The Bone Tiki by David Hair Page B

bridge, Mat could see his worst fears had been realised.
    They stopped in the shadows. A black car was parked on the near side of the bridge, and a dark-haired man in a suit was pacing beside it, hunched a little, holding one hand to his head—as if he was talking on a cellphone. He finished, straightened, and stood on the corner of the bridge, staring at the cars that passed, heading north.
    ‘How am I going to get across? He’ll stop me, as soon as he sees me.’
    Mat and Pania had slipped down to the water’s edge. Across the inlet, barely 90 metres away, was the north shore of the Iron Pot. But the man on the bridge had a complete view of the entire inlet and the bridge.
    Pania frowned slightly, running her fingers through the gravel. ‘We could go back, cut inland and go around the inlet. But that’ll take hours. Or we could swim across.’
    Mat reached out his fingers and laced them through the water. ‘It’s freezing—we can’t swim!’
    ‘I could—I’m a good swimmer.’
    ‘Well, I’m not…and all my clothes would get wet—how would I get my pack across dry?’
    She thought for a moment, pulling at her hair. ‘I know—wait here,’ and then she was gone, slipping away toward the wharves.
    Mat had waited for ten minutes, and was beginning to fidget. The wind was getting up, and the air was even colder. The man on the bridge had lit a cigarette, and it glowed like a red eye, just the length of a football field away. The noises from the bars and restaurants grew louder, music and shouting. A smell of dead fish and rotting seaweed hung about the water’s edge, like the smell of the warrior’s breath.
    ‘Hey, Mat,’ whispered Pania, from behind a trailer boat. Mat went over to her, shivering at the chilly air. She looked pleased with herself, showing him a small pile of shadowy objects. He picked up the top one—a grey plastic bag, bigenough to fit his kitbag. Underneath was a life-jacket, and a towel.
    ‘Where did you get these?’
    ‘I nicked them, dummy. Come on, get your jeans and coat off, and put them in the bag.’
    He blushed, and she giggled.
    ‘Come on, silly. I’m going to have to do the same,’ and she pulled her jacket off, revealing a black crop-top T-shirt over the swell of her breasts, and then she bent to the button of her jeans. Mat felt himself colour, and he turned away quickly. He fumbled with the coat button, and then pulled it and his jeans off, and stuffed them into his kitbag. He heard Pania snicker behind him.
    ‘You ain’t got much tan for a Maori boy. You look like a skinny Pakeha.’
    He felt his cheeks go hot.
    She handed him a life-jacket, still chuckling. ‘You know how to fit one of these?’
    ‘Sure,’ he answered crossly. ‘Dad’s got friends who own a yacht.’
    He snatched it from her and pulled it over his head, then pulled the straps tight around his chest. Pania began packing the kitbag into the plastic bag. ‘I’ll carry this,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to go back a bit, so the guy on the bridge can’t see us in the water. We’ll go back to where the wharves start.’
    Mat nodded, unable to think of anything beyond how cold the water had felt, and the strangeness of what he was about to do. ‘Are you sure there’s no other way of doing this?’
    ‘Heaps,’ she answered. ‘But none we can do now. Coming?’ She turned and glided into the dark waters. Mat swallowed and scampered after her.
    They entered the water where the wharfs began. Only a few metres away cars were pulling out of the car parks. The man on the bridge had been joined by another figure—slim, with blonde hair. Donna, Mat recognised with a small shudder. She’s got a gun. He clenched his fists, to stop his hands from shaking. Pania slipped out of the darkness, and into the rippling water. Her hair fell all the way to her waist, and she seemed to flow into the water like some elemental spirit, as if she were one of the Sea People of the legend. When she turned to see what