With their Faces painted and voices loud, they hushed the forest songs as they trampled down the shadows. There was violence — a stick jabbing hard and fast — and before the forest knew what had happened, feathers and blood and a small broken body lying dead on the ground.
I CAN’T EXPLAIN WHY I did it. Often, it is as if a part of me has its own impulsive life beyond my control. I am astounded at the mess it causes. And occasionally at the good that comes of it regardless. But, whichever way, it is always my conscious self that has to deal with the consequences. Good or bad.
My father built the house on Langely Lake for my mother, in the town she grew up in. It was a hundred miles from the glassy skyscrapers my father built in the city, and a world away from the Calloway family name and money and penthouse on the Upper East Side.
The house on Langely Lake looked unlike any of the other houses in town, with their graying vinyl siding and slouching carports. No, the house on Langely Lake wasn’t a house at all. It was a fortress three stories tall, built of stone, with a thick fence and impenetrable hedges all the way around.
When I was a little girl, we spent our summers in that fortress. I remember slumber parties in a tent on the back lawn and afternoons spent sunning on the raft just off shore. I remember tall glasses of lemonade sweating on the patio and the sundresses my mother wore and her wide brimmed hats.
Once I thought my father had built that house to keep everyone else out, but then my uncle Hank found the photographs. They were in a shoe box, hidden under a loose floorboard in my parents’ bedroom. They were taken that summer, 2007, a few weeks before my mother disappeared. I saw the photographs and I realized I had been wrong about everything.
Because my father hadn’t built the house on Langely Lake to keep everyone else out. He’d built it to keep us in.
It's gutting how much can change in just four weeks. One moment I’m Hero Whistle-blower; the next, State Enemy Number One. The pressure rises day on day, and Mikey senses we’re not telling him what’s going on. It’s true, but he’s already bad enough: confused, clingy and sobbing in his sleep. He’s throwing major tantrums at the slightest thing.
Let us begin with what might be considered a paradigmatic example of a bullshit job. Kurt works for a subcontractor for the German military. Or . . . actually, he is employed by a subcontractor of a subcontractor of a subcontractor for the German military. Here is how he describes his work:
The German military has a subcontractor that does their IT work. The IT firm has a subcontractor that does their logistics.The logistics firm has a subcontractor that does their personnel management, and I work for that company. Let’s say soldier A moves to an office two rooms farther down the hall. Instead of just carrying his computer over there, he has to fill out a form.The IT subcontractor will get the form, people will read it and approve it, and forward it to the logistics firm.The logistics firm will then have to approve the moving down the hall and will request personnel from us. The office people in my company will then do whatever they do, and now I come in. I get an email: “Be at barracks B at time C.” Usually these barracks are one hundred to five hundred kilometers [62–310 miles] away from my home, so I will get a rental car. I take the rental car, drive to the barracks, let dispatch know that I arrived, fill out a form, unhook the computer, load the computer into a box, seal the box, have a guy from the logistics firm carry the box to the next room, where I unseal the box, fill out another form, hook up the computer, call dispatch to tell them how long I took, get a couple of signatures, take my rental car back home, send dispatch a letter with all of the paperwork and then get paid. So instead of the soldier carrying his computer for five meters, two people drive for a combined six to ten hours, fill out around fifteen pages of paperwork, and waste a good four hundred euros of taxpayers’ money.
If you take photographs through a prism, you can turn people into ghosts. I’d taught Jamie that this year, my eighteenth year of life, and possibly my last. Whenever a bad memory crept into my brain, I held a prism up to it, and it would distort and soften. That way I could cope with it a bit better.
There were other memories, though, of which I wanted to remember every last detail. They gave me something to hold onto. Because one day soon, I knew, I might not wake up.
On the first day no one really noticed. Perhaps there was a chuckle among the midwives at the sight of all those babies wrapped in blue blankets, not a pink one in sight. Individual hospitals would’ve thought nothing of it. They wouldn’t have known that this day of blue was only the beginning.
On the second day they frowned, confused, at another twenty-four hours of blue.
The September days are shorter and cooler now. Autumn is here, and the purple heather flowers have nearly finished blooming.
My little brother Niall and his friends are playing Soldiers while we wait on the wharf. They march up and down and pretend to fire rifles. Niall wears the red woollen vest our Grandma Coira knitted. He says it makes him look like a real army man.
At the airport, Kerry noticed a sign warning visitors to allow more time for their journeys on New Zealand roads. The sign included a picture of said roads, apparently drawn by a person with a partiality for Scalextric tracks made entirely from the curved parts.
‘A blatant exaggeration’ had been Kerry’s thought then. Two days later, on the hill heading over to Gabriel’s Bay, his thought was ‘What the infernal hell?’
A prime number is divisible only by itself and by one. If I were a prime number, I’d want to be a five. Five is also a Catalan number, which is another sequence of numbers that can be used to solve certain counting problems. Being a Catalan number is perfect, because I like the idea of being part of a solution, but also because that’s my surname.
When I looked up ‘five’ on the net, I learned it was also the first safe prime, the third Sophie Germain prime, and the third Mersenne prime exponent. If I said that out loud at school most people would call me a nerd or try to trip me up or something. But I like the way numbers can have secret superpowers.
