VOTE DIMPLE POTTS

by

Greg Billington

Copyright 2019

The Author asserts his moral rights in the work

This a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead is accidental and unintended.

ISBN 978 0 473 49884 9

When George Pruitt, the Mayor of Brewster’s Neck died suddenly from unnatural causes, Dimple Potts, the Deputy Mayor to George and three others before him, said to his wife, “I have been called!”

Shortly, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and critically appraised the counterpart that was the new Mayor. He admired the fact that unlike George, his face was longer and the nose, imperious, albeit that it had gained a slight glow these past few years. He also liked the short – but not too short, thick dark hair, matched by bushy eyebrows over the grave, hazel eyes that again, unlike George’s peepers, were not sitting on foundations of frankly, unappealing bags. The new Mayor’s face and ears, it must be said were a tad long, but that was more than offset by the uncompromising set of his large jaw – though here again, the Mayor reflected, touching his thickening neck, gravity was being a little unkind. Nevertheless, when taken as a whole, it was a face with some presence that might give rise to speculation as to why George Pruitt’s pea-shaped and balding head had been the preferred head, in the sense that it had sat for so long on the shoulders of the Mayor of Brewster’s Neck.

So be it. Satisfied that his was an appearance that could only instil confidence in his constituents, Dimple Potts called several important acquaintances to express his profound grief at old George’s passing, and to practice his eulogy, which gradually crystallised around a theme of animosity – since it was Dimple’s firm view that city folk secretly envied small towns like Brewster’s Neck; which envy might readily manifest itself as malevolence. And lo – hadn’t Georgy fallen victim to so-called public transport, whilst taking a well-earned break, in the city of Auckland – though God knew, Dimple had attempted to persuade the Mayor to head south. And now what? Georgy was returned to his home in halves – bisected by a monstrous bus driven by someone Dimple could discern from the photograph alone, could barely speak English. Proof positive.

But, horrible though it was and however much lamented, his colleagues agreed that an untimely death could not be allowed to interfere with civic duty, and so, on the very first day in his newly elevated position, Dimple met personally and for the very first time, with none other than local magnate Corker Pritchard, to speak of particular matters. To mark the occasion, the Mayor donned his suit and tie.

“Another funeral?” asked Corker bluntly.

Dimple felt mildly annoyed with himself, since he should have predicted that Corker Pritchard, who wore colourful short-sleeve Hawaiian shirts, cream linen shorts and jandals most of the year, might not regard a suit favourably. But he hadn’t, because he was not well-acquainted with Corker. In relation to Brewster’s Neck, Corker was a kind of royalty and indeed, the bee keeper, Porterhouse Johnson, referred to Corker as ‘HRH.’ And while Corker presented a cheerful ‘good-on-yer-mate’ disposition, most of his fellow citizens knew their place. In this respect, Dimple could recall just one prior conversation with Corker, when Dimple had been advised that the Council risked becoming a hotbed of communism, by which Dimple understood that Corker referred to the election of old Fred Witherspoon – the town’s draper, who campaigned on the naïve proposition of ‘Better lives for all;’ in which respect, Fred had made specific reference to the plight of the town’s high-street mendicant, Homeless Hauptmann and a smattering of unfortunates, all bearing the surname, Potross – and all of whom play an important part in the events about to unfold.

Whilst Corker’s company, ‘Forest Flavours’ was the only sponsor of the Brewster’s Neck Beauty pageant, Corker’s charity had limits. “A man can’t feed himself, he’s a bludger, Potts, a boil, best lanced.”

In any event, Dimple had replied without conviction, and referring to the communist threat, “We’ll root it out, Mister Pritchard,” to which Corker replied nothing at all, because he’d already moved off.

But here, the day following George Pruitt’s funeral, Corker sat on the chair opposite the Mayor’s desk and said, “Can’t stand time-wasters either. You? Good.”

Dimple opened his mouth with the intention of affirming his own dislike of those who dallied, but Corker continued, “Owned this office, did George,” said Corker, “but played his cards and now it’s your turn. And I want you to know that if you play yours right, you’ll have my full support. Step up to the plate, Dimple – that’s what it’s about. Man can’t step up to the plate? He’s a chilblain and shouldn’t have the vote, in my opinion. But let’s get down to business. Small matter, but I’m concerned about our town’s image, and I mention this as a fellow businessman and not just in relation to your new office.”

Dimple liked to be considered a fellow businessman, despite that his own small enterprise eked a very modest return, where Corker’s many ventures, including, notably, ‘Forest Flavours,’ made Corker a man of means.

Corker said, “We don’t stand out. We need something that shows what we are – what we stand for.”

“What do you suggest, Corker?”

“Well, something more than a bloody sign. Every town says welcome and farewell. Who cares? Think about your own business.”

The Mayor, who was the proprietor of the sole motel in Brewster’s Neck, the unprepossessing breeze-block called ‘A Touch of Provence,’ did turn his thoughts to his business and with some alarm. If the motorist had no interest in being welcomed and indeed, might not even bother to read the sign, which also said, ‘Home of Forest Flavours,’ the motorist likely would see no reason to stop on High Street – which might explain why occupancy at ‘A Touch of Provence’ was persistently low.

Corker continued, “I’ve given this some thought, Mr Mayor, and I’ve come up with a solution, out of my own pocket.”

“A bigger sign?”

“Signs are passé, Mr Mayor. Signs are yesterday’s idea – lavatory paper, Dimple. No, we don’t need a sign. We’ve got a sign, and it doesn’t work. That’s because the Council has no imagination or commercial nous. No disrespect, but the Council should look after the drains. When it comes to strategy and marketing and so forth, you need the private sector. I’m the private sector.” Corker read his large gold watch. “In fact, I’d say the job’s about finished, so we’ll go have a look.”

In short order the new Mayor was enjoying his first ride in the Pritchard Bentley. As smooth as silk, they approached the bend at the northern edge of town where the ‘Welcome’ and on the obverse, ‘Farewell’ signs were located. But the Mayor immediately perceived that the dominant feature at the edge of town was no longer a sign, but a thing of some sort.

“What in the blazes is that?”

“A stag, Dimple. It’s a stag – and look…”

As they passed the large fibreglass beast behind the fence in Ted Potross’s field, it opened its mouth and emitted a roar.

“Good grief! What a terrible sound!”

