CHAPTER 22

Devon

‘God-dammit, Emma! Just — gahhh!’

Devon shook the newspaper at her, too angry to form words.

‘I didn’t ask her to write it,’ Emma replied. ‘She picked it up off my blog site, ran with it all on her lonesome.’

‘For fuck’s sake, isn’t that some breach of privacy?’

‘Sorry, man. If it’s online, it’s fair game.’

‘But it says where I work. How did she find that out?’

‘You’re on the Lightning Tree website, doofus. Under “Our Team”. Plus, you’re in the photo that went with that restaurant review of Dad’s place. Don’t need a Deep Throat to help bring those facts to light.’

‘If you weren’t her friend, though, she wouldn’t have seen that stupid online personal ad, would she? You told her!’

‘Might have mentioned it in passing. As you do when an old pal says, “So what’ve you been up to?”’

‘An old pal who’s a journalist!’

‘Dev, seriously — chill,’ said Emma. ‘It’s one small article in a weekend paper full of crappy stories. It’ll be lining cat litter trays by tomorrow.’

‘It’s not an article about you, goddammit!’

Devon jumped to his feet — a rash move that made his still-bruised glute muscle twinge — screwed up the offending newspaper, and shoved it in along with the empty fish and chip wrapper in the Boat Shed’s wheelie bin. It took some effort, the bin being already full, and the exertion helped work off some of the steam. Only some, mind. Didn’t help that his so-called friend appeared in no way apologetic. And she’d made him pay for the fish and chips, too, even though she’d been the one to invite him.

Devon was too shitty to sit back down with her on the Boat Shed steps. He stood looking out at the ocean, arms folded tight, because he was tense and because it was bloody cold.

‘Why are you so ticked off?’ she said behind him.

Unbelievable.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe the five million gleeful texts and calls that are probably queuing up right now in my phone. Maybe the smirks and wise-ass comments I’ll get for the next three hundred years. Maybe the fact I’m enough of a public curiosity already without this shit. Now, I’ll be freak of the freaking century.’

‘And then again, maybe it will do what it was intended to —find you a Ms Right.’

He couldn’t fault the relentless quality of her optimism. Couldn’t share it, either.

‘Yeah? Any likely candidates so far?’

‘A few.’

He turned to face her, held out his hand for her phone.

‘Let me see them, then.’

She shook her head.

‘No way, José, I’m still whittling down the shortlist. You’ll see them when I’m ready. Who knows? Might get a whole bunch more now the article’s out.’

‘Ferrrk …’

Devon breathed out and tried not to picture how it’d go down at work this evening. Gene Collins wasn’t a Saturday regular, but no doubt he’d make a special effort. And Brownie would be in later on — another movie night planned, mainly because the two of them couldn’t think of anything better to do, and movies meant they didn’t have to talk to each other for a couple of hours, which suited them fine. Tonight’s classic ’80s movie was Cherry 2000, about a guy in the future searching for a replacement sex android because his one fried its circuits. Thirty years on, Japanese were making pretty lifelike sex dolls — some dudes even took them out to the park or the beach. Maybe he should save up for one of those. Be way less complicated, if you didn’t count getting the thing serviced.

Devon felt Emma’s hand slide around his waist and her head lean against his shoulder. He could shove her away but what was the point? Emma deflected anger like she was surrounded by an anti-rage force field. Words, vibes, shirty looks — they all bounced off, ping, pong, pyow! Nothing penetrated. All you did was waste breath and energy.

And she genuinely believed she was doing him a favour, being a good friend. She was convinced she’d find Devon’s perfect match — and maybe she would? He wouldn’t hold his breath, but he also couldn’t deny that Emma had a way of getting what she wanted.

‘So what are you up to besides turning my life into a circus?’ he said. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Everything’s great,’ she said. ‘Got paid work for another couple of weeks. Shitty job, but you know. Harry’s car hasn’t shat itself. Mum and Dad are in fine form. My eye healed up, thank God. Having a drink with Doctor G next Friday.’

Devon jumped from her as if she’d jabbed him in the ribs.

‘You what?’

He scrutinised her face for telltale signs of wind-up. ‘You’re shitting me, right?’

‘Nope. He asked me. I said yes.’

‘But — you’ve got a bloke. Or has that gone kaput?’

‘We’re not exclusive,’ she said.

‘Yeah, but does Dr G know you’re shagging someone else?’

‘Who says I’m going to shag Dr G?’

He’ll certainly be hoping, thought Devon, but decided to keep schtum.

‘It’s just a drink,’ Emma went on. ‘He’s cute, but a bit soft and squishy. Not really my type.’

‘Why’d you say yes then?’

Translation: why did she get Dr G’s hopes up?

