Red Rocks

  For my boys,

  Thomas and Alexander.

  Contents

  Half-title

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Waves battered the beach, chattering to the stones as they receded. Jake stood still, watching the rocks, waiting for a movement. And there it was: a seal, with sleek, damp fur, launching itself into the water like a torpedo. He looked for it amongst the floating islands of kelp, thought he spotted it at first but no, there it was, further away. Its head surfaced and it rolled onto its back, raised one flipper as if in a wave and was gone. He wanted to climb up onto the rocks and find more, but he was scared of their angry growls and their sharp teeth. Even though they lay around like blobs all day, he knew they could move surprisingly fast, even on land.

  He continued his walk towards Red Rocks. Great grey cliffs loomed beside him and the light wind bounced off them and back into his face. He pulled his jacket tighter. He didn’t mind being alone. He liked walking by himself. It gave him time to think about things, but also to imagine things. When he was younger, he would have made up games, like being pursued by pirates angry at him for stealing their treasure. But he was older now, and games were for little kids. Instead he thought about his mother, back in Auckland with his half-brother Davey and her husband Greg. He liked Greg, but he also liked coming to Wellington to spend time with his dad in Owhiro Bay. His dad sometimes took him out from Island Bay in a little boat with an outboard motor — they puttered past the bright fishing boats and out around the island, the wind lashing their faces and turning their hands to ice.

  What would Mum be doing now? Probably feeding the baby. Davey couldn’t even crawl yet, and he would be reaching out with his grabbing hands that seemed to want to touch everything, to dig his little nails into the softest of flesh. Jake had the scratches on his cheek to prove it. The baby was pretty cute, he supposed, so he didn’t mind too much. He knew better than to let Davey grab at his face, but he always looked as if he just wanted to reach out and give him a pat. Then the fist closed and the fingernails dug in and the naughty little laugh came out, guttural, like a growl.

  His father was doing some work today and besides, Jake had wanted to go and explore the beach, despite the chilly, late-winter’s day. He hadn’t expected to come so far, but he was prepared. He sat down on a low rock and pulled out his sandwich. He imagined what his life would be like when he was a grown-up. He would be tall, like his dad, but his hair wouldn’t be so dark. He’d always thought he’d be a policeman, but lately he’d been enjoying science at school, so maybe he could be a conservationist, work for Forest and Bird or Greenpeace. Something to help stop the destruction of the environment: the land and the ocean; the animals that were becoming extinct.

  Jake lived in the city with his mum now, but he loved the tug of the sea air and flat horizons broken only by ships or trees. Perhaps when he grew up he would stay in one of the little shacks on this beach. He turned now to face one. It was painted grey, although it may have once been blue, faded and battered by the wind and rain. A spiral of smoke wafted up from the chimney; a pair of old black pants and a torn woollen undershirt flapped on a clothesline. Who lived here now? He wasn’t wondering long. He heard a wet cough as a door on the side of the shack opened and a man stepped outside.

  The man was bent and bow-legged. His white hair tufted out from under a woollen hat and he held a steaming mug in his hand as he limped over to the clothesline. With his free hand he touched the clothes, testing them to see if they were dry. Satisfied, he went to unhook the pegs but realised he needed both hands, so put the mug on the ground. He took down the undershirt first but as he moved to collect the pants his foot kicked the cup over.

  ‘Hell and back!’ the man yelled, and as he did so, his eyes found Jake sitting on his rock, watching. The flash of anger was as quickly gone and replaced by a sunny smile. The yellow-toothed grin was just as frightening as it was welcoming, but Jake knew the old man was only trying to be friendly. He waved tentatively.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ yelled the man. ‘I was just going to make another one for myself.’

  Jake shook his head, hoping the man would go back into his house before Jake felt the need to run away.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Jake heard him mutter as he bent with a groan to gather up the fallen mug. When he straightened he put a hand on the small of his back and grunted. And then Jake wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard him say, ‘The seals are better company anyway.’

  Jake wasn’t sure what the old man meant by this. Did he mean that he preferred the company of the seals? Or was he telling Jake to go and find the company of seals, that they were much better company than the old man?

  Either way, Jake decided the old man was crazy and he was glad he hadn’t accepted his offer of a cup of tea. Everyone knew that you shouldn’t really talk to strangers. Especially crazy ones.

  He finished his sandwich and stood up. The man had disappeared inside the house and Jake continued on his way down the beach.

  At the next point, the rocks rose high and rust-red around him. They seemed to tumble off the cliffs and into the sea. Jake knew the rocks were volcanic, and he imagined lava spewing down the cliff-face and freezing as it hit the water. Even though he’d been to Red Rocks before, he always had to stop and marvel at their brightness in the grey landscape. There was something other-wordly about them; a place where magic happened.

  He stopped at a rock pool to watch tiny fish flick in and out of crevices. A starfish moved lazily through the clear water. He touched tiny sea anemones and felt them kissing the tips of his fingers.

  And then, as he ventured further into the rocks, something caught his eye.