“Shows you’re not a hunting man,” replied Corker as he swung the car around and paused on the shoulder where they could admire the new image of Brewster’s Neck. “Stag’s sound just like that during the Roar – when they’re on-heat. Wonderful, isn’t it? Verbal came up with the idea. He said, ‘Uncle, your company, Forest Flavours is the biggest thing in Brewster’s Neck. And a stag is the emblem of Forest Flavours. So, it stands to reason that a stag should be the emblem for our town.’ Like that carrot they do at…wherever it is, Verbal said, but much better than a carrot. A carrot’s for twits. A stag is for real men, and kids love Bambi.” Corker pointed as a truck passed by, “Watch this…bugger, he’s a bit slow…but there it goes!” The truck disappeared around the bend before the stag’s lower jaw dropped and the fibreglass beast bellowed its challenge to other unseen fibreglass beasts.

“Remind the passing punter that he should stop,” continued Corker, “Stick in his mind, that will. That’s good advertising…stop for a leak and buy a pie. Probably stop the night at your motel. That’s what we want. Good for business.”

But at this moment, the Mayor was transfixed by something moving under the belly of the bellowing stag. “Surely that thing…isn’t…”

“Yes, it is. This is a stag, not a gelding. Authentic that is, and a brilliant idea. The pizzel synchronises with the mouth. Roar…erection. Verbal’s idea.”

The Bentley moved slowly passed the stag and then came to a silent halt outside the Council offices.

“Course, it should be adopted by the Council. Make it official and all that. Take care of it?”

With no confidence whatsoever, Dimple said with an assurance he did not feel, “I’m sure I can get Council on-side.”

“Good. And one other thing – Hemopo? Have you sorted him out?”

“Had a good chat last week.”

Though Corker’s eyes could resemble those of a wide-eyed boy, there were times when, as now, it occurred to Dimple that such a stare could conceivably melt lead. “We don’t need a chat. We need a signature.”

Dimple was aware that he was being tested. He was especially aware that he must show no sign of weakness. Consequently, he narrowed his own eyes and replied grimly. “Don’t you worry, Corker.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, don’t.”

“I don’t,” Corker repeated with a tone that made many things clear.

The new Mayor and the man who would help him swing-the-bat – now that he’d stepped up to the plate, parted with their first and only handshake – an engagement so fleeting that Dimple was unsure he’d not imagined it.

Gathering his thoughts, Dimple composed and dispatched the tweet: ‘Council to ensure Brewster’s Neck on the map. Stag the perfect emblem and courtesy of our town’s benefactor. Who but a Luddite could naysay?’ Even in his office with the door closed, the eerie sound of the rampant stag, carried plainly to his ears.

*

In the normal course of events, the matter of putting Brewster’s Neck on the map would have sufficed to occupy the Council for months and even longer, but of a sudden not one but two disturbing matters came to the Mayor’s attention. The first commenced with a message from the Town Clerk. ‘Need to meet urgently. Concerns budget.’

“Budget?” Dimple said to his wife, “What does the man think? I’ve barely had time to sit down. Wants to show he’s on the ball, I suppose.” His wife agreed that many people would want to show they were on-the-ball, regardless that most were concerned with matters of no consequence. “All wanting to curry favour, no doubt,” the new Mayor continued with a barely suppressed smile, “That’s the lot of being the top man.”

Taking his seat behind his desk, the Mayor opened his diary and wrote several things. Between each item, he paused to reflect in a manner that personified quiet dignity and thoughtfulness. He left the diary open to remind him that things were in train and to impress on his colleagues that already, the Mayor was contemplating Matters of State. These marks on the page were not the inconsequential mind-farts of lesser men – no, these marks were the words of a statesmen – the Top Statesman no less, and which might well prove, in the fullness of time, to be a chart of the future of Brewster’s Neck, which by definition, would affect the circumstances of every individual and every family indeed, in his town. Such was the heavy responsibility and burden, it had to be said, carried on the shoulders of the Top Man. The Mayor mused that even at this moment, the Clatworthy’s might be enjoying their breakfast and perhaps discussing some mundane matter, such as Marty’s school lunch or Pearl’s hairdressing appointment – that regrettably and despite Taylor Palamino’s undoubted talents would not, in the Mayor’s opinion, make an iota of difference to Pearl’s evident plainness…and wasn’t that human nature, the Mayor mused. Self-deception? He recalled that statement from some other politician’s campaign, which failed, though that was neither here nor there, of ‘lipstick on a pig.’ How entirely apposite! The Mayor had applauded it then and did so now. Ordinary people were continually applying layer on layer of lipstick but to what avail? Did they even take the time to consider the question? The Top Man thought not.

The Top Man reminded himself with considerable satisfaction that there could be just one Top Man. Everyone else was a secondary-type of man, such as the Mayor had been, in his lesser capacity, for twenty-three years. But there’d been no lipstick! In his capacity as Deputy Mayor, Dimple Potts had known his place. Georgy Pruitt had been the Top Man, and before him, old Horace Wilberforce and before old Horace, ‘Boater’ Jenks. The Mayor sighed. At last, he had joined the ranks of the exalted few. George…murdered by a bus…Horace…choked on a piece of tough beef at the annual A&P show…and Boater…now what had happened to Boater? That’s right! A heart attack in rather compromising circumstances. But was he really to blame? Look at all the top men – Clinton, Kennedy…King – all of them discovered in compromising situations and who could be surprised? Power was a magnet…Staring into the distance, the Mayor wondered whether he might not now be beset by women, like moths to the flame, enchanted by a man’s exalted position. However, these pleasant ruminations were interrupted by a knock at the door, signalling the arrival of the Town Clerk and moments later, that tall and angular official was seating his spare posterior in the chair recently occupied by Corker.

The Mayor, who was on the shortish, rounder side of things, found the sight of the Town Clerk’s tall, spare frame a constant and mild irritation, but things had changed. The Town Clerk no longer reported to Georgy Pruitt.

The Town Clerk said, “I liked your speech.”

“Jolly good.”

“Yes, though the bit about George being popped like a possum…” The Town Clerk frowned.

“What?” Countered the Mayor sharply.

“Well…a bit graphic, in the circumstances?”

The Mayor huffed, “Entirely accurate – and she would have fainted anyway. I was emphasising the callousness of the city. Indifference, Town Clerk…that’s the hallmark of Auckland. No milk-of-human-kindness. Mark my words – that bus driver’s been behind bars. I could see it in his face.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“What?”

“The newspaper reported that he’s a doctor, from…somewhere in Asia – but waiting for his qualifications to be ratified. A surgeon, it said.”

The Mayor scowled, “Practicing with the wheel of his bus.”

The Town Clerk removed a single piece of paper from his folder and placing it in front of the Mayor, tapped it with a long forefinger. “It’s the census. The population’s fallen and that means, rates.”

