Faceless, page 15
‘When you say “threw her out”, was there force involved, Mr Naitaku?’
‘I did what was necessary. She was no longer welcome in my home.’
‘Was there force involved?’ Her voice doubled in volume.
Again he looked to his minister, but this time with an edge of caution.
‘Did you strike your daughter, William? Don’t you lie to me. Did you hit her?’ The Reverend Thomas Mara sounded as disgusted as Meredith felt, and was most likely as bound by professional duty to be impartial as she was, but it was clear emotion had overcome the constraints of his position.
‘You hit her, William, you hit her belly.’
William gave his wife a withering look as she whispered the words. He fired angry words at her in Fijian, and Meredith didn’t need a translator to understand the gist – or a crystal ball to know there would be repercussions later.
‘So let me get this right. Your young daughter came to you one day and confided in you she had fallen pregnant, so you physically threw her out of the house, including punching her in the belly, a pregnant woman; and you haven’t seen her since? And this was a year ago?’ Meredith’s words were measured, cold, and it felt like she had to count a beat between each to prevent herself from screaming at the man and saying something she would regret.
‘That is right.’ He spat it out as if it was his God-given right to act that way, and Meredith saw that in his heart, this man believed it. The thought made her feel physically ill. ‘She hasn’t come back and begged our forgiveness, she hasn’t repented. Until she does, she is not welcome in our home, she is not my daughter.’
‘So you haven’t met your grandchild?’
There was silence, punctuated by shuddery breaths from Lily Naitaku.
‘Do you even know if you have one? Did she have the baby? What happened there? Do you know?’ If she had hoped for a flicker of guilt or remorse in his face, she was mistaken. She decided William Naitaku was a truly ugly man.
‘If she has the baby it does not matter. We would be ashamed of the child, it was the product of sin, a sin that shamed our family, before Church and God.’
Meredith had to clench everything to stop herself from exploding. Her toes ached in her shoes. She could sense the waves of tension coming off the minister to her side. She wondered who would give in to their urge to scream at him first.
‘This is why you lied to me, William?’ The Reverend won. He rose to his feet, towering above all those at the table. ‘You told me she had been sent back to Fiji to stay with relatives. I am horrified you threw her out on the streets, all because you felt ashamed, worried about what people would think – what the Church would think?’ His finger stabbed in accusation. ‘Our God is a god of forgiveness. We would have supported you all, especially Vilimena, in this. I am appalled at your lack of faith in your congregation, and I am sickened by what you did to her, your own flesh and blood.’
The Reverend’s face was flushed and beads of sweat framed his brow. He had a look about him of the fire-and-brimstone preachers of old. Meredith could see the situation was about to turn to custard, which, although satisfying to watch, would achieve nothing. She stepped in to deflect the attention off the men.
‘And what of you, Mrs Naitaku? Do you share your husband’s views? Do you know if she had the baby?’ Lily looked up to her husband, mouth agape, clearly hesitant in giving any reply. Meredith caught the shiftiness about her and knew she was hiding something. ‘What do you know? I can see you’re not telling me something.’ Silence descended on the room as all attention was focused on the woman. She shook her head from side to side, staring at the tabletop. ‘Look at me, Mrs Naitaku, this is your daughter we are talking about. What do you know?’
‘She didn’t have baby,’ she whispered. ‘She lost it.’
Max had never mentioned a baby, so Meredith had been sure it had either been dealt with, or miscarried. After hearing of her father’s heavy-handedness she couldn’t help but wonder if he had contributed to this. She added another potential crime to charge the bastard with, along with assault, immigration evasion, and complete failure to be a decent human being.
‘Have you talked with her?’
She shook her head. ‘Frankie, our oldest boy. He sometimes go see her, give her money, his money.’ William fired another salvo at her in Fijian, which she returned with similar vigour. It appeared Mrs Naitaku had had enough.
‘Silence.’ The Reverend’s bellow shut them both up.
‘When was the last time Frankie saw her?’
‘Two, three week ago. He find her in town.’
‘How old is he?’
‘He fifteen.’ So a child succeeded where the adults had failed, and had showed more compassion than the girl’s own parents.
‘And she didn’t tell him of any problems she was having with anyone, any concerns she had for her safety?’
‘No, everything okay.’ Apart from the fact she was a young woman abandoned by her family on the streets of Auckland. Yeah, everything was just hunky-dory.
Meredith had had enough. She’d done what she’d set out to do, found out the identity of the girl, got a photograph and eliminated the possibility her family had stepped in to rescue her. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. Listening to the father’s self-righteous crap had left her mentally exhausted and sick at heart. She stood up and pushed the chair away, pulled on her jacket.
‘Thank you for your time, Reverend,’ she said, acknowledging him with a nod. ‘Mr and Mrs Naitaku, I will keep you informed of our investigation into your daughter’s disappearance. Mr Naitaku, be warned there will be charges pending, and if I hear even a whisper of any harm to your wife or children as a result of this conversation you will be in a cell faster than you can blink. I’ll see myself out.’ With that she turned and walked to the door. But as her hand gripped the door handle she decided she couldn’t leave it at that; in her heart she couldn’t let it be. She turned back to them and looked at them with contempt. ‘You both should be fucking ashamed of yourselves.’ And with that salvo fired she walked out and slammed the door shut behind her, blocking out the eruption of Fijian that followed in her wake.
