. His first glimpse of Wellington was of a sleeping beast, covered in thousands of low stars, an orange sky above it. He’d find out later that’s how it mostly was – burning clouds so low you could almost touch them, flying over so fast, made you feel slow. No one knew where they went, apart from south-east. The lights sunk down into the sea, which lapped high around the graceful low skyline, nestled in dark shadowy mountains and hills. He loved it immediately. It felt safe. It felt real. It felt alive. They stood hand in hand, with numb butts, as the averagelooking guy and a bearded short guy unloaded the luggage belonging to the crowd of humming passengers all pushing forward to find beerlabelled roll bags and battered tan cases. Peter and Sarah just stayed under an orange neon light, just happy, floating through a magic night. Young Mr. Peterson had long since thrown logic out the window and just rolled with it, as his tour guide showed him a relationship totally alien in his experience. When most of the pests had fled they strolled forward. Peter located his menacing case with its single wheel, Sarah looked overbalanced with an enormous long, soft bag stuffed with, well, stuff, and a box with a cardboard handle in the other hand. She had a straw 33

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hat on her head and a knit bag on her back; Peter had his backpack. They walked leisurely through the station past a closed sort-of-dairy – thingy, across the ceilinged (as in, high) lobby, not as enormous as in Auckland but much cleaner, friendlier, safer feeling. Past a thousand post office boxes and down the front steps – bump bump! Watch it! – Peter saw more taxis lined up than he’d seen in one place in his whole life. The couple didn’t avail themselves. Instead they sat at a cheap barbecue table eating hot dogs and drinking milkshakes (she chocolate, he banana) from a twenty-four-hour mobile diner parked on the street, like Peter had often eaten from in Queen Street. She asked him where he was going. He said he couldn’t take up residence in his hostel until the next morning and that he was supposed to stay with his aunt, who lived somewhere named Brooklyn. Sarah said she was going to crash at a motel somewhere in town she had a reservation at. Any other time in his life conservative Peter would have declined. Any other night of his life responsible Peter would have cautiously decided that perhaps it would be better if they called it a day. Any other time feeling sensitive Peter would have explained that he better go stay with his aunt. But unsurprisingly, at this moment, this night, so happy, so giddy, in a different world, Peter was going to follow Sarah anywhere he could. Even though his bones ached, his mouth felt horrible, his vision was blurring and his internal sleep–o–meter was ringing its alarm bell to pieces. He said, sure. He wasn’t going to Brooklyn tonight, whether it be America or Wellington. He was going to Sarah. The motel turned out to be a hotel, the best one in town. She dialled nine. “Hi, yeah, can we have ...” “A hamburger!” “A hamburger, and some fries, um the venison thing. A salad. The green one ... cheesecake. Oh, do you have champagne? ... yeah, stupid question, just testing, you never know ... excellent. Thank you!” She hung up. She smiled at Peter. “Wa-hoo!”he cried. He leapt on to the bed and bounced satisfyingly. 34

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“You’re welcome, little piglet!” she said, joining him, and bouncing higher, her blonde bob flying about her as best it could manage. “Hey!” Peter yelped, defending his appetite. “With a stroke of luck Peter has made a wonderful, beautiful friend–” “Why, you flatterer,” she said mockingly. “–who’s also incredibly rich!” The pillow caught him in the face by surprise, the fright dropped him off the bed. “Just call me Mr. Golddigger!” came a voice from the floor. Sarah pulled herself to the edge of the bed and looked over. “Why, Peter Peterson, I didn’t know you cared!” She fluttered her lashes at him. “How come you’re blinking?” he enquired. “I’m not blinking, I’m batting!” she said. Play enraged, she launched herself at him and chased him around the room until the war came to a cease-fire amidst the wreckage of complimentaries of various descriptions. Shampoo dripped down Sarah’s nose, shaving cream had turned Peter into Santa Claus and the toilet paper was a goner (with Peter’s leg half mummified). “That’ll teach you!” they said at the same time. There was a knock at the door. Several plates and a bottle of Moet later they were engaged in fierce debate. “I mean, I can see your point, I suppose, it set the standard and all, but compared to–” “Oh, come on,” Sarah interjected. “Are you telling me that stupid thing with the stuffed toy had anywhere as much style as bare feet full of glass?” “Not the style I’m talking about–” attempted Peter. Sarah, with what was becoming the usual, passionately cut him off. “Hans Gruber leaves Shelly Marcone in the dust any day of the week.” “Yeah, but as sidekicks you have to go with Wayans, surely.” “Not necessarily; maybe, but the one-liners were so trite. Amusing once, but their watchability soon disintegrates in the face of ‘Ho ho ho, now I have a machine gun’.” 35

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“Sarah,” Peter said sternly, in an effort to defuse the situation, “I take it back. All I meant was that they’re both right up there, but I remember enjoying it so much more! I mean, they’re not really in the same field, just the same leading man.” “Hah!” Sarah stalked off into the bathroom. Peter played with the stationery, drawing a few devils chasing a professor with big pointy sticks. Sarah came back out. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I take The Last Boy Scout over Die Hard, you evil little person.” Peter waved his hand in a settle down motion. “I promise I’ll remember that.” She came over and hugged him. “Peter Peterson, you have got to be the most damnably gorgeous eighteen-year-old I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a hotel room with. Where have you been all my life?” He grinned back at her, delirious in a way he’d never been before, apart from the drunk part of him. “In school, stupid.” They clung to each other some more, a hug only people who love each other dearly as fine company can do. “Casablanca versus Gone With the Wind? I’ll take Bogie any day of the week.” She slapped him with the pillow. “Don’t you dare!” she hollered. They talked until the sun came up. Peter had been basically awake for around forty-six hours, and for the record, they didn’t try and kiss each other once, except for the cheek and the forehead (which is OK). Peter splashed the remains of a cupped handful of water on his face and stared at the mirror in a dramatic, gaunt fashion. The effect was ruined by the steam that had obscured the glass; all he could see was blurry pink skin and dark, dark hair. Oh well, while struggling for effect, at least he genuinely felt bombed out. He was now in his hostel, safe and sound amongst his age group, although any first day functions designed for meeting people were no good. Peter had slept for most of three days, emerging occasionally for some of the meals served on a three-a-day basis, all bad, not counting the breakfast cereals. Even en masse catering groups find it hard to ruin cereal out of a box. 36

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He wandered back to his room, safe little box. A couple of hundred students ran loose in the halls of the hostel, a collection of buildings of various ages, sizes, and quality. Glad he’d scored a single room, Peter hid from the world in his tidy wooden home, struggling with his memories. Sarah and the train trip and the hotel. They were on his mind constantly, either in the forefront of his thoughts or lurking in the back behind dreams and eating. It felt like the lingering after effects of a really powerful movie, scenes flashing through all the time, and he growing less sure by the second if everything had really happened the way he remembered it. After they’d left the hotel way too early, they’d shared a taxi ride to their new homes. She’d dropped him off in front of the hostel before taking off for a house in a suburb beginning with K. “See you round,” her voice left hanging in the air, and he believed it, and then ... And then his poor, addled consciousness realized he didn’t know how to get in touch with her, or she him (apart from this building). Not really. He was very confused and the sun made him feel sick. The sky was pale, pale blue, on a far off hill a windmill ill had twirled. He’d gone in the front door across a cobblestone yard and checked in during a hallucinogenic trance. Someone had led him up stairs and round corners, down halls and into the room where he now lay, staring at a ceiling that offered no answers. He’d clung to the key for dear life. Now he supposed he must get on with the mundane and get his shit together. Though hyped as being but a few minutes’ walk from the university, the hostel’s poor inhabitants still had to struggle (along with others in a similar situation) up a disgustingly difficult hill which, before noon, may as well have been a brick wall to Peter. Nevertheless, on the next fine day he took it in little steps with many pauses, to enrol. He knew it ran a good chance of being the first and last such agonizing trip. Why the cable car was down the other end of town when it was needed up here was beyond him. He paid scant attention to his surroundings, just following the signs today, description could come next week. Reality was eluding him, a surreal town, a surreal week. The paperwork waiting for him woke him up quickly. 37

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“Hi, can I help you?” ”Uh, where do I–” wave documents carefully gotten ready. “That table there.” Points. “Hi, how can I ...?” Wait wait wait. “Thanks.” Wait. “Yes, OK, now you go to ...” “... yes, that’s what we need. Oh, hang on, this has to be confirmed by the ...” “Is this where I ...?” “...you better go see him first.” “I’ve got the ...” “Sure, well this has been filled now, how about ...” Repeat. “OK, she’ll sign this, then you go ... here.” Points. Follow signs. Down stairs. Queue. “OK.” Like a nightclub. “Follow me.” “Hi, you got your ...” “... these are my ...” Tappity tappity tap. “Well, now you just go through there!” “Thanks.” Exit sign. Not the end. “... your name ...” Yucky photo! “... this is your free ...” “Finally, something free.” “That’ll be $2,145; will you be paying by ...?” “...receipts. That’s my pen ...” Security guards? Green and blue carpet like a seventies Air New Zealand terminal on a trip to Sydney when he was four years old. Amazingly, the whole thing took forty-five minutes, no real horror story, and Peter was free, new paper in hand. He strolled casually through the halls and corridors, foyers, over bridge, down stairs, some covered in lino, some outside and concrete. There were lots of people, many of them overdressed. Coming out of one building with uncertain 38

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purpose and down some steps he ran across three people he knew from Auckland. Their names were Melinda, Elf (an alias), and Joshua. He knew them all from his last few months of slacking about, friends through friends, and they’d kind of hung out there towards the end. Joshua was quiet and dark with a big smile, Elf was a slender waif with a shaved head and a voice much bigger than she, pretty as those pastries in bakeries that everyone’s mouth waters over but you never buy, and Melinda was, well, what is generally referred to as the ex-girlfriend and Peter was still a little funny about it, so no description. They were still trying to work out as friends, but it was a bit awkward for them both, which is as best as can be at eighteen. They all did the chat thing, catching up, describing where they lived – the trio were flatting somewhere in town above a shop, it sounded too groovy to be real. Peter filled in vague details, nothing that was on his mind. They compared classes and he noticed (and counted) the pieces of metal in Melinda’s face, new since he’d seen her last (two more in the ear, one in the nose), they glinted when she swung her ever-increasingly longer and darker hair. The small talk soon ceased for Peter and they all stopped too, looking at him then following his gaze. Sarah was wearing an off-white knit coat, beige beret, and something black underneath. She had a smile on her face as she approached and then embraced him. He almost melted with a delicious combination of adrenalin shock and happiness as she quietly said, “Hello, Peter,” in his ear. His arms wrapped around her tightly and squeezed. When they parted, still amidst the others, he was faced with the dreadful task of introductions, but of course she beat him to it. “Hi, I’m Sarah Howe.” She extended her hand to Melinda, and Elf, and Joshua – until the thankless moment had passed. Using her natural tact, delicacy, and lack of probing curiosity, she’d swear to it, Melinda asked Sarah, “So, how do you know Peter – are you a student here or ...?” and Sarah, familiarity not being a problem, responded in kind. 39

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“Oh, we met on the train from Auckland.” Ockland. “Actually, I’m going to be a history lecturer here once things get rolling–-” “Oh,” said Melinda. “–but it’s still a bit messed up.” Sarah turned back to Peter, pulling out a little black diary thingamajig, Velcro tab and plastic pockets and everything. ”We left in such a hurry and all, I just wasn’t thinking.” “Yeah,” he said, more than a little self-conscious now that he’d discovered Sarah wasn’t a dream, but part of the same reality as people he knew. “Neither.” She tore off a piece of paper after writing on it with a black ink pen and handed it to him. “That’s my address and phone number. I’m in a place called, Ka-ra-ree?” “Uh, Karori,” uttered Joshua, licking his lips and looking at the ground. “Ha ha, yeah,” she laughed, “still haven’ got the hang of the vowels! Better get a grip by Monday, hey?” and laughed some more. The others laughed slightly, a common fear of the unknown pervading. “Anyway, that’s where I am, so give me a call, I’m home most nights it looks like, at the moment, so we’ll arrange something, OK?” “Yeah, cool,” said Peter, his face his own worst enemy as a smile broke out. “Um, I can’t remember my phone number yet, but I’ll prob’ly call you tonight.” “Good!” She poked him in the shoulder. “I’ll be expecting it. Buh-bye!” and she turned and left, her coat spinning out a little, blond bob flicking like a hair commercial. “Whoa,” said Joshua. “Who was that?” “That,” said Peter, “was Sarah.” They’d all gone their own ways at that point, arranging a lunch together for the next day, a Friday. “Old faces should stick together for a while until we’re too cool to hang out with each other,” as Elf put it. Peter trundled down the hill (or sheer drop, if you will) at a mighty pace, with his friend gravity assisting. On a sudden high and not wanting to waste it he stuffed his papers in the hostel room and grabbed important 40

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items like wallet and sunglasses (which he had cursed himself many times that day for forgetting) and then proceeded down the hill into a new and unexplored wilderness ... town. In the first few hours passing through a new home one absorbs much. Texture, colour, feel, atmosphere, whether the people are similar or different compared to a previous home’s inhabitants. These observations can be thrilling, predictable or tiring, but they are always so fresh, for while one may believe the next corner holds no surprises when on familiar territory, the new arrival knows not what they shall find, be it street or garbage or dragon. On his first outing into town after the despicable amount of time spent lying asleep in the hostel Peter caught the lie of the land well enough to feel a blueprint that would serve him for the rest of his time in Wellington. The city is central to everything, unlike the cancerous growth of Auckland from which he’d sprung. It looked good, it felt good and old buildings were everywhere, safe from the ravages of car parks and markets and wastelands. The shiny glass and steel structures of the late 20th century certainly appeared to have their heads bowed out of respect for the intricate brick stone and even wood buildings of old. And that was just when he looked up. When he kept his head down, as almost anyone in any town anywhere does, possibly for fear of the sky collapsing, he noticed the people, the shop fronts, the buskers, the hawkers. He saw individuality instead of conformity. He recognized the dull echo of Auckland in Lambton Quay, which stretches through the central business district to Parliament – the famous and ugly icon that is the Beehive, the boring tower blocks that hide many civil servants, and the formerly beautiful original buildings now covered in scaffolding in an attempt to resuscitate them. The supposed seat of power in the land (the real one being across the road and on the corner). This place died every evening at six as the last bus, full of navy coloured suits (bar the driver) pulled away until it returned to give birth the next morning, reviving the Quay like a phoenix. Yet even 41

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here those with a haircut or a shirt or no tie or a pair of shoes different to the rest were allowed to walk this street unmolested by the foul presence that hovered over Queen Street. And as he went further away down a blazed trail – Willis Street to Manners Mall, where the road dies and turns to stone – the individual nature of each and every person on this earth becomes undeniable. And not a single one, not even the try hard street kids due home by 11 o’clock, God bless their pouting little faces, not one exuded a feeling of menace, of “how dare you be you”. But for Peter, past the paved cobblestones of the Mall, past the old red letterbox still alive in the concrete, past the franchises of all descriptions, the crowning glory was Cuba Street. Upper Cuba Street. It felt old. The buildings weren’t scary, but they were wise, and they lay back like tigers, ready to pounce at the sight of a paint job. The stores were cheaper looking and contained wares not assembled or manufactured, but grown; grown in wardrobes, in ovens, in hearts, in brains. And the people – boy, girl, woman, man – lines blurred, reality fractured for an instant as it seemed nothing was how he remembered the world to be. He thought a rainbow coloured Mohawk had never looked so cool in all its tacky rebelliousness. Or that a dozen pierced body parts had looked sexy instead of dirty. Or leather that fit rather than flaunted. Or boots. Or chains and spurs. Dirty T-shirts. Dirty beards. Snotty young arrogance. Old foolish drunkenness. Flaunt it. Wear it. Nobody cares. It really felt like nobody cared. Especially when reality readjusted itself and he saw “normal” (familiar looking) people and business people and school people. And him. He could have believed no one would ever call him a geek or an idiot or uncool or anything ever again. Yes, he decided. He could live here. After he’d returned to the hostel, framed by a grey-grey sky and rush hour traffic, he didn’t go back to bed. He hopped around a bit. He unpacked his stereo and tried to blow the speakers. And he went downstairs for dinner – and company. In a communal dining hall – for students in their own hostel 42

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– one might expect the poor penny saving people lined up like little piglets at a trough for the free meal(s) included in their fair and reasonable board payments. (And like any myth there is generally a kernel of truth at the core. In this case the kernel is very, very small. Even without an extravagant friend like Sarah Howe who pays for room service and drinks, life is not hard as long as a student manages their financial waste.) Firstly, the meal itself. The mashed potato is instant, and an incredulous Peter thought the guy who told him this was joking, but no, apparently it existed. As did the objects d’art covered in batter that held a remarkable similarity to Frisbees. They contained corn and a strange flour-based product that colour experts still can’t describe. It was unappetising to say the least. Chicken, red-boned and sickly, was another favourite and while jokes about salmonella and other hearty jibes concerning unpleasant food poisoning echoed from the hostellers’ mouths, sly evils like viral gastroenteritis and all his friends lurked in the dusty corner under the badly tuned piano. Still, there have to be other options, unless you’re a penny pinching “mommy’s person” swot, and here they are: The Colonel, whose eleven herbs and spices are here to protect and serve, and The Clown, whose cheerful wink bids you to slap that gherkin down on your non-biodegradable burger wrapping where some poor sod who inevitably likes the green little buggers will pick it up and return it to his brothers in his own burger. Yuk. But Peter reasoned there was good evidence to support the fact that the gherkin slice had been genetically engineered by the franchise to appeal to exactly 50% of the population. Who knows why? Ron old moves in mysterious ways indeed. But wait, a cry, how do all these intrepid fast food connoisseurs pay for their alternative dining arrangements? Why, the same way they pay for the immense amounts of alcohol they imbibe! The Student Loan – still the best deal in the land. At a measly 9% interest (pah!) with ripping good terms (if you die you don’t have to pay it back, for example) the prospective student gets their fees paid! Their books bought! And $4,500 spending money! And with a little constructive spending it can go quite a way. First stop with a new loan is to an excellent hi-fi shop. No 43

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bargain basement stereo, to be sure, only the finest handmade equipment, which, luckily, can now be mass produced in Japan for a retail value of about $1,000. Unless you’re like Peter, who already owns a machine that fits his audio needs, you’ll definitely need to upgrade from the little twin tape deck ghetto blaster you bought when you were thirteen! And besides, people, there’s an invention called the compact disc which must be experienced in mass quantities. Second – get as much of your board paid by another person as possible! You NEED the extra! And don’t tell your parent(s)/caregiver/ slush fund you’ll pay them back – they might believe you! Next – a cute way of avoiding the stiff prices for drinks at your local student watering hole. (And remember, these days it’s just not good enough if you only patronize one place! You must visit them all and get past as many bouncers as you can, underdressed and underage! Score: 200 points, is to get very, very pissed on any cheap substance with enough alcohol in it to get a Holden from Porirua to Warkworth (for the foreign readers: this is a fair way).) However, one drawback is if you’re already blind from vodka you won’t be able to prove your personliness to your paraplegic mates by downing a large number of very watered down spirits. There are more tricks to the trade, but the severe penalties for telling outsiders restrict description here, and thus they must be acquired through bitter experience and repeated attempts at a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy. So if you are a mature (i.e. older than the lecturer) student, or thinking about flatting, you’re out of luck. Try somewhere else, this digression has to die now. Remember: the aim of the game is to have fun, and not be forced into a part-time job requiring zombie-like servitude to an acne-faced overachiever who needs that assistant drive thru manager’s position to be able to feed his dog gourmet dinners. Anyway, Peter ate a mouthful of each of the three major food lumps on his plate. The guy across from him hadn’t made it that far. They looked at each other. “Pretty crap,” said the other guy. “Pile of shit,” said Peter. The two guys either side of the guy 44

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nodded, one spat a mouthful of an unidentified substance out. It didn’t look pleasant. “I’m Bill,” said the guy. “Peter. I’ve never met a Bill before.” “Neither have I.” Bill was tall, taller than Peter by the look of it, with brown hair cut short and unimaginative. He had blue eyes. He pointed to Peter’s left. “This is Wade.” “Hello.” “Hi.” He pointed to Peter’s right. ”And this is Maximillian.” “How,” said Maximillian, raising his left hand. “Pleased to meet you,” replied Peter. Maximillian asked Peter to never call him Max, on Pain Of Torture – it was cheap and tacky. He had long hair, all over, mousy brown and dead straight, and reading glasses that he was continuously taking off and then putting back on. Wade was short, had a blond mop top and left Peter with the feeling that his face had no eyes. They quickly discussed a plan of attack and agreed to meet in the foyer/reception area of the hostel, fully suited up for a full-scale operation. Peter took the opportunity to make a phone call. Though no agents of the Secret Intelligence Service were assigned to his case, a transcript might have appeared like this: Case #00429B, Peter Peterson. 6.27 p.m. Peterson dialling, rings four times. Subject 2 (female): Hello? Peterson: Hi, can I talk to Sarah, please? Subject 2: Okely dokely, two seconds ... Sarah? (pause) Subject 3 (female, presumably Sarah): Hello? Peterson: Hi, it’s Peter. Subject 3: Oh, hi, how are you? Peterson: Oh, alright. Our dinner was disgusting so we’re just going out to find some tea and I thought I’d ring you. Subject 3: Well, good. Peterson: Yes. 45

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Subject 3: So ... Peterson: Yeah, so um, what are you gonna be up to this week? Like, have you ... Subject 3: Oh, the workload should be daytime stuff, I guess. Hey, are you free tomorrow night? Peterson: Tomorrow? ... Sure. I’m not ... I’m free all the time, I guess, s’pose. You know. Subject 3: Well, how about you be outside at eight and I’ll pick you up? Peterson: OK. Subject 3: And how’s the hostel going? Peterson: Oh, good. I haven’t really met anyone yet, cos I’ve been ... busy, but there’s these three guys who I just met that I’m going out with. (Next bit unintelligible, approx. dozen words) ... they seem a bit out there, but alright. Subject (female, presumably #2): Hey, Sarah, can we go now your boy toy’s rung? Subject 3: Yeah, alright. Well, that’s Mandy ... Peterson: Who’s Mandy? Subject 3: Like a roommate, I guess. We met last year at a seminar thing in Sydney (can’t hear next bit, static and mumbles) offered to let her stay here when I found out she was here, too. Peterson: Did you buy a house? Subject 3: No, silly, (laughs) just renting this four bedroom place here. It’ll do, but I might move into the city maybe. I didn’t know it was going to be this far away – I mean, I’ve had bigger commutes, like San Diego to L.A. took about two and a half hours, but I mean I wanted to be practically on campus, I guess. Peterson: Yeah, the city would be good. Subject 3: Yeah. Subject (female, presumably #2): HELLO? C’mon, we’ll be late. Subject 3: Looks like I gotta go, Peter, sample the local culture. Peterson: Yeah, better go get my burger. Subject 3: See you tomorrow, then, eight o’clock. Peterson: OK. See ya! 46

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Subject 3: Buh-bye! (End of conversation) Three guys multiplied into twelve people. Wade, Bill and Maximillian had been joined by a Robert, a David, an Auburn (girl), Faith (ditto), Syme (boy), two more guys and two more girls. The war party was warm and easily excitable and when, with Peter in tow after quick introductions where he remarkably remembered all but four names, it exited into the evening, he realized everything felt really neat. Heck, Sarah tomorrow, burgers tonight, and no limits on personal freedom (not that there ever had been really, but Peter was too young and not ready for such self-reflection) it wasn’t surprising everything was so groovy. Downstairs, across roads with no pedestrian crossings and many angry cars, they wound their way through Wellington with good conscience and a clear sky. A half-moon shone and the burgers were afraid, with mayonnaise as only The Colonel could do it. These people were OK, pretty much, in fact, the largest group of loose individuals and like personalities (in that “rough” was what constitutes like personalities) Peter ever had seen, that he could remember. In the nineties an eighteen-year-old’s memory obviously only lasts two to three years. But he had a fun and un-lonely night, especially because the majority of them were playing night owls as well. At three in the a.m. the talk extinguished from what was left of the war party (numbering about five by then) the various individuals that were slightly above mere cyphers to him now slunk back to their hovels and abodes. Peter went to sleep about four.

47

Chapter Four Sarah returned to his dreams that night as a friend in school. They’d wandered about on a wooden jungle gym bouncing a soccer ball until Peter had taken a false step and woken up suddenly. He hated it when that happened and wondered if it had a name. The next night, at ten minutes to eight, Peter rushed from someone’s room he was loafing about in to the street in front of the hostel. He sat down on a bark garden, waiting for Sarah. At five minutes past eight a woman drove up in a metallic grey hatchback and stopped in front of Peter. The window wound down (an automatic one – slow, smooth, with a faint sexy whirr) and the woman leaned out. Her hair was black and closely cropped forward. She was quite pretty and had very full pouting lips, and high round cheekbones. “You Peter?” she asked. “Um,” he said, lifting himself off the bark garden by his hands and wiping all the crap off the back of his jeans. “Yeah.” “Cool. Sarah got tied up with some paper shit at the uni and asked me to pick you up. I’m Mandy.” She opened the door. Peter looked both ways as if he was about to cross a road Sesame Street style, and said “um” again. He saw Faith, who lived down the hall from Bill and Wade and most of the others, and she waved silently to him and took a good look at the car and Mandy before going inside the hostel. He got in the car, hoping Mandy wasn’t a psycho murderer – for all 49

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her later indifference his mother had taught him well – but not really thinking that she was. The seats were pretty comfortable for a strange new car. They were mostly grey, but had orange bits in them. Interior designers are overpaid, thought Peter. “Hi,” he said. “Hey,” replied Mandy, as the car lurched forward before he’d even buckled his belt. “So, how long have you known Sarah?” “Ahhh …” he thought about it, “a week. Almost.” “Oh. Yeah, I like her, she’s pretty neat for an American, huh?” “Yeah.” He looked out the window at trees and stuff. “She is.” They drove up to the university, small talking with the inevitable questions about what he did there, how he liked his courses (“I haven’t started them.” “Oh, true, they don’t start for a few days.” “Yeah.”) with a slight twist in this case (“So, Mandy, are you at the uni as well?” Uh huh.” “And what are you ...?” “Oh, I’m doin’ my doctorate thingy in psychology.” “I see.”) and for the remainder of the ride to the campus Peter dwelt on why someone doing her PhD didn’t realize when or if courses had started, and why she’d been in Sydney and met Sarah. They stopped outside an old New Zealand villa that was obviously part of the university, though Peter didn’t know what part, but the building had been done up nicely, with green paint that blended in to the dark hills of the Wellington landscape and white trimming so you knew it was there. It was a classic villa with the beautiful wood construction so pleasing in all its lines to the eye, big bay windows, without aluminium framing and tinted glass, and an upper balcony from which one could view all the traffic of Kelburn Parade, the main road around which the university clustered. The big front windows had stained glass tops, but their colours weren’t visible in the fading light of the daylight saved evening. The rear door to the driver’s side opened and Peter turned around. Sarah was short of breath and puffed “Hi.” He smiled back at her and said “How’s it going?” “Good, good.” she said, as they got underway again to go who knew where. Peter certainly didn’t, all he’d seen of Wellington so far 50

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had been town. Apart from a few words between Mandy and Sarah the journey continued for the most part in silence, without ever being uncomfortable. Must be a car full of thinkers. He thought about cars and how being in any car but your own or one you have been in often felt very alien, like an exciting new environment. The little differences of colour, shape and size, where the speedo might be, seemed infinitely more interesting to him than the big differences like whether he was in a Mini or a truck. Just blending and integrating yourself into this new environment so that you could feel it being an extension of you, rather than you an extension of it. The windy streets were lit with orange lights and the sky was very deep and dusky blue. The evening always felt hazy to his eyes, bare and chilling, rather than the stable feeling during continuous day or night. Karori seemed about a ten minute trip, including a very dark narrow tunnel in which it seemed the express desire of bus drivers was to squash you and your fragile vehicle against the concrete wall. Anyway, he assumed this was “Ka-ra-ree”, seeing as how they’d stopped and left the car in a small driveway and then ascended some steps and one of them had produced a key (and Peter knew it wasn’t him) and lo, the door had opened and they’d entered a large and very nice house. It was nice in that it was flasher than Peter was used to, there was much wood, nice plush and clean carpet, and the general atmosphere of a cared for habitat. “Well, this is home,” breathed Sarah, as she dropped her coat on the new looking couch. In fact, everything looked new. “Looks pretty good. All this stuff yours or was it here already?” “Uh, no, I got most of the furniture here, so, yeah, just the house isn’t mine.” She disappeared down the hall and Peter sat down in the living room. He’d tried to be both dressed up and dressed down, seeing that Sarah hadn’t mentioned what they’d be doing tonight. Jeans go a long way either way, and so does the right shirt – especially if the sleeves are rolled up. Sarah returned from a toilet flushing sound and sat down next to Peter. “Hey babe, how you been?” She snuggled closer and leaned over 51

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and hugged him. He returned it and then some, squeezing her tight to him with his head nestled in her shoulder. They both stayed there longer than they intended, and they didn’t care. A cynic who doesn’t appreciate the buzz of an unrestrained hug is someone to pity. “Well,” said Peter, “not a hell of a lot. I guess I spent most of the day in town.” He’d gotten up at about the time he was going to meet Joshua, Elf and Melinda for “the midday meal”. “I had lunch with my friends, and then spent the rest of the day just shopping and wandering and stuff.” Yes, spending. It made him feel good, seeing a ten or twenty dollar note break up and then taking away a package – a trendy paper bag, a mass produced plastic bag with a “sold” sticker across its top. Who cares about what you bought? You make change and you fill your shelves and then you get some more stuff. “Starting the term is going to be a bit of a shock for Peter Peterson, isn’t it?” smiled Sarah, then she laughed, throwing her head back, before bringing it back down and saying, “Hell, it’s going to be a whole lot of shock to Sarah Howe when she has to tell her students she doesn’t know what she’s doing yet.” Peter laughed and let her continue. “The administration must really like me a lot to put up with all the crap I’ve been giving them about this course.” “Um, I guess it’s history, but what is the course supposed to be?” asked her ardent admirer. “Well, it’s for a special topic in international historiography. What they do is bring in or have different lecturers around every few weeks to do their own sort of specialty.” She cleared her throat and got up. ”Do you want a drink or something?” “Sure.” “What?” “What you got?” She went to a cabinet and opened it up, and a little fridge next to it also, and revealed their contents. “Anything, babe.” “Um, well ...” “Beer?” she suggested. “Coke ...” she peered into the cabinet and shuffled the bottles and cans around. 52

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“Sure, all of the above will be fine.” Sarah pulled a bottle of each out for Peter and then made herself a whiskey and something, he couldn’t see what. She continued. So they have a couple of weeks’ introduction in the international stuff as a general thing. This is like a third year course so these students should be on to it by now, I hope. Anyway, then I get to do six weeks in sort of, alternative history. It’s a bit of fun.” Peter’s ears pricked up at this. This didn’t sound like anything he’d heard about in the brochures. “What does that mean?” he asked “Well, it’s like, some of the course organizers were at a seminar in Australia where I did a piece on collective historical cover-ups, mysteries, myths and misinterpretations. It can be quite sensationalist if not dealt with seriously and objectively, but anyway, I gather that this department had gone through some changes – some guy died and his replacement is very, very revisionist.” She sipped her drink for a bit. Peter finished off the Coke and opened the beer. “Anyway, they were impressed and thought it would be a neat way to open a course that is otherwise supposed to be this really over the top historiographical stuff. They offered me a position tutoring and lecturing – apparently the history department is seen as a dull option for B.A. slackers and hopeful teachers. They’re trying to give bit a facelift. That pretty much is where I want to go as well.” Peter started laughing. She looked momentarily offended. “What?” she said. “I’m sorry, that’s a really serious intense look you had there, kind of different for you, eh?” “Hey,” she defended herself, “everyone’s got a wardrobe of looks.” “Yeah, well, you’re a real smiler.” She poked her tongue out. “I thought you said you liked history?” “I do, I do,” he insisted, “but I mean, I just think it’s neat. This is the first go I’m giving it ’cos high school stuff is so shit I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot bargepole.” She pursed her lips, they went from full to thin in the blink of an eye and, as if they’d been holding it back, her hair fluttered down from either side in front of her eyes. She relaxed and brushed it back. “But 53

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you don’t think it’s very important.” “Yeah,” he said, “of course I do. I suppose.” She got off the couch and got down on her knees in front of him, placing her drink on a coffee table nearby, placing her hands on his thighs and staring up at him. He put a lot of concentration into his beer, nervously swallowing. “Let me explain my take on alternative history. I’d have called it subversive history, but I think the bow ties would have gotten a bit worried then.” What? he thought, is she teaching the evolution of LSD and homemade napalm or something? “It’s about secrets.” Her eyes glittered and Peter felt warm. She obviously felt passionate about this, something which felt to Peter like wilting textbooks or glamorous Hollywood revisionism. “It’s about people and events that make history tick. They teach you about the order things happen, and economic advances and wars. They’ve never told you about who starts the wars. Or whose money is behind it all. Or what powerful ruler changes the world in a fit of jealousy. They never put it into your head to question a goddamn thing and the only things for sure in history is that you don’t know because you weren’t there.” “Jesus,” said Peter, “you’re not going Oliver Stone on me, are you? I thought you seemed so stable.” Sarah made a little laugh somewhere deep in her throat. Mandy walked through the living room into the kitchen. She was in a world of her own. Sarah cocked her head aside for a moment. ”You like Indiana Jones?” “You offend me with your manner, cur!” cried an indignant Peter. “Alright, silly question, um – King Arthur?” He nodded. “You ever hear of the Knights Templar?” He shook a no. “OK, that sounds like a pretty good and over the top place to start. I’ll give you a book; I mean, it’s pretty famous and all, but it’s got a lot of solid stuff and should be fun, you know?” Peter mock protested. “But Ma! I ain’t got time to read no book! Harvest is any day now.” 54

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“Don’t tell me that you lazy putz.” They both chuckled. “And don’t call me your mother. I don’t want to be your mother.” “Sorry.” Peter hung his head. They sat in silence for a while, Sarah got back on the couch, stretched out with her legs and feet over Peter. Mandy passed through, oblivious, and turned the light out. All that remained was the moon’s light and the suburbs’ light, that left the room etched in bright grey and moody blue. Sarah didn’t move, so neither did Peter. “Good one, Mandy,” was all she said. Peter laughed that laugh which was just a quick exhale with your lips together. Karori seemed pretty quiet and a lot darker than the city, but then that’s what a suburb is supposed to be. “Are you happy?” asked Sarah. “Sure,” said Peter, turning his head to look at her. “No, I mean really happy.” “I guess so. Why?” “I dunno. I just wonder if either of us has ever been truly, truly happy.” She sighed. “I don’t think I have. I’m just comparatively happy.” “Well,” he said, “upon reflection, “I think I’m satisfied. Satisfyingly happy. I mean, nothing bad, and I’m having a pretty nice time. Especially because I met you, and all.” “Thanks,” she said, sitting back a bit. “Yeah, I guess I’ve never been really happy. A lot of the time I’ve been very unhappy, to tell the truth.” Peter cocked an eyebrow, he wanted to say something but the words stuck. He didn’t know what to say anyway. This was all a bit too fast for him to keep up with. “Story for another day, babe,” she said in response to the look on his face. “I thought maybe teaching what I believe in might get me in order and make me happy. But I’m not sure it is.” They sat in silence some more, Peter wasn’t really sure what to say. He’d never met anyone like her, and he’d certainly never had to be one half of a conversation with someone like her. But she made him feel so at ease that he was almost someone else entirely around her. Sarah lifted him up on high, the lift provided by the butterflies that seemed to reside somewhere under his stomach. He loved to look at 55

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her. Her bones, her lips, her eyes, her lashes, her skin, the way clothes hung off her, the curve of her waist and ribs and hips. He felt like he’d known her a week. “You’re very forward, you know,” said he. She smiled and sat up, taking her legs off him. “I guess,” she said. “Come on,” slapping his thigh, “let’s go find this book.” They went down a hallway, past several closed doors and no sign of Mandy, and into a large bedroom, with a wooden floor brought up to a nice deep shine and a big bed that looked very bounceable. There were several bookcases, but the books more often than not seemed to be on the floor or climbing out of boxes. She started rummaging through them while he took a quick look around, noting that she wasn’t too settled, and wondering when her stuff had gotten here seeing as she’d travelled on the train. He sat down on the edge of the bed, then flopped backwards to rest, then sat upright again in case he was being provocative. He didn’t know why it would be, it was just a sudden impulse. It seemed Peter Peterson moved in mysterious ways as well. Cast in a clown’s image ... “So what’s the deal with Mandy? She said you met in Sydney. Was that at this seminar that obviously made such a big thing over you?” She looked at him and laughed. “Yeah, at the big deal seminar. She was there with some guy from the university, sort of a research assistant slash travelling companion.” She kept rummaging, apparently getting nowhere. “Oh, I get it, this was like some steamy affair with someone in an important place?” he half-joked, half-asked. “No, no, the guy she was with was just a friend. We’re friends, right? Doesn’t mean we’re lovers, does it?” “Well, yeah, it was just the way you said ...” “Oh, sorry,” big grin, “besides, Mandy’s queer.” Peter looked muddled. ”She’s a lesbian, Peter?” “Yeah, I know what it means, you pain, I just ...” “She didn’t look like a gay person?” 56

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“Nonono,” he stammered, “I – I don’t know. I don’t know any gay people. It’s a new experience for me.” She stopped rummaging and looked at him, smiley as ever. “Why does it have to be an experience? Besides, you probably know a few gays who just aren’t telling.” Peter’s hand wavered uncertainly in the air. “Uh ... does that ... are you ...?” She put a hand on his shoulder. “No. I’m gonna go find this damn book.” “You do that.” They loafed around for a while, with Sarah going through dozens of boxes (it seemed) and millions of books (several hundred hours’ worth) while they chit-chatted about this and that, things they’d been doing over the week and other fine pieces of handcrafted conversation fillers. Finally Sarah emerged triumphant. ”Ha!” she cried. Triumphantly. Peter was handed a small paperback called Holy Blood, Holy Grail. “Hey, I’ve heard of this. It’s about some murders or something, isn’t it?” She shook her head and gave a short chuffing sound. “Uh, no.” She pushed the book to his chest. “Just give it a go.” He put it on the bed. “I promise.” They sat down and talked some more, throwing a whole bunch of pillows at the back of the bed and leaning against them in comfort and happiness. Time passed as any cliché will tell you, and Peter noticed bit was late (but not by his standards). “Um, Sarah, it’s like getting on midnight.” She tossed what head of hair she had and, sounding like Mae West, (except that Peter had never seen Mae West in a movie, so more like his best guess of what Ms. West would surely sound like) asked why he was leaving so soon, and had she scared him away. He insisted that no, he was averaging four o’clock sleeps and that he was just thinking of Sarah and her new responsibilities. “Ha ha ha ha,” was all she cried, “I may be getting old but that doesn’t mean I’ve mastered the art of being grown up.” 57

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“Yeah,” Peter countered, “But what about your course?” She jumped on him, pinning his shoulders to the bed and with nothing to push off but a very unsupportive mattress he was pretty much staying there until Sarah decided to let him go. “Mister, you can go when you’re bored, but not before.” Her face leaned closer and they were inches apart. She felt warm, smelled warm. Peter sensed the butterflies dancing a pagan festival in his tummy and realized his internal moment-o-meter was screaming like crazy, telling him to get out of there. “Why do you get scared of me when I’m too close?” “I – I’m not used to being close to people.” “Am I too old and wrinkly for you to be around?” “No.” “Am I ugly?” “No!” and the sincerity poured out of him. She rolled off him and lay down next to him, supporting her head with one arm. Peter’s ears were blotting out all the background noise more efficiently than a thousand home theatre systems designed by George Lucas, and he was developing tunnel vision. “Well then, what’s the problem?” “I–” he sought for words, pleading for inspiration, “... You make me feel ... I just get, man, I get nervous. You’re like no one I’ve ever met. You just make me ... ah!” he gave up and slumped down momentarily before bringing his resolve to bear and returning her gaze. She brought her hand up to his face and touched him. He wanted to close his eyes and just feel her brushing his face, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t blink, he couldn’t swallow. Her hand slid past his ear and through his hair. She was half gripping his head like a grapefruit. “Me, too.” She pulled his head slightly toward her and rose to meet him, and he just relaxed on adrenalin and surfed his brain away as their lips touched. So soft, they sank into each other like – nothing he could describe, before or after. Their mouths spread wide and then shrank again, her tongue darted out and touched his briefly before they parted and they rose back and her hand came round to his chin. He couldn’t say anything for a moment, didn’t want to. But it was the only thing 58

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that would shut his brain up. He felt like crying but no tears wanted to leave. “I love you,” he breathed. “Maybe,” and she put her arms around him and drew him close. They sank down into the mattress, and it seemed to sink back with them.

