What You Wish For, page 29
But, as he’d said, Koro Tama was nearly ninety. Could anything shock him now? Devon sat down next to his grandfather.
‘I got in a fight,’ he said. ‘Completely lost it. Hurt a guy pretty badly.’
Koro Tama blew a wisp of smoke up into the sky.
‘Did he deserve it?’
‘He insulted me, but I should have shrugged it off.’
‘What’d he say?’
Devon was embarrassed. Even before he’d grown into his current looks, he’d been the only one with lighter skin and blonde hair. But his whanau had never, ever made him feel like he wasn’t one of them. They’d never focused on his appearance, always on his character. They had no tolerance for others who made remarks, singled Devon out. And he knew how fortunate he was. Knew it was perhaps why he’d always worked so hard — he wanted to pay his family back for everything they’d given him. Wanted to make them proud.
To tell Koro Tama about what set him off was to admit that he wasn’t happy. That he was the only one of his loyal whanau who wasn’t OK with how he looked. That he was an ungrateful, precious, discontented loser.
But he’d started the story now. Was kind of obliged to finish.
‘He questioned my manhood,’ said Devon.
Close enough.
‘Ah.’
From the raspy chuckle, Devon knew Koro had seen right through him.
But all he said was, ‘You know that movie, boy? The one with that John Travolta and the rock-and-roll songs?’
What the hell?
‘You mean Grease?”
‘Grease, that’s the one.’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen it on DVD. Why?’
‘The lady actor—?’
‘Olivia Newton-John.’
‘She starts off all sweet and innocent, but to get her man, she decides to dress up in the leather, and the high heels.’
‘Koro, no offence, but what are you on about?’
The old man stubbed his cigarette on the ground. No doubt he’d do what the other smokers did — pick it up before he left and put it in the outside bin, well wrapped in newspaper so Devon’s mum didn’t spot it.
‘You could stick to your guns,’ said Koro, ‘or you could try a few changes. Adapt. Maybe make it easier to get what you want. That Olivia-John was still the same on the inside.’
Right. Got it.
‘You’re talking about me cutting my hair.’
His family had always teased him about his hair, sure, but Devon thought they supported his wish to keep it long. And now, here was Koro suggesting otherwise.
Was he right? Devon had studied enough about adaptation to know it was common, natural, to every living thing from mammals to parasites. Species adjusted to survive in changing environmental conditions and, of course, to dominate in the sexual attractiveness stakes. Devon knew this subject very well; he’d have a whole frigging degree in it in a couple more years. It had been right in his face the whole time.
‘Fuck,’ said Devon without thinking. If it had been Karani Agnes next to him, she would have clipped his ear.
‘Too true, too true.’
Koro Tama shook his head, pulled the cigarette pack out of his pocket, flipped open the top, held it out.
‘Want a smoke?’
Devon took a walk, all the way to the beach. Sat on the cold sand while the wind whipped around him, and the gulls squawked and squabbled amongst the kelp.
He had other options. He could take Emma’s advice, given what seemed like an eon ago, and leave town. He could go where there were people even more unsual looking than he was. He hated the city, but perhaps noise and crowds and cramped indoor spaces were the price he had to pay?
Maybe he could seek out that model agency again, see if they were still interested? Living in the city might not be so bad if you had money …
Phone beeped. A text from Moana.
‘U in 2moro?’
Was he? Or would he be getting on a bus, hitting the highway, catching the midnight train to any-the-fuck-where?
He balanced the phone in his palm for a moment, staring at her name.
‘Yep,’ he texted back. ‘CU thn.’
‘GR8 xx!’ was her instant response.
Ridiculous, the effect of two little xes. Meant nothing but everything at the same time.
Devon got up off the sand, dusted off his damp pants, shoved his phone in his pocket and walked home.
Where he sought out his mother’s sewing scissors and his dad’s razor, and locked himself in the bathroom. How long would he be in there? He didn’t know. He’d never done this before. He’d probably make a pig’s ear of it.