Billy
Billy sits with her back against the solidity of the wall. Her shorn hair lies in a pile beside her, where she has gathered up every last strand she can find. She takes a deep breath and reaches up with trembling fingers to her scalp, explores what remains on her head. She lets her breath out with a groan as she feels the frizzy few centimetres that remain and the rough-cut ends that prickle her fingertips. It has always been her pride, and even with everything she has been through in the last year, she has always kept it clean, tidy, pretty. Now it is gone. The stories of her childhood fill her head and her mind casts back to Samson, betrayed, blinded and robbed of his glory, his strength. Her eyes squeeze shut and she whispers to herself, ‘I will not lose my strength, I will not lose my strength.’ Her hands drop back to her lap, and she lifts her eyes heavenward, looking at the water stains in the ceiling, picked out by the dim light of the lantern he has left her. But Samson came back; she recalls Samson’s last act of defiance, his entreaty to God, placing his hands against the central pillars of the temple of his enemies and pushing, pushing, and destroying the temple with the last remaining ounce of his strength. And she knows she has to find that place, that well of strength within her, if she is going to survive this. Because, by God she feels her fear and her anger, and she feels her hate, but she also feels shame. She thinks of the Bible and all of those Sunday-school stories, the memory verses she’d had to rote learn, the stories of those who called upon God in their hour of need. But she can’t bring herself to do it. When she thinks of God she thinks of her father, and when she thinks of her father, her mind explodes with those last terrible images of his rage, of his fists, of being forcibly cast out, and her hands fly to her eyes to try and block the visions. But all she sees is his face screwed up in anger, she hears the hurtful, shameful names fall from his lips, feels the echoes of his blows, and she sees her mother cowering, impotent. She remembers the pain, the griping, the bleeding, the loss, and her heart aches at the thought of what could have been, but was stolen from her by that man. No, she can’t call on God. That god is his god, a god of anger and fear and pain. She thinks back to the stories, those other stories – not the Bible ones, instead the ones her grandmother used to tell her, stories of myths and legends. She sighs as she remembers her grandmother, her Bubu. Images flood her mind, but they are different, and she feels her heart calm as she sees the grand old woman, tall, oh so tall, and big, and beautifully ugly – because she was far from pretty, her Bubu. She smiles at the scary woman the children used to run from, but to whom she was drawn. She sees her serenity, her calm and, above all, her strength, she sees her Bubu’s strength. And she knows she has found that place of refuge now, that place of strength she can retreat to. She laughs quietly to herself. She has found her talisman.
Max
Max walked into the café, relieved to get out of the biting wind, and scanned its interior, taking in the retro-cool look the place had tried to cultivate, not altogether successfully. There were padded booths for the diners, and Formica tables, and 1970s-style lighting hung from the ceiling. Not even the most gifted of interior designers could manage to make walls of computer screens look cool, though, even if they were banished to the darkest recesses of the place.
He was surprised to see how many people were here at this hour of night. There was quite an array of humanity feverishly typing on keyboards. It had been difficult to find an internet café, they were few and far between now most people had smartphones. The tourists were easy to spot: some because of their silly hats and beanies. No self-respecting Kiwi would ever wear a bright, stripy beanie that covered the ears and ended in braids – especially the guys. There was one guy who looked borderline homeless – stubbly beard, holey clothes, dead eyes. Max found it hard to stop staring at him; when he finally did it was to look at himself, reflected in the window. He looked gaunt, and the hair was definitely shorter than he’d ever worn it, but he was a more recognisable self than the apparition that had stared back at him from the mirror this morning.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Max turned his head around to see a bearded young man, decked out in muso clothes. Beards looked to have become fashionable in the time he’d been out of circulation. It was one of those changes he noticed, now that he had started looking at people’s faces again. Perhaps he’d been a little hasty in getting rid of his.
‘How much is it to use a computer?’
‘Internet is three dollars for half an hour, or two dollars if you buy a coffee.’
The last coffee Max had drunk was a treat brought to him by Billy. That would have been, what, over a week ago? Shit, a lot had changed since then.
‘Is there anywhere nearby with free internet?’ he said.
‘Only wireless if you’ve got your own laptop.’
Max shook his head.
The guy looked at him as if he was some cheapskate. ‘There’s the city library, but they’re closed at this hour of night.’
It couldn’t wait till the morning. He put his hand in his pocket, felt the ten-dollar note, but left that, then found the last remaining coin. He pulled it out and held the two dollars in his hand, turning it over and over between his thumb and fingers, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He didn’t want to break into that note.
The young man shrugged. ‘That will have to do,’ he said, and took the coin. ‘You’re at computer number twelve, over by the window there, and here’s your password.’ He handed back a small slip of paper.
