The next day at lunchtime, Adam’s leaving the canteen, juggling a hot mince pie in his hands, when Simon appears. He waves Adam away from the line of waiting kids with a subtle lift of his chin, beckoning him into the blind alley that runs between the boys’ and girls’ toilets.
‘Hey, bro.’
‘Simon.’
‘This is Motor.’ Simon tilts his head to the right, and a boy, his eyes, dark and reflective, steps out of the shadows. The new boy acknowledges Adam with a quick nod, the movement almost imperceptible.
‘Motor here thinks he might have seen your ol’ lady,’ Simon announces.
‘Yeah?’ Adam tries not to sound too eager.
‘Motor tells me that night, the night your Mum disappeared, he was hanging out at the reserve behind the school. By Carlton Street. That’s when he saw her. She was wearing a green sweat shirt.’
Adam suppresses a rush of excitement. Everyone knows Mum went missing in Ōtūmoetai. Her description has been broadcast all over the country. There are photos pasted to telephone poles, fences, shop windows, anywhere with a flat surface. So far, there’s no new information in Motor’s testimony.
‘Mum wouldn’t have gone there,’ Adam says. ‘That’s the wrong direction. We think—the police think—it’s more likely she headed toward Brookfield.’
Motor shrugs, and makes a move as if to leave, but Simon stops him with the flat of his hand. ‘Motor reckons he saw her. Says he identified her from the posters.’
‘Did he call the police? Tell them what he saw?’
‘He’s telling you.’
Adam turns to the shrinking boy. ‘You should call the police. Speak to Detective Pūriri. If you have information, it could really help,’ he says.
Motor doesn’t reply, just shakes his head no.
Simon goes on, ‘Let’s just say Motor would prefer not to contact the police. He’d rather not draw attention to himself if he can help it. He likes to keep a low profile.’
‘Bit like you then, Simon?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What were you doing there, Motor, in the park?’
Simon and Motor exchange glances, then Simon pipes up. ‘If you must know, he was sitting on the play equipment in the kids’ playground, on the ship thing, enjoying a joint. Motor says your Mum was crossing the reserve, headed toward the swamp marsh.’ Adam wonders how Motor managed to convey all that to Simon without even moving his lips.
‘What time did he see her?’
‘Just after five-thirty,’ Simon answers again. So Motor may have been the last person to see Adam’s mother. Adam has a desire to reach out and touch him, as if the physical contact might recreate a connection with Mum. Instead, Adam grasps the straps of his bag, hitching it higher on his shoulder, causing the paper bag containing his pie to crackle.
‘How can he be sure about the time?’ he says.
‘Motor says he’s confident ‘bout the time.’
‘Yeah, right. Except he was half-stoned.’ An experienced man-of-the-world now, Adam knows about these things.
‘But Motor says his guy didn’t turn up with his stuff until five-thirty, and Motor saw your mum go past the culvert just after that. After he left.’
‘The police have already done a poke through the waterways there. They got some divers in. Didn’t find anything.’ Adam has to concentrate hard when he says this. There’s a chance he could hyperventilate since the ‘anything’ he’s talking about would be his mother’s corpse.
‘She’s not in the water,’ Simon declares.
‘How do you know that?’
‘‘Cause if she went in the water there, Motor would’ve seen it, wouldn’t he?’
‘Mm. Maybe. Look, thanks for trying to help. I’ll tell the police.’
Motor shakes his head violently at Adam’s mention of the police.
‘Motor doesn’t want any trouble. I told him you were good, you know, after last time with me. You can’t tell the police. They’ll want to know how you know, who told you. You’ll have to tell them Motor’s name, what he was doing there, that stuff.’
Adam thinks. Motor’s information isn’t likely to add anything to what the police have already learned. There have been plenty of ‘possible’ sightings reported. And they’ve already trawled the waterways.
‘Okay. I won’t say anything. Is that all he remembers?’
‘Yup, that’s all.’
‘She didn’t seem agitated, tense?’
Once again, the two younger boys exchange glances.
‘Motor says it was starting to get dark and she was walking kinda fast, not looking all about like she was frightened, but purposeful, in a hurry, and she didn’t have a handbag. He says he watched her go through the gap towards the road. She could’ve crossed over and gone through the swamp marsh, or she could’ve got picked up on the road. Motor doesn’t know ‘cause he didn’t see anything after she went through the gap. He was there a bit longer, you know, finishing, but he didn’t see her come back. That’s all he knows.’
Adam nods, absorbing the information. Meanwhile, Motor gives Simon another small nudge. Adam can only guess what this means.
