CHAPTER 12

Emma

‘Are you pissed off at me?’

Emma rested her chin on Loko’s bare chest, which was, given his load of dark dreads, almost freakishly hairless. Strong, though. Good pecs. Good abs. Probably some Freudian shenanigans that made her go for bigger blokes. What was the opposite of an Oedipus complex? Didn’t matter. It was all BS anyway. Made up by a sad, old bloke who had nothing better to do than to make people feel weird about cucumbers.

‘Why would I be?’ he replied.

Such a great accent. Made her think of wood smoke and cider.

‘For making you go to the farmers’ market this morning?’

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did you make me?’

‘Or did you go of your own accord?’ said Emma. ‘My granddad used to tell a joke like that. Wasn’t good then, either.’

‘I enjoyed meeting your jam-making friend,’ he said. ‘She’s a sharp one.’

‘She won’t help us, though. Stickler for the rules, is our Sidney.’

‘Most are. When it suits.’

Emma figured sex in the afternoon was probably against someone’s rules, but people like that had no fun. Long as they kept the noise down, no one in camp would care. Loko had borrowed a tarp-hut that belonged to a Wood Sprite called Freerange. Freerange didn’t like the winters in camp, hiked way up north, came back in November. Emma figured that’s how long Loko would stay. Or, maybe, when the camp filled up over summer, he’d meet more people whose company he enjoyed. Find more causes to support.

She never doubted that he’d find a way to protect the camp. That big, dumb farmer was no match for Loko, who knew how to get shit done, knew how to win. How he managed it, Emma didn’t fully understand, and she’d never ask. That was how this worked — you got passed a message and you did what was asked. You didn’t know who was behind it. Or who else might have been given the same task. No names, no chain, no trail. No chink in the armour, no opening for betrayal.

And Emma got that, she did, but it was kind of frustrating. She’d never been good at waiting around for orders. She was an initiator, of ideas and action, an organiser, a do-er. That’s why she’d loved being part of the commune, the rural sanctuary for people who needed help. The owners were a young couple, only in their thirties and with three small kids, who, amazingly, were happy to share their home and family time with the kind of people most would prefer enclosed behind a high-voltage barbed wire fence. Damaged, delusional, occasionally dangerous, but all of them wanting to be healed, wanting to find some way to gain a bit more control over themselves and their terrible lives. Wanting to know that someone cared and thought they mattered. Thought they deserved more than to be chucked on the scrap heap.

Emma had been one of a small team of volunteers, who were given room and board in exchange for working with the residents, teaching them how to grow food, tend animals, cook, clean, build and repair. She had autonomy to manage people, come up with new ways to get them engaged, moving, productive — most had no clue how to organise themselves, some didn’t even know how to do the most basic of tasks, like washing dishes. She was involved in decision-making, treated like an equal by the owners, who told her she was making a real difference.

They’d been gutted when she announced she was leaving. Pity she couldn’t tell them the real reason why. Maybe one day she’d write …

Loko had his eyes shut, but he wasn’t asleep. He did this form of meditation that was all about defining goals and then visualising yourself achieving them. Was supposed to release all kinds of positive forces that worked on your behalf.

‘As Buddha said: “The mind is everything. What you think, you become”,’ was how he’d explained it.

‘I thought Buddhism was about letting go of self and your desire to control, and all that jazz?’ she’d replied. ‘How does that reconcile with trying to turn yourself into a master of the universe?’

For a second there, he’d looked a bit pissy. But then he’d given her one of his lop-sided smiles. One of the commune residents, Lynda, a former pokie addict, had taken exception to the way he smiled, called him a smug tosser. Guess it could come across like that — if you didn’t know him.

‘If you don’t make things happen, then things will happen to you,’ he’d said.

True dat, as she might say if she wasn’t a white chick. Yep, that was her problem in a nutshell. She wanted to make things happen …

‘How about I start a blog?’ she said. ‘An anonymous one.’

Loko opened his eyes. ‘To what end?’

‘Gathering support by speaking truth. I could lift the lid on what’s going down round here. Overseas developers buying up our land, ruining our waterfront with ugly commercial buildings. Farmers letting their cows crap freely in the waterways. Authorities persecuting blameless people. All the local news is brave enough to cover is school sports days and the A and P show. And if the outside world doesn’t know, how can they care?’

‘It might be harder than you think to make a website anonymous.’

‘Actually, it isn’t,’ said Emma. ‘One of the commune residents was a hacker. Also a choof-monster, which was why he was there. Told me how to do it. Long as you can get bitcoin, it’s easy.’

‘A choof-monster.’

Loko never liked to admit he didn’t know stuff, so he’d kind of slide out questions disguised as musings. Fair enough. Emma didn’t enjoy looking like an ignorant dick, either.

‘Total bong-head,’ said Emma. ‘We had to kick him out. Caught him smoking in the chicken coop. Next day, swore I heard a hen say, “Yo, pass that shit, man”.’

He ignored the joke. Usually did. She had to work on her patter.

‘How will you bring people’s attention to the blog?’ he said. ‘Last statistic I read put the worldwide blog-site total at over a hundred and fifty million.’

‘Search terms,’ she said. ‘Key words. Meta data bumpf. Plus, I’ve got a mate in one of the national media chains who’s always keen on juicy stories. I can get a burner phone and text her.’

‘Like the hardened criminal you are,’ he said, and rolled over to kiss her.

‘Fine one to talk,’ said Emma.

And reached down to prove her point.

‘So who’s the bloke?’ said Devon.

