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Death Actually Page 2


  “Simon, I can’t leave until I get the kids their own passports. I don’t have any money to pay for them. I don’t have any money for anything.”

  Simon calmed down at that, and asked for her bank account number so he could transfer some money. The woman at the passport office could not have been more helpful when, in tears, Maggie explained what had happened. Three days later she was back in Queenstown in time to attend the double funeral of her parents – holding two babies, with no husband in sight. Amidst the crying and the whispers of those who had watched her grow up, she was home again and wearing black.

  The next day, Simon left town.

  Chapter Two

  Nick unhooked the box, filled to the brim with extra-large double-crust pizzas, from the back of his scooter. He hadn’t been to this address before, but the stories of its occupant’s fury if there was a mistake in the order were legendary. And her temper was apparently matched by her size.

  Balancing the pizzas under one arm, with a satchel containing six large bottles of coke on the other, he went up the stairs to Unit 3B. The steps were old and rickety, just like the rest of the building, which was situated on the edge of the shopping centre. Judging by the overwritten tags and designs sprayed across it, street artists used the side wall as their private message board. Together with the green slime on the steps, this contributed to the overall ambience of decay on one side of the forgotten cul de sac in the otherwise high-end tourist town. On the other side, buildings were being converted into cafés and shops in keeping with the rest of the town. Nick reckoned it would only take a day to have the graffiti painted out, if the landlord or the council cared. The culprits could probably be found too, if they chose. Queenstown catered to tens of thousands of tourists every year, but the local resident population was quite small. The good citizens of the town kept tabs on everything that happened, making it hard for anyone get away with even the most minor acts of vandalism.

  Reaching the landing at the top, Nick noticed the door to the flat was ajar. Getting no response when he knocked, he pushed it open and stepped into a gloomy room.

  “Pizza delivery,” he called again, hoping this was the right place and the legendary Lizzie would be here to sign his slip. He looked around at the open plan kitchen and living area, partly shaded by torn orange curtains hanging limply at two small windows set into concrete block walls. A heat pump was operating at full blast, pointlessly battling the morning cold, the warmth escaping out the open door. The only piece of furniture was a sofa in the middle of the room, facing a giant TV sitting against the far wall. He recognised the game on the screen. It was one of his favourites, and he’d thought he was good at it – until now. He watched transfixed, until the weight of his bags reminded him why he was there.

  Dragging his eyes from the screen he noticed fast-food boxes of every brand squashed into rubbish bags beside the door. Empty plastic drink bottles overflowed a bin beside them. Hefting his bags onto the empty kitchen counter, he called out more loudly this time.

  The game continued, the numbers in the top corner clicking over rapidly.

  As he approached the sofa, the smell of unwashed flesh grew stronger. He saw the rolls of fat in the back of her neck covered by a grey ponytail draped down her back. Her hands – pudgy fingers gripping the handset, thumbs clicking buttons furiously – were the only part of her that moved. She was largest person he had ever seen, her bulk taking up most of the sofa, mounds of fat rolling down to her knees. She was playing World of Warcraft, and playing it bloody well.

  “Ms Martin,” he said loudly, “I have your order, if you could sign for it …?” His voice faded to nothing when she still didn’t react. The other guys had warned him how nasty she could get if the pizzas were too cold. On the other hand he appreciated she was at a crucial point in her game and would be upset if he interrupted her now.

  But he didn’t have all day. He had more orders waiting, more customers to placate if he didn’t get a move on. Lizzie was damned good, though. It was a pleasure to watch her, and now he was closer he saw why she hadn’t heard him. Earbuds. Of course, the neighbours in the next flat were the thickness of one concrete block wall away, and would hear everything if she didn’t use buds.

  He leant forward to tap her, and nearly gagged at the smell. Suddenly it was more important than ever to get his delivery done and signed for, so he could get outside into clean air. Damn the game. He touched her on the shoulder, his hand meeting soft flesh. The giant woman heaved around in fright and yelled, “What the fuck are you doing in my bloody house?”