He picked up the pair of scissors. Its gold handle flashed in the mirror.
Time to adapt.
CHAPTER 33
Emma
It wasn’t until things didn’t go your way, Emma reflected, that you realised how much they always had up till now. In twenty-three years, she’d had very little to distress or frustrate her. She’d had a loving, stable, free-range childhood and an adolescence untroubled by acne, weight issues or broken hearts. She’d been academically able across the board, sporty, popular with school friends and liked by the teachers who weren’t threatened by her desire to question everything. (The principal was one of these, and Ms Kelly and Emma had come to an agreement early on about how Emma would behave in the classes of the teachers she did not respect.) Her parents hadn’t been concerned when she dropped out of university to go overseas. Neither of them believed there was some straight path to success; in their view, you’d be better off climbing trees and mountains than a so-called career ladder. Emma and her brother had been raised to be independent in spirit, thought and action, and under no illusion that the world owed them anything. Whatever they wanted to have or do, it was up to them to figure out how, and be determined enough see it through.
Which was entirely sound advice — if what you wanted didn’t turn out to be a steaming pile of destructive doo-doo that fucked up your life and the lives of everyone you cared about, not to mention a bunch of people you hardly knew. Consequences, eh? They were right pricks.
And the worst by far was the reaction of her dad. When Emma had confirmed Tai Te Wera’s claim that she was behind the dirty farming website, and that her group was probably responsible for the arson attacks, her dad hadn’t yelled at her or even given her a stern telling-off. In fact, he hadn’t uttered a single word, just got up from the kitchen table and left the room. Next thing they knew, he’d packed his hunting gear and supplies into his old red ute and taken off for the bush. Left King the dog at home, so they knew he’d be a while. Emma didn’t dare ask her mum how long. Her mum had expressed her disappoinment with Emma in a few choice words and some testy slamming of cupboard doors as she fetched another packet of Krispies. But when Emma’s dad had driven off, her mum’d gone horribly quiet. Retreated to her bedroom and stayed there for the rest of Sunday. Got up super early on Monday morning and went to work. Emma cooked dinner for them both — least she could do — but conversation was sparse and strained, and she didn’t have the right to push it. That was how it’d been all week, and she had no choice but to suck it up. As she’d said to Devon (who, thankfully, unbelievably, was still speaking to her), it was her mess. She had to clean it up.
How, though? When Casey Marshall came round, all Emma could tell her was how she’d met Loko, and what kind of group he was involved with. She couldn’t name names because she’d never known them; that wasn’t how these groups worked. She couldn’t even be sure they had been behind the arson attacks, though odds were high. Loko had kept Emma in the dark; she hadn’t even been privy to the real name on his passport. She could have spun Casey some sob story about him using her, but in truth, she’d been a willing participant. She’d believed in the group’s cause and, to some extent, their methods — marches and signs were pretty futile forms of protest; if you wanted real change, you had to force it. But, again, that was OK (maybe) when you were acting against corporates and organisations with resources and insurance. When it was ordinary people in your community who suffered loss — that was like robbing your mate’s family home. It was a callous betrayal.
Emma had always admired Casey. She’d babysat Emma and her brother Harry often, and even though she was only six years older, she had an absolute knack for maintaining order. No shouting, pleading or bargaining; just a quiet, unyielding presence that tapped into some primitive wolf-pack urge to obey. When Casey asked you to turn the TV off now, you turned it off. Emma had responded the same way when Casey had interviewed her. Told her what she knew and what she’d done without once trying to justify or explain. No point. Casey would only wait until you were done blathering and press on with her next question. She’d noted Emma’s answers without a single flicker of judgement, which made Emma feel worse, not better. This was Casey in professional mode, a police constable doing her job; not the person Emma had known since she was little. This Casey was not Emma’s friend. Highly likely that Emma would have zero friends when her part in this got out, as it must in a small town. Oh, well, she should have thought of that earlier.
