Fish is still elated about scoring $150,000 from Pauline. He will be able to live the life of Riley on this, just has to lie low until the stink dies down. He has drawn it out in cash and stashed it in a hideaway. No one is likely to search the clutch of woebegone railway cottages that huddle in the deep shade cast by Otira’s mountains. Most of the wooden structures are abandoned, but a few have been tidied sufficiently to shelter artists, itinerants, and cannabis cultivators. Fish has such connections all over the South Island.
I was never meant to be a townie tied to a permanent business and a permanent woman, he reiterates to himself as sets up his easel at the base of the Otira viaduct. What a fantastic structure, he breathes, as a firm, upright stroke marks the virgin canvas. Swift charcoal strokes follow, capturing the essence of the steep, suspended road. It has the beauty of a lean woman. Pauline was fun, good value, game for a mature dame — he could feel a little bad about swindling her, but nah, he gave her a good time and the woman is rolling in it. That kinky brother of hers left a bloody fortune. She doesn’t need it. It’s not as if she’s got any dependants, he reassures himself as his charcoal hints the outline of the rugged mountains and suggests patches of bush gashed by slips. I am a free spirit, he tells the brush that applies the first patch of colour. “I’m not tied to anyone, not lovers, not parents, not dependants,” he tells the alien structure he intends to capture on canvas. “And that’s how it’s going to be forever,” he informs the summits, stark against the sky.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Darlene is plugged in to the Nokia she bought specifically for its in-built FM receiver. Tonight she is playing in a concert at the Cathedral and has an afternoon rehearsal for which she has arrived an hour early. Along with countless Cantabrian listeners, she hears the story on the three o’clock bulletin. “Breaking news: Baby missing from Canterbury Hospital. Unconfirmed reports indicate a newborn infant has been removed from maternity. We will bring you further news when it comes to hand.”
The news makes Darlene think of Kat and Jen. She hasn’t seen Kat since lectures finished in October. Her last chat with Jen was after their exam in November. They were both feeling happy about the exam and had exchanged phone numbers. Darlene visualises Jen and Kat sporting their attractive maternity wear. Kat’s bulge is considerably larger — in fact, if memory serves her right, Kat’s baby is due near the end of January. She could phone Jen and find out how things are going with them both.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Connor O’Connor, petty crim and extrovert, hears the same news outside the Cathedral on a transistor that isn’t his. He notes his underlings are bored, something that causes O’Connor a measure of dis-ease, not that he would let it show. Dale and Marty have hung out with him for months now, ever since the guy they used to be with got soft and found a job. He’s toughened them up a bit. They aren’t the sharpest knives in the block but they give the admiration he deserves. A bottle kicked by Marty skitters across the paving-stones. Onlookers make sure they don’t catch his eye. Marty reaches for another Corona.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen clutches her side. “Oow!” Junior is making his presence felt. She rubs the bump made by the foot of the foetal rugby-player. Damn, she has to pee again. In the loo Jen reviews possibilities. Wilkin did not take the baby. This is the only Wilkin thought she can cope with at present. Has Sarai flipped out? She is a fundamentalist to her own vision of reality. Does Sarai believe she is Lilith? The situation is beyond logic. There is immediate and terrifying danger. If the baby is getting in the way of Sarai’s life’s plan, the deranged old woman could kill the child simply to make Kat available for her ‘mission’. A vision of Sarai hurling baby dolls brings vomit to her throat. Jen gags it back and slurps a handful of water from the basin tap. Concentrate, she orders herself, grasping the stainless steel bench for support. Think woman, think!
The officials are entrenched in their own view of the situation. The police are convinced Wilkin has the baby. It is up to her to find Sarai and rescue the baby. Will the police be interested in her, as Wilkin’s wife — require her to stay in the hospital? A tinkling burst of ringtone cuts across her thoughts. Jen fumbles in her bag and clamps the intrusion to her ear with a hesitant, “Hullo?”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Darlene here, Jen, long time no see. I heard the news on the radio about a baby going missing from a hospital and it made me think of you and Kat.”
“You heard it on the radio? Oh Darlene, that’s terrible. It is Kat’s baby! Kat went into labour early then stopped, and last night they gave her a caesarean because the baby was getting stressed. A perfect little girl … and she’s been stolen.” Jen’s fears pour out. Darlene is the recipient of a tumbling flood of unexpected information. She considers Jen mature and sophisticated and can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“Jen, that’s terrible news, but you have to calm down. Sarai wouldn’t kidnap a baby. You know she wouldn’t.”
Jen struggles to control her voice. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m scared that Sarai has become mentally unwell. I have to find her … but I don’t know where to look,” she finishes lamely. There is a long pause while Jen struggles not to cry.
Darlene doesn’t know how to cope with this. “Jen, I’m really sorry. I have to go. My rehearsal is starting soon and I have to get ready.” The words sound feeble. What would her mother say? “Just know I’m here if you want someone to talk to … But not tonight … Well, not until late because I’m playing in a concert.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai mounts the worn steps, crosses the porch and plunges into the centre aisle. She takes a deep breath and turns to face the rose window. It is a confusing mass of coloured flecks but as her eyes adjust to the bombardment of light the very centre of the window glows white. The white blob firms into a shape, the shape of a lamb, a prancing triumphant lamb holding a flag. Sarai sinks to the nearest chair. The window spells life not death. She composes herself to meditate. The music of the choir caresses her soul. She slips into a state of relaxation and slowly senses something different in the One-Soul energy, something good. There is someone new tuned into One-Soul. Is it one of her novices? The voiceless message isn’t clear. Could it be the baby? Has Kat’s baby picked up the instruction from the womb? Is her novice a vessel for the true messiah?
