Whale Pot Bay Page 8

  ‘Milt’s paying for it all,’ said Steph, proudly. ‘And I’m going to be part of it. It’s going to be so exciting. We might find all sorts of things, and I’ll get the chance to see Milt every day. I can’t wait for Christmas to be over so that we can start.’

  Vicky leaned over and squeezed her daughter’s arm. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘So you’re all organized for the summer?’

  Steph nodded vigorously.

  ‘Well, so are Alan and I,’ Vicky continued. ‘Aren’t we, Alan?’ She leaned over and rubbed her shoulder against his.

  Dad gave a stupid grin. ‘We’re going upmarket,’ he proclaimed. ‘We’re going to create a webzine.’

  ‘Like you did in Palmy, Mum?’ asked Steph.

  ‘Better than what I did in Palmy,’ replied Vicky.

  Dad turned to me. ‘For the past five years Vicky’s been producing an online magazine for a big automotive company in the Manawatu.’

  ‘I’ll be able to keep doing that,’ Vicky explained, ‘and maybe use it to promote our new one.’

  ‘What’s it going to be on?’ I asked.

  Dad laughed. ‘Old machine parts, of course! What else do I know about? There’ll be articles on machines and vehicles that we have. Everything that I write about will also be for sale.’

  ‘The thing is,’ interrupted Vicky, ‘we’ll get more hits from the search engines, and that must result in more sales.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Dad.

  I nodded, slowly. ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Sounds good.’ And it did! But the best part was that we were staying in the same business. Maybe my life wasn’t going to change as much as I’d feared.

  ‘So, that’s three of us organized,’ said Vicky. ‘What are you going to be doing?’

  I thought for a while before answering. Should I tell them about Scatworm’s hideout? In the end, I smiled and said, ‘Looks like I’ll be busy pulling machines to bits, doesn’t it? Somebody will have to fill all these orders you’re going to get.’

  ‘Oh, we won’t be online until February,’ explained Vicky. ‘You’ll be off at school by then, won’t you?’

  Instantly, I felt angry. Who was she to talk to me about school? Fortunately, I was saved by Steph butting in. ‘You can come and help with the dig,’ she suggested.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Yeah,’ I said, exhaling slowly. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’

  Vicky gave Dad a questioning glance, which Dad returned with a tiny shake of the head. The matter of my schooling was dropped for the moment, and we returned to our eating.

  I thought about what Vicky had said as I drove the jeep to Whale Pot Bay, early the next morning. It was a disturbing development. I’d accepted that Vicky was likely to stay around, but that didn’t give her the right to have a say in my education. That was between Dad and me.

  Over the previous six months we’d discussed high school on several occasions. He wanted me to go to his old boarding school in Napier; I wanted to stay at home and do correspondence. Each time he raised the matter, I would ask how he’d get on living by himself. He’d mumble that he’d be all right, but I knew he’d get lonely. Then I’d fire my other barrel and ask how much it would cost to go to his school. After that, he’d let the matter drop: it was clearly more than we could afford.

  As we hadn’t talked about it for a couple of months, I thought I’d won. Now, it seemed that maybe I hadn’t. Vicky and Dad must’ve decided that my arguments were no longer valid. My only hope was that it might be too late to enrol me. If I avoided discussing it, I might still be able to stay at home.

  Tarquins was a dark shadow against the rising sun when I arrived at the bay. The Union Jack had gone—Milt must have left to spend Christmas at home. Without the flag, the place looked empty. In fact, the whole bay looked empty: after the activity of the previous days, it was dead.

  I approached Scatworm’s hideout with caution, although I was fairly sure he wouldn’t be there that early in the morning. Plus if he knew that Milt had gone, chances were he wouldn’t come back until Milt did.

  The hideout was as I’d left it the day before—still two bottles of beer, and the same number of cigarette butts. I set about photographing it all.

  My first photos were pathetically out of focus, until I located the macro button and learnt to take decent close-ups. After a while I started fiddling with other settings and found I could get even better pictures.

  The sun was almost clear of Tarquins by the time I’d finished. Before I left, I took some shots of the house backlit by the sun; followed by a couple showing the sunlight reflected off the swell sweeping into the bay.

  I was disappointed that I’d found nothing new in the gulley, but that changed when I climbed back up the sheep track. Off to the left, partly hidden by the trunk of a manuka tree, I spotted a small, brown, plastic container. Immediately I pulled out my camera and set about recording it. When I moved in for a close-up, I discovered that it was a pill container. The label read:

  Take ONE tablet TWICE daily for angina

  and blood pressure.

  Do not stop taking this medicine without

  consulting your doctor.

  Mr Stuart Weston

  I picked the container up and sat down for a think. Clearly the pills were Scatworm’s, and their loss could be critical to him. For all I knew, he might die if he didn’t take them. I smiled as evil thoughts began to grow in my head. Maybe this was my chance to get back at him. Sooner or later he was likely to come back and look for them. I could imagine him in a panic, searching all over the place. Let him search. I would make sure he never found them. I put the container in my pocket and headed for home.