59

Chapter Five Fresh bread is a good and just thing to wake up to. “Guess what, Peter! I found a bakery that delivers! If you pay them enough.” Sarah was dressed in a white robe, her hair was wet and streaky. She hopped on the bed after setting down a basket of delicious bakery products, made with only the finest natural ingredients. Perfect for the slacker who’s had too much junk food. Interestingly enough, flavoured milk is pretty easy on the stomach after unhealthy experiences. In Peter’s experience. Sarah wrinkled her nose (adorably) at the concept and went with coffee. He shrugged off too much sleep in a good bed and sat up. “Breakfast in bed? You’re good to your guests.” He settled back into the pillow and tore apart a bun, shoving it in his mouth in case Sarah suddenly decided to start billing him. “Only the cute ones. And the young ones.” She kissed him sweetly on the mouth. “Which am I?” asked the smitten boy. “Back in a minute. I’ll just clear things up with Mandy so she doesn’t start fun rumours by the time school starts. That’s the last thing I need.” “Mandy doesn’t seem capable of starting anything,” retorted Peter. She laughed at him and shook her head. “You don’t know her that well, Pete. Er. Sorry.” “True, I guess I don’t want my lecturers looking at me funny either.” 61

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Sarah came back over and leaned close. “Is that because you’re afraid of people thinking you’re sleeping with me? Or is it because you’re afraid you won’t get the chance?” He hit her with a pillow. “Hey, lay off, I told you, I’m not ... fast.” “And I told you I can wait. However, there’s one thing I don’t think I can wait for.” She leaned over next to his ear. He could feel her breath. He knew she was just teasing and playing and his nervousness no longer killed him like the night before, but she really did know how to be a pain. “I think it’s about time you tried to guess how old I am. Back in a moment.” She left Peter thinking hard. And yet, quietly confident. She was a tricky individual, this Sarah Howe, and he was unsure what he wanted with an unconditional favour, but hey, better than losing to her and god knows what. When she came back in and sat back down, after a few minutes presumably spent telling Mandy to keep her curiosity off poor naive little Peter, she asked him, “C’mon, how old am I, Peter?” He grinned and set his jaw. ”Twenty-nine.” She half-opened her mouth, then stopped, then turned her head and finally laughed. “You lucky son of a gun, you’re off a very big hook. I don’t look that old, do I?” “No, you don’t. I guess it was a very good guess.” And a quick chat in the hall the night before with Mandy, who, having been briefed by Sarah on the nature of the bet and sworn to utmost secrecy, had told Peter anyway, deciding that it would be far more amusing to turn the tables. Sarah was right. He didn’t know Mandy, but he was starting to get an idea or two in the right direction. “It had to be a very good guess,” he said. “You didn’t leave a driver’s license in your purse.” She opened her mouth in mock horror and giggled. “I play for keeps. Babe.” “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. Babe.” She gave him a hug and when his sense of security was suitably lulled proceeded to beat him to a feathery death with a pillow. They finished a quick brekkers from what buns and croissants (pronounced “croysants”, phonetically, if you’re a N.Z. Rail attendant) survived the pillow fight. Sarah gave him a lift back to the hostel so he could change clothes and, most importantly, brush his teeth (“Next 62

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time bring a toothbrush!”) to get rid of that shocking ‘been somewhere else all night’ feeling. She waited in his room while he did this, with the door open, so that, naturally, all his caring sharing friends could get a good look and mutter among themselves, knowingly. “Pretty small,” she said when he returned. “Buy me a house then,” he replied, then, seeing her face, quickly interjected her thought. “No, don’t!” Kidding! her face said. “Well, you busy tonight?” she asked. “Actually, yeah, I’m supposed to go to some friends’ place, but I can cancel–” “No, no, it’s OK, I should get ready for classes, I suppose.” He walked her outside and they kissed each other goodbye. The grey hatchback disappeared over a hill. Peter sighed. Now what to do. Saturday can be pretty boring. At least it wasn’t Sunday. He turned around to go inside and saw Faith and Syme sitting on a couple of chairs outside a pair of open double doors. They waved hi. He waved back with a slight sinking feeling. There goes the rest of the world again, he thought, ruining everything. The next few days were a whirlwind. Peter couldn’t recall a time in his life when he’d done so much, regardless of his sleeping pattern. He went to town, he watched movies, he saw Elf and Joshua and Melinda and some of their acquaintances a few times, hung out with the guys and the others at the hostel, and decided he got on well with them. They were a lot of pretty unrestrained idiots when they put their minds to it. He saw Sarah almost every day, sometimes all day, sometimes all night and he was still falling for her “big” time. They hung about in town, at her place and other passing points of interest. Time was indeed spent and spent well – it certainly looked as if they were both masters of spending, and Sarah had the funds for extravagant impetuousness. The moments that bind people together were more frequent, but no matter how their hearts pounded or how they clung to each other they didn’t have sex. Something held them back – perhaps it was Peter, cautious, and perhaps a little disbelieving of the whole thing. 63

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At any rate, the honeymoon appeared to be over when their days were called upon by the looming spectre of education. Classes started and they were dutifully attended – at least seventy per cent of the time. Promise. Sixty per cent, oh, definitely. Meanwhile the hostel hadn’t improved its menus and while the rest of the student body prepared themselves for takeout and fasting, Peter was glad his patron was a moneybags. Her wealth made him feel different, but he’d stopped feeling guilty when she spent it on him. There was no question the money meant little to her, it was just useful. He did not know how she might have been if it was taken away, but at any rate he did like pizza, and so did she. “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do this too many times,” moaned Bill. He’d opted for history as well – and not out of interest. Peter and Bill were making their way up the hill to their first tut (pronounced tute, as in tutorial, where a smaller bunch of students gather unwillingly so they can be shown up for not having read the book, unlike the lecture situation where a hundred people can ignore whoever is talking and catch up on their correspondence). A history of modern Europe. So far it was dry and boring, and now they were expected to talk about it. Peter was quite happy he knew someone going in, otherwise it could be really boring, especially if the class was quiet. They made their way through the buildings, hallways, down steps and the like, up in a lift, then eventually they entered a room several storeys up where there was a good enough view to keep Peter occupied in case the tutor was a crusty old mental case. Bill and he sat down and chatted quietly as the rest of the class settled itself. ”I sure hope I didn’t come up here to be bored shitless,” muttered Bill. “Bound to be, prepare to sleep.” Peter wouldn’t say he was disenchanted with the university process after a few days, it was just that he felt he had far better things to do with his time. They waited for a while, and it appeared that the tutor was late. They muttered some more and stared out the window. It was getting a bit late in the afternoon – a bit too warm for the brain to get going again. 64

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Finally the wooden door opened and the tutor came in, sat down with the rest of the class, pulled some papers out and then looked around. Peter felt like someone had winded him. “Peter! I didn’t know you were going to be here!” smiled Sarah broadly. He waved slightly. “Hi. Neither.” The class, organized into a ring of desks facing each other, all looked at them both, especially Bill, and Peter felt sure it must be because gossip had reached everyone he knew. He and Sarah stared at each other for a second, and he stopped breathing. They seemed to reach a silent agreement and looked away. Her smile was faltering somewhat and she floundered through an introduction, but Peter didn’t really listen. He already knew her name. After the class he lingered, but Bill didn’t get the hint and so they were both in the hall when Sarah saw the last person out. She came up to him, close, until she realized maybe it would be a bad idea, and stood back a bit. “Well, that went alright, didn’t it?” she said. “.Yeah,” managed Peter. “So,” Bill joined, “you two know each other?” “Yeah,” repeated Peter, “we’re ...” “Old friends,” she finished. “Not that old,” said Bill quietly. They ignored him as much as was physically possible. “Well,” she said. He nodded at her. “See you next week.” She turned and left. Peter didn’t say anything, and on the way home, Bill didn’t bring it up. “Jesus Christ!” “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” “Yeah, well, my heart stopped.” They were on the phone, and still no one was taping their conversation. This was a good thing as far as Peter was concerned. “I didn’t think about this kind of thing at all.” “Yes, I wasn’t quite sure what to do either. Still, I laughed a lot when I got home.” And she laughed a bit from her end. “Yeah, well, I haven’t had the opportunity. I’ve been questioned 65

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by too many people since I got back. That’s right, Sarah Howe is turning into a minor celebrity around here. They know who you are, and now I’m sure all their friends do too. This place is like – it’s like some kind of gossip nightmare.” “Are you ashamed of us?” “Of course not.” The phone was slippery in his hand. “I just never thought about how it would feel, other people knowing I was going out with a thirty year old–” “Hey!”’ “Sorry, not for another couple of months, I know.” “Look.” She sounded like a calm voice of reason suddenly, and that was fine with Peter. “Our ... business ... is just that. Our business. The opinions of everyone around you may be disturbing, but they shouldn’t really matter, should they?” Peter sighed. “I guess not. It just seems like it’s gonna be a bit – strange. Everything’s so new and different here; well, you know. I guess I look ahead and quite often see the worst.” “You’re not scared, are you Peter?” “Hell no. Of them? No, not at all.” “Are you scared of me?” “Am I scared of you? Oh, ha, absolutely. Scared shitless.” Peter wanted a chocolate bar very badly. The whole evening had been pretty frightful. People coming up to him as if they were his oldest and dearest, or looking at him and then talking to a neighbour. “But I don’t care what other people say. I won’t let anybody screw us up like ... like so many others.” He coughed. “Well, I don’t think it’s that serious. Unless people in the department start talking. Apparently ignorant people would take to this as some kind of scandal.” “We’ll be on the front of the English tabloids in no time.” “Ha ha.” “Ha ha.” After the conversation Peter sat in his room, too nervous to leave. He didn’t like the idea of people talking about him. How dare they feel as if they had any right? They didn’t know him. They didn’t own him. 66

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But then, he thought, perhaps I am taking this all the wrong way. Going down to the Coke machine he had the misfortune to come across two people talking about him. As he stood obscured from their view he heard with clear definition the phrases “really old, and they’re together all the time, I heard” and “he said that she was his teacher” and then two girls walked past the machine and saw him. They shut up instantly. He felt his face darken involuntarily and strode out. Motherfuckers. Fuckin’ ignorant little girls with nothing better to do than pry. God, how he pitied them, these little people who thought they were so pure and above reproach, and did he spread the word on how many people they were fucking and how many lies they told? No, it was not his place, and what made them so different. He slammed his door fucking hard and sat down on his bed to think. And to think. He stayed there for a long time before finding a diversion to ease him. Thankfully, the memories and attention spans of gossips can be as short as they are petty, and while there are a few who realistically will not listen to a word spread, there are even fewer who will bother to check such news for facts. Nevertheless, it seemed the subject of Peter and his mistress, (or whatever they were calling the affair), seemed quickly forgotten, by both those who make gossip a profession, and the rest of us in this world who merely scan the headlines. Thusly the days continued and a life fell into place, with Peter attending whatever gave him interest and avoiding what gave him yawns. He didn’t feel the need to return to the foul mood of previously and spent time with his friends in the hostel as often as possible, and less and less time with his acquaintances from Auckland. And of course, above all this was Sarah, whom he still saw as frequently as their full lives allowed. They were becoming closer than ever and his good feeling for her increased every day until he could hardly believe how little he had felt for her a week earlier. By the time the next tutorial came around he felt different, though whether he was conscious of it is for him to say, and not a matter for speculation. The class sat waiting for Sarah, and Bill and Peter were both there too. And this time Peter didn’t care at all what people thought. 67

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Was it because he and Bill and Wade and Maximillian had been in a pub since lunchtime? Nah, the head wasn’t that fuzzy any more. Was it because he’d had a really good night with Sarah the evening before? They’d gone to a movie and argued bitterly over the merits of Quentin Tarantino, after which they’d hung about down on the waterfront with nary a punk or a Marlon Brando in sight. There was a children’s slide like a lighthouse, with a pretend telescope that made Peter feel cheated. It was just a brass tube. The night was odd for Wellington, unless it was the height of summer, which isn’t generally March. It was warm and clear and there was no breeze, not even down by the harbour. All was silent, and so were they. Not a soul in sight. They’d gone up into the fake lighthouse and had a peek through the bars at a beautiful moonlit landscape covered in tiny street light stars, chunky hills marred by building block dwellings. They’d kissed and Sarah tasted so good, so warm, she’d been so warm and he’d felt his face get hot when she pushed him against a wall, heart pounding, his or hers he did not know, but he held her with both arms and she pushed him back and their hands had searched and groped, so warm and the night so still, clothes had parted lips parted legs parted her hands swooped over him and trapped him like spider thread, she kissed his neck and her tongue so deadly his ear tingled and his spine shivered but his palm felt her thigh through stocking and a curve so soft, so sexy, she’s sexy he thought, by pure definition she was so goddamn, and he felt himself almost sinking but she wouldn’t let him, she bent her head down over him and their lips again and again entwined they weren’t even parting, his hands, where was he putting his and it was warm and wet and she had him and he couldn’t say he wasn’t ready and he was he was he just didn’t want to rush but she was so different to him. She was so different and she had him in her hands and he wasn’t aware if he made a sound but his throat vibrated and they were against a wall, he could hardly believe inside her he was inside her, so long since he’d, but he was so young he felt so much for her not a good time to think not a good time at all as his hands pulled her towards him through him if they could just be closer and closer her breasts against his palm 68

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so soft nipple couldn’t see but he could feel and they kissed and they kissed and they kissed everywhere and his vision was a tunnel with a light at the end like he was floating away with a million points of light crowding around making his mouth feel full of electricity with the warmth spreading through his chest and the backs of his legs felt the ground his thighs feeling her over him and he was sliding down and down while a vein throbbed and cooled in his face and his heart pounded in his neck and a slight breeze now cooling him drying the sweat against his skin, and he thought of saying it but not now it’s not the time you’d say anything now you’d kill for her now you would die for her now in a tunnel of fading light and darkness and her face was wet, her hair in front of her eyes and he wanted to cry and laugh and hold her so tight until she suffocated and they stayed holding each other’s faces, their noses touching, hers so cute and the breeze showed the world their nakedness and their warmth and he breathed again, out it flew from him. They’d spent the rest of the night not more than a few moments from each other’s side and she’d been his height and age and self. And this was only the beginning. On a cloud step for a day and a night and he wanted to share his happiness with the world. And they couldn’t be together all the time and so the day had continued as it’s supposed to and now he sat in a classroom waiting for her amidst all these people. His head was fine. And no, surely, surely he didn’t care about what people thought, because they were right in feeling how they wanted, Sarah and he, and he knew now, he knew. Sarah came in and glowed to him. Was that sexist? He didn’t care, he thought she was heaven and angel. Her hair was different, the blond was gone. It was a brown and auburn thing trimmed to a cleaner bob, but she was still Sarah. He knew her all the way to her core. And he knew. “Hello,” she said to everyone and Peter. “Hi,” said everyone and Peter. When she asked for an answer from a week before and asked Peter with a twinkle and fire in her left eye he replied with a confidence he’d been lacking previous times. He wasn’t guessing anymore. And he knew. 69

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“Peter?” she repeated. He came to earth and settled his feet on the ground and solid cloud. He fixed her twinkle in his own eye. “I love you.” She smiled and bent her head down as the studio audience hushed inwardly. She made no comment and that was all he needed to hear.

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Chapter Six If a pin had dropped at that moment it would have seemed like a Hollywood explosion. Every soul in that class tried to make as little noise as possible – they stopped breathing, they created almost an anti-noise effect as they prayed to private gods not to do anything that might call attention to them. They kept this up for fifty minutes as the tut went on its inexorable way and Sarah did her best to carry on without laughing her head off and on to the floor, a sight which would have sent the nervous students scurrying out the windows. Peter meanwhile spent the time anaesthetized on a mix of adrenalin and disbelief and relief, a rare and heady brew. Questions, answers and discussion were all on automatic, thoughts were far from modern Europe. – My god, what was all that about? My god, what was – serious? surely not, she’s so old – she’s not that old – looks kinda Michelle Pfeiffer in the right light – man, he must be some kinda, but no, I think it’s pretty, although – hell, I’d do her – it’s sick, how could she, her own – why did I have to say that? Beat her at her own fun and games? Ah, still – oh, Petey, why did you say that? Still, at least you had the guts, gone and put our feet in it now haven’t we – man, I can’t believe I hang out with this guy, what will everyone say? – And so on. The impressive feat attained by the as-silent-as-possible class came to an end, and Peter stayed noticeably behind. Sarah came over to 71

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him. She sat down on his lap and put her arms around him. Bill hadn’t waited, Peter noticed, and then they kissed. “How’s my kissable little boy today?” she asked in a falsetto far above her usual deep and beautiful voice. “Are you mad at me?” She tugged his cheek and answered in the voice of someone talking to a baby: “How could I be mad with a face as cute as yours?” He sighed and his eyes rolled back in his skull like he was possessed. But instead of spewing vomit he just hugged her. “I didn’t know you were so recklessly passionate,” said she. “Do you mind?” Her look seemed to imply the same sort of outrage as if he’d asked if it would be OK to join a monastery. “C’mon,” she said, ignoring his stupidity, “they gave me an office. Cool, huh?” dragging him by the arm and out into the hallway. The office was small and mostly empty, but it had a big window, a desk, shelves, millions of pinholes and coffee rings. There were a few items of Sarah’s scattered about, but not much else. “Hold on, I’ll just grab a chair from somewhere else,” but he told her not to worry and sat on the desk. “Well, this is it, nice view, huh?” She stood by the window staring at what she could see of the harbour, Thorndon, and the hills stretching off into what Peter had been led to believe was somewhere called the Hutt Valley. “I always wonder about you,” ventured reckless boy, “with all your money and opportunities, you still get excited when someone gives you an office with a partial view of a bit of water.” “But Peter, it’s ocean. It’s sea, it’s big. I love it, reminds me of the beach house,” referring to a place she’d previously lived in near Los Angeles, “and I’m anxious to see what kind of office this turns out to be.” “If you love offices so much why don’t you become a bank manager?” he asked. “Am I that evil?” “Not all bank managers are mean.” 72

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“Well,” said sulky teacher, “not the saint who gives you guys your overdrafts. No, but there are two types of offices – those in a neat economic colour coded organised fashion, and then those that have piles of paper that grow from the floor and walls, and are a living chaos.” Where the hell did that choice comment come from? “Hmmm.” He reflected on the standard appearance of Sarah’s bedroom, and the state of the lounge and kitchen before Mandy sweeps through on an organising bug. “The second one, definitely.” “Hah! We’ll just see about that!” “Are you going to get in trouble if your bosses find out about us?” Sarah paused for only a moment before answering. “Number one, I don’t have a boss. Ever. Number two, you’d have to be pretty petty to make it the business of the faculty. I’m sure no one’s going to say much. Not in this day and age.” “That’s crap and you know it.” “Yeah, but you might have believed me.” That evening Peter was interrogated by his friends, acquaintances and other lies. Present for the prosecution were Bill, Maximillian and Wade, who were pretty neutral personalities, Faith, Auburn, and their pet, Syme, “not Symon”, and the occasional drifter. Peter took the stand alone. The court was Bill and Maximillian’s room, long and narrow with two beds and a couple of crappy school-type chairs for the gathering to perch their behinds and lazy legs on. They had assembled on pretence of hanging out, as they commonly did, but Peter now knew that all along it had been a setup to get to this day. Eventually all small talk subsided and Peter felt the glare of Klieg lights on his red cheeks. He wished he had a long fringe like Wade to hide his eyes under, although from experience he knew it got uncomfortable at outdoor concerts in the rain – the fringe turned into a deadly eye whipping machine. Auburn was the vocal one tonight, no surprise, and even though her hair was blond, which smacked of misleading advertising and thus 73

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poor character, if you asked Peter, she was the canniest and scariest one present. She had a way of asking questions that made you feel worthless, cheap; if you were male you felt like a sexist pig for looking at her, if you were female you felt like a dowdy little eleven-year-old, naive and stupid, and if you were in between then her attitude towards you was dependent on your haircut. Just remember, thought Peter, she’s the evil one, she’s the prejudiced one, she should dye her hair to become her namesake otherwise she’s just a lying hound. “So,” she said, using the word, that horrible, horrible sounding word, given more questioning ferocity than Darth Vader with a cordless drill aimed at your forehead. “Spill it, Peter. Who’s Sarah? She your girlfriend?” She seemed to preen herself as she spoke and Peter realised for the first time how much he hated her. Oh sure, he might have thought she was attractive at the start, and therefore worth giving the benefit of the doubt, but let’s face it, Peter had never been very good at filling traditional male clichés. Auburn could be a bitch, and not the fun kind. “Yeah, she’s my girlfriend. And we hang out behind the bike sheds with you and all your one night fucks.” “Ooh, touchy,” in that infuriatingly calm way some people have after being unsuccessfully insulted. “Hey, man, don’t get so defensive,” said Bill, wobbling on the fence, his home. “Yeah, c’mon Peter,” good copped Faith, “we’re just curious. You’re not exactly a secretive couple, but you keep her away from us. Are you ashamed?” Peter gathered all his underdeveloped resolve and conviction, silently wishing he always knew what to say, to come off like Jack Nicholson, whom he was sure, if caught robbing a bank would tell the arresting officer to fuck off and mind his own business. “I am not ashamed; you all sit here and ask this shit as if you have a right to it. You don’t know me, you think because I’ve hung 74

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out with you a few times that you get dibs on all my life. Fine. I love Sarah. She’s older than you. She’s smarter than you and you have got the narrowest minds I’ve come across in a while, and that includes Aucklanders. Do not even think of fucking with us – I am a very spiteful person. And I’ve got just as many good bits of dirt on you if I were ever inclined to sink to your level ... and I’m sure I could if I tried ...” and he trailed off, wondering if he’d said any of that, wondering if this adrenalin (oh, heady drug!) controlled outburst had really come from his lips. But words can leave bruises, it’s true. He remembered a similar time when he was eleven and some kid at school who was about a million times bigger than him had been threatening him, had him against something, a cigarette near his eye, taunting him. Peter couldn’t remember what he’d said, wished he could, but the boy had left him alone and never bothered him again. Jungle law in the playground? Who knew? Who cared? So, funnily enough, or maybe not so funny, Auburn was the first to apologise, and not in a mumbled tone, but in the respect saving voice of someone who will always lead someone else. The others did the mumbly bit and he noted carefully for future bad moods which had spoken and which had been silent. We’re all a bunch of kids playing grownups, he thought, and of course at the first sign of something real, lord knows, an argument, we all turned and ran. Well, not me. Not this time. If it hadn’t been a cliché, or if he’d had a more developed sense of satire, Peter might have asked them all “You can walk the walk, but can you talk the talk?” Laughter would have followed. Don’t you hate it when you think of earth shatteringly clever things after the fact? Sigh. The interrogation turned out to be impotent, and that’s the most important thing. Maybe Sarah would like to come over and meet these little boogers some time, thought Peter. To celebrate Sarah’s first lecture on disregarding historians, Mandy, Peter and Sarah went to some pub/bar trendy thing where the drinks 75

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were extra expensive, and Peter had to get a haircut and a new wardrobe from Sarah before going. It had a name, but that didn’t matter; it would be called something else in six months when the crowds had left, the management had a new yacht, and a new theme and financial sector of the community would be chosen. At some point, slightly dizzyingly, Sarah hadn’t been around (probably three deep at the bar seeking a fancy beverage) and Mandy had started hitting on Peter. He was feeling a bit slow and couldn’t quite grasp what was odd about this. Nevertheless, he knew that he should stop her from doing so, call it a hunch. Or that Sarah’s face had flicked through his addled brain. Oh, yeah, that was a good reason. “Are you trying to pick me up?” he asked cleverly. “I already know you.” “Yeah,” he countered. He looked at the wood ceiling and the big fireplace. “I like fireplaces,” he said. “Oooh, don’t you just have yummy taste!” “That’s right.” Mandy leaned over and took his face in her hands, he stared at her dark face and glowing ember eyes and her painted lips and she kissed him hard, his head giving easily. Her mouth felt warm and wide and really, really weird after having kissed Sarah about a zillion times a day for, oh, how long? Must be weeks by now. By the time he’d recovered and opened his – only momentarily closed – eyes she was gone. His chin hung out with gravity and he thudded onto the table. It felt interesting. Sarah sat down with some stupid little cups, not reading his thoughts. Impatiently, while comforting a half-empty and lonely bottle of beer, he told her, subtly and eloquently, “Mandy just kissed me, Sarah, on the mouth; I’m sorry.” His hand sailed past his face. His eyes followed it. Sarah just laughed a little. “How do you think we met?” she yelled, over a repetitive and bad tune. “I don’t know,” said Peter. She sighed and her shoulders sagged a little, but she was still smiling at him. “No, I mean, that’s what she did to me in Sydney. She 76

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ran right up to me during a cocktail evening and kissed me, and then ran away. It was the most interesting thing that had happened to me by that point and so I followed her and we got on like a house on fire.” “Oh,” said Peter. It was an automatic response and his thoughts continued to think about it for a while. In retrospect Peter easily came to the conclusion that Mandy was just cool and odd, and “out there” in a very entertaining way. So he became pretty unfazed by all the things she did, nothing surprising him, and he just relaxed and enjoyed her like a free show. He didn’t mind that she started calling him “toy boy” incessantly. Her moods never seemed to be unpleasant to be around, although it was possible she hid herself. She often spontaneously climbed trees, urging anyone around her to join in, and he noticed on rainy days she liked to drive, though really, really fast, especially around corners. Her timing and luck seemed cast in iron. Before, he might have wondered at her when she spent three days filling glass jars with water containing blue food colouring. Instead he helped her out whenever he was around. By the end she had sixty-three jars full of blue and she stacked them in her room, putting a spotlight behind. Around her ceiling were painted the words “I am not a popsicle, but if I ever get out of here I’ll buy you one.” Peter liked her a lot. Peter and Sarah sat side by side on Mount Victoria, on the slope just below the lookout. Mandy was with them, in a manner of speaking. She was spinning the hatchback around and around in the car park a little way off. Sometimes she’d disappear for a while. Mount Victoria has a great view of Wellington, the best, and can be a mini Mecca on a sunny day or a crystal night. Flocks of forty year olds come up with their parents or work friends when an “Opera In The Park” is on, for the music drifts all the way up and can be a haunting soundtrack for the view. Today was a grey day. The grass under the bums of Sarah and Peter reflected the dull grey of the sky, and a little breeze in its infancy 77

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whipped at them quickly, making a whooshing noise in their ears – Sarah’s earrings whistled. Sarah’s new hair was hidden under a black beret. Peter had asked why she’d dyed it. “I go thro’ phases, it must be your fault,” she said. Peter had thanked her for calling him a phase, and said it looked really good. The beret suggested she might be a very, very undercover Black Panther. She had a scarf to keep the cold out, and a coat, while Peter had the student staple – a jacket as big as a tent, without which a midnight hamburger run could be fatal. Mandy had four trillion revs and a vrooming noise and these kept her very warm indeed. Peter felt a bit worn out, juggling his day (well, some day) time with his night time, Sarah, uni, his friends at the hostel, and Joshua, Elf and the other one (occasionally). The night before Sarah and he had gone “dancing” which meant that a bass noise and a high shrieking noise repeated themselves a lot and everybody jumped around until their legs fell off. The last few weeks of total and irresponsible junior freedom had taken their toll. I bloody could stay up all night strung out on mescaline in my day, railed the spectre of an idealised decade. Oh, clever old man, clapped the wind. Well, replied the spirit of the dawn of the age of Aquarius, we knew how to party, by god, and we had power, we changed the world, didn’t we? We stopped a war, we did, aren’t we clever? And there’s more, but I’ve got to go and get the second quarter protected earnings for the manager, little bastard he is, ten years younger, what does he know? Fuck off, thought Peter. And don’t call me junior. Asshole. The silence needs to be shattered. “Hey, do you wanna come over and meet some of the guys at the hostel tomorrow night? They’ve been dying to meet you.” “Sure.” Meanwhile the wind carried on, and Mandy bumped up over the kerb and down again. “Wheeee–” she said. The next night came quicker than Christmas morning, but not by much. Peter didn’t remember doing anything all day, and was very frustrated with how long hanging about waiting for something took. 78

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At one point in his room, now much more sorted, little books lined up on the shelf, bedclothes on the bed and everything, there came a knock at the door. The brown bob peeped around the edge of his door and said, “Hello. Don’t you guys ever close your doors?” “No,” Peter replied, “we might miss a visitor.” Very important indeed. He took her down to Bill’s room and introduced her to him and Maximillian. “We’ve met,” said one. “Hiya,” said the other, who’d had his flowing locks cropped to spikey little points. “Call me Max and I call the cops.” Sarah was dressed in a cream ensemble ripped from a fashion magazine, all flowing lines and material that looked thick and pricey. A pizza was ordered, with Sarah going for Pavlova instead – “It’s tough to get in the States sometimes because it breaks food sugar content laws,” – and others trailed into the room for pizza. It must be broadcast on some subconscious wavelength, and it was practically infallible. Locked doors were often needed by the extra hungry, just to get a head start before the battering rams took them out. Extra chairs materialised and the birds early had already snaffled the beds. Even Auburn was present. Introductions were made and Sarah seemed to have a gift for remembering people’s names, which was a nice talent because it made people feel special. The guys crumbled to her charms and disturbing lack of pretensions first, surprise, surprise, and Bill nudged Peter in the ribs and made a jealous look with his face (as opposed to making a jealous look with another body part, say, an elbow). Pizza arrived, and then it was gone. “Do we order more?” asked Sarah. “Yes!” they chorused. “No!” they chorused. “Why not?” asked Sarah. “Because they take too long! Came the reply. “To the Sarah-mobile!” came the rallying cry! Like hungry students on a feeding frenzy the hungry students stormed out of the hostel, as if in a feeding frenzy. Peter questioned the wisdom of trying 79

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to get this many people into a hatchback. “That sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? How many college kids can you fit into a compact?” “Well, what’s the punchline?” asked a sceptical Peter. She pulled out a small black key ring and that familiar high pitched squeaky noise echoed through the street. “Buy a Mercedes,” she said. Car alarms are an odd thing, especially with the proliferation of posey remote activated jobbies, one push of a button and “eeh! orp!” rings out, either locking/unlocking the car, or, more likely, setting the alarm off. The thing about all this noise is that it doesn’t prevent theft, or even cause fear in car thieves. What they do is make the neighbours go, “Fuck! That bloody car alarm’s gone off again! It’s all this heat, you know,” and maybe prompt a call to noise control. Whereas the burglar will know that nobody is foolish enough to waste time on checking if a crime might actually be being committed, and just has to use one of his/her sly tricks that leave the rest of the population impressed with their cunning, and be off in a jiffy, car all quiet. The Mercedes was black and very, very shiny. The number plate was very recent. And everybody fitted inside, with Sarah driving (she’s fun but not stupid) and Peter riding suicide. “Lush” was a good word to describe it, and Peter figured the interior designer deserved their commission, just this once. “Since when ...” he began. “Since today. Sick of waiting for Mandy to bring back the other one.” It purred, almost, and slid down towards town, with the same feeling under Peter’s feet that he’d felt in aeroplanes. Power. “For instance, today I got a call from somewhere called Hastings, which I always thought is where that British guy fought that battle. ‘Ooops,’ she says, ‘I took a wrong turn,’ she says. What am I supposed to do?” “How much did it cost?” asked Wade. “Shhhhh, don’t ask, it’s rude,” whispered Faith. 80

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“A lot,” said Sarah. “I could have got a waterfront apartment.” Bill felt like crying. “That’s a lot of pizza,” said Maximillian. They rolled on, Peter half mesmerized by the streaks of light that slid up the bonnet and across his face. Yellows and oranges and reds and greens and blues, man-made stars slicked over the shiny surface, framed in black darker than the night around it. “Where to, sports fans?” asked Sarah, but the rest of the passengers muttered “I dunno”s and “what about you?”s, half out of a combination of feeling poor and having difficult appetites and half because even small mobs need time to make up their minds before storming the castle Frankenstein. Eventually they settled on a non-affiliated takeaway joint, that had actually put in tables and a nice fluorescent-lit smoky atmosphere. Peter persuaded Sarah quietly not to pay, saying it would be a bad precedent; she saw his point. A happy gorging ensued, and most eyes were on Sarah, like she was a magnet or something. And it was her that suggested going out and doing their best to bring up all that lovely junk food. This meant a bass noise and a high shrieking noise repeating themselves a lot. Slightly off the beaten track was a crowded place that the Mercedes was most welcome at. Within seconds Peter was hot and eau de sweat was the perfume most liberally used in the crowd. He and Sarah danced close, their bodies touching as often as possible, with her fashion layout garb in the car and as much flesh exposed now as possible, leaving the boy feeling very overdressed. Eventually the Bavarian machine hauled several tired carcasses back up into the hills of home and in the room from where the trip had started did the whole entourage flop. Bah, wimps, cried the sixties. But no one could hear. Meanwhile conversation had raised another unpleasant spectre for Peter. Sarah had revealed his writing when she’d asked if he’d done anything since he’d gotten to Wellington. “Like, have you finished the vampire poem?” 81

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“Uh,” said honest Peter, “no ...” “Anything else?” “Uh, yes.” And the inevitable chorus from everybody for him to get it and read it out. Yes, I can get more embarrassed that way! thought Peter, and so he plodded to his room to get the book. “Um, I wrote a fairy tale.” “Oooh,” whispered Sarah, “it must be about me.” They laughed and so did Peter. “It’s called ‘The ugliest woman in the world’.” And he laughed a lot more at Sarah’s hurt expression, and of course she hit him with a pillow. Peter coughed, aware that his face was bound to redden, then began. Between Honah-lee and the Isle of Casablanca, in olden times, had lain a vast and wondrous land known as Dilmun. Such a kingdom had grown under the dynasty of wise and noble kings and queens, of the dynasty Ki, and was a centre of wisdom and beauty for all the world to share. It came to pass that the Good King Utanapishtim, known for his wisdom and kindness, fell in love, or was seduced by, a common woman known as L. For in Dilmun it was accepted practice, unlike in other lands of the time, for royal blood to mix with the blood of the earth, to keep its kings and queens humble before the gods. Unknown to King Utanapishtim was his new queen’s ancestry, for it was not known to any but herself that she hailed from Apsu, an underground kingdom from which no good had ever risen. Queen L. slowly poisoned the king until he fell, deluded and stumbling, from the highest parapet in his castle. Queen L. made her own dynasty, proclaiming the Ki to be evil and traitorous dogs and the people did love their queen and drove out the Ki. Queen L. did call forth from Apsu her uncle, an oracle, Numtar, and asked of him “Tell me whom else I must remove from this land that none shall bar my way,” and Numtar read the stars and consulted 82

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his book, a great tome that could only be opened with the blood of a child. And Numtar gave her the names of people whom Queen L. did remove, until there was but one more name. And Numtar said, “There is one more, a child, a girl who must not be killed, for she is protected by Shullat, God of chaotic change, and her death would anger him greatly. Her name is Anna, daughter of Galmah in the village Kullab. If she is allowed to come of age your reign shall end.” Queen L. went to seize Anna from her mother, wondering how she could stop her coming of age without killing her. While the young Anna was away collecting wood, the queen’s soldiers murdered Galmah and all the inhabitants of Kullab and did burn it to the ground. When Anna returned the queen spoke in her ear and told her of the catastrophe that had befallen the village: “Jealous neighbours from a far off land have done this. You are all that remains, but I shall look after you as if you were my own.” And she took Anna away with her. Queen L. placed Anna inside the room at the top of the parapet from which King Utanapishtim had fallen to his death. She alone bore the key, a black ring of stone on her finger. She issued a proclamation to the land and its people that Anna was imprisoned in the tall tower for she was an unspeakably evil witch and, though immortal, could be contained and thus the people of Dilmun be spared from her evil. Every day for a year Queen L. would take a tray of food to Anna and tell her that it was not safe for her to leave the tower for “villainous assassins are everywhere”. The queen would not look at Anna directly, and Anna would question her. “Why can you not bring yourself to look at me?” she asked every day, and every day the queen would reply, “Because you are the ugliest person I have ever seen and I cannot bear to look at you.” 83

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On the anniversary of Anna’s imprisonment, Queen L. issued another proclamation to the people, repeating her message and adding that Anna was the ugliest girl in the world. This carried on for years and years, every day, food and question, every day the same answer. After the queen left her, Anna would sit in front of her mirror and look at her grotesqueness and then cry until night came. Eventually she could no longer remember her mother or her home. A score of years passed and Anna was the most feared person in the world, Stories of her evil and ugliness left the people frightful of her escape, parents shocked grumpy children with tales of what Anna would do to them in the middle of the night if they did not behave. It came to pass that a young knight named Sir Guy of Magan decided that his test of becoming must be the slaying of Anna. Heedless of the tales of her immortality he rode to Dilmun and made his way to the palace of L. The queen would not let him see Anna so that he might kill her, and barred his way. To his amazement a vision of Shullat, God of chaos and change appeared before him. Shullat gave Sir Guy Eyes of Truth and he saw Queen L. for what she really was – Irkalla, Queen of Rot, Queen of Decay. She had a snake for a tongue and burning suns in her eyes. Her true self revealed, she tried to strike him down. Sir Guy could not bring himself to kill her, and knocked her to the ground for all to see. Her soldiers fled in terror, aided by Shullat, and they spread the word of the evil that was Queen L. Sir Guy went to the tower but could not enter for he did not have the key. Queen L. sneaked up behind him and took half his heart’s life, weakening him greatly. Yet he turned and ran her through with his sword and she fell to the stairs, still. He cut the ring from her finger and entered the tower room. There 84

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he saw Anna, and with his Eyes of Truth knew she was no witch. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon. “Anna,” he said, “yours is a beauty of which there is no equal, and your destiny has been robbed from you.” But she bade him look away, for he was beautiful to her eyes, and she feared her ugly nature might kill him. Sir Guy tried to give her his Eyes of Truth, but Irkalla was not dead and, as the life seeped out of her, she put a fear in the heart of Anna. Anna suddenly believed that the knight had come to trick and humiliate her and she pushed him away. He fell backwards and stumbled over the threshold, crashing and rolling down the stairs until he reached the bottom and the Queen L., Irkalla, who caused him to fall upon his sword, where he died instantly. Numtar came from Apsu then and claimed Irkalla’s body, while Shullat flew down and whisked Sir Guy’s body away to Magan. Anna gained her own Eyes of Truth, for some can’t be given; she saw the pain and suffering which had been caused by Irkalla and knew she, Anna, was the only one who could take that pain away. The people, now wise to the lies of Queen L., bade Anna take the throne and she had the palace levelled to the ground. She travelled the land using her power to right the wrongs done to the people of Dilmun by her predecessor, eventually raising a new home on the grounds of long dead Kullab. Yet, until she was an old woman, she could never bring herself to look in a mirror. She had taken a husband who had given her three daughters, to whom she left the Kingdom. Shullat appeared to her on the last day of her rule and she went with him; some say she went to be with Sir Guy, while others say she watches over Dilmun. Her daughters, surrounded by love and understanding, had many 85

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mirrors, and could gaze into any without fear, and the folk of the land did come to refer to it as the mirror dynasty. “Cool,” said Faith. “Cool,” said Maximillian. “Pretty cool then, Peter,” said Sarah, kissing him on the cheek.

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Chapter Seven “This sucks puss,” stormed Peter, coming into Sarah’s office fuming, without knocking, Sarah was seated at her desk, with some guy sitting down opposite her. He had grey hair and an old suit. She was looking at Peter sternly. “Don’t you knock?” Peter stopped, taken aback, and slightly ashamed. “Oh ... sorry.” “That’s OK. This is Bill Shapiro, he’s the head of the history department.’’ Shapiro stood up and extended his hand, Peter shook it. He said sorry again. He told Bill his name. “Pleased to meet you, and it’s William, but Sarah’s intent on trying to loosen me up and make me cool.” “My deepest sympathy, Mr. Shapiro.” “William.” “William, OK. It’s not fun to be remodelled by Sarah, is it? I’m relieved I still have the same colour hair. Let me guess, the first thing she wants gone is the suit.” Sarah huffed at him. Professor Shapiro sighed, inspecting his attire like an aging cat walk model. “I’ve loved this suit for years.” “I think that’s her point.” “But don’t you like Peter’s pants? asked Sarah, pointing. “I made him get those.” They were dark blue, loose and fitted perfectly. Peter liked them, but he dared not admit it, in case Sarah stopped taking 87

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him shopping. “Me, yeh, hmm,” said William. “Anyway, I’d best be going.” “Thanks for stopping by, Professor.” “Mmm, yes, nice to meet you, Peter.” “Good luck with your pants.” When the professor had left Peter sat down in the vacant chair. The office was type two, just as he’d predicted. “What’s up your butt?” said Sarah. “Coming in like that. You’d have thought there was a war on.” Peter threw something from his hand onto the desk. It was a copy of the free student paper, Sagacity. The weekly newspaper had gone through many incarnations because it went bust every couple of years and needed extra funding to help bail it out. Each time this happened the name changed. Peter knew it had been at various times Stuff, Pretentious, Student Holistic Inquiry Tracts, the inspired VUW Papers, the short-lived Tour de Force, Cool Stuff and Acme. He believed its next name should be Too Clever By Half. It seemed to be the only student paper in the country that took much seriously, and although it tried to have funny ha ha stuff, mostly it whined EVERY week about fees and such, calling the Minister of Education funny names – how brave and original – or crying that life was so hard – imagine, New Zealanders having to pay for something like the rest of the world just because the planet was in hard times. Well, normally he wouldn’t bother, but as if by synchronistic fate, he’d flipped through it while in an English lecture, and he wasn’t amused by their attempt this week at funny ha ha stuff. It had been folded back so Sarah couldn’t miss the article. “ICE QUEEN LECTURER IN TEEN STUD SEX ROMP” she read, on a page that had been made out to look like a British tabloid. Funny ha ha. There were a couple of photos of Peter on his own, Sarah coming out of a door with sunglasses on, funny ha ha, and one of them together holding hands. Her lips went very, very thin as she read on. This meant she was not happy, Peter knew. Like when the sequel to Gone With the Wind had screened on TV. 88

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“What the fuck is this ice queen shit?” she said. “Everyone thinks I’m fucking wonderful!” Uh oh, she’s mad. I think. Sometimes Peter found it a bit hard to judge, because she could be fuming one second, and then asking him if he wanted some sort of drink the next. He just assumed she got over things quickly, but in the wondering process he usually forgot whatever he was mad about. She threw the paper at Peter. “Fuckers. I better not get any shit for this. Who said all that stuff ?” “It doesn’t say. I don’t know who’s told who what, but we could draw up a list of suspects, make some inquiries. You know, Sherlock Holmes type stuff. Although, which one of us gets to be Sherlock?” “Me, of course! Geez, so, I’m thirsty. Let’s go get something to drink.” “Sure thing Mr. ’Olmes.” He tossed the garbage paper into the rubbish with all the other garbage paper. She grabbed the usual long flowing coat, and they went to lunch. Victoria University, while having nice brick buildings like the others in New Zealand (well, one nice brick building and a whole lot of ugly ones) unfortunately had a severe lack of adequate eateries. Without his goldmine lover and her flash car Peter could have been consigned to a culinary fate worse than the sulphurous pits of Lucifer. The couple of “establishments” served only the worst in heated food, post-mix beverages, dried things and stuff. That was about the best way to describe it. Oh sure, you could say “cakes” or “pies” or even “chips” but that would mean you’d never eaten there. Appearances can be skin deep, bub. The uni was open ground for the franchises – where were they? Ronald on campus. The Colonel in lecture theatres. Oh lord, deliver us from the evil of lukewarm factory made “lasagne”. The new Sarah-mobile took its multi hundred thousand dollar ass downtown, where the supply of cafes was assured. After working through traffic, the nightmarish one way system, and finding a parking space (a building provided one – Wellington’s parking buildings are cleverly hidden, unlike other cities’) they found a small cafe and sat 89

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inside rather than on the street. It was called Cafe Pose (well, not really, but it’ll do) and had plenty of nice wood, big windows and the opportunity to be seen by those less fortunate than you, either not on a break, or the sort who’d ask for an “expresso” and be cold-shouldered back out onto the street. “Are you mad?” asked Peter. “I guess, a little. I’d hate to hurt Bill and the department. In the States there’d be law suit and counter law suit. Hey, there’s an idea ...” She sipped her mochaccino. “Are you?” “Am I what?” mumbled Peter through his sandwich, a non-junk food emergency goodness injection filled with carrot and lettuce and beetroot and other nightmares. “Are you mad?” Her lips were full again. Not only was this a good sign, it was a good looking one. He sure liked her lips. “Peter?” “Oh, right, sorry, somewhere else. Yeah, I was mad, but I guess I’d rather wait and see what comes of it. If people start pointing at me, then I think we should call your lawyers.” “Sounds disappointingly sensible to me.” “Do you really have a lawyer?” “Three.” “Wow. Any of them look like Jimmy Smits?” “Why, you interested? You don’t get to be as well off as myself without acquiring a few necessary leeches to make the paper go down easier. You’d think the more money you have, the easier everything gets, but it’s totally the opposite, believe you me. “ “Sarah, just exactly how rich are you?” “Does it matter? Does it bother you? If you go and get some moral qualms about being rich I shall be pretty damn upset, I can tell you, babe.” Peter put his hand on hers. “I love you, Sarah, no matter how stinkingly rich you are, I promise, it’ll never bother me.” “You’re so sweet.” “I know. Now, have you got a money bin?” “A what?” “A money bin. You know, like Uncle Scrooge, he had one, you 90

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could jump in and swim about in piles of cash.” “Oh.” “Again. How rich are you?” “How rich am I?” “Yes.” “The Mercedes? It’s yours.” Peter’s lungs developed a black hole and sucked all the words from his throat momentarily. Then it collapsed and he coughed “good enough.” Sarah sipped her drink some more, and smiled a cheeky smile. “Sandwich looks nice,” she said. “Hi, Mum,” said Peter. “Yeah, I know, I know, I been real busy, but I wrote you a letter since then.” The afternoon light was fading, but in the hallway with the phone it was always dark. If the scene had been filmed in black and white Peter probably would have been dramatically backlit by the light that came from the open doors. “Yeah, I ... yeah. Oh good–” Peter didn’t exactly keep up with his family if he didn’t have to. Deep down he knew he cared about his mother, and his two sisters, and even his dad, but he had his own life, he felt, and needed every minute of his time. None of them were especially close. “Well, actually, yeah, I met a girl. Well, a woman, sorry.” He was hungry, and wondered when the last time was that he’d actually eaten in the hostel. “I don’t think her age matters. Yeah, older than me.” He spent so much time at Sarah’s at the moment he was even having a real breakfast occasionally – like breakfast cereals and stuff with jam on it. Personally he and Bill and co had discovered that in spite of it being a cliché’, beer and pizza went down very easily, especially when the stomach was tender. How wonderful, he’d decided. “Well, OK, she works at the uni. No, no she’s not my ... teacher ... no, I’m not ly ... no ... no, she lectures. History. No, not in my course. What’s the big deal? Actually, she’s an American.” He sighed, and imagined what life would be like if everything was open twenty-four hours a day, all week, all year. Pretty good. 91

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“Yes, I know you don’t like Americans, but you’ve never actually met one ... they’re rude ... you saw it on TV. Well, sure, anyhow, I’ve got to go ... yeah, that’s right, we’re going to an orgy. Mum ... no ... Mum ... Mum! Look, I’ve got to go for dinner, they close up soon ... no, I don’t eat junk all the ... OK, love to Rochelle and Vicki. OK. Bye.” The phone hung back in its cradle very satisfyingly, Peter breathed a big sigh and went back into his room, duty done for another while. Maximillian was already there, lounging around on Peter’s bed. “Hiya.” “Howdy.” The newspaper article, combined with Sarah’s tour of these grounds, had given her and Peter a sort of notoriety, approaching cult status in some circles up on campus, it seemed. Sarah had an excellent attendance rate for her lectures and tuts, and Peter not only seemingly passed whatever high standard impressed the ever superior Auburn, but found himself being greeted and talked to each day by many people he was sure he did not know. It’s weird how second hand familiarity makes people forget they’ve never met someone in the flesh. If you ran into a movie star in the supermarket would you give your opinion on their work while you stand in the aisle between tampons and the frozen foods section, or would you just let them buy their corn? The Mercedes Peter left with Sarah – “Look after it for me, will ya?” – and the ownership papers had been signed away by the seemingly rash and careless woman. But he reasoned it was OK, he knew her better than that, and hey, it hurts more to return a gift to someone than let them spend too much on you. Meanwhile, in the university world, his classes sucked big time and Sarah’s lecture series was coming to a close. He guessed it just wasn’t what he thought it was going to be, and instead of filling in time with the boring stuff he turned more and more frequently to the many, many distractions available to him. Peter pushed open the heavy door to the lecture theatre; it was at the back so he didn’t disturb Sarah as she went through her final and most paranoid lecture. He saw the last few minutes of it as he waited 92

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for her, and from what he could see the relatively small class hung on her every word. He’d read Holy Blood, Holy Grail and had woven his way through countless threads of historical paranoia, and found it was really good stuff. Sarah had told him heaps and he now felt sufficiently suspicious of the single bullet theory, the Knights Templar, the Priory of Sion, the authors of the Bible, the C.I.A, most organised religions (except for the Buddhists, who hadn’t offended him in any way yet), any government, Elvis’ remains, the Loch Ness monster and strange bumps in the night. Sarah was great, really. Since he’d met her he’d gotten a makeover (well, his wardrobe had, but his nails were still just terrible), a Mercedes, a lot of heart palpitations, a lot of late nights, a lot of sex, a lot of kisses, a lot of exercise, a lot of paranoia, and one heck of an education. He was considering dropping out of uni and becoming a fulltime Sarah appendage. “... and remember – trust no one.” The audience clapped (clapping? In a lecture? Was it her charming personality, her wit, or the size of her breasts?) and a large crowd of fans hung around her for a while as Peter made his way down from the back rows. She hugged him and introduced him to a few of the stragglers, who were a diverse bunch by the looks of things. Peter didn’t bother trying to remember any names, it was too difficult at the best of times. They left with fans in tow, half expecting photographers to be waiting outside. Without going into the details of their miraculous escape from other people – the names would definitely have to be changed to protect the guilty – the couple found themselves in Sarah’s category two office, with a door between them and the outside world. Sarah put her booted feet upon her desk and smiled smugly. “So, what do you think?” she asked, her hands behind her head in mid-air, as if resting on an invisible bookshelf (or more likely some hedonistically wonderful cushion). Peter leaned forward and placed a hand on his clean shaven chin (“Urg! Stubble! Get rid of it! You’re killing my perfect skin!” 93

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“Yes, Darth Sarah, right away.”) and paused a bit before answering. “I thought it was good. You’re a real good public speaker.” There was no pillow in the room, but there were some pencils and these became pathetic missiles that missed Peter by a long way and clattered on the wall behind him, landing on a pile of Very Important Papers. ”You asshole!” she said. “What do you think of my hair?” “Your hair?” asked Peter. His eyes went wide, and then they squinted as he studied her head. She’d had it dyed from brown to an artificial looking auburn, removed most of the sides, and the top was done up all in graceful curls – sort of a glamour look thing, like a forties Hollywood starlet, perhaps. “What about your hair?” he said with a perplexed look. Sarah picked up some more pencils and Peter said hurriedly, “Oh, I see now.” He paused for true dramatic effect. “It’s ... nice.” The pencils were closer to their mark this time. “Next time it’s scissors.” “I love it, really, it looks fuckin’ great.” She eyed him suspiciously, and then stopped caressing a paperweight with her hands. “Good. How’s your day been, dear?” “Oh, alright honey, I got up ...” “Uh-huh; and I …?” “What?” “What else have you been up to?” “No, that was it. I got up.” “But it’s three in the pee-em.” “What, am I missing the Son of a Gunn show?” “What?” “Doesn’t matter.” They shared the view for a bit, a gloriously sunny day, or what was left of it. Sarah took her boots off the desk and leaned forward conspiratorially. That means secretive, with far too many syllables. You should attend English lectures more often, for this is the standard to which you are taught at high school. 94

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“I’ve got a really good idea,” she said, in that way where her eyebrows wiggled like when she’d suggested they go down to the park at night, and they’d ended up making love in a pretend lighthouse. Whuh-oh, thought Peter. “I thought, hey, wouldn’t it be cool for us to go the States?” Peter sat quiet for a while. “You mean like a holiday?” he ventured. “Yeah, sort of. Well, no, not really.” “OK,” he bit, “what’s ‘not really’?” She dragged her chair around the desk and stopped when she was intimately close to him. “Like, indefinitely.” “But I’m in university! I just got here! You just started your job here. I mean ...” he trailed off and his hands kept talking while images of Mann’s Chinese Theatre and Spider-Man flashed through his mind. She put a hand on his knee. Yeah, you always go for the knees, don’t you? he thought. “Look, it’s just an idea. But have a serious think about it. I mean, you said you weren’t much into your course anyway, and if it comes to the crunch I can fix it so you never have to work a day in your life.” Silently Peter was shocked. He’d never heard her talk about the money she could wield in such a way before. She’d never done humiliatingly gratuitous things before, like he’d supposed the rich might do; all of her spending had been fun and fluffy. But this was a big shitload of a deal, being proposed to fly around the world ’cos she could afford enough for everyone. He didn’t get much time to think along this avenue of thought however, as Bill – William – Shapiro knocked on the door and came in with an envelope. “Glad I caught you, Sarah. Hello, Peter.” Peter managed a “How’s your pants?” but Bill – William – was still in the same suit. The professor handed Sarah the envelope. “Well, that’s the rest of it; I shall be sorry to lose you. I hope you see it in your heart to return to us some day, and if you have the time, do drop in before you go. Anyway, I’m late and the Vice Chancellor’s going to be pissed off. Good day, Sarah. Peter,” and he left as quickly as he’d arrived, while 95

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Peter’s jaw sank slowly down as the dull candle of realisation flickered in his brain. “You’re already going,” he said. It was all he could say. “Yes. I’m sorry, it was pretty sudden.” For the first time he could remember she lowered her eyes and hung her head slightly. “How sudden? In the last six hours?” “No.” He was starting to get bad mad, the mad where you get indignant and say things far, far before thinking about them. “Well, shit, did you forget to mention it last night? Was it during dinner, you were too busy throwing peas at Mandy? No?” “Sorry, Peter, I would have told you, but I was going down on you, and found it difficult to talk?” Sarah started to get a shitty look on her face just as Peter felt the anger pass, as he always did when he was around Sarah. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be mad. I just thought about going home, and I thought about taking you with me and I got all excited and ... I miss it, Peter, I want to go.” She took his hand. “I love you. I don’t want to go without you.” “I love you, too, but it’s something I have to think about.” He got up. “Look, I’ll go home and think and I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.” He went to the door. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I just felt ...” “I know. I’m sorry, too. I love you.” “I love you too. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He left.