  Nick took a step back out of range. “Your order, I have your order,” he said waving to the boxes on the bench.

  Lizzie’s gaze swung past him to the bag of pizza boxes and she visibly relaxed. Turning back to the screen, she paused and saved her game.

  “Sorry about the language,” she said. “Always found attack is the best form of defence, especially now I can’t move.” She waved an arm over her legs, and for a moment Nick assumed she was referring to her bulk, but when he looked past the food-spattered material of her dress he could see that her right foot was twisted and scarred. Uncut nails curled over and around the ends of her toes, which were dark with built-up grime.

  “Buggered,” she said lifting her foot off the footstool so he could see it better – Exhibit A by way of explanation.

  The woman, the rubbish, the smell, her filthy clothes, and now this proffered excuse for it all, her filthy twisted foot … everything about this place disgusted him and he could feel his morning muesli rising in the back of his throat. He was desperate to leave, to breathe clean air, but he still needed her to sign for the order.

  “Give me the bloody chit then.”

  He handed it to her and she signed it, keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

  “You’re new, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

  Nick had to back away, closer to the door, to get air, before he could reply. He unpacked the bag, piling the boxes on the bench.

  “Nick Potter. Started at the beginning of the month.”

  “You aren’t Maggie Potter’s son, are you?” She tapped the pen against the chit. “Of course you are. You’ve got the Potter blue eyes. You look more like Simon, her brother – your uncle. Same height, same colouring, but you’re better looking than he was and that’s saying something.” She held out the pen and chit and he had no choice but to go and get it. She waited, her eyes narrowed and glinting in the half-light.

  “Don’t leave them over there,” she barked, just as he was about to leave.

  The broad side of one huge arm swiped the empty boxes from the table in front of her. An empty coke bottle bounced as it hit the floor. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, Nick quickly relayed everything from the counter to the table.

  Lizzie was already chewing by the time he reached the door again. He could just make out her final command as she spoke through a mouth full of food. “Leave the door open. The nurse and home help are coming later.”

  Nick felt sorry for whoever had to clean the flat. It would be a thankless task, and as for the nurse, what on earth was she supposed to do? He couldn’t escape fast enough, and clattered down the stairs in his boots, gulping great breaths of clean air, filling his lungs, trying to rid himself of the smell of unwashed human that clung to the roof of his mouth.

  Nick always tried to give others the benefit of the doubt, and considered himself the least judgmental of his friends, but he was struggling to find one good thing to say about this woman apart from the fact that she spoke nicely – but only when she wasn’t swearing and didn’t have her mouth full.

  The promise of a clear day had been broken. It was snowing lightly, making travel by scooter especially treacherous. He made another couple of deliveries, to tourists who had drunk too much the night before and were in urgent need of fat and sugar to feed hangovers before facing the day. Hung-over tourists were always good tippers, and by mid-morning his mood had improved.

 
Hunched forward over the handlebars of his scooter, trying to see past the snowflakes gathering on his visor, he didn’t notice the black Porsche Cayenne until it appeared from nowhere in front of him. He braked. His back tyre slid out behind, throwing him sideways into a drift of dirty snow piled next to the stop sign that the Cayenne driver had just ignored.

  Protected by the snow he was unhurt, and only a little shaken. His jeans were quickly soaked by the slush, and his pride had been knocked, but hey, he rode a scooter on icy streets for a living – what could he expect? Picking himself and his scooter up he watched the Cayenne power off down the street, oblivious to his plight and the road rules.

  His phone rang and he was relieved to see Home and not Work come up on the screen. His mum asked him if he was free in about twenty minutes, and if so could he meet her at Betty’s place and help?

  Nick couldn’t find the words.

  She asked if he was all right, and he said of course, and he’d be there, but he needed to change into dry clothes first. He’d explain later.

  It wasn’t such a good day after all.

