New Hokkaido Page 4

  ‘Now let me tell you something that any reasonable person has known for years. The so-called Co-Prosperity Sphere is actually a Co-Poverty Sphere. The occupation isn’t economically viable for New Zealand or Japan … ’

  Voices around the room. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Give it a rest, mate.’

  ‘C’mon, it’s after midnight.’

  Chris looks. The tape recorder is on the lap of a young man, one of three about his age.

  ‘Hang on—’ The cassette whirs. ‘I’ll just play this bit. You need to hear this. All of you.’

  ‘We can fulfil our true potential—’

  ‘Fuck.’ The cassette whirs briefly.

  The recorded voice is familiar, but Chris can’t place it until someone says in reverential tones that it’s Roger Douglas. The name is whispered again and again. Chris recognises the voice. Yes, it’s Free New Zealand’s fearless leader in hiding.

  ‘Let him speak!’ someone cries.

  The volume is turned up, overriding the complaints. ‘Let me tell you that we’re more than a beef farm and skiing destination for our Japanese oppressors, much more than a New Hokkaido. We are New Zealanders, a proud sovereign nation. We can fulfil our—’ Clunk, whirrr. ‘I dream of a New Zealand railways run by and for New Zealanders. I dream of a New Zealand telecommunications company run by and for New Zealanders.’

  ‘Yes,’ says one of the drunks.

  ‘I dream of New Zealand power companies run by and for New Zealanders.’

  ‘Yes.’ A couple more voices respond, affirming each point.

  ‘I dream of warm and dry housing, of food in the bellies of our children, of power that every New Zealander can afford. I dream of … ’

  Only one comment of many—‘You want to be arrested?’—bothers the man with the tape recorder.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ he asks thickly, turning the volume down. He’s very drunk.

  ‘No. I’m just saying if you play that in here you’ll get arrested. You could get shot for that.’

  ‘Ah, you guys love the fuckin’ nips.’

  ‘Go to sleep, mate.’

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ tell me to go to sleep.’

  ‘Stay awake then, but shut the fuck up, eh?’

  Chris raises his head. A middle-aged Maori man is sitting up. His wife is trying to pull him down.

  ‘You guys welcomed the invasion,’ says another of the drunk three. ‘Welcomed the end of the white colonists. Cheered when our statues were toppled.’

  ‘You are out of line, bro.’

  ‘Now you’re working with them,’ says the drunkest. ‘It’s all about money for you.’

  The Maori man says, ‘My father died for this country, died fighting under the New Zealand flag.’

  There’s a large sudden movement, curses, a muffled scream. The young man swings wildly, well short of the middle-aged man who has also stood up. His two drunk friends are pushing two other Maori guys. Chris is far enough away that he doesn’t have to move. He turns over and closes his eyes and hears a clean punch connect—thock. Shouts, bodies falling over other bodies, children and infants wailing, people yelling for quiet. Suddenly it is quiet, but for the infants. Peeking, he sees soldiers in the doorway, and, appallingly, hears the still-running tape recorder, quieter but still audible: ‘ … more than a beef farm and skiing destination for the Japanese, much more than a New Hokkaido. We are New Zealanders, a proud—’ Mercifully, it is turned off.

  A soldier yells in Japanese from the doorway: ‘Whose is that tape recorder?’

  The light comes on and Chris hides his head under his coat. It’s a serious offence and he fears what will happen.

  ‘You. Come here.’

  ‘Me?’ Also in Japanese.

  ‘Yes!’ There is fury in the soldier’s voice.

  He feels their presence, the fear as the soldiers enter the room.

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘Aahh!’ Maybe the young man has been pulled to his feet by his hair.

  ‘Is it yours?’

  A blow and a strangled cry. Chris blocks his ears with his fingers but it doesn’t stop him hearing the young man deny ownership of his tape recorder. He hears the man’s friends deny knowing him, a blow with a baton, a sharp cry. Through gritted teeth the man admits owning the tape recorder and claims he’s travelling alone. Chris sneaks a look. The man is marched out alone by two soldiers, his arm twisted high behind his back, blood streaming from his nose. The bright light reveals him to be about eighteen. It’s possible he’ll be thrown overboard for the cassette—soldiers hate the ferry run. The light goes out. A soldier says, ‘Any more problems and I throw a grenade in.’ It’s not just infants and babies crying in the dark, adults are also sobbing and moaning. Chris cries too.

