What You Wish For, page 32
Patricia had her back to Sidney, and so it wasn’t until she was upon her that she noticed. Patricia’s face was in her hands, and she was sobbing. The fat, shaking sobs that only come from a broken heart.
Sidney didn’t hesitate, but dropped to her knees and hugged her. There was no need to say anything, and besides, what comfort could she give? Patricia, she knew, was not grieving only for the loss of Reuben, but for all the children she never had, and who had been wanted so very badly. It was bereavement at a level Sidney had not experienced, and so she responded in the only way she could, by holding this kind woman tight until the worst of her hard, fresh grief had eased.
CHAPTER 36
Vic
Vic’s dad, for reasons best left unknown, had been very fond of the kind of humorous music hall-style songs that hadn’t stood the test of time, though most probably hadn’t been all that hilarious in their day, either. Vic had memories of listening to Gracie Fields, Flanagan and Allen, and Stanley Holloway, and it was a number of the latter’s that was currently refusing to leave his mind. It was entitled, in that cringingly quaint way, My Word, You Do Look Queer, and was about a bloke going for a walk and being told by everyone he meets how unwell he looks until he becomes convinced he genuinely is at death’s door.
After a week of being surrounded by well-meaning, solicitous folk, Vic knew exactly how the bloke felt. He couldn’t take a step without someone offering to help him, or asking how he was. Seemed like every eye was upon him, as if he were a small child near open water. Initially, he’d thought it was just because of the fire — people wanted to help him get back on his feet. But then he’d realised it went way beyond that. They weren’t just worried about how he was managing practically; they were concerned about his mental state as well. Everyone, even Bronagh, Vic had belatedly realised, was convinced he was about to do something daft.
At first, he’d been perplexed — the thought had never crossed his mind. Then he’d been offended. He wasn’t a loony — how dare they? And then he’d started to wonder if they didn’t have a point. Maybe he was a bit mentally skew-whiff? Maybe it wasn’t normal to box on, figuring he’d eventally come right? Maybe some deep-rooted psychological force was in charge, and Vic would suddenly find himself in the ute sucking a vacuum pipe full of exhaust fumes, or in the barn chowing down on a box of rat bait. Vic generally assumed that other people were smarter than he was about most things, so they could well have picked up on clues that he hadn’t. Trouble was, he definitely did not want them to be right.
That morning Vic had opened the front door of Willow Cottage and drunk his tea standing in the first rays of the sun. Sunday. A week since Ron Hanrahan and his mob had gone berserk. Had he been right refusing to dob the man in? He’d said no because he was worried about the Wood Sprites. Rob was vindictive, as he’d proved, and even if he chose to keep a low profile this time, he had money to pay professional revenge-takers. Rua and the others were field mice, with neither the disposition nor the resources to defend themselves. Whereas Rob was a bloody big vengeful hawk.
But now he’d time to think, Vic wondered if perhaps the Wood Sprites weren’t his first concern after all. Was it possible fear of his own inadequacy was holding him back? If the Wood Sprites wouldn’t testify, it would be Vic’s word against Rob’s. Inarticulate, bumbling Vic versus a slick, confident, successful bloke with plenty of high-powered supporters. Vic had supporters, too, and he was grateful, but they were ordinary folk, not business and civic leaders, people with money and influence.
And if he testified against Rob, he’d also be dropping Otto in it. The man had done him plenty of favours in the past, and Vic owed him. Far as he could tell, Otto hadn’t taken part in the actual damage-fest, but he’d be guilty by association. He’d been one of the wrecking gang — as had Vic, for that matter, and saying he hadn’t meant to only made him sound even more incompetent.
The morning sky had a shimmer to it that boded well for a beautiful, sunny day. Forecast said it might get up as high as fifteen degrees. Good news for the new animals that would soon be standing wobbly legged on his land. Thanks to Gene Collins — though Vic still held some suspicion about his motives — the calving and lambing would not be the nightmares he’d envisaged. The blokes, and women, too, that Gene had roped in were all experienced contract farmworkers. Vic didn’t know how or what they were being paid, and when he’d asked had been told not to worry about it. Given what else he had to worry about, Vic was happy to comply. He was also happy to ignore the irony that the worst time in his life was also the first time he’d felt like everything was under control.