  Morning tea was underway by the time I got back. Vicky had made a batch of scones which I proceeded to devour—I was discovering that there were some advantages to having other people around the place, especially when they could cook.

  ‘What you been up to?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Oh, I just went to check that Pimi hadn’t come back,’ I replied. I couldn’t see any point in telling them about Scatworm’s hideout. If I hadn’t told Milt, what point was there in telling them?

  ‘I gather she hasn’t?’ said Vicky.

  I shook my head.

  ‘No, she hasn’t,’ confirmed Steph, walking in from the lounge. ‘I checked the computer and she’s way out to sea.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said, moving my stool to one side to make space for her. That was when the pill container decided to come out of my pocket and drop to the floor.

  ‘What’s this?’ cried Steph, stooping to pick it up.

  ‘Oh that!’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘Just something I picked up down by the bay.’

  ‘It looks like a pill bottle,’ said Vicky. ‘That might be important to somebody.’

  ‘Mr Stuart Weston,’ read Steph. ‘That’s who it belongs to.’

  Dad pricked up his ears. ‘Isn’t that the photographer guy?’

  I nodded.

  Vicky took the pill bottle from Steph and read the label. ‘Angina! That’s not something to mess with. I think we should try to make contact with him.’

  Dad looked at me. ‘You’ve got a phone number, haven’t you?’

  Again, I nodded.

  ‘Then give him a call and ask him over. I wouldn’t mind having a word with that man.’

  What could I do, except get the number and give Scatworm a ring? He was grumpy at first, but that quickly turned to relief when he found what I was calling about. He said he’d be with us in a couple of hours.

  I was working at the computer, downloading my morning’s photos, when he arrived. Vicky let him in and guided him through to the lounge. I stood and stared at him, not knowing what to say. However, he didn’t seem to have any problems with the situation.

  ‘Good morning, Jake,’ he said stepping forward and offering his hand. ‘I’m indebted to you. I was lying in bed wondering whether I should risk getting up when your call came through.’ Then he gave a wry
smile. ‘Just as well you kept my number.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  He looked at the computer behind me. ‘Hey! What you got there? Did you take that photo?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. It was the photo I’d taken of Tarquins backlit by the sun.

  He moved closer to the screen. ‘The lighting is fantastic. You know, Jake, a photo like that requires more than pointing and shooting. You’ve got to have a feel for what you’re doing, and you’ve certainly got that. You could become a very good photographer if you keep working on it.’

  ‘I intend to,’ I said. Despite my feelings for the man, I was pleased with his praise.

  At that moment, Dad came in with the pills. Vicky was carrying a glass of water. ‘You’d better take one before you drop dead on us,’ she said, rather unkindly.

  When he had taken the pill, Vicky said, ‘Now you can tell us why you’re writing all that scurrilous stuff about Jake and Milton.’

  He was silent for a while before opening his arms as if surrendering. ‘To make money, of course,’ he replied. ‘What else do we do things for?’

  ‘For lots of reasons,’ said Dad, crossly. ‘To help other people. To give enjoyment to others. To make the world a better place. There’re three for a start.’

  Scatworm looked amused. ‘Oh, I think I give other people enjoyment, otherwise why do they buy magazines like C’leb Investigate?’

  Nobody answered. ‘It’s because,’ he went on, ‘deep down we’re all Peeping Toms of some sort. We’re all voyeurs. We enjoy spying on other people’s lives.’

  ‘Why did you have to suggest there was something nasty about the relationship between Milton Summer and Jake?’

  ‘Because that’s what people want to read. They want celebrities to get into trouble, or have something wrong with them. It makes them think that their own lives aren’t quite so bad after all.’

  ‘Did you give any thought before you involved Jake in all of this?’ I could see that Dad was getting angry.

  Scatworm just shrugged.

  Dad pointed at the pill container. ‘And you’re still hanging around Whale Pot Bay.’

  Another shrug. ‘Every now and then.’

  ‘So who’s it going to be next? More about Jake? Or will you involve young Stephanie here?’

  Now Scatworm was losing it as well. ‘Whatever it takes to get a good story. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

  ‘You wanna bet?’ threatened Dad, bunching his fists and moving forward.

  Scatworm stood up to him. ‘Go ahead, hit me. An assault charge would be a great start to the story.’

  Dad took a step closer.

  ‘Alan, don’t!’ shouted Vicky. Then a little more quietly. ‘Let him go. It’ll only cause more problems.’

  ‘Yeah,’ added Scatworm, ‘stop, or I’ll start digging into your life. I bet there’s some dirt in there somewhere. There usually is.’

  ‘And if there isn’t, you’ll make some up,’ growled Dad.

  Scatworm replied with a sneering smile.

  Vicky moved until she was right in front of him. ‘Get out!’ she shouted. ‘Get out of this house, now!’

  Scatworm opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it. He swivelled around and marched out the door, slamming it so hard that it rattled the windows.

  We stood looking at each other, before Steph said, ‘Good riddance. I hate that man. He’s evil.’

  Vicky took her in her arms. ‘Yes, darling, he is, and you’re allowed to hate someone like him.’