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Chapter Seven (and a half.) Peter left with his thoughts in a big jumble, with various words and phrases and images repeating themselves over and over again so that he got the impression he was thinking about things, but in fact it was just the mental equivalent of white noise. Halfway down Kelburn Parade he stopped at a phone box and rang Sarah, and she was most surprised to hear his voice so soon, and he asked her if there were any other reasons for leaving. “This teaching lark’s for the birds, love,” she said in a bad English accent. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and went down town. He asked the buildings what he should do, but they were silent. What good are you? he cried inside. You stand there like some oracles of the street but when I need you, you’re not there. Great big old block, why have you forsaken me? Shiny flashy tower, why have you deserted me? I walk through this wilderness and you give me diddly. Beware if I ever get on a town planning board because I’m going to flatten everything. The buildings answered, and he saw a travel agent appear before his eyes. Disneyland and the Grand Canyon stood in four colour magnificence. The buildings asked him, through a great red sign above the pictures, “Have you ever been?” and Peter admitted he hadn’t. But ... But I just got here! I live here! I have responsibilities! What responsibilities do you have? they replied. You have few. 97

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Your family – do you fulfil those? Yourself – you certainly try and fulfil that, and are you serving yourself now? Compare how much you learned from loving Sarah to how much you’ve learned away from the sun, away from the air, in tube-lit rooms and dry books. Why have you forsaken your Earth? cried the buildings, why have you forsaken yourself ? Claim back that which you want and is rightfully yours. Your freedom. Methinks you doth make a mountain out of a molehill, said Peter to the buildings, but I thank you for your advice. He felt very dizzy from lack of food, and when he’d visited a franchise to fix his hunger imbalance the buildings no longer talked to him. “Yes,” said Peter. Sarah was thrilled. Things moved fast. A trip to the American Embassy, a huge low fortress that Peter was sure could survive an atom bomb or alien invasion. Calls to his mother, who was most unhappy, but what did she know? The Mercedes into storage. Mandy given all the house keys, and a big, sloppy, farewell kiss from Peter. Sarah and Peter, without much baggage but both armed with credit cards, and Peter without guilt. Two tickets, waiting and farewells to his friends in the airport lounge. ”Look after my room,” he said to Auburn as he tossed her the key, the unthinkable becoming the obvious, but how it all moves in very mysterious ways. A hug from Elf. A long, covered ramp and blue carpet. A smile and the butterflies kicking up a fuss around his intestines. A bell and a light. Two hands holding each other, one so soft he would weep. The thrust of an army of horses beneath his feet. A long climb into the sun, and no turning back now. 98

End of part one.

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Part Two •

Chapter Eight LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A. Peter, of course, didn’t sleep the whole trip, and his eyeballs felt grainy. The pilot had announced that they would be landing any minute now, and that the weather was such and so forth, that it was twenty-one degrees, and being a New Zealand airline Peter knew this meant the water would not be frozen in L.A. He gripped Sarah’s hand tightly and they grinned at each other, excited insects crammed in his stomach, keen to get a good look out the window – Peter had definitely insisted on the window seat, and Sarah had grudgingly relinquished it, having had the advantage of “been there, done that”. They flew first class, of course, which, though limited in his flying experience, meant that the chairs were big and tacky fake leather, and they could go back comfortably, with more leg room. He watched the big flat blue below, as waves became discernible, and they flew past (or over, rather) what looked like some off-shore oil platforms. Cool. His ears pressed in on him hard and he started swallowing like the blazes as the coastline rushed to meet them. Imagine the establishing shot as the intermission ends, the curtains open and the shot of the plane comes over your head, wings spread wide and metal white. A close-up of the outside of Peter’s window, although in actuality you wouldn’t have seen much. 103

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He stared at the land – it was where the water finished and billions of houses began. Millions of them. They went for 105 miles, towards clustered circles of high-rises in various places, mountains visible in the distance. The plane tilted, and the view sank away. He looked left and caught glimpses through the window on the other side past some old bald guy’s head. The land was brown – all sorts of browns, but brown. They circled for some time until it was clear that they were coming in to land. Rushing over the outer markers, concrete below, small mysterious shacks whizzing past and the bump and grumble as they touched down, letting the laws of gravity apply again. The plane taxied for a long time, and then they had to wait some more, before finally being thanked for their patronage and shown off the plane. The long walk through paperwork began, with queues and customs, as is the way, Peter’s anticipation was overwhelming. When they eventually burst through that final door it was then, and not before, he knew he was in a different country. Crowds of people milled everywhere in currents and eddies, mixing with those waiting for the arrivals. Tans and T-shirts, African Americans, so stand out in New Zealand – the basketball imports or very occasional visitors – were everywhere, lending the scene so much authenticity to Peter, a hint of this place he’d dreamed about since he was five. There were Asians and people who looked like they must be from Israel or Iraq or somewhere like that, and there were lots of them. There were tourists, maybe everybody was a tourist. Was he? He wasn’t on tour, that was for sure, but he kept his eyes open for Arnold Schwarzenegger anyway. Sarah pulled him by the arm, just as excited as he was by the look of it, all smiles and hopping. He didn’t know where she was leading him until they stopped in front of a short man in a grey suit, with a moustache and very suspiciously tidy hair. The two greeted each other with handshakes and pleasantries, and then Sarah introduced Peter. “Peter,” she said, her voice low and unmarred by the journey, “this is Harvey Hausemann, he’s my lawyer. Harvey, this is Peter. He’s 104

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the love of my life.” Harvey’s sun-wrinkled hand shot out and his solid American accent enveloped Peter. He took his hand. “Hi, Peter, I’ve heard a lot about you.” “Do I meet all your expectations?” replied Peter, very, very conscious of his own accent. Ever since customs he’d been aware that most everyone had a voice that was usually ear-catching at home, but now he figured it must be him. Thank god for all the foreign accents, he thought, not realising he was in a nation built on foreign accents. “Mostly, yes. Ha ha!” Harvey handed bits and pieces of envelopes and papers and such to the pair of them. “Well, there should be everything you need there. You got your credit and ATM cards, uh, straight up cash like you asked, and you have a suite at the Regent Beverly Wilshire.” “No way!” said Peter, looking back and forth between Sarah and Harvey. “Oh, yes,” said Harvey with a smile. “I guess you must have heard of it, ha ha, Sarah likes to travel well.” Sarah stowed the papers in a trouser pocket and said, “You’d be uncomfortable if I spent less, though, wouldn’t you?” “Ha ha,” said Harvey. They walked through the terminal and went outside, Peter’s head spinning back and forth as he tried to get as much value as possible from what he could see. Big glass doors slid back, revealing they were very tinted, and the light wrapped around him – everything looked bathed in yellow. The sky was bluish, but not like he remembered it from the plane. And the air smelled very, very slightly funny, definitely different. “How come you’re the only person I ever met who comes back with less luggage than when she left?” asked Harvey, indicating the carry-on luggage that both Peter and Sarah carried, very obviously all they carried, and Sarah smiled smugly. “I’m trying to forgo a materialistic lifestyle – Peter’s my guru.” Peter nodded sagely at Harvey. “Where’s his turban?” asked the lawyer, donning sunglasses. 105

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Peter dug inside his bag for his own. They crossed a road down which several limousines were cruising. Somewhere an announcement was being made to the effect that parking anywhere in the vicinity was a very big no-no. The parking building across the way was huge – probably as big as Auckland’s entire international terminal itself. A couple of guys dressed sort of like policemen rode past on bicycles. They would have looked laughable except for the revolvers strapped to their waists. The guns looked much bigger than Peter expected. “What are they?” he asked. “Airport cops,” said Harvey. “Well, I’ll catch up with you later, I gotta head downtown. I’d give you a lift, but–” “It’s OK, we’ll grab a cab,” said Sarah as they reached a taxi rank. “Listen, in case I don’t see you, when’s the best time we should, uh …?” “If you wanna just pop in sometime next week we can take care of the business then.” Harvey split and the taxis were disappointingly un-yellow. Peter stared out the window at everything he could, Sarah now strangely silent. They were on what Peter assumed was one of the famous freeways, bum ba da bum bum, which Ponch and that white guy had cruised every Friday night while Peter ate takeaways, when he used to talk to his mother, when his older sister hadn’t been a – well, he didn’t like to say the word, she was still his sister after all. The freeway was big ass and concrete and was off the ground far enough to give a view over the city. He kept an eye out for perpetual rear end car crashes, carjackers, and psychotics with crew-cuts resembling Michael Douglas. “Can we go through Hollywood? Is it on the way?” he asked, a bit more anxiously than he would have liked. Sarah smiled and took his hand. “Sure, but it’s probably not how you think.” The trip took about half an hour and Peter sank into auto car riding mode, until the driver said something to Sarah; the car driver could speak English (well, American), another disappointment. Peter 106

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was trying to notice all the differences about L.A., but all he saw was Auckland under a different spotlight. Except that it was so fucking big it appeared they’d used the gigantic freeway system to separate the suburbs, unlike the squished mishmash of houses that constitutes most of Auckland, here there was some kind of order and pattern. Plus, it looked terrifyingly similar to every backdrop he’d seen in the movies. When he finally saw the sign, even though he’d been waiting for it, he still breathed, “Cool”. The taxi driver may have laughed, but perhaps he didn’t; perhaps he’d seen it all before. HOLLYWOOD. Big as a big thing. “It’s pretty neat, really. Used to say ‘Hollywoodland’, apparently.” Peter asked her why, but she just shrugged. “Dunno, must have been in those golden times everyone likes to talk about around here. When the Pope came some clown changed it to ‘Holywood’.” “And don’t forget,” chimed in the taxi driver, who didn’t have a Mohawk, “during Iran/Contra, when they changed it to ‘Ollywood’.” “Yeah, that’s right.” Sarah laughed, but the reference was confusing to Peter. “This is it,” said his pretty one, hooking her arm through his and laying her head on his shoulder, whispering, “I think I’m a bit tired.” He brought his gaze down from the sign. It looked like he might be in some of the dead parts of South Auckland. Shop windows were empty or boarded up, there was no glitz, no glamour. Some tourists, a lot of kids, some young people, some old people, standing still, perhaps looking sometime else. All sorts, but if you had to put your PC finger on it, it would be “low socio-economic groups”. It looked, frankly, crappy. They drove around several streets for Peter’s satisfaction, and the driver pointed out the odd structure that used to hold something: a movie studio, a cafe where Gary Cooper used to hang out. The buildings were a jumble, all types of looks and stages of renovation or degradation. There were several art deco structures, several plain weird structures. Peter’s heart somewhat sank. He’d had no idea what Hollywood was, 107

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just an association, but he’d kind of assumed it would at least be like Beverly Hills, or at any rate, how Beverly Hills had looked on TV. “This is Hollywood?” he asked meekly. “Yeah, this is it. C’mon, uh, can we go to the hotel, the Regent Beverly Wilshire now?” she asked the driver, sitting up momentarily before laying back down on Peter’s shoulder. “It’s OK, you’ll like Beverly Hills. That’ll look a bit more how you expect.” He felt her cheeks smile and he played idly with her short auburn curls, looking for any remaining blonde bits, and finding none. Beverly Hills did indeed look flash – it looked exactly like he’d seen on TV, in fact. Big lawns, finally some green, and big houses. Expensive cars, and they’d driven up Rodeo Drive, which Sarah had called the Via Condetti of Los Angeles. It was all Greek to Peter, but it looked pretty over the top anyhow. He finally started thinking to himself – yeah, I’m here, I’m really here – and the virtual reality ride of the last two days was beginning to feel pretty gritty. The hotel, whose name he’d known from many places in pop culture, was built on the word posh. While you couldn’t roller blade through the lobby, it was certainly beautiful. Like Harvey had said, they were expected, and they were treated damn fine. Even though he was dressed in jeans and a garish, overlicensed T-shirt, they still made Peter feel like royalty; at least Sarah was mostly impeccably dressed to bring the couple’s standards up, (though she’d “slummed it” in her own private surroundings, she still loved to feel expensively comfortable – at least she has some money driven vices, Peter had observed). The taxi fare had approximated, in N.Z. dollars, about fifty bucks, including a tip. It begins! thought Peter. Tipping continued through the hotel, up the elevator etc. and he made an important mental note to check with Sarah on how the process worked. She put money in the non-acne-ridden bellhop-guy’s hand and then surveyed her surroundings, hands on her hips and absolutely stunning. “Pretty not bad, hey?” she said. He took his eyes off her and looked at the room. It was a hell of a lot bigger than the one in Wellington, way back at the beginning. There were all sorts of 108

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impressive hues in the decor, probably not by the Mercedes interior designer though, they were very pale and subtle. The furniture looked real – not mass produced for a chain of rooms across the land, but handpicked and individual. The bed was big. Taking his eyes off Sarah had been a mistake. She leapt on his back and he face-planted the aforementioned bed. “Mfflegrmphbbba!” he chastised. She kissed the back of his neck three times sweetly, wetly, and then rolled him over. He saw a bottle of Perrier now, on the table opposite, and two bowls on a silver tray of what looked like strawberries – no, smaller berries than that – and cream. “Hey, look–” he pointed, but she pushed his arm down and sealed his mouth shut with her own. He could taste her lipstick, so familiar, wonderful, now. She raised her mouth enough to say “Shut up,” and he took the opportunity to say “But I thought you were tired?” before being hopelessly cut off again. The bed appeared to be an amazing combination of luxurious and good for the spine. Late afternoon appeared to be dawning and two shiny gold credit cards slipped from their protective plastic coverings and clapped against each other briefly before sliding into pockets. “There are advantages to only having a couple of changes of clothes,” said Sarah, lips parting slyly at their edges. “I don’t know how you ever convinced me to just hop on a plane with the bare essentials,” slightly moaned Peter. “Well, unfortunately for the women of Los Angeles we can’t have you running around in your bare essentials.” “Hmmm,” he said, very seriously. “C’mon.” She grabbed his hand and led him out the door. “I know a place.” Multiply place by twelve, becoming places, and two hours of outfitting for Sarah and Peter. Large, papery plastic bags with trendy and 109

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internationally famous logos on them weighed down Peter as the sun sank through the sky on its way to bed. They’d taxied and wandered quite a ways away and Peter was suitably impressed by the shops, the snooty service, and the hideous expense which occurred every time Sarah started waving those naughty little cards around. Sarah ventured that they’d really better rent an automobile machine of some type if they wanted to survive. “And a nice one at that,” she said. A taxi to an excellent rental service, and some superb fawning. “Well, this one is nice ...” “It offers a full range of ...” “Hey, this looks cool ...” “This comes in ...” “Wow, check out ...” “And, ah, now that ...” Finally, Peter’s heart set itself. “Please, please, please, please, please, please, please,” he begged his patron. She patted him on the head. It was low. It was black. It was sleek. Sarah drove, (hell still being warm and all) and fast. The tires left their calling card on the showroom floor and it took corners like gravity was on holiday. The rental agent’s words hung in Peter’s ears, even though he was screaming “Wa-hoo!” “Yes, this sure is nice, it’s a Ferrari, of course; you remember Miami Vice, you old enough for that? Well, this is like the car Don Johnson drove, only it’s a convertible, of course. You’ll be able to outrun cops in this baby – not that I’m suggesting you should try, or anything.” Sarah was loving every second of it as the Italian masterpiece accelerated like a missile. They drove for an hour as the lights came on, having to go slower more often than not as traffic clogged the streets. There were many confusing one ways and no left turns, but Sarah seemed unfazed. ”You been taking survival lessons from Mandy?” asked Peter. She laughed, pah! 110

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“Most people get intimidated by L.A. streets but that’s just reputation. Bark’s worse than bite, babe.” She grinned and tightened her grip as they cornered close, but Peter decided to try and have faith in her Mandy-esque driving skills. Either that or lose what food was in his stomach. “Besides,” she added, “I was born for these streets. I drove them enough as a kid.” “As a kid?” enquired his subconscious driven mouth as his brain did overtime – hey, that’s right, what do you know about her? He kept on asking, “When were you a kid here?” “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes in my teens. Early twenties, I guess. Quite often.” “I don’t understand. When are you going to explain all these years to me? And am I a kid, does that last comment mean?” “No, yeah, maybe. Don’t rush to grow up, Peter. Trust me. Hell, I’m trying to grow down and it’s the best telling I’ve done in a long time.” Peter’s nose went out of joint and a dark streak crossed his eyes. “Is that what I am? You want to release your inner child by boning an eighteen-year-old?” “No no no no no no,” she reassured, when she could have been angry. “C’mon, lighten up, you know how I feel about you.” He relaxed instantly but still felt sullen. “I don’t know Sarah, s’kinda funny, sometimes to think about it. How am I to know? You could be taking me all over the world as some kinda toy boy.” The car accelerated, revving louder and they approached the rear of another car dangerously quickly before Sarah dropped back a little. “Oh, you like to flatter yourself, is that it? Are you so shit hot I’m gonna quit a job and a country so that we can be together?” She sounded stern but not furious, which, under the circumstances (involving hurtling pieces of metal at high speeds) made Peter thankful. “That’s not–” he started. “Look.” She took one hand off the wheel and held it out like a pointer on an infomercial. “This has gotta be on trust. That’s the be all and end all, especially with us, in this world, with people who believe in the sanctity of their own righteous opinions.” OK, maybe she was a 111

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bit more than stern. “Fucking bitch,” yelled a fat man out the window of his BMW. The draw back of a convertible – you can clearly hear bullshit insults, and the opposing driver knows it. Still, Peter disregarded the shark swimming around the isolated and sinking fishing boat and jumped in without a cage or a spear gun, trying not to make a splash. “It’s hard. I don’t know if I’ve ever trusted anyone in my life. And I’ve never been trusted back to the degree–” “Do you trust me?” she half shouted. “I – let me think for a sec–” She sped up and swerved into another lane. A horn blared and faded. “Do you trust me, Peter?” That was surely a shout. “Don’t – just – let me–” “No. Do you trust me? Do you trust me? Tell me now!” She accelerated towards a truck and indicated left, where no space was. Peter looked at her, her mouth was set slightly downturned, she stared straight ahead, he looked at the road, at the truck and all its little lights, and at the fast roving stream to the left, headlights playing on the shoulder. He sat back and relaxed. “Yeah. Yeah I do.” She sped up and into the left lane like a big time stunt. The lane somehow accommodated the expensive, long, heavily insured racer. “I trust you too, babe.” She played with his hair, fingers sliding through it, sending chills down his spine. “And I love you. I promise.” Tall lights made spires out of buildings, saying “Don’t crash here” to the light aircraft and police helicopters that made shooting stars in the night sky. When they got back to the hotel Sarah started speed dialling old phone numbers out of an address book in an attempt to locate some of her local friends. She mentioned something about “the beach house”, which sounded like something she’d said once before. 112

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“Didn’t you say you used to have a beach house near L.A.?” Peter was on the bed, channel surfing through a whole lot of channels. There were ... a lot, and it was quite surreal how all he could find were sitcoms and Dial Media-esque ads. He started on the cable channels. Thank god this hotel has everything, he thought. Hey, I haven’t tried out room service yet. Well, not much. “Yeah, I still own a place out in Malibu,” said Sarah from the phone. “Malibu?” asked he. “Yeah.” “Well, why aren’t we there instead of in this god knows how expensive place here?” She stopped her phoning for a second and looked at him squarely. “Hey, come on, look around you. You can even get your own butler here.” “Really?” “Uh-huh. “ “Can I have one?” he asked earnestly. “Why? Do you need one?” “Well, maybe he’d be like Anthony Hopkins and it would be like, just really cool.” “Oh, that’s a real good reason. Anyway, I don’t know who’s out at the house these days and I want to let them know I’m coming back.” She pushed a button on the phone for room service and asked for some beer and anything that had venison in it. “You let people stay in your house? How long? Are these real good friends of yours?” “Maybe. Some are, probably. I’ve been away from the place for at least a couple of years.” She went back to the phoning, he went back to the TV, and they both tuned out for a while. Later, meanwhile, she suddenly announced that she’d successfully gotten hold of a few people and that if it was all right with Peter they could go meet them later this evening. Peter was still a bit on the tired side, even with a break in the middle of the day, but what the hell, you’re in Los Angeles pal, look alive! 113

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Donning some of their new clothes, Peter felt fresh in a sort of tieless suit affair, cut nice and un-businesslike, with a collarless shirt held tight around his neck by a small stud. Sarah had on an off-white short dress supported by a couple of thin straps, and Peter thought she looked like a real sexy mama mia. They experienced once again the joy of walking through the lobby, and Peter enjoyed it so much more now that his clothes cost more than a night in the presidential suite. A valet was handed money for the retrieval of the Ferrari from wherever that place is that valets take cars. Peter got to do the tipping, and though it was hard to get used to the stupid money – all the same colour and size – with careful attention he did it OK. “Where are we headed?” he asked Sarah as they felt the night wind in their hair, though not going too fast lest Sarah’s curls be pulled out of sync by the breeze. “Downtown.” “That sounds seedy.” He sat back, looking at all the night traffic, streaking points of light. (“A thousand points of light,” intoned George Bush, somewhere deep in his head. Was this what he’d meant? America was going to the pub at night?) “It can be a bit dodgy at night, but they say it’s a lot better now, now that people are moving back into the inner city. There’s probably a lot of private security down there. Anyway, we’re just going to meet those friends of mine, and we’ll find somewhere else to go.” Downtown smelled funny. It took more than a few minutes to get where they were going and when they got there they drove around a bit, trying to find somewhere to park. In the end they just used a club’s valet service, and walked two blocks to a bar on the corner of an intersection. Going in, the clientele hit their senses immediately – stockbrokers, lawyers, suits everywhere – and Peter wondered what the hell he and Sarah were doing there, surrounded by all these professional men and women. Almost immediately three people materialised out of the crowd and glided up to Sarah. How they’d blended into the crowd was a 114

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mystery, as they were dressed out of line both with the suits and with Peter and Sarah. Two women and a man, carrying differing amounts of make-up, hair products and cut cloth; one of the women was tall, taller than Peter by at least half a head. She bent down slightly and hugged Sarah, who exclaimed, “Michael!” Peter looked around, but it was the tall one she was referring to. OK, sure. Michael had the remains of black hair on her head and shaved patches. Sarah knew the guy as well, he was called Chug for some strange reason, and the other woman was an Asian waif, very pretty, very short, named Anita. Peter was summarily introduced as “Peter, my man.” He said hi and waved. They said hi back, Michael called him a cutie, Anita gave a smile and a wink. They questioned his nationality and the only reference they had for New Zealand was a faraway place responsible for a couple of good movies. “Well, I have no idea what’s going on around here, this dive has certainly gone downhill, so lead on,” said Sarah. Michael gave her an address and directions, said how good it was to see her again, and the pair split to retrieve the Ferrari, with Chug promising “Race you there,” and putting up twenty bucks for the victor. “You’re on. Come on, hon, let’s go–” They wandered back the way they’d just come and Peter tried to be like some sort of human sponge, drinking in the atmosphere, but failing, mostly buzzing out over everything. They got the car back from the valet and Peter asked where it was they were going. “Back in near Hollywood. C’mon, let’s beat Chug.” And she tested the car’s ability to break the sound barrier. Half expecting to age backwards, Peter thrilled to the speed – hot damn, I’m riding a freeway in AMERICA in a FERRARI at HIGH SPEEDS and surely it doesn’t get better than this – and he asked Sarah if he could have a turn at the wheel. “I don’t think so. Rich though one may be, she’s not gonna let you wipe this out!” she said. Peter put a hurt expression on his face. 115

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“I can handle it. And if I ask you again how rich you are, does that mean I get the car?” “No.” They streamed on, leaving tail lights floating behind them as they achieved warp 3. A small cluster of lights materialised behind them. Aliens! was Peter’s first thought, but hoping against hope, it did in fact turn out to be the expected local law enforcement representative. And he wasn’t even a CHiP. “Poophead,” said Sarah. Peter got a bit worried. “You’re not gonna try and outrun him, are you?” She looked at him and opened her mouth a few moments before any words came out. “No, that would be bad.” She pulled over to the shoulder and the cruiser pulled up behind. One cop got out, the cruiser’s lights were on so Peter couldn’t see if there was another one in the car. The top was down so he couldn’t hide his face, even if he’d wanted to. The cop looked like Peter expected, as well. And those damn guns still looked big. He was preoccupied with his own thoughts and worries as the cop took Sarah’s license and all. “You were well in excess of the limit.” “Yeah, I know, and I got a real nice car and you probably want to bust me but good, don’t you?” The cop didn’t say anything, but looked like he might. “And I really don’t need this, it would suck, so, basically, I’m going to bribe you.” The cop looked like he’d been bit. “I know, I know, how dare I, I’m in real trouble now, there’s a thousand dollars in my hand here.” And indeed, there was a thick wad of bills. “Take it.” Peter’s brain playing catch up – what the fuck did she just say? What the fuck did she just say? But he sat paralysed. The cop looked sideways for a moment. “Miss ...” he began. “Two thousand.” He was silent again. Peter felt a real cold feeling around his ears. Sarah added more money to the pile. “That’s twenty-five hundred 116

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bucks there. Personally, I think that’s a whole lot of money. And, c’mon, you guys are underpaid, and what, I’m speeding? Wouldn’t it be a little bit more important to be out there busting some real crook instead of some arrogant bitch in a fast car? You got kids? This’ll help out. Last offer.” Last offer? thought Peter. What the fuck are you talking about, last offer? Are you mad, woman? But he said nothing, he didn’t dare. “You drive slower from now on. Next time you might not be so lucky.” And he took the money and placed it between the carbons in his ticket book. He started to hand Sarah’s license back and then said, “Hey”. Peter’s heart leapt into the back of his skull and bounced off. The cop looked at the license again. “Sarah Howe, huh? You didn’t go to high school over Anaheim way, did you?” He studied her face closely. “No, Michigan. I was never here in my high school years,” she said, cucumber like. He looked at her a while more, then handed the license back. “Drive careful,” he said and walked back to his car. When he drove past them Peter saw that he was alone. It took a few moments of them both sitting there before Peter burst. “What the fuck did you do that for?” She lost the smile she’d had. “Hey, look, I can’t afford to get caught speeding here again.” “Afford? Afford? Twenty-five hundred bucks? Afford? A ticket will be, what, a hundred dollars? I can’t believe you did that. You bribed a cop!” His head shook and shook and shook. Sarah started the car and re-entered the flow of traffic. “Let’s get to where we’re going, alright?” They drove in silence for a bit, but Peter couldn’t stand it for very long. “Why?” he asked. “My driving record in California isn’t ... very good.” “What does that mean? How could you even get this car?” She sighed. “It doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to drive. I just had some real bad luck way back when I was hell on wheels. You know?” 117

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“No,” he said. “I don’t know.” He resolved to not give up so easily this time. Travelling several thousand miles can be a bit of a risk, don’t you think? Best he find out who the hell is in the driver’s seat. It’s about time. “I don’t know shit and I’m sick of listening to all my questions being met with dead air.” “Look, Peter,” she said angrily, “don’t rush everything. You want to know stuff ? Fine. Ask. You’ve never properly asked before, so go ahead.” “Yes, I have,” he protested. “No, you haven’t. You haven’t. And maybe there’s stuff I find it hard to say. Don’t tell me everything that’s happened to you in your life you’ve told me.” Flash through his mind. Little lie. Maybe. “I’m only eighteen. I don’t have anything to tell yet! You’re about all that’s happened to me that’s worth telling!” He folded his arms. “Can we do this later? Look – Harvey said it would be bad for me to get busted again. I took a risk, but hey, I didn’t really think it would be a problem. Why should one cop be any different from another?” “What does that–” “I just acted quickly and I’m sorry if it made you angry. I didn’t know you were in awe of the law.” Hollywood looked like it might be close, but Peter didn’t quite have all his bearings yet, especially because it was night. “It’s not that, it’s just ... I don’t know. How come he thought he knew you?” “I don’t know.” “Were you lying to him? Did you go to school with him or something like that?” “No, not that I know of.” “Did you really go to high school in Michigan?” “Yeah. We moved about a lot; I went to high school in a lot of places.” They stopped at a red light, Peter wondering why she didn’t just drive through. It was perfectly within reason to expect that the two of them would end the night driving into the Grand Canyon 118

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pursued by Harvey Keitel. “C’mon, babe, you’ll hear everything.” She leaned over and kissed him. He grudgingly got a bit happier. “I promise you.” “OK.” They reached the address Michael had given Sarah. It was a two-storey concrete building, with the top floor obviously occupied with some sort of dance club thing. Once again they blindly entrusted a very expensive piece of car to a complete stranger.

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Chapter Nine “Whorrr ahhhhhrrrggghhh glf.” What hit me? he wondered. His head felt several sizes too big, and there was a stabbing pain at the back, and a searing white hot one in the front. Everything got very bright suddenly and that didn’t help. He thought he heard Sarah’s voice far off – “Are you awake?” “Fuck off !” he screamed, but it sounded croaky and his throat hurt. Not much of a scream. A new thought: hey, I can’t see anything. Am I blind? “Sorry,” came Sarah’s voice, closer, and the bright light disappeared. Oh, yeah. Eyelids. I remember those. He opened his eyes (felt like he’d opened his whole face) and didn’t understand why someone had turned the whole hotel room upside down. It must have taken a long time, but still, there was plenty more floor space, with all the furniture now on the ceiling. How did the chandelier stay upright like that? Sarah’s upside down gorgeous short-haired head popped into his view. “Boy, you sure do take a long time to wake up, don’t you.” Oh, yeah, ha ha, he was upside down, shhh, don’t tell her. He greeted her good morning. “Ow.” “Ow to you, too. How are you this afternoon?” “What’s going on?” Limbs moved around and he picked himself up, sliding sideways as he did so. “You’re getting up, that’s what’s going on.” 121

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“What? Oh, that’s right.” His mouth felt disgusting, and he needed to drink a swimming pool. “I think it’s fair to say I’ve never been that drunk in my entire life.” Sarah was dressed in a satin robe, and she looked like she hadn’t exactly gotten going yet, either. But she still looked beautiful. Peter’s heart melted away as it mostly did when he drank in the sight of her. She was so fucking wonderful. She sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulder. His head plonked sideways and rested on satin. “Remember much?” “Sure.” Except the name of the club. He remembered it closed really early, and that they (they? those other people, that tall girl and stuff ) went somewhere else. A real low place, with blue lights and ... “Where the hell was that place. That blue place?” “Ha, congratulations, you survived your first underground club experience. If you don’t throw up today I’ll be proud of you.” He didn’t feel like throwing up, and that made him feel better. He remembered a lot of jumping around, a lot of drinks. Talking to that Michael woman, she was funny, and she’d said some stuff about Sarah. He looked at Sarah’s jawline, and her planed cheeks, and her little curls. She’d said stuff about Sarah. What had she said? The place had been loud. Thumping. She’d said – something about Sarah’s parents, they’d been involved in real estate or something, and the money had been huge. Really huge, but no one knew how much, and that Sarah liked to live how she did, and didn’t want to do much with herself. Michael had, what, she’d known Sarah quite a while, but there was a period where no one seemed to know her, back when she was young after her parents died. And then Sarah had come back from the dance floor and they’d stopped talking – he had no recollection of how it had started. Michael, Chug and Anita lived in the beach house, but were going to move to another place in Hollywood. He didn’t know if Sarah owned that, too. Does she own a lot? he remembered asking Chug in the toilet, one of many visits. He’d said “Shit, yes.” 122

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Huh. And he remembered being in the car again, but no cops. Had Sarah been drunk? Compared to him, anyone would have looked sober. He had a vague memory about pretending to be a chicken, on a wooden post, somewhere salty. Far out. “You feel up to breakfast, maybe?” Experiencing no retching feeling at the idea he said, “Give me a bit. Need water. Need wash. Back soon.” The healing power of steam touched his mind and nostrils like a saint leaning from a Renaissance picture, using his unearthly powers to restore Peter’s soul to the land of the living. And the towels were heavenly. When the food came, and the verdict from Peter’s stomach was in (all secure on the nausea front) they discussed what the remains of the afternoon held for them. Shopping. Spending. More shopping, they decided. Peter’s hangover seemed fleeting compared to others in the pantheon of alcoholic retribution. He merely felt slightly depressed and lethargic. His brain was trying to mull over as many of the Sarah connected events of the previous evening as possible, but all it really managed was, “Boy, I bet lying around some more would feel good, hey, I wonder if she wants the rest of that bacon?” Then, as is the mind’s wont, an interesting titbit surfaced between “Any more hot rolls?” and “But she bribed a cop!” “Hey, it’s your birthday soon, unless I got my dates all screwed up.” Bacon and cops disappeared from his mind for a while (a seasoned observer would have noticed a popular connection between those two particular thoughts, but Peter wasn’t seasoned and he certainly wasn’t feeling very observational). “Yeah, so? You wanna make something of it?” Peter put his food aside for a second. Only a second. “Hell, yes. You’re turning thirty! That’s pretty cool.” “I’m quite happy being in a holding pattern at twenty-nine, thanks very much.” Peter stuck his tongue out, Sarah returned the favour and, deciding not to let them go to waste, they popped them in each other’s 123

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mouths, mixing with the remains of sweet rolls and orange juice (freshly squeezed, of course). “Mmmmmmmmmm.” said Peter. They disengaged and Peter repeated his line of questioning. “C’mon, man, you must want to do something for your birthday. We could, like, hire a warehouse and hold a rave for everyone you’ve ever met.” “Why do I have to have met them? And what’s all this ‘we’ stuff – you getting attached to spending my money?” “Well,” he said, lounging back a little, “it’s incredibly easy to get attached to.” Pillow. Of course. But Peter didn’t mind being hit by it – the pillows here were, of course, soft and gorgeous. And it gave him an A-OK excuse to wrestle with his soft and gorgeous lover. So they spent the day killing time with credit cards, and they split up a few times so Peter could go and look at things he was more specifically interested in, and Sarah could stay with the same old, same old. He came back from one trip with a great new toy. It was a flash and expensive (now there’s a surprise) camera. He got Sarah to pose for it. “Check this out,” he gloated. “Smile,” said the camera in a digital voice, that of a person far away and warped beyond recognition. The flash went off, even though they were outside at a street cafe table on a sunny day. “Goddamn it, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” “It said ‘smile’,” complained Sarah. “That has to be the silliest thing I’ve seen in a while.” “Isn’t it great?” said the proud new papa of a silly prize. “It’s a perfect example of what’s so great and fucked up about the world. A camera that sez smile.” He stroked the black camera housing and then put it away in one of those damage proof cases that cost about as much as a camera itself. “I’m sure glad you don’t feel guilty about spending my money anymore.” “Do you mind?” 124

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“Hey, babe, for better or worse, what’s mine is yours.” He sipped at a coffee – well, a very short espresso, actually, if you must know – wiping doughnut crumbs off his other hand onto a cotton serviette. “You make it sound like we’re married.” Sarah visibly whitened and coloured at the same time. A remarkable effect. She recovered, though. “We don’t need to be married. We don’t need an excuse to stay together.” “And I’m sure I could think of one, if needed.” The cafe didn’t supply pillows, so Peter was safe. But all she said was, “I love you.” He remembered the times when he’d said it, and she’d replied “Not yet,” or “Maybe”. That had been scary stuff, falling in love. Sometimes he wished he could do it again. The cafe wasn’t especially special. It had wrought iron chairs on the “sidewalk” (cool! Peter got to use all the Sesame Street terms for things now!) and sun umbrellas and all that stuff. Except that it was in California! And it was very expensive. And the service was pretty slow. “I’ve got an idea what we could do on my birthday,” said Sarah suddenly. “What?” Peter seized on the chance to get something happening on the birthday issue. “Do we get to rent a warehouse?” “Nothing like that.” She adjusted her sunglasses, pushing them back with her index finger, leaning back against the iron back of the chair. “I was thinking of maybe going to visit my grandparents.” A momentarily taken aback Peter exclaimed, “You never told me ... where do they live?” “Montana.” “Where’s that? Is it up by Canada or something?” “You know all those mountains you saw flying in?” She drew invisible lines on the wooden table top. “Uh-huh.” “Well, over there, but up.” “Oh.” “It’s very nice. Very green.” “Cool. OK! How come you never talk about other family?” “How come you don’t?” 125

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They spent the rest of the evening going to a Sam Peckinpah film festival. Coming out afterwards Peter was suitably impressed by the old time gore thrown around on screen. “And I thought it was all so modern,” he commented. At the hotel Sarah rang her grandparents, while Peter looked through an atlas, trying to find Montana. He found it next to Idaho, amid a whole bunch of mountain symbols. “Hey, it is up by Canada,” he said, but Sarah wasn’t listening. I’m pretty good at this geography thing, he thought. Maybe I should have gone to university some more. He considered it for a fraction of a second. Nah. When Sarah got off the phone he repeated, “Montana’s up by Canada. Look.” “I know where it is. I never said it wasn’t.” She didn’t seem in a very happy mood. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing. I’m just tired.” He went over and hugged her for a long time. Eventually she slipped out from his arms, looking more like her usual self. “I’m OK.” she said. “How’s the day after tomorrow sound?” “Day after tomorrow what?” “How about we go to my grandparents’ place the day after tomorrow?” “But your birthday isn’t till next week.” “I haven’t seen them in two years. You’ll love it, you will. They got this cabin in the middle of nowhere, it’s like out of a storybook.” Peter remained unconvinced. “What the hell is there to do in Montana?” “I don’t know. Get back to nature? There’s trees.” “Wonderful. I can be a lumberjack, just like I always wanted.” He started whistling the Monty Python song. “Oh, stop it you. We’ll have a great time, you’ll see. And by the time we come back, we’ll be able to move into the beach house. You’ll get a kick out of Malibu.” “Does Arnold Schwarzenegger live there?” 126

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“Oh, sure. He comes over for pancakes all the time.” “Really” he said sarcastically. “Oh, absolutely. He drives over the dunes in his Humvee and leaps in through the windows shouting, ‘Ah told you ah’d be back’. He really loves my pancakes.” “Yeah, the crunchy eggshell bits are his favourites, I bet. Are you sure I’ll like Montana?” “Trust me, babe. Have I ever led you wrong?” The next night Sarah and Peter were led from a heavy steel door down a long strip-lighted tunnel by a bare-chested, heavily oiled slave. They were in what was called The Galley, an underground club that had sprung up in recent weeks, and was proving very popular with the drifting tide of un-clubbers. The problem, apparently, was that most Los Angeles establishments closed way too early for the genuine party set. In such a laid back city maybe licensed proprietors had decided that one in the a.m. was bedtime. The un-clubbers cried nay, dawn is a fair time. And so these word of mouth places sprang up, in warehouses, houses, old buildings with missing floors. The Galley had a slave theme. Dozens of loincloth-clad young men and women gave drink service for a lot of money. Orange lights projected up left everyone looking like a demon – well, except for Sarah, of course, who was too beautiful to look ugly evil. She’s a better class of evil than that in The Galley. It was Michael and company who were the followers of the club scene, and their extended friends/family consisted of a diverse section of the diverse scene. The fringes of the fringes, be they goth or punk, junkie or petrolhead, white-collar citizens leading a double life away from their husbands or wives, blue-collar kids who took the wrong turn to the movies with an older friend when they were fourteen, and now they lived like all the rest of the vampires. An atmosphere of every haircut imaginable, loud thumping sounds or bizarre live performers, smoke from tobacco and marijuana, people trying to walk sideways, high or low on God knew what, the smell of alcohol, in all its forms, everywhere, on breath, on clothes. 127

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They caught up with the others, and some of their friends, a few of whom recognized Peter from the other night. He had the guts to admit he had no recollection of them. Among the oft-changing roster as people swirled like breezes were two sisters – An, the older, with a head full of braids, a skinny undernourished look about her, and Aimmee, the younger, shorter, but with a fuller look, all curves and a cute, pouty face. She looked about Peter’s age, but he shouldn’t be considered an accurate judge. There was also a young and gothic looking chap with dark features, neutral black, fake coloured hair, black lipstick, black nail polish, la de da de da, and all that. His name was, or he called himself, Nikolai. These were the three that stuck in Peter’s immediate attention span. They sat around one of the few tables in The Galley with slaves plying them with drinks (and not all paid for by Sarah – Peter was relieved to find she wasn’t bankrolling all of California) and Peter got a fright every time a mostly bare woman dropped off more glasses. He also noticed that American beer was very weak and pissy. He tried to stick with what imported beer he recognized – one of the larger Kiwi brands was available, among others – or interestingly coloured concoctions that made his head whirl. So many new faces all crammed around a table, half of them going off to dance, and at one point just Peter, An, Aimmee and Nikolai were around the table, and they had themselves one hell of a conversation. Here’s a piece from it. An: Well, I wouldn’t expect to see too many movie stars while you’re here, Peter Peterson. Most of them gone and moved away anyhow. I’ve never seen one myself. Aimmee: I saw Christian Slater once. Peter: Was he short? Aimmee: Yep. Nikolai: Figures. An: Yeah, they’ve moved away. One too many disasters, I guess. All the A-list. Spielberg, Stallone, Madonna. Besides, they can be 128

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everywhere electronically these days, why be somewhere that’s going to be burnt down or get wiped out in a mud slide? Nikolai: If we haven’t received every warning about an apocalypse, I don’t know what’s left. Aimmee: Locusts. An: Oh, that would be cool. Peter: Well, I hope California doesn’t break off and slide into the sea while I’m here. Aimmee: How long are you going to be here? Peter: I don’t know. We’re going to Montana tomorrow for a while, and then I guess we’ll come back and stay indefinitely. Aimmee: How long? Peter. I don’t know. Indefinitely. Until Sarah gets bored and decides she has friends in Monte Carlo or something. An: I’ve never been outside of California. Aimmee: Yeah you have. You went camping with Dad in Colorado when I was six. An: I stand corrected. Peter: I bought this camera today, and when you take a photo, no joke, it says ‘smile’. An: Just goes to show, I guess. Peter: Goes to show what? An: Beats me. It’s a saying. Maybe it shows the world technological revolution is overwhelming us with trivial and mediocre leaps in product, threatening to bury us under a mountain of our own waste caused by planned obsolescence. Pause. An: Or, you know, maybe not. Peter: World sure is different from when I was a kid, which wasn’t all that long ago. You ever think back like that? No fax machines, not when I was in primary school– Nikolai: What’s primary school? Peter: Like, the one after kindergarten. No computers, not like little ones now– An: Airbags, the Internet– 129

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Nikolai: CDs, interactive multi-media– Aimmee: Kurt Cobain, Ecstasy, carphones– Peter: Pretty freaky, huh? An: Pretty freaky. But that doesn’t mean we have to be its slaves, you know? Technology is like most of the men I’ve known, it comes with all these guarantees about how new and improved it might be, how much power, but it just conks out all the time, just the same. Aimmee: We don’t want to hear the sordid stories of your life, An. An: Yeah, well, you’re not exactly pure yourself. Besides, all the true breakthroughs are personal. And if you know how to balance your hype with your spiritual side, then you got something. Nikolai: An’s obsessed with the other side of things– An: So are you, you little angst-ridden dropkick. Nikolai: I may dwell on death, but I don’t try and call the ghost of Elvis Presley on a cell phone. Peter: Is he making that up? Aimmee: I wish. Some of us have these séances occasionally, and whenever An’s around she tries to call spirits up on a laptop, or the phone, or the TV. Peter: Ever work? An: Not really. Without the tech stuff, it does, but so far all I got on computer was “Having a nice time, this week’s lottery numbers are 12, 3, 67, 45, 8 and 10”. Peter: Were they? An: Not that week, but a couple of months later. Peter: Nah, you guys are bullshitting me. Nikolai: No, it’s true man, stuff happens, really. You should try it out next time An needs to talk to Richard Nixon. Peter: I might just do that. The conversation carried on pretty much like that. Soon Sarah impatiently returned, telling Peter she wouldn’t wait for him to join her any longer. He got up at her arm’s insistent urging and felt immediately dizzy. Wallop! went the last half hour’s drinks. 130

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Limbs thrashed and pumped and ground, while hard industrial agony tried to tear the enormous speakers apart. Sarah joined with his hips and they sweated into each other, Sarah’s hands like little devils, making him feel like the number one sinner, inside a hot pit, the music in his chest like his heart on overdrive and the bass boosted high, they kissed each other frenetically, not wanting to let go of each other’s faces, unless it was to play spider with his arms and wrap them around her, sliding down her thigh or rounding the curve of her breast, hardly hidden beneath a sweat-soaked slip of a black dress, short enough to flaunt herself wickedly before his eyes. He’d learnt his lesson before and dressed lighter this time and her hands took advantage, groping inside his shirt, little piranha like creatures, and he didn’t ever push them away. Ever. He didn’t know if how they acted made him some kind of chauvinist or not, but frankly, if this was sexist, PC dickheads could go fuck themselves and go get a life. His ears were sure to ring in the morning, but as long as his head felt like it was on planet Earth, he wouldn’t care. The crowd wrapped around them, and hid them from chaste eyes, covering their sin like a shroud.