Couldn’t ignore reality, though. He was about to lose the farm, and he had no idea what would come after. Who would he be if he weren’t a farmer? What job could he do? How the hell would he explain this to his dead ancestors when he arrived at whatever after-life the Halsworths were destined to frequent?
Vic closed his eyes and let the surrounding smells and sounds permeate. The bass chorus of cattle, the strident bleat of sheep, a bellbird, a fantail, a distant kingfisher with its one-note summoning call. Grass, leaf mulch, pine sap and Bell tea. Wafts of the vanilla plug-in air freshener that Donna had insisted on. Bronagh had switched it off, saying it made her feel like she was trapped in a cake tin, but Vic quite liked it. He particularly liked the fact it no longer made him sad. He hoped Donna was enjoying life in Coonamble, and that her new bloke wore the right kind of underpants.
Right overhead, the clown-horn honk of a tui. Vic opened his eyes to see it zooming, Spitfire-like, into the far trees. The bush would be terrific on a day like today; tranquil, sweet smelling and completely devoid of helpful people.
Bugger it. Sidney was due to visit this afternoon, but she’d understand. In fact, she’d probably be thrilled. She was a nice woman but he wasn’t quick-witted enough to keep up with her in conversation, and more often than not, they just sat there, sipping tea, in embarrassed silence. He’d leave her a note, so she wouldn’t worry. Then he’d pack a small rucksack and head off for a decent tramp.
The bush out the back of Vic’s — well, whoever’s — farm was a combination of broadleaf and podocarp, mature and remarkably untroubled by pest species such as hawthorn, old man’s beard and ivy. New saplings were coming through on the forest floor, and big roots and supplejack vines were prevalent, but the ground was dry and so walking was relatively easy. It had been a while since he’d taken this route, but Vic had always had a good sense of direction, and if that failed, he had his compass to fall back on. These days, hunters had GPS devices and all manner of technology, but on this fine morning, Vic didn’t envy what he lacked. A stout pair of boots, Swanndri and compass were all he needed. Peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwiches (thanks, Elvis) and his dad’s old metal water flask. The only thing he could do with was a slightly higher level of fitness, but no one was around to see him pause for breath on the slopes, or grumble about his knees on the downward side.
He was heading for a clearing about an hour in, where he intended to sit, eat his sandwiches and listen to the birds. He hoped he might spot a kaka, a bird that always amused him. It screeched like a fishwife, and, if you weren’t vigilant, would steal your food. New Zealand birds were often prone to thieving. Last time Vic had gone on a hunting trip, a weka had stolen his fork, and he’d had to eat his eggs and bacon with a teaspoon. Vic had read somewhere that most native birds hadn’t actually evolved in New Zealand but had blown across from Australia. Which would explain their light-beaked habits.
A sudden cracking of branches to one side reminded Vic that deer might be venturing out from cover to eat the new grass that was coming up now because of the warmer weather. Feeding time — and thus good hunting — was generally early morning or later afternoon, and besides, he hadn’t brought a gun. Couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to; he’d given Gene the keys to the tool shed, the ring with the gun locker keys on it, and the bugger hadn’t given them back yet. Oh, well, he wasn’t in the mood for shooting anything. And with his current luck, he’d probably only see pregnant hinds. Only dropkicks and complete bastards shot those.
Speaking of — he was still unsure if he’d done the right thing not naming Rob Hanrahan. The Wood Sprites might have decided to drop out of society, but that didn’t mean they should be excluded from its system of justice. Darius almost died, and the whole group had lost everything: homes, food, clothes, all their meagre possessions, most of which they’d made by hand. That wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.
But then, there was Otto, his friend. Maybe Vic should talk to him first, and if Otto got on board, then the two of them would be more convincing.
It could wait until Monday, though. Right now, he’d enjoy this walk, this last bit of freedom and peace …
Vic stopped short. He was near the edge of the clearing, and in it, through the trees, he could see a dark shape. A deer? Looked from this angle more like a large brown dog, or a small bear, sitting hunched over, with its back to him. Unlikely, but you never knew. He’d seen some strange things in these woods. Maybe they had been real.