Well, there was Devon, who, yesterday, to her surprise, finally returned her calls. He’d asked if she was OK, too, so he must still care at least a bit. Emma hadn’t been in the mood to chat — she’d just found out that Vic Halsworth had no insurance and would probably have to sell up — but today, she could do with some company. Devon worked mornings at Lightning Tree, but maybe he could come round for lunch? The kitchen felt so lonely without her dad banging around as he did, talking to suppliers on the phone, planning menus, experimenting with new dishes, talking to the dog, yelling at some ‘plonker’ on the radio.
Emma knew he’d be perfectly safe out in the bush, and that when her dad came home, he would have worked his frustration and disappointment out of his sytem. But she also knew that their relationship would never be the same, that a vital, glowing thread had been severed, undermining forever the strength of their connection.
She could shrug off the criticisms of the townsfolk — had plenty of times before — but the prospect of a reduction in her parents’, particularly her dad’s, esteem was a whole other stinking fish kettle. They’d always love her, no doubt of that, but unconditional love was part of the natural parent-child bond. It didn’t mean your parents had to respect you — or even like you. The thought of even the slightest coolness in her dad’s eyes when he looked at her filled Emma with nauseated dread. She’d have to leave town, for good this time. She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Crap. That sucked so much she wanted to cry. Crying alone sucked too. Emma bit her lip, picked up her phone and called Devon.
‘Not answering right now,’ said the voice that was so familiar, so dear to her. ‘Leave a message.’
‘Guess you’re working,’ she said to no one. ‘Call me if you have time. Nothing urgent. Just—’ She had to take a breath, bite her lip harder. ‘Like to catch up is all.’
And she ended the call, and wiped away a tear that had annoyingly emerged. Emma was like her mum — she didn’t see crying as a weakness, but there were many more practical things you could expend your energy on when it all went tits up.
The tear was followed by another. Fuck it. She let it slide down her cheek.
A knock on the back door made her jump. Voice outside. ‘Hello?’
Gene. What did he want? To give her shit like he always did?
‘Hey.’ Emma opened the door only a crack. ‘Dad’s not here.’
‘I know,’ said Gene. ‘It’s you I’ve come to see.’
‘I don’t need your opinion, thanks. Got enough of those to be going on with.’
‘I’m not here to offer an opinion,’ he said. ‘I’m here to apologise.’
‘For what?’
Gene’s shoulders sagged, as if he didn’t have the strength.
‘Em, will you just let me in? Let me talk?’
‘Fine.’ Emma opened the door. ‘But if you want a cup of tea, you can make it yourself.’
Emma had known Gene for all her twenty-three years, and while she’d seen him angry and fed up, she’d never once seen him in despair. Gene was like one of those toys that bounce right up again when you try to knock them over. He never, ever, let life beat him down, which is probably why he and her dad had stayed friends all these years. Neither of them messed with Mister In-Between.
But across the table from her now was a man she hardly recognised. Gene looked grey, worn, penitent. Emma wondered what on earth he was about to tell her.
‘I did a bad thing asking you to — you know — with the building site,’ he said. ‘It was out of order, unfair on you, and puredee wrong. I want to make amends. But I can’t fess up to Casey, because that would drop both of us in it, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve been shown the relevant section in the Crimes Act. Anyone who incites another person to commit an offence is party to and guilty of that offence. Whether you were there or not.’
‘Shit.’ Gene’s eyes went bushbaby. ‘I’ve only been thinking about the vandalism. What about the arson? Do the cops consider you party to that?’
‘The wording on the website doesn’t actually say burn down someone’s house. But, you know, if they wanted to make an example of me, then they probably could claim it was inciting some kind of violence.’
‘Shit …’
Gene brought his mug of tea up to his mouth, set it down again without drinking.