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Chapter Ten Peter didn’t appreciate being roused by a prearranged call from reception. Sarah answered, as mysteriously perky and clear as ever after another late night. She rolled back and tried to get Peter to open his eyes and get going, but he just wrapped his limbs around her so as to prevent her from picking him up bodily. Eventually, plied with kisses and sweet nothings, he relinquished his grip around her and fell backwards onto the sheets. It was time to get going, and they only had a four hour run up to make it to their flight, which, in this pair’s case, was totally needed. They made it to the airport with a whole fifteen minutes to spare – after all, they’d had many extra arrangements to make – calling Harvey so he could arrange a rental car to meet them at their destination in Montana, with some extras such as a car phone, la de da de da, and they’d had to let the over-stayers at the beach house know that on their return they would be taking up residence forthwith. They’d had to check out of the hotel – oh, the agony! – and arrange for the Ferrari and sundry purchases to be taken out to Malibu. The plane was still a fair size and for once, the young man so proud of his sleep deprivation abilities, allowed himself sleep. There’s only so long you can survive travelling an ocean, being a tourist, shopping for three days straight, and partying for the nights that followed. He curled up next to Sarah and his head lolled forward before the seatbelt sign had been turned off. Missoula, Montana, couldn’t be reached on a non-stop flight, 133

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and required one changeover, after which Peter got to sample the hideously spooky view of the Rockies below. As he put it so eloquently at a later point, “That’s a big fuckin’ bunch of mountains.” Their flight touched down in soft rain, to the welcoming arms of a sign that introduced them to “The BIG SKY COUNTRY”. Missoula didn’t appear that small, bigger than most New Zealand towns, and amid the grey clouds that reached down from the hills Peter felt at ease amongst the most green he’d seen since he’d arrived in the States. Amid, amongst, surrounded, a cosy feeling for a state that purported to own a large bowl of sky. There was a car waiting for them at the airport, thank Harvey, a metallic blue late model station wagon, presumably for if they wanted to catch a bit of fishing. And Peter noticed that there was a small line of fisherpersons about two blocks from the centre of town, casting about a slow moving stream. Before they started on the journey Sarah consulted her specially prepared map – the Midwest, laid out on a concertina style of paper, with added guide diagrams drawn by her and a felt tip pen. “Don’t want to get lost now, do we? This is the middle of nowhere we’re headed. Gold Cards will not save us from bears.” “Bears?” Peter’s eyes shaped themselves like golf balls. “Are there bears around here?” “Only Yogi and Boo-Boo, don’t you worry your pretty little head.” They spent six hours driving through an array of lonely country – desolate tundra, fog-filled valleys, rainswept hills, lush pine forest. Like a trip through the New Zealand bush on the way to Whangarei, the visual appeal soon faded and Peter realized he was moving through space and time in his own little world, with plush seats and a radio that picked up nothing but crackly hiss on the FM band. They talked on and off, about, you know, stuff, and also, the other kind, important stuff. Peter described growing up in Auckland, his childhood friends, a broken arm. School, and trips to town to play spacies, on a ritual basis. Sarah listened to him intently. For her own 134

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part she seemed to spill her guts pretty well. Her parents were good to her, caring, understanding, they let her have the run of every place they moved to. The fine American tradition of curfews never applied to her, and her teenage years were some of her happiest. They’d owned real estate, a lot of it, and in places like Manhattan, Hong Kong, Bel Air, Bermuda. The Howe family fortune grew and spilled over into other areas, including banking and industrial contracts. A government investigation into shady New York business partners had scared her father, and a subsequent scandal a few years later had seen him and Sarah’s mother travelling to Washington to appear before some sort of committee. They’d decided a nice drive along the coast might help her father’s anxiety and, leaving Sarah at home, her parents left Boston a few days early. They never arrived in Washington from their meandering trip. That particular journey had ended when a pickup truck driven by a drunken high school teacher had swerved to avoid a girl on a horse, flipped over several times and slammed into the roof of another car. Her mother and father were the occupants. They were killed instantly. Peter said he was sorry. The window wipers made a low squeaking noise every few seconds as they slowly beat time back and forth across the view. The rain was very, very soft. Sarah said she’d been sorry, too. They’d sat in silence for a while, watching the firs, seeing a deer crossing sign, but not seeing any deer. Sarah was the sole individual provided for by the will. Just turned twenty, badgered by lawyers and accountants, she’d ordered every business sold off but the land. The wealth now accumulated was substantial, but she found she had no taste for it. Leaving what was left of it to be run by the few she trusted – including Harvey, who was older than he looked – she ran about the country and the world, not being much of anything. She spent several of those years in California. Peter was entranced. His heart felt lighter for hearing so much 135

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all at once, and a gap that had been forming in his mind was now filled by a mental bridge across the missing years between them. Even thought she’d been dating when she’d seen E.T. – and in a private theatre at that – it didn’t matter. Because they both thought Claude Rains was so cool in Casablanca. So, six hours into their cross-country trek, darkness was falling in the big sky country. The dome above was that deep sea blue sprinkled with the first few stars, while on the ground it was black. The headlights helped some, but the soft rain stole much of the residual radiance, so that all around was a silhouette of hills and trees, in front, a short width of yellow dirt road. The dirt road was the problem. Their exact location physically did not appear to match the carefully laid out trail on the map. “Shit,” said Sarah. “We could be lost.” “Oh no,” said Peter, “don’t say that. Please, tell me you’re joking and you’ve got a real black sense of humour. I don’t wanna be stuck out here with bears and Bigfoots and shit.” She smiled at him. “It’ll be OK, we can’t be far off.” She stopped the station wagon, leaving the lights on, turning on the inside one. They stared at the map, tracing their fingers back and forth, mumbling, “Well, I think we passed that wiggly line.” Peter sat up and stretched his neck, it went click in several places; he stared at the vinyl ceiling; he looked out the windows. A ghostly figure jumped in front of the car, black with glowing eyes. “Fuck!” shouted a startled Peter. Sarah’s head whipped up. It was a man in a black balaclava, holding a rifle at them. “Ohshitohshitohshit,” stammered Sarah. To the left of Peter the car door opened and a hand shot in and grabbed his arm. It started to pull him bodily out of the car. He yelled violently, as two more hands attached themselves to his leg and his shoulder. Sarah’s horror was etched starkly in her face as she was dragged backwards from him out the other side. They screamed and yelled, while gravelly voices said, ”Shut up,” and “Move,” from behind more masks. They were dragged in front of the car, staring into the headlights. 136

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The wet in the air soaked Peter’s skin without appearing to touch him. He was forced to his knees, and found it hard to breathe. His heart was thumping in his temples and he struggled to find Sarah, who was forced down next to him. Shadowy figures carrying ugly looking guns stood cut out by the car lights before him. All of them were masked and they moved sideways, shifting like anxious snakes. His eyes whipped to and fro and they were everywhere, holding him down, in front, on the sides of the road. He saw movement in the tree line. One of them knelt down, boots sliding and crunching in the dirt. ”Who the fuck are you?” growled something as a pistol was waved in their faces. “We’re just – we’re just–” It wasn’t him, it was Sarah; as frightened as he was, he couldn’t open his mouth yet. Another of the armed voices leaned forward. “They’re feds, they’re fucking feds. Search them.” He was hauled off the ground by his armpits and pushed onto the car bonnet, the sentries parting behind him; he felt hands in his pockets, and a voice in his ear whispered, “Tell me who you are.” “My name is Peter,” came a high-pitched voice mingled with tears and fear. “We’re not doing anything.” He was nearly ashamed at how his voice broke up and wavered. “Who are you?” “Shut up. What is your name?” “Peter Peterson.” “Don’t get cute with me.” Something hauled him back and twisted his body around to face a gunman not three centimetres away. He saw Sarah out the corner of his eye, standing up straight, staring at him, scared to death, held by both arms. “No, I swear, it’s true. It’s my name. I swear.” “That’s what his wallet says,” came a disembodied voice. Another voice emerged behind him. “Listen to his accent, he’s Australian.” “I’m from New Zealand,” pleaded Peter. Sarah tried to say something, but a hand clamped over her mouth. “Don’t hurt her, 137

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please, don’t hurt her.” A woman’s voice said, “There’s nothing in the car, no guns, no shields, not even a camera.” Oh, thank god it’s in Malibu went a racing streak of thought in Peter’s brain. They let go of his arms and he and Sarah were pushed in front of the car. They stood facing a semi-circle of gunmen – and at least one woman – all clad nearly identically in ski masks and balaclavas, black heavy clothing, carrying assault rifles. The guns didn’t look pretty like in the movies, and they didn’t look real. They were big and ugly and – more than real. They looked like they killed. “These two aren’t feds,” said one in the centre. “They’re lost.” A couple laughed. Peter almost smiled and breathed. “Sorry if we scared you, folks. Can’t be too careful.” Sarah almost spat. “You – what the fuck?” but another voice cut her off, flat and unemotional. “Where you headed?” Sarah and he didn’t say anything for second, and then Peter slowly backed up to the car and retrieved the map, trying to make as little jerky movement as possible. He walked forward with it, to give it to the man in the middle, and his boot almost turned, sending him sliding a little. There was a clack behind him and a wave of panic swept through his limbs, but somehow, somehow he held it together. He gave the map to the man, standing as far away as he could at the same time. The man looked at it, then spoke from behind his woollen camouflage. “This isn’t too far. We’ll show you the way back to the road.” The figures melted away, backwards and sideways they seemed to float. A final voice said, “Get in your car and dim your lights.” Peter realized he’d involuntarily put his hands in the air, and lowered them. A tear welled up in one eye, one streaked down Sarah’s face. They got in the car and dimmed the lights. Sarah started the engine. “It’s going to be OK,” Peter whispered. She nodded quickly. A set of tail lights appeared from the sodden air in front of them, and turned behind, travelling back the way they’d come. Headlights shone from behind, and now Sarah followed suit, matching the slow pace of 138

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the car in front, keeping an eye on the one behind. They sat silently as they journeyed for about twenty minutes – that’s what Peter’s watch said, he would’ve guessed it was more like five – and then the tail lights in front disappeared and the headlights behind pulled up alongside. Sarah stopped the car. A pickup truck with several of the gunmen in the front and back was next to them and one leaned out of the window, making a twirling motion with his hand. It was Sarah’s side, she rolled the window down grudgingly, and the masked figure said in a perfectly human voice “You just keep going on about fifteen more minutes, and there’ll be a sign, sez Sherman’s Creek. That’s the one you want. Sorry for the inconvenience, but we just can’t trust ANYbody these days. I’m sure you understand. We know they’re coming soon, and that car of yours sure looks like a government type, doesn’t it? You drive careful now. Law abiding folks got nothing to fear from us.” The man leaned back in the truck and it sped off into the dark. “Are you OK?” they said to each other at the same time. She smiled and he laughed, and they both started crying at the same time. They just sat in the car for ten minutes and hid themselves from the night in each other’s arms, and waited until their breath came easy again. The ride to the farm didn’t take long. A long driveway stretched past a wooden sign swinging over the gate. “Sherman” it said in ornate western style lettering; in the brief instant it was lit up by the headlights it appeared faded and worn. “This drive probably hasn’t changed since Grandpa was born,” said Sarah. She seemed better, but Peter guessed she was as in shock on the inside as he was. The whole event was so beyond reality that denial was as easy a course as anything and he was going to try his darndest to just meet the folks and get on down country style. They pulled up in front of a large one storey house that looked similar in style to parts of New Zealand colonial villas. It was white and homely, warm light spilled out the windows and the front door, which swung open to reveal a tall, thin man. Peter had been expecting a fat 139

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and jolly looking rambunctious old timer, but the man who greeted his granddaughter and her beau was a quiet and reserved guy with sharp features and a warm personality that seeped from him. “How are you, doll, it’s been a long time. You both come inside and roast yourselves over our fire, your grandma can’t stomach the cold tonight.” They followed him inside, Sarah unconsciously setting the car alarm with a twin beep. It echoed in the frozen atmosphere like an obscene alien visitor. The home was spacious and warm, wooden and alive. Book shelves cropped up in odd places spilling a lifetime of reading, a basket of wood, a box of pinecones, Peter let his muscles sink down and relax. They went into a large living room area with a big stone chimney, and an old lady dressed in blue rose up to meet them. She was nearly as tall as Peter and Sarah’s grandfather, and her eyes were a fiery hazel. She moved slowly and embraced Sarah and was obviously filled with joy at her granddaughter’s return. They sat down on a lounge suite, as new and comfortable as it was out of place in the rustic surroundings. Christopher, as her grandfather asked to be called, letting Peter breathe silent relief at not having to call him “Mr. Sherman” any more, stood still, ready to get hot drinks and anything else they felt they might need. Jennifer, as she asked to be called – Peter expressing similar silent relief – held Sarah with one arm. The big fire crackled and popped like a zillion bowls of ricies. “How was your trip, dear?” “Oh, Grandma ... it was horrible.” Sarah started sobbing on Jennifer’s chest. “What happened, son?” asked Christopher, so warm and calm. “These men ... they had guns, and they dragged us ... it was terrible, man, they just ...” Sarah pulled her head up and looked at Peter. He moved to her, and squeezed her hand. “Where was this, Peter?” asked Jennifer. He tried to keep the lump in his throat down, looking at Sarah with her upper lip red, shadows under his eyes pink. “About fifteen kil– uh, about ... ten miles? And then off the highway about ten, fifteen 140

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minutes.” “Are you OK? Are either of you hurt?” “No, I’m fine ...” Peter looked at Sarah, he just wanted to curl up with her somewhere safe and warm. “I’m OK. We’re just ... a little shaken,” ventured Sarah. “Yeah,” agreed Peter. Jennifer looked at Christopher, who sighed, his body sagging and adding years to his frame. He stared out through the dark window into the black, perhaps seeing what landscape he knew to be there, immutable, unchangeable by the whims of man, this country beyond his laws. Flames from the chimney made flickers on the ceiling, and over the noise of the fire could be heard the night creatures. An owl hooted, something screeched, and maybe, far away, Peter heard the noise of a dog – or a coyote – singing.

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Chapter Eleven For the first time in a long time Peter awoke before the dew had settled. Sunlight was on his face, and it sure was warm, not painful, a stream of Goldilocks happiness. He sat up with a clear head and no recollection of a dream. Sarah was not beside him. The Shermans hadn’t batted an eyelid at making up a bed for the pair of them, in the sunroom, which was nice. He would have gone spare without her. She was in the kitchen with her grandparents, and a slow and leisurely breakfast was making its rounds. Smell of bacon and eggs and toast near lifted Peter into the air like a cartoon character and drew him in. Christopher and Jennifer didn’t seem in a particular hurry to get out and milk cows or move sheep or any farm stuff Peter took as gospel in his native land. The Shermans explained that it was a farm in name only, a large amount of near prairie grassland, and a portion of pine-covered foothills. They had a few horses, for which some local boys cared, but nothing else for years, and that suited them just fine. Sarah’s curls looked almost red in the light of morning, highlights sparkled, like her eyes, thank god. She didn’t seem at all like the trembling woman who’d clung to a man-boy ten years younger in the dark, while he’d whispered, over and over again, how it would be all right, and nothing like that would ever happen again. She’d been ashamed to be scared for herself, and she’d been terrified of losing Peter. He’d held her so close, told her he’d never ever leave, he’d always be there, in the dark, by her side. 143

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“What are you two gonna do today? If your back’s up to it, Peter, I could use a hand mending the fence out back, if you could spare the time.” Christopher had such a sweet way about him it was probably beyond Peter’s capacity to deny him anything. “Sure. Not a problem, but if I prove inept with a hammer and stuff it’s not my fault.” He tore toast apart in his mouth, like a lion with a Christian. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem, Peter. We’re just going to drop a post in the ground and put back the fence.” He got up to wander further into the house. “I’ll see you after breakfast.” Sarah looked happy, but was quiet. Her grandma asked what she would do while the menfolk tried to prove their manliness. Sarah said she’d go for a walk up where she used to go. Peter ruffled her hair and asked, “You okay?” She grabbed his hand and held it to her heart and kissed him. “Peachy.” “Mind you don’t smash your thumb.” Peter readjusted his grip on the hammer, like Christopher showed him, and gave the nail some hefty thwacking. “There you go,” said the sprightly old dude. Peter kept on banging in nails while Christopher leant on the newly planted fence post, visibly winded after hauling the bastard piece of wood into its proper place, and he sure looked happy to have Peter’s help, inexperienced or not. “You’re not doing a bad job at all. Nails are a piece of cake. You’ll be building houses in no time.” Peter laughed shortly. “Wouldn’t be a problem if I’d had a father around to teach me this stuff.” He moved on to the next piece of board. “Where did he go?” “He just left. Came back about ten years later and tried to be someone, but it was about then I discovered he was an asshole – oh, sorry–” Christopher laughed. “I don’t have a problem with colourful language, not after the way Jennifer used to talk when I met her.” “How’s that?” Peter paused and let the thumping crack fade away across the long rippling grass and into the hills. 144

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“Well, it was before we – that’s America – got into the war. I wasin the army and we used to have these dances every fortnight. The girls from a local Catholic school would come and fill this hall, we’d be lined up on the sides, hoping to get lucky – going through boot camp was hard in more ways than one, even though I guess we were just kids. “The first time I saw her I thought she was the most terrifying girl I’d ever seen. She was taller than half the platoon, taller than any other girl there. I had this thing about the last dance. You’d get a slow number playing and that was when you got as close to whatever girl you were with, in the hopes it would lead to something more. Even if we weren’t exactly sure how that something more worked. “So I never danced the last dance, I said it was because I didn’t want to lead the girls on, I was strictly solo, and no one could hold me down for long. But really I was scared, because I had no idea how to treat a girl, and how to do whatever it was I was supposed to do. “This one night the nuns had been called outside to help sort out some drunken incident – I remember a policeman was there and I think someone had gotten into a fight. For that last song, while the impossible had happened and the watchful eyes of god had left the room, the more adventurous of us got up to things that, while they might seem commonplace to you, were sinful; don’t forget, to have shiny shoes on to a girl was an evil.” Peter didn’t get it. “Why?” “Eh? Oh, because the good sisters taught the girls that boys would try to look up their dresses if their shoes had a shine, that they’d try to look in the reflection. Anyway, there were couples kissing and hugging on the dance floor while someone was spewing a litany of curses at the nuns outside. Jennifer comes striding across the room like Goliath and comes up to me, alone against the wall, adhering to my principles of the last dance, and she says, ‘You are the cutest boy I’ve ever seen here. Come and dance with me.’ I was stunned, it was like I couldn’t breathe. I’d never been in any situation like that before, for a young woman to come up and say something like that, and be looking me in the eyes – well, I just about fell in love with her right then and 145

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there. After fearing this walking giant of a woman for hours I let her drag me out on that dance floor and break my golden rule.” Peter grinned widely and nodded. “My friends couldn’t believe what they were seeing, they catcalled and whistled, and I didn’t care. And Jennifer led. I decided any woman who could show me what to do and how to do it must be worth staying with. Before I left for the war I was going to ask her to marry me. But I nearly forgot, when we were stuck on the train a day early. In the rush I carried everything to that station, including the ring. And of course she was there. She says, ‘Christopher Sherman, you will not dare get on that train without asking me to marry you.’ So I get down on my hands and knees in front of my buddies, the sergeants, and the captain, and I dig through my kit until I find the ring, and I ask her, right there, in front of all those people and the train whistling like the blazes. She said yes, and kissed me and then I was off to war, not even your age. That kiss kept me going for three years, and I just stayed alive to come back to her. And even though most of the family didn’t approve, on account of her taking the Lord’s name in vain constantly, and swearing like a top sergeant, I’ve stayed alive for her all these years, and she for me. Cancer, accidents, disease, Nazis – we pretty much beat them all. We’ll be on this patch of dirt until it swallows us up once and for all.” Peter was so impressed he almost forgot to tell Christopher how incredibly cool he was, but he did, and Christopher thanked him for it. And said not to forget about the fence. “You know anything about what happened to us last night?” Peter and his new idol were sitting on the repaired fence, test driving it for weight resistance, and sipping lemonade – the fizzy kind, not that sour homemade stuff, which surprised Peter a little. Well, maybe a lot. The whole scene was written for Michael Landon to come walking around the corner of the house, and it would be unexpected of him to be carrying a Pepsi, saying, “Drunk it, downed it, sunk it, devoured it!” Christopher eyed Peter with his eagle-like gaze. “Yeah, I’d say I do.” He took some lemonade in a big gulp (“I like it when the fizzy hits your tongue.”). 146

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“What you ran into was a militia. Some folks around here and other counties too, I heard, have taken it into their heads that the government’s trying to take away their guns. They say their constitutional rights are being abused, and believe the only thing they can do is run around in the dark packing enough iron to stop any tanks that show up.” “There was a shooting somewhere, over Idaho way I think, about a year back or so. Some survivalist took on the FBI and got hisself killed. The militia think they’re next – they see the Branch Davidian siege as some sort of sign. You wouldn’t think it, looking at these mountains.” No, he wouldn’t. Peter looked at the dark rocky crags, and their blue cousins far away. They looked like sentries ready to keep out all the ills of the modern world, but somewhere in the hills stirred a beast trying to arm itself with the second amendment and .50 calibre machine guns. Christopher didn’t look too happy about it. “They wanted to set up a phone tree over there,” he pointed to a grassy hill backed by firs, “where Sarah went.” Peter felt worried at that comment as his mind ran through a list of “what if ?”s. “But I wouldn’t let them. We didn’t want any part of whatever fool game they’re playing. People are going to get themselves killed out here, where there shouldn’t be nothing but God’s green earth, and His animals living in peace.” He hung his head for a moment, then a change passed over him with a breeze. The blue sky was interrupted by a few white puffs. “Sarah sure is something, isn’t she?” he said to Peter, without looking at him directly. “Yeah, she is.” Peter guessed this was going to be that sort of inquisitive line of questioning where he might have to think before opening his mouth. But Mr. Sherman – Christopher – had no malice in his face. Much like Sarah when they’d met. “You love her?” “Yeah, I do. I love her more than anything.” “That’s good. She’s got a lot of Jennifer in her, God bless her. A 147

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lot of her father.” He looked sombre. “It’s not easy, not having parents around, especially when they’ve always been there before. Nasty business.” “Was she okay ... after it happened?” “Well, she made mistakes. We all do. That husband of hers, well, he was a bad piece of work.” Peter’s blood froze. It froze and stayed there and chilled his heart. “She was married?” Christopher looked at him for a while, sighed, and said, “It doesn’t surprise me she never said anything. It didn’t last very long and we were all glad when it was over. It’s probably not my place to say ...” “Please ... I need to know.” “Perhaps you do.” A for-real no-lies hawk or falcon sang somewhere down the valley. It sounded so sad and lonely. “His name was Michael and he met Sarah through her father, a young business associate I believe. His relatives were the type who hijack trucks that don’t belong to them, if you catch my meaning.” Peter thought he caught the meaning. “He wasn’t good for her, damn near broke her spirit. Two years and she took it no more, cut him loose and broke his nose ...” He trailed off and chuckled to himself. “It used to be hard to slow her down. But after Lawrence and Caroline died, and that ... pig ... she wasn’t quite the same. Had a lot of bad times out in California. Sometimes I think she died in that wreck. Some piece of her was in there with her parents, and ... she was just so empty. The few times she came out here, well, there was nothing to her. It was Jennifer who bullied her into school, and that gave her something to do, her history and all. She raced around the country, and the world I guess, ha ha, and it was like she was her old self again. When I see her with you ... well, it’s like seeing that eleven-year-old with blond pigtails sticking her nose in the bees’ nest and not getting stung.” “So she is blond.” Christopher laughed good and long at that. “I don’t know about that anymore! But she sure was when she was eleven!” He wasn’t sure of it, but Peter thought Christopher’s eyes might 148

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be glistening ... “No doubt you’ve gotten flak about your ages, but I figure anyone who can bring my granddaughter back to life must be special, no matter how young they might be. So don’t you listen to anything but your heart! She’s a special woman and it’s a good thing you’ve done. Treat her right, Peter Peterson. Treat her right.” Sarah came gliding through the grass from the hill, and stopped off a while, and smiled at them, before going inside. Peter had smiled back, but his insides were all muddled and he didn’t know if he meant it.

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Chapter Twelve Sarah pulled back the duvet for a second, and leaped in, covering herself with the warmth provided by Peter who was already there. She lay down while Peter just stared at her. She stared back at him, almost quizzically, almost, framed by her dark eyebrows and her short hair, so dark in the Montana night, starlight etching them both. She was so beautiful, so achingly ... Peter tried to distract these thoughts. He had “important stuff ” to talk about. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because,” her voice, so low and confident, although crackly with tiredness, “we haven’t spent all eternity together yet. And there’s plenty of time for us to hear everything about each other.” “But you were married! That’s a bit more than the school play you were in when you were nine.” “Says who?” Peter harrumphed, frustrated, and she pulled him to her, his head falling softly onto her breast. “Life is so good with you. Give me time to tell you all the shit.” A flutter of wings outside. “It’s not a fun time in my life to remember. And you know the real me. I won’t lie to you, I promise, but I can’t promise to say everything out of thin air.” “But you had a husband ...” “And he was an asshole. Who cares? He’s dogshit. Forget about it. I nearly have.” “I’ll try.” 151

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“Good.” “I love you.” “I’m glad. I love you too.” Two nights later Sarah broke down and sobbed for half an hour, soaking Peter’s shirt and shoulder. In her dreams had come the militia, again and again. She felt scared in the house and uneasy inside. They talked and agreed to return to Los Angeles. Jennifer and Christopher were sad to see them go, and made them swear to return soon. They started early in the day, so as to drive in the light, and booked a flight by car phone. The day was pleasant, as was the drive. On the way to Missoula Peter got the chance to experience a for real 7-Eleven. It was great and, surprisingly, it even sold alcohol, in all shapes and forms. He bought the store’s three major food groups – a Big Gulp, a Big Grab, and Big Bite – drink, fries and a quarter pound frank, respectively. The enormous black proprietor watched Peter with amusement as he ran around the store going “Wow!” and “Hey, they got–”. “This is a great and wonderful place,” said Peter. The owner grmphed a little and took the silly green money. Apparently, Peter didn’t have to tip store owners. Flying into L.A. from the east, Peter saw the desert he’d slept through last time. There was ... nothing. An enormous reddish-brown desolate nothing that stretched for many miles. Heavy smog greeted them at the airport and they took a taxi, not to Beverly Hills, but to the mysterious beach haven known as Malibu. A long solitary drive up the coastal highway, overlooking a sea whose colour just wasn’t right, eventually led to expansive and/or expensive properties. Chain-link, stone, brick and wooden fences defined the word “privacy” with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, or an Oliver Stone movie. The house was practically on the beach, and Peter didn’t have to be told that this meant “special” and “$$$$”. It was white and squarelined, concrete, steel-barred, and looked just like he believed a Malibu 152

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beach house should look. Inside was like the set of an episode of Miami Vice. Peter kept one eye open for Elvis the alligator (or was it a croc?) and the other for drug dealers with chrome .45s. It was spacious. It was clean. It was comfortable. Peter stamped his seal of approval by spreading things around as quickly as possible. It was theirs. The Ferrari was parked in the garage, with a note attached: “You don’t know how hard it was to leave this here. M.” They sat down over a drink – a big drink of something brown that was a wee bit too much on the searingly hot side for Peter’s throat. As Sarah downed hers, spread out on a cotton sofa like a Californian princess, she teased him about not being grown up enough to appreciate it. He made some sort of useless remark back and found a couple of beers in the (naturally) well-stocked fridge. Sarah refilled her glass, not bothering with ice cubes or even a cute little umbrella (slap hand to face in horror here). And downed that as well. They sat on that sofa having a quiet and sophisticated drink (except Peter drank straight from the bottle, and Sarah, well, you know). They watched the sudden change from day to night as the sun fell gracefully into the Pacific, without making a ripple, or even a ”bwolp!” sound. The big, flat glass gave a view worth the price tag (assuming you’re rich enough not to need to ask what the tag says), as pinks and oranges mingled with black and bruised skinny clouds. Peter drew attention to Sarah’s speed drinking. “Are you trying to impress me? ’Cos if you are, all you gotta do is give me the Ferrari.” She studied the bottle, but it was still three-quarters full; what the hell was he babbling about? “I’m not giving you no car.” She drank some more. “I’m going to call someone and then we’re going out.” “Do you think it’s possible for us to ever stay in one place longer than it takes to burp, without you suddenly feeling the urge to get me enough frequent flyer miles to travel round the world twice?” She cocked her head, and swaggered up the steps that lined the sunken living area they were currently in. “No. I think you may have to drive tonight.” “Better go make that call, babe,” he urged, and she smiled back at him cock-eyed. 153

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At a legitimate bar/hangout in the Wilshire Boulevard area, framed by a fast-paced jazz band, Peter and Sarah lolled around a table waiting for some of the people she’d called to show. She held her drink well, and he laid off a bit, not wanting to ruin the fabulous car on the way home. Presently, in dribs and drabs, came the well announced (being extrovert, yet in as cool and laid back a way as possible, was apparently state law) arrivals of Aimmee, An, Michael, Chug, Anita, Nikolai, Harvey Hausemann, a skinhead named Pete – who greeted his young namesake at the table warmly, and was a friend of An’s – Bernie and Tamara – a married couple who knew Sarah from a few years back and still kept up with Chug – and King John, a heavy lidded member of a small time rock band, whom a few of the others referred to as “Valium-head”. As the small crowd gathered around an increased collection of tables and chairs the atmosphere got warm and electric. Peter had either discovered an amazing ability to get on with anybody, or everybody around him that night was really cool, and no one treated him like a Sarah appendage, or a kid, or anything apart from a New Zealander, and generally they didn’t know what that meant. Bernie and Tamara argued between themselves that it meant he was either a sailor or a rugby player; King John asked what rugby was; Chug said that New Zealand was full of sheep, more than people, to which Peter quoted a figure of forty-eight million; Aimmee said bullshit, Chug backed him up, Michael and Anita brought up the movies, everyone said, “Oh, yeah” and “I thought that was Australia”. Peter blanched at that and Harvey, who’d actually been, said it was gorgeous and awesome, and as soon as he’d taken enough of Sarah’s money to stay well kept forever he was going to emigrate. Sarah claimed that, while the Down Under male might have a bad reputation – and An interjected that all males do, to loud booing from Bernie and Harvey – that Peter was incredibly good in bed. An said “Really?”, Peter blushed profusely, Bernie and Harvey and Pete made loud grunting noises, and Michael put a few hundred dollars on the table and asked Peter if that would be enough to get him to sleep 154

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with her that night. Sarah loudly told Michael to stay the fuck away from her Peter, Michael said to see if Peter took the money, skinhead Pete made a grab for it, but Michael said not in a million years. A delightful time was had by all. The tide of people moved on to The Galley, since most of them knew it, and most of them had a problem just going home to bed like the rest of Los Angeles. They danced and chatted and frittered the night away in true vulgar fashion. Nikolai told Peter that An was planning on having a séance the following evening. “She’s going to try and fax James Dean.” He advised Peter to discuss it with An, because it was a lot of fun, and you never knew, it might work. The night fell away to time as Sarah and he went through wonderful phases of drunkenness, energetic dancing, lucid conversation and the like. About three a.m. he began to be seriously exhausted. Sarah was amused, telling him he couldn’t expect to always cope with changing time zones, no matter how immortal he thought he was. She seemed much stronger and happier now, but then her flushed cheeks said, “Look at me, I’m drunk”. Her knees felt too hot to her and she’d thrown ice water over them in an attempt to keep them cool, getting Peter and Chug with it as well. So there he sat, puffing, with damp clothes, and Sarah coming down quickly. His body ached and he suggested they go home, but Sarah didn’t want to and she shook her head and said “No no no,” running off across the floor between Bernie and another woman. Peter tried to follow her and when he caught up with her she threw her arms around him and placed her sweat soaked face against his and said “Take this, it’ll keep you going.” She tried to force something in his mouth, but he took it from her and asked what it was. It was a pill. “It’s OK, it’s just speed, it just gives you an energy burst and you’ll be able to stay awake.” Bodies thumped into them constantly while they stood there. He looked at the small pill again. “Geez, Sarah. I thought this shit was 155

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bad? You doing drugs?’ She gave a big throaty laugh and moved closer to him, until he could feel her warm whisky breath on his cheek. “Just don’t do it ten times a day for a month.” She tried to push the pill up to his face. He moved his hand back and out of her reach. “Have you already done this?” “Plenty of times,” her mouth showing as many teeth as humanly possible. “It’s OK, really, it’s like the opposite of a sleeping pill. It’s a wakeup pill!” She laughed, presumably at her own “joke”. ”Trust me.” “Oh, OK, but this better not be Ecstasy or something.” Not that he would have known what Ecstasy did anyway, but he’d heard of it. He popped the pill into his mouth, and was relieved to not see the walls swimming away. In fact, “speed” turned out to be nothing but a wave of alertness and energy. Feeling on top of things again after it took hold, he and Sarah plunged back into the whirlwind they’d all created for themselves. When the moon sank from view and the air started to feel fresh they sat on the hoods of half a dozen cars on Hollywood Boulevard – their own cars, otherwise the street would have been filled with the raucous vorping sounds as alarms went spastic. Not that there were many other cars around. They sat on the hoods like a bunch of teenagers loaded up for a weekend of beer-laden camping, chatting away excitedly, except for King John, who didn’t appear able to get excited about anything. He needed the amphetamines more than the rest of them, but what are you gonna do? Elsewhere in the city noise was building. The commuters were coming. An orange yellow sun was rising and streamed across their faces. Sunglasses materialised and protected. The light illuminated the walk of fame. “Cool,” said Peter, looking at a line of brass and pink stone stars, embossed with logos like cameras, stretching away in dark circles, close together everywhere he looked. A Yellow Brick road, but probably not to any castle. An came up to him and asked him if he was coming to the séance, where he’d be most welcome. Peter turned to Sarah to find out what she wanted to do that night, and she said she had to do 156

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stuff that seemed businesslike with Harvey and the New York lawyers, an occasional torture. It’s meant to be, thought Peter. He said sure. Aimmee said she was glad, while no one else was looking, caressing his crotch and smiling an innocent smile. “C’mon, Peter, lets hit the road before it gets heavy.” He didn’t have time to even tell Aimmee to fuck off, and hopped into the Ferrari as cool as he could. Sarah said she’d drive. “Sure! I trust you!” he said, kissing her on the cheek. The machine purred and carried them home. They slept until five. Awaking about the same time as Sarah, in a bed as seemingly wide and hard to climb out of as the Pacific ocean, he was quicker on the uptake and raced for the bathroom and threw up, choking out vomit in spits and balls and chunks onto the pure white toilet surfaces. Feeling better, he washed his mouth out and returned to the bedroom, which was empty. Sarah soon returned from the other bathroom, wiping her mouth. They hugged each other. “Must remember not to drink that much when you’re doing something else,” she said. “I’ve never been very good at getting that sort of thing right.” “Thanks for the news, Sarah. First time for everything and all, but I hate throwing up.” “Sorry. Forgot.” “Humph.” The late night air was soon enough upon them, by the time they’d stopped sitting around lethargically. They’d had a breakfast of beer and bread based products, watched the sun go down and the star come out (heavy smog day) and Sarah had grudgingly given Peter the keys to the car. “And don’t leave it on the street.” Yessum. “And don’t ...” and other mother like behaviour. She said Harvey would pick her up or she’d get a taxi and they’d have a video conference in town with the New Yorkers. She hoped she wouldn’t be too late, but told Peter to go ahead and stay out all night if he wanted – just to be back by dawn. “And what about tomorrow?” asked Peter. 157

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“What about tomorrow?” “It’s your birthday.” “And here I was thinking you’d forgotten.” “You wish.” “Look, we’ll see when we get there. Go and have a good time. And stay away from that Aimmee bitch.” “How’d you know?” “Oh, please. That little girl’s had you in her sights since as soon as she saw you, doubly so since she found out you were with me. And she doesn’t even know me. I’ve always wondered why people feel the need to take me on. I mean, what is she, sixteen? Seventeen?” “What am I? Chopped liver?” “Oh, Peter, you’re so very droll. Have a good time doing whatever it is you’re doing.” “We’re–” The phone rang and she said hold on and went to get it. He grabbed a jacket to go with his light clothing, all cotton and neckless. He waved goodbye and walked past her, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back. They kissed warmly. “Bye,” he mouthed and he went down to the garage. Driving into LOS ANGELES on his OWN was an exhilaratingly scary experience. He sure hoped there was a spare $2,500 in the glove compartment in case he screwed up. He met Nikolai at the jazz place from the previous night, and he was plenty glad to get a lift in the Ferrari while showing Peter the way. They drove into Hollywood, through some real run down streets, Peter remarking that there better be underground parking. “Yeah, I think you’ll be OK,” said Nikolai. It was a converted low warehouse, with a small but new garage underneath, remote locking doors and an alarm. There were two other cars already there, but the cost of them together probably didn’t even cover a year’s insurance on the Ferrari. Inside was a well done piece of inner city living, rooms all painted in subtle tones and decorated tastefully. A large living room held An, Aimmee, Peter, King John, who was asleep on the floor, and 158

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a young woman he didn’t know, with a blond bob similar to Sarah’s former haircut. An introduced her as Philippa, the medium. She didn’t look like much of a medium, with big black boots, a short ribbed skirt, striped top and a penchant for carrying a bottle of mineral water. Peter had occasion to talk to her before the séance began. “What we’ll do here is let An try and contact the spirit world via facsimile – I probably don’t have to tell you that it’s unlikely we’ll see anything there. It’s good to do a traditional séance after, so there’s a high expectation of spiritual contact.” Aimmee was hanging around Peter’s shoulders, but he ignored her as much as was possible and brushed her hands away when they touched his neck. He was intrigued by this Philippa, who looked more like a gym instructor than a guru. “Do you do this often?” “Oh, sure, but not for the money. Very bad, my mother used to say.” “Your mother taught you about ghosts?” “The women in my family have always been strong in the psychic areas – yeah, she taught me about ghosts.” “So when do we get to ghost bust?” “Why, midnight of course.” “Of course.” She got up to get another mineral water. “They don’t like to come out in day,” she said. He wandered over to where Nikolai sat, thumbing through a book of Edgar Allan Poe. “Like him much?” asked Peter. Nikolai looked up from under his goth mop, eyes red-rimmed, and shook his head. “Nah, not really. And I think Dracula is dead boring, in case you were wondering.” “Not much of a goth, are you?” “It’s a state of mind, man.” They gathered around the fax machine, holding hands and closing their eyes. “Nobody says ‘they’re he-re’, got it?” Peter sniggered. ”Close your eyes, dork.” It was a good bet King John had no problem keeping his eyes shut. They all put on a good show of willing the spirits, while Philippa 159

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called upon them politely, several times. Without warning the fax machine turned itself on and scrolled up a bit. They opened their eyes in alarm, and Nikolai said “Whoopty poop.” Around the coffee table in the living room, lit by three candles only, they sat in a circle. It had taken a few minutes to convince An that just because the fax went “beep” it didn’t mean Elvis had let his fingers do the walking. She grumpily let the real séance get underway. They held hands again and stared at each other, serious enjoyment on some faces, narcolepsy on one, and neutrality on the rest. Philippa didn’t want to use a Ouija board or a glass or anything similar. The glass coffee table was bare, and they were plainly seated on carpet. No residual light came in from the street – no windows were visible – and the sound was kept out, too. Peter didn’t know what to expect, or whether to really take it all seriously, but decided, personally, to give it his best shot, for the serious Philippa’s sake. He’d made sure the annoying Aimmee was not either side of him. Philippa began, and he’d almost expected some sort of witchy mumbo jumbo, but it was almost too straightforward. “We’re going to call upon the spirit world. Concentrate, do not let thoughts distract you, but let your body’s muscles rest.” He did so, pushing as many trivialities out of his mind as possible. Sarah couldn’t leave, which was a good sign. “Good spirits, we ask you to manifest yourselves here, before us, and bridge the gap between your world and ours.” He nearly let one eyebrow go up in amusement, but the soothing sound of the medium’s voice calmed him sensible. “Are there spirits present? Please give us a sign.” Peter felt hungry, he wished he’d eaten more, and was experiencing an annoying tingling in his stomach, but struggled to ignore it. “Hey,” said Nikolai, “perhaps we should try and call some other kinds of spirits. Like a ghost.” “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” “Oh, c’mon Philippa,” said An, “let’s see if we can get something 160

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cooler than a moving glass or a couple of taps.” Philippa grudgingly allowed it. “Earthbound spirits, can you hear me? Come to us, and give us a sign.” The sound of wood tapping on glass came three times in slow succession. Peter’s heart jumped a little and the blood in his arms was starting to get uncomfortable from holding hands. “Peter, did you make that?” asked An. “Wasn’t me this time, I swear,” came the scruff ’s answer. “Everyone, open your eyes,” said Philippa. They did so, and the candle-lit room appeared as normal as they’d left it. “Don’t break the circle. Earthbound spirits, if you are here please knock three times again.” The knocks came again, slightly louder, and all perceived them to come from the coffee table. “Cool,” muttered Nikolai. “Now what?” asked Peter, feeling more in control than he expected. Philippa looked a little worried and unsure of herself. “I don’t know. We ask it questions.” “Who are you?” said Nikolai. There was no sound. “It can’t answer like that. It has to be a yes/no question.” “OK,” said the boy in black, “Hey, spirit, can you do something more impressive than knock?” A loud crack left Peter’s ears ringing, a shiny silver line ran through the coffee table from end to end. “Jesus!” said An. Everyone stared wide-eyed at everyone else. “Nikolai,” said Philippa, “don’t ask it to show off again.” “No problem,” he said, not looking quite so smart. “Earthbound spirit, are you–” the coffee table split again as cracks ran from every corner to the other side, and then as everyone was taking the time to swear, the glass shattered without flying apart and fell to the floor. “Jesus Christ!” said Peter. “I don’ think so,” said King John. “Don’t break the circle, whatever you do,” came Philippa’s warning. 161

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“Are you sure?” came Peter’s plea for understanding, for some reason more awed than afraid. KISS ME “What?” “What did you say, Peter?” “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “It said ‘kiss me’.” “You’re bullshitting.” “Phili...” Aimmee was getting very, very nervous. “Peter, are you making this up?” asked Philippa. “No, I–” a wave of dizziness passed over him like he had no energy, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “No, Peter, don’t break the–” But he lurched backwards, as if something was at his throat. Someone kicked him in the chest and there were fingers around his throat, and An and Philippa tried to take his hand back, but screamed when they touched him. “Shit!” Someone kicked him in the chest and there were fingers around his throat. He couldn’t breathe and Philippa was standing shouting in the middle of the room for someone to let him go, but he couldn’t see who was strangling him, he was against the wall and a picture hanging nearby fell to the floor with a thunk. “Get–” He pushed himself off the wall, while all around the others stood with hands half out, yelling things he couldn’t hear. The candles fell over and Peter started running around after them as flames leapt at the paper, while Philippa kept shouting and pointing at Peter. “–off–” He knelt on the floor. “–me!” The hands released him, Philippa suddenly doubled over. Peter could hear again, Aimmee was screaming incoherently. “You fuck! Get out of here now!” He felt like a long train of 162

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adrenalin ran out of his chest and into the floor, his feet tingled and his head pounded. Philippa gasped and fell down. The building shook as if pummelled twice by a giant and two cracked dents in the plaster wall opposite suddenly appeared. A vase shattered, he felt a rush in the nose, and then a running noise across the room. In the garage one of the car alarms started screaming insistently. Calm descended upon the room quickly. Aimmee froze, Philippa stood back up, Peter extinguished the flames and Nikolai said he’d go turn off the car alarm, but not on his own. King John said, “Sure, I’ll go with you,” and Peter tossed him the car keys, in case it was the Ferrari. He started to say something but a spell passed over him, like a feeling he’d once gotten when he’d held his breath too long at school on a dare, and his eyes lost all peripheral vision, shrinking to a small tunnel, and his head was rolling backwards and that was all he ...

