Into the River (19 page)

Steph looked worried. “Devon, we will get our own back. He will pay for this, but we will do it the smart way. He’s got the other ways all covered.”

“Yeah? Like how?”

Steph, for once, looked defeated. He had no answer, no reassurances to offer. Then something appeared that Devon had never seen before. Beyond the irony, there was a seriousness, a determination. Steph’s eyes hardened and when he spoke it was with a low, calm voice.

“I’ll find a way. Trust me on this.”

Devon looked at him. “Promise?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

A week or so later the term finally sputtered to a halt. Devon found himself once again heading down towards the Coast road with Paikea in her courier van. Hardly a word was spoken for the first hour and Devon waited in vain for the chance to drive.

“I know what you’re thinking, Devon. When’s my turn? Well, not today. I need to do this myself today.”

Devon had thought that she was angry with him. He was now thoroughly used to adults being angry with him: almost expected it. But she wasn’t angry, he could tell. There was a weighty sadness about her that he had never seen before.

Back at Whareiti that evening Ra explained. “Paikea has had a hard time recently. Jinny’s cancer has returned aggressively, and she’s not expected to last much longer.”

Later, he said, “I’ve had a letter from the school about stuff you have been getting up to but I’m not going to say anything about it now. I would like you to talk about it, when you’re ready. We’ve got a bit of time on our hands, but don’t leave it too late.”

The holidays, which Devon had been dreading, took on their own slow, low-key torture. There was nothing for him at Whareiti. He had no interest in the local kids now, and hardly even left the house. The only thing which gave him any sort of relief was chess. The book of chess games he had brought back from the Barwell’s library helped to sustain him during his long periods alone. Each day he would set up a new game to ponder over. He sensed his opponent in this sequence of moves. It had his personal signature at first, but then gently it built into a distinct personality.

He spoke to it. “Your move, Diego!”

One day Wiremu showed up. Devon stood staring at him for a while as though he was a complete stranger.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in, Reps?”

“I’m not Te Arepa, I’m Devon. That stuff’s long gone. Come in if you want.” He was shocked at the coldness of his voice, as though it came from someone else.

“Ra tells me all you’re doing is sitting at home playing chess all day and talking to yourself. What a sad one, eh?”

Devon didn’t bother responding.

Wiremu blathered on about stuff he’d been up to and things he had planned for the next few weeks, while Devon stared out the window, waiting for him to finish. After a while there was the welcome sign of awkwardness creeping into his tone and Devon knew it wouldn’t be long before he gave up.

“Why don’t we play a game of chess?’

“You know how to play?”

“Course I know how to play.”

“Okay,” said Devon with a sigh. Anything to shut him up.

He set the game up and turned the board around to let Wiremu play white.

“White starts.”

“I know.”

A minute or two later he was surprised to see Wiremu clearing out the pawns on the king’s side. He brought out the queen and Wiremu was in trouble.

“What’s happened?”

“That’s it. Checkmate.”

“No way, I wasn’t ready, it’s a trick.”

“It’s called ‘Fool’s Mate’, a bit hard on the ego.”

Wiremu stood up. “Stupid fucken game, anyway. Should call it nerd’s revenge.”

He moved towards the door.

“You going?”

“What do you think?”

And he was gone.

A day or so later, Ra made reference to this incident.

“What was I meant to do? Let him win? Make him feel better?”

“That’s not the point. That’s not why we play games. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

Devon glared at him. “Yes Ra. You’ve taught me plenty.”

Ra opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again.

A few days later Devon noticed that Ra was putting on his old suit. It had the musty smell he remembered from when he was tiny. They exchanged looks but neither was willing to speak. The coldness that hung between them made it difficult now to even broach the mundane. Ra waited but when nothing was spoken he finally announced, “Yes Te Arepa, I’m off to a tangi, since you have to ask.”

“Whose?”

“It’s Jinny’s. She died on Wednesday. She’s up on the marae, now.”

Devon nodded, said nothing, but inside he felt an aching regret. He should have contacted Paikea.

“I’m not going to ask you or tell you to go. But you do know it’s on.”

He went off mumbling to himself while Devon watched him walk out the gate from the kitchen window.

