The Night Book (29 page)

‘Good idea,’ Karen said, so obviously relishing the idea of a grand entrance alongside the future prime minister’s wife that Trish, catching Simon’s eye, laughed indulgently. ‘Yes, it’s all good fun, politics. Come on, ladies. Simon, are you sure you won’t come? No? Of course not. Well, goodbye darling. Mwah. Don’t work too hard. Goodbye girls,’ she called.

Claire stood at the kitchen door, malevolently eating. Roza said goodbye to her, looking around and beyond. But Elke had vanished upstairs.

Simon saw the women to the door.

Trish stepped out, pulling her scarf around her neck. ‘Brr, it’s cold. Do up your coat, Roza. You’ve got to keep warm when you’ve been ill. Ooh look, it’s the police.’

A squad car had pulled into the drive and a uniformed cop got out, carrying a notebook. He came towards them.

Simon stood still. He thought, Mereana. He had a vision of her, slumped on her doorstep, the black field behind her.

Trish looked inquiringly at Simon and when he said nothing she turned to the policeman, asking, ‘How can we help you?’

The cop said, ‘You had some thefts and vandalism along your street last night. Probably local kids. You see or hear anything?’

The thought of Mereana had so unnerved Simon that he couldn’t speak.

There was a strained pause.

Karen said, ‘We didn’t hear anything. Sorry. Simon, did you?
Simon
?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Check. No problem. Have a good day.’ The cop walked away.

You three go ahead then,’ Simon managed to say. Karen took Roza’s arm and they set off down the drive.

Trish said, ‘Simon?’

He turned his troubled eyes on her.

‘You take care,’ she said.

He looked into her shrewd, puffy face. Her eyes shone like little black stones.

‘Take care, Simon,’ she repeated.

She squeezed his arm, and walked after the other two.

Simon closed the door softly and leaned against the wall, feeling the tiny, insistent thud of his heart. He remembered the feeling he’d had at Mereana’s house, that he’d stepped outside his life; that nothing could touch him and no one could find him. That weightless, peaceful sensation — and the bright silence, and the sense of having passed into another world. He thought, I could go back once, just to check. Then he thought: Don’t go back. Never go back.

He turned on his computer and tried to concentrate on a conference paper, but he was alert to every tiny sound, the ticking clock, the neighbours talking in their drive, the mad cheeping of a thrush in the hedge. Being cooped up in the house started to seem unbearable.

Simon bounded upstairs to Claire’s room. ‘Claire? I’ve gotta go in to the hospital. It won’t take too long. Can you hold the fort, look after Marcus?’

She looked up from the computer on which she was unravelling an impossibly long mathematical equation. Her terribly observant gaze rested on him, and he made himself slouch against the door frame, as though nothing could possibly be less important, but those clear eyes bored into him, and there was a silence until she said, ‘Hmm. Whatever.’

‘I won’t be long.’ He was out of there, whisking past Elke and Marcus, who had their whole heads in the fridge, backing the car out with a slight squeal of tyres, and heading south towards the airport, past polling stations and the stumps of party hoardings that had been taken down for election day, and cars decorated with party ribbons. In South Auckland he queued around the aftermath of a car crash, a parked ambulance, people standing about wringing hands and craning to see. He caught a glimpse of a man on the ground, a paramedic kneeling and pumping on the chest. He averted his eyes, drummed his hands on the wheel, debated with himself, before pulling over with a curse. He ran back thirty metres, pushed through the crowd saying breathlessly, ‘I’m a doctor,’ but the paramedic had leaned back on his haunches and was pulling off the bloody rubber gloves, and Simon, invited to confirm his opinion, agreed there was no use in carrying on. He jogged back to his car.

Finally he was standing outside the domestic terminal. Taxi drivers paced outside the doors, talking and smoking. There was the roar of jet engines and a plane crossed below the level of the building, trailing its hot, rippling slipstream. A group of air hostesses crossed the road talking loudly. Warm rain blew in gusts across the flat plain beyond the terminal, and a rainbow made the grass shine. He squared his shoulders and went forward. The glass doors shivered
open, and he entered the heat and noise and crowds.

There was a queue at the café. He waited. A big woman was taking orders; another was bobbing efficiently behind the coffee machine. He caught the eye of the coffee maker. ‘Is Mereana here?’