‘He’s cute. It’s nice to be asked. I’m a free bird and all that jazz.’

‘Where’s he taking you?’

‘Somewhere flash, I hope. I’ll have to dig out a dress. Or borrow one.’

‘Is this public knowledge?’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Emma. ‘I mean, I don’t think he’s told Mum, but why would you? Who needs that kind of pain and humiliation?’

Honestly, her ability to un-see screaming irony was almost cute.

Devon checked his watch. ‘Time for work.’

‘Bit of a sigh there, buddy,’ said Emma. ‘You over the old hospo biz?’

‘Nah, just been working an extra evening while Sidney’s off sick. Tiring, plus it plays merry hell with my study. Got a three thousand word assignment due end of next week. Haven’t started it.’

‘You’ll nail it.’ Emma clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You always were the smart one.’

Yet as he said goodbye, Devon knew he wasn’t the one who took risks and made things happen. He’d noted she hadn’t fessed up to the farmer-shaming website, but then, why would she? It was probably top secret work for some top secret activist group, and even though he was no fan of extremists and considered their anonymous palaver a bunch of self-important wank, for a moment, Devon felt envious. Even if Emma’s activities were of questionable merit, she still lived a way more interesting life.

Oh well. Devon pushed open the Boat Shed back door. Maybe some amazing chick would come out of the woodwork and make his dreams come true. Yeah, and maybe Gene Collins wouldn’t give him shit for the rest of his natural life.

He checked what Jacko had in the ovens. Pigs. No wings visible. Devon went out front and braced himself for what would no doubt be a very long evening.

‘So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say one word about a certain article,’ Devon told Brownie, on the drive to Hampton’s cinema. ‘Or I might be forced to punch you in the face.’

‘How are those kick-boxing lessons going?’ said Brownie.

‘Apparently, I have issues achieving a state of calm.’

‘Don’t we all?’

Devon gave him a sideways look. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing that wouldn’t be fixed by a hammer blow to the temple.’

Devon didn’t know whether he meant himself or someone else. Decided he didn’t want to find out.

The queue for movie tickets was short, comprising as it did of just him and Brownie. Then a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Hey there,’ said Moana. Her eyes checked over Brownie. ‘What are you two fullas doing at a feminist classic?’

‘Is that what it is?’ said Devon.

‘Nah, not really,’ said Mo. ‘But Melanie Griffith is pretty bad ass.’

She stuck out her hand to Brownie.

‘I’m Moana. Devon’s favourite colleague.’

Brownie shook her hand, amused. ‘I’m Barrett. Devon’s barely tolerated acquaintance.’

Moana smiled wide, as if her evening had suddenly got way more interesting.

‘I’ll sit between you jokers then. Keep the peace. Good thing I got a large popcorn. Might even let you share some.’

And she linked arms with Brownie, much to Devon’s irritation, and led him into the cinema. Devon followed, face like a smacked bum, as his mum would say.

The movie was shit. Soon as the credits started to roll, Devon exited. Didn’t wait to see if Mo and Brownie were ready to go, just went. Hung outside on the street, waiting for them, even though it was dog bollock freezing.

‘OK, you ready?’ He jinked the car keys in his palm, soon as Brownie appeared.

‘What’s the rush?’ said Mo. ‘Night’s young, and so are we.’

Yeah, and she just wanted to get with Brownie. Devon didn’t know why that irked him so much. Perhaps because Brownie was on the right side of handsome, whereas he was way over on the freakish far side? Perhaps because he considered Mo his friend? OK, sure, they never hung out, but they got on well at work, didn’t they?

‘What did you have in mind?’ said Brownie.

‘Well, despite my night is young promise, nothing exciting,’ said Mo. ‘Cuppa at my place?’ She hooked her thumb. ‘I’m five minutes’ walk thataway.’

Brownie caught Devon’s eye.

‘What do you want to do? You’re the one with the heavy workload.’

Goddammit, he was being thoughtful. Probably doing it to impress, smooth bastard, but still, Devon couldn’t be shirty in return without looking like a total arse.

He shoved the car keys back in his jacket pocket.

‘Yeah, OK.’

Instinct made him duck as a vision of his Kuia Agnes appeared, hand poised, instructing him to remember his manners.

‘Thanks, Mo,’ he added.

On the way to her place, Devon realised he had no idea where she lived. Or with whom. In fact, when it came down to it, all he knew was her name, her age, and that she’d been living in the King Country before coming to Hampton, but her iwi was further north. He had no idea about her family or where she’d spent her childhood, because that wasn’t what they talked about at work. All they’d discussed was horses, obviously, and subjects like if Jase got kicked in the head, would anyone notice, and could Immy lift a car off a person if she had to? They traded the usual insults. Fun stuff. Nothing personal. Nothing intimate. Why? Did Mo not trust him or like him enough to talk about her life?