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Chapter Fourteen ... knew until he suddenly found himself lying on a grey sofa with Aimmee and Philippa and Nikolai bending over him. He sat up, but found he didn’t make it very far as he was really, really weak. His mouth tasted of metal. Aimmee was crying, and Philippa was almost as pale as Nikolai. “Oh, god, are you OK? Are you OK?” Peter was very confused and knowing his luck the whole thing was a dream and everyone thought he was weird. Not so. His luck had determined it was unfortunately a genuine experience. “You passed out, man, you just fell, but Nikolai caught you, otherwise you could have cracked your skull. Oh, and your nose is bleeding like crazy. Here.” He was offered a handkerchief – black – and wiped at his face, seeing dark, wet streaks appear on the cloth. “Shit. You all OK? Philippa?” “Yeah. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach and eaten at the dump, but I’m alright. An burned her hand with the shock she got from touching you, but otherwise there’s just a lot of broken stuff, and some holes in the wall.” “And I turned off your car.” Whoa! Hold the horses! “Is it alright?” “Yeah, it’s fine.” Whew. He felt much stronger. He got up from the couch, with a slight head rush, just to feel like he could stand on his own two feet. “Shit,” said Nikolai in awe. “Check out your neck, man.” 165

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“Where’s a mirror?” An appeared from the kitchen. “There’s one in the bathroom, down that way. The one in here’s busted. You OK?” She looked frazzled and concerned. “Yeah, I’m alright. Great story to tell my grandkids.” He went to leave, then half-turned back and asked Philippa to go with him. King John walked in and sat down like the bath had overflowed and it was all mopped up now. Philippa said sure and they started to leave, with Aimmee in tow. “No, Aimmee, I want to talk to Philippa alone. Without anyone else there.” She looked very hurt, but he wasn’t fussed. “OK,” she whined, “but you don’t have to treat me like I’m a kid.” “Whatever.” They went to the bathroom, where Peter looked at his reflection closely. “There,” pointed Philippa. There were two bruises, black with yellow rings, on the left side of his neck. He whistled. “Man, I really was throttled!” He washed the blood from his top lip. He caught Philippa by the shoulder as she turned to get him a towel. “You alright?” “Yeah I–” She stopped, but could go no further. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. He held her tight as she started to sob and whispered into her ear, “It’s over. It’s over. You’re OK. It’s gone. It’s over.” She stopped and sniffed and pulled herself together, her lips and eyes red, her cheeks damp. Peter wiped them with the back of his hand. She said “Thank you.” Her nose was cute and she had highly defined cheekbones and Peter half felt like kissing her. Make that whole felt. He picked up her chin, lifting it, feeling the jawbone. She looked into his eyes and his lips curled up in a little smile just for her. “It’s OK,” he repeated. Her eyes closed and he bent his head and kissed her. Her lips felt pink and thin and soft and sweet and she made a little noise in the back of her throat. He lifted his head. His penis stirred and started to harden. Her fists clenched together in the material around his collarless neck line and she whispered, “Thank you.” 166

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They sat back against the vanity and folded their arms at the same time. Peter breathed deep for a few seconds. “So, do you know what happened?” he asked. “I think so. It’s what is known as a ‘hungry ghost’. I’ve never heard tell of such a strong one.” “Maybe there’s a reason for that.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “I doubt anyone likes to talk about this kind of thing ... what exactly does ‘hungry’ mean?” She adopted a more professional look. “A hungry ghost is a spirit that remains earthbound. It doesn’t know it’s dead, it thinks it’s still alive, and it’s attracted to human vitality, auras, because it wants to feel the physical world. “Sometimes they affect the physical world, like a poltergeist, but they try and take a person’s living energy, to possess them ... like we possess each other ... physically in this life.” She lowered her eyes for a second, and brushed her hair back with one hand. “So this ghost really gave it a good go?” “I’ve never even heard of such a violent spirit. But then, I’ve never really enquired. It’s possible something traumatic happened here and it’s trapped, like a recording. I don’t know. This is a bit different from spelling people’s names.” “Yeah. I think you could say that. You gonna be ...?” “Yeah. But I think I’m not going to talk to the spirit world for a while.” He grinned and hugged her again. Something stretched painfully on his shoulder. He grimaced. “What’s wrong?” “Just some pain up here.” She walked around him and went up on tippy toes and told him to take his shirt off. “Wh– I–” “It’s OK, here …” She started tugging it over his head. He helped it off and it came over his face and down his arm, the air hit his skin, Philippa’s wrist brushed his side. The door to the bathroom opened and Aimmee walked in, saying “Are you guys done yet, or–” 167

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but she stopped when she saw them and, predictably, turned on her heel and left. Peter sighed, but laughed. That should do it. Philippa meanwhile, was trailing her warm fingertips over his back. “Here,” she said, “look here.” She pushed him slightly down with a surprisingly firm hand, and made him look in the mirror. He was looking at his shoulder, up high on his back, where there were two marks very close together. A bead of blood hung from one, which Philippa wiped away with a tissue. “What is that?” “Well, apart from the thumbprints, it’s a little reminder for you. You got bit by a ghost.” “You’re shitting me.” He squinted and looked closer. Two holes in his flesh. “My god, that looks like ...” He stopped, not wanting to sound silly. But then again ... Philippa said it first, but better. “One of the theories is that the modern vampire stems from folk myth about hungry ghosts. Stories of being drained, and two marks somewhere on the body ... hey presto, you’ve got a bloodsucking devil.” “No kidding.” “Obviously not.” “Well.” He stared at the marks some more, and checked that there was no blood. There was a mark in the corresponding place on the shirt, which he put back on. He took Philippa’s arm. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.” He bade everyone farewell, as eager to see the whole thing over as they were. He left them with the shattered living room, and the possibility of shattered minds. Aimmee stayed away from him. Philippa followed him down to the garage and opened the door for him while he got in the car. She leaned on the roof, dropping her head through the open window. “So ... will I see you around?” “Oh sure,” he said, reassuringly, his accent such a contrast, “sure, Sarah and I are always running into these guys.” 168

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“Oh, right. Yeah, I’ve heard about this Sarah. She sounds ... interesting.” “Yeah, she’s pretty hardcase.” Philippa brought her arms off the roof and clasped them behind her butt. “Well, see ya.” “Bye.” He watched her go back upstairs. He waggled a finger at himself, what the fuck were you thinking? Grabbing the keys from his pocket and trying to start the car, he started thinking about the ghost. His heart felt like it leapt as he remembered, and an uncontrollable tremor started working its way from his hands to his shoulders until he was just shaking all over, and the tears came, crawling down his cheeks before he was even aware of it. “Fuckin’ ... Jesus fucking ...” he muttered and wept and shook, feeling totally overwhelmed; the fingers at his throat, helpless, he’d been so weak against thin air, and he felt so horrible and dirty, like he’d been spending time in raw sewage. When he was crying no tears, just hulking sobs, the tremors subsided and he attempted to pull himself together. He reversed out as fast as possible, and decided that driving at a very high speed would make him feel a whole lot better. It helped for a while. Peter near kicked down the door as he tried to get inside the beach house. He swore and cursed and flicked all the lights on, jumping at shadows. He wiped his face and noticed blood on the back of his hand – his nose was bleeding again. “Fuck!” He grabbed some tissues from the dining area and stamped into the living room, smashing on every light he could. He wasn’t going to spend any time in a darkened room. Sarah appeared, clad in a white dressing gown, as was her preference. Her face looked tired but all sleepiness fell away when she saw Peter. “What happened to you? Did you get in a fight?” She rushed to him, gasping when she saw the black bruises in his neck. “Oh, Peter! Are you OK? What happened?” He couldn’t speak for a while, and they just held each other, with Peter trying to hold the tissues to his face at the same time, but the bleeding had stopped again. 169

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“Sarah, you might not believe this ...” he began. A tall story was planted, well looked after on a bed of trust, and fertilised with evidence. It took a lot of arduous telling, but finally Sarah felt satisfied that the ghost story was true. That in itself is pretty extraordinary, but then Peter would tell you Sarah is an extraordinary woman. And she is pretty open-minded. It is easily forgivable if you find these events unbelievable; who wouldn’t? But the facts are as stated, and there are enough witnesses, bruises and bad dreams to corroborate Peter’s tale. “You stupid little shit! What the fuck were you thinking? Have you gone mad? Don’t you know how dangerous that stuff is?” Peter was so taken aback by Sarah’s sudden tantrum that he nearly fell off his perch on the couch. “*” he said, in clever response. “Jesus, Peter. You could have gotten in real bad trouble. Never mess around with things we don’t understand. Don’t poo hoo what you don’t know, and don’t – just promise me you won’t do something so silly again.” “I promise,” he said, although he meant to say, Hey! What are you, my mother? Telling me off for staying out too late on a school night? A vampire tried to take a bite out of me! He mustered some resolve and managed to give her a good talking to. “I’ll never do it again ... can we go to bed now?” Peter slept straight through till the next afternoon, and when he awoke felt drained and lifeless. Sarah wasn’t next to him, just a rumpled white sheet. Where was she? And more importantly – why was there a nervous feeling in his stomach? Oh God. Sarah’s birthday. He tried to get up and stand – which normally should be a simple operation, right? Not so on this occasion as his legs betrayed him and scooted sideways. He had no energy, no get up and go, like a thief had siphoned him in the night. There was a small open plastic 170

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bag of pills by the bed, on Sarah’s side. The speed. Well, no reason why it shouldn’t work in the morning, right? He managed to stumble around the house and make sure that Sarah wasn’t there. Was it the previous night’s ... experience ... that had drained him so? Didn’t matter. It was Sarah’s birthday, he’d been trying to keep it in mind as much as possible, but she hadn’t been helpful, avoiding all mention of the day since they’d returned from Montana. Maybe she was hung up about turning thirty, but really, it wasn’t that old surely, even from Peter’s perspective. Maybe she’d been traumatised at a birthday party when she was three and some clown had scared the bejeezus out of her. It didn’t matter either way. Low key, he decided, that would have the best chance of not riling her. Flowers and stuff. To the Peter mobile! Lurching and stumbling to the garage, he knew he was embarking on a mission of great daring and stupidity – hardly able to stand, he would attempt to drive an enormous and expensive car on a foreign road – even the great Gonzo would think twice about that, unless his brain was feeling as immortal as Peter’s was. But the car wasn’t there. Surprise surprise. What, did you think she flew out the window? Sigh. Didn’t she have a spare Ferrari down here? And she dared to call herself rich. A sensible option presented itself in the form of a taxi, which carried the weak and addled Peter out to buy some flowers – red roses, hey, they’re a cliché for a reason (halfway there he realised you could have had them delivered and boy did he feel stupid) and he thought he’d better leave it at that. For on the one hand, if she really didn’t want anything made of her birthday then flowers should be safe, and if she did, well, flowers shouldn’t be a horrible start and then he could work on a cunning plan to make her happy. Yes, that would be clever, and he exhaled heavily when he finally was allowed to collapse on the couch, roses in hand. She came home while he was catnapping/daydreaming and kissed him. He felt a little better, but still unimaginably tired, and thrust out the flowers. “Happy birthday.” They went down just fine. 171

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Then he collapsed back, and Sarah stayed with him as they watched a Clark Gable retrospective on a movie channel. She gushed so much about the dresses in Gone With the Wind that Peter had to leave for a while, but she dragged him back in and he, not quite up to heroic full power – “Where’s my Proton Power Pills that give me the strength of twenty atom bombs for twenty seconds?” – gave in to her indomitable will. Afterwards she picked him up in her arms, he incredulous that she possessed the stamina to lift him, though it was a bit of a stretch for her, but still, impressive. She let him fall to the bed, and whispered in his ear, “Thanks for being low key.” Then sleep again, and again he missed the day. His routine now seemed set for the near future. He would play in the ghost time, and in the day time would heal his body from the ravages of night and heavy consumption. While on the subject ... he felt well enough by now to hit the club circuit with Sarah, and they hopped a few places with Michael, An, and some of the others, Peter getting wonderfully, fulfillingly unsobered, and extremely talkative. Sarah wasn’t hitting the booze, but then she was taking the amphetamines frequently, as were some of the others, and she was firmly stopping Peter from having any. “No. The maid doesn’t want to clean up that sort of mess again.” So he just rambled instead, rambling being a high art form among these rare Californians who loved to see dawn from the wrong end. An, King John, and Peter (Nikolai hadn’t been seen since ... it ... happened) were all there by the time they reached The Galley, which was starting to seem stale. I mean, how many times can you put up with being served by naked, oiled slaves? “Talk about your staid and boring underground lifestyles.” – “Shut up, man, you’re a tourist.” And King John had brought Philippa, who’d never been and was fascinated. By her own admission she didn’t party much, and wasn’t averse to a life in sunshine. So, as it happened, the story of the ghost was told to those who hadn’t heard it, and everyone, in whatever state they were travelling through, didn’t bat so much as an eyelid. 172

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Except for King John, who was shaking all over like Stevie Wonder doing a speed metal number. This is a good bit of discussion, mostly between An and Peter, with various others chiming in. “No, really, Philippa told me, babe.” “Don’t call me ‘babe’.” “Babe babe babe babe babe.” Peter waved his hand and laughed at himself. Sarah popped a pill and said “Don’t call her babe, babe.” “Why not?” “I have a pillow.” “Oh ... so, anyway, yeah, that’s what a for real vampire is, man, check this out.” He tried to pull his shirt down a bit to expose all the scars of war, but his coordination failed him. “Fuck it.” “No kidding. Vampire.” An reflected quietly to herself. King John made a whooping noise. “I guess vampires – not our friend–” she said, pointing to Peter’s neck, “would have a bitch of a time getting a tan.” “Who wants a tan? You get wrinkles in all the wrong places – ugh,” said Michael. “You’re Mexican, what are you talking about?” “I look Mexican to you?” “No, but you said–” King John piped up, “You look Mexican to me.” Sarah grabbed his shoulder. “What colour am I?” “Green.” She gave a look to the table as if to say, “I rest my case”. “Hey, excuse me,” objected Peter, “but I believe we were considering another and more relevant point ... hey, imagine this. Imagine how incredibly a vampire must hate summer.” “’Cause he sees all these people with tans and thinks, man, I want some of that?” “Well, he could eat them,” put in Michael. “No, no no,” insisted Peter, “no. I mean, in summer there’s more hours of sunshine. I mean, he’s gotta stop partying earlier, you know? 173

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It’s like, ‘Whoops, sorry dude, go to bed or you’re toast’.” “I like toast,” mentioned King John. He was ignored. “Let’s have a toast,” said An, “for the vampire in summer. We have to respect all those long-suffering dead guys in capes.” “Hear, hear!” they cried, raising their glasses. “Can I get some toast?” “Peter wrote a poem called The Vampire in Summer,” announced Sarah. “You’re a poet?” asked Philippa. “I guess. No. Not really.” “Never finished it though, did you, boy?” pounced his mistress. “So?” “Nothing.” The conversation drifted back to strange rap, all the while Peter smarting inside. Sarah didn’t seem very happy, or even like the speed was working. “Who said it was speed?” she said, when he asked her later. “I thought–” “Don’t think. Just drive home.” She took tranks to get to sleep, so wide-eyed from the uppers was she, or whatever the hell it was she’d been taking, and fell asleep before Peter. He rested his head on a pillow made with his own two hands, and stared at a starless ceiling, looking for comets, but seeing only plaster. He thought about Philippa, and by association, the ghost, but the memory was fading to a movie-like quality, like he’d seen it on TV a week ago. He thought about Sarah, wondering why she was so crotchety at the moment, but knew she’d privately expressed how shaken she was by the whole militia deal. So privately he had to remind himself of it. He kept seeing her as she was today, each day, and had to try and remember that she was more than one image. Somewhere after that he would’ve fallen asleep, his quicksilver thoughts finally succumbing to the alcoholic residue. When he awoke it was noon, the earliest light he’d seen since Montana. Sarah slept soundly net to him, breathing deeply, her face so peaceful, and cute, 174

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she almost looked ... his age. He went outside, and found some wooden stairs that went down to the beach, his feet bare, dressed in the shirt he hadn’t taken off last night. “I haven’t even been out to the beach here yet,” he said to himself with some amazement. Climbing down, his feet sank into sand; he marvelled at how peaceful it seemed. The beach was wide, with consistent grey sand. There was hardly anyone around, Peter didn’t know why. Perhaps you needed a certain amount of credit to be allowed past the high tide mark. His butt went plumpf ! as it hit the sand, and he squinted out at the grey horizon, a lukewarm breeze playing with his hair, like Sarah sometimes did. He wondered if there was any beer in the fridge. Sarah didn’t emerge until the light had sunken and velvet curtains had been drawn across the sea. Peter felt totally relaxed, which was just as well, as Sarah was feeling down and short-tempered. He bullied her into a long bath, but she still didn’t have any happy sparkle. “What do you wanna do tonight?” he drawled. “Go out.” “Sure.” Now there’s a surprise. “With the others.” “If they’re around, why not?” Why not indeed? If she was going to be a misery, at least there was a chance that Philippa or someone would be there to talk to. Sarah picked up the phone and started talking, he assumed it was to one of the others, and he left and wandered through the house, vaguely playing with the far too large stereo (i.e. it could probably cater to an amphitheatre with its surprisingly loud speakers), toying with a CD of gothic/industrial feedback. When he returned later to the living room, feeling bored and wanderer-like, like Jesus perhaps, or that guy in Kung Fu, Sarah had a slight surprise. “We’re getting a haircut.” Money talks and Sarah’s hairstylist obviously had entire conversations with it, gladly coming over to do Peter’s hair and explore Sarah’s next whimsy. While his was being trimmed he saw Sarah take a pill with some water. 175

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“Headache?” he asked hopefully. It was hard to hear her answer over the punk and rock music the hairdresser – sorry, hair designer, no sorry again, hair architect – insisted on playing to maintain her artistic wellbeing, but Sarah said no. “Wakey wakey time,” he heard as she came over. Her palm unfolded before his face with two pills in it, “To keep up with me, babe. We’re gonna go places.” He took them, trying to not needlessly antagonise her – at least she wasn’t trying to get him to do something bad like heroin, you know? – and hoped that the buzz kicked in for her soon. By the time he’d had his hair dyed black, cut slightly over one side of his face, and the sides near shaved, she was shining away, two bright beams emanating from inside her head and through her eyes like spotlights. Peter knew in his heart that everything was going to be OK, that he loved Sarah so much nothing could ever come between them. Funnily enough, as she sat in a chair, while the stylist (no name was given, and Sarah called her “Hey”) trimmed the curls to littler curls, she brought up Philippa. “What’s this I hear about you being naked with this ghost girl?” “?” said Peter’s face at that. “Michael said that An said that Aimmee said the two of you were practically fucking each other in the toilet the other night. So where did all these scratches and bruises come from again?” Peter’s mouth dropped open. A grin split her face. “Relax. I know you didn’t fuck her. It sounds like a high school thing, doesn’t it? ‘He said that she said that so and so said’, fuck, it’s OK, I can guess how that all got turned around but still, you didn’t tell me about anything like that. Why not?” “I don’t know,” he whewed. “It wasn’t anything.” He went over and kissed her. “I just basically forgot the whole thing. Sorry.” “That’s OK. Barkeep? Make my hair as black as his.” “Yes, Sarah,” said the follicle constructionist. By the time they were both dyed-in-the-wool black-haired groovers ready and dressed for going out the clock was well past the number 176

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at the top – what is it, twelve? That means midnight. By the time they were ready, anyway, they were ready. The car vroomed along the blacktop greytop highway into Hollywood, where they informed whoever they could by car phone that they were not going to The Galley again because they were sick of how skinny some of the slaves looked. Lights streaked in long lines when they went at high speeds. Peter sucked back an amphetamine, determined to see dawn, and shrieked with happiness. With his best girl by his side, he’d sing, sing, sing. Sarah interrupted his train in his head of thought before he could break into song. “Someone says–” “Who?” “I forget; someone says they know a new place that’s around here somewhere and they’ll be on the road and we’ll see them and go in.” “How will we know who it is?” They drove around Hollywood streets that were around a general vicinity that Sarah said they were to go round and round in. Finally someone recognised them. It was Michael. She waved to them and they discharged the car presently to a valet and accompanied the titanically tall woman to a place with a door. A man on a chair outside nodded at them as they waited for it to squeak back on unoiled hinges and it was solid looking wood that Peter bet Superman couldn’t even knock down. Although Supes is pretty strong. Sarah pulled his hand and they skipped along a hallway, down some stairs and into an underground warehouse-sized area; maybe it used to be a garage, but there were no cars. Well, anyway they played very, very loud music in this place, it went really, really fast with a chug chug sound and there was just lots of noise and pretty lights that zigzagged all around. A sea of people rippled across the floor, sometimes dancing, sometimes spilling drinks, and there was a ring of small tables around the edge, black, which seemed to be the motif for the club and its patrons fashion wear. Ahh, immortal black, most beloved of talk show beauty secret queens, Peter and Sarah followed Michael through, 177

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pushing and sweating until they finally ran into a table containing An, Aimmee and Chug. And things pretty much progressed from there and Peter dropped more pills into his mouth and knew, just knew, that everything would be OK. He felt totally yellowly happy, like this was what he’d been waiting for, there were no gun-laden woodsmen and no cops and no ghosts and no angry Sarah and a happy Sarah and no distracting Philippa to make him wonder wander and he was hot but it made him warm inside. He felt like he could run for mountains. The pills must grow in Sarah’s pocket. They are inexhaustible. He took her by the hand and she jumped up and down on the spot, ”Come and dance with me,” he said, she flashed the winning smile, she was the breakfast of champions, she tasted lovely, and they walked out onto the spinning globes of light reflected on the floor and leapt around to the speed music, speed in their veins, or whatever, and they didn’t leave this place with no name until the crowd suddenly emptied like a bath full of dirty water, large men in black with a gold chain round their absent necks helped clean off the last specks of grime that clutched to the porcelain black room as the party ended for most, but not for Sarah and Peter. Weaving in traffic and making the tail lights drift through space in a zag they headed back to the beach, “How come these are all different colours? Is that different kinds of wakey pills?” and she said “Don’t worry babe, I’ve done this before, just enjoy yourself,” and he said “OK.” The beach house yielded its cool dark insides as the sun rose on the outside and they dropped their clothes as they walked through the dark interior, Peter following Sarah’s cute butt and just wanting to grab it and cup it in his greedy little hands, and they flew like Captain Superguy into the wide bed and rutted like rabbits, hot and sweaty SEX displayed in pink letters against a women’s magazine ruled by men, her waist embraced by thumbs and her back cold against the wall as he sealed her mouth and their faces squirmed and slid and they sexed and made love and all the phrases that are real until they lay panting for a while, dry like a desert. Bottled water spilling from a plastic bottle down throats and skin and lips and breasts and slippery 178

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hands over curves and nooks. They wrapped themselves in sheets and took more SPEED he guessed and he felt like he wanted to be inside her forever, so secure and drooling with lust. The night came with a humming sound and they left in that car, so black and deadly, but not to them, charmed lives as they stayed on the road, not plunging off and into a butterfly explosion. Peter Peterson, from far away, sailed once again into that breach, towards the glittering promise of the city of angels. The angel beside him glowed and he wanted to feel fire in his veins. Sarah promised him an inferno.

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Chapter Fifteen On that particular occasion they breezed down Hollywood Boulevard and Sarah happened by chance to catch sight of this old, slightly paunchy, bald guy (like, totally bald, eyebrows included in the deal) standing around, talking to a woman with bad make-up, a blue dress about three inches long, and a white bra upon which he had one hand. She bade him greeting and he, most surprised said, hello there, and was revealed to be of the name Carny, apparently, this being how Sarah Howe referred to him, and he not minding. He said she looked good, and thought the black hair sexy indeed. He looked at the way they (Peter and Sarah) were almost hopping around, feeling that mad dash building in their feet, and Sarah informed he (Carny) that they (Peter and Sarah) were on a run. Sure, said Carny, and invited them back to his place. He walked to a white Rolls Royce parked behind him, which, while incredibly proud of his acquisition, his baby, “Hercules” the Rolls, found to his embarrassment that it would not start. While Peter and Sarah watched in helpless bemusement he popped the thing up and looked at the engine sort of, saying, “Well, it’s wonderfully expensive, and a beautiful piece of art,” but the car alarm needed to keep it in his possession periodically succeeded in stopping the car from achieving velocity of any kind. Peter sniggered, and told Carny how silly car alarms were. Carny told Peter he might just be right. Carny’s house was as white as his Rolls Royce, having columns 181

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and palm trees. Inside, they watched him display a fine collection of wine, something he was proud of. One bottle that sat upon a table was a purchase that day, which he went “Whoopee” over. He called it a 1979 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild, and said that it cost the same as about four or five Jewish pizzas from Spago. He was saving it for his step-daughter’s graduation party. They hung with Carny for a while, running short of the amphetamines, but supplementing them with red wine that was keeping Carny red cheeked. He delighted in showing his range of pornography to the couple, a private room to which he kept the only key in a copy of Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, the title of which led Peter to believe the contents would contain much material on little boys. In fact, Carny was not only devoutly heterosexual, he also had a limited range of fetishes, mostly leather and leash, toe and tongue, and the like, with a preference for bald shaven women who weren’t skinny and could not be mistaken for school girls. The pornography collection was fairly enormous, though being the only one Peter had ever seen in his life, he had nothing to compare it with. Carny passed out on the floor and Peter sat obligingly while Sarah flipped through unapologetically graphic European magazines. They mucked about in the room for a while as Carny slept on the floor, until Sarah tossed her head in a black swirl and said, “Let’s leave the sorry old bastard to it.” On the way out a cheeky sneaky grin giggled its way across Sarah’s flawless beauty, he touched her skin, he loved to touch her skin, and she said, “Let’s have a drink,” grabbing the bottle of Chateau le whatever the hell it was, while Peter laughed maniacally as they sprinted around trying to find the front door. The couple sat in the driveway, resting hands on the red cobblestones, drinking it straight from the bottle until there was not a drop to slither down the glass and slide onto Sarah’s greedy little pink tongue. They grabbed each other’s hands while their heads spun and 182

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tiredness was creeping up over Peter’s shoulders, and they looked at each other and let out a sigh that just said “satisfaction”. “I love you so much, Peter,” said Sarah. The bottle left rolling on the driveway, they left tyre rubber behind as they sped off home again to avoid the burning rays of the sun. Rumour has it that the next day, finding tyre marks and an empty bottle of 1979 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild on his cobblestone driveway, the man known as “Carny” swore and cursed so vehemently that little cartoon bubbles appeared in thin air like so: “@#%$$@*@” “%***#&#%@!!” and “%%#&@!!?!”. However, no reliable witness has ever personally testified to said events. It has been suggested that a splitting headache, and the discovery of his comatose body in a room full of naked breasts by Mrs. Carny and the youngest step-daughter were contributing factors to the outburst. His eye twitched uncontrollably as he waited for Sarah to turn up more pills. She felt her memory had slid away on her and was rifling through drawers. She found the plastic bag containing the stuff in the bathroom (in the medicine cabinet) and they made an instant pact not to sleep until they had reached the triple digit hour mark. Slwip went the sounds of their lips smacking down speed. Somewhere over fifty hours, after they’d made love on the deck, with a perfect view of the ocean under the influence of dawn, Peter had a sudden urge to visit the clown. His face over Sarah, his blackened fringe in her eyes, he suggested they visit Ronald. “Oh, you’re just so romantic!” she said shittily, pushing him off her and walking inside, her body swaying like a catwalk model in a stiff breeze. He followed her, saying, “Come on! I haven’t visited a fast food joint since I got here! I must have been here for days now!” “Want some breakfast?” “Nah.” “Neither. Come here, babe,” she pulled him by his elbow towards 183

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the centre of the room. “What ...” he said suspiciously. She whipped out a large object and he jumped out of his skin. “Don’t!” he cried. It was a large cardboard box, containing Monopoly, a board game. Fairly unthreatening. “Oh,” he said. “Wanna play?” she asked. “Sure!” Everyone plays Monopoly now and then. And it was a pretty interesting game at that, to a certain point. With mineral water by their sides, they played for six hours straight. Stuck in jail, for like, who knows, five times, Peter caught on to Sarah’s little trick. She’d weighted the dice. Little devil. While she was out of the room at one point, with the game in disarray as so often happens at the six hour mark, he threw the dice out the window and onto the hot sand, and started prowling through the house. While he stood in a dark hallway a most audible click came from the direction of the door that led to the street. Sarah was down the other end of the house, so he went to investigate the noise, bare feet sinking at every step into the carpet. He heard the sound of someone trying the door handle ahead, and when he turned a corner into the little lobby he moved quiet like a panther. Light streamed in through blue tinted glass making reflections on the wall like he was living on the bottom of a swimming pool. Out the corner of his eye the handle clicked down again and he whirled. A pot plant nearby became a handy weapon, feeling the weight in his palm, stepping up to the door, careful not to reveal himself to the shadowy figure almost certainly outside – the militia! – the thought newsflashed across his mind. In one fluid motion he grabbed the door handle and wrenched the door back, raising the flower pot up to crack someone on the skull. But the entrance was empty. He peered around each corner slowly. But no one was there. His hand came back down, he heard Sarah’s breathing coming up from behind. “Hi,” he said. 184

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“What are you doing, babe?” “Nothing.” “Coming back inside?” “Sure.” He let the plant fall from his hand and it hit the stone path outside, breaking apart, sending dirt skittering every which way, the terracotta fracturing, the green rubbery flowerless thing left drooping where it lay to wither in the sun. Peter followed his love back inside, careful to lock the door behind him. The fight started over who had left the bag of chips strewn across the couch. They were prawn flavoured, and Peter knew he didn’t have no truck with that. But Sarah insisted she hadn’t touched food all day. She got real over-intense about it, scratching madly at her arms, and she said real mean things. Real mean things. He blew the whole thing off, bade her farewell, sliding the car keys into his fist and leaving a swear word hanging in the air. The garage hummed and the engine vroomed and he flew out like a canary strapped to a rocket. Foolin’ and toolin’ down the highway, the car phone drilled the air. She said she was sorry and asked him to come home please. He said he’d think about it. He rode the dusk until his eyes started to close, the oncoming traffic starting to disappear from his vision and a growling lion growing in his stomach. About the third or fourth day (his count of the days felt suspect, and Sarah had to do careful calculations to find out how many hours they were through the past) some of the others turned up at the beach house. A carload of Chug and Michael and Anita and King John trooped into the living room and joined in, King John looking the most active he’d ever seen him. Peter felt they’d intruded on purpose, the moment he and Sarah had a bit of quiet to themselves, they had to come and spoil it. But they were probably just jealous of Sarah, she was so 185

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wonderful. Standing in the kitchen he dropped a glass into the sink when he felt something crawling up his arm. It bounced, but did not break, spinning around on a patch of tap water. He scratched where he’d felt the slither, and spun around looking for where whatever insect had crawled on him might have gone. It ran down his back and he swiped at it madly with his arms, but it made it down to his and he swiped at it madly with his arms, but it made it down his leg. He couldn’t see it – the little fucker was fast, he could feel its hundreds of legs. It had moved over to his stomach and ran around his side, crawling over ribs and into the hollow of his back. He slammed his back against the wall again and again until the tears flowed from his eyes, but he could still feel it crawling over him. Now there were two. He slumped to the kitchen floor and sobbed uncontrollably. Sarah had gone for a drive to pick up more supplies, and had been gone for over an hour. It was very dark and late. Peter had at first decided to go with her, but now he was engrossed in finding the dice he’d thrown onto the beach. He had a candle in his hand, but the wind kept blowing it out. He pushed his fingers through the sand, trying to find the pair of die, but to no avail. It was when he just about gave up that he realized someone was sneaking through the house. The candle plopped into the soft beach as he made his way quietly back to the home. The intruder was in the kitchen end of the house, so he took the door that led to the bedroom, and searched for a weapon. He found some matches and struck one, it gave a small glow, and although he could hear the person getting closer, he felt confident that they couldn’t see it. In a drawer, purely by chance, he found a small revolver. He picked it up. It was cold and small and ugly. He turned it over in his hand. Not quite sure how to use it. placing a thumb on the hammer, he slowly cocked it back until it clicked no more. The intruder was closer. If it was a militia man Peter knew he was outgunned. Knowing surprise was his only ace he stood behind 186

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the door, ready to open it suddenly and shoot whoever was outside. Under carpet the floor squeaked as the intruder put his weight on a bad board. Peter counted slowly to himself. One. Two. Turn the knob and yank, like last time but faster, his hand felt it difficult to get a purchase and by the time it was open and he swung the gun into a dark hallway the man had fled. He advanced cautiously, gun outstretched, finger jumpy on the trigger. His body was flushing sweat in waves. The man had fled toward the front door. Was he going to escape or lay ambush? Peter’s hand was shaking from side to side and he brought his other hand up to steady it, like on TV. He advanced towards the lobby, squeezing his eyes as tight as possible, while still being able to see a crack. He felt that bug on his skin again, down his thigh, but he couldn’t go after it now. He stood and peered into the darkness. He thought he could see the shape of a man just ... ... the front door opened and Sarah stepped in. Peter jumped and the gun waved up, his finger nearly pushing the trigger but sliding off because of sweat. “Jesus!” she cried when she saw the gun. A bottle of grape juice fell from her hand and exploded on the floor, sending a tide of red across the tiles. His heart stopped and he flexed his hand. The gun fell out and fell through the air where it clattered and rattled on the floor. Sarah threw a paper bag aside and ran to Peter. “What’s wrong, honey?” “There’s ... I thought there was someone in the house.” A quick search of the house with the lights on, Sarah carrying the gun, revealed no intruder. She left the gun on a table near a couch. Peter slid a pill into his mouth, walking towards Sarah who was standing in the kitchen. Her black hair provided no depth and lacked 187

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any lustre. He was wearing socks that felt too warm, and perspired as he walked. Careful steps as his body shook. She extended her hand out and smiled to him. He felt shorter as her smile sank into worry. His knees gave way and he felt his feet slide from under him. The tiles were slicked with butter that Sarah had put there and now he was falling into the trap she had dug for him. He fell back and his hands sailed and spun crazily. Sarah was opening her mouth, saying something, running, hands outstretched. His vision looked wherever it felt, and he saw the ceiling and heard a hollow thud as his skull bounced off the tile, his legs spastically convulsing. He kept his eyes open for a pale rider on a pale horse.

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Chapter Sixteen The breeze had travelled a long way. Perhaps it had left the shores of the muddy Manukau harbour, swept up in an older wind, curled around on its back and flown above Hawaii, ridden the surf into Malibu. Fluttered across the white crested waves as they lapped and ran along the beach and caught itself, then, darting forth towards the open door, it picked up the fine white curtain and tossed it around as it passed the glass entrance to the bed of Sarah and Peter. It moulded itself to the canyons formed by long wrinkled sheets, tickled her neck and teased the corner of her breast that peeked out on the bed. Travelling through the tiny chaos of curls so fine and black spun upon her hair, the breeze whistled to Peter’s ear, running along his long leg, measuring the length of his wide shoulders and tugging at his eyelids, closed for five days and five nights. Now this breeze of evening did wake him, roused him from a dreamless death to feel the pain in his skull, and the lack of energy which attended him. He could not move, but stared at the pillow, harmless in his gaze. The breeze whisked on, through the open door and down the hall, filling the pungent air with its salty message, and casting its way about the wreckage. The broken bottle, unattended. The pills, left rolling under its tendrils on a kitchen bench. The gun, grey and shineless, oil mingling with the baby wind, so dead now, but containing fire for an instant. The deadliest pill of all.

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Chapter Seventeen Peter lay face down, his neck so stiff he assumed it had been mortared in place. His head hurt, his body had no go juice. He could feel Sarah’s body on the mattress, the slight depression to the left of him. He wondered if a white chalk line had been drawn about them as they had lain prostrate. They must have slept for a day. Pins and needles told him that he wasn’t paralysed, and with much effort he pulled himself backwards and onto the floor. He was viciously hungry, and decided to leave his beautiful Sarah sleeping, brush his teeth, and devour any morsel in his sight. A bit of carpet caught his big toe as he wobbled naked down the hallway. Feeling a sudden flash of anger and an energy boost, he swore at the floor and kicked the wall half a dozen times. What a suckful day already. Hobbling on his bruised foot he went forth. “I see. Thanks, Harvey. Bye.” Sarah turned off the tiny cell phone and laid it on the breakfast counter. Peter looked up at her as he slurped some cereal (coated in sugar by the manufacturer) into (and onto) his mouth, dribbling milk. “It’s Thursday, Petey, which means we were out for about five days. He’s been going spare waiting for me to call him back for two weeks.” “Glurr.” “Yeah, that’s what I said.” She put some Pop Tarts into the toaster 191

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and sat down next to him, clad in the generic white robe. ”What shall we do today?” “Nothing.” “Good idea.” Coming out from the crash, Peter discovered, had left them both very tired and, he noticed, depressed as hell. Plus, Sarah was being all crotchety again, but that was probably just her. They spent a few days doing bugger all. Philippa called for Peter, Sarah handed the phone to him without a word, and walked out. She asked him how he was. He said fine. He asked her if she’d run into any grumpy ghosts lately. She said no, she’d left a message on a psychic answering machine telling them all she wasn’t available. She asked if maybe he wanted to go out and do something. He informed her that he had no intention of moving anything but his finger on the remote control button. He said, why don’t you come over. She said she would. Philippa came over. Sarah was noticeably cool with her. The two vampire survivors chatted away amiably in the sunshine, sipping cool drinks and generally just getting to know each other. Peter felt like a weight was being lifted when he talked about all these useless things, and had the closest thing to a good time since he’d come out of the coma. He waved goodbye as she drove off in a truck (recreational vehicle) that looked several times too big for her and closed the front door. Sarah was behind him, he discovered. “I don’t think I like her,” she said. He felt momentary displeasure at that remark. “So fuckin’ what?” Walking past her and back into the house he started fixing himself a drink, the living area all bright and too warm because the big glass doors were shut tight. Sarah stalked after him. “So fuckin’ what?” she yelled. “What the fuck am I, chopped fucking liver?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” 192

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One leg placed forward she looked like a school tough ready to get into a pubescent fight. “What? She’s a friend of mine. What the fuck’s your problem?” He searched for some lime concentrate. “My problem? You hardly say a word to me all day. You yak with her, and god knows what else, for ages. I mean, I–” “Oh, God, settle down, Sarah.” She bristled at his use of her first name, a deadly whip in such a situation. “It’s not my fault you’re all shitty. Although it’s your fault I’m depressed, so don’t hassle my lack of conversation.” He picked up the bottle of soda and squirted some in to the glass. He loved the little spray nozzle on the top. Felt like a Stooge or something. “My fault? My fault? Since when am I responsible for how poor little Peter’s mood swings? God, that’s rich.” She folded her arms and had such a sour expression on her face, the way she skewed her normally full lips into a Cubist smile, and her now black eyebrows narrowed so darkly in her forehead. “Oh, really. Well, I don’t know, who is it who forces her boy toy to take drugs? ‘Oh, sure. It’ll be fine.’ Hands up? Sarah?” “I didn’t force me, but then nobody forces the baby that puts a toy with spikes in its mouth that it chokes on and dies, for fuck’s sake. You said it was harmless.” “So you’re a baby now?” She advanced a few steps. “Well, shit, net time you can call a doctor for a second opinion, you stupid selfish asshole.” “Fuck you Sarah. Fuck you. Fuck your money. Fuck your jealousy. If saying I love you isn’t enough to stop you having a fit every time I look at another woman–” “Woman, hah!” “Oh, forget it. This isn’t worth it. I’m going to drink this and then you can sulk by yourself.” Sarah glared and searched for something to throw. “Well, that’s nice. Run away from a fight? Again? You’re weaker than I thought.” She picked up the gun, still lying there, as if proof of his weakness. “Ghost and shadows. Poor little Peter. Everything’s out to get him.” 193

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“Yeah, nothing’s out to get Sarah. So she cruises the high schools, looking for a mate, ’cos nothing can stop her and she’s out to prove to everyone that no law, not earthly or physical or man, can hold her down, no sir.” He sneered, beyond thought, beyond caring, sick to death of ... something. “I’m glad I picked up such a mature little boy, then. Thank you for teaching me the error of my ways.” A tear was streaking down her face but he refused to soften and slow down and think. “Life’s a bitch ...” he opened. “Yeah.” She raised the gun, her eyes dark, but where the last time he’d looked down a gun barrel he’d been petrified, this time he just raged at the stupidity. “What? You going to shoot me? The final piece of sparkling wit when you lose control of an argument!” His face red with anger, he flicked his hand and sent the glass smashing against the wall; it ran down in droplets and splinters in a translucent green smear. “Shoot me, then.” He thumped his hands on his chest and stepped towards her. Her face hardened. “Shoot me. It’ll make my life more interesting.” The gun waved, sank back down. Her face was sad under the mask of anger, her eyes streaking down, and her hand swung lifeless at her side. “Oh well,” he said. “Same old, same old.” She screamed in a low powerful cry, bringing her arm up in a semicircle, while everything slowed to a halt around Peter. He raised his arms through treacle, instinctively protecting himself, not that the lead would fly through the air any different no matter how much bone and flesh was in the way. She held the gun pointed at his face for a fraction of a dragged out second and then closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her screaming echoing from her throat around the world. The gun exploded as her arm started swinging wide and Peter dropped down to his knees sinking through mud. The plaster erupted from the wall. The gun spat again, a small tongue of fire poking out of the barrel, and the glass panel door clouded. And again, the report, the next window opening a hole, and again, the boom in his ears, a smell 194

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in the air and his eyes wide, the second window turning to a million cracks and splinters as it fell to the floor. Her arm kept swinging, her finger pulling the trigger, and a vase full of red roses exploded sideways, wall chunks spewing forth from behind, water leaping out into the air in crystal drops, the roses falling in small spirals as a few loose petals sank far behind and flew elsewhere in the room, and again, an eruption cut short, and wood from a bureau turned to sawdust and blackened char and her scream dying in her throat, pulling the trigger again and a click and again and a click and finally her arm sank down and she turned back to him, her face a mask of impenetrable stone. He stood back up and froze slowly, from his feet to his neck. She looked at him and dropped her head to the side, then threw the gun aside carelessly; it struck the TV screen and plunked to the floor. She turned on one foot and walked away. Peter stood still for several minutes before walking over to the gun and picking it up. He left the room how it was and walked down to the beach with the gun in a pocket. He sat down on the sand, and contemplated throwing the revolver into the Pacific, to let it corrode away, or maybe bury it far deep down in the sand. The sunset again. A beautiful orange. How many times had the sun gone down on his young eyes? How many times had he watched it and thought important thoughts? The sand was in between his fingers, the sand was everywhere. People jogged past him, they waved to him, he waved back. There were as many friendly people in Los Angeles, it seemed, as there were in Wellington; odd for a city that resembled hateful Auckland. She’s shot the house to pieces. Goddamn. He remembered the lighthouse-shaped slide at night. He remembered holding her tight in Montana. He remembered holding her hand in the sunshine. He remembered how much he loved her, all of her, all ways. And all her secrets too. No matter how dark. He stood up and wiped the sand off his bum, and walked back 195

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inside, dropping the gun into the garbage as he passed it. It sank down the side of a plastic bag and settled on top of a beer bottle, empty and useless. He found her in the bedroom, sitting down with her face bowed. “Hi,” he said quietly. “Hi.” She looked up, her face calm, no trace of tears. “You OK?” He went over to her and brushed her hair with the back of his hand, not knowing why, just following impulse. She didn’t flinch or swat him away so that was a good sign. “Yeah. You alright?” “Yeah.” “I’m sorry I tried to shoot you.” “I’m sorry I made you mad.” “What you do with the gun?” She raised her head up and wiggled her cute little bubba nose. “Ah, threw it away.” She nodded. “So,” he continued, “let’s talk about stuff.” “Alright.” “You’ve had problems with all of this shit before, haven’t you?” She pulled him close, made him sit down. “This isn’t a problem. When I was twenty-two, that was a problem. Being forced into rehab, that was a problem. This was ... just a run for fun. I always get dodgy after. But I don’t do it that much, just when things are stressful.” “What the heck is stressful these days? We go out every night, we party,” he did a little dance on the bed, “you know, everything’s groovy.” “Yeah, except when people stick guns in your faces, stuff like that.” She pulled her knees up and under her chin. “I been thinking. This place is so unreal. I mean, I’m thirty. I haven’t done anything with my life–” “You taught–” “–for more than five minutes. Time is moving on. I’ve seen what it’s done to other people, and then I look at Granma and Granpa and 196

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they’re totally happy, and old. And they’ve lived a life that made them feel fulfilled.” “How do you know you haven’t done the same as them? Way I hear Christopher tell it–” “It’s not just that.” She got up and wandered around the room with a face like a child, trying to deal with the concept of death for the first time, a look he’d never seen before, so vulnerable, so confused. ”Sometimes I think, maybe I want to have kids. Or settle down. Or make some lasting monument for society that says ‘Sarah Howe was here’. I’m afraid I’m gonna die in a car wreck or in a hospital with foam coming from my mouth.” Peter looked up at her through his fringe. He didn’t know what to say ... She paused with her hand on her brow for a second, then continued. “Life might pass me by while I’m in a bar. And then I think about you. And all the good stuff we’ve done. And how I’ve never met anyone, no matter what age, that gives me the kind of ... passion for life that you do.” He was flattered immensely. “How come you’ve never said anything like that before?” His was a flat and neutral personality, inspiring to no one, but he believed her, because it would be ridiculous for her to make it up. “I mean, who says you’re frittering your life away? As long as you’re happy, surely that’s all that matters. Are you happy these days? With me?” “I’m ... happy with you. But I don’t know what I want. Except ... I can’t bear the thought of living without you.” Peter felt awkward. The years separating them seemed more pronounced in this moment than since he’d stood behind her on a train platform, wondering what she looked like, wondering how university would be. “You’re not going to ask me to marry you, are you?” he said, trying to flippant away the heavy feeling in the air. “No. We don’t need to be married to stay together forever. Besides, I said never again.” She put a fist in her mouth and paced some more. Peter tried to work out where to put his hands. On his 197

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knees, by his side, folded under his arms ... She came over and knelt before him, like that nervous time so many hundreds of years away, when her eyes had sparkled with the fire of conspiracy. This time her eyes spoke of questions, and uncertainty, of the future. “What do you want to do? What is it you want to leave behind?” He had no off the cuff answer. “I don’t know.” He sat back and looked at the ceiling for a while, resting on his elbows. Sarah waited on his knees. “I think ... before ... I wanted to do all sorts of cool stuff. I wanted to make more of all the things I loved as I’ve grown up. I wanted to make a movie with Bruce Willis carrying guns. I wanted to write a book that made lost people my age sit up and take notice, and take charge of their lives, instead of being dealt to by teachers and politicians, dumber than them, trying to mould them out of the way, so everything ... ahh, ... I wanted to make a song that doesn’t stay in your head until you’ve heard it fifty times, and people play it in a hundred years. I wanted to win an Oscar. Whatever. But now, I ... I’m just happy being happy. I’m happy with you. I’m happy living the adventure of not knowing where I’ll go. And I think ... I think one day we’ll part, like everyone does, and I’ll be forced to take a job. And I’ll marry someone my age and make them as happy as I possibly can. And I’ll live behind a fence painted green, and there’ll be a cat, and a kid with curly hair. And I’ll die knowing I made a couple of people and a pet happy. People like me don’t die from drugs or car crashes. People like you don’t die from them either. We become immortal in one way or the other. People like you affect everyone they touch. Anyone who meets you will be changed by you, and on the day I finally get older than I can imagine ... or even after forty ... I’ll still think of you all the time and dream about what might have happened if I’d done something different. And you’ll be immortal in memory, and whatever it is you end up creating. And I’ll be immortal because you can’t affect me without taking a piece of me, and somewhere in that thing you create will be a piece of Peter Peterson, who was always such a nice boy, and did some silly things when he was younger, but grew up and became a good person ...” They 198

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stared at each other’s eyes, hers never having the same colour. “And that’s what I feel to be true about my future. And yours.” Sarah took his hand and kissed it, her eyes obviously wet. “For both our sakes,” she said, “I hope there’s more for you than that.”