  ‘My God, he stinks of cigarettes,’ said Dad, as he calmed down. ‘If he’s got heart problems, why does he continue smoking? We should’ve kept his damned pills. He’s plainly not worried about his health.’

  I hardly heard him. I’d returned to the computer and was staring at a slip of paper beside the keyboard. It was the sheet that Colin had given us with Pimi’s secret ID number written on it. It would have been there, right in front of Scatworm’s eyes when he looked at my photo. I felt sure he must’ve seen it. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, hoping he hadn’t guessed what it was. The word whale did not appear on the paper, only Kogia breviceps. How many people would recognize that as a whale? Very few, and with any luck, Scatworm wasn’t one of them.

  Chapter 13

  Stuart Weston’s departure wasn’t the end to the drama on that day. There was more to come in the afternoon, but not from Scatworm—the second lot came from a different, yet equally infuriating sort of animal.

  Magpies have lived in our macrocarpa trees for as long as anyone can remember. Most of the time they’re just a nuisance with their yodelling call waking us in the morning. However, in the breeding season they become a real pest. They attack anything that comes within twenty metres of their nests.

  The most dangerous place is in the top corner, alongside the road to the beach. The tree there is their favourite nesting spot. Go anywhere near that and you’re sure to get attacked.

  Steph had been watching me work on an old tractor when she wandered off, singing to herself as she so often did. I thought nothing of it until I heard the magpies screeching. I looked up and saw them dancing up and down on a branch. This was their warning cry; if it was ignored, they would start attacking.

  Realizing that Steph must be the object of their attention, I dropped my tools and headed towards the trees, where I could see her dawdling alongside the tree, singing ‘Laughter in the air’, oblivious to the racket coming from above. I was about thirty metres back when she moved into the red zone. The magpies left the tree and went into a bombing dive. I knew from past experience that their first dive was always to test the opposition. If you stood your ground or slowly walked away, they would continue to make a lot of noise, without making contact. However if you ran, or tried to scare them away, they’d go into full attack and that could be dangerous.

  Unfortunately, Steph didn’t notice them until they zoomed over her head, screeching noisily. She looked up, screamed, and then started running.

  ‘Don’t run!’ I yelled, but either she didn’t hear or she was too frightened to stop.

  The magpies immediately wheeled, getting ready for the real attack. I sprinted forward, yelling and waving my arms, hoping to direct them towards me.

  It had no effect. They dived and this time made contact, driving their beaks into the back of her head. Steph screamed again, and kept on screaming.

  ‘Stop, Steph!’ I yelled, even though I knew it was unlikely she would hear. She was too terrified to register anything.

  Again they dived, and again they made contact. One of them used its claws, and pulled away with a clump of hair trailing behind. They were now in a frenzy. It didn’t matter that she had moved well away from the tree; they sensed a kill, and would keep at her until they had it or were somehow forced to stop.

  On the third dive they approached face-on, aiming for the eyes. At the last moment, Steph saw them coming and ducked. Even so, one still managed to scrape across her forehead. Then she tripped over some of our junk and sprawled onto the ground. For a moment the magpies were unsure of what had happened, and in that time I caught up with her and I threw myself over her.

  It was enough. The magpies made one last pass before flying back to the tree, where they perched, cackling away in victory.

  I was crawling off her when Dad and Vicky arrived on the scene. The screaming had been replaced by loud sobbing. Steph’s eyes were wide open and darting all over the place as if she expected the magpies to come back.

  We soon had her inside and lying on the sofa. Blood was beginning to stain her hair, with some running down her forehead. She reached up to wipe it away without knowing what it was. Then she saw her hand was red and stared at it in shock. I understood then how fragile she was. I wanted to reach out and help her, but I didn’t know how.

  As it turned out, her injuries were relatively minor: there was a lot of blood flowing out of quite small wounds, which soon sealed over. After everythin
g had calmed down, we had a discussion about the magpies.

  ‘Do they do that often?’ asked Vicky.

  Dad nodded. ‘Yeah, every now and again. We mostly keep away, but at times they’ll attack people going along the road.’

  ‘I want them killed,’ said Steph. ‘I want them killed now.’

  ‘I agree,’ added Vicky.

  ‘OK,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I offered, at last seeing something I could do to help.

  However, saying you’ll kill magpies and actually killing them are two different things. They’re wily birds, and not easily tricked. Shooting them would not be easy, especially when the only weapon I was allowed to use was an air rifle. To kill them, I’d have to coax them down from the top of the tree by offering them food, such as mutton fat, and then put a pellet through the head or the heart. Any other shot would just maim them.

  Within the hour Dad and I had set pots of bait out on the grass near the tree, and arranged some of our junk to form a hide. Dad then inspected the angles to make sure that I wasn’t going to shoot some passing motorist, or hit some poor, unsuspecting farm animal. With everything in place, he went back to the house while I climbed into the hide and waited. This was going to be my big day.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t end up that way. I didn’t even fire a shot. This was not because the magpies didn’t like mutton fat—they loved the stuff. It was just that every time I took aim, a car would go past, a bull would bellow, or some other noise would spook them. Then they’d retreat to the treetops and I’d have to wait another half hour for them to come down again.