Katarina glanced over at the table where the blond woman and her husband were supposed to be dining. There was only the woman tucking into her third vanilla slice. People like that disgusted Katarina. She had stuck to her Greek salad and she had only really played with that while the others ate their courses. It reminded her of her second to last assignment in the Aegean. It had gone particularly badly and, once again, older sister Mia had to come to the rescue. Katarina had killed the woman but her lesbian lover had fought back with a vengeance that bordered on the insane. Katarina had taken a knife wound to her upper arm and had been savagely kicked in the throat. Barely able to breathe, let alone talk, she had autodialed her cell and within seconds, Mia was through the door and onto the lover. She quickly disarmed her of the knife then drove her nasal bones into her brain. One minute she was standing there, the next, she wriggled to the floor, convulsed, then expired. Katarina was nearly unconscious from the pain, when they doused the dismembered bodies in acid in the hotel bathroom. Sulphur fumes made her eyes water, but Katarina marvelled at our her older sister’s dedication and cunning. She also despised her for her success. Here she was tonight, dressed down in a denim suit, designed to look cheap, but Katarina knew that it cost the best part of $2000. She dripped with diamonds and gold, making her look like a queen to Vasili’s king. Vasili, poor Vasili. He dressed like a king, but like his brother Joe he was a three-time loser. They often worked as a foursome, husbands and wives enjoying a holiday together, reunited from the old country. The men did little though and only formed an image. They talked of the old days and got canned. Already, they were on to their forth double bourbon and cokes and had dropped close to $500 on the casino. Katarina and Mia stuck to orange and tomato juice. Katarina looked enviously at Mia’s plate. She had put away the grilled trevalla with fries and a plate of marinated calamari rings, and now she hungrily eyes the dessert menu. Mia looked up at her dowdy sister. Plump, fake-blond, dressed in a frumpy gray dress she looked less like her sister than her mother. She whispered across to her. “I think the death-by-chocolate. Most appropriate don’t you think.” and she gave a sinister little laugh.

At the adjacent table, Madge adjusted her watch which doubled as a highly sensitive listening device. It was a little on the blink tonight and she only picked up the beginning of the death by chocolate reference form Mia. Special Ops briefing said that these two Russian sisters were the business. They had been sent here to kill the NZ man who had a block of Huoun pine in which was a test tube containing the deadly SARS virus. He travelled the world trying to sell it to the highest bidders and sop far had been successful in China and Canada. He was supposedly here in Australia and NZ to put a halt to Asian immigration. He usually travelled with his wife but although Madge could see her, she couldn’t make out any 99 kg six foot New Zealander. The blond woman was now ordering another vanilla slice and another bottle of junk wine. Possibly she as drunk because she kept talking to the empty chair opposite her. What was she saying? Something about ‘at least try another glass of water dear, you’re fading away’.

Trang put down her the forth vanilla slice and bumped into the back of Mia as she did so, safely depositing the tracking device amongst the jewellery. She saw Madge glance over at her but the Australian Secret Service were four steps behind in this particular game. But where was the husband? She saw a faint shape shift in the chair opposite the blond woman and there was a smell of ketone in the air. She shrugged and moved back behinds the servery.

Dirt in the Ground

June 10, 1899. From where Jamie stood it just looked like any other quite space near a park. A lone tree provided shade from the sun, although it was nearing dusk as he stopped to look at the place. From the corner of his eye he saw a movement and then, another quicker movement off to his left. He focussed again on the space and it seemed different to the rest of the area around him. He checked back again and saw the young woman coming toward the tree as if it offered her some protection. Then he saw that it was not protection she was after but, rather, a place to lean and be available. From her clothing and garish makeup he surmised that she was one of the oldest profession and she was probably looking for business. He drew back into the shadows and, then, saw the flicker in his vision off to the left again. Suddenly he knew what he was looking at and his eyes automatically went down to the things side. An object flashed and even at this distance, Jamie could see that the dark shadow was a man; a man in his thirties; a man who was wielding a knife; a man who was rapidly closing in on the young woman. Jamie watched aghast as the man walked up to the woman and plunged his knife into the white flesh at the top of her dress. She looked stunned; as though she couldn’t work out what this sudden intrusion was. She seemed unconcerned as he withdrew the knife and plunged it in again, lower. It suddenly dawned on her that she was being stabbed and she staggered backward and put up a hand – a pathetic attempt to stop a further attack. The man struck again and again until she slipped hideously to the ground. Jamie was transfixed. He wanted to rush forward; he wanted to say something at the top of his voice; he waited to help; but he was paralysed. He slipped back into the shadows as the man, task completed, looked around and then slipped off into the shadows.