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Chapter Eighteen They called everyone they could get a hold of, including such luminaries as Harvey, Philippa, Nikolai and the ever zombied King John. The scene was set for a massive and messy drunken bash that all of Sarah’s illegal immigrant cleaning staff would curse her for (that’s a distortion of the facts, there were no illegal immigrants on the staff, and they were all born in America, but it would be unfashionable, surely, to not have any aliens on the payroll). Countless bods arrived at the beach house at various times, and by the time nine o’clock swung around there were fully six hundred bodies, hot, drunk, coked up, smacked out, on the floor, or dancing frenetically, and far, far too many names for Peter to even bother remembering one, or for a list here, but an appendix will be available. The pointlessly huge loud sound system found its use at last, and the windows vibrated (amazing what discreet services are available, such as those who replace furniture, windows and plaster up holes for a large amount of money) the carpet shook, if it could, and the fridge buzzed annoyingly from the power surges. Peter unintentionally got pissed as a fart, and drifted aimlessly through the crowd. He ran into (literally, “Oh, sorry about the dress, will it come out?”) Philippa and they had to go out on the beach with the other human spillage to hear themselves talk. “How are you?” “Oh, good. Just the usual afternoon, being shot at, that sort of thing.” 201

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“Ha ha, you kidder.” “Yeah ...” “Listen, Sarah’s not still mad at me is she? She gave me the impression I was evil.” “Nah nah nah, it’s OK. She was just feeling a little insecure. We were both a little, you know hung-over, so to speak.” “Oh. Yeah. I heard.” “Amazing what people spread. Still, it could be worse.” “Are you experienced with people gossiping about you? And you’re not even a movie star.” ICE QUEEN LECTURER IN TEEN STUD SEX ROMP “Yeah, I’ve had a little experience in that area.” They walked the sand awhile. It was good talking to her. She was a good listener and, even better, a good replier. They sat down on the sand looking out at the great black that was the ocean, so dark it felt like … well, like you weren’t even using your eyes, you know? Philippa leaned over to kiss him. He sunk his head slightly and she stopped. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s OK. But, well, it’s just been that sort of day. I love Sarah, I really do. I know that might be hard for oth–” “No, no, really, I understand, I just think you’re the cutest guy on the beach.” She smiled, giggly, and he hugged her. “I like you too,” he said. “I’d love to kiss you,” he cradled her in his arms, “but, I’m not allowed.” Her eyebrows said they were confused. “Why not? It’s up to you. People can do whatever they want.” “I wish it were that simple.” “Peter, it is.” She touched his face. Images of Sarah with a gun flicked through his mind. Images of Sarah crying flicked through his mind. Images of Sarah at his feet flicked through his mind. “I used to think everything was black and white,” he said. Her hand left his face and hovered in mid-air. “But I had some real grey days, and I still ... I still love Sarah. And I can’t do that to her.” Philippa’s hand curled back up into her breast. She resigned 202

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herself and said, “Maybe some other time.” “You never know.” He smiled. “I’d bet it would be real nice.” They kissed sweetly and went back to the raging tornado that was the house. Inside, Sarah was warm and caring to Peter, because it had been at least half an hour since he’d seen her last and probably had missed her so much that he’d nearly withered and died. She said this. She was so pleasant to Philippa, and Peter was glad his head was so much clearer. He and Sarah wandered arm in arm through and around the crowd, which filled every room and the beach and even the road outside. Sarah had suggested a cunning plan to keep the police from pushing everyone back inside, on the chance they did. Pile some boxes of donuts in the middle of the road, with a large box suspended Wile E. Coyote style above them. Peter felt this might have been the alcohol talking, and wondered where the whole donut myth had started from. She slumped in a corner and giggled and then brought something out from her pocket. “I almost forgot. This is for you.” She handed him a piece of paper with a blue dot embedded in it. “What is it?” “You place it under your tongue.” He eyed her suspiciously but she grew a pouty. “What?” “I love you baby” she then cooed, taking the paper from his hand and waving it in front of his face. “You have to try this. Come on, I promise it’ll be fun. Trust me.” He stopped thinking and did as she said, then she produced a similar piece and put it in her mouth. He waited for about thirty seconds. “Nothing happened.” “See? I told you.” “Well, what the hell–” “Don’t worry, my poppet.” She clapped him on the cheek. “Let’s mingle.” They mingled. Peter was talking to Chug about the history of Louie Louie 203

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(the song) and was fascinated. “You mean they actually held a senate investigation?” Chug wasn’t very sober. “Yessir, I absolutely swear to it. They held an investigation, and their finding was,” he looked like he was going to burp, but farted loudly instead, “that they found they couldn’t make out the lyrics!” He laughed a lot but his delivery had been such that it took Peter a moment to join in. It was about then that something orange screamed and flew over his head. “What the hell was that?” he yelled. Chug looked at him oddly, but slightly sideways. “What was what?” “That orange thing?” “We got orange things here? Wow, I gotta get some.” He lurched off into the crowd. Peter felt confused, but Chug was drunk, whereas Peter had completely sobered up. Completely. He went to look for Sarah, and caught sight of her across the room, sitting with Michael; they were talking fondly about something. He waved to her and there must have been electricity in the air because little sparks pinwheeled off his hand. “Hey,” he protested. He decided he’d better make his way over to Sarah. There was a continual thumping noise and he felt a hot wind on his face. Walking was difficult, because the carpet had been spilled blue, and something was swimming under it; Peter nearly tripped over the sliding shape, but it moved off to the kitchen. He pushed a lady with horns coming out of her eyes and walked in big giant steps to where Sarah was. “Hey,” he went. She looked at him funny, her mouth rearing up like a horse that’s seen a snake, then she said “P” loudly, going “Peter!” and wrapped her arms around him. Her eyes were yellow and they bolted into his. “We’ve got a connection, you and I.” He said, “Uh-huh.” She nodded and they kissed. Michael spoke to him but red came out of her mouth and he just said, “Please, if you’re going to talk to me I prefer words. Take your paint somewhere else, babe.” 204

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Harvey clapped his hand on Peter’s shoulder with the force of a nuke. “Hey!” he cried. “Hey!” said Peter, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh because Harvey had grass instead of hair. “Well, I gotta make a banana,” he mumbled and went outside. Sarah sank somewhere behind him. The sand was slimy and hot to the feet, although his socks should have protected him. He sat down and looked at his feet. “Goddam!” he cried as they swam across the desert. He crawled like a worm on his belly, trying to catch up with them, but they burrowed into the sand. “I think Sarah gave me a drug,” he said out of his palm. At least he could still think lucidly. His fingertips shuddered and grew warm, like a big red Chevrolet, because he was in America, which made him an American, because he’d participated in their social contract so his brain revved and he thought this: Sarah’s gift was obviously a mind altering substance. He hadn’t been exactly taught in school what every drug might be, which was pretty slack of the education system. And he wasn’t sure if anything was supposed to make your socks disobey you. The whole thing seemed pretty unrealistic. He looked at his feet. His socks were still gone. His ribs shivered and he pushed his glasses back on his face but then realized he didn’t wear glasses. Except sunglasses. And the only sun was the bright pinwheel in the sky above him. They were probably fireworks, but he didn’t think it was the fourth of July for America yet, but it was June on the calendar with Marilyn. Which meant he was young, sockless and awake in the summer of his overseas experience. He got up to his bare feet and walked over the hot sand under the moon’s watchful eye. There is a drop-off piece of beach that looks like it suddenly stops and falls, but when you walk toward it there is nothing but a shallow rise with snakes in it. Lo and behold, staring at the fluorescent surf full of laughing Dr. Seuss fish he came upon Philippa, the blond medium he had shared a truly amazing experience with. Oh yes, for real, he had been beaten up by a ghost. That’s true. She sat in almost the same place as before and he flew over and whirled around her a bit before doing a mid-air somersault that she clapped to like a 205

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butterfly before he sat on the sand with her. Sand. Sand. There is so much sand on a beach, some say, that you could spend most of your wife’s first pregnancy term counting every single mote of crystal. “Hello, Peter, babe.” She was quite obviously drunk. “Pfffft?!” he said to one of his socks that surfaced for a moment. “She’s obviously drunk.” “So are you,” laughed she. “No I am not.” And he giggled at her. Ah well, the sock went about his merry way, probably to form an underground sock colony. Just when you thought it was safe to yarn. Da dum. Socks – menace of Malibu. The president’s cat curled a burning ear far away at the comment, but Peter said he was referring to the sock previously upon his foot. The president’s cat went on searching for VIP mice. What happened to mister VIP Ice? he wondered as the cat was escorted by secret service fleas. Yo, drop the Hero and get with the Zero. Ah well, that’s a story for another documentary. Philippa said, “I want to kiss you.” Peter thought, while unicorns ran across the sand and someone yelled from the house, and he said to Philippa who has blond hair cut in a long bob, and a very cute and curvy face, like some fruit that’s gorgeous, one would suppose, she was all curves, like her breasts were very full and unrealistically round, but when he asked she said they were real and her bottom had these same curves, and for one who talked with ghosts last week she was a bit of an Uberbabe, but anyway, Peter sometimes feels sexist at thoughts, and thusly distracted the train and went back to the previous. Kissing. He said to her with the soft thin lips, he said to her, “If you can kiss me without my lips flying away,” which they were trying to do, “then be my guest kisser for this evening; the magic word, but don’t tell anyone, is tidyman,” which was the name of a novelist that gave the world an excellent screenplay for an excellent movie on TV late the other day, so complicated, but he dug it. Philippa grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him. Her lips enveloped his for all their thinness and they were warm and tender and he kissed back for his had not left his face. She was hot in his 206

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face and her tongue trapped his mouth to her. The sand was a worthy cushion. He was seized by an erection that bullied him, but it was she that pushed his shoulders to the beach and asked him if he wanted to do this, he said sure, he thought she meant the orange birds, but like ignorance is any defence these days. Your accent is interesting, she said to him. I’m from New Zealand, yes. I know. You should come over sometime, not that I’m there right now but someday I might go back. He was aware that her hands were all over him and he said so and she said yes, his belt was unhooked and she slid her hands inside his Sarah-purchased trousers and felt him up big time, rubbing his oh dear what can the matter be, holding him in her – expecting the phrase “his manhood rose to greet her” to be emblazoned across the sky for all to see – and he fell back onto the sand thinking, it’s entirely possible something is going terribly wrong, not wanting to be the lead in a lunchtime romance with Fabio on the cover. That comet he’d been waiting for flew above, and the space shuttle wasn’t far behind. Do you remember the first time the real (Columbia) space shuttle flew? In New Zealand it was very early in the morning and it took off and a few days later it came back. Some time at six o’clock many years later, when he was possibly at intermediate school, one blew up and people died and living people made jokes about it and since that time he’d journeyed to the future where Americans blew up their own children under the guise of freedom of speech, Japanese doom cults tried to nerve gas Mickey Mouse and they were trying to censor cyberspace. But such thoughts should not fly in his mind as Philippa’s mouth trailed across his face skin, so soft touch and an “oh” ran through his body as he knew this was a bad thing, although he felt warm and the adrenalin would run through his arms and his chest and he wondered if he should run away but felt crucified upon the sand and there was a sun growing upon the sky while thoughts skipped and repeated themselves over and over as he felt her tongue on his neck but she wasn’t Sarah. She wasn’t Sarah. 207

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He wanted to push her head away and run with the unicorns but he couldn’t find the will inside his mind, in the now, and he clutched her head with both his hands and wanted her to stay, so badly, to stay, but they were calling and he pushed and raised her head and they drew close and kissed and kissed and kissed. He thought of Scooby Doo and all the good times he’d had when he was ten on a school crossing, three-fifteen, every Friday afternoon and then home to catch Shaggy’s whines. They rolled across the sand, four pink crabs scuttling out the corner of his eye, and he pulled himself on top of her and their hands writhed like the dune creatures, buried himself inside her. So, quickly, how did he get there? But she was smiling and stroked himself inside her far from fear and worry, and it was so beautiful, with purple edging. He kissed the curve of her breast where it met the rib until she moaned and he backed up and down from her and made a meal of pink and red and bristly dark hair and tasting sweet, so nice, so different from Sarah. No search party launched for them, made him relaxed, and the sand stayed down but he didn’t and as she clutched his back in masseuse agony he found himself within again to try and give as more as he could deep inside feeling himself surrounded with her warmth and came and came and lay over her, wanting to blanket her, keep her smiling, as they kissed and hugged under a screaming silvery night of explosions and romance and unsafe sex. He’d betrayed her. Like Judas on holiday, he’d betrayed her. He was a traitor, the lowest of the low. At least Judas got paid. That was the first thought to run through his mind; the second was about how scratchy the sand was on the left side of his face. And the third was wonder at the helicopter’s noise, and was he having a ’Nam flashback or something? His eyes cracked the bricked up surface and became thin slits that revealed the world to Peter Peterson. The helicopter was approaching from behind. He lay on his side, stiff and cold. It was a cool grey, white swept watercolour morning and he felt dry. He raised himself up as the helicopter spun slowly lazily above him, surveying the battle zone. He twisted his head in slow motion, his mind catchin’ up as 208

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best it could. Philippa lay asleep still, the dawn quiet not to wake her, peaceful and serene, breathing over the surf. She was dreaming happy, and Peter was overcome by a wave of revulsion, guilt, and love for all things. He stood up in the wash of the aircraft as it strobed his hearing and continued over the house and along the beach, someone’s private toy. He tugged Philippa’s dress down to cover her legs and pubic hair, and left her lying in the sand as he climbed the dune to the house, like a man in a fifties Foreign Legion film. Bodies were strewn across the beach and the front view of the house, some wounded, some dead. The horror. The horror. Thick black smoke curled into the sky from a barbecue on the deck as a survivor of the massacre tried to cook something for breakfast. Peter continued to stumble jarringly towards the house. The rest of the night previous he’d sat beside Philippa and rode out the rest of the “trip” or whatever the applicable lingo was for his experience. His recollection was vague, but he’d felt joined with everything, like he could figure it all out. But he hadn’t written it in the sand with his finger, and now the solution was lost. He must have fallen asleep for just two hours, judging by the time he’d spent flying last night, and the time now. But he felt soreeyed, dizzy, OK. Just a bit flushed out and trying to ignore whatever it was he’d done. Nothing. Really. The house was littered with more corpses, some of them starting to get up and go. He bade them farewell like a good host and found Sarah alone in the bedroom. Her eyes were open but she didn’t move around much initially. “Good morning, babe,’ she said huskily. Her eyes fluttered a few times in a wake-up call. He tossed himself on to the bed and crawled up next to her. “Hey, how are you?” His own voice wasn’t such hot shit either. “Good. I didn’t see you for the rest of last night.” She made a little pouty expression. “How was it?” “Oh, yeah, I was somewhere else alright.” He didn’t think about 209

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it. He didn’t think about it. “It was pretty weird.” “Oh, wild, wasn’t it!” She sat up and pulled a pillow behind her back. “I don’t want to look at the house. I think I’m gonna stay in here all day. Want to spend it with me?” He took off his sand covered clothes and let them fall to the floor, then kicked them aside with some other dirty laundry. “Sure. Sounds nice.” He went over to one of the dressers and bent over, hunting for underwear. Sarah tickled his naked butt and he gave a wheezy laugh. “Well, what are you getting dressed for? Is it because you’re going to make me breakfast?” He pulled on some black trousers while Sarah ruffled her dark short mop into life, hopeful of food’s imminent arrival. “Ah, I don’t think there’s much in the way of food left. I’ll go to the store and pick some stuff up. Hopefully all the people will leave soon.” He was dressed and applying some hair care products to his battle damaged locks. “What? There are still people here?” She was amused rather than mad. “Tell them to get lost. I’m taking back this land!” “I’ll be back soon.” He left the bedroom without kissing her goodbye and strolled anxiously down the hall. Someone said goodbye to him, it might have been Chug. He went through the rubbish scattered about until he found the key ring with the little black horse. Stuffing the keys in his pocket, he then walked back through the living room, out on the deck where two people he did not know were putting out the burning barbecue with beer dregs. Following his tracks back over the beach to the pretend drop off, he noticed quite obviously that the sand was deserted. The medevac choppers must have come in, marines shouting and door gunners firing and swept them all away, but now it was cold, and slightly windy. Philippa was where he had left her, now curled up on her side with a hand trying to clutch the back of her leg. He knelt down and gently shook her shoulder. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. “Hi,” said her smile. “Hi,” said she. 210

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“Hi.” He brushed her cheek and she held his hand, her own fingers freezing. “How are you?” he asked. “Cold. And sore.” He helped her up, her dress hopelessly wrinkled, sand on her legs, and she jiggled on the spot to try and get the blood flowing. “Come on, I’ll take you home.” He led her by the hand over the beach. “Only if I go to the bathroom first.” Bathroom bathroom. What the hell was the problem with America? Peter would tell you – it’s this constant referral to the bathroom. It’s a fuckin’ toilet for Christ’s sake. A bathroom is where you put the bath. A toilet is where you take a shit. He shook his head and they went to find one of the cleaner en suites. The open road melted behind them as Peter followed Philippa’s complicated directions, and tried to cope with the traffic nightmare. He felt he’d adjusted well to the fact that the Yanks drove on the wrong side of the road, but it was hard to adjust to the fact that they drove wrong. “You fuck!” Honk! “Jesus, look at that guy.” “OK, where to now? Watch where you’re going, you–!” Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep .... And so on. Philippa lived in a place called Inglewood, a sprawling suburb south of Hollywood and not far from the airport. She lived with her sister in an upstairs flat (or perhaps it should be called an apartment) but her sister wasn’t home. It was dark and gloomy because the windows were at either end of the place, glaring light, the rest left to dwell in shadow. It was about a billion and a half times tidier than anywhere Sarah had passed through. “So, where’s your crystal ball?” He stood around until she directed him to seat himself upon the couch. “I’ll be right back.” He caught a glimpse of her naked back as she dropped the sandy dress to the floor and disappeared round a corner. Peter just sat lost in thought while the sounds of steam and 211

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shower hissed and pattered on an aluminium floor. Lost in thought, it’s a phrase that conjures up images of deep and meaningful thinking, a fist to the forehead, if you’re a white male aged between eighteen and forty-nine, then it’s portrayed as a fist to the forehead while sitting on the toilet having a bowel movement. Not necessarily the sort of movement associated with a symphony, one might add. Peter was not on a toilet and, being a white male, could thusly not be thinking great and worthy thoughts. This is the sort of philosophical argument he would have created after his miserable attendance at Modern Thought 101, having missed the big picture on how to think like a great white male. Instead he was lost in thought like an average white male, wondering why, why he’d slept with (er, excuse me, but let’s call a spade a portable earth moving implement) why he had fucked Philippa when he ... but he’d wanted to, and it wasn’t like ... he’d turned her down once ... the drug ... Sarah. About this time the white male who has entered similar situations previously will come to the conclusion that such argument and self-flagellation is pointless and circular in its very nature, and that resolution comes only after intense self-examination, and external conflict with involved parties. But Peter was not experienced in such matters. Not love. Not sex. Not drugs. Although he believed he was probably halfway around the block. Philippa emerged with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her middle – pink with butterflies stitched into it – not a white robe. “Sorry I took so long.” Her skin was pink and clean and rubbery after the cleansing of the ordeal that is sleeping outside. She smelt of soap and warmth. “Are you OK?” Peter shrugged at her question, unsure how much to say, not wanting to maybe hurt her feelings, and not well versed in external conflict with involved parties. “Yeah, I’m just down – you know, coming off whatever it was ... Sarah gave me.” Breakfast. “Yeah, well ... maybe you shouldn’t take everything she gives you.” Maybe a bakery. “It’s not like that ... she, I guess she’s just 212

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showing me stuff.” American bakeries. What would that be like? “Geez, you’re ... I guess you love her a lot, don’t you?” Americans have some sort of fascination – or bad habit – with donuts and stuff for breakfast. “Yeah. She could be with any guy, and she travelled round the world and picked someone like me.” No wonder so many American teenagers are fat and have braces. “You’re not just any guy, Peter ... no, don’t get like that. I mean, look at you. You’re beautiful ... I’ve never met a guy who looks the way you do, and yet acts so lovely all the time.” Fat Americans – watch a talk show, it’s incredible. “Oh yeah, I’m real beautiful, that’s why I ... no offence, but ...” They probably drop dead from heart attacks off camera. “Was it that bad? I didn’t want to–” And those same obese “it’s just a hormonal thing” yeah, sure, they get all excited about low cholesterol fake butter, as if that’ll make a life of physical self-abuse better. “No no, God no. Being with you is – incredible. Really, it was beautiful. I’m not very good at this sort of thing sorry, um ...” Not that drunken nightlife and week long runs on speed is exactly taking care of the body. “It’s OK. Just ... some other time. You know ... how much I like you. I could get to like you a hell ... well.” But then whose idea was it anyway? “Yeah. Um, well Sarah’s expecting me to get some breakfast so I better ...” Yeah, but laying it all on one person’s doorstep, it’s not like they have total control over every thought, hmmm? There was a pause as intuition sparked alarm on Philippa’s face. “I’m not going to see you again, am I.” There’s control, and then there’s control. It doesn’t have to be total. “No. I don’t think so.” Trust is control. “Well ... take this ... hang on a sec ... you can reach me through this number anytime. It’s my mother, and she’ll never move. No matter where in the world you might end up ... or who with ... call me if you feel like it.” Trust is a gift not to be taken lightly. “OK, well thanks, I ... I better get going.” Peter turned to leave, then turned back and met her 213

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lips. They kissed one last time, like that saying, because, who knows, maybe they’d never see each other again. It was warm and tender and soft and beautiful and they both wished it could have gone on forever. He wished he could pick her up and take her inside and make love to her and lose himself inside her. And make her smile. “Goodbye, Peter.” “Goodbye.” “I ... love you.” “Maybe.” Better get breakfast.

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Chapter Nineteen (not much more than eighteen). Peter drove back to Malibu, passing a bakery, getting a box of donuts. Sarah was in the bedroom, like she’d promised. She had a can of something pine-smelling in one hand, while the covers safely tucked her feet in bed. “Hey, babe. Have you ever wondered why air freshener has a label that sez ‘harmful or fatal if misused’? I mean, we spray this shit around, and it can kill us?” “Here’s a box of donuts.” He put the box on the bed and went over to her, but paused when he saw the pills on her bedside table. “Are you on something? You are, aren’t you.” She made a face. “I just find it a little hard to get up on days like this.” “Yeah, well look what happened to Elvis.” He paced back to the front of the bed. “What’s your problem? You’ve done it, too, you know there’s no big deal. Why the sudden Snow White thing?” She plucked a donut from the box. “I don’t want to do that shit anymore. And I don’t want you to keep doing it.” “Fuck you! Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” “I love you. That used to mean something.” She bit into her donut and ignored him, then with her mouth full, pointed the finger 215

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at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. Trying to make something out of this. You had enough of me and you’re trying to make it my fault?” He slapped his sides in frustration, and crawled up on the bed. Reason and intimacy where passion fails his only hope. “I care about you so much. I love you, more than I can say. But what about all the things you said the other day? What happened to a future? What happened to making something of your life?” “That was yesterday, not the other day.” “Yeah, and thank God I threw the gun away, God knows what you’d do, shoot me while you eat your breakfast. That’d be great.” She stood up on the bed, and dropped the box all over the floor. He left the room before she got in some indignant spiel but she followed, ranting. “Well, maybe I like living the way I do! I can do anything I want. I can be anyone I choose. When I found you, what were you doing? Going out into the world. And now where are you? The world on a platter. I gave you everything, and you want to tell me what to do. I can’t believe it. I love you Peter, but I will not have my life criticized.” He stopped in the doorway of a spare room where he kept some of his things. “Yeah, well, I’m going to pass on the green fence and the cat. Babe.” The door slammed in her face. Thirty-three minutes passed. He knew, because he’d watched the second hand tick in wobbly fits around the clock thirty-three times. Green. Green that’s just grown, not planted as part of a beautification scheme. And the green in Montana? That’s got guys with guns running around in it, and secrets that come out and shock you, but then you just try and bury them and forget them. Like it doesn’t matter. Like love will conquer all. And the clock ticks around and around and it’s not a particularly fascinating clock face. Green grass and blue sky and the clouds so fast and low over your head you can almost touch them. “Going somewhere?” “I think you could say that.” He clutched a bag that contained 216

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a bare minimum of clothes and everything he’d entered the country with. Sarah was clutching a long glass and resting her head on her hand. She looked at him for a long time before speaking again. “You’re leaving.” “Yes.” She sipped from the glass and squeezed her eyes tight like it hurt, and looked out to sea. “I see. And you’re going where? On a trip to New York?” “I’m going home, Sarah.” He felt awkward, saying that. Standing there clad in his Sarah-bought clothes, and fighting down the knot in his chest. “Home. Yeah.” She turned away from him, until all he could see was the back of her head. The black hair. So many changes. He’d never found out what colour her hair really was. Except that it had been blond when she was eleven. “I love you,” she said to the window. “It’s not enough. Not now. I can’t do this ... thing that you want me to do. I can’t be whoever it is you want me to be.” His hand tightened on the brown leather handle. “I can change.” “No, you can’t. You said you wanted to, but we both know you’ll always be the way you are now. And I don’t want a part of that. I don’t want that, and I don’t want the fence.” He walked up the steps that led out of the sunken area. “I’m going to find something for myself and make it my life.” He breathed in deeply to stop the shakes rattling through his bones. “Peter ...” she breathed, she began, but he had followed through with his thoughts and would only get ... worked up and ... “Please. A long time ago ... at least it feels like a long time, but it wasn’t, was it? A long time ago ... you granted me an unconditional favour. I’m calling it now. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” There. The favour. Not that he believed what had been put in motion could be stopped. This at least, though, he might have expected her to turn her head, but no, she kept on looking at the sea. Well. 217

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He opened his mouth, not sure what word to say. He said all three. “I’m sorry.” He turned, “Goodbye, Sarah. I’ll never stop loving you.” It would be nice to say that his departing image of Sarah was of her smiling face, the way he’d first met her, or a kiss so warm, like the first time. Unfortunately, the best that can be said is that he left her how he found her – looking at the back of her head and wondering. Wondering many things. He walked down the white hallway to the garage. She hardly heard him leave. Tears, clear and pure, spilt over her black lashes and onto her lap and into her glass. “Please ...” she sobbed, a choking great swell in her throat. “I can’t do it ... alone.” But the car purred to life somewhere far away from her and it was too late for “please”. The drive out to the airport was sunny, a golden light on his face made him feel like a Hollywood star of the forties, if only the Ferrari had been some sort of antique roadster. He left it parked in the no parking zone, for a giant forklift to whisk away and bury in its nest. He cast many last looks about him as walked with a ticket in one hand to his gate of departure. Golden, golden light everywhere. It kept him warm as he crossed a glass covered bridge. It obscured his sight as he settled back into his seat, while the flight attendant asked his deaf ears if he wanted a drink. He eventually said, “A Coke.” In a trash can in the departure lounge, an assortment of credit cards lay scattered on top of the paper rubbish. They were made out in either one of two names – some said Sarah Howe, the others said Peter Peterson. One was gold. Later on a custodian emptied it into a larger sack without noticing, his ears listening to music from somewhere else, with palm trees. The plane taxied along its concrete road and then flew up like a startled seagull, rising swiftly and surely into the open arms of the sun.

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End of Part Two

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Part Three •

Chapter Twenty Peter hated to be late. But that didn’t mean he was on time. The small, soft bag that had accompanied him from Wellington to Auckland to Los Angeles to Missoula, and back again, trailed from his shoulder – it wasn’t the big suitcase that was the problem this time. Yet he was still late, running all over the city in a frantic search for something since yesterday. He hadn’t slept since the plane, which had carried him over the Pacific in a gentle cradle. He still felt tired – his eyes burned and his knees ached – and the time between his surreal arrival in Auckland had been filled with desperate phone calls and grasping conversations. He’d decided that getting back to Wellington was his first priority. Everything would be alright if he could just get back to the room he’d spent so little time in, if he could just wipe the slate clean and start again. He’d called Auburn and told her he was coming back, but hadn’t allowed her to ask questions. She would meet him when he got in, she said. Not bad for someone I hate, thought Peter. He’d booked his train and then rung his mother, but changed his mind when someone picked up the phone. He’d spent a day wandering central Auckland, up and down Queen Street, going along the waterfront, and he’d even stood in front of his – of his mother’s – home, but hadn’t gone in. 223

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A loud honk came from behind as he dashed across the road leading out of the station, towards a short guy. There was no queue – no nuns, no kids. No gorgeous woman with short blond hair. He went on board, ticket safely handed over, bag still attached to his shoulder. He headed zombie-like towards a seat at the back, checking the number above it three times. Sleep overtook him before he’d even settled down. He didn’t recall dreaming. Peter woke several times, but not all that often considering the length of the trip and the lack of smooth riding afforded by trains in general. When his eyes were open all he could see out the window was his own reflection, his face looked old and dark under the cheap strip lighting. When the lights had been turned off his eyes could see nothing at all, and Peter wouldn’t have known whether he was awake or asleep. There was no one next to him, and Peter was alone all night. Auburn had dyed her hair auburn. About time, thought Peter. Riding into Wellington at dawn hadn’t been that different to riding in at night. Obviously, yeah, the sun is up, aren’t you a clever little person, you should write comedy. But it felt the same, like the city was placidly waiting for him, not yelling at him, or shunning him. The train had paused for five minutes just a few hundred metres away from the station, for some inexplicable reason, and perhaps it was this wait that made Peter’s anticipation grow to butterfly levels. He couldn’t wait to get off the damn tin can and get back to reality. No more ghosts. Auburn greeted him with a smile, and he was quietly taken aback, as if the girl he’d known had been replaced by a pod person. But he didn’t react like he usually would – fearfully looking over his shoulder for someone with a large butterfly net. They exchanged pleasantries but Peter didn’t talk about anything real, and she didn’t ask. She shouted him a taxi ride home. The room was exactly as he’d left it, with a fine layer of dust sealing everything in place. The hostel had been paid for the full year’s board, by Sarah, because he couldn’t be bothered moving all the stuff into storage. 224

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“I half expected you to have turned this place into some sort of den of vice,” he said to Auburn. She laughed and handed over the key, after taking it off a key ring decorated with two ballet shoes. “I considered selling everything when money got tight, but I guess I’m too nice for that. I guess you don’t have to worry about that sort of thing.” He didn’t respond to her. “Money, that is.” He threw the small bag onto the bed and followed it with a half-hearted dive. Auburn came in, too, and closed the door behind her. Peter raised an eyebrow at her. “So,” she said, leaving the word hanging in the air for a second, using none of her previously exhibited malicious abilities. “You don’t seem to want to talk about anything.” He looked out the window, remembering the last few times he’d stared out, full of anxious contemplation, and the last vestiges of angst he remembered feeling. ”And I guess, since you’re here, and you haven’t mentioned Sarah yet …” – he turned to her at the mention of the name, mentally kicking himself for doing so; no matter how much they hadn’t gotten on he had to remember that in actuality Auburn was sharp – “ ... well ...” He wrinkled his mouth, knowing that speech didn’t come so good anymore. “It didn’t work out.” She looked like she was going to say something else, but she didn’t, not about … anything … and they just partook of a thoughtful and heavy silence. “Well, I better go ... you can …” she stood up and walked over by the door, “... if you need anyone to talk to ... I’ll listen to you, Peter ... I know it’s not always easy ... around here.” Peter stared at her, feeling too many different things to manage more than a blank look. She opened the door. “I’ll see you later.” Her auburn hair flicked around and disappeared. Peter’s eyelids sank until he could hardly see anything. The door closed. He locked the door and sat inside, heedless of who knocked or asked if Peter was there, it’s us, buddy, and they never stayed for long, because he must have gone out or something, you know? He felt like wearing the robe of a monk, and sitting in a dark room at the top of a castle with sunlight glaring through one narrow slit. Perhaps people 225

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would come to him and ask questions, and he would slowly turn and give them the best answers he could. And then they would leave and he could sit and contemplate some more, until the next person. He knew what those wise men thought about now, in their castles or flax huts, dwelling in swamps or inaccessible snowy caves. They didn’t think about the universe and try to join with the cosmos through careful thought and prayer. They didn’t spend their time growing their hair long to impart their unearthly wisdom to mere mortals, or try and unlock secrets and magicks. No. Peter knew that these men travelled far from the wandering, roving eye of the fickle gods that laughed over humanity. They hid themselves from people and reflected on their own lives, their own misfortunes, their own triumphs, and their own regrettable mistakes, and cursed themselves every single moment left to them for what they had done in the past, wrongs and ills done long ago and veiled by the years to be remembered by these keepers of some very personal and very sacred flames. And when some wanderer sought them out the knowledge imparted was an attempt at ending misery for anyone else, like some final penance. But of course, the poor errant knights never learn from the mistakes of others. And so it goes. While forever there shall exist those who hide inside because of one bad choice, where life was forever altered, shunted down an unbeaten path, and the only secret of the cosmos revealed to these alchemists – As Above, So Below. Peter wanted to join this noble, sad fraternity at that moment, to give his life away for regret. But he just cried. No way in hell could he face the prospect of a hostel meal, not after so many nights in sunny L.A. (not that Peter could recall that many meals, but still ...). He sallied forth to see who would be present in the dining hall and came upon a table of Bill, Maximillian, Auburn, Faith and a couple of guys he didn’t know, although he thought one of them was called David. They greeted him with an incredibly loud “How the fuck are ya!” jumbo assortment of hellos, none of which seemed forced or designed to promote happiness in the morose Peter, with Auburn giving him 226

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a little wink, perhaps saying “I won’t tell”, or maybe she just had something in her eye. They all questioned him on America, and all the little bits and pieces that make one envious when a friend comes back from somewhere exotic (well, more exotic than home). They wondered whether he was going back to university, or whether he was going to get a job or something similarly tedious, and he replied in the unsure/negative. They asked him how Sarah was. He said she was good. They didn’t ask why he was back. Not wanting to let the God of Lies claim yet another victory, the God of Luck clouded the memories and thoughts of those present, for the time being. Bill sat with Peter in Peter’s room, watching his newly returned friend go through his drawers exclaiming over items like he’d been away for years. “So, do you have any idea what you’re going to do? I mean, are you staying here, are you moving, are you going back to the States to cultivate an awful accent?” “I don’t know.” Peter held up a pair of socks with Santa Claus on them, he squeezed one heel and it sang Rudolph the red nosed reindeer. “Wow.” he said. Not even a real Christmas carol. What an amazing world. “Hey, I had this camera ...” “Sorry?” Bill was lost, but it wouldn’t have been the first time. “Oh, nothing. Yeah, I’m going to stick around for a while until I think of a better idea.” He threw the socks back in the drawer. “What about Sarah?” “Oh ... we don’t really talk that much anymore.” The God of Lies pushed the God of Benevolent Luck into a cupboard. “How come?” “That’s none of your business.” The Goddess of Righteousness elbowed the God of Lies in the stomach. “Oh. Sorry.” Peter immediately felt bad. “I’m sorry, too.” The Gods held their breath. “Look, I just don’t want to talk about it.” The Gods sighed, and turned their attentions elsewhere. 227

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Around eleven o’clock sleep came calling. Peter sat against a large pillow reading – for the first time in a very long time, it felt like, in a very long time – a book, a copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. He’d tried to read about how the Templars may have founded America, but the conspiracies always led his thoughts back to Sarah. “Despair is in my heart and my face is the face of one who has made a long journey, it was burned with heat and with cold. Why should I not wander over the pastures in search of the wind?” His neck sank into the pillow, dragging his eyelids down, too, and he felt his body drift away, the golden light of the reading lamp fading into darkness. He sank and sank, listening to some private music until the darkness was shattered with loud explosions. He fought his way to the surface in anger, looking to find the source of the banging and wring its hateful neck. As the light returned he came to understand that it was a knock at the door that had roused him. “Fuck,” he uttered eloquently. It was Auburn, obviously she must be trying to once again become the bane of his hostel existence. She took one look at him and gushed, “Gosh, were you asleep?” “Getting there.” “I’m sorry.” “No, no,” he said, clinging to the door for dear life. “Can I do something for you?” She looked at him through her eyelashes. “Maybe it’s something I can do for you,” she said. She pushed past him, brushing his shoulder back. “Is it OK if I come in?” He raised his eyebrows as far as they could go. Eighteen years of being a lonely male surrounded by other lonely males and ... a home life ... and now females bothering him every second of the day. I travelled how many thousands of miles and this is what I get? He shut the door. “Look,” he said, legs apart, like a superhero, ready to ward off evil with dyed hair. “Whatever it is you’re selling ... I don’t need it!” She smiled at him and said “I think you do. I know it might seem a bit unlikely, being me and all, but I thought ...” 228

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“If there’s one thing I don’t need,” he said, “it’s another girl telling me she’s the best thing for me. Please, no offence, but I don’t think I want you here.” She opened her mouth and then got a surprised grin. “Oh, you shit. You think I’m here to get into bed with you or something, is that it? Fuck, do you like to flatter yourself or what.” Peter winced, like someone had grabbed his balls and twisted. Don’t you just hate it when you say something you’d never normally say and it’s a real fuck up? “I-” “What I meant is, you stupid little boy, is that it’s my belief you need to talk to someone real bad about whatever it is that happened to you. Really. You’ve changed, I mean you’ve only been gone a few weeks, and it’s not just because you’ve dyed your hair blacker than it already was. You look like someone who ... who really needs someone to talk to. Please, just think about it. I’m not trying to bully you.” She smiled. “I guess I can come on a little strong, and it’s only fair you got the wrong idea, me being so incredibly good-looking.” She laughed, a completely different laugh to Sarah, high and long and crazy. He laughed too, albeit a tad awkwardly. “I, uh, sorry, but you have no idea how ...” She looked at him expectantly. “What the hell, I guess you’ll be as good to talk to as the guys.” “I’ll be better, dickhead,” she said, “I’m a woman.” They sat down, he curling back up in his bed as best as was possible, trying to pull the covers over his legs, but Auburn was sitting on them, making it difficult. Lit by the yellow glow of the reading light, Peter began. He meandered, not knowing where to start, and became a little stuttery and then stopped and felt almost overwhelmed with grief, as if someone had died, but Auburn took his hand and shushed him, telling him that it was OK, and that there was no rush. When she’d dyed her hair, had her mind been somehow affected by the chemicals? He’d thought Auburn was a bitch. What happened? 229

