The Night Book Part 24

'Stay for a bit longer.'

'I've got to go. I'm sorry.'

But she followed him to the door, and as he turned she sagged against him. His whole body surged with frustration - the weight, the burden of her - and he pushed her away. 'I can't.'

She sank slowly down onto the front step, hooking her arms over her knees, sitting very upright and still, watching him go.

Simon walked on tiptoe into his son's bedroom. Marcus lay on his back, his arms neatly across the duvet. The blinds were open and the moon had risen, bright and dramatically full. Simon stooped to smooth the quilt, pus.h.i.+ng away the unpleasant thought that the narrow bed and its motionless occupant, lit by the quiet, sombre moonlight, were faintly reminiscent of a coffin. The boy slept deeply although, bending close, Simon saw that his son's eyes were moving beneath the smooth, tiny-veined lids as they followed the things (what fantastic things?) of which he was dreaming. The moon cast a cold sheen over the trees. In the aquarium the fish drifted, darted and flicked their tails, and the bubbles billowed and streamed.

Simon looked out at the moon, the surface dusted with soot, pitted with holes, the dirty, dead, blasted s.p.a.cedesert, airless across the airless void. He put his hand on the window. He was cold as ice inside.

South across the city, she might be slumped on the doorstep still, the field behind her, eyes turned up to the airless black. Out there behind her, all the way to the warehouse, the field in darkness. Guilt and sadness made the night ominous; some nonsense rhyme ran around in his head, shadows on shadows, black within black that night he would wake in the dark and see her face does anything move, does something look back? He would wake in the night and see her eyes, and the image wouldn't leave him because Mereana was buried, a dream corpse, deep in the south of his mind.

And Elke shouting.

'Change it back. Change it back.'

In the upstairs sitting room, Elke was seated furiously in front of the computer. 'Claire's changed the settings all round. She's put parental blocks on everything so I can't use it.'

Claire smiled and inspected her bitten fingernails 'Claire, what have you done? Blocks?'

'Nothing.'

'She's blocked all these sites so I can't do my homework.'

'Claire, fix it up.'

'Fix what up?'

'Christ. The thing, whatever. The parental blocks.'

But Claire stalked past him into her bedroom. Elke followed and started rattling the k.n.o.b, kicking the door.

'LK. Elke. Stop.'

'I can't do my homework.'

He said, 'Stop kicking. I can't be bothered. You kids. You can use my computer. Just don't take too long, because I need it tonight too.'

Elke followed him into his study and he turned on the computer, put his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. He felt as if he couldn't let her go.

But he was being a nuisance, and she wasn't going to put up with any more delays. Shoving him, she said, 'You're squas.h.i.+ng me. Move over. Move over.'

She pushed him aside, sat in front of the screen and began to type rapidly. Always ready to marvel at his children's proficiency with computers, their skills so vastly superior to his own, he pulled up a chair beside her. She gave him no more than a tolerant, sideways glance, working on as websites flashed up and she cut and pasted, printed out, and sent doc.u.ments to her school email address. He sat back and watched, his hands behind his head, while she cut chunks out of some on-line research paper (Was this not wholesale plagiarism? he asked, but she told him to shut up). Then he leaned on the desk with his head on his arms, and his thoughts drifted, turned dream-like and strange.

She was packing up her things, stretching. Driving herself across the wooden floor on his wheeled chair, she bent to turn off the printer, then shot back to the desk. She jumped up and the chair spun around, as though bewildered by the speed of her departure. Simon put his knuckles on the desk and felt the tiny creak in his knees as he got up.

He turned off the lamp and they looked at the moonlit sky, so unusually clear that there were not only stars but visible swathes of the jumbled matter that makes up the Milky Way. The s.h.a.ggy pohutukawa trees cast monstrous shadows along the empty street. The neighbour's dog crossed the deck to the west of the house, its paws clicking on the wood. It jumped off the deck and nosed along the fence, a swift black shape. It began to dig in the flowerbed.

It was very quiet. The dog suddenly raised its head, listened, then bent its nose to the ground again. They watched. The garden was altered by shadows; the moonlight made shapes unfamiliar. Simon put his arms around Elke. With his face against her tangled hair he couldn't speak; his eyes filled, he felt unreal, separated from himself. Looking into the future he flinched away, wanted only the moment, the dark, the silence.

He whispered, 'You've got so tall.'

The black dog ran at a shadow, some trick of the moonlight, pounced then stilled itself and slunk away as though ashamed, but another shadow caught its eye, and it tensed and lowered itself, creeping through the stirring dark.

A long silence.

And then, 'You should go to bed now, Dad.'

'I've got work to do.'

'Okay.'

'LK you know I ...'