Emma had known full well that when she took Loko to the farmers’ market, the news would pass through the good folk of the town faster than Curry Up’s legendary Prawns Masala. Even if Sidney had felt it none of her business who Emma was with, others would have spotted her. OK, so she probably should have told Devon about Loko first, him being her best friend in the world and all. Oh well. C’est la vie.

‘Just a guy I met in the UK.’

‘Who you followed all the way back here.’

Ouch. That smarted. Much as she’d like to think of herself as a free-willed bird, or whatever that quote was from Jane Eyre, she had upped sticks and hastened off in pursuit. The fact his destination was her good old hometown wasn’t really a mitigating factor, because she’d been the one to put that idea in his head in the first place. He’d been looking to move on, go travelling, leave England — and her — and so Emma had dropped the Wood Sprites into conversation. Casting her line out casual-like, cool, while all the time frantically praying he’d take the bait. When he did, Emma had to physically restrain herself from punching the air.

But she’d never admit that to Devon. He’d never let her forget it.

‘I was coming back anyway,’ she said. Cool-like. Casual. ‘I missed the place.’

Devon reached for a chip from the paper packet they’d spread between them on the back steps of the Boat Shed. Emma had missed lunch due to, well, something coming up, so she’d rung Dev and arranged to meet before he started work at five. It wasn’t warm but it wasn’t windy, either. The sea was teal green, which, along with maroon, was the first choice colour for those stretchy tops worn by the kind of old ladies who called trousers ‘slacks’ and had an endless supply of zip-up polar-fleece vests.

‘Thought you loved working at that commune?’ he said.

‘I did. But you can’t do that kind of work for long stretches. I couldn’t, anyway. Too intense. Too emotionally draining. Even for tough chicks like me.’

‘Guess so,’ said Devon. ‘My cousin was a psychiatric nurse. Got hit and bitten. Had to scrub faeces off the walls. She used to have to take a break every two or three years, go work in a pub, or milk cows.’

He was letting her get away with half-truths because he was a good friend. A better friend than Emma had been for him so far. She should probably do more than leave him the last battered scallop. That was one thing Gabriel’s Bay did do well — make a mean fish and chips. Pity its fishing industry died — killed by neo-liberal politicians who presented privatisation of vital infrastructure as the way to make New Zealand profitable again, not understanding or caring that the country’s true wealth was its people. Communities should be honoured — encouraged, supported — not smashed apart like so much quarry rock. Or kicked off some dumb farmer’s land.

There she was — doing it again. Putting the big causes first, and her friend, who was right here, second. Focus, Emma.

‘So did you score at the club the other night?’ she asked.

Devon should have taken that modelling contract — he had that curled-lip look nailed.

‘My score,’ he said, ‘is currently zip. Zilch, nada, sweet fuck all.’

‘How come?’

He boggled at her. ‘Are you serious?’ Searched her face. ‘Shit, you are serious, aren’t you? You really don’t have a clue.’

Emma dipped a chip into the salt caught in the paper folds. Devon had always been prickly. No point in kicking back, just ride it out, cool, calm. She ate the chip, relished its crunchy, salty, greasy perfection. Dusted her hands.

‘Some people are hung up on how you look,’ she said. ‘I get it. But how hard are you trying, really? Are you using it as an excuse?’

‘You should contest the world Miss Empathy title,’ said Devon. ‘You have a real knack.’

‘Someone has to ask the hard questions.’

Devon pulled his legs into a cross-sit, began to stab the sand with a piece of driftwood. Emma waited, eyeing up the last scallop. If he didn’t hurry up, it’d get cold.

‘OK, so I hate it.’

Devon chucked the driftwood hard towards the sea. It crashed pointy-end into the sand, causing a nearby gull to flap.

‘I hate being rejected,’ he said. ‘Hate the stupid arsehole comments, hate the stares and sniggering, hate the hate. Especially hate the hate.’

‘What if you were a dwarf?’ said Emma.

‘What? Which one — Grumpy?’

‘No, a real dwarf. Or if you had, I dunno, cerebral palsy, or Down syndrome, or something.’

‘All quite different. Want to pick one?’

‘I did! You’re a dwarf, OK.’

‘Hi, ho,’ said Devon.

‘So you could bitch and moan about how typical-sized people don’t fancy you — unless you’re Tyrion Lannister, of course. Or you could go fishing in a pool that’s more your size, if you get me?’

‘That’s gnomes who fish, but yes, I get your point. Snag is —where the fuck is that pool? And what if there isn’t one? What if I’m it? Sui generis. Dev-only.’

‘Where have you looked besides Tinder?’

Dev was also terrific at the side-eye.

‘Plenty of niche dating sites,’ said Emma. ‘There are ones for folk who have food allergies, cat fanciers — not in that way, also probably totally in that way — interpretive dance practitioners, people who like dressing up as furry animals — you name it.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘You learn a lot hanging out with crazies.’

‘Shit almighty …’ Devon dragged his hands down his face.

Emma reached out, lightly punched his arm.

‘You could also cut your hair really short, and bulk up at the gym,’ she said.

Devon pretended to fend her off. ‘No one’s touching the hair.’

‘Well, then suck it up, girly-boy. We have to find you the right pool.’

The side-eye again. ‘We?’

‘Hells yes.’ Emma held up her palm for a high five, which Devon shied back from in mock alarm. ‘What are friends for?’

Then she said, ‘Can I have that scallop?’

‘How can you be a non-vegetarian eco-warrior?’ Devon demanded.

‘Because I don’t believe in letting others dictate your choices.’ She grinned. ‘So can I have it?’

Devon leaned back on propped arms. ‘Not like I could stop you anyway.’