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But then again, he did leave his keys with her, so she must have been getting alright before. The lump in his throat subsided. He breathed calmly for a bit and started at the beginning as best he could, telling it to her smiling, listening face. He sketched out how he’d met Sarah, and nutshelled that first day and night, and then embellished it with a few more details and feelings so she would understand. He so desperately wanted her to understand. An inner panic at the thought that maybe she was just being nice to get the hot goss on why TEEN STUD Peter had FLED from the arms of his ICE QUEEN LECTURER lover from a SEEDY and SINFUL life in LOS ANGELES. But he didn’t believe that. God knows why, but he didn’t. He began to tell the story more fully and more honestly. He told her about discovering Sarah was his tutor, and the recklessness that had followed. He left out the lighthouse and then digressed about Mandy. Auburn laughed and everything was OK with the world, with owls and dormice and little furry rodents outside of Peter’s barn as he spun his tale to the world. The heater didn’t work for some reason – and here it was, finally getting on winter, while Peter had been hiding in the Northern hemisphere, just catching the approaching warmth of a Californian June, the lucky bastard. So, with the chill curling their toes, Peter let Auburn hop off the bed and under the covers with him, while at the same time completely bewildered as to why. But this wasn’t like, say, a Sarah or Philippa sort of closeness. It felt good to be near a warm body again, but he didn’t push close. And he was glad there were no chemical urges in the air that would force his greedy lips into a kiss with Auburn. At least, not yet. And if there were, goddamnit, he would kick her out – or leave himself – and that would be that. He filled in the details (to a point) of the lighthouse, and she made a shocked expression, calling him a “brazen hussy”. He told her the missing bits she didn’t know about the Mercedes, like that he owned it, for instance, and she clung to his arm. “Darling, if I’d known you owned that car, I would’ve thrown myself at you a long time ago!” His heart stopped and he looked at her, 230

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but she was just joking. He smiled again. He had another digression about Sarah’s classes and then even further, starting on some great and cool conspiracies, and she listened with interest, but he soon arrested himself and continued with the story to hand. The sudden journey to Los Angeles, a big place in America in general, and all the different stuff they had. The lifestyle, all the rich things he got to experience, like it was his money. The Regent Beverly Wilshire, the people – Harvey, Michael, Chug. The trip to Montana. The militia. How scared he was. Auburn almost couldn’t believe her ears, but he swore its truthfulness. The guns. The darkness. He went on in great detail about it and it was a long time before he could keep going and talk about the farm and Christopher and Jennifer. Meanwhile, Auburn was still on that country road with the masked men and their guns. She stopped him as he was describing Christopher. “Oh, God, Peter – I had no idea. I would’ve thought something like that would have made it to the news here, I mean, being a New Zealander involved in–” He looked at her with shadowed eyes. “You did go to the police, didn’t you?” Peter told her how Sarah treated police. After much hand squeezing on Auburn’s part, and Peter insisting he was OK, he was allowed to continue. As he told of the drunkenness and the drugs that characterised their nights, of the séance with its odd cast of attendees (and with no mention of the vampire, her state of mind and credulity seemingly stretched to quite a limit with the militia, why start to sound like a boy crying wolf ?) and with the effect Philippa had had on him. (At which Auburn grabbed his arm and grinned: “No wonder you think you’re such a heartbreaker.” He nearly said he was.) Continuing his tale had nothing but a sort of dawning horror on Auburn. The run they’d had on speed, and what it was like to crash. The LSD, or whatever it was Sarah had given him, and the gun firing all over the room. He told the end, of the sad look in Philippa’s eyes as he left, but a tiny spark of hope when she’d given him a phone number. And of 231

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Sarah, sitting apathetically away from him. She didn’t say anything at once, and then tried a joke – “And you even threw away the credit cards – fool.” – but it fell kind of flat. Peter, storytelling done, just stared at a point on the ceiling, where he’d tried to bore a hole with his vision often before .... Auburn pulled his head down to look at her, and her head shook as she tried to express something in words. On the verge of speech, she was cut off as the glow from the wall light just switched off. Lit by the glow of the street, and the Wellington skyline reflected on the clouds, orange and creepy, Peter tried the light switch, and looked at the dead clock on the desk. “Bulb must have gone. I’ll–” he made to get out of bed, but Auburn pressed him back. “Don’t go,” she said simply. He lay back. “I’m sorry. I had no idea ... it got so bad. It doesn’t sound real.” And then some, he thought. “I’m sorry.” She put her arms around him and placed her head upon his shoulder. “Hey, don’t be sorry,” he started, but she silenced him with a finger to the lips. It was cold, like the night outside. She breathed something he didn’t hear, and he hugged her back, relaxing his muscles and letting the blankets – and Auburn’s body, let’s not deny it – warm him, making him feel secure and safe. His head sank back and the glow of the city faded and he held her tighter, so happy to be next to warmth, to someone alive. How many nights? One? Two? And already he’d been missing it, so hard when taken away, so lonely. He sank down and their faces touched, her cheek was soft, her lips brushed his, and she settled down by his neck. His eyes closed inside, as well as out, he fell back into the warm and dark place that rose to claim him, eagerly floating away to whatever lay in store for him away from light. As grey thought slithered around in his head, dawning upon him that the pain in his neck and leg was not a dream, he had that fond feeling of remembering that someone was in his arms, next to him. But sluggish as he was, he didn’t remember who, and he knew he wasn’t in Malibu. 232

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He looked down at Auburn through thin slits for eyes, and it pretty much came back to him. She woke up, perhaps feeling his gaze, and he smiled, cursing the twangy feeling in his shoulder. Well, it’s all very nice to have someone asleep on you, he thought muddily, but it hurts like blazes the next day. “Hello,” she said cutely. “Good morning.” His voice was about an octave deeper than normal, but a toothbrush would get him going at speed, alright. He didn’t really know what to say to Auburn – maybe it wasn’t a position to feel awkward in? But in his previous wake up experiences, he’d been served breakfast, thrown up, left the babe on the beach, etcetera etcetera. And he hadn’t had sex with this one. If he hadn’t, was he still allowed to refer to her as a babe? If there was one thing Peter found confusing, it was the Great and Secret Rules of Masculinity, and if his father – sorry, that man who had impregnated what passed for his mother, resulting in Peter –perhaps if that guy had done his fuckin’ job he might a) have some flippant ready piece of dialogue to throw Auburn’s way, or b) the guts to not care. “How are ya?” she asked, stretching back. She looked good in the morning, like every single woman he’d ever seen – at the time they seem to loathe their looks the most, they look the most alive, and incredibly cute. “I’m sore, how are you?” And he slapped his head because it didn’t seem to be working properly. “Hungry.” “Let’s get some breakfast.” “It’s one o’clock.” He looked at the alarm clock to check her statement, but it was blinking 5 a.m. Not helpful. “When did we go to sleep?” “I don’t know, but you talked my ear off until way after my bedtime.” She sat up and twisted, something in her back making several popping sounds. He winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you.” He had no idea how he could have slept so long in such an uncomfortable position, but as he sat up, he knew that the toilet was a very important first stop. 233

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“No, you didn’t bore me, silly billy. I wanted to hear, I just had no idea it was so ... much. And I’m glad you let me stay.” He moved his mouth into something approximating a wry smile. “This doesn’t mean I think you’re sexy though. You obviously bring out the extreme in women.” “If you pull a gun, I’m out of here.” She laughed, and he felt so good to laugh with her, about all this – crap. It felt really, really good. “Would you like to have breakfast with me?” he asked, preparing to rush out to the toilet down the hall. “What? Not McDonald’s, I hope.” “No. I think I’ve had my fill of heinous lifestyle. I could really go for some bacon. And eggs. Oh, I remember eggs.” Meanwhile, he dashed out the door to experience the overwhelming relief of the first of the day’s urination. The last time Peter drove the Mercedes he got to see more of Wellington than in the whole couple of months before the trip. Desperately missing the convertible (“Oh, if only it had fitted in my luggage”), now probably long towed away, he and Auburn drove endlessly around the coastal bays, and the hills, and the motorway out to the Hutt valley, playing with the stereo, and generally just having a joyride. “Ha ha!” was all she was managing, obviously in love with the car, and the interior designer’s contributions. Her seat went back, and then she brought it up again. Her face masked by dark sunglasses, and wearing a summery flower-covered dress, for this most summery of days, belying winter’s approaching presence, she was the epitome of youthful self-indulgence, or some such. It was a look he’d seen many times on Sarah, who was perhaps not quite so young, and a look he truly missed. Auburn and Peter had gone to breakfast at one of the many cafes down one of the many streets, but, unlike most of its competitors, it wisely served bacon and eggs and other similar breakfast-esque material well into the afternoon. The bacon had been beautiful, it was the first real food he remembered in a long time, perhaps for the first time in his entire life. 234

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They’d gone and retrieved Peter Peterson’s black Mercedes from storage, and then proceeded to drive its expensive self all over the place. The light was falling by the time they decided to keep Peter’s appointment at the car dealership. It didn’t take long; the man who signed some papers with Peter didn’t look quite like a car salesman should – he was well dressed, respectful of people’s personal space, and had a pleasant voice. But the suit was navy, so he didn’t have much imagination either. So easy, and the man in the navy suit was very keen to have such a beautiful car back in his stable – why, Peter had no idea. Being saddled with such an expensive vehicle didn’t sound like fun – surely people weren’t climbing over the walls to spend that much these days. Oh, well, it didn’t matter, Peter took the personal cheque to the bank – his bank, not one of Sarah’s – and made the cashier look at his badly dressed self in surprise. Oh the joy of looking so messy and being worth so much! They walked out of the bank, double glass doors sliding away out of respect for his in-the-black person, rather than the slow and jerky way they treat you and everyone else. “Well, that takes care of money problems,” he said. Auburn’s hair was lit like fire as the sun fell, leaving a chill to numb their hands. “Do you mind, about, you know, selling it?” “Nah,” he said immediately, then thought about it some more. “Nah.” He took her cold fingers in his and they walked up the hill to home.

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Chapter Twenty One Getting the Ferrari out of automobile hell had cost almost as much as the end result of a forty hour week serving fries. But that was no reason to leave it there; after all, in Los Angeles especially, you are your car. And there is nothing wrong with being low and sleek, dark and quiet, sneaking up on someone with a low purr, and then leaping into the fast lane with a growl. Concrete streaming behind in a river, always riding the freeway, always. No matter where the destination, it always meant riding that omnipresent grey tangle of ribbons, so many people, so many places, all far apart. The sun a smudge, but a bright one, yellow hell, glasses to tint it satisfyingly, so you can almost pretend, almost, that you might be somewhere that air is invisible. Perhaps somewhere green, somewhere small and safe, where the clouds are so low, you can almost touch them. But there is something to be said for an open sky. For those not free, perhaps it is a last refuge, from service, from the God of Stress, in cahoots with all His partners – Death, Frustration, Insomnia, Money, perhaps it is the sky that keeps prisoners over the thin line, under an orange day, an invisible line which for some ceases to be, or is pushed across the board a mark too far. And perhaps a family in a restaurant, or a boss in an office, or the daughter of the one you still love, no matter what they’ve done to you, perhaps they will lose the sky to a finger constantly pulling a trigger, a convict freed, and he doesn’t even know why, and efficient death shall make way for more prisoners, and 237

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a news report, and a head that shakes in bewilderment at how bad everything is. And the death can turn on you by your own hand, taking the sky away forever, and dreams of a place far away, where the sky is low and fast and you can almost reach up and touch it, and the bowl of blue-yellow you knew is gone, it’s not above the clouds. There is no sky there, because perhaps in this place, perhaps everyone is free. Leave the freeway. Turn off and find the narrow street, any street, your destination with someone far away, in a place, far away. How far do you want to go? How far? The Ferrari pulled to the kerb, devoid of other cars, where the chairs and tables of a favourite cafe spilled out onto the dirty sidewalk, and a destination sat, reading a newspaper, such an anachronism now, surely. Bombers advertising to millions over phone lines, with a cute name and an invisible address, and still a dedicated team of overpushed workaholics prepare on a bed of reusable trees the news of every tribe in the universe, all their smoke signals, all their secrets. So much to know, for so few coins. Such an anachronism, such a blessing. She stepped out of the car, flat shoes – most days heels kill, and she wants to be free, to feel comfort, not dress up – crunching on the gravel in the gutter, and carried herself as she always did. With grace. With fluidity and eye-catching curves. With the knowledge that she could trip up if she wanted to, and not give a damn, and come off looking like Greta Garbo or, perhaps closer to the mark, Mae West. She slammed the door shut, it doesn’t matter if it costs as much as a house, why treat it like it’s gold? Gold cannot be enjoyed, except for the reflections it makes, unless it is put into its God-intended practice. The small black plastic square elicited the ridiculous beep. Her feet making a sound so soft only the most dedicated Foley artist would include it in a soundtrack, she walked, head high, to where Harvey sat reading his paper. He said hello without removing his sunglasses, and looked well for someone who was involved in a great deal more of Sarah’s messy financial affairs than was his expected norm. But Harvey always delivered, had delivered for the Howe family every single time like it was his God-given mission in life. He always 238

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talked about making a lot of money, like he’d take off some day, but he never did. She didn’t believe he ever would. The waiter appeared at her side immediately and she asked for something very black and very strong. The day was warm, warm enough that it could be an effort to push your head through the air, when getting up from the night previous had been torture. But morning pain was nothing new, and she’d done it so often she liked to think it would be tolerable. She liked to think so. “You look good.” “Of course I do.” She smiled at his compliment, he must be in a good mood. With all she’d asked of him in the last couple of days, this was a very good omen. She’d worn something with no sleeves, cotton beige, cool, and matching pants. Anything to make her black hair stand out a mile. It was that sort of day, she guessed. She stared down the street where she could see the spectre of entropy encroaching the block at the end, before a concrete off-ramp stopped everything. Pretty soon the run-down neighbourhood would have reached this cafe, a last stalwart around here, and the espresso and cappuccino set who were fiercely loyal to this place would grudgingly shift north, or even to another state, where the A-list had already fled. The coffee arrived. “So, what have you got for me?” she asked. “Well,” Harvey folded his paper neatly away; it made a crisp sound, like it had been starched, “that would depend on what you have for me. If you have any more ‘special’ little jobs, then I’m going to try and make you as unsatisfied as possible.” “Why, that’s very thoughtful of you, Harvey.” He smiled and licked his lips. “Yes, that’s what I thought.” “Is there a reason you’re so happy today?” “Perhaps.” He took a bite of a croissant that sat on his plate. She moved slightly in her seat, not feeling at ease with the concept of food. “Well, no. I don’t have anything for you. But if you want to take my headache, you’re welcome to it.” The sound of cars in the distance left the impression that a great wind was growing somewhere on the 239

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borders of the city. Perhaps the wind would cleanse everything away, the final sign from the heavens that this place in the desert was not meant to be. But you could never shift the people. It wasn’t Disneyland that had brought them here. It was something more, a dream they call it, but she didn’t think so. It was something more than a dream. But she didn’t think she was going to find it here. Not anymore. “Headache? You have another hard night?” “Yes.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, but the sunglasses hid her caution and Harvey continued. “This is getting to be like old times, isn’t it?” “Save it.” She finally sipped her wakeup caffeine, pills on the dresser at home, she needed to think straight, instead of riding a wave. Harvey spilled some cheese, but quickly retrieved it and popped it between his shiny white teeth. “You remember, don’t you? You disappear for an undetermined amount of time, doing something constructive I’m sure. You call me, I do something, you appear, looking like shit–” “I do not look like shit!” “Clothes and make-up only hide so much, I’ve known you too long for that. You turn up and sign some papers, maybe you might even be aware you’re holding a pen, on a good day. Pretty soon, you don’t turn up, and I ring every single jail and rehab and hospital I can think of until someone’s heard of you. How long’s it going to be this time? How long until you try and buy someone off who can’t be bought?” He never raises his voice, she thought. So much like her father. And it made it all the more humiliating. But she listened, like always. Rarely had she ever walked away from Harv. Mostly because she respected him, and he wouldn’t physically interfere in her life unless it was the most urgent situation, and partly because the chastisement would always come before the business that she needed to hear. It was from Harvey Hausemann that she had learned that nobody was ever what they looked like, and it was from him she had learned to appear how you wanted, no matter what you were inside. 240

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Perhaps she would look as young when she got to his age. “Hmm? How long until you end up frothing on someone’s car?” “Give it a rest, please. The sun’s bad enough, don’t hurt my ears as well.” She took more of the coffee. “Right.” He let out a sigh and finished chewing on his croissant. He might be wise and resourceful, but it didn’t make him a polite eater. But perhaps he was just rude in front of her. “Well, there are these, which need your countersignature.” Some nondescript papers with print far too painful to read. “There’s the new crap from the bank.” Two bulky envelopes. “What else, well,” he was smiling again, as usual, “the other stuff. He got into Wellington, and went back to living in the hostel. And the Mercedes has been taken from the storage house.” “Anything else?” She didn’t sound anxious, but she wouldn’t have cared if she did. “Look, he’s a lawyer, not a private investigator.” “He gets paid enough to take a bullet for me. He should reach above and beyond the call of duty or I’ll fire his ass.” Harvey took his sunglasses off and leaned forward. “I’ll tell him. Look, why are you doing this? He’s gone. What the hell do you want to know his every move for?” “That’s my business.” “No it’s ours, or see if you can find someone to do it yourself. On top of everything else you suddenly ask me to do, you want me to keep track of your ex-boyfriend?” She felt a flash of anger as Harvey touched a nerve that had been rubbed raw over the past seventy-two hours. “Don’t call him that. And he has a name.” Harvey leaned back, the chair legs scraped on the concrete. “Oh come on. If you want him so badly, why didn’t you do something about it before?” She wanted to say something indignant, but wouldn’t, because he knew her almost as well as she knew herself. He looked at her, perhaps he saw the look in her eyes, perhaps he knew she struggled to keep her chin from screwing up, and the tears from rolling down her cheekbones, behind her glasses, hidden from the sky. 241

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“You really do love this one, don’t you?” he said. She didn’t move immediately, wondering what she could say or do that would make Harvey talk about something else. But she wanted to talk about him. She wanted to talk about Peter and she didn’t have anyone else she could say it to but her lawyer. Her head nodded a few times. “Well, sooner or later you’re going to have to decide whether to just let it go, or whether you’re going to do something about it.” She looked directly at him. “And I know what you want to do. But you think your pride is this big deal.” “I don’t ... it’s all I can think about. That and ... me. I don’t know what to do with myself ... at all.” “Well,” he waved the waiter over, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” She laughed. He asked the waiter for a piece of the gateau. “Oh Harvey, I don’t know if I love him that much. I mean, I don’t know if you can love anybody that much. I mean, sometimes I wish I could just go and chase him around the world. But then, I think, was it just because I wasn’t so lonely when he was around? I know, that perhaps I tried to push him in the wrong direction–” “Any eighteen-year-old smitten with you who suddenly leaves would have to have been pushed pretty hard, and you know it. It took a lot of guts, what he did. You’re a hard one to leave.” The gateau arrived. It was big and dark and oozing chocolate that almost shone in the sunlight. “Speaking of which,” he said, “here’s someone who’s left us all in the best way.” He unfolded his newspaper, opened it up a few pages, rustled it as he folded it back smaller, so she could hold it with one hand, and he pointed with one brown finger to an article at the top with a large photo. She pulled her sunglasses down her nose slightly to get a clear look. 2 SLAIN IN CAR PARK KILLING read the headline. The first paragraph of the story read: Michael Giovanni, a former associate of the scandal-wrought Howe and Giovanni real estate firm in 242

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Manhattan, was found dead with an unnamed male after a short gun battle in a midtown car park today. Sources close to the Giovanni family refused to comment on the murder, or the bankrupt housing company with alleged links to organised crime. She put the paper back down on the table. “My,” she said warmly, pushing her sunglasses back, “how wonderful.” Harvey smiled at her. “Thought that might cheer you up.” “You going to eat all that cake yourself ?” They destroyed the chocolate masterpiece in no time, and quickly ordered another. It was, as always, de-vine, as in heavenly. Harvey wiped some chocolate of his moustache – he always knew when he’d made a mess, it was some sort of psychic gift – and said “now, there’s just the last thing, and then I’ll let you get on with whatever it is you do during the day – recover, shop, find new ways to make me earn my fee.” She paused and sat back, sneaking in one more forkful of cake. “I did it as quickly as I could. I had to sell it to an offshore enterprise – I won’t tell you where, in case you decide to get all patriotic–” “I don’t think there’s any danger of that.” “–but you got a good price, and a new bank manager who just about had a cardiac arrest when he saw the zeros.” He handed over one small piece of paper and she looked briefly, allowing a small smile to flick across her face. “Well, there you go. How’s that for fast? No more business, no more buildings, you’re a free spoiled brat.” “I’m thirty, asshole.” “Yeah, well you’re still a little girl compared to me. You wanted somewhere to start, there it is. Go out there and find out what it is you want to do. And don’t ever try and teach again – I don’t think schoolboy hearts are very resilient.” She stood up and made the car beep from the roadside. “You’re a marvel, Harv.” “Who loves you, baby.” “Oh, please,” she huffed, “what a terrible remark.” He cocked his head and made a dismissive look. She smiled. “I’ll let you know if I 243

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run for President.” Harvey threw his hands in the air and said a silent agonized prayer. “It would be wonderful.” She snorted as she walked towards the car. The Ferrari pulled away from the kerb with a roar, angry to have been stilled, and she flew through Los Angeles without getting stopped by a cop. The sky turned bluer.

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Chapter Twenty Two By the end of the first week an idea was starting to form in the back of Peter’s mind. It was still growing, changing, foetus-like, crawling, giving twinges to Peter, but no ... specifics, nothing tangible, just a nagging feeling that something must happen, something should happen, that he should run down the hall, the stairs, through the doorway ... but it wouldn’t tell him what came after that. And so Peter paced the hostel and the streets restlessly, an animal in a cage who for some reason can’t see the bars. Auburn came to see him often, which was nice. He watched her carefully, trying to work out what drove her. He saw the way she could still treat everyone around her like they were dirt and she was queen of the hill, but now with him she was really kind and sweet. Maybe the personality quirk would be a key that would explain all people to him. Maybe help him understand why one woman would ... do the things she ... Auburn liked to visit at night, they’d sit quietly in his room, ignoring the knockings of others, and talk about stuff. Casual stuff, and the other kind. Important stuff. One night he started to tell her about the ghost, and the séance, but stopped, and talked about Philippa instead, which was easier, and maybe more believable. Auburn didn’t judge, not with Peter, not any more. She didn’t suggest that perhaps he’d helped chase himself away, and that the drugs and the fast lane and Sarah might be equally matched by guilt. But she didn’t have to, Peter could tell himself often enough in private, and beat his fist 245

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against the wall, a foreign student next door never bothering to ask if he could shut the fuck up. How placid. He spent small amounts of the money that was legally his. Because he could. Bill and Maximillian (mysteriously minus Wade – “He’s an asshole,” – well, maybe not so mysterious, friendship is wasted on the young, but what can you do?) took merry part in the spending, not knowing how much Peter had, but knowing he didn’t care. And still the idea nagged and nagged and nagged, with not much in the way of clues yet. At the beginning of the second week back he ran into Mandy in a pub during the day. She was serious and sober, but it proved to be a passing phase. Much hello-ing and good-to-see-you-ing and she claimed to be still diligently pursuing her post-graduate stuff. Yes, she was still living at the house, she’d painted it a bit, though. I’ll bet, he thought, and he ordered another beer, and if it cost too much, it really didn’t matter, did it? “And so how’s Sarah?” Of course, the look on his face was transparent, but he didn’t mind because Mandy was cool with him, and she’d dyed what little black hair she had peroxide blond, which was unsettling with her dark features, but that was OK. She would always be cute. Peter was sure there were plain-looking people somewhere in the world; they must hide from him, beautiful people, ugly world, ugly heart. Order another drink. “Oh, like that is it? Want to talk about it?” Peter sat back and tried to act nonchalant, like Harrison Ford, or Jack Nicholson. “Already talked about it. What’s there to say? Went to America, hung out a bit. Didn’t work out. Came home.” “And Sarah?” “I don’t care.” “You’re a liar.” Well, true. His shoulders sagged. Fuck nonchalant, he was too tall for that anyway. “Yeah, I’m a liar. It’s really horrible, Mandy. It was so fuckin’ awful over there, I just can’t believe it happened.” 246

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Mandy led him over to a table by the window, and crossed her legs, like she was a psychologist or something. Oh, that’s right, she was. “Keep talking.” He looked at her, but trusted her enough not to analyse him, but to listen. Oh, yeah, yeah, we got all the trust in the world here, don’t we? “Well, what’s there to say? I won’t bore you with the details, but man, we did drugs, drove fast, drank a lot. I always thought decadence would be more fun, but I just didn’t ...” He sipped some beer, but it felt weak and watery and he wanted something that would burn his throat and tear it out. “Well, I didn’t like it much. I mean, I thought I did, but it just got too … I don’t know.” “Did Sarah take you through all this?” “Yeah, pretty much most of it,” he said after some thought, which was unnecessary because he’d thought about it so much anyway. “Like, uncomfortable positions and stuff ... but it wasn’t all her. No, it wasn’t. I thought I could make it go away by leaving.” He got up to go to the bar and get something harsh. “But it’s just as horrible here.” Mount Victoria. Mountain in name only, in reality just a great big hill covered in houses. From down in the city you could look up and watch the planes fly in to the scary looking airport over the other side. The aircraft would disappear behind the hill, but they flew so fast and straight that to Peter they would look exactly like a missile, and he would wait for a cloud of smoke to appear. It never did. “The last time we were here ...” “You were driving round and round in circles.” “Yes. Made me pretty yucky feeling, I can tell you!” Peter laughed. “You miss her all the time.” “Yeah.” “It’s hard to leave a companion. To be suddenly alone.” He looked at her, expecting to see some haunted look as if she was remembering someone else long ago, but she was looking at him with open eyes, and nothing but Mandy on her face. “Yeah. It could be worse though.” She smiled suddenly, it was gorgeous and wide. “Well, that 247

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sounds positive!” “Yeah. There’s this girl in the hostel ...” The disappointment on her face was immense, like he’d done the most terrible thing. “Oh, Peter,” she said, shaking her head slightly, but he hastened to reassure her. “No no no, it’s not like that. It’s not like that at all. She’s just this girl, who I didn’t used to get on with. But now, we’re like real good friends. It’s so weird.” He screwed up an eye to think. “She’s just a friend. And it’s really nice. She listened to me and made me feel better. I don’t think about her in that way at all.” “It’s not ‘just’ a friend, Peter. It’s a friend. There’s nothing trivial about friendship.” He unscrewed his eye, but cocked his head, still thinking, mostly about Sarah. Which was no surprise. He thought about her all day. Somewhere, in the back of his mind would be repeated “Sarah Sarah Sarah” even when he was occupied with something else, and when he grew idle, the thought would become a train, full of whys and hows and oh, God, it’s so terrible and other similar flagellations. Like: I still love you so much. I wish you were here, so much. Why aren’t you here? He thought about her every day. Every day, all the time, he dreamed about her, and he even started to talk about her, to more than Auburn and Mandy. About how great she could be. About cool stuff, like the hotels, and the Ferrari, and the farm in Montana. And still, an idea. Growing. It raised its head when he saw Mandy drive off that evening. She screamed round a corner and was gone. Heck on wheels, she should be racing cars, not putting people on paper. The next day he bought the car. It cost about an average year’s wage (nouveau riche standard) times two, was from Japan, was new, and had silly interior designing. But it got you from A to B and Peter didn’t care if it had been hand-crafted by artisans in Italy or not. 248

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Still the idea slithered around, and Peter wasn’t sure what it was trying to do, but he knew something must be just around the corner. And he waited, while the car sat on the road, for his mind to make up his mind. Eventually, Peter knew what he wanted to do. “A road trip? What do you mean, road trip?” Peter grabbed Bill’s shoulder excitedly, while Maximillian just scratched his head. “You know, a road trip. Like Thelma and Louise, just driving across the country.” “Yeah, but they were in Arizona or something. If we try and drive cross country here we’re going to hit water by the end of the day.” “Um, I believe Thelma and Louise drove off a cliff in the end,” added Maximillian, helpful as ever. “We can go real slow! Huh? C’mon, we just get in and go. What do you say.” He spread his hands, feeling like a salesman. “I don’t know, man, sounds pretty corny to me.” “Oh, fuck that shit.” Try and close, always try and close. “And what about university?” asked Maximillian. “Ah, c’mon, we’ll be back in no time. I’ll even leave you guys the car when we get there.” “Get where?” “I don’t know. Until we come to a stop.” “I’ll go.” Auburn’s voice, from behind them. “Auburn,” said Peter, more than a little unnecessarily. “And frankly, Peter,” she said, coming up to him and staring him right in the eyes, “I’m more than a little insulted that you’d ask these two wimps before me.” “Hey,” he put an arm around her, “I knew you’d be an easy sell.” “Hardly.” Bill looked at Maximillian and Maximillian looked at Bill. Upstaged by Auburn. How much face were they to lose in the space of two minutes? “I’ll go.” “Yeah, I’ll go.” 249

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They headed downtown to get deep fried food, Auburn complaining to Maximillian, “Thanks for the Thelma and Louise crack. I hadn’t seen it, arsehole, and now you’ve spoiled the ending.” He blew her a kiss and told her it would teach her a lesson, to go and see films when they first came out. Later, Auburn wreaked revenge by stuffing fries in his ear. Peter packed light, something he was good at now. Besides, with six zeroes and no responsibilities, who needs luggage when you have Visa? Auburn, on the other hand ... “Oh, and where am I supposed to sit?” “On the fuckin’ roof. Who cares?” “Peter, make her stop! Make her take some stuff back.” “Oh, you go cry to Peter, he can’t even hear you in there, poor Willy–” “Don’t call me–” “Do you expect me to wear nothing on this trip?” “I’d pay to see that.” “You stay out of this –- and don’t be so crude.” “I’m leaving this thing on the road.” “You put that suitcase back in there or I’m going to cut off your balls and send them to your grandmother. Assuming you have some. Balls, that is.” “I’ll just leave this suitcase right here – shut up, Max.” Peter came outside with his bag and they all stopped squabbling. ”Did someone call my name before?” “Oh, no.” “We were just–” empty hands motion. “Oh,” he said, and put his bag in the boot. He got in. “Well, let’s go.” “Alright.”

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Chapter Twenty Three The sun rises and sets, an immutable law, framed by an orange sky. Down by the beach the tide washes in and out, the waves crash into the sand and flatten out, then sink back into the depths. She has sat here and watched the unstoppable play go through its cycles many times. She has sat in the same chair. She has been sober for days, but she hasn’t been asleep. Sometimes she can’t, and sometimes she won’t. The chair makes no noise beneath her, save an occasional creak as her breathing shifts her weight. She makes no noise at all. The phone sits behind her, wanting to ring, waiting to shatter the stillness she has created around her. But the phone lies useless, its cord yanked out for some time now, and those who ring know better than to knock on the door. She will not answer anything but her own question, and when she has done that, then life can go on for her. But for now only the waves shall live, and the sky shall breathe. There was once a philosopher, presumably Greek, with a beard, who sat lost in thought for many days and nights in the same spot in a public square. Sarah didn’t fashion herself after him, or any other great thinker. The thoughts that wrapped her up were not great. They would not change the world. Millions of people would not flock to her words and alter their lives accordingly. They were not thoughts of triangles, or the nature of war, or belief in what is real, or truth. Well, perhaps truth. 251

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They were but exaggerated idle thoughts of simple common things that the small folk had made their own, for the great thinkers of each generation to presumably pass by as easily as anyone passes a man in the street who stands laughing at himself. Unimportant thoughts. Thoughts that don’t deserve a government department of their own, or even acknowledgement of their personal importance to obviously small and unimportant people. Thoughts of love. Thoughts of the future. Thoughts of being the best that you can be, any way you want. Of not being worn into a round peg to fit that round hole, when all you ever wanted was to be totally square. And thoughts of love. Stupid. Unimportant. Things. But she thought about them anyway. Across this ocean was Peter, and with him, her heart. She understood, at least, more than before, why he had left. But she couldn’t change who she was. Not just like that. Why hadn’t she told him how far she’d come, how far ... he had brought her? It was Peter, simple Peter, the reason she wanted to show him so much of life, so maybe he would understand her, understand what she had been through, and everywhere she’d been. But that had been unnecessary, hadn’t it? Peter had transcended that, Peter had been gorgeous and pure and she had dragged him through her muck without thinking. Without even asking herself once if he’d wanted it. But she had so wanted him to smile, so much, all the time. He’d made her so happy, how amazing, someone who’d been playing with his LEGO when she’d been getting married. To a man now dead. Everything was behind her. No company. No skeletons left alive in the cupboard. And Peter’s broken heart. But maybe she could change that. All she had to do was decide. And that was what several days and nights in this chair had brought her to. That she loved Peter more than anything she’d ever known. That she had made more than a few bad judgement calls. And that she had to decide whether she should chase after him, or maybe just send him a letter at Christmas, and spare him the villainy of Sarah 252

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Howe. “Harvey.” “Geez, where have you been?” “Doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going back to New Zealand.” “I always wanted to settle there.” “Yeah, yeah, sure. You been keeping tabs on my boy?” “What are you, his mother?” “Harvey!” “Well, you’re not going to like this ...” “What.” “He’s disappeared.”

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Chapter Twenty Four They drove in the most meandering, lackadaisical way, going on whim and Lady Luck. When no urgent choice was forthcoming, a fifty cent piece was tossed up in the air and then clapped on the hand. Left, right, straight ahead, a number of complicated combinations were catered for. This was why on the second day of full travelling they were only passing through Dannevirke. But they had seen a whole lot of trees and lookouts and hills and secondary roads and stayed in Masterton’s finest motel. Auburn was being allowed her turn at the wheel, but the other three did everything in their power to make her turn as short as possible. Peter was riding suicide while Maximillian played cards on his knees, cursing every time Auburn swerved idiotically around in time to The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, while Bill was staring like a zombie with his headphones on – he preferred Marvin Gaye to anything that Auburn would play. “Do you feel like a sort of fifties cliché, being a shocking female driver and all?” enquired Peter. Auburn threw him a filthy look, and then touched the brakes for an instant. Maximillian said “Fuck!” in her general direction as his cards flew everywhere. “Oh, and you’re an expert driver?” said Miss Haughty. “Yes, I am. I’ve driven a Ferrari in L.A. rush hour traffic. You 255

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have trouble staying on a deserted state highway at noon.” “OOhhh, I forgot, you’re Mr. Continental, aren’t you?” “America is not the continent, dickhead. That’s Europe.” She screwed her face up in that I-hate-you way, but he ignored her. It was the best thing to do in case she came up with one of her infrequent, but incredibly harsh phrases. Like she’d often told him, sitting in the dark, “If you have something nice to say, you’re not trying hard enough.” “What’s with all the Viking signs?” asked Maximillian. “What Viking signs?” “Those Viking signs.” And indeed there were many advertisements and welcome signs featuring horned Vikings clasping great frothing mugs of quaffing material. Welcome to Dannevirke! proclaimed one. “Oh.” “Quick,” said Auburn, “keep your eyes out for them. They must be around here somewhere if there’s all these signs.” But even after a toilet stop, and a mushy pie from a dairy, there were no Vikings to behold. “What a gyp,” said Peter. “What in the hell does that mean?” asked Bill. “Doesn’t matter.” “Where are we?” “I have no idea.” They were driving slowly in the dark and it was raining. Some many minutes before they had passed a sign that said “Welcome to Hawke’s Bay”, but it was all Greek to them. “Next fuckin’ petrol station, I’m buying a map.” “You’re a pussy, Willy.” “Shut up, Auburn.” “Look, man,” Peter leaned back over the seat and faced Bill, illustrating his points with his hands, “you’re going to take all the fun out of this if we know where we’re going all the time. You know? I mean, get to know your own country for Christ’s sake. The real way. Let’s just see what we find. OK?” 256

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“Maybe, but am I allowed to throw Auburn out if she makes another smart remark?” Peter turned back. “Not while she’s driving.” Auburn smiled in the mirror. “Oh, that’s great.” Bill threw his hands up in the air. “Fucking Peter, such a ladies man, always sticking up for the girls, just when I want to leave one in the middle of nowhere.” “Divorce your hand Bill, you might learn something.” She licked her lips as Bill got red-faced. Maximillian sniggered. “Shut up, you. What are you laughing at?” “I didn’t hear nothing.” Dark and rainswept, with hypnotic car lights passing in front of them every half a minute or so, building up to a whoosh and then sliding behind them, swallowed up by the road. “It’s a sign.” WELCOME TO HAVELOCK NORTH “What a friendly country we live in,” said Maximillian. But Peter would never trust the middle of nowhere again. “So, what? Are we stopping here, or what?” “I have to take a piss.” “You’re so common, Bill.” “Eat me.” “You dream.” They drove through a quiet and dead small town, but it looked like more than fifty people lived there, and the buildings appeared to be coated in paint, which was welcome after so many visits to places that were peeling away in the wind. “This must be a place!” “This must be.”

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Chapter Twenty Five She pressed the small white buzzer once, but failed to hear any sound from inside the apartment. Her heels clicked on the concrete as she waited. Sometimes she felt like playing dress up, and some days she felt like she was born to wear them. Imagine if all her money could have bought her a pair of ruby slippers? She would have been clicking her heels faster than you could say Jiminy Cricket. Or was she getting her thingy-ma-phors mixed again? Her energy rush fading from the morning’s wake up fix, she was still feeling the buzz, and was getting irritated standing out here in front of this stupid, cheap door. There came a clacking sound and the door swung back, while she took her hands off her hips, and straightened, adopting a less threatening demeanour. Judging by the look on her face, Philippa was very surprised to see her. Silence hung in the foreground for a second, cars forever in the background. “Hello.” “Hi.” “May I come in?” “Sure.” She followed Philippa into the dim home, her sunglasses folding up in her hand and sliding into a pocket. She made herself comfortable on the seat offered, and Philippa sat opposite. “Well, I must say I didn’t expect you of all people to drop in. Can I get you something?” Philippa stood, facing towards the kitchen like 259

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she was ready to perform waiting duties. “A glass of water, actually, would be really spectacular.” Sarah sat back and relaxed, while her head spun. She fingered one of the pills in her pocket idly, not knowing if she should be up or down or running through a field of light. She was purposely trying to come across as really friendly to the little ghost girl, but couldn’t help being as tall as possible, towering over her – is that why she’d worn heels today? No, of course not. The place was a dim little hole, perfect for a ghost girl and her friends. Ghost girl came back in with a glass of water, and a glass of something else for herself. She handed Sarah’s over, and she thanked her most cordially. “What brings you to Inglewood?” asked Philippa. She was trying to act graceful and mature, guessed Sarah, but she held her head on her hand. Don’t bother kid, “mature” isn’t worth it. Stay where you are. Stay innocent with your spirits and your séances. You’ve been a good girl, I’m sure, don’t bother trying to be me. I’m more than enough for all of us. “Well, I’ve come to see you. It’s about Peter.” “Oh.” Philippa’s dark eyes darted, visible even in the gloom, fluorescent whites betraying the pupils. “I suppose you know he left last week?” But the look on her face told Sarah she didn’t. Fuck. “No, I– I had no idea that he’d– oh, I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault.” Eyes ran around again. “Well,” she sipped whatever it was in her glass, by the twitch at the corner of her eyes it was a safe bet that it was alcoholic. “Maybe I feel like somehow it is.” She swallowed, but the glass was resting on the arm of her chair. Sarah studied her through narrowed eyes for a few breathless moments as her heart thumped slightly louder between her breasts but, putting her untouched water down by her feet, she relaxed and sighed. “I’m sure ... there is no reason for you to feel any guilt, Philippa.” 260

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The girl’s eyes darted up at her, and they locked gazes for a second. “And I’d say it doesn’t matter if you do.” The girl was struggling with something, but Sarah scrunched up her mouth and continued, trying for fuck’s sake, to have them both at ease for just one second or two, that’s all she asked. “ALL I want to know is if you’ve heard from him since last week, and if you have any idea where he is.” A meow from behind Philippa’s chair, and a black and partly white cat, large and slinky, emerged, prowling with a vixen’s shoulders. It disappeared into the kitchen. “No. I’m sorry.” “That’s OK. Don’t apologise for something you didn’t do. Well, thanks anyway.” She got up to go, her foot turning traitor, turning on a piece of loose carpet, the heel of her shoe tapping the glass with enough of a bump that it spun around before toppling over and emptying its contents on the floor in a rapid flood. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” Philippa raised her hands to shoulder level, one slightly extended to Sarah. “No that’s OK. Please, I’ll deal with it, look. Don’t. Don’t go just yet.” Sarah stood aside while Philippa went into the kitchen, sent the cat scurrying back out where it quickly disappeared through one of the few dusty beams of light afforded the room, like it was one of the girl’s spooks, and returned with a dry cloth. She soaked the water up, and beckoned Sarah to sit down again. “Please.” Sarah sat down in the same place, while Philippa kneelt before her. Any minute now, thought she to herself, the young lass will say “Yessum.” While Philippa was disposing of the rag, Sarah’s hand wandered back into her pocket, idly, thoughtfully. Field of light, I think. I shall probably need it. She popped the tab in her mouth and smiled while it dissolved as Philippa came back in. “All done, see?” Sarah nodded, it finished dissolving, and she said, “Did you have something else to say to me?” 261

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“Oh, right. Well,” she got up like a lecturer, just like a little lecturer, ha ha, and paced slightly. “I gave Peter a number he could call, at my mother’s, in case I moved.” “What if your mother moves?” “What? Oh no. She’s stuck in her ways. You know?” She smiled. “My mother’s been dead for ten years.” The smile vanished. “Oh– I’m–” “Just say what you were going to say. I know it may not look like it, but I do have better things to do.” Philippa looked at her feet, but continued, more timid by the second. “Well, like I said, he’s got the number, in case he ever feels the urge. And I’m sure she’d pass on the message, or give him my number here, but, I ring every couple of days just to make sure.” “Let me get this straight–” “And I haven’t rung in a few days.” She was already moving for the phone, obviously embarrassed, but trying her best to help poor heartbroken Sarah, or poor junkie Sarah, or drunk, or poor whatever her impression of Sarah was. “You check every few days to see if Peter has rung? From New Zealand?” But she hadn’t known. “You’re about as–” The look on the poor child’s face, so young, she looked so young, plaintive almost, and Sarah let her have something, at least. Perhaps it was time for everyone to be allowed to just grow up. “–about as anxious as me.” She smiled at her, and thankfully, Philippa didn’t recoil, so it must have been The Nice smile. “I’ll just call,” she said to Sarah. Sarah waited patiently on the couch while Philippa talked to her mother in mom/daughter language. She wished that the field of light and all the pretty rainbow colours would hurry up and kick in, so she’d have something to look at in this gloomy room. And yet, even though the dark made the few windows glare like the sun, the place was almost sterile in its tidiness. Wooden kit set shelves and baskets and organisation and cleanliness running rampant, even though the air seemed full of dust because of the light. Philippa hung up, the expression on her face transparent as ever. 262

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“No, he hasn’t rung.” “Well, thanks anyway,” she said, but she didn’t get off the couch this time before Philippa started to talk to her again. “Can we ... talk for a second.” Philippa sat down opposite Sarah, and Sarah sighed very quietly. Oh, why me? “What about.” “About Peter.” She didn’t say anything, but rested her head on her left hand and waited for whatever it was that Philippa wanted to impart. Special, no doubt. “I just wanted to let you know ... I don’t know how to say this quite ... um, shit.” She rested her fist on her mouth, perhaps wanting to punch herself in the face for something she hadn’t even thought. Sarah waited. “I just want you to know how much I ...” another pause, while the cat walked between them, oblivious to their presence while on some important feline job. “Look,” Sarah tried to break whatever spell the girl was under. ”Whatever it is you think you have to say to me – it’s OK. I don’t have to know.” “No, please, I want you to.” Sarah sat still again, like she’d done at the beach, and just let Philippa say her piece. “I ... want to say how ... how much I care about Peter. In the short time we were together ... I cared for him a lot. I mean ... when you get thrown around a room by a ghost with someone, it’s sort of a bonding experience.” Sarah laughed quietly. Philippa smiled and bit her lip. “I could have killed him with that thing ... and he never even minded ... I mean, I saw it, when everything was going crazy ...” she raised her hand to her face again, to stop tears, it was plain to see. Sarah stepped in, a lump forming in her own throat, and let Philippa have a breath of air. “It’s OK, don’t beat yourself up about it ...” she waved a hand dismissively. “I must have nearly killed Peter ... at least a half-dozen times. Whatever you feel you did that was wrong, believe me, I did ten times worse.” 263

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Philippa’s face was wet, and her lip was red, her hand not proving much of a comfort. Sarah felt a tear well up, unbidden and she swore, “Fuck!” and Philippa jumped a little at that. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” The tear was rolling over her lashes, and gravity was coaxing it onto the slope where it ran down the flawless cheek, running across the curve of her chin and it dropped onto her knee. She kept her head up. “Oh, come here.” She went to Philippa and held her in her arms, tight, and rocked her back and forth. What the hell had happened to her in that place? What had happened between her and Peter after ... it didn’t matter, it really didn’t. “You know,” Philippa raised her head, their faces were close and Sarah felt her breath warm on her cheek. “I love him. I really do.” Sarah’s lips didn’t know what to do with themselves. “I told him. But it didn’t matter to him. He really does love you ... so much. I can’t tell you how I’m so sure, just ... that’s why I was so surprised to hear you say he’d left.” Sarah wiped away the damp around Philippa’s eyes, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. They looked at each other square in the eyes for a moment. “Did you really almost kill him, or were you just trying to make me feel better?” Sarah huffed with a smile and shook her head. “I put six bullets into my walls and windows because my aim is so bad.” Philippa smiled, and they giggled a little and their foreheads quietly thumped together. “Holy fuck,” murmured Philippa. “Something like that.” Sarah got up to leave, Philippa showed her to the door, even though it was in plain sight. “Will you let me know if he calls?” Philippa nodded, and Sarah gave a grim smile and turned to leave, but Philippa caught her arm. Her face streaked with red, she said with a most serious and intense expression, looking taller than Sarah, “If you do get to be with him again, treat him right. ’Cos God 264

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knows he loves you so much, and he deserves better than bullets and vampires. Treat him right, for all our sakes.” Sarah swallowed, and nodded, before walking away, Philippa watched her go for a second and then closed the door.