'What?'

'Nothing. Off you go.'

She gave Claire's door a good kick as she pa.s.sed, and her sister's voice came back, a m.u.f.fled curse. Simon leaned out into the hall.

Goodnight, girls. Goodnight, sweet girls!

f.u.c.k you, Claire! No Elke, f.u.c.k you!

The voices stopped, silence unfolded through the house. Gently, he closed the study door and turned on the lamp. He began to write in his night book.

sixteen.

The sound of the car fading away. Mereana watching a trail of ants marching in single file along the cracked concrete step. The sun is going down behind the houses, long shadows are crossing the yard, the air begins to cool and she can hear all around her the gra.s.s stirring, and something rustling in the bush by the fence, and the drip drip of a tap, and now faintly from across the field, music.

Flocks of birds swoop over the house, making their last patterns in the air before settling in the trees. Time pa.s.ses, the sky gradually loses its fiery colour and fades to a delicate greenish glow, a star appears, and another, and the single street light flickers on at the end of the row of houses.

She gets up slowly and stretches, her head on one side, listening for the music. It stops and then starts again, louder. There is a yellow square of window s.h.i.+ning light across the gra.s.s.

She walks towards it.

seventeen.

Tamara said, 'Honestly, there's no need.'

'I insist,' Roza said, pus.h.i.+ng the money towards her.

Tamara tucked the money into her purse, allowing a dramatic little pause before opening a kitchen cupboard and taking a plastic envelope out of a ca.s.serole dish. She held it up, between long, painted fingernails.

Roza hovered and at last said, tremulously, 'It's just to see me through.'

'I know.'

'You're the only one I can trust. When the election's over, I'll stop.'

'I know, darling. We all need a bit of help sometimes.'

Roza laughed. 'My hands are shaking.'

'You're a bundle of nerves, poor you. Go and sit outside, we'll have a coffee.'

Dismissed, Roza took her eyes off the envelope and trailed out to the table by the pool, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes while Tamara made the coffee. She listened to the slop slop of the pool pump and tried to slow her heart to the same easy rhythm.

Tamara bustled out and set a tray on the table. Inside the house a bell chimed, sending her into a small mime of surprise. 's.h.i.+t. Just a minute.' She gave Roza an odd smile.

Roza waited for Tam to get rid of whoever was at the door. It was peaceful and quiet in the yard. She was calming down.

Hearing voices, she opened her eyes and sat up to see Tam with two women.

'Roza, this is Nicki Ewart and Jan Holmes. Nicki and Jan, Roza Hallwright. Here, sit down, have a coffee.'

Tam was all casual chattiness, but she was watching Roza for a reaction. Was it a little challenge? Roza wondered whether Tam had staged this, whether it was her way of saying: Come here as often as you like, but why should I keep it a secret? Are you ashamed to be friends with me? It was obvious she was enjoying introducing her friends to the wife of the Hallwright.

Roza felt cornered, but it would be fatal to show it. She steeled herself to act nice. But she was angry, and it took all her nerve to smile and join in. She was scared too. If Tam caught a hint of Roza's displeasure, she would go into one of her famous black sulks and probably ban Roza from her house.

Luckily the woman called Nicki was ebullient and funny, at ease and keen to talk. She started telling a story about her husband. Roza picked up her coffee. Her hands were steady. She met Tam's eye and gave her a look of comradely warmth. Tam met it with a long, cool stare. Roza's anger flared again. She looked down, faintly smiling.

Nicki was saying, 'John goes, "I've got a lump on my chest. Feel it. I've got cancer and I'm going to die." I felt it, and I said, "Wee-eell there is a sort of lump there I suppose." So I drive him to the doctor, right, and wait outside, and after a while he comes out in an absolute rage. Furious. I said, "How did it go?" And he told me, "The GP had a look at the lump, gave it a feel and said, 'Well John, that's your sternum'."'

They all laughed. Roza focused on Nicki's eyes, which were strikingly blue. She tried to concentrate on the woman's face, to screen out Tam, whose gaze was trained on her. She knew Tam's capacity for rage and resentment. At this moment Tam looked like her mum, who'd had such an English working-cla.s.s chip on her shoulder that all dealings with her were a minefield.

Tam laughed, showing her perfect, whitened teeth. Roza wanted to fly at her and slap her. She nearly made the mistake of checking her watch; instead she said, 'Tam, shall I make another thing of coffee?'

'Mmm,' Tam said.

In the kitchen, Roza looked at her reflection in the gla.s.s. The thing to do was to stay as long as she could and pretend she was enjoying herself. She wished she could get into the envelope Tam had just shown her, but she didn't dare. She made the coffee, but then felt, in a moment of disgust, that there was no point because Tam wasn't fooled: she knew Roza was covering up her anger and discomfort and she was enjoying watching her struggle. But she couldn't walk out. She needed Tam. Tam knew it.

