For Adele, Charlie & Gloria

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 1

THE 10K RUN AROUND THE town and along the beach had
been fine, the decision to tackle the summit track at full tilt not
so much. Lungs burning, hunched over her knees, she forced
herself to stand, and raise her freckled arms to the flat grey sky. A
bull at a gate, her mother was fond of saying. Under an oversized
tee and flannel shorts, she felt the puckered flesh around her
spine resisting, tugging at her skin, as her lungs tried to expand.
She pursed her lips, slowing her breath, distracting herself with
the view from the rocky heads, around the graceful curve of the
deserted sandy beach, and down to the pale shards of sandstone
of the sheer cliffs at the other end of the bay. Views from the first
seventeen years of Honey’s life.
Skinny, eight years old, mandarin curls in a saggy bucket hat,
out in the bay in her father’s old boat, pulling in snapper and
gurnard by the bucketful. Building sandcastles, running races,
swimming and boogie boarding, making best friends forever
in the few weeks over summer as the camping ground filled up.
Friends to be replaced year after year until she learned better.
Lonely, misunderstood tweens. Squatting on an oyster-studded
rock, watching translucent crabs cautiously emerge, imagining
she knew how they felt.
A first kiss over there, first heavy petting there, first actual sex,
clumsy and embarrassing in a battered black Nissan parked by the
boat ramp. Down there, also, the bench seat on the little strip of
green before the beach, where her mother had taken her and her

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 sister the day their father didn’t come home. Fourteen years old,
running to the beach, furious after seeing their mother flirting
with the weekend fishermen at the golf club, all cleavage and
lipstick, so obvious. And then the other, darker thoughts — the
kind the counsellor wanted her to deal with.
Bugger it.
Honey willed her body into motion again and ploughed down
the track, jumping patches of sand tussock and pigface in pink
flower, then on to the beach again and away.

‘HEY MUM!’ HONEY CAME IN the back door, gulping the last
of the water from her bottle.
‘I’m back,’ she added unnecessarily.
Still nothing. An irritating whisper of concern. Would she ever
be able to walk into a house and it just be walking into a fucking
house for chrissake. She placed her bottle down on the kitchen
counter and padded down the passage to the living room. Rachel
was stock-still, staring at a pad of Post-it notes, a pen in her left
hand.
‘Mum?’
‘What’s it called? That thing. That you put the magazines on?’
‘The coffee table?’
‘Yes, the bloody coffee table.’ She typed it into her mobile
phone. ‘Also known as kāfēi zhuō.’ This in a faux singsong accent.
Vaguely racist but what was the point. Honey watched her mother
carefully write down both versions and stick the Post-it to the edge
of the coffee table.
Rachel’s white hair, recently thick and naturally dark, was the
texture of dry grass. Her face was lined, deeply etched, her hands

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 too, the crinkle-cut skin of a lifelong smoker. Ironic.
Rachel had been a lifelong health worker, a community
nurse in a community that still revered her, even after her forced
retirement. She’d been in decline for some time, but nobody
had wanted to admit it, least of all Rachel herself. Oh, she’d felt
a bit rocky, she’d concede, ever since Ron passed. He’d been a
weekend fisherman who ended up staying nearly twenty years
before a series of strokes stole away his speech, his mobility and
finally his life.
Nearly every family in the district owed Rachel some debt,
had stories of how she had helped them or their loved ones. She
lunched with the mayor, harassed the regional health board, was
quoted regularly in the Bay Advocate, provoked immunisation
drives, was a sharp-tongued advocate for those who needed it. In
the end, it was Wiremu from the garage who rang Honey to say
that something needed to be done.
Ti-i-ming.
Honey was convalescing after the incident. She reassured
Wiremu that she’d sort a few things and drive up to Waitutū as
soon as she was able. But the moment she put down the phone
she had to fight the urge to cry, though it was hard to tell if it was
for her mother or for herself. Funny, considering she hadn’t cried
during or after the beating that had nearly killed her. Apparently,
fists, bats and knives had nothing on her mother when it came to
making her feel inadequate.
‘She’s an amazing woman, your mum,’ was the first thing
Wiremu said when Honey pulled in to fill her Mini Clubman and
do some preliminary reconnaissance.
Wiremu’s garage had been there from the beginning of time:
two pumps, a shop that sold everything from bait to bread, and