“I know what it means,” replied the Mayor.

“Fallen below three hundred for the first time since 1904. That’s more than a century.”

“Not only can I add and subtract, but I am unconcerned about when this town last had fewer than three hundred of anything. I am concerned about the future. I am not a mayor to look backwards.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he told the Town Clerk that a drop in the population was exactly what he wanted. The best possible start to his tenure – a challenge! “Hopefully, he continued, “we’re rid of Bumbulis…or the Hemopos?” The Town Clerk shook his head. “Others?” But with another impatient gesture and before his employee could reply, added, “Yes, others. Well, good riddance. Where’ve they gone? I’ll tell you where they’ve gone – to Auckland.” Disregarding the fact that the emigres had departed before the tragic accident, he added, “One might think that Georgy’s misfortune would be lesson enough, but no.”

Not to be distracted, the Town Clerk replied that things in the pipeline, would now be jeopardised – by the fall in Council revenue; and worse, he continued, “Some might regard the fall in population to be a result of policy failure.” He pursed his lips and stared inquisitorially at the Mayor.

The Mayor thought, ‘Tosser! Essential not to be brow-beaten in these early days.’ He replied, dismissively, “Do you think I care? I’m not a bean counter, Town Clerk and I can tell you, knowing how many beans one has, precisely, in the management of a community, or in commerce, is of very little consequence. What you need to know is, where you’re going. And I can tell you, there’ll be some new policy now. There’ll be some changes. A shake-up. That’s my plan for the future.” He gestured at his open diary, “Strategy.” When then Town Clerk irritatingly did not enquire about strategy, the Mayor pointed at the first item and read, “Clear away the dross and deadwood.” He stared at the Town Clerk in a meaningful way and then pointed at the second item and read, “Put Brewster’s Neck on the map.”  Then he continued, “That’s why I’ve already been discussing the town’s image with Corker Pritchard. That’s why I’m Mayor and a businessman, and frankly, why you’re not.”

The Town Clerk replied with some surprise that he didn’t wish to be mayor or a businessman, but that as Town Clerk, he felt it his responsibility to say that a new Town Plan, with new policies was indeed, required. Stifling some exasperation, the Mayor pointed suddenly at the depiction of Wilberforce Brewster on his wall. “Do you think he was concerned about a few fair-weather-friends? Damn right he wasn’t, because he was getting on with things. Burning off the bush...had fifteen kids. Did you know that? A rugby team! Brewster was a man of action and so am I.”

The Town Clerk observed mildly that only three of the town founder’s progeny had survived past the tender age of five years.

The Mayor’s jaw dropped. “My God, you really are a negative force. You come in here, bleating about a few departing ne’er-do-wells, and then you’ve got the effrontery to demean old Brewster. What’re you saying? I’ll tell you what you’re saying. You’re saying that a pioneer – a heroic fellow who broke this country with axe and match, who leant his good name to yonder hill and who strove to boost the population through the tireless efforts of his loins, making progress, was somehow responsible for the tragic demise of his offspring? That’s what you’re saying, and it’s offensive to my ears and very negative.”

“There’s no reason for anyone to be losing their temper. I’m just bringing the matter to your attention.”

For a while, the Mayor continued to gaze at old Brewster, whilst reflecting that the Town Clerk might not be the best man for the job. The latter, meantime, was thinking that being described as a ‘negative force’ was hurtful but put it down to the Mayor asserting himself in his new role. Then the Mayor said, “I’ll call an extraordinary meeting,” and he called his wife, who was also his PA to make the necessary arrangements, after which he composed a tweet, ‘Brewster’s Neck in good heart. Your Mayor addressing salient issues.’

Consulting his own phone, the Town Clerk remarked, “People won’t know what the salient issues are.”

The Mayor rolled his eyes. “If you knew anything about politics, Town Clerk, you’d be sitting on this side of the desk. It doesn’t matter in the least that they don’t know what that means. In fact, that’s for the best. What you don’t understand about people, is that they don’t want to know about salient issues or, in fact, issues of any kind. That’s at the heart of things, something about which some evidently know little, despite all this time. But I do and that’s why I’m a politician-”

“And a motel owner,” cut in the Town Clerk, “You are actually a motelier – as well as the Mayor.”

“That is piddling and please don’t interrupt. People want to know only that their elected representative is in control. That’s all they care about. They do not want to be regaled with gloom and despair. They want to think about a school lunch. Look…” The Mayor paused to compose a new tweet. ‘New investment coming to Brewster’s Neck. Working on it. Bright future!’

The Town Clerk’s eyes widened. “New investment? From where? You just made that up.”

“I did not. I’m working on that too – with Corker…Coal! That’s because Corker and I are businessmen. Do you see me swabbing out the loos? No! But what’s the real message, Town Clerk?”

“That there’s new investment?”

“No! The real message is, it’s under control. The Mayor and the Council have everything under control. Hand-in-hand with private enterprise. You see, this is what you don’t understand – human nature. You have to be a certain type of man to understand these things.”

“Or woman.”

The Mayor’s expression darkened. “What? Oh, yes. Is she standing?”

“I believe so.”

The Mayor scowled. Was it not enough that the population was declining and that some would regard this, as the Town Clerk in all his sanctimony suggested, as a failure of policy with which the new Mayor might be unfairly associated? And now, after so many years of faithful service as the Deputy Mayor and finally into the top job, an election was imminent and for the first time in years, someone was standing against the incumbent. Sarah Bumbulis – the baker no less, had put her name forward as a Mayoral candidate. “Well, just wait until she feels the cut-and-thrust.” He made an abrupt, demonstrative movement with his right hand. “That’ll make her think again. I’ve been in the thick of it for…twenty-three years. Did you know that? Experience – that’s what counts.”

The Town Clerk had no observation to make about the candidacy of Sarah Bumbulis or the Mayor’s experience.

For a few minutes they discussed the timing of the impending local body elections and the Mayor opined that it was a damned pity they couldn’t just skip a year. When the Town Clerk confirmed that there were no legal grounds for deferring an election, the Mayor concluded the formal business by telling the Town Clerk that he needed to attend to his own business, before returning to strategy for the impending Council meeting. Rising from his desk he asked, “We’re still expecting you for dinner?”

The Town Clerk confirmed that he would be over to dine, at six. The Mayor enquired into the wellbeing of his sister, who had recently caught her hand in a door. The Town Clerk said that his wife was in good spirits though the bandage was a nuisance – dishes and such-like.