‘Okay, see you round, Motor. Thanks for fronting up. We ‘preciate it, don’t we, Adam?’
We?
‘Yeah, sure. Thanks for the info... Motor.’ Adam says. With another barely discernible nod, the boy slopes away.
‘Well?’ Simon asks when Motor has gone.
‘Well, what?’
‘Think that’ll help? I’ve been asking around, see, networking.’
‘Simon, that’s great. Any help is great. Thanks.’ Adam’s about to leave. Lunch is nearly over, and his pie is cooling rapidly. But Simon has something else on his mind.
‘So, Adam...’
‘Yup?’
‘I’ve been wondering...?’
‘Yeah?’
‘About what you said...?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘About me being fast.’ Simon seems flustered. ‘Maybe you could put in a word for me with the running coach? I thought I could give it a go. I know it’s nearly the end of the year, but I wondered with you being a senior...’
Adam hesitates.
‘You don’t think I’m good enough...’ Simon looks gutted.
‘Sure, I think you’re good enough, Simon. I said so, didn’t I? But you’re the kind of guy who’s looking for quick thrills. You’re wanting an adrenalin rush, a feeling of getting one over on other people. You’re not going to get that sort of buzz unless you’re winning races, and training for races takes effort, commitment.’
Simon’s face flashes with anger. ‘I’m asking you, aren’t I? Means, I’m prepared to do the work, doesn’t it? Make an effort. Shit, if I’d known you were gonna give me a lecture...’ He turns to go.
‘Simon!’
‘Yeah?’ Turning back, the boy’s face is full of hope, the way Adam’s face used to be only weeks ago.
‘Come down to the track today after school. I’ll introduce you to Reece, the coach.’
‘You will? Awesome!’ Simon scampers away as the bell for afternoon classes sounds.
Grinning, Adam chucks his cold pie in a nearby bin and makes his way to E-block.
Surprise!
It’s 4:00am and here I am awake again. The surprise is, I’ve woken from a sleep of six glorious hours. You’d think I’d be relieved, except it wasn’t restful. Instead, I dreamed of Mum, my unconscious mind leading me to a place my conscious mind refuses to travel to.
In my dream, I’m with Motor on the ship thing in the kids’ playground, waiting for something that’s as compelling as it is vague. I’m nervous. I wipe my sweaty palms on the uprights of the play structure. Motor jerks his head, signalling to me in a wordless message.
My mother appears from the trail to our left. Curling through a shaded glade, the track skirts two sides of the school grounds, a convenient course for school cross-country events. But Mum isn’t paying any attention to the scenery. Walking briskly, she has her head down. Suddenly, in the bizarre way of dreams, I’m close to her. Her lips are pursed, not tightly as if anxious, but gently, the way a person might hold their lips when humming. There’s no soundtrack to this dream, so I can’t tell what the tune is. I imagine something catchy. Something from Mamma Mia. Lost in the melody, she doesn’t see me. She veers left, passing the culvert, and heads for the road. Motor was right, then. She’s not in the water. I look over my shoulder to where Motor waits behind me on the play structure, giving him a look which says, ‘Yep, you were right, she’s not in the water.’ It’s a mistake because when I turn back Mum is already at the road.
I spot the man before she does. Stepping out of his car, he moves swiftly, like a predator with shoulders bunched and muscles primed. Thin lips twist into a sneer as he quickens his pace. A bolt of ice plunges into my gut. His eyes! His eyes are cruel. Dark and knowing, they gleam with coiled malice. Following her. Watching her. There’s no mistaking his intent.
Mum!
She doesn’t respond. The dream-sound stays firmly on mute, and Mum carries on walking, heedless of the man on the footpath. My chest tightens. My blood races. I look frantically to the nearest house for help. No one is home, the windows shuttered with thick black-out curtains. There’s no subtle movement of fabric, no slice of light below the shades. There’s no one to see, no one to help.
A hand flings out and he grabs Mum. He covers her mouth with his fist, dragging her close so her back is hard against his chest. Almost upon them, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke assaults me. I see wiry black hairs on the back of his hand, wiry black hairs stuffed in Mum’s mouth. Above his grip, my eyes meet Mum’s.
She sees me!
I read the recognition in her stare. In an instant, Mum’s knowledge mutates into panic, alive and pulsing. Startled, I realise her fear is not for herself.
‘Go back!’ her eyes command. ‘Don’t come here, Adam!’ Turning cruelly, the brute shoves her bodily in the car. Her eyes never leave mine.
‘Go back, Adam.’ The door slams silently and they speed away.
Dream cars have no registration plate.