He approached as quietly as he could, skirting the periphery to get a better look at whatever it was.
Jesus! Vic’s heart began to hammer, and his breath came in rapid, shallow puffs. The shape was a man, sitting on the ground, legs bent up and out, and between them, held in outstretched arms, a rifle, its barrel propped against the bloke’s forehead.
Not just any bloke, but one Vic recognised, even though he couldn’t believe what he saw. Young Barrett Tahana — handsome, confident, outspoken Brownie. Unless Vic’s eyes deceived him, about to do something daft.
Before he could worry about startling him, Vic yelled out, ‘Don’t!’
Brownie dropped the gun fast as if Vic had been the one to shoot him, and scrambled backwards along the ground like a rat putting hasty distance between it and a snake. One elbow gave out, causing him to lurch sideways, and then he just stopped moving, and lay there on the ground like a broken doll.
Vic ran. Instinct made him check the gun first and engage the safety, and then he dumped his rucksack and dropped to his knees beside Brownie, panting out, ‘You OK?’
Stupid question. The bloke had been about to top himself, so he was as far from OK as you can get. Brownie was curled in a near foetal position now, his hands over his face. Not crying but shaking all over. Shock. Shame. Whatever. It didn’t matter — the lad was alive. Vic refused to think about what he might have found if he’d arrived later. He hadn’t, so no point in dwelling. His focus now was getting this young man out of the bush and into care. Ironically, now that his cellphone was operational again, there was no coverage out here, but Vic would get him back to his farm, even if he had to semi-carry him.
‘Hey.’
Vic placed a hand on the lad’s shoulder, and as if he’d pressed an off switch, the shaking began to subside. Vic shifted his hand to Brownie’s back, patted it, half-ashamed that his touch was so hesitant. Coming from a long line of physically undemonstrative men tended to do that to you. But maybe a full-blown hug might not be what the lad wanted; Vic should let him take the lead.
Brownie’s hands slid down his face to expose his eyes, wide and aghast; Vic couldn’t tell whether he was horrified by what he’d almost done, or by the realisation he’d failed and was still here, still alive.
One eye slid to Vic, who said, ‘It’s OK. You’re OK.’
It might be nonsense, but times like this, people needed comfort, reassurance. They didn’t need to hear the truth.
‘Come on, sit yourself up.’
With a few gentle nudges, Vic coaxed the lad into a sitting position, or a bedraggled semblance of one. Brownie’s back was bent, his head hanging low, both arms limp on his legs as if he’d been rescued from a shipwreck and had barely the energy to breathe.
Vic got off creaking knees and sat beside him. Ridiculous phrases circled in his mind, such as ‘Well, here’s a to-do’, and ‘Did you see Taranaki’s taken the shield?’ Fortunately, his mouth didn’t let them out, and the pair sat in silence while the birds carried on singing around them.
Beside him, there was a ragged intake of breath and Brownie lifted his head. Didn’t look at Vic, but stared into the trees. The sun was shining on them, and Vic had nowhere else to be. He could sit with the lad all day.
But then Brownie spoke, his tone flat, subdued.
‘I suppose you want to know why.’
‘Only if you want to tell me,’ said Vic. ‘None of my business, otherwise.’
More silence. Vic hoped he hadn’t put him off.
‘Happened when I saw the gun,’ Brownie eventually resumed. ‘I imagine the idea had been in my mind before then, but it wasn’t until I held that rifle that it fully formed. It seemed so obvious, the answer to everything. Took the gun and the bullets and got up here as fast as I could.’
‘Pretty final answer,’ said Vic. ‘Problems must have been big.’
‘Or else I’m stupid for not being able to solve them. Stupid and weak.’
The bitterness made Vic’s heart thump anew.
‘I didn’t mean that, mate,’ he said, hastily. ‘I know what it’s like to feel stumped by life, up against a wall that you can’t see round or over. It’s not your fault. Sometimes we can’t sort it out no matter how hard we try.’
Not the best comparison, because young Brownie was smart and Vic wasn’t. But Vic hadn’t much else to offer.
