The Night Book (14 page)

Ahead of him the street was a dark tunnel and there was a charged feeling in the air, a smell of electricity. Something moved in the trees at the edge of the park. He got out, locked his car and sprinted across the grass. There was no noise except the wind tearing at an iron fence.

She opened the door after he’d knocked for a while, her eye appearing against the chain, and she silently took in the sight of him leaning against the wall, muttering apologies, vague explanations. She undid the chain and opened the door. He said he’d had some trouble, asked if he could come in for a minute, apologised, started backing away.

‘Actually it’s a bad idea. Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll just go.’

But she said, ‘It’s all right. Lydon’s gone. He’s not coming back.
There’s no one here except me.’ She said, ‘Come and have a coffee. I wasn’t even hardly asleep.’

He followed her in and stood about awkwardly, watching while she put the kettle on. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and her hair was tied tightly back, making her green eyes look slanted. He noticed freckles across the bridge of her nose.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Do you like living alone?’

‘I lived with a guy for six years. We broke up. I rented this house. I’m in between things.’

Together they looked into her aquarium and he told her about Marcus’s aquarium, how it had depressed him finding one of the fish dead. His laugh sounded tight, fake.

She said, ‘Yeah, well, they do that. Die.’ She looked at him closely. ‘What you done tonight anyway? Murdered your wife?’

‘I’ve been at a party.’

‘You look a bit … freaked out.’

He made a nervous, helpless gesture with his hands. ‘I had a strange, I don’t know, conversation with a person — a woman. It made me agitated. I can’t explain.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Then I had a row with my wife.’

He walked out of her bedroom, sat down on the couch and put his face in his hands.

Something cold touched his forehead. She was nudging him with a can of beer. ‘You want it?’ As soon as he took a sip he felt drunk again. His face was level with her thighs.

‘What’s gone wrong?’ she said. ‘You can tell me. We’re friends.’

She sat down and he touched her arm and sighed. ‘Yeah. Friends.’

Before she disappeared into her room she gave him a quilt to
cover himself and he lay in the dark watching the water streaming down the window. The image came to him, of Elke standing against the reflection of falling water in the hall, Elke looking at him with her calm eyes. Before he’d really thought about it he’d got up and was standing at the bedroom door and there was Mereana, lying in the white glow from the aquarium, one hand behind her head. Wide awake, she looked at him steadily, and pulled back the covers, inviting him in. The fish hung in their square of light and he wondered what they saw, the room behind the glass, or only endless reflections of themselves? Then he was awkward on his knees on the bed and had his arms around her, kissing her, pulling off her clothes, but a tiny, prudent spark went off in his brain and he said, hearing the weirdly unfamiliar words that he would last have said a very long time ago, ‘But I haven’t got a condom.’

She said, ‘Top drawer.’

And there he was, scrabbling among key rings and combs and tubes of Chapstick to find the small, sealed plastic square.

In a moment of pure innocence he thought, It’s so good, how can it be bad? But what he felt mostly was — how could he describe it? — relief that the pain and pressure were easing, but relief also that he couldn’t — not during, not afterwards lying in the dark — see Mereana’s eyes, couldn’t visualise her face. 

Roza and David lay in bed watching it: the money world in meltdown. David had been up and down all night making calls.

Roza wriggled nearer to him and asked, ‘Are we ruined, darling?’

They looked at a picture of a stock exchange trader with his head in his hands.

He pointed the remote at the TV. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

He sighed. ‘I’ll never be ruined. Even if I was ruined I wouldn’t be for long.’

‘How reassuring.’ She couldn’t make herself sound like she cared. She’d never been interested in money. But he would say that was because she’d always had it.

‘The house,’ she said vaguely. ‘I would miss the house.’

‘No one can touch the house.’

It was five o’clock in the morning. Roza had woken with a headache and David hadn’t slept much at all; his eyes were deep and dark, underscored with shadows. He got up and put on a dressing gown.