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 an attached workshop. He’d come waddling out as she was still
unfolding herself. It was only a four-hour drive from Auckland,
but she’d been weaning herself off the painkillers.
‘But it was getting out of hand,’ he went on, ‘her forgetting
appointments, losing stuff, denying she’d done this or that. And
her temper, oh, boy, she called Henry Scott up at the school every
name under the sun when he tried to persuade her to see the doc.’
‘No, that’s fine, I’m glad you called,’ she said.
‘I’m just grateful you could come, Honey. Considering
everything . . .’ Wiremu let that linger like a question.
Honey just smiled and shrugged. ‘All good.’ Though of course
it wasn’t.
‘Well,’ Wiremu beamed, ‘bet you’re glad to be home.’
Everyone who stayed in Waitutū thought it was the best place
in the world. Everyone who disagreed got out as soon as they
could. Honey had left a few days shy of her eighteenth birthday.
She never regretted it. Too many ghosts, not just her sister’s, she
told her counsellor, offhand, but of course that was her hoping
to avoid having to go into the details. The counsellor had kept
digging until Honey stopped going to appointments. And here
she was anyway, back at the source.
‘Yeah, it’s great. Apart from the bit where my mother has
dementia.’ She smiled wryly to show he didn’t need to tiptoe
around her.
But Wiremu stiffened slightly, as if he detected some criticism
lurking. ‘She’ll be pleased you’re here,’ was all he said. ‘Everyone
needs their whānau with them at times like these.’
Honey really wished she could agree.

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 NOW, THREE WEEKS LATER, HER mother was putting
bilingual Post-it notes all around the house. Table. Chair. Teapot.
Some days she was unable to remember the thing in her hand with
the sticky sweet dark coating (chocolate biscuit/qiǎokèlì bǐnggān)
but she wasn’t going gently. She applied her formidable will to
the task of not getting to the point where Honey, with a clear
conscience, could have her assigned to supported care. Or sent to
the knacker’s, as Rachel would have it.
The internet was a wonderful thing. It had guided Rachel to
daily aspirin and turmeric supplements. It inspired her to learn
another language to exercise different parts of the brain. She finally
kicked smoking and started yoga classes at the local hall. Honey
wasn’t sure it made any difference. She’d done her online swot
too. There were dozens of possible causes for the plaque that was
clogging up her mother’s brain and would lead to her death long
before her heart stopped beating. As the specialist tried to explain,
‘It’s like the floor to your garage is wet and getting wetter, so you
try to find ways to mop it up, but actually there are numerous
holes in the roof, and you have to find vastly different ways to
stopper up each of them. Imagine the water on the floor is the
plaque in your brain and . . .’
Until Rachel snapped, ‘You don’t know what causes it, haven’t
got a clue, so why don’t you bloody well say so!’
Rachel never asked Honey how long she intended to stay
— it was a topic both were keen to avoid. Honey had injury
compensation and had rented out her little house for a ridiculous
amount. Her mother had savings and a pension, so there was no
great financial pressure. She figured she’d stay until she couldn’t
care for Rachel any longer. That’s all.
Part of Honey’s concern was that, while she felt haunted in

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 Waitutū, and bearing witness to her mother’s deterioration was
exhausting, she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm to return to
Auckland. Her ‘couple friends’ had mostly sided with Tony after
the break-up; the rest had busy lives. Until recently she’d been the
busiest. They mostly kept in touch through social media and the
occasional phone call. She could do that just as easily from here.
The bosses had assured her she could take her time returning to
work, even to light duties; they appreciated what she had been
through, how hard it must be. Honey was glad of the support,
but the truth was she didn’t know if she’d ever want to go back.
She had loved her job, been bloody good at it too, and it had very
nearly killed her. It had almost certainly killed Kloe Kovich.

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 2

SOMEWHERE IN THE DARK A phone was grating, vibrating

insistently against a bedside table. His or hers? She listened a
moment. Tony wasn’t moving. So, he wasn’t on call.
‘Damn.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’ It was her phone. Unknown caller. She swung
her feet out from under the duvet and perched on the edge of the
bed.
‘Hello, Detective Chalmers.’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
‘You give me your number, eh.’ It was a woman’s voice. Almost
a whisper.
‘Okay.’ Honey could feel Tony shifting beside her, but fuck it, he
got his share of late-night callouts too. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
There was no response.
‘Do you want to give me your name?’ Honey ventured. She
wasn’t overly optimistic.
‘Later, maybe.’
Another long pause.
Tony sighed loudly and turned away.
‘The Knights are coming up for a big meeting, eh,’ the caller
said at last. Another pause, then, ‘You interested in that kind of
stuff?’
‘What kind of stuff is that?’