  The driver of the Cayenne, warm in the comfort of his car, was blissfully absorbed in the company of the woman sitting next to him.

  “Which field?” he asked. “Coronet, Cardrona or the Remarkables? You choose.”

  “Coronet,” Lucy said without hesitation, and reaching over she caressed the light growth of soft hair on the back of Mark’s neck. A single large ruby buried in a band of beaten gold adorned her right middle finger, an anniversary gift he’d surprised her with at breakfast.

  Mark turned at the next corner, taking the river road to the ski field behind the town. They were happy in the car. Being together as a couple was enough.

  Chapter Three

  When Maggie made an effort she could be quite beautiful. Betty had told her so in one of the many “Count your blessings” talks she was so good at, and which she’d delivered to Maggie on regular occasions over the years.

  In Betty’s honour, and because her friend would expect nothing less, Maggie had changed out of her running clothes into a black cashmere jumper under a black down vest, with black ski leggings and boots. On a shopping trip last winter, Betty had said the boots made her legs look longer and thinner. She had tied her thick blonde hair into a high ponytail, and had taken the time to put on tinted moisturiser, and mascara – Betty had said this made the blue in her eyes “pop” – they’d hooted with laughter at the word, gleaned from one of the women’s magazines strewn across Betty’s sickbed during one of Maggie’s visits.

  Standing on Betty’s front step, Maggie remembered the times she’d stumbled to this same door in deep pain, hoping for some relief from the loneliness and desperation she’d felt in the years immediately after her parents’ deaths. Betty had always listened, then given her the hug she needed before taking her firmly by both shoulders and administering just the correct dose of advice as to where exactly she could find her backbone. Then she’d turned her round and sent her out into the world again with enough pride to get through whatever had to be borne. And not once did Betty tell Maggie the whole goddamned mess she had found herself in was her own fault.

  Betty and Jim Turner lived in a house high on the hill overlooking Queenstown and the lake below. There weren’t many houses like theirs left. Developers had snapped up the modest sixties-built homes, set on large grassy sections, knocking them down and replacing them with the more compact modern homes favoured by busy families. High-density apartments and easily maintained homes on small sections, with panoramic views over the lake below, had taken over the street. Walls made from the local schist featured strongly internally and out, displacing the more highly coloured purple and green Queenstown stone that had been a desirable feature in previous decades.

  The couple had lived in their home in Suburb Street on Queenstown Hill for more than fifty years. Jim had built the house himself as soon as they became engaged, and they had moved in on their wedding night and never left, layering the house and garden with memories and reminders of their lives together.

  Betty had given birth to all three children there, because in the early years road access to the cottage hospital at Frankton was limited, especially in the cold winters, which seemed so much more ferocious then. Because Betty’s labours weren’t difficult, she could see no point in driving all the way to “the home” as it was called, when she could manage just as well in her own bed with the local midwife to help – but only if needed. Betty was one of those rare women who could manage most things, and did.

  While Betty laboured, Jim dug the vegetable garden, not wanting to be far from his best friend should she need him. Knowing he was just outside her window, Betty gave birth without complaining, delivering two healthy boys and a girl. Jim’s vasectomy, the first in the district, was the talk of the town for all of six months.

  Jim was a plumber, and his business went from strength to strength as the town and surrounding area grew. He took on more staff as new housing developments and hotels were built. Betty did the accounts, initially by hand at the kitchen table, after the children had gone to bed.

  When all three were finally at school, Betty took herself off to Dunedin and did a course in computing. She lugged home a “PC”, one of the first in the district, and set it up in their new office in town. DOS and spreadsheets took over her life, but only after she had taught the rest of the staff how to master the mysterious programmes and cope with the frequent software malfunctions. The couple’s children were growing up and Betty liked going down to the office where she could keep an eye on the comings and goings in town.

