Starlight Peninsula (28 page)

Eloise smiled. ‘The poison umbrella. The radioactive cup of tea.’

‘Exactly. So let
me
be the one to play with fire. And you be content you have your answer. Okay?’

‘It seems wrong. I have to think about it.’

Hartmann said, ‘You have more time than I do. I have a suggestion. You say Arthur’s file is stolen. So make a file of your own. Write down everything you know, everything you suspect. Make a list of times, names, dates, and keep it. Who knows, one day it might all come out. It is useful to put things in order. Give it a name: that’s what I would do.’

‘A name?’

‘Operations and files need a name, Eloise. For focus, purpose. It’s what spooks do, with their ridiculous FIVE EYES and SPEARGUN and PRISM. Something that sums it up: the Hallwrights, Ed Miles, Arthur, your hope that one day all will be explained.’

‘Arthur used to say the same thing: write it down.’

‘Okay, there you go. Now, let’s go and say hi to Scott.’

She followed him out, not listening to his talk about the weather, his health, his battles with the court over his finances.

Shall I follow his advice, Klaudia? Call it the Rotokauri File. The Last Days of Arthur Weeks. I will put it down on paper, make my own file. Soon
.

‘So, Eloise, it’s been a few weeks. I am sorry I had to attend a relative’s funeral in Germany. It was very cold back in my home town, I can tell you!’

Eloise let this latest betrayal pass without comment.

She waited for a moment, then said, ‘I’ve decided to write a record, my own file on Arthur. To replace the one I lost. And to make up for the fact I didn’t ask enough questions.’

Klaudia swallowed, placed her fingertips on the page in front of her and said, ‘It can be useful to note down your thoughts.’

‘The morning Arthur died I wasn’t there. I was absent. By the time I arrived at the flat he was gone; there was only the memory of him. He’d disappeared through a door in the air, he was just an outline, the black shape of a man …’

Klaudia listened. The light, pouring in through the window behind her, caught her blonde hair, illuminating the fine strands. The air was full of specks of shiny dust. When Klaudia listened intently, she had a way of wrinkling her sharp nose and turning her mouth up at the corners that made her look sly, silken, complicit.

Eloise briefly considered this: Klaudia is at her most charming when she is listening. Just as Simon Lampton is at his most fetching when he drops his smile, turns serious.

She went on, ‘I thought someone had been in the flat, but perhaps it was just the outline of Arthur I sensed. The presence of his absence.’

‘Perhaps. That is a little obscure.’

‘Obscure? I suppose. It’s possible seeing you has made me much less sane.’

Klaudia looked at her steadily. She was wearing glasses today. She put her index finger on the frame and lightly pushed.

‘My mother would say, Stay away from shrinks. With their corniness and their mumbo jumbo. They’ll turn you mad.’

Klaudia smiled. ‘Oh dear.’

‘She’s a kind of emotional prude. Beyond stiff upper lip.’

‘Too much stiffer lip equals dead,’ Klaudia said coolly.

Eloise let out a slightly wild laugh. She covered her mouth. ‘Sorry.’ Klaudia’s mouth turned up in her Joker smile. She seemed larger, more solid today, with a slight edge of irritation in her smile. The glasses made her blue eyes severe. Eloise looked at Klaudia’s big, pale hand, the square fingers, a tight bronze bracelet pinching the skin on her wrist. She was wearing her paua shell necklace. Also a rather flattering shirt. She probably had a date.

Eloise sighed.
How about you cancel your date, Klaud, and come over to my place. I’ll forgive you for putting a trivial ‘funeral’ ahead of me. I’ll cook you something. Ready-made curry, sushi, pizza, whatever you like. I’ll show  you the peninsula, before I have to leave it. I’m so sad I won’t be living there any more
.

‘I’m going to have to move. Leaving the house will feel like losing my mind,’ she said.

‘How are you getting on with your neighbour?’ Klaudia’s voice sounded thick, sleepy.

Eloise, who’d been hoping for more of a reaction, looked for the rat (no sign) and said, ‘He’s South African.’

‘Yes?’

‘When he visits, I have a feeling of …’

‘Yes?’

Don’t do it, Klaudia. Don’t look at your watch
.

Klaudia glanced at her watch.

With a sense of sorrow (
Klaudia, you break my heart!
), Eloise said, ‘When he comes over, I have a terrific feeling of being safe.’

Klaudia smiled. ‘That is good, Eloise!’

Safe. How nauseatingly corny Demelza Hay would find
that
.

At home on the peninsula, Eloise phoned Carina and voiced the opinion that Silvio was yearning for a visit. ‘Pining for it. The park. The wide open spaces.’

Her sister wearily promised to discuss the matter with the Sparkler.

‘Bring
her
, too,’ Eloise said.