‘You look thin,’ she said.

‘Stress.’

He bowed his head, tying the belt of the robe, and she looked at his face. From that angle his nose seemed to curve down over the mouth and she had a second of surprise, almost revulsion. He looked cruel. When he raised his head she saw the hard keen eyes, and the bad feeling left her. She’d never tell him so, but she loved the part of him that was hurt and ashamed, the part he hid, always struggling against himself, trying to rise above his poor past. He had thin shoulders, a limp, was left-handed, wrote awkwardly, was an indifferent speller. He struggled with utensils designed for the right-handed world. When he used a pen he hunched over the page like a kid. These details were part of the balance sheet; on the other side the height, the pink and gold of his complexion and fair hair, the hardness and unstoppable drive. He never gave out personal detail, apart from the bare, official line: grew up talented and poor, got rich. He had needed media coaching for interviews because he was, by nature, secretive to the point of mania. He was wary with Roza too, but she knew how deeply he felt. It was all in the eyes. When they argued he could fix her with a look that silenced her; sometimes it was black, hating rage, other times it was wounded, cornered, like an animal looking for escape, and she would be brought up short, appalled. He was a force, he was rich and successful, he unnerved her — and he touched her heart. There was a completeness to this. If he’d been all force and power, she might have loved him less. She wondered what it would be like to be his enemy.

He said, ‘You want some tea?’

‘Can’t you come back to bed?’

She reached out, caught the end of his robe and towed him nearer. He was still watching TV, the remote in his hand. She had a sudden need to register something — her goodwill. Since the campaign had started he’d been distant and preoccupied, had spent his time surrounded by his people, guarded by his assistant Dianne
and others, and hadn’t spent much time at home. She yanked the robe, pulling him down on the bed, and put her arm around his waist. A cellphone buzzed on the chest of drawers and he jumped up to answer it.

Roza flopped down on the bed and imagined being pregnant. The thought of lying back and letting it happen was sensual, pleasing. David finished his call, lay down beside her and started stroking her back, her neck, her thighs. He was still watching TV. She had the sense that he was strong but also light; there was a kind of fury about him, something steely; he was awkward in life but graceful in bed. If I get pregnant, she thought, I won’t want to drink, because I’ll feel too sick. The memory came to her. A long time ago, herself on her knees on the bathroom floor, arms around the toilet bowl. The self wrung out, the self a poor ghost, but the lump in the centre of her that was not Roza, that was something else, a different self.

Give me back what I’ve lost, she thought. And then: but you can never do that.

The driver came to collect David. Roza was in her robe downstairs, drinking coffee. The kids sat at the table eating cereal, Jung Ha standing over them, hurrying them along. Mike glowered; Izzy skipped over to David and put her arms around his neck. Roza watched. David leaned down to Mike and gripped his arm.

‘Bye mate.’

Mike said, ‘Can I have some money.’

David said, ‘Yeah. No. What for?’

‘Books.’

‘I’ve got no cash, mate. Roza’ll have some. I’ve gotta run.’ He punched Mike lightly on the arm.

Dianne walked in and Roza gave her a cold look. Get out of my kitchen, she thought.

‘Hello kids,’ Dianne said. She was wearing a trim black suit, and her hair was tied back in a bouncy ponytail. She was carrying one of David’s bags.

Roza thought, Fuck off. Go and get in the car. Then she thought, But I can’t have it all my own way. I’m not following him around the country, so he’s got to have someone to help him. She wished she wasn’t wearing her robe. And no make-up.

‘Ready?’ Dianne said brightly to David.

Roza laughed at herself, and felt a twinge of nausea, remembering David’s face against hers earlier, his thin arms holding her. She felt a stab of love, jealousy, regret and then irritation at Mike, who’d turned cold eyes on her and was about to make his usual surly request for money. She was sorry for him — it must be natural to hate your stepmother — but she was tired of dealing with his aggro. You could tell, from the odd photo around the place, that he resembled his mother: he was short, slightly flat-faced, well fed, powerfully built. Roza disliked the thought of Becky, the one who’d rallied and helped and pitched in, who had been, by all accounts, so sensible and nice. David never talked about her. She had tried to get him to, but he wouldn’t. He kept Roza out. But who was she to complain? She and David both had their secret pasts; the kids were the only evidence of his.