The choir anthem soars to a series of amens and within seconds the angelic music is replaced by stringed instruments pinging and plonking. Sarai hears nothing.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Darlene lugs her cello from the music room. The choirboys are rehearsing. The treble voices soar, filling the cathedral with angel music. Darlene pauses to listen. The summer sun streams through the windows in a symphony of light. Darlene is transfixed by the combined beauty of colour and music. Someone is standing in the centre aisle. The figure stands with her back to the altar. It can’t be — but yes, it is, it is Sarai. Sarai, with her stick and her shoulder bag, standing stock-still in the middle of the aisle gazing toward the door.
The members of the youth orchestra are setting up their instruments in the area allocated. Darlene whips out her phone and texts Sarai is in the cathedral.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen’s face lights as she reads Darlene's message. You are an angel, she breathes, and texts thnx. She peers around the door of the ladies in search of an exit and sights the dark back of a policeman. He is engaged in conversation with a man wearing a hospital ID card. Jen is about to pull back when she recognises the man. It is Keith Morely. Why is Keith here? Why is he wearing a hospital ID? Didn’t he say he was working through January, doing parish supply — maybe hospital chaplaincy is a part of his work? If so he would know his way around. Come this way, Keith, she wills. Please, God, she prays. Keith turns in Jen’s direction. She keeps concealed, holding the door ajar with her body and calculating when he will reach it. “Keith,” she hisses as he passes. She presses a finger to her lips, stretches out her other hand and grabs his arm.
“Jen! Jen, this is a women’s toilet!”
“There’s no one around.”
“Jen, do you know the police are looking for you?”
“I thought they might be.”
“I’ve heard the terrible news. I went to visit Kat but she was sleeping.”
“Please, Keith, I need help.” Her knees sag.
“Steady, Jen,” his arms are holding her up. “What is it you want?”
“I’ve got to get to the Cathedral … will you take me?”
Keith looks perplexed.
“I have to get out of here. The police think my Wilkin has taken Kat’s baby but I know he didn’t.”
“Jen, the baby is missing. Someone must have it.”
“It’s not an it, the baby is a her — a beautiful girl. Sarai took her.”
Keith is about to tell her she is becoming hysterical and not thinking straight but stops himself. He has been trained to listen. “We can’t stay talking here, Jen. You’ve had a terrible shock. What is it you want me to do?”
“I need to get to my car without being seen.”
“That isn’t possible. There’s a policeman at the exit and another in the car park.
Jen’s fingers clutch like someone drowning. “What am I going to do? I can’t talk to the police, not yet.”
Keith knows he shouldn’t do this but Jen is in distress. He looks at his watch. “I’m taking a service in the chapel at four. If I took you there, I couldn’t stay. You would have to get a taxi back.”
“Please, Keith. Please.”
“I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t.”
“I have to find Sarai.” Jen looks so desperate that Keith goes against his instincts. It’s not as if Sarai is dangerous, he tells himself, and Jen is stressed beyond measure. Finding Sarai is clearly the only thing that will give her peace of mind.
“Come on. There’s a staff exit this way.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Darlene finishes tuning her cello and scans the nave for Sarai. The old woman has dozed off in a chair. That should please Jen. Long may she sleep.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen silently urges Keith to go faster, knowing he can only go with the traffic flow. Sudden bars of the Norwegian Cradle Song cause Jen to snap open her mobile, an unfamiliar number. “Jennifer dear, it is Maureen Stopforth here. I just felt I had to call you. Such a lovely dinner we had at your place last month. You are so capable and here you are almost into your final trimester. When I head the dreadful news about that missing baby I thought this is the sort of thing that can stress a pregnant mother. I just wanted to assure you that if ever you wanted to discuss anything with someone who has gone through three pregnancies and raised a family. I am available.” Jen is momentarily stunned.
“How kind of you Mrs Stopforth,” she murmurs.
“Maureen, please dear do call me Maureen. I phoned your house but you weren’t in. Where are you dear?”
“I’ve just arrived at the Cathedral. I’m afraid I have to go now…Maureen, but thank you for calling.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Keith pulls up on yellow lines behind the Cathedral. He jumps out, flings open Jen’s door, and helps her out of the car. “You take care, Jen. Don’t do anything you might regret. I’m tied up for the next hour or so. It might be best if you get a taxi home from here and avoid awkward questions at the hospital. I’ll call you when I’m free.”