“Jolly good,” replied the Mayor, and taking up his satchel he departed his mayoral chambers, comprising two smallish rooms adjoining the cinema, which decaying structure had long been known as ‘the Bug House’ and that hadn’t shown a movie for fifteen years.

*

Broad shoulders, that was the thing. It mattered little that a man had slight shoulders. If a man was made of the right stuff, figuratively speaking, his shoulders could bear the weight of mountains. And look at Herb Hikaka, the Mayor mused as he ate his breakfast, shoulders like hams and where did that get him? Captain of the Brewster Roosters. Who cared? And a mere constable to boot. However, if the impending election; the decline in population and his confident assurances to Corker were not enough to engender some apprehensions in the breast of the new Mayor, without a doubt, gathering clouds darkened when, the following day, the Mayor took receipt of a letter from Doug Hemopo, the owner of the land at the end of the Ararata Road.

The letter stated in unequivocal terms that Doug Hemopo was not interested in the Council’s business proposal and regretted therefore, that he would not be granting access to the land in question. He wished the Mayor ‘a jolly good day and Kia ora!’

The Mayor was astounded. Had he not carefully explained the Council’s support for the excellent plan proposed by none other than Corker Pritchard? Had Hemopo not understood the careful preparation that had gone into the proposal? Did he not see, more importantly, the progress for Brewster’s Neck that would surely be made? Did he not see that progress and money went together like beer and skittles? Perhaps the proposal had not made sufficiently clear, just how much money might come sloshing out of the hills, with a good bit sloshing directly into Hemopo’s pocket? And now the Mayor had the unpleasant task of explaining to the Council, and worse – to Corker, that he had failed, albeit in his previous capacity as Deputy Mayor, to persuade Hemopo. Corker would be distinctly unimpressed and his view of the Mayor as a fellow businessman would likely be re-calibrated.

Folding the letter into his satchel, the Mayor departed from his home for the mayoral chambers on only his third day in high office, without so much as a ‘cheerio’ to his PA. Deep in thought, he assumed the scream down the street was not a scream, but rather a screech – of brakes – which was anti-social but unimportant. Hurrying up the steps to his office, the Mayor soon sat at his desk, studying the Council meeting agenda, which now listed, in addition to the tricky matter of a braying stag representing the town; the treasonous population decline brought to his attention by the Town Clerk; and the insolent missive from Doug Hemopo declining to permit access to a fine seam of coal behind Hemopo’s land.

Those things alone, when taken in conjunction with the local body elections, caused disquiet, but on top of all, there came truly monstrous news.

The vessel, Lynn Potross – who preferred to be known as Taylor Palomino – and who’s scream the Mayor had recently heard, burst through the door and even before Dimple could reprove her lack of common courtesy or respect for his office – cried that Rudolf Hauptmann or ‘Homeless,’ as he was generally known, had been murdered – and discovered by Weasel Potross – dead, in the doorway of Taylor’s hairdressing salon, ‘Uppercutz.’ The Mayor felt his blood run cold. In fact, she wailed, Homeless had been killed by an arrow. “What are you going to do, Dimple – Mr Mayor? Who will be next?” And then she was round his desk and flinging her arms around the Mayor’s neck and pressing her head onto his shoulder. A year ago, in a brief fit of indiscretion, the Mayor had relished Taylor’s buxom embrace but now he rapidly extricated himself and told her with a confidence he did not feel, that it was undoubtedly an accident of some sort and would soon be put to rights.

“He’s dead!” she cried out far too loudly, “With an arrow in his neck! How can that be put to rights?”

Insisting that she pull herself together and to leave matters in the hands of the proper authorities, he escorted her to the door. In all these years, he had not experienced a morning – or a day – or two days come to that, so calamitous, and nor, he reflected resentfully, had any of his predecessors. He had no idea what he might do and still didn’t when the proper authorities, in the form of police constable Herb Hikaka arrived, to observe among other things that the very interesting feature of the case at this point, was that the fletch on the arrow, suggested that the murderer was likely to be a Pawnee. In response to Dimple’s incredulity, Herb, who was a large and good-humoured type who played hooker in the local Brewster Roosters rugby team, and who was, as the Mayor had recently reflected, the team’s captain, described the fletch as an “unmistakeable calling card,” and he told the Mayor that he had already issued an all-points bulletin, describing a reddish man with pointy hair and quite possibly riding a piebald.

“You think there’s a murderous Indian in the area? From America?”

“It looks that way.”

“Despite that the Pawnees reside on some remote reservation in…”

“Oklahoma,” supplied Herb. “Seems they fell out with the Sioux, in Nebraska. It can happen.”

“And now, one’s here. In Brewster’s Neck and killing Homeless?”

Herb, nodded, “Unusual, I’ll grant you, but I must follow the evidence.”

“And the evidence is a fletch?” The Mayor, seized his forehead, “But it’s not possible that some other archer – some local, might not use a similar fletch – perhaps a hobby? Perhaps fired randomly into the air to fall, unintendedly, into Homeless?”

“Possible. But what kind of local archer wears a headdress made from the hair of a white-tail deer, porcupine and turkey feathers? That’s what I ask myself.”

The Mayor was momentarily speechless. “Headdress? How could you know that?”

“A couple of strands – looks like he might have gotten his hair tangled, passing under Ted’s apple tree. That’s what Pawnee means. Pointy head, on account of the way they wore their hair sticking up like a horn. Got his horn stuck in Ted’s tree.”

The Mayor had nothing more to say and Herb went off to continue his investigation; but that very afternoon, a reporter from Auckland called to ask the Mayor, why an armed Pawnee Indian would be in New Zealand? Most especially, why he would be in Brewster’s Neck? Was there a jamboree, the reporter persisted?

“There’s no fucking jamboree!” The Mayor cried indignantly and directed the reporter to the Police. Herb Hikaka replied that he couldn’t comment so early in the investigation, but that to the best of his knowledge, North American Indians generally, didn’t go in for jamborees – they went in for pow-wows.

Nevertheless, the following day, a Pawnee was apprehended a mere thirty kilometres distant and riding north. The trouble, as Herb soon saw, was that none of Pawnee Jim’s arrows matched the fletch of the arrow that had caught Homeless in the throat, and further, he had no bow. Herb cautioned Pawnee Jim that the traditional Pawnee Ghost Dance was not allowed in New Zealand. “The pakeha,” he explained, “is here for good, so it was no use thinking about changing that now.” Pawnee Jim responded that his tribe had largely accepted this as a fact in America also.