David kissed her cheek. As they were going out the door, Dianne gave Roza a perky little glance over her shoulder. For a hot moment Roza seriously wondered whether there was some way she could get Dianne fired.

Mike said, ‘Roza.’

She sighed and turned, then reached for her wallet without looking at him, knowing this would show contempt. She checked and saw a flicker of hurt in his expression, sudden vulnerability, awkwardness. She touched his shoulder and he ducked away.

‘How much you want?’ she said, and he grinned.

‘Twenny.’

She gave it to him, studying his sore, pimply cheeks and chapped lips, the adolescent anguish in his eyes. He was growing so fast his clothes always looked too small and his wrists stuck out of his cuffs. All her distaste evaporated. Poor boy.

She went to the front window and looked out. David and Dianne were standing by the car; he said something in her ear, opened the door and ushered her in, his hand against the small of her back.

Roza walked quickly back to the kitchen. The kids and Jung Ha clattered out and both cars left at once.

A shaft of winter sun made a patch on the floor. The dog wandered by outside, snuffling in the hedge. The fridge whirred and clicked and from somewhere there was the whine of a saw.

Roza stood in the kitchen and panicked. She needed to catch onto a solid object, but everything was loose, flailing. She wanted a drink. She thought, I can’t do this, can’t face things, unless I drink. She felt she might be pregnant. But she was filled with terror at the thought. But she wanted to be. Trying to calm herself, she ate a slice of bread, then drank glass after glass of water. Just one drink, was what she used to think, I’ll just have a glass of wine, to steady my nerves. But it was never just one.

Was this a panic attack? I can’t do any of this unless I drink. Am drinking. I can’t go on without a drink. Unless. She raised her head. She needed to ring her sponsor. But she needed a drink just to face her sponsor. She whispered the non-drinking mantra, but it chimed in her head like sinister baby-talk. The words ran through her mind, I can’t do this without a drink. Unless. Unless I confront what made me drink.

Shakily, she went upstairs, dressed and walked down to the car. Conscience the gardener was crossing the yard holding a heavy pot
plant on his shoulder, his head turned to one side. His earmuffs were slung around his neck; his jeans sagged nearly off his narrow behind. She smiled nervously, but he wasn’t looking at her.

‘Hi,’ she said, the word bursting out of her. She was shaking. He hitched his burden higher and raised his chin in greeting.

Swiping the hedge and bumping over the concrete kerb, she drove out.

She turned into a side street, pulling in behind a line of parked cars. David had had a tint put on the windscreens of the two cars they used in Auckland. ‘Surely that’s not necessary,’ she’d protested, joking that it made her feel like a gangster, but she was grateful now that she was hidden behind dark, almost opaque glass. A Pink Floyd song came on the radio; she heard the words ‘comfortably numb’ and had rush of euphoric sadness, her eyes burning, then shook her head and frowned, chastising herself for self-pity, melodrama.

Simon Lampton walked out of the house and stood next to his car, eyeing two girls who’d followed him out, one tall, one short, deep in a furious argument. Roza sank slightly lower in her seat, watching as Simon gestured at the girls, telling them to stop bickering and to hurry up. Just before he got in the car he turned his face up to the rain, letting the light drizzle fall on his face, rolling his eyes in exasperation. He backed down the drive and out into the street. Roza pulled out and followed.