She went out with the coffee and tried to join in the conversation, which was full of anecdotes about dopey husbands and badly behaved kids. Nicki had a child at Tam's son's daycare; Jan was the wife of Tam's husband's business partner. Roza sipped her coffee, willing herself to relax. She breathed in, breathed out. It was getting easier.

Nicki said, 'So, Roza. It's interesting times for you, what with the election and all.'

'Yes,' said Roza. 'Interesting.' She was steadied by the fact that she liked this friend of Tam. There was nothing in the woman's face except casual, intelligent interest.

'What do you do?' Roza asked, to deflect attention.

Nicki said, 'I'm a journalist. I freelance.' She named a couple of papers, and a magazine where she had a monthly column.

Roza reached for her sungla.s.ses and put them on. 'I've seen your name on things. Yes, I remember now.' She smiled absently, her lips trembling. She didn't want to hit Tam now, she wanted to f.u.c.king strangle her. And she was frightened again. A journalist? Tam's behaviour now seemed less a possible challenge than an all-out a.s.sault.

Roza leaned forward and said rapidly, 'So, you've got kids. I've got stepchildren and I'm glad I only work part time. Freelancing must be good. You can do a few civilised things during the day, have coffee.' She hesitated. She wanted to find out for sure whether or not the two women had been invited.

'You can have coffee whenever you like ...' She broke off, lamely, losing her way. She didn't dare look at Tam.

Tam said sweetly, 'Roza's going to be having a very interesting life in the next few months.'

Roza said, 'Actually I have my job, I look after the kids, I'm very focused on my own projects.'

'Oh, so you won't notice if your husband becomes the prime minister.'

Laughter. Roza blushed and looked down, smiling in confusion. A kingfisher landed on the fence and eyed her.

'Well, it's not all about me,' Roza said to the kingfisher. There was more laughter. She watched the rings of light dancing against the fence. The laughter swooped around her. A palm tree grew next to the fence; its fronds cut b.u.t.tery green slashes in the sky. The kingfisher turned and she looked into the round, flat, black eye - no light no depth in it. The fronds of the palm tree were like knives. The bird watched, c.o.c.king its head. The women were watching her too, and the water gurgled like laughter in the pool pump, and the air was thick and humid and caught in her throat. The moment grew more intense; she felt she would have to get up and walk away. But Tam dropped her heavy cigarette lighter, which hit a saucer, breaking off the edge. Roza felt the noise in her body, in her nerves. It made a brightness around her, a silver s.h.i.+mmer in the air.

'Whoops,' Tam said, picking up the pieces.

The bird spread its wings and flew up into the air. Roza blinked.

Nicki said, 'It's good you've got your own job. That's better than just being the royal wife. Given your husband's position, though, I'm wondering, when you're at work, do you feel that ...?'

Roza said sharply, 'Have you brought your notebook?'

Their hands flew to their mouths. They laughed. Roza drew back. Why this fear of laughter? It made her think of knives.

Nicki said, 'Hey. Sorry. This is just a coffee. Purely social. No notebook.'

'No, I was only joking,' Roza said graciously. 'Yes, I love having my own job - in publis.h.i.+ng. I wouldn't ever want to give it up. A woman's got to have her own life.'

General approval. Nods, smiles. Roza suddenly looked straight at Tam. Her panic had flown away. Tam had been sitting hunched, watching as though fascinated, her lips parted. Startled by the directness of Roza's look, she straightened up.

Nicki said, 'It's a bit of a problem being a journalist. You can't ask a question without people thinking you're going to write down the answer.'

'But you're not going to,' Jan said.

'No, no. I mean, when Tam mentioned Roza would be here this morning I was interested, sure, but you've got to keep work separate. Otherwise you'd end up with no friends!'

Roza caught Tam's eye. She was thinking f.u.c.k you and Tam could tell, but Roza didn't care now she was almost back in control. She said, 'Really, I was joking. Ask whatever you like. Only I'm pretty ordinary and boring. I've got a bit of a reputation for keeping out of the politics, y'know, burying myself in my own stuff.'

She tried to strike a confiding tone. It sounded right and she glanced up to gauge their reaction. It was harder talking to women than to men. With men, Roza acted naturally and didn't worry about how she'd be perceived; with women she felt there was a code she didn't naturally know, and she sometimes got it wrong. She got on well with Tam because she was armoured and tough, and treated Roza like a dopey sister who didn't understand the world.

But Nicki was talking again. 'Do you think so, Roza?'