I miss the healing sun and sea. I’m going out to Westfield meatworks to see if they’ll put me on their waiting list … It’s near the sea …
And I did it, bub, I did it!
I was smiling so much on the bus back from Westfield that even the other passengers started smiling. Well, a few didn’t — they thought I might be one of those loonies who smile all the time. I got off at St Luke’s and walked the rest of the way to our flat. Hey, I saw this fish ’n’ chip shop. By the time I got back to the flat it was getting a bit dark but … there it was … and a light shining in the upstairs window, like the Star of fuckin’ Bethlehem where my angel was waiting with you.
I opened the door and ran up the stairs. One of the kids in the downstairs flat — I think his name was Barney — waved to me from the window. The kids had a habit of playing their music a bit loud. I decided to talk to them about it soon. ‘Ana! Ana!’ I called as I went up, two steps at a time.
She appeared. Man oh man, I thought, Kotare Davies, you are one goddamn lucky sonofabitch.
‘Would you keep it down, Kotare? I just managed to get bub to sleep.’
‘Wake her up again. I got fish ’n’ chips.’
‘But I’ve made our tea,’ Anahera said, ‘and we gotta save our money. The rent’s due this Friday.’ She was near to tears. ‘Hon, what am I going to do with you?’
‘All sorted,’ I told her. ‘From next week I’m gonna be bringing home the dollars!’
Your mother’s eyes lit up. ‘You got a job? My hon’s got a job?’
I whirled her around in my arms. It was so good to see her happy. ‘Wasn’t that hard,’ I told her. ‘I just walked into Westfield meatworks, told them what I been doing back home, asked them to put me on the waiting list — and it was my lucky day because there was a vacancy! And you know what the best part is? Westfield’s right on the Manukau Harbour, which means I can go fishing after work. Tangaroa will look after us too.’
Anahera looked at me tenderly. ‘Kotare Davies, I swear I’ve got a rival.’
‘Eh?’
‘The ocean.’
I thought about that for a moment. ‘But can the ocean keep me warm?’ I asked Anahera, as I kissed her. ‘And does the ocean have lips as sweet as yours or hair as soft?’ She began to melt against me. ‘Can the ocean play music as sweet as my Anahera? Does it have fingers as delicate?’
‘If you’re trying to get around me,’ she murmured, ‘you’re going the right way.’
‘Is the ocean as playful or as deep as my Anahera? Kaore, kaore, kaore …’
‘You’re a silver-tongued kingfisher, Kotare Davies.’
I made my mournful face. ‘And is the ocean as forgiving as my Anahera …’
She stiffened, searched my face, became frightened. ‘Kotare, please don’t do this to me. To us.’
I laughed, glad to fool her. ‘I only had enough money for one crabstick!’
I grabbed it and put it in my mouth. But the joke was on me. She wasn’t laughing. And when you started to cry in your bedroom, bub, and I said I’d go and look after you my Anahera said:
‘No, Kotare. Not you.’
Wonder of wonders, I’ve persuaded Whero to stop thinking about her dad and come for a walk.
‘Where you off to?’ Tupou asks as she opens the door. Dermot will be home soon, thank Christ, and that will get him off our case.
‘Oh … Oxford Street,’ she answers him.
He thinks for a moment. ‘Hey, why don’t I meet you there later? We could go to a pub for lunch?’
‘Okay.’
Meanwhile, I’m getting suspicious. You’d think that with all of London to choose from … I mean, who’d want to fuckin’ hang out on Oxford Street! First of all you have to take the tube, and no sooner do you get up to street level … where are the Brits? Instead it’s Russians in fur coats come to spend up large, or the French across the Channel for the day and Arabs going into Marks & Spencers.
We wander along for a while and, bingo, the light comes on in my stoo-pid brain and I see why Whero wanted to come here: The Sanderson Hotel. Yup, Red, you’ve gone from the frying pan into the fire. This is where that arsehole Petera Davies said he was staying.
‘Won’t be long,’ Whero says as she walks in.
I could kick her. I watch as she approaches the reception desk. She talks to the receptionist. He looks in a computer, frowns and shakes his head. She talks to him again. He tries his computer a second time. Again no luck.
‘There’s no Petera Davies booked into the hotel,’ she says to me when she comes out. Hell, I could have told her that.
Whero tries phoning the number that Petera gave her.
Along comes Tupou. ‘Don’t stand here too long,’ he smiles, ‘otherwise the cops will think you’re doing the street.’
‘I’ve got a cousin who said he was staying here,’ Whero explains as she stows the phone. ‘Except that he’s not registered. And his mobile must be switched off.’
‘Really?’ Tupou asks as we push through the tourists and around the corner away from Oxford Street. ‘Why the hell would he give you false details?’
‘You might have met him,’ Whero insists. ‘He came to the club that night when I had my … er … moment.’
Tupou shudders. ‘Thank God I wasn’t there … and, no, I don’t think I ever met your cousin.’ He stops at a small doorway. ‘Aha, here we are. This will do us.’
This is not my day. A fucking Irish pub. At least it’s not crowded. Tupou finds a table in a corner. ‘Okay, the reason why we’re having lunch … is that Dermot’s been in touch. I’ve got a letter from him. Shall I read it?’
‘Go ahead,’ says Whero.
‘Hmm, some of this stuff is per-son-al,’ Tupou begins, ‘so I’ll only read the part that clears Customs, okay? Now … ah, here’s the paragraph that affects you. “Please tell Whero that I’ve made contact again with Karl Jeffs — he’s still pissed she walked off the stage but I told him she had a virus. Since then he’s heard about her gig at Delilah’s and he’s asked me to send a demo tape.”’
Tupou opens his arms. ‘Is my boyfriend good … or is he good? When he gets back, I’m gonna throw him on his back and show him your appreciation.’
Oh my God, a bulge is starting to grow in his pants in anticipation.
Kippers and chips and Irish beer are on the menu for lunch, and then Tupou has to leave. ‘See you back home,’ he says as he disappears down the street.
As we exit, what the fuck — Petera. Now I really know that someone is shitting on my day.
He ignores me. His eyes are liquid, pouring an intense, frightening glance into Whero’s soul. ‘Hey, cuz,’ he greets her.
Whero looks at him with suspicion. ‘Why would a bro tell me he’s staying at the Sanderson when he’s not?’
The prick’s got all the answers. ‘Aw, hell. Moved hotels is why. Living the nomadic lifestyle, so to speak. Just came this way to pick my gears up.’ Then he stares me down, down, down. ‘I see Red’s tagging along?’
‘What about your phone?’ Whero asks, giving Petera a run for his money. ‘I rang the number … nothing.’
Petera shakes his head, looking disappointed with himself. ‘Global bloody roaming. Didn’t realise I’d need it …’ He’s like quicksilver, circling Whero, confusing her. ‘You know there’s no buggah around these parts selling hokey-pokey ice cream? Enough to make you wanna go home, eh?’ Then he moves in for the kill. ‘You reckon you got the strength to survive London … alone?’