Brownie sunk his head in his hands again, and this time, he was crying. Bugger it. Vic put his arms round the lad and hugged him. Awkwardly, owing to the position, but not tentatively. It was a great big man hug, and the lad leaned into him, even though Vic’s Swanndri must scratch like hell. Bit whiffy as well, but too late now.
‘I’m just so tired,’ Brownie said against Vic’s chest. ‘So fucking tired of being afraid, and pretending, and being alone.’
His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘So fucking tired …’
‘Yeah, loneliness is a bugger all right,’ said Vic. ‘Makes you wonder what you did to be so unlovable.’
Brownie sat up, smeared the tears from his face with dirty hands.
‘It’s not what I did,’ he said. ‘It’s who I am. Who I really am, not this — sham persona I put on. But I’m too cowardly to find out how the real me will get on. People look at me sideways enough now. They don’t trust me or like me, and why should they? I was a stupid, arrogant, criminal idiot. Why give them one more reason to hate my guts?’
Vic had lost the thread — if he’d ever had it in the first place.
‘What would be worse than you being a drug dealer?’
Not terribly tactful, but there didn’t seem a better way to put it.
Brownie uttered a short, despairing laugh.
‘What do you think? Honestly, I’ve no idea why nobody’s spotted it before now. Well, to be fair, the odd one has, but they have the same vested interest in keeping mum.’
‘Uh …’
Vic was truly struggling. The upside of this was that Brownie was very nearly amused.
‘I’ll give you a hint, shall I?’ he said. ‘I’m extremely neat.’
‘OK?’
‘And I’ve never had a girlfriend.’
‘Oh …! Oh, shit.’
Brownie shot him a challenging, sideways look.
‘Regret touching me now?’
Vic’s struggle was now of a different kind. He did find gay men, especially the camp ones, off-putting, and the idea of man-on-man sex was just — no. Vic couldn’t even contemplate that kind of, er, rear positioning, with a woman. But this lad here, what was he, nineteen, twenty? If Vic had got his act together earlier in life, he might now have a son that age. Brownie was a boy, a deeply unhappy boy, and if he had been Vic’s son, Vic would not have hesitated to hold him and comfort him. His own father might have balked at even a pat on the back, but Vic could still well remember the joy and reassurance of his mother’s embrace. Why should that kind of physical affection, those gestures of love, be the sole province of women?
And so he put his arm around Brownie again, pulled him close. And Brownie once more buried his face in Vic’s chest and cried, possibly this time out of relief as well, that he’d finally been able to tell someone.
‘Sorry about the Swanni,’ Vic said, when the fresh bout of tears had abated. ‘Didn’t realise how much it stinks until now.’
He felt the lad’s shoulders briefly shake with laughter, and had to steel himself not to sag with relief.
Brownie sat up, smeared more dirt on his damp face. ‘I’m not exactly cool-mint fresh myself.’
Vic reached out for his rucksack, retrieved the flask of water. Offered it to Brownie, who drank as if he’d just crawled out of the desert.
‘Thanks,’ he said, handing it back.
Vic drank, too, without wiping it off. Seemed a small but important gesture.
He became aware of the rifle, lying a few feet away. Never a good thing to leave a weapon unguarded. He should fetch it, but he didn’t want to upset the boy.
Cracking of branches again, behind them. Vic turned his head, but whatever was there was keeping out of sight.
‘Deer?’ said Brownie.
‘Most likely. They come out for the new grass. Good time to go hunting,’ he added.
There was a silence, during which Vic mentally kicked his own stupid, tactless arse.
‘I’ve never killed anything,’ Brownie said. ‘When I went to prison, I thought I was going to be killed, but turns out the guards aren’t stupid. They separated me from the gang affiliates, and stuck me in with the sex offenders, lawyers and accountants.’
‘Accountants, huh?’ said Vic.
‘We played poker for biscuits. They were the worst cheats by far.’
‘Gang given you any trouble since you’ve been out?’
Brownie hung his head again.
‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘and that’s part of it, too. Waiting’s a worse torture than any beating. Can’t go out without looking over my shoulder. Can’t stop worrying about Gene and his family staying safe. The only bright spot is that I don’t have any family around — or anyone else who’s close to me …’
