‘My son, Steven, is in bed, as he should be.’
‘Oh, I know he’s a good boy, but would you mind if I talked to him?’
‘You want me to wake my son, at this hour?’
‘Yeah, it’s just that I’m worried, it’s not like Rangi to go off on his own.’
‘Rangi?’
‘Yeah, that’s my boy’s name. Him and Stevie are mates.’
‘Steven and Rangi are not friends. Steven has often complained that your son has come here uninvited. He has encouraged my son to drink beer. Steven is a quiet child and is easily intimidated. When Rangi does come home, please ask him not to bother Steven any more.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could my dad be so cruel? He knew that Rangi was dead, and yet he was allowing Rangi’s aunt to think that he was some kind of bully who intimidated me.
Auntie Georgia scuttled back to her house.
I emerged from my room, furious. ‘Dad!’
‘Lower your voice.’
‘Why did you say those things to her?’
‘Those are the things I believe. He was a bad influence on you. Good riddance. It will be a few days before she does anything. Her type doesn’t go to the police. When the body shows up, they might come around here asking questions, but you stick to that story, all right? Now, go back to bed.’
I did as I was told but I didn’t like it. He didn’t know Rangi. He had never even spoken to him. He’d lied about him.
The next morning, Auntie Georgia was picked up in a minibus as usual. She put a note under our door, asking us to call her boss if Rangi turned up. She assumed we would have a phone.
That Saturday night, after her shift at the bar, she knocked on the door again, asking Dad if we’d seen Rangi and then asking him if she could use our telephone.
Dad feigned a bit more concern this time. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Sisterson, but I checked with Steven, he didn’t see Rangi at all yesterday, though he did hear his truck pull into your driveway around lunchtime. He’s sorry to hear that your boy is missing. We will keep an eye out for him, but I’m afraid we don’t have a telephone. Who did you want to call?’
‘The police! Rangi has been missing for more than a day now. It’s not like him. He hasn’t even left a note.’
‘Didn’t the children get their summer holidays yesterday? Might he have gone camping with some friends?’
‘Without his truck? Without a bag? He doesn’t have friends. He thinks your Stevie is his friend. Talks about him all the time.’
‘Well, I’m sorry that Steven doesn’t feel the same way. Goodnight, Miss Sisterson.’
Dad kept calling me Steven to Aunt Georgia, even though he called me Steve, and sometimes Stevie. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called me Peter. ‘Steven’ was a way of distancing me from Rangi, as if the name he called me was in some way illicit.
Dad came to my room again. ‘She might call the police tomorrow. Just remember. Stick to our story. Stay indoors. She doesn’t work on Sundays, right? Keep out of sight.’
The next day, early, she banged on our door again.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Armstrong, but would you be so kind as to drive me into town? I don’t know how to drive, see, and I need to report that my boy is missing.’
Dad played the good neighbour. He told me to stay put while he took Auntie Georgia to the police station. They returned three hours later. From my window, I could see that her face was tear-stained. She held my father’s handkerchief to her eyes.
Dad told me that when the police realized from his name that Rangi was a part-Māori boy, they told her that he was probably off with some gang, up to no good, that he was probably trying to avoid the upcoming exams. Auntie Georgia showed them the teacher’s note he had left on the kitchen table, to prove that Rangi wasn’t a gang member. He was a lonely boy, she’d said. The police questioned where his mother was, why his aunt was reporting the boy as missing. When she was forced to reveal Rangi’s mother’s name, Celia Parata, the officers looked at each other. Dad thought she was probably a prostitute because of the way the police smirked. They suggested Rangi Parata would show up, eventually. Dad said they didn’t take it seriously. They didn’t even write anything down or ask for a description.
Dad was gleeful, relating this to me. I was disgusted with him, with myself. I wanted to tell Auntie Georgia that Rangi was dead, that she should stop hoping, stop waiting for him to come home. He was never going to come home.
Before the week was up, Rangi’s bloated body was found at the other end of the lake, closer to town. I was never questioned. The Daily Post reported a tragic drowning. Auntie Georgia didn’t look me in the eye as she came and went. A police car dropped her home twice, once on December 18th and again the next day. I could hear her wailing aloud into the night from my bedroom and I wanted to console her, to confess and explain that it was an accident, that it was my life or his and that I had to choose mine, and that he had been my best friend.
Christmas Day in our house was strange. Dad pretended that everything was normal. We ate outside on the porch, toasting the day with Coca-Cola. Dad bought me a record player and I’d bought him a book on Māori culture. I found it in the bin a few days later.
35
Sally
My shopping expedition the day after Uncle Donald’s funeral was not entirely successful. Sue parked in a vast underground car park and we emerged into this blindingly bright, dizzyingly high, cavernous building with neon signs everywhere, piped music and, for a Tuesday morning, lots and lots of shoppers. I had seen shopping centres on TV, but I hadn’t expected this scale.
‘I don’t like this, Sue. Please may I go and wait in the car?’
‘But the whole purpose is to get you kitted out with a brand-new wardrobe!’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Here, hold my hand,’ she said, ‘I have an idea. We will go to one shop with a huge range. You can go straight to the fitting room, and I’ll bring you a selection of things to try on.’
I had recently found that hugging or holding the hands of friends was somewhat comforting. I allowed Sue to lead me into a shop called Zara. She spoke to an assistant while I stood, trying not to tremble, as people manically picked out random items on hangers, discarding them across the rail without re-hanging them, pulling at sweaters from the middle of a neatly folded pile and throwing them down again. I had once thought of working in a clothing shop, but my jaw hurt from the clenching of my teeth. I would not be able to stand this.
Sue came back with a young and beautiful shop assistant. They took me to a large changing room, with full-length mirrors on both sides. I sat dutifully and waited. Within ten minutes, Sue came back, laden with armfuls of clothing. I thanked her and began to try on sweaters, culottes, jackets, boots, jewellery, waistcoats, blouses, overcoats, T-shirts, skirts short and long, trainers, jeans, cardigans. Sue would check in with me every few minutes, exchange sizes for things I liked but didn’t fit, and return things I didn’t like. There were six times as many things in the changing room as there were in my wardrobe at home. The shop assistant took some of them straight to the till. I was dazed by so much choice, the silks and cottons and suedes and denim and sparkles and fur. I liked what I saw in the mirror. All the different versions of me.