The woman emptied coffee grounds, banged two cups down on the machine. ‘Mereana? She don’t work here no more.’

Simon hesitated. ‘When … when did she stop?’

‘I dunno. Not long ago. She just never came in one day. Must of shot through, up north maybe.’

‘Did anyone try to find out?’

‘Yeah. But she was just gone, eh. She never answered her phone. We never heard from her.’ She shrugged and went on making coffee.

He turned, to go but veered back. ‘Can I ask … What’s her surname?’

The woman kept her eyes on the machine. She poured milk froth out of a metal jug, stirring rapidly. ‘Surname …’ She leaned across to the other woman. ‘What’s Mereana’s last name?’

‘Who is asking?’

Simon smiled weakly. ‘I am.’ He looked around, sensing others in the queue listening.

The big woman looked derisive. She put a hand on her massive hip. ‘Her surname, my dear,’ she said, in an exaggeratedly girlish voice. She broke off, laughing. ‘What is it? Oh yes, it’s Kostas. With a K. Lovely Mereana Kostas.’

‘And where did she go?’

‘Just like she said.’ The big woman jerked her thumb at the other. ‘She jus decide not to come in one day.’ She looked him over with sour humour. ‘You want order coffee?’

‘No,’ he said, and walked away.

He drove straight to her house and walked along the edge of the field. The little houses stood flimsy and ramshackle against the sky. He listened to the faraway drone of cars. A plane on the edge of the horizon. The mild wind blowing in the grass, whistling through cracks in the iron fence.

He thought, Mereana Kostas, with a K. A Greek name. Was thatwhere she’d got her green eyes?

The field stretched away to the warehouse, the grass rippling in the wind. There was no one on the road, no one in the yards, only far-away sounds and the harsh breathing in his ears. The plane flew through strips of cloud; he watched it appearing and disappearing like a tiny fish in the shallows. Mereana’s gate was blowing on its hinges, making a small repetitive squeak. He went to the porch and knocked, but there was no sound inside, no sign of life. He knocked again, waited and called out. The gate made its
eek eek
sound.

He went around the back, and called and knocked again, and finally put his shoulder against the back door and pushed. The catch gave way easily and he fell into the kitchen, listening to the musty silence.

‘Mereana?’

There was a slew of magazines across the floor, as if they’d slithered off a shelf and spread out in a long line. Two kitchen cupboards were open, revealing tins and packages of food. On the kitchen shelf a clock ticked. He opened the fridge and found beer cans, jars, a packet of cheese. There was a new smell, of damp and dust, of rooms that were uncared for, unoccupied.

He crossed to the bedroom, calling out, and the sound of his voice unnerved him. The bed was fully made up with sheets and Mereana’s thin cotton duvet. He found two shirts hanging in the cupboard, some shoes in the bottom of it, and clothes in the chest of drawers. But something was wrong, different. He turned to the
aquarium. It was dead. ‘Oh,’ he whispered, stooping and squinting, seeing his own great anxious forehead bobbing in the reflection. The water was still, dark and lifeless, the pump and light switched off. He peered into the green sludge, trying to see what it contained, but there was a rank smell, the weed floated greyly on the surface, and he couldn’t see what might be lying on the bottom, among the furred green stones.

He opened drawers, searched through the wardrobe. Had she left, taking what was important, or was this all she owned? All he could do was sit uselessly on the bed and look at his reflection in the dead green water of the fish tank. She had gone — the state of the aquarium told him that. The silence began to oppress him. He tried to calm himself; he should search properly, try to work out what had happened, but every time he looked at the fish tank he got a faint sense of horror.

He went out the back door. Above him the sky was boiling with clouds, and across the waving grass the warehouse roof gleamed dully. He closed the back door and went back to his car, hesitated, then walked along the road.

Outside the neighbour’s house the corrugated iron sunflower hung by one nail. Steeling himself, he crossed the small lawn and knocked on the door.

He heard sounds inside. The Nelf opened his door slowly and looked at Simon, sideways out of the dog-like face. He lounged against the door, his hands pushed into the elastic band of his baggy grey track pants; a heavy black leather jacket was draped over his sloping shoulders and his feet were crammed into ancient boots with no laces. A dank, sweet smell came off him. His face was covered with fine wrinkles and his long hair was knotted on top of his head.