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 ‘Meth. A shitload of it.’
Honey was Serious Crime and this was Drugs but yeah, she
was interested.
At the kitchen table the recording app on her phone blinked
red. She also opened her notepad.
‘Okay, the Knights are coming up. You said it was for a meeting?
Can you tell me who they’re meeting with?’
Another pause. And then, ‘The Reapers.’
Honey took a moment. The Reapers were blow-ins from
Australia, 501s named after the clause in the legislation that allowed
New Zealand-born residents to be deported if they had done
prison time or were deemed to be of ‘dubious moral character’.
An Australian senior Minister had called it putting out the trash.
Well, treat people like trash, no surprises what happens next. The
Reapers had brought with them a new level of violence and no
respect for tradition. They’d made enemies, Knights included. A
fatal shootout at a funeral had led to a cycle of bloody paybacks.
The caller seemed to anticipate Honey’s doubts.
‘They got some new arrangement.’
‘What sort of arrangement?’ The criminal world was rife with
rumour and lies, most of them not worth getting out of bed for.
‘Reapers maybe want to talk about Tauranga.’
‘Do you know where and when this meeting will be?’
‘Can probably find out.’ There was a sudden change of tone.
‘I gotta go.’

KLOE KOVICH SAT ON THE back step, smoking, staring into

the night. It was too cloudy for many stars, but a nearly full moon
poked through. It hurt every time she inhaled.

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 Fucking Jason had cracked a couple of ribs this time, for sure,
and there was a big lump on the side of her head where he’d shoved
it into the door frame. After that she’d just lain on the floor,
curled up, while he sank in the boot. She should probably go to
the Emergency Department but what good would that do? They
wouldn’t give her any decent drugs anyway, not with her history.
All she’d done was ask for some money to treat the kids to
some fish and chips. That was the thing about Jason: another
time he might’ve enjoyed being the big man, thrown some cash
on the table — ‘Go on, have a big old feed on me.’ Maybe he
was stressed about this deal with the Knights. They didn’t fuck
around and Jason wasn’t the most reliable. Kloe had heard him
on his phone, talking in some kind of code, as if they were talking
about delivering a load of dog food or some shit. As if Jason was
important enough for the cops to bother bugging his phone.
Kloe used to think he was cool. Okay, he was a bit of a dick,
with a boom in the boot that shook the whole car, but she loved
the way he could take the piss and make her laugh. Now, nights
like this, she wished she could put a gun to his head and pull the
trigger. Then she’d laugh all right.
He had this dumb-arse habit of repeating most of what was
said to him, so it wasn’t hard to work out both sides to the
conversation. He’d been trying way too hard to sound confident,
when she could tell he was wetting himself. It was right after that
he got stuck into the piss. And then he’d got stuck into her.
‘What’s to eat?’
‘There’s some bread and peanut butter.’
‘A man needs real food, bitch.’
‘A man should’ve given his bitch the money she asked for, so
they could’ve got some fish and chips then.’

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 ‘What did you say, woman?’
‘You deaf as well as stupid?’
If Shyla hadn’t come through from putting the baby down and
screamed at him to stop, it could’ve been way worse. Now who
was laughing. It felt good to know she could drop him in it any
time she wanted.
Detective Sergeant Honey Chalmers. Funny name, a pigshit
called Honey. Kloe flipped over the card. On the back was chicken
scratch scrawled in blue biro, ‘Anytime you want to talk’, and
another number. She shoved it back deep into the pockets of her
jeans, but then had second thoughts and dug it out again.
It wasn’t likely that Jason would go through her pockets,
though you never knew. Or maybe she’d be pulling out a lighter
and accidentally the card would come with it. Even if she put it
in the rubbish and Jason was taking it out because it was the only
useful thing he ever did around the house and somehow he noticed
it . . . She was overthinking it, but now it was a worm in her head
and she knew it wouldn’t let her sleep. On impulse she shoved
the card through a crack between the warped, faded timbers of
the back step. As she let it go, something else struck her, made her
smile. This Honey might be pigshit, but it was kind of choice to
have someone to talk to.