Later, Herb wrote in his PIN, or Police Investigation Notebook: ‘Solid alibi, but explanation about the absence of bow, untidy.’

What Herb did not know was that before he raised the alarm, Weasel Potross had rummaged the trouser pockets of the deceased Homeless Hauptmann and recovered a small, heavy object wrapped in a dirty piece of paper that appeared to be a map.

*

Doug Hemopo’s house sat near the end of the winding Ararata Road, about ten kilometres outside the small town of Brewster’s Neck. Behind the Hemopo residence the ground rose steadily to an elevation of a little more than one hundred metres. Unimpressive as a landform but attractive still – since it had narrowly escaped the determined fire and axe of pioneer Wilberforce Brewster and so, it had retained much of the original forest cover in which Doug’s iwi had lived on and off for many hundreds of years. Now though, there was just Doug, his wife Viola and their four children, whom Doug referred to as Mark One, Mark Two and so on, to denote their order of appearance. As an engineer, he thought of children as being like ‘new versions,’ leading, through cumulative improvement, to better performance. In this he showed only rudimentary understanding of genetics, but measured by mechanical aptitude, he was remarkable. Indeed, he had been encouraged by a publican by the name of Pinemartin, and with the assistance of funding from the iwi’s modest Treaty settlement, to attend Canterbury University, where, though he graduated with an engineering degree; he chose to return immediately to his turangawaewae, marry Viola and start a family.

Doug’s career in engineering was restricted to fixing just about anything of a metallurgical or electronic nature in and around Brewster’s Neck; but he was an inveterate tinkerer and builder of many things and this had been his way since he was a small boy. His latest accomplishment, which unfortunately and through misadventure had not enhanced his reputation, was an automated lawn mower. This clever device, which could accurately mow even sloping turf, may have had considerable commercial potential had the prototype not run down and maimed a pet sheep by the name of Boogie Nights. As a result, Doug was known in some uncharitable quarters, as ‘Pet Killer.’

As it happened, Doug was working on a new and far more interesting project than an automated lawn mower, when he received an official letter from the Mayor. Though unwelcome, this letter was not unexpected since it followed a lengthy meeting with the Deputy Mayor, Dimple Potts on Doug’s front porch; and shortly before the death of Homeless Hauptmann. In fact, Doug had spent a good half-day composing a reply to the letter, which expanded on the proposal left with him by the Deputy Mayor. Mechanical diagrams were one thing, but composition involving words on paper, addressing an issue Doug would much prefer not to address, was another. Consequently, Doug began and discarded his response at least two dozen times before he had something he felt was clear, civil and sufficient. In the process he discarded a softer tone, such as ‘I hear you, Dimple and can see your point of view, but…’ as well as a firmer tone in which he said, ‘I don’t like it. I’m busy. The Council should know better. Think of the bush, man. No more!’

Viola warned the kids to stay clear of the workshop because their father was working on an important letter – “Likely pages long,” she explained, “Very important! To the Mayor…”

Eventually, Doug settled on the middle ground. ‘Dear Mr Mayor,’ he wrote, ‘as to your proposal I am not interested. I don’t like coal. No access. Your friend Doug H. Have a jolly good day. Kia ora!’

Viola was complimentary and undertook the sealing of the letter into an envelope, addressing it and dispatching Mark Two – since Mark One was back in the bush hunting for a pig – to deliver the very important letter to the Council Chambers.

Doug was glad to have that matter off his plate since it had disturbed him for several days. What had happened, was this. Three months prior, a very heavy storm with extraordinary rain had struck. The Ararata river broke its banks and for a time, the Hemopo family was marooned, and in the heavy bush-clad hills behind, there were numerous and never-before-seen land-slides wherein huge trees fell into gullies, exposing great gashes of bare earth, and not just earth. In one place, far back and behind the Hemopo hills, a seam of coal came to light and was subsequently pronounced to be high-quality coking coal. However, for various geographic reasons, the only possible access to this seam, was across Doug’s land.

In certain quarters, this discovery elicited considerable excitement, and some, notably Verbal Pritchard – the local radio talk show host and celebrity, and the nephew of magnate Corker Pritchard, had begun banging on about how ‘black gold’ could transform the fortunes of Brewster’s Neck. Since Doug sometimes tuned into Radio Brewster FM – owned by Corker Pritchard – he had heard Verbal and his talk-back listeners become increasingly excited about the ‘coal windfall.’ He also heard Verbal suggesting that though access to the windfall was difficult, common sense said that it should not be selfishly blocked by one person, by which Doug knew that he, Doug was being cast as that one, selfish person – despite that he had not at that time discussed the matter with anyone. He was less bothered by this than he was about the merits of coal for any use or application, particularly after some conversation with his friend and now mayoral candidate Sarah Bumbulis.

Having arrived some eleven years earlier with her Latvian husband, the baker Edgars Bumbulis – who had died shortly after they had settled in, when tragically, the wall of the barn he was building, fell on him – Sarah was considered a newcomer to Brewster’s Neck. Prior to marrying Edgars, Sarah had studied exhaustively the digestive processes of Adalia bipunctata – the two-spotted ladybug, which is also Latvia’s national insect. Since her marriage, entomology became less of a scientific pursuit and a more pragmatic thing, having to destroy as she did, a variety of bugs that threatened her stock of flour in the small bakery, ‘Bread & Butter,’ established by her late husband.

Now, Sarah had made it entirely clear to Doug, that coal was a major contributor to Climate Change and was therefore a fuel for bygone times. Doug could see the sense in this, but asked all the same, whether by refusing access to the coal he might cost Brewster’s Neck the valuable jobs and so on, that the Deputy Mayor had said were essential to the future of their town. Sarah assured him that a truly forward-looking town would find other industries of a cleaner and more sustainable kind and that anyway, finding jobs was not Doug’s responsibility.

For her part, Sarah Bumbulis became increasingly concerned at the groundswell of support for a coal mine for Brewster’s Neck; and was upset at the repeated assertions by Verbal and his listeners, that a decision on, and the proper exploitation of the coal, should be left in the hands of a responsible body comprising of businessmen who knew about return-on-investment etc – which body, clearly was the Council, which as everyone knew, was in the pocket of that commercial whizzo, Corker Pritchard – founder of ‘Forest Flavours’ among other lucrative ventures.

And when Sarah called Verbal one morning on talk-back, to debate the merits of coal and to put her view that coal was a root cause of damaging Climate Change, Verbal replied that “The weather changed every day, didn’t it?” And encouraged other listeners to contribute their view about the vagaries of weather – and every one of them agreed that the weather was always changing and had done so since time immemorial and even, as old Noser Potross pointed out, there’d been a day, related to him by his own granddad, back in ’87, when there’d been a flood, snow and a heatwave on the same bloody day. “Now then,” agreed, Verbal, “if that’s not Climate Change, what would Bumbulis call it?”

