The hut that Brandon called home sat between the forest and the estuary. The renting agency called it a ‘rural beach bach’. The ‘beach’ was a six-by-one-metre strip of sand that separated the grassy bank from the mud of the estuary. The only time any sea water lapped upon that sand was during king tides. At other times the water was hidden by the mangrove forest that filled all except a narrow channel of the estuary.
Nor was the ‘rural’ description all that accurate either, as the scrubland that separated the estuary from the forest was far from productive farmland. But the bach part was right, if you considered a bach as having the bare basics for survival. This one had two rooms: a living area with kitchen at one end, table and lounge furniture at the other, and a bedroom with two sets of up-and-down bunks and a wardrobe. Under a lean-to out the back was a shower and tub. The toilet was a long-drop hidden in the scrub. While it wasn’t much of a place, it was better than living in the van, which they’d done in the past.
The weekend passed by much the same as they always did: Brandon resting up after working in the orchards all week, Tom watching TV or simply messing about. Not until Sunday afternoon did they do anything out of the ordinary.
After his lunchtime snooze, Brandon came into the living area where Tom was watching a movie. “C’mon you. We need to go and see Dave. I want to get the holiday arrangements sorted.”
Tom groaned. “Do I have to? Can’t I stay and watch this?”
“No,” said Brandon grabbing the remote. “You’re coming too.”
This time Tom’s groan was louder.
Dave Hughes’s bach was a short distance up the estuary. A dirt path between the two was wildly overgrown except where Brandon had pushed the weeds back on previous trips to see his neighbour. Only once before had Tom been with him.
Although the two baches had the same basic design, Dave’s looked more like a home than a hut. A mown patch of lawn stretched down to the estuary, flowering shrubs lined the front of the building, and its yellow and orange paint job glowed in the summer sun. A welcoming place, apart from a sign facing the estuary:
PRIVATE LAND
NO ENTRY
A dinghy leaning against the post, pointed towards a pathway of mud through the mangroves. Maybe he’ll let me use it, thought Tom, his mood brightening. Then he saw there was only one oar and his spirits sunk. That single oar in the stern was a reminder of why he’d avoided coming back after his first visit. Tom steeled himself for what he knew was coming.
His father knocked on the door.
At first glance the man who appeared seemed no different to most other men in their late fifties. There were the required number of wrinkles, enough to get an idea of his age. The greying hair hadn’t receded too much, and yes, his belly did protrude over his belt, but not grossly so. There was nothing there that would upset Tom. That was still hidden.
Not for long though. When Dave saw who it was, he opened the door widely, inviting them in. That’s when the deformity became visible. Dave’s left arm was missing. Not all of it. Most of the upper part remained, finishing in a rounded stump which Dave could waggle around like a motorized joystick. That was what caused Tom difficulties. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. Whenever he looked at Dave, his eyes would automatically drop to stare at the stump.
“Come in, come in,” said Dave. “I’ve just made a pot of tea.”
Tom hadn’t been inside before. While the design was the same as their place, it looked strikingly different. Yes, the furniture was better and everything was tidier, but it was the wall decorations that were most noticeable. On the back wall, three large photographs hung each side of a mounted animal head, a massive boar with long tusks curving up from an open jaw.
“Wow!” said Tom, his eyes wide.
Dave chuckled. “He always does that to people when they see him for the first time.”
“He looks so real.”
“Yeah, the taxidermist did a good job. Just as well, it cost me enough.”
“Did you kill it?”
A nod.
“Do you still go …,” began Tom, before realising what he was saying.
“No, I don’t hunt now,” said Dave, with a smile. He waggled the stump. “It’s a bit hard with only one arm.”
To hide his embarrassment, Tom said, “Those tusks are real sharp.”
“Yes. Rip your gut open if you’re not careful. An animal like that could kill you.”
That gave Tom a thought. “Could it kill a kiwi?”
“Mmm. Probably, but I don’t see why it would want to. Why do you ask?”
They sat down then while Tom and Brandon told the story of Miss Piggy, and finding the dead kiwi.
“Well, I can tell you two things,” said Dave, when they’d finished. “One, that kiwi wasn’t killed by a pig. If it had been, you’d only find feathers, nothing else. Anyway I’ve spent most of my life working in that forest. I’ve seen lots of pigs and I’ve seen lots of kiwi. A pig might eat a dead kiwi but I’ve not known them to kill one.” He paused. “And the other thing is I wouldn’t have returned that sow to the forest, not at the moment. Kiwi and pigs compete for food which must be getting short. When the rains come the pigs can recover quickly enough, but the kiwis can’t. One less pig might have saved a couple of kiwis.”
“What would you have done?” asked Tom.