He dropped them at their private girls’ school. The tall one waved to the car; the short one fiddled dreamily with her bag as they walked in through the school gates. When Roza got out and stood on the pavement in the light rain everything felt unreal, as if she were separated from her nerves. She began to walk towards Simon’s car, but veered away, worried that he’d have seen her in his rear-view mirror. She ducked in the school gate, out of sight. The tall
girl had gone but the younger girl was there beside a rock garden, trying to fix a strap on her bag. The sky darkened and the garden plants glowed an unnatural green in the dimming light. It was going to pour. The first fat drops came down and the girl looked up briefly, lifting her knee to bolster up the heavy bag, and dropped a plastic drink bottle.

Roza picked up the bottle and held it out. She had stopped breathing. Her heart was banging in her chest.

The girl said, ‘Thanks’, pushed back her hair and went on fiddling with the strap. Roza didn’t move. She wondered whether Simon had driven off yet. She wanted to stop this, to back out the gate and drive to work. If she walked away now everything would be fine.

The rain came down abruptly, hissing onto the asphalt. Roza and the girl made for the same spot — steps in front of a locked door, sheltered by a porch roof. There was a long squeak of bus brakes out on the road, and a group of girls ran screaming and giggling through the gates, holding textbooks over their heads. The rain roared on the porch roof and began to spout down off a broken pipe. The girl held her hand under the cascade and watched it exploding off her fingers.

‘Do you have to get inside?’ Roza said.

The girl looked at her. ‘Pardon?’

Roza cleared her throat. ‘Don’t you have to get off to class?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got ten minutes.’

‘I was just …’ Roza tried to think of an explanation. What was she doing? Panicking, panicking. ‘I was just looking for the school office,’ she said at last. The rain roared louder.

‘It’s down that path.’ The girl pointed.

Roza jammed her fists in her jacket pockets. ‘What class are you in?’ She studied the contours of the girl’s face, her large eyes and thin cheeks.

‘Year ten.’

Roza wanted to touch her. She put her hand over her mouth and turned away, and tears gushed out hot over her cheeks. She tried to control her shaking shoulders. If she could put her arms around the girl and hold her tight — that would stop the panic; that would fill the gap that had opened up in her mind, but she kept her face turned away, and tried to regain control. Her face was wet with rain; the girl would never know she’d been crying. She steadied herself and forced her mouth into a smile.

‘It’s easing off.’ Her voice sounded normal enough. She breathed deeply.

They stood side by side, looking at the garden. The colours were intense; it was lush and green. A gust of warm wind blew in under the porch and the girl frowned. ‘Ugh. Hate the rain.’

‘It’s much better. You could run to your class now.’ Roza held her mouth in the false smile and felt herself responding to it. Could you force yourself to cheer up just by plastering on a grin? Yes, pretending could make things real.

She became aware the girl was staring.

The girl said, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course.’ Roza held her hand out to the rain.

‘You want me to show you where the office is?’

‘Oh. No. Yes. Thanks.’

The rain thinned out, and they walked towards the path the girl had pointed out, winding between neat bark gardens. Roza glanced out at the street. Simon would have gone. She would drive to work and no one would ever know. Taking a long, deep breath, she caught the girl recklessly by the arm. ‘Listen, you nip off to class now. I’ll find my way. Thanks for your help.’ She hesitated. ‘Do I know your parents, by the way? You look familiar. What’s your name?’

‘Elke Lampton.’

‘Well, nice to meet you, Elke.’ There was a silence and she couldn’t let go.

Elke began to wriggle, confused.

Roza said, ‘Shit.’

‘Are you …’ Elke was alarmed.

Roza let go, walked back up the path and sat down on a wooden seat. Elke followed.

Roza said, ‘Sorry.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks for your help. You get to class.’

The girl walked away, turning once to look back.

Roza waited until she was out of sight, then hurried out the gate and back to her car.

She rang work telling them she was sick, and wouldn’t be coming in. She needed to go to an AA meeting, and went to a café to wait, trying to keep her mind neutral. When she’d passed what seemed like an age in this numb state she drove back across town. The AA meeting was already in progress, a small group sitting around on plastic chairs.