She phoned Scott’s and spoke to Thee. Who said, ‘So, this neighbour. Do we like him?’

Eloise said, ‘Want to meet him?’

‘Definitely. Bring him over.’

Eloise said slowly, ‘Maybe you and Scott could come over here. And the girls.’ It was the new idea: filling the house with people. Not that she’d be living here much longer. She was waiting for the call from Jaeger’s: Scott’s secretary, Voodoo, would call to schedule a meeting with whichever Tulkinghorn or Jackal Sean had engaged to act for him. They would summon her to the Jaeger’s boardroom, sit her down in front of
a photo of the new girlfriend and tell her: fifty-fifty. Or, just as likely: go away. Not fifty-fifty, one hundred-zero. Why was she so paralysed, so unable to rouse herself to consult a lawyer of her own?

Thee was saying something enthusiastic. They’d love to come over, and bring Iris. Perhaps Rachel Margery would be free, too?

Eloise looked around the sitting room. The place had turned into a bit of a dump lately, it had to be said. Amigo had been languid, once-over-lightly. Dreamily wafting his feather duster. Waving his Hoover around like a light sabre. Last week he’d gone so far as to call in sick.

Eloise wondered whether she actually owned a vacuum cleaner, and, if so, whether it worked. Had it gone up in the fire?

She lay down with Chekhov. For thoroughness (which Arthur believed in) she was reading the notes at the back of the book. The composer Shostakovich was enthralled by ‘The Black Monk’, she read, which he believed was connected to his fifteenth symphony. He told his biographer, ‘I am certain Chekhov constructed “The Black Monk” in sonata form.’

Eloise read the sentence twice. She sipped her tumbler of wine. What did the story mean? When Kovrin believes in the existence of the black monk he’s happy, but mad. When he realises the black monk is an apparition, he’s miserable.

Now, she conjured up Klaudia.
Glass of wine, Klaud? How about a slice of this disgusting pizza? Make yourself comfortable. Loosen that paua shell necklace. What a pretty shirt you’re wearing! Now, tell me. Do we need our madness in order to be happy? If you cure someone of their illusions, do you risk that you will render them bereft, or even insane?

Write down your thoughts, Eloise. And don’t forget to breathe!

She sat up and opened her laptop.

But what was the question that came at her out of the air, hurting her eyes? A bright squiggle of light, as if she were looking at her own thought …

‘When Mum’s angry with me, she calls me Rachel.’

The Sparkler and Silvio were sitting on the couch, side by side, watching TV.

Eloise took her head out of the hall cupboard and said, ‘Remember the fire?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did we … do you think it involved a vacuum cleaner?’

The Sparkler wrinkled her nose, thought about it. ‘No!’

‘But maybe it was in the initial layers? The sort of pile underneath?’

‘There’d be bits of it left,’ the Sparkler said.

Eloise looked at her niece. Her muddy sneakers and knobbly knees. Her vivid, intelligent little face.

‘I suppose you’re right. Maybe Amigo’s gone off with it. Or Sean. No, that’s not likely. We’ll have to go and buy a new one.’

Eloise paused and looked vacantly at the Sparkler’s cartoon. Soon, the fiendish dwarf, and his virtuous brother Starfish were consulting the oracle known as the Red Herring. An object hovered in the lurid mauve sky above them: it was the Bachelor, swooping down on his flying bed, accompanied by his hissing girlfriends, the Cassowaries.

The Cassowaries were birdlike, as the name suggested, also bedizened, colourful and insanely jealous.

‘It’s kind of psychedelic,’ Eloise said, of the cartoon. ‘Trippy. Maybe
Mrs Hallwright was stoned when she wrote it.’

‘Wot?’ the Sparkler said in a glazed voice. She had her small hand twined in Silvio’s wool. Her eyes had turned dreamy.

‘Cassowaries — the actual birds — are really dangerous. Have you ever seen one?’

The Sparkler shook her head.

‘They’re Australian. I saw some in a wildlife park, behind a high fence. They have really bright feathers. They’re huge and they chase you, run after you, try to peck you to death.’

The Sparkler went on watching. The Red Herring, having consulted various scrolls, was delivering a pearl of wisdom: Too many cooks spoil the broth.

Eloise said, ‘Okay. Dinner. Nasty pellets for Silv. What about you and me?’

‘Too many cocks spoil the breath,’ the Sparkler said.

‘What? Who told you that? That’s disgusting!’

The Sparkler laughed behind her small, grubby hand. ‘Let’s have fish and chips.’

‘What about your food groups. Your vitamins.’

The cartoon finished on a cliffhanger: Soon and Starfish were taken prisoner by a villainous and camp old woodsman called Uncle Wayne.