“It’s just weather, Verbal, not climate. Weather is day-to-day, and it varies. Climate is the long-term pattern of weather events and includes many different indicators. It’s very complex.”

“Oh, excuse me,” cried Verbal, “of course, our listeners are ignorant. They’ve only lived here for generations, so what could they know, Bumbulis? Where’s the common sense in all this, eh? That’s my question. Common sense says the world needs coal – China wants coal – the Aussies are firing it out of the ground as quick as they can – and since we’ve now got it, surely common sense says we should be grateful for our good fortune and sell it to the world. I put it to Brewster’s Neck – do we listen to common sense or to interfering and know-it-all experts?” And his tone allowed no doubt about what he thought of experts and by extension, his current caller. Verbal was a fierce proponent of common sense, particularly his own, and in this he had a most sympathetic audience in the fifty or so souls who tuned into Brewster Radio’s ‘Have your say.’ “Before the other bastardo says it for you,” as Verbal always added cheerfully, at the beginning the programme each Saturday morning.

“Morning Verbal.”

“Morning. And who am I speaking to?” Though he knew well the caller to be Farsical Clatworthy.

“It’s Farsical, Verbal.”

“Good to hear you, Farsical. Good day?”

“It is, Verbal, and it’s made better by listening to your programme.”

“Kind of you to say so, Farsical. You’ve been listening to the debate about the coal – the gift bestowed on our town by Mother Nature?”

“I have, Verbal. I think you’ve put your finger on it. My grandson, Milkman – that’s Marty – we call him that cos he wasn’t weaned til he was six – well, Marty’s near sixteen and he’ll be needing a job. What’s he going to do here? That’s my question, Verbal. And that lady, Bumble?”

“Bumbulis. That’s Bumbulis. Foreign name in these parts, isn’t it? And a newcomer, I’d add.”

“That’s the one. Well, she says Marty can’t have a job because of the weather. That’s what bothers me, Verbal, so I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. We’ve got to use common sense. The Aussies are doing it so why not us? And why should Marty miss out on a decent job?”

“Couldn’t agree more, Farsical. Our town needs progress and jobs and a coal mine, properly done and I must emphasise this – done properly, without any of your old-style cock-ups, and I’m first to admit there were – but we’ve learned, haven’t we? Modern technology and all that. But now we have, well, it’s just the ticket. But thanks for your call…Hullo, who’s this?” And he took the next call.

As a direct result of her less than pleasant exchange on ‘Have Your Say,’ and because Doug had apprised her of the Council’s intentions to push for a coal mine, Sarah decided there was nothing for it but to stand for Mayor. ‘Now what have I done?’ she asked herself repeatedly after filing her application, but her determination grew. Her friend and beekeeper Porterhouse Johnson, said she needed a slogan or similar, and after much thought as he gathered honey in the hills, he came up with the acronym, ‘GLADB,’ standing for ‘Good Lady Against Dirty Business.’

“Won’t that make me seem a bit holier-than-thou, Porterhouse? And shouldn’t it be ‘ladies,’ rather than just me? Or perhaps the ‘L’ could stand for ‘Lads and ladies?’ And wouldn’t it be better if we dropped the ‘B?”

Porterhouse agreed that these could be worthwhile changes and before Sarah could seriously contemplate adopting the name of this new political movement, Porterhouse had told everyone down at The Dorchester and elsewhere, that the new mayoral candidate, Sarah Bumbulis was standing under the ticket ‘GLAD.’ After which Sarah and anyone who supported her candidacy was known as a ‘Glad,’ and collectively, as the ‘Glad’s.’

“It could have been worse, Sarah laughed with Doug and Viola not long after. At least it sounds positive!”

The following week on ‘Have Your Say,’ Verbal told his listener to be on the lookout for the GLADS, who he said, “Were glad to be against progress; glad to be backward-looking; glad to be against Brewster’s Neck and worst of all, glad to be against common sense. And now,” Verbal adopted his most disappointed tone, “Bumbulis is glad to be opposing our new mayor who has helped to keep us safe, solvent and secure for twenty-three honourable years! Surely he should be given a chance to continue his excellent work?”

Corker Pritchard told his nephew that he had Corker’s full support in opposing the GLADs and the dangerous outsider, Bumbulis, in her declared intent to replace Dimple Potts as Mayor. “The woman’s a troublemaker, Verbal,” he said, “any normal person can see her ideas are unworkable and not about the real world. We need that coal and by God, we’re going to get it. But the thing is, Verbal, nutter though she clearly is, there’s plenty that like her and that’s dangerous. They don’t know what she’s actually saying – who the fuck does is my question? So, you’ve got to use the fourth estate – my radio station as a beacon of light and hope! You’ve got to be the voice of reason and for the common man – the little man. No, not Dimple. I refer to the average punter.”

Several intense discussions of this kind, caused Verbal to conceive of a movement to counter the GLADs and at his uncle’s invitation, presented his concept, unofficially, to the Mayor, the Town Clerk and councillors Potross, Adams and the putative communist Witherspoon. The name of the movement should, Verbal explained, be simple, memorable and hard-hitting. Unlike the patsy aspect of the ‘GLADs,’ this movement should instantly communicate action. In fact, the movement should stand for action and opposition. A bulwark if you like, against limp-wristed ideas, such as those proposed by the GLADs, including their opposition to the Council’s forward-looking coal mine; but further, to the preposterous idea that cars should be left in the garage and all should take to their goddamn bikes. This new movement, said Verbal, should be about action and opposition, so the punters would clearly see what needed to be done. This movement needed to be uncompromising. The movement needed to be “fundamentally opposed to experts and goddamned lefties. So, here’s the campaign concept, just for your consideration. F-O-E-S. ‘FOES, standing for Fundamentally Opposed to Experts and Socialists.”

“Bloody good!” exclaimed Corker. “Nail on the head! What about you, Dimple?”

As it happened, Dimple wasn’t sure he wanted a ‘movement,’ which hesitation arose in part because despite his figuratively broad shoulders, he was feeling under awful pressure and even at this moment, and not to put too fine a point on it, caused him to feel moist in the nether regions. But it was also clear the thing had momentum he might not be able to stop, so he nodded and replied cautiously, that he liked the idea but wondered whether it might not have a slightly more positive aspect?