Devon wondered if Mo would tell Brownie her life story. Probably. Because Brownie was handsome, and thought-ful. His brain pronounced it in a spiteful little singsong, which made him immediately ashamed. He really was being a prize Grinch. Why was that? Oh, yeah. He’d now been humiliated in the mainstream media as well as online.

‘Here we are,’ said Mo. ‘Taku kainga.’

“Pai to whare,’ said Devon.

Switching between English and te reo Maori happened all the time at home. Though you had to be mindful of which was expected when, or you might get a swift, exquisitely painful reminder in the form of one of Kuia Agnes’ infamous ear-tweaks.

Mo’s house was a cute villa. In the porchlight, Devon saw a pale grey front door with white trim, and what should become roses on either side, unless the owners liked pots full of jaggy brown sticks.

Inside, it was warm, tasteful and tidy. Lots of art — good stuff, too. Nice thick rugs, and furniture that had definitely not been bought from the Sallies Family Store. Devon’s family were comfortably off compared to others, but he knew real money when he saw it. And he hadn’t expected to see it in conjunction with Moana, who generally looked like she’d slept in the stables. But maybe she knew the owners?

‘This must cost a bomb to rent,’ he said.

‘Who says I rent it?’

She was smiling at him.

‘Lucky you, then. Owners friends of yours?’

‘You could say that.’

Devon followed her into the kitchen. Old-fashioned with modern touches. Miele appliances. Le Creuset pans above the stove. A shiny coffee machine. The proper kind. Not a Nespresso.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Mo asked him. ‘Or beer? I think I’ve got some in the fridge.’

‘Tea, thanks. Gotta do some serious assignment writing tomorrow.’

‘You?’

Mo was talking to Brownie, who, of course, was still with them. He’d been so quiet, Devon had forgotten for a sweet half a second.

‘Same.’ Brownie sounded subdued. ‘Thanks.’

Mo got the tea out of the cupboard. Leaves, not bags. With flash packaging. The teapot she fetched looked Japanese and matched the mugs. Devon would bet the beer she had in the fridge was craft stuff with a weirdo name. Certainly not good old Lion Brown. Owners of this place probably ate homemade muesli for breakfast, too, the kind with Super-seeds and Bat-berries that cost fifty bucks a gram.

‘Miraka, huka mau?’ Moana asked.

‘Miraka noa iho,’ said Devon.

‘He aha mau, “Mister Acquaintance?”’

Brownie didn’t answer. Like Devon, he’d taken a chair at the kitchen table, but he was sitting half on, half off, as if preparing to leg it. He wasn’t looking at them, either, but out the window, where there was nothing to see owing to it being two am.

Moana snapped her fingers. Did the trick.

‘Apologies,’ said Brownie.

Might be the light, but he looked kind of ill.

Mo obviously thought so, too. ‘You OK?’

Brownie righted himself in the chair, chest expanding as he breathed in.

‘I don’t speak it.’

‘What?’ said Mo. ‘Te reo?’

‘My mother did, but my father didn’t,’ Brownie replied. ‘That’s why she never taught me. She didn’t want my father to feel excluded. Or like he was a failure.’

Devon’s woo-wah pinged again, but the warning was redundant. He knew exactly what was swimming below the surface, because it’d been his own constant companion for too long. Brownie wasn’t upset or ill. He was furious.

But he wasn’t about to let it out any time soon, because that was Brownie’s thing wasn’t it? Being Mr Cool.

‘Why can’t she teach you now?’ said Mo.

Ah, shit. But there was no way Devon could have warned her.

‘She’s dead,’ said Brownie.

Mo nodded. ‘Aroha mai, ka aroha. Losing your mama is hard.’

Then, with a breezy tactlessness that reminded Devon of Emma, she added, ‘Do you still want to learn? I’ll teach ya.’

Devon bristled, but Brownie was shaking his head.

‘Thanks, but it’ll take more than that.’

Typical reply. Brownie was like one of those annoying Facebook friends who post some cryptic comment about not wanting to talk about it, forcing everyone to ask if they’re OK.

‘Take more than that to make you feel like a real Maori?’ said Mo.

Yep, she definitely reminded Devon of Emma. Zero tolerance for BS. Try it on and you’d get called out, and if you didn’t like it, too bad.

Brownie didn’t like it, Devon was pleased to see. First time his smooth façade showed signs of cracking.

‘Is anyone a real Maori these days?’ he said to her. ‘Or are we all mongrels?’