He turned back to his game, trying to nullify the gnawing guilt that Ra’s casual news had planted in him. Having lost his queen so early in the game, his position was difficult. It was a knotty problem. Once again Diego had out-smarted him. He’d seemed to struggle when Devon had taken the black bishop and rook. Devon moved in for the kill but what seemed so easy was in fact just a ploy to ensnare his queen. He sat down and looked at the alternatives; nothing stood out. Nothing had a future beyond four moves. Devon was restless and agitated.

“So you think you’ve got it all sewn up, do you, Diego?”

It was impossible to sit down.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

It was no good. If there was some way out of this mess then he certainly couldn’t see it. Ra had put paid to that. He wandered out to the gate and looked up towards the marae. In the distance he could see the glint of cars parked out on the roadway.

Everyone would be there.

Everyone, except him.

He set off on a whim: there was no benefit in sitting around. When he reached the edge of the field, his eye was caught by the smoke of the hangi fire. There were a couple of older men with long poles digging out the stones. Three other people stood around watching. He was too far away to recognise them. Everyone else was hanging around the paepae as he expected. He could see Ra chatting to a couple of old kuia.

He climbed the fence and walked towards the fire. The thought of all those introductions and then explanations was more than he could take, especially from people who felt sorry for him because of his parents. As he got closer he noticed that two of the watchers were Paikea and Jim Herewini. He liked Jim because of his stories and dumb jokes. But it was odd that Paikea was out here in the men’s domain. He expected her to be in the wharenui next to the casket. Since Jinny was a Pakeha this tangi was more for Paikea than anyone else.

He walked over and put his arm around Paikea’s waist. It was an action that surprised him as much as it did her. She put her arm on his shoulder but said nothing.

It took a moment or so before Jim noticed him standing there.

“Hey, it’s the boy.” He smiled. “Kia ora, Te Arepa.”

Devon leant in for a hongi and then stared at the pink embers shimmering through torrents of heat haze.

“I should be throwing Jinny in there.” Paikea spoke more to herself than anything.

“What?” asked Devon, incredulous.

“Don’t get me wrong. Ra wanted to show some appreciation for her work on the treaty submission. I know it’s a big deal, treating her like she’s one of our whanau.” She paused tentatively. “But it’s not what she would’ve wanted.”

“I thought she was sold on the maoritanga.”

“Jinny’s field was anthropology. Indigenous people’s rights, not only here but worldwide. She took the bigger view. It drove the people in Wellington mad. She’d always go right back to the beginning of things. Then she would look at each change, who did what, and why. That sort of thing. She always wanted to know the big why.”

Paikea’s voice trailed off. Devon noticed that silent tears were running down her face.

“But her faith was different. She was a Zoroastrian. That’s what we believed in.”

“Zoro what?”

“It’s a religion from Persia. Have you heard of the Bahais?”

Devon nodded.

“She and her husband were Bahais. They’re a modern version, but it wasn’t enough for her. She began to dig and didn’t stop until she came to Zoroaster. Drove her husband mad.”

She laughed softly.

“Then she met me.”

“How was that?”

“I was a wild one. I was burgling their flat in Grey Lynn. But that’s all a hundred years ago. We found that we weren’t so different. I was her warrior and she was my prophet. We had five years together.”

“So you both became Zoroastrians?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

“Do you believe in reincarnation, all that Indian stuff?”

She nodded. “Everything comes back. The dead, they are all waiting for us you know, can’t you feel it?”

Devon nodded. Yes, he thought, I can feel it. This is something I know.

“Better go. I’ve got a date with the weepin’ and wailin’ women. Coming?”

“No. I just wanted to see you. That’s the only reason I came.”

There was something about his tone. She stopped and stared at him for a moment and then leaned forward and lightly kissed him on the cheek. “You’ve done it then. Hei konei ra, Devon.”

He watched her walk off to where a small cluster of women in black awaited her. Jim was giving instructions to the hangi cooks. It was a good time to go.

It was a week or so later that Devon woke with a start in the middle of the night. There was no noise, not even Ra’s snoring. But there was something wrong — he knew it. He went to the back door and walked to the front gate. Somewhere in the eastern sky there was a flickering glow, but it was far too early to be the coming of the new day. Back in bed he was too restless to get back to sleep. Some time later, maybe an hour, he heard a siren.