Keith receives an impulsive hug as Jen gasps heartfelt thanks.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Bottom of the hour, local news time,” declares the breezy DJ, “a newborn infant is missing from Canterbury Hospital’s maternity ward. Police are wanting to speak with anybody with information. We understand the police are specifically interested in a high-profile Cantabrian businessman and a senior Canterbury rugby player.” We have heard that prominent businessman Wilkin Hawthorne visited the mother of the missing child early this afternoon.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
O’Connor’s fertile imagination is in top gear. Wilkin Hawthorne eh! Why is Hawthorne visiting a maternity ward? Why would any male visit a maternity ward? It seems pretty obvious to him. If there is anyone Connor O’Connor would like to take down, it’s Wilkin Hawthorne and his hoity-toity Mrs. His mind darts to humiliating memories. He’d got a lowly office job at Smith Upson and Stopforths a couple of years back, even attended the staff mid-year party, and observed how well put together Mrs Hawthorne was but did she cut him dead when he tried to join their conversation, looked at him as if he were dog shit. A month or so later Hawthorne had fired him.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai returns to the physical world and looks around. People are dotted in straggling clumps all over the Cathedral. A group of young people are sawing away at stringed instruments. It seems a rehearsal is in progress. A woman is singing. It would be rude to walk out until she finishes. Sarai idly extracts a book from the chair in front. It is the Book of Common Prayer, a personal copy left by an absent-minded parishioner. Holding the little fat book brings a sense of peace and connection. Her Sarah-self had learned to love its poetry from an early age, a tender, innocent life-time ago. The frayed book falls open at ‘Evening Prayer’. Nunc Dimittis, reads Sarai, her eyes glaze and in her head she recites, Lord, now lettest thou servant depart in peace: according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; to be a light to lighten the Gentiles: and to be the glory of the people Israel. Another part of Sarai’s soul flows with the meaning, altering the words, Glory be to Sophia, and to her Children and to One-Soul; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: joy without end. Amen.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen steps briskly towards the grey Cathedral and lurches to a stop. Backache is making her limp. Reaching the front porch entrance suddenly seems a daunting task, perhaps the side porch door is open, but even that is a long trek. She rubs her back and stretches. Strung round the outer curve of the sanctuary a bright banner announces Summer Concert 17th Jan. Jen’s eyes slide from the banner to a tucked-away door. Good God, the back door isn’t locked! A slit of shadow betrays the narrow door is definitely ajar - must be something to do with the concert. All thoughts of backache disappear.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai stands, she feels light, a weight of responsibility has been lifted. She steps into the centre of the aisle and smiles up to the sprightly lamb. The lamb holds his flag in the hub of a well-defined wheel. Wheels within wheels, she acknowledges to the surrounding picture circles, such are the complexities of belief. The Wheel turns, Sarai thinks. It is not a Wiccan wheel, it has ten spokes. Wiccans celebrate four seasons; Buddhists have an eightfold path of enlightenment. The wheel unites cultures and transcends faiths. The wheel is a symbol of journey.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen pushes the door and it moves with a reluctant creak. She walks past the choir stalls and chapel as though she has every right to be there. She pauses at the top of the side aisle and scans the knots of people strung randomly through the nave. Is Sarai still here? A figure with a stick stands motionless in the centre aisle. It is Sarai! As her brain confirms the message relayed by light-adjusted eyes, the figure starts moving toward the main doors. “No!” Jen hears a frantic voice reverberate through the acoustics of the cathedral. The voice shouts, SARAI! — more than a shout, closer to a scream. People turn, shocked. They stare at the crazed pregnant woman. Those nearby make shushing noises.
Slowly Jen realises the wild voice is hers. The sound had come with no thought, no consideration of consequence. In the instant of pause Jen marvels at her own courage — or is it insanity? Jennifer Hawthorne does not make a spectacle of herself. She doesn’t act without consideration of protocol and impact on others. These values are her chosen obligations, but not today. Adrenalin surges. Musicians, singers, assorted parents and supporters watch in astonishment as the pregnant woman emerges from the ambulatory aisle, cuts behind the eagle lectern, crosses in front of the sanctuary, and totters down the centre aisle.
“SARAI WAIT!” cries the disturbed woman. Sarai is unconcerned by the polite expectations of society but is amazed to behold Jen behaving so outrageously out of character. Jen yelling in the Cathedral, interrupting a rehearsal … something must be terribly wrong. Sarai’s heart lurches as she rifles possibilities — something has happened to Kat, or the baby. The possibilities present in the moment it takes Sarai to turn to face the screaming Jen. Another thought hits her, Jen is a sensitive spiritual — could she have encountered the wolf in the chapel?
The aisle is long; Jen’s heels clatter on the tiles and all eyes follow her ungainly progress. Sarai feels her energy shifting from transcendent-sublime to panic. In an effort to halt the unwelcome change she swivels her eyes away from Jen to a random window, Christ is holding a peaceful lamb. All is well, all will be well, she instructs her taut body in the wisdom of Julian of Norwich. When Jen makes it to her outstretched arms Sarai is in a state of relaxed warmth. She pulls Jen to her bosom intent on radiating love into the frightened girl. “Jen, Jen take a moment, just brea …”
Jen wrenches out of the embrace, grabs Sarai’s wrist and pulls her toward the entrance porch. Jen pushes her toward the closed side door. In the gloom of the alcove she faces Sarai. Her features are contorted by … Sarai knows not what. Jen’s words tumble with urgency. “Sarai, you know I love you and I will no matter what but you must tell me.” Her nostrils flare and Sarai feels the heat of panic transferring through the grip Jen has on her wrist. “Where is the baby?”
The bewildering words come with such tone of accusation Sarai is dumbfounded. But she is not about to be drawn into hurt reaction, she has had enough over-reaction for one day. Sarai ignores Jen’s hysteria and opens herself to One-Soul. She takes a long, deep breath and breathes in the embrace of everything.
Whack! The moment is terminated by a slap to her face. “Sarai. Sarai, don’t zone out on me. I need you to stay with me.” Jen drops her handbag and grabs Sarai’s shoulders. She attempts to shake the solid old woman. “This is not some fairytale or mystical adventure, it is a baby! A baby’s life, Sarai! What have you done, you crazy crone?”
Jen releases the old shoulders and tugs at the bulky jute bag. There is no movement or sound. If a bundle of baby is in the bag it isn’t alive. Surely even a crazed lunatic wouldn’t be carrying around a d … She has to be absolutely sure. The bag falls off Sarai’s frame and lands with a soft thump on the worn tiled floor. Jen is on her knees at Sarai’s feet, tearing at the bag, reaching, feeling, pulling out … books, papers, poncho, scarf, water bottle, tissues, remedies, pills, purse … things she knows are always in her mentor’s bag. Jen’s own craziness reflects back at her. What the hell am I doing? She looks at Sarai’s feet. She has been at Sarai’s feet ever since she met her. She is Mary of Bethany. Devotion and humble service are what she owes her teacher. Washing her feet would be a privilege, drying them with her hair an honour of the highest magnitude … her mind somersaults … Sarai is controlling me, I am her pawn.
