Hana had never been to Great Barrier. She looked out at the Dantesque panorama parading behind the grime-specked windshield—deserted beaches and the forest stretching up the side of the mountain. Soon, the only living things they saw were birds.
At last, they slowed at the edge of a wood. Hana turned toward the ocean, which could be seen behind a row of pohutukawas, those tall trees with bloodred flowers.
“Did you bring me all this way for a swim?”
“Don’t talk crap,” he said, opening the door. “ Just walk.”
Advancing beneath the vault of tall trees, they reached the white sandy beach, where a colony of penguins was basking in the sun.
“This way,” he said, drawing her onto a bed of shells.
Barely visible from the beach, a steep path climbed up the side of a small cliff. Steps had been cut into the rock, reinforced by stones and poorly fitting planks. Paul led the way, pushing back the wildflowers. Hana followed him to the top. The garden that looked out over the bay was fallow, but the flowers around the house were starting to open.
White orchids, she should like that, shouldn’t she?
“What is this?” she said.
“A house.”
Paul had found the land two years earlier. The money extorted from the six scumbags had covered the purchase of the plot and the timber for construction. Paul had built the house with the help of a local carpenter. Raised on piles, it wasn’t much to look at, but the generator was working, there was a fresh water tank in back, and a fireplace in the living room—and of course, plentiful firewood all around. You could see the sea from the terrace and, apart from the black tui tucked at the top of the kowhai, the nearest neighbor was miles away.
Hana turned to Paul, who was looking at her with those beautiful mad eyes of his.
“What’s this all about?”
“I tracked down the guys from Red Hill,” he replied. “Dooley and the others in his gang. It’s not much, but they paid a bit of their debt. It’s yours if you want it. Ours.”
There was nothing to be heard but the noise of the waves below.
Exile and time had been of no use. “I don’t want your house,” she said with a sigh. “You don’t get it, Paul, you really don’t get it. I don’t care about those guys, I forgot about them a long time ago. You’re still thinking like a white man. Is this all you have to offer me? Dirty money?”
Heart in his mouth, he gulped.
“You’re pathetic, my poor friend. That’s not what utu31 is. I don’t want your house, it means nothing to me. Take me back to Claris. I’ll catch the plane.”
Paul was biting the inside of his mouth, making the blood flow. Hana was already fleeing toward the path, her purple blouse cutting through the breeze.
He handed in his resignation the following day, without explanation.
“What’s gotten into you, Paul?” Fitzgerald said, leaning angrily across his desk. “Seen too many dead bodies?”
“Drop it, Jack. I’m not asking you to accept my resignation, I’m telling you.”
But Fitzgerald wasn’t the kind of person to give in so easily. He’d be losing his best lieutenant and the only man he really trusted. “I don’t want your resignation,” he said. “I need you.”
“You must be the only one,” Paul said ironically. “Good-bye.”
Paul had become a cop to track down the scumbags who had raped Hana and buy his way to redemption. His friendship with Fitzgerald didn’t enter into it.
“Listen,” Fitzgerald said in a softer tone. “I don’t know what’s up with you, but go away by all means, go wherever you want, and come back when you feel better. I’ll take full responsibility. We’ll talk about all this after your vacation.”
“I’m not going on vacation, Jack. I’m leaving.”
Paul held out his hand, like someone handing over small change.
Fitzgerald didn’t shake it. He tore up the letter of resignation. “You’re talking complete crap,” he said, by way of epitaph.
The comatose sleep that had seized him finally let go early in the morning, as if throwing away an unwanted sack.
His head felt dislocated. Stammering incoherently on the bloodstained pillow, he had the feeling he was looking into his own eyes and finding nothing in them but a long, silent plea. The drugs had left him in a terrible state.
The alarm clock on the cocktail bar said eight o’clock. He had to look out of the living room window to know if it was morning. Amelia’s house seemed deserted until he heard water gurgling in the pipes. She must be taking a shower upstairs. Osborne stood up, took a few steps across the painted wooden floor of the living room, and met his ashen face in a mirror. The wound to his scalp was a deep one, but it had stopped bleeding. There were still scabs stuck to his hair, not to mention the stitches. He staggered as far as the kitchen sink.
He let the cold water run for a long time on his broken head.
Amelia was coming downstairs.
“What are you doing in here?” she said, seeing him leaning over the wash basin.
“Clearing my head.”
But, when he straightened up, he felt as if his head was in a juice extractor. He went and sat down on the bar stool.
“You should be resting,” Amelia said.