  Chapter 4:

  Crime scene

  Although his brother’s house is close to the port there is no pedestrian access through the tunnel, so he must wait on the train, which is inexplicably delayed and unheated, and doesn’t pull out until shortly before ten. He wears sunglasses he bought from the ferry kiosk, and dozes. Many of the passengers are hungover, or seem to be, and when the train jerks into motion they remain asleep under the blankets and sleeping bags they used on the ship.

  As the train enters the tunnel he feels a twinge of excitement, an echo of the sensations he felt as a boy going to stay with his near mythical older brother, when the tunnel was like the magic wardrobe in his favourite book. The dark would release a shiver of anticipation at the thought of the marvels that waited on the other side. The train would burst into a bright new world, the idyllic rural settlements of the Heathcote Valley, with their high, gabled, ornately tiled mansions and manicured farms.

  When the train stopped he would be the only Kiwi to get off, usually the only person, as on such summer trips he travelled alone and in second-class with other unaccompanied children. The new friends he had made on the voyage would wave goodbye from the train. His favourites among them would be Lucy, Edmund and Susan. He himself, waving back, was Peter.

  One of his brother’s staff (an amazing thing in itself) had picked him up from the station the first time, but after that he walked the short distance alone down country lanes in the bright morning, towards his brother’s mansion with its shutters thrown open and a friendly tendril of smoke rising from the chimney into the blue sky. The staff were like a second family: the stable master, the gardener, the head farmer. And each with their special tools and duties. He liked Amy best, the youthful cook who sang as she worked in the busy kitchen and always had something good to give him. His brother, master of all, all-powerful and loving, and frequently absent, was the golden lion.

  The train clears the tunnel but no light explodes. It’s his first winter visit and the sun is weak. No one waves goodbye as he gets off the train. The station is grey, concrete rather than burnished silver. His brother’s daughter is dead.

  Finding himself on the farm sooner than expected, he turns off the main drive to see Bison, Patrick’s favourite bull and prize breeder. Black and heavy in the middle of the paddock, he’s a sullen force, like a neutron star around which the pasture and fences slowly revolve. There was a time when Patrick could feed him by hand, but that was years ago.

  The kitchen’s back door is open. The sound of dishes clattering mingles with the familiar smell of fried bacon. It gives him a lift, a sense of homecoming that has been lacking. Amy has her back to him, bent over the sink. Leaning in the doorway, he says, ‘Something smells good.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pink gloves blur as she scoots around the square workbench and gives him a sudsy hug. He hasn’t grown any taller since his last visit but she seems shorter, her long blond hair has been cut to shoulder length, and when her smile relaxes he sees how tired she is. Only thirty-five now, she looks middle-aged. She raises her pink gloved hands on a hopeless gesture and hugs him again. She feels sad. ‘Patrick’s out,’ she says. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Up and down.’

 
‘Were you sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  Chris notices a child’s colourful drawing stuck to a cupboard. An adult has written Amy in English and katakana beneath a smiling figure with red earrings and pink gloves.

  ‘Um … ’

  Amy follows his gaze to the drawing. Tears fill her eyes. ‘I never had children, you know, but Sarah was like a daughter to me. It’s just unbelievable.’ Her eyes flare. ‘What kind of monster could do such a thing?’ It’s not a rhetorical question, he realises. She expects a helpful answer from him.

  ‘We’ll find out who did it and they’ll be punished.’

  She turns away and fills the kettle. ‘Things will never be the same.’ When she turns back, her eyes are streaming. ‘Oh, Chris, she looked asleep. Like she’d wake up and take my hand and I’d lead her out of that horrible place, that fridge-room at the hospital. But when I touched her she was so cold. It just broke my heart to leave her there, all on her own. She should be here, Chris, at home where she belongs, but they won’t release her. And the funeral’s been moved again, to Thursday.’