  At first it just looked like a solid wall, but as he got closer a fissure became apparent. It was thin at the top, barely wide enough to slip a piece of paper into, but it widened near the bottom. It was a mini cave, perfect for hiding pirate’s treasure! Jake squatted down and peered inside. It was just big enough for him to crawl into if he kept his head down. He knelt on the hard ground and tiny stones dug into his knees through his jeans. Once he scrambled inside, the sound of the sea was muffled and the wind couldn’t touch him. But there was a musky smell in here, strong, like the goats he had smelled on his uncle’s farm. Light fell through a crack at the far end of the short tunnel, illuminating something in a corner. He reached out a hand … and touched fur.

  Jake gave an involuntary yell and jerked his hand back, adrenaline suddenly leaping to life in his veins. He expected the growl and snap of a seal, but the tunnel remained silent. He waited. The wind outside whistled faintly against the entrance to the tunnel. Jake stretched out his hand again, tentatively this time, and when he touched soft fur, he didn’t pull his hand away. There was nothing solid beneath the softness: no animal, dead or alive. Somebody had left a fur coat here, surely. He grabbed it and backed out of the tunnel, pulling the coat with him. Blinking in the light, he looked down and gasped. Without unfolding it, he knew what it was — the colour and the texture of the fur gave it away immediately. A sealskin! With disgust he realised that someone had skinned a seal. He had heard about sealers in the Antarctic, clubbing baby seals to death and stripp
ing them on the spot, leaving their bloody, skinless carcasses staining the cold ice. The thought always made him see red — that people were capable of such cruelty. It made him ashamed to be human sometimes.

  But there was no blood. He unfolded the skin and fingered the neat slit in the belly, the leathery insides. It was about his size. He could have climbed right inside it and worn it like a suit, maybe even dived into the water and twisted and tumbled in the ocean as a seal would. Instead, a powerful urge came over him. He tucked the sealskin under his arm and headed for home with his prize.

  2

  The sealskin was heavy. By the time Jake got home he was hot, despite the cold wind that always blew in Owhiro Bay. His dad was in his writing shed in the garden, so Jake let himself into the house and dropped the skin on his bed. Because the house was nestled in front of a steep hill, the shed was actually above the house and looked out over the bay. The road lay between the house and the sea, and sometimes when it was stormy, Jake worried that the waves would crash through the front windows of the house, but they never did.

  Jake’s dad wrote books about New Zealand wildlife that nobody ever read. At least, his dad joked that nobody ever read them and that was why he was so poor, living in this tiny house that was more of a shack than anything else. He rented it: he told Jake that he couldn’t afford to buy waterfront property. Luckily Jake had his own room in this house — at Dad’s last place, Jake had to sleep on a saggy bed in the corner of the lounge, while his dad slept and wrote in the only bedroom. He could hardly remember what it had been like when his parents were still together, but now Mum was married to Greg, who was a lawyer, things at home were more comfortable.

  He didn’t mind coming to stay with his father, even though Dad gave him tripe for dinner sometimes, which was just a polite word for cow’s guts. And even though his dad didn’t drive a flash car like Greg, he seemed happy with his life by the sea, and to Jake it was an adventure visiting him because he only had to take showers when he was really dirty, and he could go out whenever he wanted. There was no TV, which was especially boring on rainy days, but his dad always gave him good books, and he could read until midnight if he liked.

  Jake knew he should probably show his dad the sealskin, but as he started towards the back door to tell him, something made him stop. He had found it, hidden, in that cave. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken it; perhaps it belonged to someone and Jake had actually stolen someone’s property. His palms suddenly felt cold and sweaty, and he returned to his room and wiped them on the fur. He picked it up and hugged it to his chest. Then he got on his knees and pushed it under the bed, as far as it would go.

  ‘Did you have a good walk?’ asked his dad as he pottered around the kitchen fixing lunch. The kitchen was quite small and Dad seemed to fill every corner of it. Jake leant in the doorway, watching his dad’s broad back, his thick black hair that always stood to attention.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jake. He could say ‘yeah’ to his dad. His mum would have corrected him, made him say ‘yes’.

  ‘Did you see any seals?’

  ‘Mmm … in the water. I saw a funny old man as well.’

  His dad stopped what he was doing and turned, a knife in his hand. ‘What sort of funny old man?’ He looked concerned.

  ‘Oh, not scary or anything,’ said Jake. ‘He was just kind of a sad old man, living in one of those cottages on the beach.’

  ‘Really?’ Dad turned around and continued cutting up tomatoes. ‘I didn’t think anyone lived in those. They look so abandoned. I always thought they’d be a good place to write. Or to study the seals. Hey, did I tell you?’ He handed Jake a sandwich with no plate and they sat down at the dining table in the living room. ‘I thought I might write about the wildlife around the south coast of Wellington for my next book. Won’t have to go too far for research then!’