Disoriented, Jen is unsure who she is or who Sarai is. But every cell in her body knows she has one obligation: to find Kat’s baby. If that means destroying her relationship with Sarai, she will. She must! The situation is crucial and allows no space for sentiment, or manners. For the second time in five minutes Jen hears her own voice leap out at her. “You think you are Lilith!” She is on her feet, eyeball to eyeball with the demon. “And you think you can control me, but you can’t. Good overcomes evil.” For a precarious moment Jen sees herself as a black preacher in some movie set in the American South. Jen feels like a parody, but the spew of words won’t cease. “The truth must prevail.” She is on the verge of invoking the name of JESUS in a triumphant volley, but reason prevails. “What have you done with the baby?”
The words are delivered with such force that Sarai steps backwards. Before she can make a response an arm encased in brown knitting reaches across Jen with a curt, “Excuse me,” and takes Sarai’s hand. “Madam, are you all right?”
A elderly man positions himself between the women. Sarai is relieved to turn her attention from her boiling novice. “Thank you, thank you, yes I am fine … my friend is upset, we just need a minute.”
The man tilts his head in a questioning manner that shows experience in volatile situations. Sarai understands and brings her free hand to rest on the hand that holds hers. She nods appreciatively. “We will get our problem sorted, but thank you.”
The man turns to Jen and stops, startled.
“J … Jennifer?” he stumbles. “Mrs Hawthorne.” He uses her married name with a respectful change of tone. His face comes into focus and Jen begins to recognise him. A church face, someone part of Anglican life in the city, does voluntary work at the Cathedral, an old friend of Wilkin’s father, someone who has known Wilkin all his life, he was at their wedding.
“Um, ah … Mr Graham. I am sorry, very sorry, I know this seems inappropriate but …” Sarai adds her own placations and Bert Graham senses the peak of the frenzy has passed. He steps back and bows from the scene.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Albert Graham is seventy and not afraid of conflict. He had been a prison warden for thirty years and head warden at Paparua for the final ten. He knows when to get involved and when to detach. The moment has passed. He will give young Jennifer Hawthorne space. About to re-enter the cathedral Bert stops himself. Volatile situations are liable to re-flare and Hawthorne’s wife is pregnant! Pregnancy does strange things to women. He turns back to the incident and realises the old woman is also familiar, but from where? She is speaking calmly, showing ease under pressure. Bert follows the sound pattern jump from accusation to crying and back to attack. The older woman takes on a stronger tone. He approves the tactic, an old pro using enough bite to engage with the young-un’s passion. There is no doubt the old girl is driving this bus.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
A juggling busker in Cathedral Square has attracted a sizable group of onlookers but the rear of his crowd is becoming distracted, showing more interest in the cathedral than him. The busker feels aggrieved and takes a break. The high entertainment inside the Cathedral’s porch lasts a couple of minutes then lowers. The onlookers see the pregnant woman is accepting the old girl’s point of view. The women are facing each other with hands joined oblivious to the gaggle of staring eyes.
“Oh, Sarai,” Jen gulps, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could have thought what I thought.”
“There there, Jen. It’s all right. Just remember you mustn’t believe everything you read. Male recorders have distorted almost everything that presents females in a worthy light. Appearing as she does at the beginning of human knowledge Lilith myths appeared in the most ancient cultures and provided maximum opportunity for corruption. Lilith was, and is, the first fragmented soul to comprehend the spiritual nature of the universe and find the way to return to One-Soul. Lilith saw that the true nature of wisdom simply is and therefore justice is redundant. She also saw that justice is necessary in the world that humans have. Wisdom Keepers strive to promote a justice that fully understands.” She pulls Jen closer, “One other thing, Jen. Humans want to believe in the power of objects. It is a natural instinct to invest in things such as amulets, flags, and religious symbols, but true power comes from letting go of all things, all knowledge and all belief.”
The arguing women are hugging. Is the spectacle over?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben clings grimly to the wheel of his trusty Toyota. His elderly car has a full tank of petrol. They have a good relationship and the machine responds to his urging. Hawthorne seems unaware of his shadow as they travel through the string of small towns that lead to the alps and Arthur’s Pass.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen lifts moist eyes from the embrace and sees the audience. Shame flames her face. She has to get away. She must get back to the hospital and rethink the situation. Though humiliated that their passionate exchange has been crowd entertainment, her mood swings to anger: they are a pack of nosy hyenas. She sets her jaw and takes Sarai’s hand. She feels Sarai’s understanding. Hand in hand they walk at the rubber-neckers. The onlookers part slowly, begrudging the escape of their bonus entertainment.
“Hawthorne!” a voice calls from the crowd. Jen’s eyes clamp to her plodding feet. “That’s Wilkin Hawthorne’s wife,” shouts the voice.
Jen’s blood surges, she feels a pulse beating in her temple. The crowd finds renewed energy. Where it had been opening it closes, pushing with a new intensity. The voice turns into a face, a young, confrontational face. Cocky with knowledge the loud-mouth, bystander knows he has found a new entertainment and this time he will be ringmaster. “Wilkin Hawthorne,” he shouts, “He’s the one that nicked the baby from the hospital today!”
Jen lets go of Sarai and brings her hands to her face, this can’t be happening.
“Wilkin Hawthorne, it’s on the radio. He’s her husband and he’s nabbed some kid that his mistress spat out. I reckon she made him to do it.”
The crowd, perceiving new entertainment, corrals them, hustling, muttering, calling. Voices buzz around Jen and Sarai dangerous as swarming bees. Sarai bites her lip and closes her eyes searching for a tactic.
“Baby killer, baby killer,” Connor urges his mates. They respond drawing others into the chant. The fever is building and he is conducting, “Baby killer, baby killer.” This is his kind of ammo! Only a handful of loiters have heard the kidnap news, but mob mentality is set and the ringmaster is in control.
Sarai pushes her shoulders back and lifts her chin with words to the ready. A loud crash stops her, and the mob, dead in their tracks. They turn towards the sound. “Get out of my way.”