That afternoon when Ra returned, he heard the full story.

The fire at Paikea’s cottage. How the farmer had been burned trying to get her out. It wasn’t until he had smashed the door that he discovered every exit had been locked and barricaded. The heat had been so intense that even the fruit trees had been charred in the little orchard out the back, fifty metres away. Ra had brought back a burnt peach to show him. Paikea’s beloved courier van had caught fire before it could be moved; finally it exploded, flattening the back end of the cottage.

Ra said she was mad with grief.

Devon thought otherwise but kept his opinions to himself.

When it came time for Devon to return to school he had to take the slow bus trip. No more drive North with Paikea.

A week or so after Barwell’s term had swung into action again, everyone was roused from their beds at six a.m. and sent to the common room in their pyjamas.

At first the boys were sure it was a fire drill but these had never been held so early in the morning. And anyway, the alarms weren’t ringing.

The juniors were all made to sit according to their pens, the seniors alphabetically. It was obviously serious. Mr Simmonds looked very grumpy. He wasn’t wearing a tie. He hadn’t even shaved.

Mr Faull was ready for the morning run in his track suit, trainers and whistle but now looked anxiously towards his boss. There was a rule of silence, enforced by seniors. A couple of juniors were dispatched to ensure that no one was missing.

Then the rolls were taken.

Mr Simmonds stood up to address the boys, his voice holding a slight shiver of anger. “Something terrible has happened in Marsden House, something which has shaken my belief in you boys to its roots.”

He paused characteristically to let every syllable sink in.

“Last night while most of us were sleeping there was a thief in our midst.”

Another pause.

“I am inured to the occasional ‘borrowing’ that goes on here. I know you are not saints and that you take things that are not yours … but this was of a different measure.”

His gaze trained restlessly across the faces of the assembled boys, looking for the giveaway sign that signalled the “snake in the ranks”. Then he told them what had happened.

“As you all know we operate here largely on a system of trust. That’s the glue that holds any society together … without it, there’s anarchy.”

There was the murmur of the younger boys wondering what anarchy was.

“Well, anarchy has descended upon us this morning and the consequences will be dire.”

Further murmuring as other boys struggled with the vocabulary.

“You all know that on my desk I keep a box. That box is where money and phone cards are stored. The money belongs to a number of people: the bursar, various students who have entrusted me their term’s allowances. It also holds the proceeds from phone card sales, and advance collections for house trips and charities. It is the financial epicentre of the house.”

He looked directly at Mitch and then continued.

“It’s a secure box, made in Germany. There’s one key and I have it here,” he said, holding it up. “One would feel … that given all these measures I have put in place … I would be seen as,” he couldn’t resist breaking into jargon, “exercising due diligence. But I was wrong. Some weasel … yes, I use that term advisedly … some weasel has stolen the box and I believe that he is one of us.”

There was an outbreak of mumbling, harshly responded to by the seniors’ glares and a few well-aimed slaps that soon restored the silence.

“At this very moment trusted members of other houses are poring over every locker, bed, nook and cranny in Marsden and you will not return to your pens until the money has been recovered. I’m not talking about a small sum. I’m talking about more than a thousand dollars. And yes, the police have been informed. The machinery for punishment is now in place and the result will not be less than expulsion but will more likely amount to a criminal prosecution.”

With that he left the room. There was an immediate stunned silence followed by rapid swelling of mumbled questions, theories and accusations. This time the seniors did little to suppress the noise — they were too busy delving into this fascinating speculation themselves. The cash box had long been cited as the ultimate prize for any thief, but had normally been referred to in jest because of its believed invulnerability. Now that this bastion had fallen anything was possible.

For two days after this, whispering and suspicion ensued, with many boys being called to Mr Simmonds’s office for interrogation. It was not long before Devon and Mitch were summoned to explain the origin of their Holden jackets. There was little doubt where this suspicion had come from. Mitch explained how his uncle had gifted them the jackets, but Simmonds was far from convinced. He rang Mitch’s father, Big John, with the two boys standing in front of his desk. After a minute or so of cagey explanation, there was the outraged sound of Big John’s voice exploding from the phone. Mr Simmonds held the receiver a distance from his ear for a while and then, unable to break into the tirade, thanked him and hung up mid-expletive.