‘Bro, what does that matter?’ said Mo, with a laugh. ‘I might have whiteys in my whakapapa, but far as I’m concerned, I’m Hori through and through. Anyone who thinks blood dictates identity is a racist fuckwit.’

‘We get smacked for saying Hori in my house,’ said Devon. ‘Except for when Uncle Hori comes to visit. Still usually just call him Uncle, though.’

‘High five, my brother.’

Moana’s palm connected with his, and Devon felt a ridiculously over-the-top sense of gratification.

‘And I guess Devon here’s living proof of your point?’

Brownie’s remark might have sounded offhand, but Devon could clearly hear the snap of angry jaws below. Devon understood. Whanau, whakapapa, te reo, tikanga — how would he feel if they weren’t an integral part of his life?

And he’d sympathise with the dude — if Brownie weren’t being so goddamn patronising.

‘You listen to the gossipmongers, do you?’ he said.

Brownie had the grace to look embarrassed.

‘There’s goss about you?’ said Moana, for whom embarrassment was a foreign concept. ‘Is it juicy?’

‘Nah, it’s pathetic,’ said Devon. ‘You know — I was swapped at birth. My mum shagged around.’

‘And?’ said Mo.

‘Seriously?’

‘We’re fighting a war against fact-deniers, man,’ she said. ‘Gotta play your part.’

‘Facts, OK …’ Devon breathed deep. ‘One: I wasn’t a hospital mix-up because I was born at home surrounded by whanau doing the full haputanga. Had eyes on me until I was big enough to walk to school on my own. Two: Mum is staunch about fidelity. She thinks having affairs is a sign of a weak character. If Dad ever played away, she’d kick his sorry arse to the kerb. That enough for you?’

Moana grinned, delighted. ‘Your whanau sound like they totally rock,’ she said. ‘Can I come meet them?’

Shit, she was just like Emma. No way you could stay angry at her. Plus, his family loved Emma, and he didn’t doubt for a second that they’d love Moana, too.

‘Sure. Any time.’

Then he almost choked on his tea as Moana said to Brownie, ‘You should come, too. You need more Maori friends than just us.’

‘I’m flattered you consider me a friend,’ Brownie said, in his superior way. Devon’s hackles were up and down like a rough sea. ‘You might want to actually get to know me before confirming that.’

‘Nah, I’ve got good instincts,’ said Mo.

Devon could not let this pass.

‘His mates have all left town,’ he said. ‘Gone to better lives in the big cities. Oh, yeah, except Deano. He’s in witness protection.’

‘Witness protection?’ Mo was agog. ‘Hard out. Whaddid he do?’

‘He testified against a gang drug syndicate,’ said Devon.

Knife was in. Might as well wiggle it around.

‘How come you got prison?’ he said to Brownie. ‘Why didn’t you get the same deal?’

‘Wait, you were involved with a drug gang, too?’ Moana’s lip(finally!) was curling. ‘Why the heck would you be that stupid?’

Brownie gave Devon a steady look that made him feel instantly ashamed. The guy had needed money to look after his sick father when his mother died. OK, so he’d chosen a dumb way to get it, but that didn’t make his intention any less worthy. Devon should stop being a total arse.

But then Moana reached out and fist-bumped Brownie’s arm. Gently. Like she cared about him.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Tell me it’s all in the past, and you’re living the good life now.’

‘Sure,’ said Brownie. ‘I’ve got a job and a place to live. For now, anyway. My father’s in fully subsidised care. So really, the only downsides are a criminal record and the ever-present threat of violent retribution.’

‘Sarcasm sucks, bro,’ said Moana. ‘And, OK, you’ve been a dick, but you’re young and you’re cute, and if you stopped talking like you had a white-people’s dictionary shoved up your arse, you could be like a super Maori.’

Brownie’s smile was hitched up, like he couldn’t decide whether to continue being pissed off, or give in and laugh out loud. Devon found he was wishing for the former. Moana would soon lose patience with a pissed-off Brownie.

But, of course, the dude laughed. ‘You’ve got it all sorted, haven’t you?’

‘Shit, no,’ said Moana. ‘I’m making it up as I go along. But so far so good.’

She lifted her mug of tea as if it were a wine glass to toast with.

‘Here’s to friends, making it up, and not being a dick.’

As the three of them clinked mugs, Devon saw Brownie and Moana lock eyes.

Goddammit. The realisation shot through him like an arrow. Brownie wasn’t the man for Moana. He was. That’s why he’d been so shitty.

But because he’d been so stupidly damn slow to work it out, it was already too late. Mr Right-side-of-handsome had won the girl, and Devon was out in the cold again. A loser before he’d even realised he was in the game. God dammit.

And just to rub it in, now he had to chauffeur the smug bastard home.