Simon said, ‘I’m looking for your neighbour.’ He pointed at her house. ‘Mereana.’

Silence. The man looked at Simon.

Simon persisted, although he wanted to back away. ‘Mereana Kostas. Where is she?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Where?’

The man shrugged. ‘She shot through.’

‘When did you last see her?’

The Nelf scratched his chin with fingernails that were thick, yellow and stained. ‘Dunno. She just gone.’ He brightened, smiled. ‘But if anyone comes looking for her, I’ll send them your way, bro!’

Simon stared into the man’s crooked eyes.

The Nelf’s grin spread wider, revealing gaps in his rotten teeth. ‘Anyone comes asking, her family, people, pigs, whatever, I’ll send them straight to you. You know how? Cos I seen your number plate. I’ve got it written down, bro. I’ll say, Mereana? Well, her friend used to come over, her special friend in his big flash car. And I’ll say: this is his plates: EJT899.’

Simon opened his mouth. He couldn’t speak.

The man started to grin delightedly. ‘That’s your number, bro. EJT899. Got it printed in my brain. Come to think of it, bro, if I look in my phone, I might even have a
photo
of you and your car.’

Simon backed away, with the childish impulse to block his ears. The Nelf shouted something, hurling the words after him, but Simon had heard enough, and jogged out the gate and back along the road to his car. Driving out, he nearly hit the tottering toddler in his drooping nappy, foraging along the roadside while an older boy followed, swishing a stick. Simon braked; the tiny child was lifting a Coke bottle to his mouth, sucking from it, his chin stained and wet.

He leaned out the window and asked the boy, ‘Do you know Mereana Kostas?’

The boy gripped the T-shirt of the struggling toddler; with the
other hand he brandished his stick, as though to ward Simon off.

‘No,’ he said.

Simon clawed twenty dollars out of his wallet and thrust it at the boy. ‘Take it. Buy the baby some lunch.’

The boy held back. The toddler, furious at being restrained, set up a wail.

‘Take it.’ Simon crumpled up the money and tossed it out, but it was a plastic, washable note and wouldn’t stay screwed up. Instead it unfurled and fluttered down, coming to rest on the very tips of the long grass stalks.

‘It’s yours,’ Simon said, and drove slowly away.

The house was quiet when he got back. The girls were in their rooms; Marcus was kicking a football on the lawn. Simon sat staring at his reflection in the rain-streaked windows. He remembered the empty silence in Mereana’s house, the smell of damp and dust, the untouched food. He thought of the made bed. If she’d moved out, surely she would have taken her bed linen. But perhaps they were cheap old sheets, no great loss. Perhaps the clothes and shoes she’d left were no use to her any more. He tried to rationalise it. People like that move on all the time. They have very little to keep them in one place. They move jobs and don’t own houses; they don’t have many possessions at all, and they’re careless about what they do own. They make quick decisions, leave a bit of mess behind. They disappear.

She valued the aquarium, though.

The image came to him: Mereana’s face. Mereana laughing, sad, angry.
People like that.
People like that can disappear, and who will come looking? Family, if they’re lucky. Friends. Or no one. Unless they turn up dead.

He walked through the house. He looked in at Marcus’s aquarium, the bright square of light, the coloured fish hovering over
the pristine stones. He thought of the foul, spoiled water in Mereana’s tank, its rank smell and the scum of furry green mould. He took a pinch of fish food and dropped it into Marcus’s tank, watching the flakes drift on the surface until the fish swam up and flicked their tails, making the food sink like coloured rain.

Why should he think anything had happened to her? It was pure melodrama. She had moved on. The Nelf had threatened him, but who was the Nelf to threaten? He was a misfit, a freak and outcast. No one would believe a word he said.

He heard a car pull up outside, Karen and Trish clicking up the drive on their heels, Trish’s shrill voice and then a mirthful shriek, as if she’d tripped.

Elke appeared in the hall. Her hair was tangled and her eyes were reddened by pool chlorine.

‘What’s going on?’ she said.

‘Nothing.’

‘Something’s going to happen,’ she said.

His shoulder ached as he put his arm around her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. Where did you go before?’

‘The hospital.’

She looked closely at him. ‘The hospital,’ she repeated. ‘Then why are you sad?’