“It seems your father, Mitchell, is quite adamant the jackets were purchased and given legitimately. Please explain to your father, when he’s in a calmer frame of mind, that what we’re doing is quite routine and not aimed at you in particular.”

“I’ll try, sir, but once he gets an idea in his head, it’s hard to shift.”

Mr Simmonds looked a little worried as he escorted them back into the common room of Marsden House and called in a couple more boys.

Towards the end of the week things slowed down and it seemed that whoever had stolen the money box had pulled off the perfect crime. Everyone was watched closely to see if there were any giveaway changes in spending patterns or behaviour and it was clear that the whole house was going to be in a state of permanent
suspicion. Privileges were suspended and the TV room was off-limits after the six p.m. news was finished. The weekend loomed and all leave was going to be out of the question. Theories ranged wildly.

Mr Faull announced to the boys in the common room that Sunday night that he believed he knew what lay behind the robbery. It was the work of boys in a rival house who wanted to break the Marsden House spirit. Ever since they had moved into first place in the house competition ‘certain factions’ had been quietly doing everything they could to drag Marsden House down. “But we are not about to let that happen, are we boys?”

“That’s so Mr Faull,” said Steph at the breakfast table the next day. “Good old Farty, he believes that the house system really matters. He’s a true believer.”

Just when the following weekend also seemed doomed, Peter Newell came running into the prep room all excited, blurting out the news. There was a break-through in the case. Graeme Hartnell had been called to the housemaster’s office. He’d been there for more than an hour and then taken to the headmaster’s office. There was a police car in the driveway.

This seemed too amazing to be true. Everyone knew that
Hartnell’s
family was as rich as stink; he flaunted it at every opportunity. Why would he steal the box? What proof could they have? It was impossible.

However later that evening, his parents arrived and took him away.

“He has been suspended and is ‘helping the school with their inquiries’,” said Adam Neeson, who for once had been drawn away from his studies. He was interested in how the incident was handled from a legal stance and this was a great chance for him to casually toss around the jargon.

He was emphatic about it. “You juniors simply must not jump to conclusions when something is still clearly subjudice. The presumption of innocence is a basic tenet of the British legal system.
The evidential process must be followed scrupulously or what chance is there of a fair trial?”

Mitch was smirking at Devon; there was something almost God-like about the justice of this.

At breakfast the following day, the word was out that there had been an anonymous tip-off, pushed under Mr Simmonds’s door, which had alerted him to the traceability of the phone cards. Telecom were contacted and that was all it took. Hartnell had loaded his phone with the cards the same night the box had been stolen. Although the evidence was ‘circumstantial’ as far as Neeson was concerned, it seemed water-tight to everyone else. Later, when some twenty dollar notes were found between the pages of a maths book in his locker, the matter moved to “beyond reasonable doubt”.

By the middle of the following week it was all common knowledge. Hartnell had transferred to another private school near Hamilton. He refused to admit any guilt whatsoever but could not account for the loaded credit on his phone. His gear was packed and waiting in the duty room to be picked up.

When Hartnell’s mother arrived, Mr Simmonds called for someone to carry his things to the car park. Hartnell’s mother was impressed by the boy: by his willingness to help and by the sincerity with which he relayed to her what a loss Graeme would be, both to the school and to him personally. He asked her to pass on his best wishes to Graeme, and the hope that things worked out better this time.

“Well, thank you. Who shall I say helped me?”

“Tell him it was Nig.”

“Nig?”

“Yes Nig, short for Nigger. We all have nicknames here.”

She looked at him doubtfully for a moment and then said “Thank you, Nig, I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

With Hartnell out of the way, peace reigned in Marsden House. No one was exactly sure what had happened to him, but the principle of “what goes around comes around” seemed the most likely explanation.

The weekends were still a problem. Mitch, without warning, failed to return one Sunday night. When Devon finally reached him on the phone, all he would say was that Barwell’s was getting in the way of his education. So now Saturday and Sunday were like a vast uncrossable plain at the end of each week. The tedium was numbed by hanging out in the Flagg-Lewis Suite with Steph, listening to music and increasingly, smoking weed.