  ‘Cool,’ said Jake, and tucked in. They ate in silence for a while. Jake held the sandwich awkwardly as he ate, dropping tomato on the table, but his dad didn’t seem to care.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ Dad said suddenly. ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘No,’ said Jake, too quickly probably. He felt himself go red. His father stared at him for a second, but must have sensed Jake’s discomfort and stood up, turning back to the kitchen. ‘I’ve got more work to do,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to Island Bay and get fish and chips tonight, eh? What will you do for the rest of the afternoon?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘I might just read a book.’

  After his father had gone back to the shed, Jake went back into his room to read, but he felt the sealskin calling to him. He knelt on the floor and reached under the bed. When he pulled it out, dust balls clung to it and he sneezed. It had a queer smell to it, like salt and sweat, mixed with something else he couldn’t identify. It was strong, but not unpleasant. Just strange.

  That evening Jake and his dad waited in the fish and chip shop for their order. They were sitting at a table looking through magazines that were years old and Jake was wondering why the owners didn’t get some new ones, when something across the road caught his eye. A woman was walking up the street. She had bare feet, even though it was a cold day, and she wore an old grey coat that looked as if it had come from an op shop — it was something an old man might have worn, and it was too big for her. She had wild red hair that flashed as the late sun dodged in and out of clouds. She kept stopping, muttering to herself and turning back as if she’d forgotten something, then turning around again and travelling a few more steps. She looked too young to be crazy, much younger than his mum.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Jake asked.

  Dad looked up and watched her for a few moments. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s sad. I hope she’s got someone looking after her.’ But as he said it, she stopped acting crazy. She drew herself taller and the windy day seemed to calm around her. She crossed the road, coming straight for the fish and chip shop! Jake looked away, buried his nose in a magazine, but suddenly she was right beside him, on the other side of the window. She cupped her hands on either side of her eyes and put her face right up to the glass. She looked around the room, without coming inside.

  ‘She’s looking for someone,’ said Dad. ‘I hope she finds whoever it is.’ Then he smiled at the woman and Jake looked up just in time to see her give a beautiful smile back before she stepped away from the window and walked off towards the beach.

  *

  Jake ate too many chips, and his dreams that night were wild. He woke up sweating with a pain in his gut, but he couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming — all he knew was that the red-haired woman had been in it and so had the sealskin. The old man from the beach had been shouting something at him that he couldn’t hear. He picked up the torch his dad had given him and leant over the side of the bed. The skin was still there. Its empty eyes stared mournfully at him. He got up and went through to his dad, who rumbled in his sleep, snoring. Jake shone the torch on him and the snoring stopped abruptly as his dad sat up.

  ‘Hey, buddy.’ His father’s voice was full of sleep and he put a hand up to shade his eyes. ‘What’s up? Can you turn that off?’

  Jake turned the torch off and the room fell into darkness, with only a faint orange glow from a distant street light.

  ‘My stomach hurts,’ said Jake, and as he said it, he felt like he was four years old again.

  His dad leant over and opened a drawer beside his bed. He pulled out a tube and popped a tablet out.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out. ‘Antacid. It’ll make you feel better.’

  Jake put it in his mouth and chewed. It was like eating mint-flavoured chalk. He didn’t want to go back to his own room. His dad seemed to know; he pulled back the covers and moved over. Jake was glad his father didn’t tell him he was too old to share his bed as he stretched the blanket up to his ears and closed his eyes.

  3

  Jake was vaguely aware of his father getting up in the morning. The short, thin curtains blocked out none of th
e light, so he put the pillow over his head and went back to sleep. Dad had always got up early. Usually by the time Jake sat down for breakfast, his father would have been for a walk along the beach and then written for two hours. Dad said it was so they could spend some time together during the day without him worrying about his work, but Jake knew that he still worried about it anyway. He would sometimes stop what they were doing, holding onto the ball, or the dice, depending on the game, and his face would become vacant, as though he had left his body behind and popped off somewhere else for a few seconds.

  ‘Your turn,’ Jake would have to say. ‘Dad.’ And his father would smile and keep on playing as if nothing had happened.

  This morning, Jake got up to the smell of something delicious frying in the kitchen. Dad was listening to the radio, humming along to a piece of classical music.

  ‘What time is it?’ Jake peeked into the frying pan and saw pieces of dark sausage cooking next to an egg. Black pudding. Yuck. He used to like the taste of it, until he’d found out what it was made of: blood.

  ‘It’s nine o’clock, sleepyhead!’ Dad rumpled his hair and pushed him towards the table. Jake sat down as his father tipped the contents of the pan onto a plate and set it in front of him. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘It’s hot.’

  ‘Aren’t you having any?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I had porridge earlier. Besides, I know how much you like black pudding and there was only enough for one.’

  Jake couldn’t refuse it now. Dad was looking so pleased with himself. Gross. He forced himself to put a piece in his mouth. If he closed his eyes and pretended it was regular sausage, he could enjoy the taste without thinking about it.

  ‘Hey, I pumped up the tyres on your old bike,’ Dad said. ‘You can take it out for a spin if you want.’

  This cheered Jake up. There was nothing he liked more than riding along the road by the sea, especially with the wind at his back.