‘Thanks,’ Max said, and felt touched by yet another small gesture of kindness from a stranger. It went a little way to restoring his faith in humanity. He sat down in the window seat next to a young couple who were bantering away in some foreign language, it sounded Scandinavian. They gave him a cursory glance and went back to their banter. He logged in and stood staring at the screen, willing his mind to remember what to do. Computers had never been a passion for him. He had been proficient enough at their use, but he saw them more as a tool than a pastime. Max surreptitiously looked at what the Scandinavians were laughing over. Bloody Facebook. When he looked around at the other computers in use, they were all on social media. It had been over two years since he’d been near a computer, and then talk had been of how social media was the new way of communicating; that it would replace the need to actually talk to people. It looked to him that it had taken over the world. Last resort, he told himself.
He looked up the White Pages telephone directory website first. He felt his skin grow clammy as he typed in the name. Grimes, Helena. Nothing. Grimes, H. Still nothing. He wondered if it was still under … Grimes, M. No, he wasn’t there either. It surprised him how that small omission made it feel his presence had been erased from the world. With an ache in his heart he typed in Goodchild, H. And there she was. She’d gone back to her maiden name. ‘Fuck.’ He didn’t realise he’d said the thought out loud until the couple next to him turned their backs to him, more for their comfort than his privacy, no doubt. The other thing he noticed glaring from the computer screen twisted like a knife for the stab in the back. She’d moved. God, had she sold the house? But she couldn’t have. She’d have needed his signature for that: despite everything that had happened, legally it was still half his – although morally? He knew the answer to that. He needed to write the information down, but pen and paper wasn’t on his personal inventory. He looked around at the people nearest him. He didn’t want to bother the Scandis, they were probably wary of him anyway. The computer to his right was vacant, but the next one over was occupied by a young Indian-looking man.
‘Excuse me, please? You wouldn’t have a pen and some paper I could use, would you?’ The guy had a refill pad and a pencil case in front of him, so Max knew it was a case of would he, rather than could he. The young guy looked surprised, as if he’d been pulled out of some alternative reality, which was probably true: Facebook.
‘Yeah, sure.’ His accent was one hundred percent Kiwi. Max listened to the rip as he pulled a page out and then handed it over, with a red biro.
It had been so long since he’d written anything that it felt alien and awkward as Max jotted down the new address and phone number. The letters looked stilted and large, the writing of a small kid. He looked at the phone number and pondered how to approach this. The trouble was it wasn’t Helena he wanted to talk to – she was the last person in the world he wanted to confront right now – so he couldn’t just pick up the phone and ring, and hope she wasn’t the one to answer.
There was nothing else for it, he knew what he had to do. Given his dislike of the thing, how ironic that it was going to be the pathway for knowledge for him. He pulled up the Facebook homepage and logged in. The only reason he had a Facebook account in the first place had been to do precisely what he was about to do now. The photo of a laughing and carefree-looking Max was a lifetime removed from the man looking at it now. He shook his head and moved on to his friends list, which was brief. He wasn’t surprised to see he’d been ‘unfriended’ by Helena. Revenge at a keystroke. But he felt a jolt of relief when he saw the other name there. His finger poised over the mouse, but he had to take several deep breaths before he found the strength to click.
His body slumped in the chair at the sight of the face grinning out at him from the screen. Harry’s face had made that subtle change from a teenager’s to a man’s in the two years since he’d seen him; and the torrent of guilt Max felt in having missed that transition threatened to overwhelm him. His eyes took in the new bump in the nose, the stubble, and he admitted with a groan he’d missed that vital passage into manhood: the first shave. Who had overseen that special moment? Helena? Someone else? It didn’t bear dwelling on. He scrolled through some more photos, and marvelled at how tall he’d grown, how much he’d muscled out. It was undeniable. His son was no longer the gangly teenager he’d left behind, he was a carbon copy of Max at that age. The word ‘abandoned’ snuck into his mind, and his shoulders hunched forward with near physical pain at the accusation. Jesus, he’d walked away, he’d just walked away from all that, and missed out on so much. But at the time there had been no other way. It was either walk away or, well, do something drastic. His mind began to play like some old horror movie, that train of thought causing old doors, old, creaking, menacing doors, to creep open, the poisonous light from within edging wider and wider, spilling further and further.
Jesus, get a grip, get a fucking grip, he told himself. He had to do this, for Billy’s sake he had to do it. He clicked the ‘message’ box before the impetus disappeared. But, God, what to write, what words could you use when you suddenly wanted back into the life of someone you’d left like that? Keep it simple, it was all he could do, keep it simple. When he looked at the words, they looked cold, detached. His fingers paused over the keys and he added one more, ‘please’. He clicked send before he could change his mind, then sat there, spent. His eyes flicked up to the time reading in the corner. He only had two minutes left. Did he dare look any further? God no. He stood up: the noise of the chair scraping across the linoleum floor sounded deafening to his ears.
It felt like everyone’s eyes were on him as he made the long walk to the door and out into the night.
Bradley
For the first time in longer than he could remember he looked forward to this very moment, to walking through the doors at work and heading to his desk. His hour at the gym this morning had left him energised. He had worked out hard, probably too hard, and he tensed his thigh muscles, enjoying the slight burn that came from having pushed himself just that little bit further, beyond the pain barrier. So what if he paid for it tomorrow.