Steph had a steady supply and was always inventing a reason for them both to sneak outside to the little copse of trees next to the chapel, and light up. They would lie down in the manuka and flax wilderness garden not forty metres from the main driveway to the school.

“So where does this come from?”

“Ah, there’s a riddle …”

“I know … Briggs.”

The thought of Briggs being his dealer set Steph off on a wild coughing fit.

“Get real, Devon. Look, no offence but you are a real country boy about some things. I can see why you get on so well with Wade Royle and his woolly clan.”

“I don’t.”

“Never mind.” He sniffed, rolled onto his back and said, “Let me tell you something, Mr Devon Santos. Something which I’m surprised you don’t know about. We … that is, you, me, all of us fellow boarders, are stuck here, imprisoned week after week while fifty metres in that direction,” he pointed towards Newmarket, “the world and his brother rattles by. It’s no coincidence that this school’s been sited close to Mount Eden prison, because we’re prisoners too. We just don’t need the bars.” He pointed at his forehead. “The bars are all here. Or should I say there,” he
said, pointing at Devon’s forehead. “The reason I smoke this, the reason I am able to get weed, is because I have found a way to slip past those bars. I have the tools and the weapons to do it.”

Devon, the dope beginning to slow things down, was having trouble keeping up with this.

“We have two things going for us, Devon, but most of us are too scared or too stupid to realise.”

“What two things?”

“We have our youth. Our pretty faces and our young bodies.” He flashed a model pose at Devon. “We are full of future possibilities. All of them — the adults, the teachers, everyone really — they’re all stuck in the world. Bogged down by …” He paused and attended to removing the tiny leaves from a manuka twig, “Their responsibilities.”

He turned to Devon again. “Don’t you realise that we aren’t? We can do what we like. We have what they want … we can give them some of it … and then take what we want.” He held up the joint as if to illustrate the point.

Devon mused on this, wondering what Steph would say next. But he said nothing.

Then as if he had finally exhausted the subject, Steph sat up and said, “Come on. Let’s go to the music suite. I feel like I can handle a good blast of early Sonic Youth.”

They carefully wriggled out of the bushes and made their way past the big hall. Steph talked loud and fast, waving his arms about and every now and then jumping up and doing a little spin … the trademark Steph-is-stoned move. Other than this he seemed to be able to function normally in a half-stoned state; in fact, he said, it made everything easier.

It was not the same for Devon. There was a point where the dope seemed to open a curtain and expose a dark place: somewhere unpredictable and scary. First, came the creeping unease, then the feeling of being watched. It followed him everywhere, and everything he saw seemed to confirm it.

Just when they needed it, the FLS was locked up, but the sound of a piano rang out through the louvres in the skylight. Devon and Steph banged away at the door but it was hopeless: the insulation in the practice rooms was too good.

“Give me a leg up, man.”

Steph knitted his fingers and boosted Devon up onto the low entrance roof. He looked around; they had been warned about climbing on the roof many times, but there was no one near. Heaving himself onto the flat roof he moved towards where the relentless piano exercises came from.

“Oi, Briggs! It’s me and Steph. Let us in.”

It was only a guess but a fairly safe one: Briggs was legendary for the amount of time he put into his practice sessions.

“Who is it? Devon?”

“Yo!”

“Go to the door then.”

Devon and Steph were allowed in, the door locked behind them.

Steph reached up and put his arm around Briggs’s neck. “Thanks, Barry, you’re a mate.”

It was an odd move, Devon thought. They went off to the control room and Briggs returned to bashing away on the piano.

Steph was still trying to find the tracks he wanted on the computer when the piano stopped and Briggs appeared in front of the big window separating the control room from the recording studio.

“You guys want coffee?”

Steph made a kiss sign at him and he disappeared.

Later, when they had almost forgotten why he’d left, he appeared at the door with three mugs in his hands.

Devon opened up. “Oh legend!” He made to take his and Steph’s mugs but Briggs made a point of handing Steph’s to him personally.

“Thank you, Barry, you are a … special person. Isn’t he a special
person, Devon?”