“The Mayor would like something a little more positive, Verbal. More like the GLADs – is that what you mean, Dimple? Likely to suggest less than implacable will and it could possibly end up being indistinguishable from the other lot. Warm and fuzzy you might say, and sound like a kindergarten, but it’s the Mayor who has to front…”

The owner of Witherspoon’s Classic Fashion cleared his throat and touching his cravat, suggested that he rather liked the idea of a positive slogan, if that’s what it was. Less confrontational and more…principled, perhaps…a slogan that might inspire the community and foster goodwill…”

“Of course, Fred,” replied Corker, “the Mayor – renowned for his hard-hitting, no-nonsense policies and such-like; his iron grip of the issues and his steely determination to get things done, should stand before the people under a banner that would make him look like a bull with no nuts. Or a commie,” he added gratuitously, “Do you see?”

“The thing is,” added Verbal, “that whatever we come up with must capture the Big Idea. And while I’ve no doubt that we’re all opposed to experts and socialists, we think that FOES, in itself might not cut-the-mustard?” Since there was no response to his summary but an encouraging nod from Corker, he continued, “Well, that leads me to think, what is it – or who is it, that we really must oppose? And you must excuse me for being blunt, Fred, but I can make no apology…but it seems to me that the problem is with cunts. You see, there’re are cunts who want to stop progress; cunts with foreign names; and cunts in Auckland who want to stop you, Vascular, from farming the way you have since you were a boy. And what about that bunch of Aussie cunts, Brucie, who tried to undercut your contracting business?”

“That’s it,” re-joined Corker, “Hard talk. There’s no point beating about the bush. I’m totally onboard with Fred’s thinking – I am – sterling stuff, Fred, but we’ve got go for the Big Idea or by God, the GLADs will be at you, Mr Mayor. They’ll have you for dinner and we can’t have that. We’ve got to give the punters something they really understand, and I can tell you, and you’d know yourself, as a fellow businessman, that the punter knows a cunt when he sees one.” Ignoring Fred Witherspoon’s expression of dismay, he added firmly, “It’s settled then – we need a heavy hitter for a slogan. And we know who we want to hit. So, Verbal, you’re the media man. What does it look like?”

The Media Man, who had been writing, now turned his large pad so that all could see. And all stared with varying degrees of approval, bemusement and in one case, nausea.

“F-O-C-K-E-R-S,” Verbal spelled out unnecessarily. “I’ve taken the liberty, Brucie, to transliterate your ‘Aussies,’ into ‘Kangaroos,’ which could stand for all foreigners…and Aucklanders come to that. That’s the ‘K.’ This acronym, as we call it in the trade, says that we’re Fundamentally Opposed to Cunts, Kangaroos, Experts, and Socialists. But I’m not sure about this ‘R?’ What could that stand for then?’

Several suggestions were made, including Rastafarians and Radicals,’ but as with a number of other suggestions, Corker pointed out, “No, that’s no good. Already covered by Cunts.”

The deadlock was broken by Vascular Adams, who sat largely silent throughout, pulling at his beard, until he said, “It should be Rivers. I’m fundamentally opposed to Rivers. All those bloody Jaffa’s, going on about how I’m polluting rivers. It’s all bullshit.”

Corker was about to cry that ‘Rivers’ was covered by ‘Cunts,’ when he realised it wasn’t. “A damned good point, Vascular! Rivers! Yes, I think we can be well-opposed to rivers.”

The nodding of all but two heads, confirmed that nearly everyone was opposed to rivers, in a fundamental way; and to Cunts, Kangaroos, Experts and Socialists, though the latter two were dangerously close to being encompassed by the Big Idea – but as Verbal declaimed, it didn’t hurt to give special prominence to particular types.

“If I might point out, Verbal, but if you change the ‘C’ for a ‘K,’ you have F-O-K-K-E-R-S.”

“Brilliant, Brucie,” cried Corker, “You don’t say much but when you do, by God, you do cut-to-the-chase. FOKKERS.”

There followed animated discussion about the articles and nature of the new movement, and the way that Verbal would promote the idea to his loyal listeners, the very next Saturday. And with sudden inspiration and carried along as he was on the crest of the creative wave, Verbal said he would drop a line to Mr Hoffman, to see if the great man would care to be patron. At which Fred Witherspoon interjected almost forcefully, “Look here, Corker, and Dimple. I quite understand what you want to do, but look, I don’t think we can go out to the electorate saying we’re opposed to…you know…”

Verbal tapped the side of his nose and winked. “Fred, we would never be broadcasting the ‘C’ word. Not only would we be changing it to a ‘K,’ but we’d be saying that ‘K’ stands for Climate Changers. What we’d be saying is that we’re opposed to Climate Changers, Kangaroos, Experts, Rivers and Socialists.”

“Brilliant, Verbal! Climate Changers – yes, we’re definitely opposed to them. How’s that then Fred? That’s where we get to when we have healthy, open debate!”

“Well, that sounds better,” replied Fred dubiously, “but why then have we been talking so long about how the Big Idea, is about…”

“Don’t you see Fred? We’ve all agreed that there’s a certain type – a certain group of punters who really are…and we know it, and we’re opposed to them because we must be. Why, if we didn’t spell that out now, how could we attack this election with the integrity we must? If we don’t recognise the bastards we’re up against from the outset; when we’re about to saddle-up, then we’ll fall at the first jump. Never get off the ground. Stalled at the start and dead in the water, Fred, and what would be the point? We’d be putting the Mayor’s campaign on very shaky ground. Would you want to stand by to see the Mayor – our friend Dimple – sucked into the mire, Fred, because that’s what would happen if we pussyfoot now. If we don’t have the resolve? This is war, Fred, and make no mistake about it.”

“War?” Fred replied faintly.

Verbal explained that they would use the term ‘Climate Changers’ as a kind of code for the ‘C’ word, though in fact, he said, as anyone knew, they were synonymous.

Brucie Potross enquired why he was now referring to the ‘C-word’ instead of saying cunts?

“Brucie,” Verbal replied patiently, “sometimes it’s smarter to be grey, rather than black-and-white,” to which Brucie replied that he liked black-and-white, himself, and that when he saw a cunt, which he did in his line of work often enough, he told them.

“Yes, yes, Brucie,” said Corker, “but we’re not talking about building inspectors. We’re talking about the Mayoral campaign. Civic matters. Mayoral decorum and all that, you see? We must be subtle!”