Eloise ordered her niece to switch to the news. Beyond the windows, the estuary was brimming with a high tide, the bay as smooth and glassy as a pond. In the golden evening light, the dog owners were making their way towards the park.

Jack Anthony and Mariel Hartfield appeared in matching shades of blue, gold and red: her jacket, his shirt, his tie. Her heavily lashed eyes were smoky and calm. Behind them was a large photo of the Justice Minister, Ed Miles.

Mariel’s throaty voice: ‘Justice Minister Ed Miles stunned his colleagues in the National Party today with the shock announcement
that he is resigning from politics. Prime Minister Jack Dance earlier appeared blindsided by the news that his long-serving cabinet minister, one of the most experienced members of the government front bench, is to leave Parliament, reportedly to pursue opportunities in the private sector. Miles, who was widely touted as a leadership prospect, and the subject of much speculation recently about his leadership ambitions, especially in light of the Prime Minister’s low approval ratings, announced his decision at a press conference this afternoon.

‘Sources are describing Prime Minister Jack Dance as “surprised and flabbergasted” by Mr Miles’s sudden decision.’

Silvio erupted in an explosion of barks. He shot off the sofa, scrabbled on the wooden floor, threw himself towards the ranch slider.

Nick was standing on the deck. Eloise let him in.

Political reporter Sarah Lane, was speaking outside Parliament: ‘Indeed, there has been intense speculation today, Mariel, as to why a long-serving, hitherto highly ambitious minister, strongly favoured as a leadership contender, with politics, you could say, running in his veins, has chosen this moment to resign for a career in the private sector. Mariel, earlier we sought comment from one of Mr Miles’s oldest political allies and backers, former prime minister Sir David Hallwright, who had this to say.’

Eloise got a beer for Nick. They watched David Hallwright, interviewed in front of an ivy-covered wall.

‘His hair’s got darker. What’s he wearing? Is that a cravat?’

‘He’s had his teeth whitened.’

‘Look at his tan.’

Hallwright said, ‘This is a loss to politics, sure. However, Ed Miles has given several decades of service to this country. And I think if you go out there, you’ll find that the vast overwhelming bulk of New Zealanders will recognise that a talented individual like Ed Miles now has a fantastic contribution to make to the country’s growth in the private sector. For
me, personally, my focus is on the party, and the superb job that Prime Minister Jack Dance is doing. I am going to continue to put my weight behind Mr Dance, and to play my part, actually, to help New Zealanders understand the benefits the Dance government is bringing to the economy, and to the country as a whole. Jack Dance has made some tough calls, and frankly he deserves credit for them. There’s a whole raft of exciting things my wife and I plan to continue to be involved in, to help Jack Dance achieve a second term.’

Sarah Lane again: ‘So there you have it, Mariel. A week is indeed a long time in politics. After the recent speculation that Ed Miles and Sir David Hallwright might have been seeking to unseat Prime Minister Dance, who has been struggling with his approval ratings, we have a different picture today. A resignation from Ed Miles, and a ringing endorsement for Mr Dance from powerful National Party figure David Hallwright. Mariel?’

The Sparkler moved closer to Nick on the sofa.

‘C’n I have a sip?’ she said. He passed her the beer bottle. She raised it, clinking her teeth on the glass.

‘Hey,’ Eloise said, distracted, her eyes on the television.

Nick stretched out his long legs. He said, ‘That Mariel Hartfield. She’s kind of sleepily gorgeous. The glossy hair and white teeth. The velvet voice.’

‘The eyes,’ the Sparkler said in a cartoon-ghostly voice, curling her hand into a telescope.

Nick nudged her. ‘Give me my beer, kid. How much have you drunk? And her eyes. They’re amazing. With her beautiful brown skin. She’s Maori, but with green eyes. Kind of unusual.’

Eloise said, ‘She grew up in Australia. But her accent is New Zealand. She doesn’t have Australian vowels.’

‘No. It’s pure Kiwi.’

Mariel Hartfield’s eyes. Her voice.

Nick was speaking, ‘Wait, here’s something about Minister O’Keefe. Maybe Miles is resigning so he can be a house husband. Do Baby O’Keefe’s nappies. Push the stroller around the park.’

They watched. No, Minister O’Keefe was revealing nothing more than a comment about social housing: the government would like to sell all of it to private providers.

The Sparkler was tying up her laces. She looked up and said, ‘Mum got told at work. Eloise is right. The baby’s father is the leader of the Labour Party.’

‘Bradley Kirk. The old dog,’ Nick said. ‘Eloise, shall we take this kid out to dinner?’

Eloise was thinking: Thee’s photos of the opera. Mariel Hartfield and Simon Lampton leaning against the plate-glass window, their elbows nearly touching. Simon’s words, ‘One of my sons grew up in a different family.’ He said a name. William?