From Tatapouri, we made our way into Gisborne and slowly adapted to things like traffic lights and – well – traffic! We headed into the centre of town and parked the car. It was a hot day and plenty of brave (or crazy) young guys were jumping off bridges into the river nearby. Two rivers flow through Gisborne – the Taruheru and the Waimata – then join together to create the Tūranganui River, which spills into the Pacific Ocean at Poverty Bay. At just under a kilometre long, this is the shortest river in the southern hemisphere.
I hadn’t heard from Maya for two and a half weeks.
She wasn’t answering her phone or posting online, and when I rang the London office of the publisher where she worked, I was told she’d taken some leave. I thought the tone of the call was strange; the woman cut me off, although I could have been imagining it. I asked to speak to Gene Jacobs, but she said he’d left to work for another company.
None of Maya’s Auckland friends knew where she was, and I didn’t have any contacts for her in London.
It was unusual. My girl had always kept in touch.
The baby is lying on her back. There are oxygen prongs up her nose and a drip connected to her bellybutton, but she seems calm and relaxed – not at all concerned as the ultrasonographer repeatedly passes the wand over her tummy while peering at the
screen that’s playing a grainy black and white movie of the child’s insides. As the image is refocused and reframed, zoomed in and out, we can all see the intricate plumbing of the gut, and the heart chambers pumping like little fists clenching and unclenching.
There’s a story I’ve heard many times about how my brother Jason got the scar that runs above his left eye, almost parallel with his eyebrow. He was four years old when I was born, and he’d wanted a brother, a sister or a dog for as long as he could remember, but Mum and Dad had always said no.
I like being the underdog because the only way is up. I relish people doubting me because being able to prove them wrong is so damn satisfying. Luckily for me, there were plenty of people to prove wrong in 2010 and 2011, the busiest, most stressful years of my life. And before you mutter ‘so far’, I honestly don’t think I will experience another period that is as busy and important as those two years were for me. If school and sport count as work – and I believe they do – then I was working 16-hour days. With at least two trainings a day and games every second day on top of school and homework, I didn’t have time for anything else.
When you hear the following words, what do you think of? Wagon wheels, Manhattans and run worms. If you answered ‘cocktails’, that’d be optimistic, but incorrect. These words are all types of graphical reports you can get when watching the game of cricket. These words are all types of graphical reports you can get when watching the game of cricket.
He pūkai tō Tū, he pūkai tō Rongo.
A heap of Tū (godof war), a heap of Rongo (god of peace)...
Our 15,000 kilometres of coastline is longer than that of China, and not much smaller than that of the United States. This makes us vulnerable to enemies from without.
However, much of New Zealand’s martial history relates to conflict from within: tribe against tribe before and in the early days of European settlement, then British troops, settler soldiers and kūpapa (collaborating) tribes against other Māori in the 1840s to 1870s. It wasn’t until the very end of the nineteenth century that New Zealanders were engaged against a foreign enemy, being sent to South Africa to fight for the British.
We arrive in this universe through no choice of our own, at a time and place not of our choosing. For a few moments, like cosmic fireflies, we will travel with other humans, with our parents, with our sisters and brothers, with our children, with friends and enemies. We will travel, too, with other life-forms, from bacteria to baboons, with rocks and oceans and auroras, with moons and meteors, planets and stars, with quarks and photons and supernovas and black holes, with slugs and cell phones, and with lots and lots of empty space. The cavalcade is rich, colorful, cacophonous, and mysterious, and though we humans will eventually leave it, the cavalcade will move on. In the remote future, other travelers will join and leave the cavalcade. Eventually, though, the cavalcade will thin out. Gazillions of years from today, it will fade away like a ghost at dawn, dissolving into the ocean of energy from which it first appeared.
BAKING soda and white vinegar
I went out flatting at age 18 and started buying my own groceries. I was 42 by the time I finally realised that I could have used baking soda for almost all my home cleaning and personal grooming needs. That was 24 years of spending literally thousands of dollars on toothpaste, shampoo, soap and plastic bottles containing various cleaning products for bathroom, kitchen, windows, floors, tiles – you name it, I probably bought the cleaning product for it. If only I had known I could take care of those needs with 25kg of bicarbonate of soda (baking soda) at $1 a kilo and some white vinegar at $1 a litre, while keeping my cash in my own pocket.
Advertising has had a huge influence on my buying decisions. TV commercials encourage you to purchase everyday things to fix problems around the home, such as keeping the place looking and smelling clean; or to solve personal hygiene issues such as body odour, bad breath, and unattractive hair. The advertisers say they have the perfect solution for all of our problems, and they go to huge expense to deliver their message to us. Like lemmings we flock to the supermarket and buy, buy, buy all the products that we have been promised will make our lives easier.
I wondered when rigor mortis would set in, or if it already had. Once I had cleared away the broken glass and washed the blood off the floor, I needed to get out. I inched my way past it, past him, and locked myself into the bathroom. I showered as quickly as I could. The cracked mirror above the sink reflected my bloodshot eyes and my puffy skin. I applied make‑up with shaking hands and dried my hair. I emerged from the bathroom but could not avoid looking at the huge corpse slumped on the floor. I forced myself to be calm. I grabbed the first thing in the wardrobe that came to hand. My silk cashmere dress had worn thin with use, but it was the best thing I had. I needed to leave. I couldn’t think straight with him lying there, a blood‑soaked monster.