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Chapter Twenty Six Hastings. Apparently. Under the watchful eye of synchronicity – a phone. Pick up the receiver and pause, thinking, then he put in Sarah’s number and let it ring four times, before changing his mind and hanging up. As usual. Then, a sudden urge to ring Philippa. “Hello?” “Hi, your mum gave me your number.” “Peter!” her voice sounded distant and tinny, but it was her alright. He felt light on his feet as he spoke, trying to hear her as best as possible over the background noise. “Yeah, it’s me, how are you?” “Good, oh good, how are you?” “Yeah, I’m alright. I’m in New Zealand by the way.” “Yeah, I know.” “Oh.” Ask her later, say all the stuff you wanted to first, Bill was waving over by the table and pointing to his watch. They were going to a movie or something. Wow. How wild, but Peter wouldn’t speak long anyway, fuck, could Bill be anal about time or what? “Hey, I sent you a letter, anyway, and it should get to you, like, real soon, so I won’t talk long.” “You did?” “Yeah.” “What’s in it?” 267

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“Philippa – don’t ask silly questions.” “But I’m so good at it.” “Well, I just felt like talking to you, anyway. Hope I didn’t disturb you or anything.” “No, not at all.” What time would it be, over there? Would it be night? Yeah, but warm, summer breeze out at the beach. “How did you know I was here?” “Oh, Sarah came over the other day ...” There was a pause, which was filled by the crackle and hum of pure white noise. “Oh ... what did she ...?” “She was looking for you.” He swallowed, and curled his free hand into a fist, digging the nails deep into his palm. “Why?” “Well, because ... I don’t know. She loves you, Peter. She really does. Maybe she wants to make up.” He laughed without using vocal cords, a tremor building in his knees. “Well, that’s too bad. Look, I ...” he scraped his knuckles down his face, “... uh, I better go, but there’s a letter on its way, and I’ll ring you again, when I get where I’m going.” “Where’s that?” “Um, Auckland, by the looks of things. I might have some things to do there. And maybe I’ll ...” “Where’s Auckland? Is that a city?” “Yeah, it is. I better go. Talk to you soon.” “OK, bye Peter–” “Bye.” “Bye ... Peter, I–” Peter hung up, his hand moving to do the action before he could have thought and tried and listened to Philippa’s last words.

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Chapter Twenty Seven. Sarah was ready, come what may. Harvey was on holiday, for the first time in sixteen years, but no doubt he’d pick up new clients in the Bahamas. Meanwhile, Sarah was ready. Affairs in order, people talked to, a party for everyone down in the city last night. Philippa had been there, funnily enough, but they’d only spoken in passing, surrounded by the crowd, faces all around, a silent look passed between them once, and then she had moved on. She sat in the chair, a slight headache, a casualty from mixing amphetamines with alcohol, but that was OK. It could have been worse, like the week before, when she’d tranked herself to sleep, too high on speed, and drank vodka for breakfast. Gross. But she was ready. The hallucinogens were safely flushed down the toilet, lost in a dissolving spin – a little bit at a time was the best she’d been able to do for Peter – and she sat in the chair while her muscles wanted to flex and pump and run around like crazy. But she calmed them, full of energy, and sat in the chair ready. She cast her eye over the view, then focused her gaze on the window she’d blown apart, casually remembering with a smile that horrible moment full of noise and smoke and bullets when, not sure what she was doing, mad as hell, she had suddenly wondered if Peter had been killed and she’d done it, but then the confusion had left, and she’d just been mad. It was sort of funny in retrospect. 269

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Meanwhile, she was ready. Later, as moonlight rippled on the sea, somewhere far away, past the pollution, where the dolphins jumped free, unhindered by nets or gawkers, Sarah flew in dreamland, up with the tiny sprinkles of stars. Her body lay in the chair, slumped sideways, breathing softly, a slight snore, blue blue night illuminating and reflecting all around the pure white beach house. The phone rang, exploding the silence, thousands of shards of noise echoing and bouncing off every flat surface and focusing on Sarah’s ears. Her body flew around like a rag doll and she jumped to her feet, wondering if it was the car alarm or the house alarm, when her soul returned from its flight, and her faculties returned to her. Yeah, it was definitely the phone, wasn’t it. She crawled on hands and knees to the ringing that was shattering her inner ear, keeping her on the floor, unable to find up or down. “Hello,” she shouted into the white receiver, as she tried to bring it to her ear. “Ah, it’s Philippa. Sorry to ring you so late, but I thought it would be best if I told you now.” “What is it,” she said quickly, getting to her feet, her heart thumping loudly in her ears, so she could barely hear what was being said. “Peter rang.” “He did? Well, what did he ...” she stopped, unsure if she sounded too desperate, unsure how she should sound at all. Beyond her heart, the house was still and quiet. “He’s going to be in some place called, oh, what was it ... Oakland? It’s a city.” “Orkland,” said Sarah. “Orkland?” asked Philippa, then a pause and her breathing down the phone. “Yeah, that’s about right.” “OK.” She raised her thumb to her mouth, and bit. “Thank you, Philippa.” 270

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Sun streamed through huge glass windows, taller than two or maybe even three Sarahs. The tint on the glass bathed her in an orange hue, her eyes hidden behind darker windows of a much smaller kind. She stood in the departure lounge, because she could not bear to sit. There would be plenty of sitting in time to come, and her buttocks could well use all the stretching she could manage before her flight. She had clothes with her this time, one thin, soft bag that was already somewhere between here and the plane, and a small black piece of carry on. She didn’t intend to waste her time shopping. She travelled first class, but that was no particular surprise. Extra leg room and comfort and all that fiddle-dee-dee was worth it, especially on such a long flight. If she’d been feeling particularly extravagant she might have bought every seat at the front of the plane, so that she could travel alone, without having to listen to the whispers of others, and maybe she could even pretend she was the only one alive, high in the air, flying through the heavens, she could close her eyes forever and just sit and think. But it wasn’t to be, not this time, and she managed as best she could to not leap to her feet and yell at the other passengers, “Be quiet! Shut up! Who gave you permission to breathe!” Ah, well. The clouds down below were always so tempting, yet money could not buy the ability to step off the plane and skip across the sky. Acres and acres of fluffy, strung out fields and strange, puffed canyons, mountains. Above, an uninterrupted blue sky. The sun always shone, the weather always perfect, summer all around the world, all year. If only you could spend a holiday up here, how wonderful. No traffic, no smog. But then, someone would no doubt bring it along eventually. Someone offered her champagne, in best hopes of trying to prove genuine to the airline’s television campaign, and Sarah accepted, although knowing she might regret it later. More specifically, her stomach might regret it later – she still had a lot of speed in her system and it had left her nervous and jumpy; she’d swallowed a tranquillizer to calm herself and she was enjoying the hypnotic state of the flight right now. 271

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But a little throwing up was no big deal and she knew enough about her body to know she wouldn’t end up like Elvis, all purple on the toilet, face smashed into the carpet. She sipped the champagne, bubbles tingling her tongue, the liquid washing around her taste buds and sloshing past a throat that was starting to feel swollen. She thought it might be the wear and tear of the last few days, and decided it might be time to take better care of herself. Her head lay down on the soft back of the seat and her eyes rolled to the window. Somewhere across those clouds was Peter, and she was closer to him now than she had been yesterday. If she fell asleep, like her eyes wanted to, then perhaps she would be that much closer to him again, perhaps she would be able to feel him, instead of just dream of him. Did he dream of her? She hoped so. Perhaps they even walked in each other’s dreams without knowing it, perhaps they shared, and they met somewhere beyond a plane of distance measured in miles, where you were kept apart from someone only by the depth or shallowness of your heart. She let the seat claim her mind as its victim. Waking briefly, it was dark, but she was confused as to whether it was night, or whether her eyes were closed. She saw an image of him, as she’d first met him and whispered his name quietly to herself, just once. If she had been awake, it didn’t last long. This time she knew she was awake, and this time she knew where she was. The plane glided in over the green-clad sprawl that was Auckland, fields and beachless coastline disappearing beneath them as Sarah’s ears closed in and pushed hard, a slight waver as the aircraft wobbled in the wind, and then they landed with some shuddering and a long wait until they got somewhere they could get off. Much like the time she lost her virginity. She’d booked a normal – as opposed to palatial, or what passed for it here – sized room in the same hotel that had been her short home last time, before the spontaneous decision had been made to see the country by slow train, rather than speedy air. 272

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Life would have been so much simpler if she’d have just flown into Wellington the first time, without being in Auckland at all. Then perhaps she’d be a happy little teacher. Not fucking likely. And life certainly wasn’t dull after Peter, not like before ... She had a new lease on living, a new way, hopefully, of seeing things, and working things out. She didn’t know what she wanted to do with herself, or where she wanted to go, but she knew that she wanted to be something, to not sit in a generic room somewhere, incredibly drunk, buying her way through the week. And she’d start just as soon as she’d convinced Peter to give his own picket fence a wide berth, whether he came with her or not. Hopefully he would, but she wasn’t getting any younger, and loved him enough to leave him, as long as there was just one more go for things, or one more chance, or ... ... she sighed and dropped a bag on the hotel room floor. She was still lying to herself, and tried to admit that if she couldn’t have Peter in her life – if she couldn’t share Peter’s life – then she didn’t know what she would do. Optimism is as fleeting sometimes as it is exciting. She lay down on the bed intending to go to sleep, not caring if she fucked up her hours here – a clock at the airport had told her it was just after ten in the morning, but her body totally disagreed, screw ’em, let sleep sort it out – and started thinking again. About Peter, and the train trip where it had all started, and those first days in Wellington where she’d wrapped him in her arms and started to show him what life was like with Sarah. She swore and got up and paced the room, finally deciding to take a sleeping pill – slow down girl – when she fell on the bed and dreamed with the same clothes on her body that had hugged her since Los Angeles. Within moments she was far, far beyond caring, quiet slumber her friend. A grey day flew by with a splitting headache, and a futile search. She sat in the hotel room, while food and water – lots of water – was brought to her at steady intervals. Calls to the hostel in Wellington 273

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proved pointless – nobody there had realised he’d gone, and thought Peter would have turned up since the last person had searched the hostel for him, that person being Sarah’s lawyer. She considered, in a less lucid moment, ringing every Peterson in Auckland in hopes of finding a relative, but there were as many Petersons as there were Browns. Lucidity returned, and she rang the lawyer, who reported that the Mercedes had been sold some time ago, that the money had gone to Peter, and that there had been significant spending. Some pressure and ... reward ... for the trouble had yielded Peter’s exact bank statement details, which impressed Sarah greatly. EFTPOS transactions showed that he’d moved steadily cross country for about a week, and that he had reached Auckland. No further information was available, but Sarah didn’t need any. This was cause enough for some happiness. She stayed awake all night, lost in thought, wrapped up in the bed sheets, no summer night outside, and she did it without amphetamine assistance. If only she could be proud. The next morning brought nothing but disappointment. It was a cold, windy day, grey with streaks of white and dark. Phone calls gave no leads, and by the early afternoon she had given up on making any progress and gone out on the streets. You never knew. She wandered without whim or reason, through mall and shop, Queen Street, alleyway, overpass, tunnel. At one point she ended up at the train station and looked suspiciously at her legs as if they’d carried her there purposely. She wandered through the tall, ornate building, bought an overpriced chocolate bar, and slowly walked around the area, until her cursed feet brought her to the very platform from which they’d left, that early morning start so long ago. At the time she had realised, when Peter had first appeared in the seat beside her, that he was responsible for the rather comical display while she’d waited in line. She had watched him out the corner of her eye as he’d struggled with an enormous suitcase on one tiny little wheel, while attempting to sprint over as if the train would leave 274

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without him. She must have become lost in thought because the next she’d seen of him had been his beautiful face sitting down. His eyes – she’d been caught by his eyes without even knowing what colour they really were, and his hair, so dark, near black, against pale skin, all real, such a curious beauty, but no question about it. He had been beautiful. Still was, hopefully. His jaw, his high cheekbones, even his teeth, perfectly straight and white, like he’d been created, not born. Perhaps he had been. Created for her to find, and fancy herself a sculptor, trying to hew him from some sort of semi-rough diamond into an idealised state. The way he carried himself had been awkward, like he distrusted his own body, but underneath he’d moved gracefully, seemed supple. Which, she’d found out later, he truly was. She allowed herself a slight smile as she sat down on a dirty seat, eating the remains of the chocolate, which seemed like it might be stale. She didn’t care. He’d certainly filled any expectation she could have had, so odd that it had all come in a package so young. He’d been kind and sensitive, and open to new things … well, to a point, but that wasn’t his fault at any rate. She had been lucky, but had he? Well, by the sounds of it he was resourceful when it came to her money. She’d grinned when the lawyer had told her the Mercedes had been sold. Money wasn’t an easy thing to leave behind after you’d had a taste of it. A gust of wind chilled her fingers, and she let the tiny foil wrapper fly away on the breeze. It remained in flight for a few moments, zigging and zagging over the track, drifting away towards Wellington. But it fell slowly when the wind left, and sank to the stones between the train tracks. She got up to leave, shoving hands deep inside her coat pockets. He could have all the money in the world if he wanted, she had it, and would gladly give it to him, for nothing. But she hoped he’d like to spend it with her. Finding herself back in Queen Street, she felt the rumbling in 275

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her stomach. The light was falling, what time was it? Only five, and yet the dark was already growing in the corners, the shadows long, and the air damper by the second. In front of a department store she found a little old man selling hot dogs and she bought one, knowing hunger was inevitable and that it must be squashed. She stood there, munching away, staring blankly around her. People were starting the rush home, moving speedily up and down the street, not looking at anything but the ground. Cars clogged the road, buses heaved their slow and noisy carcasses around corners. A girl in front of her turned away from a bank machine, the last of the sun catching the red highlights in her hair. Sarah took another bite of the meal in a soggy serviette. She raised her head, the girl was staring at her. She stared back. And the girl seemed faintly familiar. The girl started to turn away, but a sudden impulse made Sarah grab her by the arm. The girl grew a snarl upon her face, her mouth threatening to open and spill vile threats, but Sarah got in first. “I know you,” she said, “don’t I. You know who I am?” The girl nodded sulkily, but said nothing. “The hostel. That’s where. That night in the car with all his friends. Is that right?” “Let go of me.” She tried to twist from Sarah’s grasp, but Sarah gritted her teeth and pulled her back. She bent her head down and stared the girl in the face, so that she would make no mistake about Sarah’s willingness to tear her arms off. “Where is he?” She said nothing. “You take me to him, right now.” The girl looked at her so evilly, so suspiciously, but her facade was cracking, and something soft was behind. “Right now.” repeated Sarah. “Fuck,” said the girl, but she showed the way. A short way up the street the girl led Sarah into a video game arcade. The beeping and whooping noises were very audible from the street, and it looked dark. Many, many, little kids were milling around outside. 276

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Sarah looked uncomfortably at the place. “This is great,” she muttered. They descended some steps and were swallowed up by dim lights and horrific noise. Some guy in a suit (a suit?) darted in front of Sarah, jabbering excitedly, and when he passed the girl was gone. Little bitch. She made her way through the crowd, eyes sweeping back and forth. Dozens of game machines stretched in lines deep into the cavern. Cheap mirrored walls reflected all the little lights and noises back at her. There were more than a few men in suits, and the crowd was definitely not all little boys. She pushed through a passing trio of babbling kids, and kept looking. Auburn touched him upon the shoulder, and he turned to look at her, but didn’t make it. He saw Sarah immediately. Something tugged inside his chest. Something whispered in her ear, but when she turned to listen, no one was there. Then she saw him, the girl close by, like a damsel in a Conan movie, and two guys who were looking at her as well. Peter looked good, looked healthy, even though his face was half lit red. She licked her lips. He just stared at her, but didn’t move. She went towards him. He watched her, unable to move in any way – not that he could have decided on how to move, had the choice been his. He watched people part like the waves, like Sarah was Moses, as she walked towards him, leaning against a video game that Bill stared up from, open-mouthed. Slowly feeling returned to his numb limbs, the tugging always in his chest. He swallowed, and ran his hand through his hair. “Hello, Peter.” “Hello.” His eyes thinned. “What are you doing here?” Sarah slightly leant her head to one side. “Looking for you.” “I see.” He asked the others if he could have a word in private, and they went and stood across the way, looking intently at the pair. He pursed his lips, waved them off, and mouthed “Go away.” They 277

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looked at each other, and then did their best to disappear. “I see,” said Peter again, his heart thumping in his right ear. “Well, it looks like you found me. Though how ... you must have powers of divination, or something.” “Oh, Peter.” She smiled, feeling warm inside just to look at him. “It’s so good to see you.” She raised her hand to touch his face, but when her fingers brushed his skin he jerked away. It was like a needle in her arm. They just looked at each other for a while. “I’m sorry ... I–” she started. “No, it’s OK. Look ... why are you here?” He leaned against the video game, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. She ran a finger past her ear, but her hair was so short there was nothing to brush back. Black-haired twins. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. I can’t just ... walk away from it.” He didn’t say anything, but looked at her through dark eyes. Impassive. “I want us to ... just sit down and ... and see if we can work stuff out.” He looked at her eyes, seeing how she dropped her shield, seeing the hurt, and the truth. “Well, maybe we can’t ...” She looked like she’d been slapped, and he realised he’d almost shouted at her. He was having trouble controlling his voice, but if she would travel how many thousand miles for a conversation, the least he could do was try. And be honest. “I’m ... glad you’re here.” Her frown fell away from her face as hope shone for a second. She tried to hug him, but he raised a hand. “Don’t,” he said quietly. Her arms fell to her side. God, you’re acting so weak, she thought, and tried to get angry with herself, but a calmer voice said, “Look, we’ve been through all that.” “Don’t complicate things, Sarah,” he said. “Just talk.” She swallowed; so did he. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said. She watched a tear fall down his cheek, but his face was otherwise a mask, his jaw tight. 278

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“Yeah ...” he whispered. “I’ve thought about you all the time. I can’t stop.” “I love you,” she said. He nodded. “I love you too.” She started to raise a hand, her mouth turning upside down. “But it’s not that simple. Not with all that ... shit.” Her hand fell again. “We can–” “No. You didn’t respect me enough to let me live life by my own choosing. You tried to take my choices away. You have to stop, you have to understand, you are not perfect, yours is not the better example. Age does not make wisdom, Sarah, it’s like that electroshock stuff.” Her mind registered a complete blank, but he talked like he’d rehearsed it. “You know, like mice get. One piece of food is wired, one is fine. Eventually, the mouse will know which piece to take. Something like that. But people don’t work like that. Some keep taking the shocks, and never even check the other piece of food. Others get it right the first ... or the second ... time. And I can’t live with you getting shocked continuously. I’m not saying I don’t make mistakes. I’m not saying I won’t end up lost and lonely.” She bit her lip. “But I won’t have someone pushing me to take one piece or another. Whether it’s right or not.” “That ...” she said, feeling a lump growing cancerously in her throat, “... has to be the most ... unexpected and screwed up metaphor ... I could imagine for a time like this.” “A time like this has no rules, Sarah. Not ever.” She started to cry; so did he. She kept on talking; he didn’t interrupt. He couldn’t, it was all he could do to stand straight. “I know I’m not perfect. I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I pushed you when I shouldn’t have ... and I have thought, believe me, I have thought over and over about what I’ve done, in my life. To you. I know it sounds corny, but I’ve never been in love like I have with you. It’s true.” A ribbon of tears suddenly darted down Peter’s cheeks; 279

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he wiped them away quickly, streaks of wet left behind. “I know ... at least ... I know what I don’t know ... and it’s not very impressive.” She laughed through a sob, and he tried to smile. “I ... have ... wasted my life. I really have. For thirty years, what have I got to show for it? Nothing. Maybe a bunch of stories that would suit a movie star, but not me. And the thing I’m proudest of is what I found in you. I’ve never been there before. And it’s nice. It’s really beautiful, what’s inside of you.” Peter looked at his feet, wishing desperately that his brain would stop panicking and give him something to say. Sarah continued. “But I’ve ... come to the conclusion ... I know ... that I don’t want that fence any more than you do. I won’t be stuck behind it. I will create that monument that says ‘Sarah Howe was here’. But I want you to be there when I do it. I don’t want to make you live forever. And you, I’ll go with you no matter what you do, and you give me everlasting life and ... and ...” She stopped, and put her hand to her mouth. Peter looked at her with smiling eyes. “Well, that’s what I want,” she said. “That’s good,” he said. They hung in front of each other like ghosts, hardly there. “I like that.” Slowly they drew together, while he murmured, “But it’s not quite that simple.” She nodded slightly. Their arms wrapped slowly around each other; the setting and the sounds around them faded away. Their heads closed unstoppably, slowly, and their lips touched, softly, so softly, so warm, and mixed with tears and regrets and promises. Then they pulled apart, both of them, because otherwise they might truly have believed it were that simple. They parted their bodies and stood facing each other. “So,” said Sarah. “You just couldn’t go without the money. Huh?” “What’s that mean,” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “You sold the car.” Oh, his face said, his eyes forgave. “Yeah, it’s OK. It was yours, after all.” She wiped a couple of renegade tears away. “Yeah. The money is sure hard to leave. Isn’t it? Once you’re hooked, I guess you’ll do anything ... well, a lot, to make sure it doesn’t run dry.” 280

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“Well,” he said, “I’m a little disappointed. I thought you might know me better than that.” But he said it pleasantly, no malice. No malice. “The money never meant a thing to me. It’s merely a means. It’s a joke. With the money from the car I would have been able to tie up ... a few loose ends, and then ... I was probably going to use the rest to fund my own search ... for you.” Her ears went pink with joy. “Really?” “Uh-huh. But what about you?” “Me?” “Yeah. You have a hard time giving up a lot. The drugs, the crappy life. The shit you do to yourself. Have you stopped?” The arcade returned, dark and creepy, the noise of all the other people in the world flooding back. “I’m trying.” “You’re trying.” Peter sighed, but Sarah grabbed his shoulder. “It’s not as easy as all that, you know. I really am trying, I haven’t seen the walls fly away for a while now.” “How am I supposed to know,” he said, “if you’ll ever try and treat yourself right? How will I know if you’ll ever come back to earth and stay with me, or if it will all start again?” She stood closer to him, looked him directly in the eyes, the games beeping, the tide of noise flowing around them, but keeping its distance. “Even after all that’s happened, after all I might have done, there comes a point where you have to start to trust.” Peter just looked at her, his mind busy behind his flat expression. A whistle broke his concentration. He turned over his shoulder, and saw Bill with the other two, pointing at his watch. “Oh, shit, that’s right. I’ve got something to do, sorry, previous engagement.” “What?” “Oh, just this thing. It’s personal. I have to go.” He hung for a second, until she said, “I’ll walk you out.” They all walked up the stairs and outside. The sky was dark now, too, clouds moving in, lower than was usual for Auckland. “Could be rain,” said Maximillian. Sarah followed the group as they crossed the road and went to a grey car. Peter tossed the keys to Auburn, and she 281

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and the other two got inside, while he turned to Sarah. “Look, I can’t do anything about it right now. I’ll–” “Are you free later?” “Yeah ...” He hugged himself with his arms as a cold chill swept through them both, and then continued up the hill on its merry way. “Look,” she wrote down a quick scrawl on a piece of paper that had probably sat in her coat pocket for weeks. “This is where I am. This is the room I’m in. This is where I’ll be. I’ll be waiting for you.” “I can’t promise that I’ll come.” She shook her head because of the cold. Bill honked the horn. Never had any road seemed as desolate as this one, whether it had been in the heart of Montana with miles of rolling hills, or in the desert of California where she’d woken once, hung-over and alone. “Please, Peter. I love you. Make a decision.” Peter agonised. “I can’t promise you anything.” Sarah nodded. “I understand. I’ll be waiting, no matter what.” They stared at each other’s faces, drinking in every line and curve and tear worn lash. Peter said goodbye, and turned and got into the car. Sarah stood in the road and watched as they drove away. When they had disappeared she left to go back to the hotel, walking slowly away, turning back every so often in case he came driving back over the hill in the Ferrari, and they could ride off into the sunset together.

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Chapter Twenty Eight. Dear Philippa, Well, I guess you didn’t expect a letter from me. But then again, maybe you did. You always struck me as the hopeful type, and Lord knows, I’m not much of a letter writer, so you’d have to be pretty hopeful. I’m back in New Zealand, about to hit the road actually, going on a road trip with my friends, on the pretence of just travelling about, but I do have a specific purpose in mind. This letter might take a little bit longer to get to you because I posted it to your mum (I suppose that should be “mom”) because you didn’t give me your address. Silly girl. Um, what else? OK, as you might have guessed by now, things didn’t go all that well with Sarah and me. I guess it just got too stressful for me and I couldn’t handle the pace, while she wouldn’t give certain things up. So, here I am at a loose end of sorts. I’ve been trying to work out what to do with myself. I’ve been thinking about Sarah a lot, which is probably no surprise, and about stuff in general. I hope you don’t mind me telling you all this, there’s no one here I want to say it to, not even Auburn, though of course you don’t know her. Yes, her, but don’t get like that, she’s just a friend. Anyway, so, yeah, I still love Sarah, but the question is what do I do about it? I went through a number of options and reasons for why it didn’t work out in the first place. 283

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Here’s some stuff I worked out: 1. I still love her and I don’t want to give up on the idea of a “relationship” or whatever with her. 2. It was both our faults, she pushed me too hard, gets too selfabsorbed, and tried to shoot me. (Yes, I’m not kidding. But she missed.) 3. I’ve got to get my own shit together first before I can try and straighten things out. In my case, this means some family matters which I should attend to in Auckland, just to get it off my chest. It’s a long story, so I won’t bore you with it. 4. If that goes well, then I’ll contact Sarah, see how that goes. If I come back to the States I don’t think I should see you, as much as I want to. We seem a pretty volatile mix – whenever we get together shit starts exploding. I start seeing strange things, etc. I’m sorry. We might have been cool together, but too much crap got in the way first. You’ll just have to trust me on that. Maybe in the next life, babe. 5 As yet I have thought of no fifth thing There, pretty blatantly straightforward, huh? Can’t wait for my journey through redneck country (Kiwi style). It’s not something I can understand, probably has something to do with my upbringing. So. I’ve been thinking a lot. Some way back in my past I wrote a poem, called The Vampire in Summer. I don’t recall if you were at the table in some bar when we discussed it and vampires in general – it wasn’t long after the séance, and I was pretty drunk, so I have trouble remembering if I was there for sure or not. Anyway, I wrote this poem, about a vampire who meets a girl at the height of summer, which really sux for him because there’s less hours of darkness, Thinking as I have been, having been through the experiences I have, I finally finished that poem, and got a grip on that vampire. Here’s the ending I wrote. And you, my dear, my pretty thing, pass through my realm unknowing. 284

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Your eyes wide open to the breeze, your heart awaits my smile. I do not comprehend, dear sir, the things of which you speak, for is the moon for all to see? Or a slave upon a leash? The boy-man stops and turns his length, the night all blocked from view, his arms upon her neck like dust, his whisper in her ear. Light, child, do not speak fair talk of that, the knowledge I impart, one gift for thought I’ve brought you here, another you would not want. His gaze, it locks her eyes to him, a glimpse she seems inside, of those condemned to live apart, while she lives in the sun. 285

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The wind warns of dark feat intent, her heart becomes a beacon, his lips do smack and lean towards the soft young flesh before him. She tries to scream, her voice betrays, her throat as dry as bones, short legs would run, but not too far, when fastened to the spot. The creature stares, and breathes a gasp, then tightens eyes locked tight, his arms sink down, his hands release, he pushes her away. Go now, take what you know with thee, spare not a glance behind, or lo my teeth shall rend thy flesh your blood become my own. Learn from my life, and nature dark, and wrap a shield from it, 286

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so when the night approaches more, your summer lasts forever. A push, she bolts, a mad dash hell, the thorns and twigs all scratching, and bursts through tree into the clear and falls to grass so still. A subtle peek behind round shoulder, alone but with the night is she, her ears twitch for a sound of threat, somewhere a bird turns in its sleep. To bed where she belongs, she goes, safe from her guardian angel, tucked with soft sheet, hair it sleeps, her dreams will be calm still. Nights from now she’ll open windows, head upon the sill will rest, her body geared towards the night for sounds not like the day. 287

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Beneath a midnight sun, a creak, perhaps a warlock’s door, but some time maybe her once friend will swing upon the wood. I remember I used to think of the vampire as some romantic myth that represented everything good about night time. When I hit the peak of my teenage angst, and felt like I was flying in a shitstorm, I felt like I was the vampire. I stayed up all night, I lived like one, you know? After I met Sarah I occasionally wondered if she was the vampire of my poem, come to give me happiness forever. Sometime towards the end, however, I think I decided that the vampire was in fact this evil lying God that had tricked me into this horrible existence, and this night after night of partying that was eventually going to kill me. Thinking about it now, maybe all that stuff still fits, but I’ve come to believe that this vampire is something altogether different, and altogether overlooked. This vampire can make you feel immortal, and can damn you to hell forever, just as easily. This vampire gives its gift, and grants you insight like you’ve never had before. But its gift had a price – those under the vampire’s influence will forever be separated from those who aren’t, there is no middle ground, only a barrier of incomprehension. The vampire that joined with me for that violent instance at the séance was not a true vampire, but a reflection of the vampire’s gift, stuck between worlds, trapped and different and just wanting to feel human again. The vampire’s gift will live on in some form forever, the true vampire, that is, while the rest of humanity will look and not understand what makes you so different. And you’ll try and pass it on, in words, in images, in as many 288

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ways of expression that you can, but if the vampire does not take them, they will never truly understand, they can only guess. Only another like yourself will understand you ... for the vampire you are. We can never die, such as you and I. May you live in the summer forever. Love Peter.

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The End. Peter was in the car alone, driving somewhere. He did not know where. An unusual fog had appeared while he’d been inside, away from the night. It wasn’t like the legendary pea-soupers of England, but it was still weird to see it at night, rather than morning, fog not being that common an occurrence, in Peter’s mind. He was slowly driving around nameless streets in Auckland, destinationless, wandering, surrounded by the car. The meeting with his mother and the others had gone as well as he could ever have been expected, he supposed, but was still as awkward as hell. Still, that on top of the other things he’d attended to in the last few days had eased his mind a great deal. He might even be able to talk about it all someday. Maybe he might tell Sarah. Maybe he might tell her tonight, let her know all the things that had preyed slowly and silently on his sanity over these passing years. But he didn’t know if he should go to her or not. Dark night around, the fog distorting what was left, floating through a sea of globes of lights. He didn’t know where he was going. But he started to think about it. 291

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Sarah fumbled with the door key and finally the lock turned and the door fell open before her. Her slow walk home had involved a couple of drinks; she felt her whole body on the verge of falling apart. After seeing Peter it had been all she could do to stop her entire being rushing out from her chest and sloshing around on the floor. She was struggling mightily. And she was shaking uncontrollably, her hand tremors developing from their normal twitter as her body felt the urge to go into convulsions. So many nights now of trying to calm her nerves, but still they had exploded the moment she had seen him. She couldn’t think straight. Sarah turned on the light and a soft yellow enveloped the room, but dark at the edges, at the corner of the eye. Her tremors were really fucking her off. She passed through the room and saw the bottle of champagne she had ordered before she’d left, sitting in a bucket of ice on the table between the bed and the phone/desk/television. Such a small room compared to the one she would normally insist upon. She’d ordered the champagne in case she’d felt like celebrating upon her return, and who knew? She might yet be able to. But her heart sank while she opened the bottle – because that was the great thing about room service, there was always more where that came from down the end of the line – and poured herself a glass, because Peter had looked so uncertain, and so much colder than he used to look, in her arms, under the midnight sun. She swallowed and the liquid ran down her throat and bubbled in her belly, but the hands did not stop shaking and her knees were knocking. She used what was left of the drink to help swallow a couple of tranquillizers, because she was having trouble these days settling down on just one, but didn’t want to overdo it. She sat on the turned-down bed, wondering how long it would be until Peter came. He had to, he just had to. She ran the lip of the glass across her cheek, feeling its cold trail stay for a few moments before evaporating on her warm face. She waited for her hands to steady. 292

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Peter managed to keep his eyes on the road while letting his thoughts drift away, using an ambidextrous mind, so under-employed in the past, but careful drivers are happy drivers and after so much tearing around in Hollywood in that machine it was nice to slow down and watch the view. What he could see of it. The fog was not grey, the night was still black, it was just the edges of reality that were all blurred, and the “now” was a much smaller space than previously. He had drifted west of the central city, that was for sure, but he didn’t really recognise it. Not that it mattered; his sense of direction was a hereditary trait, unlike others, thank God, and he always knew where he was. Even if it was in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere over that hill and down towards the sea Sarah was waiting in a hotel room for him to come and take her hand. Or for him to drive around and never appear before her. And he knew what he wanted. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to go back with her. With her, not after her, not her entourage, but with. But should he? Should he. A problem that could not be solved with thought, for the rational held as tight as the fog in this instance, and only intuition could help him now. Pure feeling. But he thought anyway. Her hands had calmed a little, and she filled another glass and drank. A cheap clock betrayed the room to be an imitation of something a lazy owner would like the hotel to be, but would never reach. It ticked its small numbers mechanically over, pretending to be digital, but just flopping a number around on a ring. Time was definitely passing. Sarah breathed slowly, drinking in the air as well as the wine. Her body was calming. To be sure, she took another trank, but then said “no more, because you don’t want to overdo it”. She thought about Peter and how he seemed so knee-jerk about drugs and all the connotations they carried. But then, she reflected, it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried them. At 293

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least she didn’t do any of that junkie shit. She stood up too quickly, getting that feeling where your brain gasps for air, but just stood until equilibrium returned – it’s a scary little thing, isn’t it? Like maybe you suddenly wonder if you’ve just developed a tumour and you’re collapsing. Don’t worry, with a tumour you should have plenty of advanced suffering – maybe for months or even years. Dizziness, at least, passes. Sarah went into the bathroom, leaving her empty glass on the vanity, and dug through her medicine bag. She pulled out the plastic bottle that concealed the amphetamines that had followed her over the Pacific. I must do what I can, she thought, and unscrewed the cap, dropping it clumsily on the floor. She stood over the toilet bowl and tipped her hand, watching the small plastic get-up-and-go pills fall slowly, splish splash, into the water until the bottle was empty. She threw it away and it rattled a hollow plastic sound until it spun to a stop by the shower. She flushed the toilet and watched them all spin away forever. That must surely be a start if the other stuff wasn’t. She closed the bathroom door behind her, clutching the empty, thin glass by the stem, and filled it again. He must be on his way. He must. Okay, thought was proving ineffectual, and Peter reached back to a time when reason had been non-existent, and life had been pure emotion, walking in stumbling steps, crying in one instant, restoring peace the next. What should he do? What did he want? What would he do? Time had passed, on the road for some time now, how long he did not know. Reach back through the fog and feel what will happen. He became one with everything, with the car, a Zen like state, the road a decision, coming up to a fork, two ways, to Sarah or to an unknown 294

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destination alone. Maybe alone forever. No, that’s not the issue, the issue is Sarah. You are eighteen years old. How will you choose for something that will affect you forever, like, really? Reach back, reach back. She wondered if what she had done had betrayed her character. Had she lowered herself, crawling to a man? Is that what she had done? Is that what this meant? ... No, no it wasn’t, that was bullshit, fuck all that PC shit. It didn’t apply to her and this. She had done right, she had done right. Her demons would plague her no more, she swore it. They would not suck on her soul and drive the life from her, she had so much she could do. She was doing right. Black and white right. Reach back. Reach back. What do you find? Thoughts of Philippa. Yes, you love her, don’t you? You do, but in some way it’s smaller, too contained, for all its explosiveness. Back. Feel. The night life, the fast life, so high, so fun, but when it became forced, the sparkle shine dulled, didn’t it? You didn’t want to play no more. Back. Sarah. Sarah. Every time you said her name before, excitement grew in your stomach, every time, and it still does; you feel the butterflies too, don’t you? They return with her, and you’re out there, alive again, making real decisions, taking paths that matter, not roads lined in paper. The car ate through the fog and forged ahead. You love her. You want to be with her. You can save her. Perhaps you already have. 295

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Perhaps she saved you, too. From a fate worse than death. Peter Peterson turned the car around and headed for Sarah. No rush, no hesitation, the mind returned from the womb of the great beyond. He was on his way. She felt her face flush in panic. Peter, Peter, where are you? How long have I waited? Where are you? Her head throbbed as she wrung her hands, and felt her stomach growl with hunger, but it hurt so much. Where was he? Where was he? She sat down, and stood up and sat down. I love you I love you I love you. She kept waiting. He drove straight and true, the lights of the city coming into view as he crested a hill, as if the buildings had grown right out of the ground, all stars and sparkles. He gripped the wheel firmly, lest the car chose to disappear this moment. He drove. He was nearer every second. He could feel her in his chest, in his thumping heart, in his brain. She stood up again, feeling dizzy, and calmed herself, physically, while her mind ran in addled circles. Please, where are you? That clock is ticking, every second my heart shrinks, I need you, I want you, I love you. The tyres clung to the road, the fog seemed to be lifting, the night was crisp and cool, the lights ran across his face. Every second nearer. The lights of the city so much closer now. Calling to him. She stood, aimlessly wobbling, crying slightly, going out of her mind, spare with worry. 296

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But then she felt it; the sureness. He was coming. She felt it in her chest, in her heart, in her brain, he was nearly there. And she calmed and smiled and thanked all the gods. He glided like an angel through the damp streets, borne upon a breeze of beauty, borne on anticipation. So close. Sarah, I love you. Peter.

Oh, Peter, I can feel you. You’re close. I can feel the thumping and choking of my heart ... the breath wheezes through me like a song ... no. That’s not right. He felt a twinge in his shoulder. Perhaps he’d been driving too long, perhaps ... Sarah couldn’t be far. Go, go, Peter, she’s not far now. The night was still, except for he. She gripped the glass in her hand and thought through the fog in her brain and grasped at the straw afforded her … what was it? What was it? There was a calm patch, and her muscles relaxed. Then panic grabbed her, her lungs coughed out into space, and she heaved, her vision going pink. It subsided as quickly, but she felt it building up again. Intuition flashed across her mind and her startled eyes flicked under the dark eyebrows, and looked at the empty bottle of champagne, and at the small white plastic container next to it. The bottle sat, crying its innocence as her form convulsed again. No! Peter! Something’s happening! Peter suddenly hunched up, becoming alert, found himself on edge. What? What is it? He kept on driving. The night was still and dark. And awake. The truck smashed into the side of the car, pushing it off the 297

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road, totally crushing the rear end, sending Peter spinning in slow circles as the wheels lied to physics and swept sideways. The truck was several times the size of Peter’s car, several times too big, and slow, and old. He felt the wind leave his chest and his eyes widen as he spun, wondering what had happened ... Her mind returned to her for an instant and she grabbed the telephone in a long slow plunge, regained her feet, and pushed a number. The room service answered. She moved her mouth in front of the mouthpiece, but the room spun, something pulled at her neck, snapping it back and she gasped hoarsely ... ... wondering where he was, and the windows turned into a fine grey mist, but hung where they were, while beyond the night spun around him, and his chest felt soft, and he was falling sideways ... ... her knees gave way, she cried silently, a tear flew from her face, her arms flexed wide and worshipped the sun, and gave way to an enormous pressure between her breasts that was Peter ... ... the star lights dancing forever over him, and his chest felt numb and soft, something was nudging him in the side, and made his ribs feel soft, they slid around like water and his head hung back and a cry escaped his heart but not his mouth as the spin ceased and the night took under its wing ... ... and her world sank away. The glass from her hand fell slowly through time as her body sank to the floor and her eyes rolled back. It bounced on the carpet, but did not break, and rolled slightly in a soft semicircle, a small trail behind. The wind whispered quietly to him as he rode on wings of silver, he passed through the world in a rush, the sun always in his face. ... He was floating asleep on a couch above the beach and the green hills below. 298

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... her mouth choked, her body being rushed by others than she, stars passing slowly overhead. he broke through the blue, there were people in white, with masks, all around doctors and nurses surrounded her, behind walls of white and pale blue and paler green he felt her nearby. Sarah was nearby. she could feel his touch on her chest as she sank back and let the nurses do their … he sat up in the real world and looked around him, the doctor in front showed surprise in his eyes, and he looked down at all the blood and was as shocked to see himself sitting up, but he felt her near, yet this room was too small, she was not here, perhaps in the other place. Peter Sarah He turned his head, and saw her lying on the bed next to him, there were no doctors or nurses here, but he could feel them touching his body. She held him with her eyes, straining her foaming mouth, wiping it away with her limp hand, Peter so beautiful, in this white place. I came for you, he said. I know, I love you. I love you too. 299

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Peter, I’m scared. Shhh, it’s OK. I’m here with you. I’ll never leave you. Never? Never. She couldn’t cry, but felt their hearts merge. Sarah, take my hand. He stretched out his hand. Follow me back to the blue. She took his hand. It felt soft. In the real world their bodies jerked in unison, rooms apart, while they were in a place where walls were only for those who could not touch each other’s souls. I love you, said they. He gripped her hand tight, and pulled her towards the blue place, where the sun still shone, the midnight sun. Peter? I’m here. Don’t let go. Sarah, you have to trust me. they flew through beauty towards the blue place, lying on their backs, dying. 300

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their hands were starting to slip. hold tight Sarah. she gritted her teeth. everything you’ve ever done has led to this one moment. everything you’ll do leads from here. don’t let go, Sarah. they continued. in the real world Peter’s body spasmed, and bled, Sarah’s spat forth white and orange foam and blood. the doctors bantered terms and steel and fought for them, as peter and sarah fought for each other. the light grew brighter and brighter with each passing second we’re almost there peter. yes. yes we are. the blue place was close, they could feel it. in the real world two bodies went limp. are you ready sarah? yes. concentrate on the blue place, not my hand, on the blue ... peter, I can’t hear you! it grew brighter and brighter. 301

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sarah, here I am. he tugged with his hand and she felt her heart sing. his fingers caressed her and he spoke. in the real world the bodies were filled with shocks and liquid in unnatural quantities and someone was yelling. Sarah. Listen to my voice. I hear you, Peter. The vampire is not evil or good, Sarah. It is not to be feared. Let it take you, let it guide you, but don’t surrender anything of yourself to any property in creation. Peter, I don’t understand. You will. Wings of light, all around and so bright she could hardly see, the blue place near, and a spinning wind of night. I love you Sarah. I love you too. Forever. Forever. 302

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He let go of her hand and she fell away, her last view of him encased in light, a star, a sun, a beautiful light in the heavens. Sarah fell through the blue place and burst into herself, surrounded by doctors and nurses and white and blue and green. She sat up and coughed and felt a leaden hand on her heart while everyone moved around her. it was the end of everything. it was the end of light. it was the end of day. it was the end of night. She set one tear loose upon her cheek for him, and kissed it goodbye. The white sheet about her fell down and she was naked before the truth. He was gone.

End

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Sing, Goddess, of the anger of the vampire, the ruler of all hearts in man and woman, which brings pain upon the human, but carries all who will it above the mortal, to live forever in memory and song, the anger of loss and the anger of denial and pain, and the anger of time, lost forever in a moment’s hesitation. Paint a perfect picture portrait of lands far away or not so far, wonder at the imperfections, flaw in flawless, sun a star. Of the shallow sinking into depth, and the deep, rising to the surface. Draw aside the curtain and learn from the pain of all, a path from which you carve your life, the vampire awaits you, no matter how you go, or where you fall.

an epilogue They say, to the north, lies a cottage alone. Within will sit a woman who has travelled far in life, and hard was the road. Her old hands clutch a pen to tell the tales of lives, many and few, and the worlds she sought, the ones she conquered, the ones she shared. Gaze through her simple house and you shall find the remnants of a not so simple life. Objects of pain, objects of fame. Achievement in the pantheon of things. They do say that before her coming out into the world she was rather less of a person than she is now, but talk to her and you’ll find how incredible that would be to believe. Yet she may insist it was so, and will direct you to a bookshelf, upon which lie great works, so sure in their own identities, crafted by a skilful hand, but not perfect, she’ll tell you. And the names shall live on when she is gone. At the end of the shelf lie two volumes, one thick, one thin; the big is but a single word – or name, rather. It is called Peter. And tucked on the other side is the small dusty one, which bears its name in golden pride; aged through it may be, some classics shall never date, the book with no author, The Vampire In Summer.

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An excerpt from Mishka’s Journal. May Fourteenth, 1995. Today is Mother’s day. Today, New Zealand won the America’s cup, the second time only that the U.S.A has lost it. Today I killed Peter Peterson. With him dies a small piece of my own innocence as I face guilt over the death of someone who was never born. The sky is orange fire, low sweeping clouds, in the city that he loved. Night time. His time. And hers. I’ve condemned Sarah Howe to years of loneliness, my only happiness that she used those years to fulfill hers and Peter’s dreams. 37 working days are all that was in a story, thank god not all there was to his life. And he cannot say he did not live for in those few months he did and saw more than most people ever will, more than I, probably. But still I will feel guilt, over playing god, or letting my muse hurt the vampire so.

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