Jen sees a tin rubbish bin lid and then the empty bin. Someone is slamming them together. Lid and bin lumber into the fray propelled by a man in corduroys and jersey, a senior citizen. Bert Graham strides on into crowd. Crash! Bash, bash, sounds his bin volley. “Out of the way! What the hell are you people doing?” He isn’t looking for an answer, “Clear off!” Bert shakes the lid at a row faces. “This is church land and these good women need to go about their business.”
Crowd energy wanes but O’Connor isn’t ready to abdicate the limelight. He moves forward and faces his adversary. “Shut up old man. Piss off!” His arms shoot out pushing Bert into a group of teenage girls. They squeal with excitement and mock disgust.
“Hawthorne’s a baby killer,” the ringmaster waves his arms up calling his orchestra back to play. “Baby killer,” two voices echo. Bert moves to a higher gear. Veins twitch in his neck. Though age has lessened his statue Bert is the same height as the aggressor. The old man places his nose directly in front of the young man’s nose. It is no pre-hongi. It a practised look, honed by years of controlling men far more dangerous than this one. The ex-warden eyes drill. The ringmaster falters. Jen catches submission flicker in the younger eyes before they lower. The skin around the older man’s eyes tightens, narrowing his view to a dangerous slit. Jen’s eyes stay on the young man and she sees the switch throw in the lout’s mind. Jen tenses as his shoulders straighten.
No old goat is going to rob Connor O’Connor of his show. The rabble-rouser’s arm shoots at the old man’s chin. Bert ducks without effort and in one smooth movement catches the flying arm turning it as it fires. The ringmaster spins on the spot. His arm is behind his back. The pain is brutal. He is on his toes trying to take the pressure off his jack-knifed limb. The crowd gasps. The old man has the loudmouth in a hold and looks like he’s going to tear the guy’s arm off.
Crack! A bottle missile strikes the balding head. Bert staggers and falls. The young man is spinning, nursing his arm. He bends at the knees allowing gravity to pull him towards his prey. He coils his arm for another strike. Pain prevents the punch. Bert rolls and the ringleader crashes beside him.
Two youths in hoodies push their way to ringmaster and haul him up. Bert struggles back to his feet. It is years since he’s been in a punch up but the chosen path of a hard man is lifelong, body and mind obey the programming. Never show pain, never back down and never stay down. Blood trickles past his ear. Bert doesn’t reach to touch it. Instinct propels a side-step. The youth, whose punch missed its mark, falls into the crowd and is launched back into the action. Bert shakes the stars from his vision. These punks aren’t fighters, they are local bums with nothing better to do, but there are three of them, he will have to take out the leader. He ploughs in with his right shoulder. The cocky conductor crumples in a heap.
“Dale, look out!” screams one of the hoods but his warning comes too late. Bert sends the second youth flying with a left uppercut to the jaw, but takes a punch in the kidney from the third attacker.
“Get him Marty,” yells the one on the ground. The lout’s punching arm comes back for another blow right beside Jen. Without thought she grabs the hand of the assailant and twists it behind his back. The male wrist is clawed in ten manicured nails and Jen is clinging on for all she is worth.
The crowd can’t believe their luck. A full-on fight, three males attacking one fearless old man and two women. The second lout prises Jen’s fingers from his mate’s arm and slings her aside. She stumbles into a lamp-post. Jen’s intervention gave Bert breathing space. Whack! O’Connor staggers again. His mates come to his aid from behind. Dale and Marty hold Bert’s arms while the recovering ringleader pulls back for a finishing punch.
Sarai isn’t having it. She throws herself between Bert and the assailant and waits for the punch to strike her back. It doesn’t come. Sarai turns with stick raised to ward off the next missile but the assailant isn’t there. He is on the ground, stunned to silence.
A new man has injected himself into the fight. Shiny black shoes register first then suit, tie, and a face set in calm determination. An open hand flies past Sarai to the hood holding Bert. The youth dodges the hand. There is a sickening crack. The suited leg had struck with the speed of light - the hand a distraction, the kick the weapon.
The youth falls grasping at his leg and screaming. Bert takes the opportunity to sink the frozen lout still standing. The crowd erupts in a backward explosion of self preservation. Three men are on the ground one stunned, one moaning, one screaming.
The victor turns to Jen, engages her eyes, inclines his head, then runs at the crowd, finds a gap and is gone. Jen releases the post she’s been clinging to since staggering into it. Sirens sound in the distance. She has been in a street brawl! Mr Graham offers his hand to Sarai. “Bert Graham, we haven’t been formally introduced, but I know you from your writings in the Press, Sarai, isn’t it?”
They shake hands with eyes in direct contact. Bert smiles a warm, easy smile, “You’re quite a fighter for an old girl.”
“Fighting is for fools,” returns Sarai, with an equally friendly smile, “but that doesn’t mean one should allow herself to be pushed around by fools.”
Bert laughs a chugging, too-loud laugh, “You’ll do me love, you’ll do me.” He takes out a large handkerchief and holds it to his head.
“You need to get that seen to,” says Sarai tartly. Jen squeezes Bert’s arm, “You are amazing Mr Graham,” and tapping her belly, “I hope this little fellow grows up to be as brave as you.” Bert nods acknowledgement. His eyes slide back to Sarai, “I hope we meet again,” he says, “soon.”