HONEY HAD PUT THE KETTLE on, listening to the recording,

making notes. New Zealand accent. ‘Street’ if there was such a
thing. Maybe Māori or Polynesian, maybe not. She counselled
herself not to jump to conclusions. Institutional racism starts
at home, and from what she knew of the Reapers, they were
colour blind, recruiting displaced Kiwi-born Australians. For

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 some reason she didn’t think the voice sounded rural. Thirties,
maybe older? Anxious but not terrified. Not exactly. Tauranga
presumably referred to the port, the busiest in New Zealand. The
Knights were a criminal gang known to be active there.
Honey closed her eyes and let her mind go blank, waiting for
whatever else would bubble up. The caller wouldn’t give her name
but said ‘later, maybe’. So, it wasn’t only about the information.
She might be seeking to make a connection. Maybe she just
needed someone to talk to. But there was something else in her
tone. Honey couldn’t put her finger on it right away. She went
back to the start of the call. ‘You give me your number, eh.’
Honey thought back to women she’d given her number
to over the last few weeks. There were quite a few. She had
recently wrapped a long investigation into a horrific case of child
abuse resulting in the death of a two-year-old girl. The family,
four generations under one rusted roof in the backblocks of
Henderson Valley, unemployed, a history of domestic abuse,
crime, alcoholism, drugs, violence and all-round fucked-up-ness,
was quite naturally distrustful of the police and had closed ranks.
Honey was sure they knew who was responsible, but no one was
saying.
Honey and her team had worked closely with local community
reps and social workers. She’d been patient, which, it’s fair to say,
was not her natural condition. There had been heartbreaking
moments, like a teenager claiming to have done it, until Honey
sussed it was a cry for help, that the girl would rather be locked
up than live the way she was. Honey probably shouldn’t have
been so free and easy with her private number, but she’d been
frustrated by the lack of progress. Eventually an anonymous tip-
off led to a forty-eight-year-old grandmother and her twenty-

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 two-year-old mentally disabled boyfriend being charged and
convicted. It wasn’t the kind of win that made anyone feel better.
Honey rubbed her eyes, sat back. The Reapers’ clubhouse
wasn’t far from Henderson Valley so there could be a connection,
but her card could’ve just as easily been passed on, left in a pub or
dropped on the street. The phone was probably an untraceable
burner and, anyway, what would be the point? Nothing she could
do but wait.
She was making herself a cup of chamomile tea when it struck
her, the thing about the caller’s tone. She added a word to her list.
Vengeful.

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 3

A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER, Honey still hadn’t heard back from

her mystery caller. She’d had a word with Spud, Inspector Greg
Peely from Drugs. Spud doubted the Knights would get into
bed with the Reapers, there was a lot of bad blood — literally
— but stranger things had happened. He’d look into it and keep
her posted.
It wasn’t as if Honey didn’t have enough on her plate. Apart
from her usual caseload of woe and misery, a yachtie had found a
suitcase floating in the Waitematā Harbour. Inside the suitcase were
body parts that, when reassembled, made up most of a Chinese
teenager who had been missing from her student accommodation
for a week. Word was the pressure of study had got too much and
she’d fled back to Mainland China. Word was wrong.
Honey was working closely with the Asian Liaison Unit,
trying to break through to the student community, but it was
never going to be easy. The girl had been quiet, well behaved and
studious. There was nothing to link her, or either of her parents,
to organised crime. They came to Auckland to take the pieces
of their only daughter home — the incomprehension on their
faces was heartbreaking. Honey had spent long nights combing
through transcripts, hoping the translations were accurate
enough to pick up on subtle differences and contradictions in
the mountain of statements.
Fortunately, Tony had been training for the annual Coast to
Coast, running up a mountain, kayaking and cycling, on top of

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 his punishing schedule as a urologist. Most nights he was too
fucked to fuck and his interest in Honey’s work was nil.
‘We need more peanut butter and bananas.’
‘I just bought a whole lot.’
‘We need more. And can you pick up some more tinned tuna
and eggs while you’re there?’
Duly noted. ‘Anyway, how was your day?’ It was a struggle
to sound interested. There was something about short and long
muscle fibres and his BMI, but by then Honey had drifted off. She
needed to put more pressure on the Chinese student leaders. She
was sure they knew something they weren’t saying.
‘Managed to get in 12 k at lunchtime. Resting pulse rate is 56.’
‘Great. Look, I might just read through these. Night.’
It was like having a self-obsessed flatmate with a limited
outlook and no interest in her whatsoever. A part of Honey quite
liked it. When she’d jokingly complained to Michelle about being
a triathlon widow, her friend reminded Honey they were way
overdue for a girls’ night out.