January 1956. The place was now near the centre of the city. Where there had once been trees and open ground there was now asphalt and shop fronts. Street markers and signage adorned the footpath and cars rumbled by emitting clouds of smoke and much noise. The two men stood toe-to-toe, arms extended, yelling loudly at each other. Passer-by’s looked curiously from a distance but crossed the road to avoid being involved in the confrontation. One brave man did walk past them and was rewarded with abuse from the taller of the two. They started shoving each other and then one threw the first punch. Afterwards, the two witnesses’ couldn’t agree on what had happened. One said that the taller of the two had been the aggressor and the other slighter man, an innocent victim. The other witness told the opposite story. The sad fact of the matter was that both men were dead and it was purely hypothetical who had started what and who had ended it. The place had two white chalked body lines around it for several days and people walked delicately around the two body shapes until someone scuffed at the area and the shapes gradually lost some of their form. By the end of a couple of days, the shapes had gone and people were walking through the area again, oblivious to the deaths and the history of the place.

November 2001. It was benefit day. Benefit day and perhaps the day might also be spiced up with something else. He had Sue drive him to the place and he was squirming with anticipation as she parked. It was early in the day, past the nine o’clock rush and too early for the daytime shoppers. The place was virtually deserted apart form the odd solitary figure glancing in shop windows. As he alighted from the car, he looked back at Sue and at his young son in his car seat in the back of the vehicle. Even though he had his problems, he knew that his life was back on track again. He felt the oppressiveness of the place and how it had seemed so cold in the car and at his house that morning but it was hot and close here. He smelt a mix of car fumes, garbage, and cigarette smoke but something was mixed in with it that made him think of meatworks and tanneries. He heard a slight sound behind him and then he was falling forward. He smashed his nose on the street sign that stood by the gutter, and he landed heavily on his shoulder. He lay there and thought what might have happened. He was suddenly kicked hard in his side and he involuntarily rolled into a foetal position. Another blow landed and then he heard that voice.

“Give us the drugs smartass. I know you’ve got them on you. Give us the drugs or we’ll blow your fucking head off.”

He looked up and saw his nemesis, the man who had done this to him before. Since straightening out, he had been on the methadone program and he went to the chemist every day and got his supply. Twice before this man had tried to get him to give him the small amounts of methadone he had on his person. He had assaulted Sue once and he had threatened him with some additional muscle if he didn’t come through with the methadone. He saw that he was a little more serious this time. He held a sawn off shotgun which hung loosely from his left hand. He thought it strange that he was remembering details like this as he lay, bleeding in the gutter, not a few metres from his infant son and wife. He raised his hand, gave the man the fingers, and saw the shotgun level out. He felt, rather than heard the blast and that was the last thing that Shaun Armitage heard on this earth.

Two conversations

Moorea Island is the closest Island to Tahiti and probably the second biggest tourist trap with Club Med and a few others scattered around the Island. You reach it via a ferry which runs from the island of Tahiti 3X daily or if you are rich you can fly. We are anticipating that we will catch the 0945 sailing but I wake at 0600 and try to rouse Alison for the 0700 sailing; but, she isn’t interested. Back to sleep and awake again at what I think is 0830 . I leap out of bed and into the shower and as I fall asleep mid dressing I discover, to my chagrin, that it is 0730.

We queue to get tickets which are fcp1400 each return ( NZ$25). While waiting I hear a familiar language  and its Bob , from Sydney. Although he is an Australian he looks oriental and he is wearing a Hawaiian t-shirt so he could be virtually from anywhere. But it is obvious that Bob knows even less French than us as he’s reading Sundays timetable; whereas I have at least sussed out the French for Saturday.