“I’m sure we will,” replies Sarai looking gracious and sounding genuine.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin brakes and curses, a yellow sign with black stick-figure and shovel indicates road works ahead. On a Sunday! There are no milling men or crawling machines, just a narrow strip of metalled roadway beside a new strip of tarseal. The sealed area is blocked off. Wilkin has no plan. Speeding is the only balm he has. Now he is forced to travel slowly. The length of the road works is interminable — several crawling kilometres. Twice he has to pull to a near stop to let oncoming vehicles pass.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben is cheered by the sight of red brake lights. What luck, road works, this will slow Hawthorne down. Travelling the narrow strip of usable road, Ben rakes over the route in his mind. Porters Pass could be a problem. His machine doesn’t have the grunt to do it at speed, but really there is nowhere to go. Apart from the main road there are only farm roads and access to ski-fields. Ben has done a bit of skiing and is familiar with the territory. It is summer. The gates to the main ski field roads will be locked. There are no alternatives other than the road around Lake Lyndon. Ben turns the radio on.
Porters Pass is as he feared. Hawthorne mounts it like a rally driver. “Come on, old girl,” Ben urges. The Toyota’s best is not good enough and Ben loses sight of the silver Chrysler. I hope he didn’t take the Lake Lyndon back road, Ben mutters as he follows his gut feeling and swings right with the highway. He is going faster than he has ever driven on the flat, let alone in the mountains. Rounding a corner, heading downhill, he spots a knot of vehicles stopped at a bridge. Ben pulls up behind the Chrysler. In front of it an old Ford is kissing a Maui campervan. The campervan is skewed across the bridge with its tail buried in the railing. Three Asian tourists are speaking passionately and gesticulating wildly to a middle-aged woman. The woman speaks to Hawthorne and then to Ben. “They didn't give way. I tried to get the tow-truck at Springfield but it’s Sunday and they aren’t answering. I’ve got another company at Kirwee but they say it will take about an hour to get here. I’m sorry but there is nothing to do but wait.”
Ben checks the familiar number plate in front of him, DBL333, and registers three sixes. He knew the man was evil. He sends another text to Stopforth. Hawthorne on west coast road has passed lake lyndon may have baby
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Greg McRae ponders alone in his hospital office. Dire thoughts are interrupted by an insistent phone. A proposition flows into his ear. McRae is not one to ignore a life-line. Salvation comes in many forms. How the caller has this knowledge is a mystery, but he obviously knows what he is about. Disasters live and die in the media. Prudent management of that forum is a path to success. That someone who talks the right talk and knows the right people has offered discrete assistance, is an utter god-send!
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Jennifer, I need to go home.” Sarai feels heavy on her arm. “I need to lie down, dear, and I’m sure you do too. This has been a hideous day.” She looks at her watch. “It is almost four o’clock. How about you come home to my place? We can freshen up, rest, have a bite to eat and be back with Kat in time for the six o’clock news.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“I can’t, Sarai. I must keep looking for the baby. You do understand?”
Sarai claps her hands softly together. “Of course, dear, of course. You must do what you are called to do.”
Jen kisses Sarai on the cheek. “I’m sorry for doubting you, Sarai. I feel such a fool. Please forgive me.” Without waiting for a response she plunges on, “But I must go immediately.”
Sarai calls after her, “Do what you need to do, Jen, but know this: the baby is safe. The lamb is with the good shepherd. I have seen it.” Jen looks back, puzzled. Sarai blows a kiss and walks on.
As Jen heads for the empty taxi rank the mystery saviour falls into step beside her, “Are you OK?” he asks.
“Thank heavens!” Jen beams at her hero, and notes his suit is high end Armani from the current collection. “I thought you had disappeared like a ninja or something.” She holds out her hand, “I can’t thank you enough. What you did was fantastic. I owe you a massive debt, I hate to think…”
Mr Armani jumps in. “It was my privilege.” His voice is not local - confidently slow paced with some indeterminable European intonation. “You were in a bad situation. I’m just glad I turned up at the right moment.”
Jen blinks and unexpectedly gives a sob. She tries to reign herself in, but something is slipping, “God, it was terrible.” Her hands come to her pale face.
“It’s over now,” soothes the handsome man. “All’s well that ends well.” He senses her vulnerability and wants to help her through the moment. His skills prove lacking.
Jen’s dam is breached. Tears flow. Her life is in tatters. Even if Wilkin hasn’t kidnapped the baby, and she is sure he hasn’t, her husband is an adulterous, deceiving, abominable rapist who has ruined her life. Kat’s baby is missing. Kat is tarnished. Sarai is losing it. Everyone she could trust, everything she could lean on, is broken. She has been in a brawl with thugs. She could have risked her own baby’s life! Jen begins to shake. Her knees threaten to give way.
The man puts an arm round her. “You need to sit down. Let me buy you a coffee.” Jen can’t speak let alone refuse. He grasps her hand and she trails like a rag doll to the Cathedral café. It is a relief to sit down. Jen fumbles in her bag looking for Panadol tablets but the tablets refuse to be found. Beyond appearances she pours the entire contents of her handbag onto the café table and extracts the pill box.
Mr Armani gets a tumbler of water from the water-cooler. He considers helping her repack but seeing an unidentified feminine package, thinks better of it and goes to order. Jen picks up her phone and scans through the images. From the counter the man watches her studying the screen. The intensity of her concentration is disconcerting. She is mumbling to herself and shaking the phone in a series of little tremors.
When he returns Jen is arranging the strewn items in order of size - purse, makeup bag, mobile… She seems to be finding some kind of relief in the activity. He places two wrapped cake-forks and plates, each holding a different slice, on his side of the table. Jen makes a move to pack up her gear but is distracted by his lovely accent. “One double shot trim-fat white on its way,” he croons then and adds, “I’m Andrew, by the way.”
Jen gives a little gasp, “Whhhp…I feel as if I’ve been through a disaster with you and we haven’t even exchanged names! I’m Jennifer, and you saved me.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been doing akido and karate for years, ever since I was a nipper, and in all that time I have never had opportunity to actually hurt anyone.” His eyes widen in mock insanity. Jen manages a brief giggle and nibbles at the citrus slice.