‘DAMN THAT CREEPY MO-FO! I swear I am going to shove

an office chair down his throat!’ Michelle and Honey were at a
window table of a faux olde English pub with a waterfront view,
already into their second bottle of pinot gris. It was the kind of
muggy February night in Auckland where you didn’t so much
breathe the air as drink it.
The Viaduct would not have been Honey’s choice, but
Michelle vibed the general sense of desperation. She said it
made her feel better about herself. And Michelle was right —
Honey needed to get out more. Sitting at home reading files that

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 catalogued the worst humanity had to offer was not healthy.
‘Robbo is such a tool.’ Michelle was a civilian data inputter in
the police’s File Management Centre, or as she put it, an unglorified
typist. She was venting about her supervisor. ‘A fucking A-grade
absolute shit-for-brains tool. And he tried it on at the Christmas
party, dead set. I would rather eat my own anus,’ she said, matter-
of-factly.
Nights out with Michelle were always entertaining. And
exhausting. She was gorgeously excessive in every way. She was also
tragically and dramatically single. Unlike Honey, Michelle was
kept awake by the ticking of her biological clock. Her last serious
relationship had ended when she’d finally realised he was serious
when he said he didn’t want kids. Two years later he was hooked
up with someone else and expecting their first child.
‘Let’s go to karaoke after this!’ Michelle glanced around in
disgust at the room full of twenty-something men in striped
cotton shirts and chinos. ‘I don’t know why I ever let you bring
me to this shit-hole.’ She sighed. ‘They’re all about twelve and
anyway I’d break them. Fuck the wine, we need tequila. Line ’em
up!’
Then things got hazy. A strange little honeycomb of rooms
somewhere off Queen Street. A bored old Korean guy who
took their money and sold beer and terrible wine. They crashed
someone’s party. Michelle — Pasifika’s answer to Adele — broke
the ice with ‘Rolling in the Deep’. Honey remembered performing
a passable rendition of ‘Hotel California’. At some point there
was ‘Stayin’ Alive’, which Michelle performed in perfect sync
with two gay guys Honey vaguely thought she might have seen on
a local soap back when she was at Police College and desperate for
something to talk about with the other women.

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 Around 3 a.m. Honey poured Michelle in a taxi and dropped
her home. At last she crawled into bed beside Tony. Twenty
minutes later her phone rang. Tony groaned theatrically and
rolled over, but Honey couldn’t summon the will to get out of
bed again. The phone kept ringing.
‘Are you going to get that?’ he said.
The phone stopped. Then it started again.
‘Honey Chalmers,’ she croaked.
‘You didn’t answer your phone.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I tried calling earlier. You didn’t answer.’ Honey’s mystery
caller was back.
‘Yeah, I was out somewhere . . . loud.’
There was a long pause. Honey could feel herself falling. ‘Look,
it’s really late, early or whatever, can I help you?’
‘They put off the meeting, the one I was telling you about. Some
shit went down, the ship was delayed or cancelled or something.’
Honey struggled to drag herself back. ‘You’re talking about the
meeting between the Knights and the Reapers?’
‘Yeah.’ She sounded pissed off.
She wasn’t the only one. Tony stalked out of the bedroon
taking his pillow with him.
‘Look, no offence, but I’ve got no reason to believe you actually
know anything of interest to me.’ She’d had enough of tiptoeing
around. There was a machete in the back of her head.
‘I know shit, all right, but I don’t know if I want to tell you.’
The caller sounded defensive.
‘Okay, okay, then how about you give me your first name, that’s
a start.’ For a moment Honey wondered if it would be seriously
pushing it if she called out to Tony to bring her some water. She

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 went on: ‘I mean, you know my name, right?’
‘Kloe,’ the caller said at last. ‘Your name really Honey?’
‘It really is. But what do you want to talk about, Kloe?’ She really
hoped it was nothing important. She really hoped Kloe would
hang up and call another time, preferably during office hours.
‘You got kids, Honey?’
‘What?’
‘Kids, you got any?’
‘Er, no, not yet.’
‘I wouldn’t have nothing if I didn’t have my kids. Not that he
gives a fuck.’
‘You’re talking about your, um, husband?’
‘Fuck that, woman, we’re not married.’
Honey felt like she was having an out-of-body experience.
‘You married?’ Kloe sounded like she was settling in for a chat
over a cuppa at the kitchen table.
‘No, but I have a partner.’ The partner on the couch probably
not thinking kind thoughts.
‘Bet he doesn’t give you the bash.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’ Although she couldn’t guarantee he wasn’t
wishing it. Still, Kloe was giving her an opening, and she took a
tentative step through it.
‘Is that what your fella does, hit you?’ She tried to sound
sympathetic but not judgemental.
‘Sometimes. Not tonight . . . I . . . It’s not about that.’
‘Because if he does, I could recommend somewhere . . .’
‘Are you not listening, bitch? I said it’s not about that. What
kind of cunt doesn’t come to his own kids’ school concert?’
Honey strangled back a laugh. Was she really having this
conversation?