Bob is in the hotel trade and he is in Tahiti on a working holiday with wife Judy who is constantly smiling and then

retiring to write in what looks like a giant exercise book. Does she tear out the pages and send them home to Sydney in air mail envelopes that conceal their cheap and tawdry stationary? Bob is frustrated because he’s the front man for a proposed Japanese/ Australian/Tahitian consortium who are going to shoehorn their way into a hotel. As he says with the Japanese being involved they demand that it has to be something rather special and Bob is looking a little frayed around the edges as he sucks on his 10 Malboro of the morning and anxiously glances at his watch. He has been here two days and he has just received his itinerary and so this morning he has already booked in and out of two hotels. One transaction took less than 15 minutes and Bob is reeling. He reckons that so far he has done fuck all work but has had ,lots of meetings,. Basically the local tourist industry is just not happening! It’s just not set up right. There is no information available for people to work our whats on outside of your own hotel. The local people are not interested in promotion. Bob says that some in the industry blame the Tahitians in that they are frequently described as lazy. Bob says you haven’t seen lazy until you go to Fiji. ” Heres the towel you ordered sir” says the Fijian waiter “and you may well reel in surprise as it was three bloody days ago that you ordered said towel”. Bob doesn’t see his proposed venture going very far and as he glances at his watch and sees that we are already 20 minutes past sailing time  , he is not a happy man. Meanwhile Judy sits on their suitcases and scribbles a few more lines on her worn A4.

We’re on our way home from Moorea. A pleasant enough day on what was probably a private beach but there was no-one to warn us off so we grabbed a few fallen coconuts for sustenance and helped ourselves. Apart form giant crabs roaming the beach and their

numerous holes which the cover the roadside to the waters edge and into which a small child may disappear the environment is kind to us. Apart of course, from the inevitable tide mark of FANTA, ROYAL MINERAL WATER, HEINEKEN & HINAMO BEER,  assorted wrappers and various other items of rubbish.

Haamerati cruises onto the return ferry and he is floating about a foot off the multi-coloured, rubbish, strewn deck from the accumulated litter of the days cruises. Roo, his friend? has been standing beside us for at least a quarter of an hour and he’s into his second Heineken which he quickly drains and throws over the side to join the rest of the garbage that is being disgorged from the bowels of the ship. By mid crossing Roo and Haamerati, along with two other friends have polished off close to two dozen cans and are now blocking the aisles, insulting the local French people, singing romantic, bawdy songs , when they are not lapsing into native Tahitian  and presumably further haranguing any pseudo French Polynesian who happen to be near. They are treated by the other passengers with a curious mixture of contempt and fascination and bon-homme. Although I cannot make out what they are saying it is obviously rather risque and is causing offence to some of the other passengers who quickly move to another part of the boat. Inevitably by journeys end ( and an exciting journey it is , with my first sighting of a flying fish and a horrendous swell  which the crew pound the antiquated steel hull through at tremendous speed, causing it to shudder ominously with each new wave) Haamerati has to talk to someone and that basically leaves me  because he’s insulted nearly everybody else. Despite his obvious drunken state and my complete lack of Tahitian or French and his unwillingness to talk in French and utter lack of any English we manage to communicate , much to his delight. He thinks that French Polynesia is great but only on the outlying Islands. Tahiti is basically had it. “Non plage” he keeps repeating , every time we look over at the rapidly approaching island which is being bathed by the late afternoon sun and looks simply amazing. “Le Yacht, byu non plage, Tahiti” then Haamerati lapses into French body language with drunken gesticulations showing obvious disgust for Tahiti. His sweeping gestures encompass the modern motorways with Peugots, BMW’s and Mercedes speeding to and fro and I can only conclude that he has a view of Polynesia that has occurred to me as well. The clash of the French and Polynesian ways of life and the differences in wealth and colonial pride lead me to speculate that Tahiti and French Polynesia are a time bomb , waiting to explode and as Haami(as he now wants to be called)and Roo throw yet another three cans over the side to add to todays garbage I can only feel for them and what they will probably go through before they can resuscitate their pride and feeling for this beautiful country.

Paradoxes are  everywhere. Cleanliness, filth. French, Polynesian. The country almost seems to be schizophrenic………………………………………….

It is only later that I learn that “la plage” probably means swimming and my estimate of Haameratis political sensitivity is shattered.

I awoke several times in the night. Sleeping alone does that to me. That and not being able to write. The thrill has gone or the enthusiasm to sit down and put things down on the blank page.