“Street fighting is rather different to competition grading. They were little shitbags who needed a good wake up call. I gotta tell you trashing them felt good.” Andrew looks at Jen and perceives her gaze as searching for definitions, clues… maybe he is sounding like a bogan primate…time to re position… “I must sound dreadfully primal. I’m not a brawler - please don’t think that of me but it was quite an experience! However, the issue was getting you and your friends out of that horrible situation. That old guy is one plucky geriatric. He must be sixty, sixty-five?”
“Easily,” smiles Jen, “He was retired when he attended our wedding. He was an old friend of…” She stops short and turns her head sharply. Above the door the five o’clock news is sounding from a faded speaker. Jen catches Wilkin’s name. Café sounds drown the story. She springs to her feet and strains to hear the radio. We will bring you further updates as more information comes to hand.
Andrew comes towards her. “I have to go,” she blurts. Her eyes scan across the Square. Two cabs sit on the rank. What is she doing relaxing in a café? Guilt, fatigue and physical pain rack through her like rising vomit. “Thank you for everything, but I have to go.”
With the quickest of hand shakes she is striding towards a cab. Two minutes later she is back at the café. Andrew meets her at the door with her handbag held out, “I packed it,” he smiles.
“I can’t believe this day,” groans Jen, and is gone.
The man returns to his coffee and activates his phone. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t find Hawthorne at the hospital. Mum was brilliant. Found out where his Mrs was. We speed to the Square and spotted her immediately. A great afternoon, couldn’t have worked better if it had been planned to the last detail. Big story… tell you later. There’s no point in following her now. Hawthorne has totally cooked his own goose...”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat is still sleeping. They must have given her a real knock-out drug, Jen thinks, and wonders what to do. She should have gone home with Sarai. Didn’t Keith say something about leading a service? When she gets to the chapel it is empty. She sits on a pew and for the first time in hours is able to relax. A burst of pixie music from her phone halts the thought. “Hullo, Jen,” says Keith. “I hated leaving you alone. Where are you now?”
Within minutes Jen is sipping hot tea and eating a muesli bar in the chaplains’ office, a room so small its only window is to the main corridor. She relates her afternoon to Keith, who expresses genuine relief that Jen and Sarai are friends again. This reminds Jen that Sarai intends to return to Kat around six.
“One thing this cupboard of an office does have is a good view of the corridor. You can watch out for Sarai through the net curtain.” Jen swivels on the office chair and sees how right he is. “If you and Sarai are visiting Kat this evening I won’t intrude. I’ll visit her tomorrow.” He pauses. “Jen, I’m truly sorry you’re having this terrible time. If I can help in any way at all just call me. And, if you need a listening ear, both of mine are available.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Fish dapples bright-red rata onto the dull bush-green. His eyes move to the dark channel that conceals thrashing water. Otira is a wild place to call home. An image jumps into his head. It is a fellow squatter in the cottage next to his. The bent and surly chap must be well into his eighties, has lived alone for decades, so they say. Poor in vision and crippled by arthritis, just doing the tasks required to survive saps most of his energy. Each futile day is identical to the one before and the one following. Old Ian is alone and no one cares. Is that what you want forever? asks a voice in his head.
Fish dislodges the uninvited discomfort by blending three colours to achieve the right shade of rusty red for the lichen-coated rocks. The mix turns amber. Amber. The colour and the word pull an image of his first daughter, Katrina, with the amber hair. Her baby must be almost due. He is about to become a grandfather. Grandfather! The thought has never struck him before. Grandfather has a very different feel to father. Father embodies responsibility, domesticity, labour, and mortgage, but grandfather evokes indulgence, stories and sweets, hugs and treats.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin is seething. He has never felt so frustrated in all his life. Three cars have him pinned to the shoulder-less road from behind. In front two vehicles are wedged into the narrow bridge, totally blocking the road. How can a main highway have one lane bridges? It is a bloody trickle of a creek. The previous bridge had two lanes crossing a wide expanse of gravel and water. Road board madness! Damned Asian tourists shouldn’t be allowed on our roads. Or is it the fault of that female? Bloody women drivers! They should stay home where they belong. When at last the road is opening he turns the engine on and revs impatiently. Don’t be foolish, he chides himself, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. He turns the radio on.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben too is on edge and not wanting to analyse his actions. He decides to stretch his legs with a short walk back up the road. The sound of a helicopter provides a welcome diversion. It circles overhead. Ben is reminded how his father and his rich buddies like to chopper into places where mere mortals have to hike. Hawthorne has probably shared in such journeys with his father. Ben is suddenly struck by the craziness of his current situation. How did all this come to be?
Eventually a tow truck arrives. Ben is ready to move the moment Hawthorne does. Together the two vehicles surge over the bridge and up the hill. As he drives he tunes in to the radio. “Further update on the baby missing from Canterbury Hospital. Christchurch businessman Wilkin Hawthorne is wanted for questioning and police are asking anyone with any information to come forward.” Ben gasps and grabs at the volume control. Pop music blasts his eardrums and his car spits roadside gravel as he jumps to turn it down. Hawthorne has stolen the baby. He knew the man was evil. He glares at the number plate ahead and realises the devil is pulling away. Did Hawthorne hear the newsflash? If he decides to speed there is no way Ben can keep up. There probably aren’t any police between here and Greymouth. Hawthorne could vanish before anyone can trace him. Ben grabs his mobile and presses 111.
The answering voice sounds bemused but repeats the number plate Ben reels off. “He’s just passed Castle Hill Station,” Ben supplies with urgency. The Chrysler is now a grey speck powering up the steep grade beyond the rock formations. A hiss of static sounds through the phone and Ben’s mobile goes dead. He is in a no signal area.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin can’t believe his ears. He is living a nightmare. The crazy rocks that glare at the road are turning into angry giants. When will he wake up? The radio turns to static. He switches it off. His mind is playing tricks. He is hallucinating — rocks are rocks not ogres, the radio is not beaming messages about Wilkin Hawthorne.