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 ‘They were real good, too. The youngest, she’s only six, but
she looked wicked dressed like a fairy in a costume my eldest girl
made her, real feathers on the wings and everything, dancing in
a circle with the other girls, and my boy and his mates did this
rap, sunglasses, arms crossed, talk about a crack-up. We was all
of us laughing and crying, but where the fuck was my old man?
Down the pub, playing on the pokies, fuck knows. Wouldn’t
care myself but the kids were expecting him and he let ’em down,
like always.’
It took a moment for Honey to realise that Kloe had finished
her story. It was now 4.23 a.m. She was going to have to suck up
to Tony so bad.
Kloe interrupted her thoughts. ‘Anyway, I better let you go.’
‘Hang on. Kloe?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Nah.’
Honey could hear the hiss and crackle of the tobacco as Kloe
drew back, the elongated sigh as she exhaled.
‘Yeah, nah. That meeting I told you about? Just found out
it’s happening tomorrow arvo out at this warehouse place the
Reapers’ve got. Out Ōnehunga.’

KLOE PUT THE PHONE DOWN, and stayed in her usual place
on the back step, smoking and watching the vid of the kids’
performances again on her phone. She was proud fit to burst and
was pleased to have her new friend to talk about it with. Okay, she
was pigshit, but her name was Honey. You had to love that.
Still, she hadn’t been entirely honest. She’d known about the

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 meeting for weeks. She hadn’t intended to say anything, but
fuck ’em, fuck Jason, how dare he not come to his own kids’
performance. She’d make him sorry.

HONEY WANDERED THROUGH FOR WATER and to find

her notebook while she could still remember the gist. She’d have
to call Spud first thing. The thought of it made her groan. She
went back to bed and died until 6.30 when Tony came through to
the bedroom and very noisily got his sports stuff together for his
Saturday training regime.
At 7.30 Honey let Spud know about the call. He sighed
theatrically. He was supposed to be taking his kids to rugby. But
he said it concerned him that none of their usual sources had
wind of any meeting. Maybe this Kloe person was taking the piss?
Honey had to admit it was possible. She was just passing on what
the woman had said; it really wasn’t her problem. Spud admitted
the bit about a Reapers warehouse in Ōnehunga was correct. He
kept her on the line while he thought it over. Finally, he decided
on limited covert surveillance, on the off chance.
It would be a couple of weeks before Honey learned it was
Kloe with a K. Eventually she would know way more about Kloe
Kovich than she ever wanted to.

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 4

DINING OUT IN WAITUTŪ MEANT one of two places. There

were a couple of tables at the Chinese takeaway, but it wasn’t
licensed so that didn’t count. There used to be a halfway decent
Indian place, but that had closed along with the haberdashery and
the hippie crystal and bead place where teenage Honey took a five-
finger discount while her little sister gazed at the dreamcatchers.
Now half the main street was for lease. After the plague, the floods
had been the final straw.
The pub did a tolerable roast of the day, but it was Friday night,
and that meant an eighties covers band, under-aged kids hanging
around trying to get in on their older siblings’ ID, the odd hippie
dancing ostentatiously, a few middle-aged couples determined not
to stay at home with a movie again, and a sad parade of single men
wandering between the lounge bar and the pokies before finally
buying a box of premix and heading back solo to the safety of the
bush, bach or farm. Too loud for Rachel, still too raw for Honey.
That left the Waitutū Centenary Golf Club. Breeze block, low
ceiling, cream-painted walls and mission-brown trim, a good view
of the course through the ranch sliders on the hardwood deck, a
grill counter where meals were ordered and a row of stainless-steel
salad containers sat under clear plastic covers. The dark-timber bar
dominated the wall closest to the entrance. Honey thought the
place reflected the character of the town. It was basic, functional,
and little money had been wasted on unnecessary comforts. And
after three weeks dining with her mother on anything just so long

