“I like the RAV4.”
“Derek’s wife drives a CRV. He highly recommends it. Great safety rating. If that one in Albany is still for sale, we should get it. They said they’d give a good trade-in on the Honda.”
“There’s a RAV4 in Takapuna that looks good.”
He just looked at me and then reached forward and picked up the TV remote.
I was pulling the CRV into the garage when Sean wandered down the internal stairs.
“Just gotta pop out for a minute,” he said, walking toward his Camry.
“Where to?”
“Derek wants me to look at the alarm system on station.”
“What? In Warkworth?”
He shrugged. “We might have to get an electrician in, but I’d like to check it over myself first.”
“You’re hardly qualified for that, and it’s your day off.”
“Not all of us like sitting around and playing Crash Bandicoot, Kylee. It’ll only take a couple of hours.”
I watched as he reversed out of the driveway and pealed off down the road, scattering the neighbourhood cats. I sat down on the stairs and stared at the CRV, deciding I didn’t like it.
“This is gonna take a little longer than I thought,” Sean said over the phone two hours later. “I think I can fix it and save the Service some money.”
“The Service can afford to repair an alarm system,” I pointed out.
“Not everyone comes from a privileged background, Kylee. Some of us have had to become masters of all trades. If I can save the Service some money, I will.”
“OK.”
He sighed. It sounded put-upon.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“When a woman says nothing’s wrong, she usually means something’s definitely wrong.” A pause. Then, “You sound down. Are you still thinking about that Weet-Bix Guy?”
“No.” Yes. I never stopped thinking about that Weet-Bix Guy.
“Why don’t you phone Tayla or Cathy? See if they want to go to the movies with you. Catch that latest James Bond one you said you wanted to watch.”
“I thought we could go see that one together. Tomorrow, maybe?” I asked.
“Can’t. Sorry, hon. I’ve taken a shift at New Lynn. They were short.”
I couldn’t form a reply if I had tried.
“I’ll make it up to you next days off. I promise. Just phone Tayla and see what she’s up to. I bet she’d love to go to the movies with you.”
“Maybe.”
“Go on. You don’t get out enough. You need to see your friends.”
“I think I’ll stay in. Maybe write something.”
“Kylee, you can’t lock yourself away in the office and live inside a story. You’re missing real life.”
“I thought you said my book was good.”
I could hear shuffling down the line as if Sean was rearranging the office desk at the Warkworth station. As if the station was more important than me.
“You know I like it, hon,” he said, his voice cajoling. “But me liking it and a publisher liking it are two different things. You know I’d like anything you write. It goes with the territory; we’re a team you and I. But…” He sighed. The line crackled. Somewhere a door banged closed in Warkworth. “Listen, can we talk about this when I get home?”
“When will that be?”
“Ah, not sure. Things are tricky. I’ll phone. All right?”
I stared at the frozen image of Crash Bandicoot on the TV and suppressed my own sigh.
“OK. Sure.”
“Phone Tayla. Get out of the house,” he said and then hung up.
I curled up on the couch and pulled a cushion toward me, hugging it close, trying to fill the gnawing pit of nothingness that seemed to be growing exponentially inside.
I killed my favourite character off in my manuscript.
And bawled my eyes out.
13
Not Much Else You Can Say About That
“First shift together,” John announced. “This should be fun.”
“As long as you don’t have a Barbie doll as a mascot and insist on hanging it from the wing mirror,” I replied.
He blinked at me.
“Simon Wilson,” I explained. “The doll wore a bikini and high heels, and Simon said we couldn’t respond Priority One without her hanging on by her g-string.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” John murmured, a little mortified.
“No Barbie?” I enquired politely.
“I’m more of a Ken doll kinda guy.”
“Good to know.”
The station chimes interrupted my fifth cup of coffee. I gulped a mouthful down, burning my oesophagus in the process before I pulled out the pager. It’s not often I get surprised anymore.
“Shooting,” I said to John as he stood from the couch and stretched. “Grafton Mews, the Domain.”
He grimaced. “Anything else?” he asked, moving toward the garage.
The roller doors were already up; the red light hanging over Pitt Street already flashing. Traffic had stopped, and weary drivers watched as we climbed into the truck, John hitting the beacons and siren.
“Staging point is on the corner of Lower Domain and Grafton Mews,” I offered, doing up my seatbelt.
The ambulance rolled out of the station, and I hit the remote to close the doors behind us. Cars started tooting their horns at us before the front tyres even touched tar-seal. John offered a friendly wave, receiving a two-finger salute in reply. He started humming.
“I think I know the address,” I offered, as I brought it up on the GPS unit. “Could be a coincidence.”
The pager went off again. I glanced at it and sighed.
“No. I know it. It’s the bowling club. You know the one?”
“Yeah,” John said, scratching at his moustache. “Who the hell shoots a gun at an oldies’ bowling club?”
I tapped my pen against the run sheet and stared out the window.
The blue and red flashing lights of several police cars greeted us; painting the inner-city street in a mishmash of colours. Windows of nearby vehicles glinted sapphire one second and ruby the next, gifting me with the start of a headache. Two police cars angled across Grafton Mews, blocking the entrance. There’d be two more at the other end. John slowed the truck to a stop and rolled down his window.
“What’s the story?” he said to the cop standing sentinel at the corner of Grafton Mews and Lower Domain Drive.
“One confirmed gunshot victim. No sighting of the shooter. You’re to wait here until we secure the scene.”
John nodded and turned the ambulance’s ignition off.
The tick of the cooling engine and the ever-present hum of city life wafted in John’s open window. I kept mine closed and shivered.
“Ever been to a gunshot victim before?” John asked quietly.
I stared at the clock on the dashboard of the truck and shook my head.