  ‘Amy, I won’t be able to come. My job … ’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s okay, dear, I understand. It’s just that no one seems to be able to come. Oh, and she was just the sweetest little girl.’ She takes a deep breath and seems about to break down.

  ‘I’d better see Chiyo,’ he says hurriedly, knowing he’ll break down along with her if he stays any longer. ‘I’d better tell her I’ve arrived.’ He hugs her again.

  She gathers herself, tries to smile. ‘Okay, love. She has a guest, an old friend of Patrick’s from Japan, who’ll be glad to see you.’

  He knocks on the door of the main room.

  ‘Yes?’ In Japanese. It’s Chiyo and she sounds displeased.

  He slides the door enough to reveal his face. She is sitting on the floor at the tea table opposite a huge and spectacularly fat Japanese man, certainly a former sumo wrestler. He reminds Chris of Bison: a dense object around which the room is held suspended. He is a man of great strength, but a man his brother must have beaten.

  ‘Sorry. Please excuse my interruption,’ he tells Chiyo. ‘I couldn’t wait to express my deepest condolences.’

  ‘Oh, Chris,’ she says, leaping lightly to her feet, a butterfly compared to the brooding mountain across the table. Her little hands take one of his and enclose it tightly. ‘Thank you for coming so soon. Please come and have some tea, you must be tired.’

  He wants to hug her, hold her properly, but she has company. ‘I came as quickly as I could to be of help in any way I can.’

  ‘Thank you. Please come in. This is Mr Kobayashi,’ she says, ‘an opponent of your brother’s. He’s an old friend. This is Chris Ipswitch, Patrick’s only brother.’

  The name is not familiar. Chris decides not to enquire what Mr Kobayashi’s wrestling name was because his face is unfamiliar and he may not recognise it. The ex-wrestler nods respectfully.

  ‘My fighting name was Noble Dawn,’ he says.

  Chris makes the connection. ‘Ah, yes! It’s a great honour.’ He has put on a lot of weight since his retirement, to the point that his face has altered, but Chris can see the man before him in the famous pictures and videos now. He was the only wrestler to win the majority of his bouts against Patrick, and their fights in Japan rank among the all-time classic sumo bouts. Chris is moved by the great man’s presence. Humbled, he bows low. ‘Thank you so much for coming, sir.’

  Noble Dawn nods once.

  Chiyo pours tea studiously from the best set of china. He feels the energy in the room subside and reform.

  ‘I was just telling Mr Kobayashi that the police still haven’t interviewed me properly. They haven’t come or even called. Patrick has gone to speak with them.’ She refills the ex-wrestler’s cup, which looks like an eggcup in his voluminous hand.

  Chris allows this information to settle. If the police won’t investigate, he thinks, the murderer must be Japanese. He’s wondering how to frame this obvious conclusion when Noble Dawn says to Chiyo, ‘Do you have incriminating evidence to give the police?’

  ‘No. I saw nothing.’

  ‘You said you were with a friend.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kondo, the mother of a three-year-old, one of Sarah’s playmates.’

  ‘Did she see anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was her child when it happened? Maybe the child saw something.’

  ‘A man in black. A man with no face.’

  ‘Did the child witness the—’

  ‘No. The man frightened her. She ran away, but not to us, unfortunately. She hid in a fort.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Noble Dawn blinks with exaggerated care.

  ‘Sarah was out of my sight for two minutes.’

  Chiyo is about to cry and Chris expects Noble Dawn to drop the matter, but he continues.

  ‘You told the police this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have nothing to add.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then Pa-ta-rick-u should come home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll come back and see him. Talk to him.’

  Chiyo sniffs. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Please remember me kindly.’ He places his teacup on the tray and claps his hand twice. His assistant appears and Noble Dawn places his meaty knuckles on the tatami mat, holds his weight on his forearms in order to uncross his feet, then straightens up with a burst of power. He’s as tall as Chris and twice as wide. The assistant is there not so much to hold him up, Chris thinks, but to break or direct a fall. Noble Dawn bows slightly and then walks slowly away with heavy dignity, escorted by Chiyo like a tug leading a battleship out of port.