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 as it was cooked in coconut oil and involved turmeric, garlic and
whatever else the long-lived, Alzheimer’s-free inhabitants of a
certain Indian village ate, a surf’n’turf or serviceable pasta of the
day was appealing.
Thanks to Rachel’s status they were given a table with a view,
and Honey had to admit the golf course looked gorgeous in the
sunset. All golden-green and impressionistic. Beyond the course
was a stand of rewarewa; beyond that, the river that gave Waitutū its
name wound its way to the untameable sandbar across its mouth.
It was the sandbar that had prevented the town from becoming a
major trading port and consigned it to inevitable decline after the
closing of the meat works.
Honey had plenty of time to admire the view as locals paid
homage to Rachel. None was the least bit curious about her own
life outside of Waitutū. It used to infuriate her on her occasional
trips home. She would dutifully enquire about old friends’ work
and marriages and building projects and boats and offspring and
pets for god’s sake, and in return they’d tell her how glad she must
be to be home.
‘Nobody gives a fuck about anything that happens outside
Waitutū and they certainly don’t give a fuck about me!’ she’d
complained to her mother. She was a few years out of Police
College and on the fast track to promotion.
‘Nonsense, they’re always asking after you.’
‘Then how come they don’t ask me?’
‘Because they ask me.’
Now Honey appreciated her sort-of anonymity. People didn’t
ask. She didn’t tell.
Given recent events, that was a win.

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 SHE WAS WAITING TO ORDER another beer when he appeared
on her left, resting dark, muscular and heavily tattooed forearms
on the bar.
‘Kia ora. How’s it going?’
It took a moment. ‘Marshall, oh my god. Hi.’
Oh, my fucking god I don’t believe it! was what she meant. The
last time she’d seen Marshall was at her sister’s funeral thirteen
years ago.
‘Long time, no see.’ It was an effort to keep her voice casual.
‘Sure is.’ His voice was deeper, slower, different. He reminded
her of someone else. He grinned. ‘To state the fucking obvious.’
Honey smiled back, relieved. He sounded like the Marshall she
remembered.
‘Rumour has it, you’re the Po Po.’
‘Rumour is correct.’
‘Fuck me.’
‘Not if you paid me,’ she retorted, an old joke, a reflex.
He laughed — a machine-gun in the back of the throat laugh
that was very distinct, very familiar. Honey was fifteen again.
She finally managed to get the barmaid’s attention. Marshall
insisted he buy her beer as well as his own.
‘I heard you were back looking after your mum,’ he said quietly,
nodding over to where Rachel was holding court with Ganesh
Bhana, a science teacher from the area school.
‘Yeah, I guess I am.’ She shrugged. ‘Although she’s okay most
of the time.’
‘That’s good then.’
‘Yeah.’
They both sipped their beers.
‘You were shacked up with a doctor, yeah?’

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 ‘A specialist, actually. Tony.’ Part of her was pleased he was
interested, part of her wondered how he knew. She doubted her
mother would give Marshall the time of day.
‘Ooh, get you.’
‘But not anymore.’
‘That good or bad?’
‘It is what it is.’
They sipped their beers again in comic unison.
‘How long have you been back?’ Honey said at last.
‘A while. Been staying out at the old place. Don’t come to town
much.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Haven’t been here for a
long, long time.’
Honey could feel the patrons on either side at the crowded bar
straining to keep their distance.
‘I was sorry to hear about your dad.’
She’d been doing a postgraduate forensics course in Canberra
when she heard Marshall’s father had died, but she probably
wouldn’t have come to the funeral anyway. Way too much water.
‘Yeah, well, he’d been crook for a while,’ he said. ‘Stubborn old
bugger wouldn’t see a doctor.’ He shook himself. ‘I heard about
Ron, too. Bet your mum was gutted.’
She shrugged. ‘You know Rachel.’
‘Keep calm and carry on?’
‘That’s the one.’
He looked at her closely for a moment. ‘Fuck it’s good to see you.’
‘You too, Marshall.’
He laughed his rat-a-tat laugh and looked away again. She
could tell he was as uncomfortable in the surroundings as the
surroundings were with him and wondered if he had deliberately
sought her out. She took a sideways glance at him. Marshall Keller

