“You’ll have to get in a painter to do the rest,” he says. I pay him in cash. “You don’t need an invoice, right?”
“No,” I tell him.
He smiles the smile of a man who knows he’s gotten away with something the tax department doesn’t have to know about. I smile the smile of a man who knows that having his door fixed is the act of somebody who is confident they’re going to be around long enough to enjoy it. He packs up his gear and leaves and I lock up the house and head outside.
I drive out to New Brighton, the radio off the whole time because nobody can say or sing or advertise anything that’ll make me feel any better. I listen to the traffic and to my thoughts and don’t really like the sound of those either. The temperature has peaked in the early seventies, but hasn’t started its decline yet.
New Brighton has a nice beach that’s often ruined by a really killer wind. Sand is always on the move, the wind using it to assault the swimmers and sunbathers. The houses in the area are mainly bungalows and cottages that are stained with sea salt. Anything made from metal is either rusting or in danger of rusting. The gardens that make Christchurch famous don’t extend their roots out here. What little greenery there was has dried up and turned to brown weed that crackles underfoot, each piece a potential matchstick.
I park near the mall. Brighton Mall is the only outdoor mall in the city. It used to be vibrant back when I was a kid. I remember my parents bringing me out here. The shops were different from other malls, you had the smell of fish and chips, the sun on your back, the sound of breaking waves only feet away. Now the mall has more empty shops than sales assistants. It’s a sign of bad times. It’s just like Arthur was saying.
I walk down the mall, I can’t help but feel saddened by all the For Sale and For Lease signs that I pass. Just before the end of the millennium a three-hundred-meter concrete pier was built out here, as though that would bring people back to a dying suburb, but so far the only thing it has attracted is fishermen. They renovated the surrounding blocks, threw up palm trees and slapped paint on the storefronts and walkways. And it worked. For a few months. Until it stopped working. The pier is still here and has been built so solidly that it probably always will be. It’s opposite the mall, heading out from above the sand dunes into the ocean. It stands two storeys high with flights of concrete stairs leading up from the walkway. A library and cafés are built into the base of it. I climb the stairs and the warm breeze from below disappears, replaced by air currents that are several degrees cooler. With the library behind me, its thousands of books perhaps offering plenty of solutions as to what I could try tonight, I head out over the incoming tide, passing people who have their lines over the side to catch whatever fish are dumb enough to still be hanging around. There are lampposts every twenty yards: their lights will help me out tonight. Up here the smell of seaweed is gone, replaced by the smell of blood, fish guts, rotting skin, and cigarette smoke. People gut their fish directly onto the asphalt. Teenagers throw fish heads at their friends.
I walk out to the end, past wooden seats with peeling paint and rusting trash bins. I walk to a small non-fishing zone where people are fishing, leaning against the railing and looking out over the water. I watch the waves crashing into the concrete foundations below and feel them shake through the pillars. The shattering rollers spray plumes of water into the air like dust. The wind, colder out here, is coming from the east, and it reaches me without picking up the scent of dead fish on the way. The water near the shore is gray, but blue beyond the breakers. I look for shapes moving beneath the surface, but see nothing. The cool breeze snaps my clothes back and forth.
I savor the moment, though I keep it short. I bet wherever Jo is, she doesn’t have a view of the ocean. Unless she’s already in it. I turn around and look at the guys fishing behind me. They look exactly like the kind of guys you don’t want to make eye contact with. Cigarettes dripping from their mouths, their hands and necks covered in tattoos, the fishing lines they’re using are probably stolen. A sign next to them says No Overhead Casting. But signs are like rules for these guys: there to be ignored, and they take pleasure in the knowledge they can do something illegal even in the simple act of fishing. A guy wearing a T-shirt that says Tonight I’m going to party like you’re nine stares at me as if deciding whether or not I’d make good bait. Head down, eyes down, unmolested I reach the library. I head back to the sand and head north.
Swimmers and sunbathers and kids throwing around a ratty old football make this just another trip to the seaside. A guy throwing a red Frisbee high into the breeze and catching it as it flies back gets in the way of people trying to relax. On the weekend this place will be packed. I walk a hundred yards, then turn around and study the pier. I study the foundations below, the angle where the beach hits the base of the pier where a concrete wall climbs between the two. This is where I’m going to be tonight. I want to know my ground. I need to know my escape routes.
I walk back through the mall to the parking lot. I drive around the surrounding warren of streets to become familiar with them. When I’ve absorbed all I can I head home. It’s nice to see neither of the doors have been kicked in. I make sure my house is secure, then attach pieces of string to the doors and windows, tying the other ends to an assortment of pots and pans. It’s a cheap alarm system, but effective.
I bring down the gun. I grab a handful of ammunition and load it into the magazine, slap the magazine into the gun, then set it next to my bed. The day isn’t as young anymore, but it still has a long way to go. Knowing I’ll need all the energy I can get I lie on top of my bed and set my alarm clock for seven. The sun streams through the window directly on top of me. I put on a pair of sunglasses, prop a pillow beneath my head, and close my eyes.
The sun feels great. Relaxing. It seems easy to forget that another killing hour is on the way. The only question is who is going to be around at the end of it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The basement is cold, and Jo can’t stop shivering. She’s tired, but can’t fall asleep. Other than two bathroom breaks that Cyris gave her, she’s been roped up against the same drum since coming back here the other night. Which was. . she isn’t sure. It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re locked in a basement with no view.
When she used the bathroom, she had to leave the door open. Cyris stood with his back to her to at least give her some privacy. The first time, she couldn’t bring herself to go. She just sat on the toilet too scared for anything to happen. The second time she barely sat down before things started flowing.
Each time she was brought into the hall, she could hear cartoons going and a woman laughing from a bedroom. She thought about calling out for help, but she didn’t. She couldn’t face meeting Cyris’s girlfriend. The woman had to know Jo was here against her will, she would have heard her, which could only mean one of two things: the wife was okay with the fact her husband would bring women home and tie them up, or the wife herself was tied up and couldn’t do anything about it. If the second of those two options were true, then why the laughter? And now that she was questioning things, why would his girlfriend be watching children’s cartoons? The answer to that was obvious-she wouldn’t be. Which means the laughter wasn’t coming from a woman, but a little girl.