  She returns sooner than he anticipated and is sitting almost before he realises it. He can see she wants to continue formally. It’s not what he wants but he can understand the attraction of ritual in a time of crisis.

  ‘He was my husband’s greatest opponent,’ she says. Her chin quivers and he guesses she is grateful. ‘It’s a great honour he should visit here.’

  ‘Yes. Patrick will be sorry to have missed him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He has changed,’ Chris says politely, referring to Noble Dawn’s bulk. ‘I didn’t recognise him at first.’ Ex-wrestlers typically lose weight upon retirement. Patrick is down to about 180 kilos from his fighting weight of 270.

  ‘Yes. He retired early through injury. Too early, he told me. He said he still eats like a wrestler.’

  Silence. He sips the green tea.

  ‘It’s a very hard time for you,’ he offers.

  ‘Actually, the last three years have been hard.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Yes. People stopped calling. Japanese and Kiwi. He thought it would pass but it didn’t. And now even Sarah’s funeral must be a secret.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be here for it.’

  ‘We understand.’

  A long silence. Chris wonders if he is at fault for failing to notice the isolation they have experienced and ends up feeling annoyed at her continuing formality. He realises she has always been basically formal with him. They speak Japanese and she is his elder. Her grief will not be fully shared with him, he realises, and she will expect the same self-control from him.

  ‘Perhaps there is some small consolation in the end of your isolation,’ he says sourly, hoping to shake some emotion out of her.

  ‘Yes.’ Her instant agreement shocks him.

  She looks down.

  So the farmer’s daughter liked the bright lights, he thinks, then lost her status as the wife of a celebrity and found herself in a mansion she couldn’t show off. There’s always been something cold about her, something inscrutable in her doll-like face. He stares at the painted teapot and struggles to control himself. He doesn’t like her. He doesn’t trust her.

  ‘I’m going to ask you a difficult question,’ he says.

  �
�Yes.’

  ‘It will be hard for you, but I want to see where Sarah died. I need to know the mechanics of what happened. Once these basic and foolish questions have been answered I will be able to begin the grieving process and help my brother through his own grief.’

  ‘You make a difficult request.’

  ‘Please indulge me. I feel I cannot rest until I see for myself the scene of this tragedy.’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’

  ‘Please forgive me for suggesting that you show me as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes. Let me change.’

  Ten minutes later he is following her white Toyota Star in the old Mazda hatchback with no handbrake. He expects her to pull over at the local park, but she continues on and he remembers that it happened in Hagley Park. She drives cautiously and as they approach Christchurch his anger subsides. Patrick’s oft-repeated request comes to mind: that he move in with them at the farm and work in the lucrative tourist industry catering to the Japanese who come to the Southern Alps to experience New Hokkaido. Now he’s not playing rugby, the offer is a lot more tempting. It feels like he should be with family more than anything else now. By the time they reach Hagley Park, he feels sorry for Chiyo, and has decided it was honest of her to suggest that Sarah’s death wasn’t all bad, that maybe there is some genuine tiny crumb of consolation in it. That’s what I want from her, he thinks—more intimacy—and I got it. She parks under oaks by the Avon and he pulls up nearby. She removes her white driving gloves, checks her make-up in the car mirror, and she’s off. He follows twenty metres behind to a large playground. He’s been here several times as a kid himself and with Sarah. There are a few children and parents scattered about—Japanese and Kiwis fastidiously separate—wrapped up in scarves and hats. The paddling pool has been drained for the winter. The whole area is encircled by a thick and neatly maintained hedge that acts as a windbreak. A Japanese woman runs up behind Chiyo. Surprised, he almost shouts a warning, but Chiyo spins around as her name is called and submits to an embrace. The prolonged contact irks him; he’s never been a recipient of such affection from her. But he can see that Chiyo is uncomfortable as he draws nearer. She’s politely but desperately trying to disengage.