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 was exactly one year and one week older than her, something she
knew for a fact because they had shared birthdays when they were
growing up. He was more solid now, and broad of shoulder. His
dark hair was cropped short and just beginning to recede, and his
face had a weathered, outdoor look, with fine lines around his
eyes. He reminded her of someone else, not Marshall, as if he’d
grown away from himself.
Over the years Honey had heard snippets and rumours: he’d
been in the army, he’d been to prison, he was married, he’d moved
to Oz. Maybe all or none of the above were true.
‘Heard you got done over, really bad,’ he said softly, finally
breaking the silence.
‘Yeah, pretty bad.’ Her eyes met his. He had been a part of her
life that had gone on forever until it hadn’t. ‘Actually, I died.’
Playing it cool. As if the incident hadn’t changed everything.
‘No shit? In the line of duty, right?’ Concern in those brown
eyes with gold flecks.
‘Yeah, I guess you could say that.’
Then he grinned. ‘Did you see a light at the end of the tunnel?’
‘Turned out it was just a train coming the other way.’ Another
old, shared joke.
‘Something like that happens, kind of makes you realise how
fragile you are, how . . . temporary . . . everything is, eh? Can be
kind of liberating.’ He was still smiling but his eyes were serious
now. Honey guessed he was speaking from experience.
In the years between eight and seventeen, Honey couldn’t
imagine her life without Marshall in it. Best mate, big brother she
never had; after her father left, the only significant male in her
life. Then he went south, to Otago University to study medicine,
assisted by an iwi scholarship, having somehow pulled out all the

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 stops in his final year of school while she was distracted partying
and behaving badly. She’d been left behind, had a god-awful final
school year before escaping north to Auckland. They’d sworn
they’d stay in touch. That arrangement lasted until Honey’s first
serious boyfriend. Fault on both sides.
Meantime, Honey had heard from her mother — insert heavy
disapproval here — that Marshall and her sister Scarlett had
hooked up during one of his visits home from university. Honey
had mixed feelings. Part of her was delighted, genuinely; another
part peeved that he had chosen her sister over her. At the time
she was living with a guy she thought she loved, an angst-ridden
musician, her first crack at cohabiting.
Then seventeen-year-old Scarlett Chalmers air-walked off the
South Head cliffs and everything changed.
‘I should probably let you get back to your mum.’ Marshall
nodded to the table where Rachel was now sitting alone, glancing
around as if uncertain where she was or what she was supposed to
be doing.
‘She does that, goes in and out. One moment she’s fine, next . . .’
Marshall nodded. ‘It was great to see you, Honey.’
‘You too.’ She started to move off, turned back. ‘Call me, we
can have a proper catch-up.’ She held out her hand, and he looked
at it as if confused, as if she wanted him to shake it.
‘Your phone, dummy, give it to me. I’ll put my number in.’
‘Great, except I don’t have a phone.’
‘You are kidding me?’
‘I’m kind of off the grid.’
Immediately Honey’s cop brain wondered what or who he was
hiding from. She reached into her bag, found a pen and wrote her
number down on a coaster.

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 ‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?’ RACHEL asked when Honey sat
down.
‘I was talking to Marshall. You remember Marshall?’ She
nodded towards the bar where he was draining the last of his glass.
There was still a vacuum around him.
‘Of course I remember Marshall,’ Rachel said. But she looked
bewildered. ‘That’s not Marshall. It’s his uncle. That terrible
man.’
‘No, that’s Marshall, but he does look a bit like his Uncle Jim.’
They watched as Marshall put his glass down, gave a nod in
their direction and headed out.
‘Why would you talk to him, after what he did to Scarlett?’
‘Mum, don’t start.’
‘He treated her like dirt, and she couldn’t live with the pain he
caused her!’ Rachel was getting louder; people were glancing over
in their direction.
‘No, Scarlett made her own choices. He was as cut up as anyone.
More.’
‘What the fuck would you know, you weren’t even here, you
slut!’
‘Mum!’
Rachel stopped.
‘It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it,’ Honey said. ‘Shall we
order dessert?’
‘I think I’d like to go home now.’
But Rachel had not been completely wrong. Something had
happened between Scarlett and Marshall. He’d barely talked to
Honey at the funeral and left immediately after. That was the last
time she had seen him, until tonight.
She collected her bag and stood to leave, but Rachel was staring

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 out the window. Honey knew her mother would never blame
anyone for Scarlett’s death half as much as she blamed herself.
Maybe that was the perverse blessing in her disease. One day she
would forget.

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