Calm down, he orders. Breathe, slow down. He changes the buzzing radio to CD and drives with the music along Lake Pearson, between mountains, around the Bealey spur, over the long Waimakariri bridge, through the Alpine Village, past the Devil’s Punchbowl waterfall … and what the devil is that? A helicopter is tracking him with broad zigzag sweeps. A man is leaning out. He has a gun!
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Fish steps back to critique his work. It pleases him, a very satisfactory afternoon’s work, he congratulates himself. He dismantles his easel and stows his gear in the old van. A faint throbbing disturbs the clear peace of the narrow sky. The beating throb becomes stronger. Fish shields his eyes and sees a helicopter making dragon-fly sweeps. Strange, he mutters. Helicopters intent on deer culls or rescue missions don’t keep central to the area of the highway. The roar of a car brings his eyes to the grey ribbon of road plunging to the viaduct. A car is travelling too fast down the manmade slope. If he doesn’t brake soon he won’t navigate the bend beyond the concrete structure. A hideous squeal of brakes, a thud, a bang — and silence. The road is empty. The vehicle swallowed by the scenery. The hovering helicopter marks its place of disappearance. A guy in a harness is leaning out taking pictures.
Fish runs to the dented guard-rail and clambers over. Twenty metres below, a car lies upside-down on the rocks. A body hangs from the driver’s window. The helicopter wheels to the east and heads back from whence it came. Fish shakes his fist. “Aren’t you going to help?” he shouts. Another car crests the hump leading to the incline. Fish waves frantically but the car is already skidding to a stop beside him. The driver, a weedy guy with glasses, springs from his vehicle, runs to the dented guard-rail, looks over, pulls back, and spews.
“You knew he was going to crash?” inquires Fish.
“He’s been driving erratically for kilometres.”
The weedy guy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, goes to his boot, hauls out a rope and begins tying it to the metal rail. “We’ve got to get down there.”
“It’s too late, mate. Fancy airbags weren’t much use to him. He’s dead, and if he’s not he’s beyond any help we can give.”
“I don’t care about him. There’s a baby in that car. He stole a baby.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“It’s the baby of … a friend of mine.” Ben already has a leg over the safety barrier. “Will you help?”
“A baby couldn’t survive that. The helicopter will alert the authorities. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I have to try … for the baby’s mother. I love her.”
“You love the mother and the baby isn’t yours? Who is this fucking wonder-woman?”
“Her name is Amber, no Kat, and yes I love her.”
Fish grabs Ben with both hands, digging his long fingers into the nerd’s skinny shoulders. “What do you mean, Amber, no Kat?”
“She goes by two names,” yelps Ben.
“Does she have amber hair?” demands his captor.
“Yes. Let me go, you maniac.”
The man’s grip tightens. “When was the baby born?”
“Ye-yesterday.”
“Nooo!” The man releases him with a moan that rises to a primordial cry. Before Ben can grab the rope the man has slithered halfway down.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Fish is tugging at a door handle when Ben arrives beside him. Hawthorne’s face is slashed, his window shattered. The two men move cautiously around the vehicle, bending to peer in the windows. A briefcase, laptop, and sports bag litter the ceiling that has become a floor.
“There’s no sign of a baby, no baby carrier, no blankets, nothing. What makes you think he stole a baby?”
“He threatened Kat, I heard him. If he took the baby it’s in that sports bag.”
Ben pulls on each handle while Fish attempts to shift the body to access the latch. Nothing budges. Fish selects a large stone and bashes an unyielding window. Ben takes out his mobile. There is no signal. “I’m going up to find a signal. We don’t know if that helicopter alerted anyone.”
He hauls himself up with surprising speed. No signal! He scales a roadside boulder and waves his phone around. Still nothing! This would never have happened if he hadn’t alerted the police. He caused Hawthorne to speed. He could be responsible for the death of Kat’s child.
Fish, too, is a broken man. This wouldn’t have happened if he had been supporting Kat as a father should. As a father he is crap. As a man he is crap. He thought nothing of swindling Pauline. She was just a dame with lots of dough. His new-found conscience stabs deeper. Pauline offered sex and gave love, expecting nothing other than mutual trust. He betrayed that trust. He has done nothing decent in his whole life. He is shit. He attacks the window with renewed frenzy.
Sirens stir both men from their soul-searching. Unexpectedly, the sound comes from below them. Two police cars are winding up the narrow gorge road, their lights sending multi-colours between the columns and cantilevered beams that roof the road at Candy’s Bend.
The sirens and flashing lights ignite a panic response in Ben. He bolts for his car. This disaster is his fault, he can’t face questions. He knows he hasn’t a hope of out-driving the police but Temple Basin ski field is just up the road. If he can get his car out of sight he can hide.
Ben rockets uphill to Temple Basin, swoops off the highway and parks his car out of sight of the road. He jumps out and conceals himself with a view of the road. A curious kea shuffles toward him, ever hopeful of food. Disappointed it flutters to a large rock and does a short dance of disgust, displaying its red under-feathers. A police car zooms past.
Then all is still and very quiet, for too long. Have the police stopped the traffic? A faint beating disrupts the pure mountain air. The helicopter is returning. Ben slithers down to his car. The kea squawks, Look here, look here! But Ben is safely hidden under the dusty white roof of the Toyota as the helicopter passes. He watches it sink and wonders about the narrowness of the road. He speculates a likely landing pad to be the look-out above the viaduct. Thirty minutes later the helicopter rises and follows the highway back toward Arthur’s Pass township, disappearing within minutes.
Ben hopes it is safe to move. He has to see Kat. He has to let her know that he tried to help, he really tried, but it all went so terribly wrong.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~