I listened intently. Could I not hear the sounds of small creatures snuffling around outside? Or was the sound coming from closer. Maybe someone sliding in commando fashion down the hall – ready to leap up and plunge their serrated knife deep into my virginal body. No! It was definitely coming from further afield. Maybe the back yard or even. Then it struck me. Rubbish day tomorrow and the weeks cleansacs were under the eave of the verandah. Probably a possum or a cat trying to get into them. Unless I got out there the possibility of stinking rubbish being strewn from front door to gate would be inevitable. I jumped out of bed and crossed to the front door and gingerly opened it. I don’t quite know why I was being so tentative. A large black labrador was head down in the second of three bags. Rubbish was everywhere and he seemed oblivious to me as I shouted my disgust at his abhorrent behaviour. Although he shrunk away with perhaps his hunger disturbed I was left with the legacy of cleaning up the mess and I tossed and turned for most of the night imagining the smells and the feel.

Morning came and my dignity was further hurt as inn the act of rebagging the incredibly horrible mess the parcel tape took a spin down the front path-out the gate-down the road and then disappeared over the bank. The week was not starting well.

To breakfast and more grief. I rarely eat breakfast but this morning I think I will try some freshly toasted white bread with liberal lashings of cholesterol inducing butter and some organic raspberry jam smeared an inch thick over the top. I carefully toast the bread and the miracle of freshly toasted bread wafts through the kitchen as the coffee , freshly perked, adds its own unique scent to the mix. I carefully apply butter and jam and place the four perfect pieces on a plate and then, to my horror, on the journey from bench to seat they slide off and land perfectly, upside down, on the tiled floor. It continues . The top of the toothpaste rolls off and ends upside down in the drainhole of the sink where large clumsy fingers struggle to dislodge it. The toilet paper has run out and the towels are all wet. I can’t find one of the cats and I waste quarter of an hour to find it sitting in the garden cunningly disguised as a plant, waiting for a bird to fall out of the sky into its upturned mouth.

Word curry

D had just committed lactomangulation for the second time that day,  manhandling the “open here” spout on a milk container so badly that he  resorted to the illegal side. All-in-all it had been a frustrating day.

They had been hung over from the night before so resorted to confabulation.

“Dollars to doughnuts they’ll believe this one”

“D here” he mumbled in his best phlegmatic tone “I seem to have been influenzidized”

Midday they had gone to a movie and the inevitable game of elbonics had turned really nasty.  M claimed she had the choice of the front part of the armrest. D remembered it differently. Then the popcorn had spilled onto the floor as the argument heated and he had tried to disconfect it. After expending good air M just knocked the container from his hand and roasted corn obscured the delights of Reese Witherspoon doing her Little Red Riding Hood act in Freeway.

Then as they were preparing to go out for the evening she really put the boot in

“If men can run the world, why can’t they stop wearing neckties? How smart is it to start the night with a noose around your neck?”

Always with the smart cracks and the male put down, though he secretly admired her very astute and funny eye.

So D decided that they would eat in –

‘Do you know what I would like’ he started off,”fish eggs on toast, followed by a game soup so gamey you can taste the rabbits foot. Then something fried in so much animal fat that you can feel your blood vessels clogging. For desert something with chocolate. So much chocolate that your head hurts and you feel like sneezing. They settled on Indian takeaways.

An hour later and the food still arrived. M started off on another little tirade. D teleprocrastinated for a while then eventually got through to Prasads Popodoms.

“Oh! Yes sir! Sorry sir! Our driver has been in a bad accident and delivery will be delayed. Its very near where you live kind sir and if you are so vishing you could retrieve your tasty morsels from the delivery car”

D shcmoosed into the cold night. Down the block he saw the flashing lights of a police car and an ambulance. A white van, doors open, bonnet popped, sat at a strange angle to the curb. A bus, seemingly accidentely unchallenged was surrounded by a gaggle of passengers, muttering and ooying aahying amongst themselves. As D got closer he could see the glass scattered over the road and the unmistakable red of a pool of blood near what was obviously a crash site. Two policemen, notebooks drawn were detectivising near the van. The Prasads Popodoms insignia was cruelly dissected by a large metallic gash. D spotted the white boxes in the rear with the familiar markings.

“ Excuse me- I know this may seem inappropriate but that’s my food in the back. Would it be possible…” D’s voice trailed off.

The two policemen looked into each other eyes, the back of the van, surveyed the carnage, the blood, then looked back again.

“Forget the food son, it’s a goner”