‘I’m really sorry, Em. I mean, it’s not as if I consider myself a particularly responsible adult, but I did think I was a decent human being. But entangling you in my petty revenge fantasy — that was low. Despicable, scuzzball low.’
‘I had a choice,’ she said. ‘I could have told you to sod off.’
‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. If I were you, I’d blame me big time.’
Gene’s face went from grey to green. Looked like he was about to throw up.
‘I mean, Christ, you’re my best friend’s daughter. What kind of rat fink dirt ball would—’
‘Don’t tell Dad,’ said Emma, hastily. ‘Ever. Please.’
Gene made a rueful face. ‘I have to, don’t you think? I can’t hide it from him.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Emma. ‘Dad’s barely coping with my shenanigans. If he finds out you’re involved, too, another person he cares about, that he trusts, his world will crash down in pieces. Don’t do that to him. Please?’
‘So I get off scot free?’ said Gene. ‘No blame, no shame? Public, at least.’
Emma’s tea was cold, and the milk was scummy. She stared down into it anyway. Even though you knew life wasn’t fair, it felt bad when you encountered actual proof. But making amends had been top of her mind, too, and there was an idea she’d been toying with …
‘Could you — I don’t know — set up some kind of fundraising effort?’ she said. ‘For Otto and Mr Halsworth? Help them out that way?’
A tiny gleam returned to Gene’s eye.
‘Otto had insurance, so he’s covered,’ he told her. ‘But Vic — he does need help. Big time, poor bastard. Not that this community has a lot to give, but every bit will be better than nothing. Tide him over until he sells the place.’
Gene straightened up, animated now.
‘I could rope in some volunteers to help with calving and lambing, get some people to donate food, too, clean his cottage, that sort of thing. Practical assistance as well as financial.’
He looked over at Emma.
‘You want to help?’
‘Will he let me anywhere near the place?’
The old shit-eating grin was back. ‘Soon find out.’
Her phone beeped with a text. Devon. ‘U free@5? Irsh pub Hmptn?’
‘Wow, mega smile,’ said Gene. ‘New boyfriend?’
‘Hell no.’ Emma typed her reply. ‘Someone way better.’
‘Holy shit.’ It was all she could say. ‘Holy shit-a-fucking-brick. It’s gone.’
‘Can’t deny it.’
Devon wasn’t one for blushing, but there were definitely spots of colour on his cheeks. Probably why he’d chosen the Irish pub. Lighting was dim, and you could hide in the booths. Plus, no one they knew went there. No one under eighty-five went there. They’d had to manoeuvre around three mobility scooters to get in the front door.
Emma craned her neck, so she could view him from all angles.
‘It looks good. Truly. You’ve left just enough on not to look like you’ve had lice or something. And your head’s not a weird shape, either.’
‘Thanks. I think.’
‘Why’d you do it?’
Emma knew it was none of her business, but she needed to be sure he was OK. That this was a positive move, not the onset of a crisis.
Devon leaned back against the padded booth, raised his eyes to the nicotine-stained ceiling. A weird twisted smile appeared, and Emma began to worry.
But then he looked back at her, and his smile was now only a smidgeon wry.
‘Why else do you make major life changes?’ he said. ‘I did it for love.’
Emma’s heart lurched in panic. Did he mean her? She loved Devon, but she wasn’t in love with him. Was their friendship about to crash and burn? With her rejecting him?
‘Trouble is,’ he went on, ‘she’s got someone else.’
‘Yeah …?’
‘Yeah, I was a dick and didn’t realise how I felt until it was too late.’
The tension was killing her.
‘What’s her name?’
Dev fixed her with his best slitty-eyed glare.
‘If I tell you, will you swear you won’t interfere?’
Emma held up her palm.
‘Swear,’ she promised. ‘My match-making days are over and done.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because if not, I’ll — I’ll think of something ultra bad to do to you.’