  The Turners were always amongst the first customers in each new café and restaurant, as these became increasingly sophisticated, catering for overseas tourists with high expectations. Shops selling skis and souvenirs, clothes and food gradually replaced the draperies and newsagents of 1970s New Zealand. Streets designed for cars came to be seen as a waste of prime real estate, and were turned into pedestrian malls where tourists wandered, looked, sampled, and spent their holiday money.

  Younger visitors wanted more than scenery and lakeside walks, and in the eighties adventure tourism arrived in force. Betty drew the line at bungy-jumping, but Jim, happy to give anything a go and having updated his will (at Betty’s insistence) the day before, plunged headfirst off the bridge over the gorge, declaring it the tenth-best thing he’d ever done. The rest of the local Rotary Club followed him a month later, raising $2,500 towards the upgrade of the children’s playground on the lake foreshore, beside the 1920s band rotunda. This had also recently been transformed, from a rundown building into a café with history. And the food was good. Betty and Jim said so.

  Betty stood for the local council and was elected with the highest number of votes every three years for fifteen years. She devoted time and common sense to guiding the future development of what was to become one of the country’s most important tourist areas. Shoulder tapped to stand for parliament, Betty didn’t see the point, doubting her ability to be any more effective for her district than she was already. And more importantly, she didn’t want to be away from Jim, just when the last of their children had moved out and they finally had time together.

  Maggie knew and appreciated that both as a couple and individually, the Turners added to the life and energy of the growing town by the lake, their natural enthusiasm setting them apart from most of the other permanent residents who, born of dour Scottish stock, were innately suspicious of others’ achievements. Betty, though, held a special place in Maggie’s heart. It was Betty who had taken her under her wing after her parents died and Simon had left, helping her with the babies and providing a shoulder to cry on – not that Betty let her do much crying. Betty was a “shoulders back and get on with it” type of woman, and she’d expected nothing less from Maggie.

  Elka often spoke about how she owed the success of her restaurant to Jim and Betty. They had been the only people in town willing to back the young Germ
an woman, who was determined to make a go of her new life. The Turners always gave timely advice freely and without prejudice, helping young entrepreneurs whenever they were asked.

  Maggie was the first person Betty told about the cancer, after Jim, of course. She’d never been a smoker, so a diagnosis of lung cancer was a bitter irony. The doctors at the medical school and hospital in Dunedin did their best, and with the support and sympathy of the town, Betty had valiantly battled through the agonies of nausea and exhaustion from her chemotherapy.

  But the disease had spread, and Maggie watched Betty become a desiccated shell of her former self. Her spirit was intact but worn down, surfacing less and less as the disease sucked the life force from her. The chemotherapy wasn’t enough to stem the malignancy invading her vital organs. On hearing this, Betty had made the decision to stop all treatment and return to the home on the hill overlooking her beloved lake and mountains.

  Such was the demand for time with Betty that Jim set up an appointment system for visitors. Their children came home and stood guard, ensuring their mother wasn’t taxed beyond her ability to cope. Maggie had been one of the few allowed to visit at any time, which she did, often sitting with Betty while she slept. Sometimes, when the drugs let Betty talk, one of them would remember something funny from their years as friends. Only a few words were needed to bring forth memories that sent them both into chuckles of shared happiness. Betty would struggle to breathe through the resulting coughs, but her eyes sparkled.

  After six weeks Maggie could see that Betty’s body had stopped functioning. It took another week before her soul was ready to leave. Jim and the children took turns, with Elka and Maggie occasionally helping out, nursing, cleaning, tending. And Betty loved them all in return, right up until the bitter end.

  The doctor visited most days, but he was new to the district and hadn’t known the old Betty, or her friends. For all her comings and goings to the house on the hill, Maggie never met him – but she heard about him. The only important thing he could do as far as Maggie was concerned was to ensure Betty had no pain. Before the longer sleeps took over, Betty told Maggie the new doctor was very good looking, around her age, and single! The woman was on her death bed and was matchmaking. She even went so far as to offer to fake an attack while Maggie was there, so the doctor would come and she could introduce them. Maggie politely declined.