“Eaten it. A young sow like that would be great eating. Too late now though.” He turned to Brandon. “Tell me, how’s your water supply holding out?”
Tom tuned out. He knew the water supply wasn’t great, because it was mentioned every time he took a shower. He’d offered to stop washing, which hadn’t gone down well. The drought didn’t worry him. As far as he was concerned, day after day of cloudless sunshine was how the weather ought to be.
After a while he got up to study the photos. The three on the left were about pig hunting. Right alongside the mounted head was a photo of the pig shortly after it had been shot. A younger, two-armed Dave Hughes was crouched beside it. The animal was a monster. A killer, thought Tom. The next photo had three pigs, and two people; one of them was Dave. The other guy was also in the next photo, along with Dave, a couple of dogs, and yet another pig.
The photos on the other side were all about logging: monstrous machines, tall trees, and workers in safety gear. One was a group photo. Tom tried to make out Dave, but they all looked much the same in their outfits. He already knew Dave had lost his arm in a logging accident and wondered if this might be the place where it happened. One thing was sure, he wasn’t going to ask the man. That stump troubled Tom enough already without starting a discussion about it.
These thoughts were broken by his father calling him.
“Hey Tom, come over here. Dave wants to lay down some ground rules.”
The rules were simple enough. Tom had to check in with Dave three times a day: after Brandon went to work, again at lunch time, and at five o’clock when he would hang around until Brandon picked him up. If he left the area at any time he had to tell Dave where he was going and what he was doing. When asked if he was prepared to abide by these rules, Tom shrugged and said, “Yeah, they’re okay,” thinking they left him more than enough time to do his own thing.
* * *
They went into town for pizza that night which was not surprising, it had become something of a Sunday night ritual. As usual Tom was dropped at the pizza place while Brandon went and ‘took care of some business’; stuff Tom wasn’t allowed to ask about.
After placing the usual order – a meat-lovers and a Hawaiian – Tom went to sit down. The only chair available had a free newspaper sitting on it, almost like it was reserved. He looked around and seeing no one, picked up the paper and sat. He was about to put the paper under the seat when a photo on the front page caught his eye – a dead kiwi looking exactly like the one they’d found by the pond. This one also had a wound along the leg. A heading above the photo read:
KIWI KILLER ATTACKS AT KERIKERI
The text said that four dead kiwis had been found on Inlet Road in the past two weeks. Department of Conservation (DoC) rangers had identified the wounds had been made by a dog. DoC were keen to hear of any other deaths. They were urging all dog owners to keep their dogs under control at all times. Everyone was reminded that kiwis had a peculiar smell that most dogs found attractive. They needed aversion training until they disliked the smell. Hunters were informed they were not allowed to take dogs into Northland forests unless they had a valid Aversion Training Certificate (ATC), and ATC’s needed renewing every three months. DoC were also considering taking DNA samples from all dogs along Inlet Road so that they might find a match with DNA taken from the wounds of the dead kiwis.
Tom was considering this when he heard his name being called. He stood thinking the pizzas were ready. They weren’t. It was Mike, the guy who had hogtied the pig.
“You having pizza for dinner as well?”
Tom nodded.
“Yeah, we do too, every Sunday,” said Mike. “Did you get that sow back to the forest?”
“Yes. She didn’t hang around for a drink, but. Ran off into the trees.”
“She’ll get back to it.”
“Yeah, there were trotter marks all through the mud,” said Tom. He thought for a moment before adding, “And kiwi tracks as well.” He held up the newspaper. “We found one of these there.”
Mike glanced at the paper and nodded as if he’d seen it already. “A dead kiwi in as far as the pond, eh? That’s a bit worrying. You need to tell DoC about that. Or,” he added, pointing to the paper, “Marika Greenwell. She’d pass it on.”
Tom looked away.
“Okay, okay,” said Mike. “I get it. Your dad won’t let you do that. Tell you what, I’ll do it for you. Will that be all right?”
It was.
“You know,” said Mike after a time, “we had another crop of killings a few years back on the same road. Well, Wharau Road which is an extension of Inlet Road. Seven were found dead that time.”
“Did they get the dog?”
“They put down three dogs that had been running free.”
“Did the killing stop?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did they put the dogs down? Why didn’t they use this aversion training?” asked Tom, stabbing his finger at the paper.
Mike shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t work on a dog once they start killing. The only way to stop it is to kill them. A bullet through the head does the job nicely. They don’t kill any more kiwis after that, do they?”
Tom had no answer for this, and the conversation died. Soon afterwards his name was called, this time it was for the pizzas. He collected them and moved outside to wait for his dad, knowing from past experience, he could be waiting for a long time.