After a further complaint by Vascular Adams that Jaffa’s had no idea what it was like to have the river flood your bottom flats and take out your fences, the meeting broke up, and Dimple Potts headed home with the feeling that he was not in control of his election campaign; and Fred Witherspoon told his wife, Lottie, that he had no appetite for supper and that in fact, he felt quite under the weather, and retired immediately to bed.

*

Doug Hemopo was pleased that Sarah Bumbulis was standing for Mayor. Not because he was opposed to Dimple Potts, but because he felt it was time for a change and he didn’t like the way some people were treating Sarah in a disrespectful way. However, he had little interest in politics and soon returned all his attentions to his new project. At this moment, two days after the death of Homeless Hauptmann, which he thought a real shame though he had only passing acquaintance, he pondered a mechanical problem. The servomotor sitting on his bench, that he wanted to drive one of the several joints on the machine he had commenced to build, employed position-only sensing. This meant that the motor would either be operating at full speed or be stopped. What this servomotor did not have, was speed sensing. What he really required, he mused, was an optical rotary encoder to measure the speed of the output shaft, and a variable-speed drive to control the motor speed. This would enable the servomotor to be brought to its command position far more quickly and efficiently. “This is what is necessary,” he said aloud, “And what is necessary? Necessary is that which if it is not done, why, a flaw will soon be revealed. Possibly, a fatal flaw. A flaw,” he warned bis empty workshop, “is a false economy.”

Pleased at this conclusion, Doug rose from his stool by the bench and shortly, informed his wife, Viola, that the position-only servomotor, was “A false economy.”

Viola had no idea what this meant but she was familiar with false economies. She had only to look out the kitchen window to see a trail of false economies going back twenty or so years. Vehicles and other machines of various kinds, and parts of machines and random pieces of metal, created an undulating and skeletal vista of rusting iron, stainless steel, industrial hosing, cylinders, bearings, flywheels, cogs, beams, struts and the like, which had long since blocked her view of the stream and green raupo reeds down by the road. But she did not mind. Doug was a busy man.

At that moment, she espied a long piece of iron, moving at one end of the stack. The piece of iron which was several metres long, was being hauled into the air like the finger of a crane, but before she could even raise her finger to point, the boom wavered left then right, steadied and then crashed suddenly, onto the top of Doug’s Hillman. At the bang, Doug leapt to the window to gaze at his car, ‘Bluey,’ beneath the large piece of iron that had crushed its roof and he instantly concluded that due to the extent of the damage, he would probably never drive that vehicle again. “I wonder how they got that boom up there?” he asked? “Not easy.”

“That’s your car,” replied Viola, “buggered.”

He nodded mildly. “Yep.”

“The kids could’ve hurt themselves.”

“Yep.”

But they’d had this conversation many times, so it sounded a bit like a recording.

“Will you get a new one?”

Doug reflected a bit. “Maybe. Might make a new one.”

“You mean restore?”

“No, I mean make one. I’ve been thinking about a car that’s genuinely all-terrain – with legs as well as wheels, but I have to finish my job, first.” By which he meant the machine he’d been working on for several months, and for which he needed the aforesaid speed-sensing servomotor – and in fact, several of them. He was thinking about where he’d get them from.

“How am I going to get our kai?”

“Take Silver. He needs some exercise.”

Viola snorted. “You go fetch the supplies on your horse. If you want me to do the cooking, we’ve got to have a car.”

“Ok,” he grinned. “Tough woman! I’ll go tomorrow. Now, I need to see how those kids moved that boom. They must have used a cantilever of some sort.”

“I’m sure they did,” she replied and as an afterthought said, “I heard there’s a special meeting of the Council, tonight. An emergency, I heard.”

Doug said, “Has a volcano come up? Has there been a flood? How can you have an emergency without an eruption? Probably, someone’s found a pothole. Might be Corker? Might be that the Bentley’s found a pothole.” And so saying, he climbed the peg fixed to the wall outside the front door, to mount his stilts, manoeuvred away from the building and strode steadily, some metre and a half above the ground, in the direction of his badly damaged car.

Pausing nearby, from his vantage, he surveyed the damage. He observed how the boom had been hauled upright with pulleys, and how it had been guided by a frame to prevent it falling sideways. He nodded approvingly, and had no doubt, from his quick examination of the evidence, that the assault on the Hillman had been deliberate. He grinned. “Those kids…getting smarter every day.” The perpetrators were nowhere to be seen. He could hear them though. They’d headed up the back, into the bush behind the house.

Doug strode left, alongside his considerable collection of very interesting materials and thought about how if he hadn’t left those pulleys along there, and if that old crane boom hadn’t come into his possession – when the Council scrapped the forestry project – and if he hadn’t left his Hillman so provocatively parked – then none of this would have happened and the kids would have missed out on a significant learning opportunity. And if there was one thing Doug liked for his kids, it was a significant learning opportunity. Musing thus, he arrived at the letter box by the front gate. It was well out of reach of his present position.

In the kitchen, Viola watched her husband walk down the drive on those stilts. She admired this facility but had no wish to try it herself. The kids did though. They liked the stilts, but Doug’s were tallest and even Tamati, known as Mark I, wasn’t quite game to try his Dad’s stilts. Now, she knew exactly what was going through her husband’s mind. He would be wondering how he was going to get his hand into that letterbox, without dismounting. ‘Well, you can’t,’ she thought. ‘You’ll have to get off.’ But she didn’t avert her gaze because with Doug Hemopo, you never knew quite what was going to happen. ‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘so, you’ve got a plan?’ And she watched with greater interest as Doug moved closer to a high pile of metal and with some difficulty and swaying to-and-fro, came away with a pipe of about the right length.

‘Well,’ she thought, ‘how’s that going to help? You might get the box open, but then what? It won’t work. You’ll have to get off.’

But it was evident that he was not going to dismount, for he had recovered a second length of steel and now he had moved so he was able with the one pipe to open the flap on the letterbox, and with the other piece, which she could see had a flat bit like a spade on the end, look to scoop the contents of the box. Violet watched with fascination and admiration – for her husband was a handsome and muscular man – as he balanced himself, one leg outstretched and with what she understood would have been very earnest effort, to manipulate those extensions to his arms…but that was as far as he got. With unexpected rapidity, Doug made a back flip off the stilts and over the fence and was gone from sight. “Puckeroo!” Viola cried, for she was sure that none of this was planned. She hurried out the door and down the drive and found him still lying, flat on his back where he’d fallen, in the long grass beyond the fence.

He grinned up at her. “That’s why I don’t cut this damned grass,” he said.

*

Weasel Potross enjoyed a pie. He enjoyed a pie every single day and sometimes three times, because the pies, produced by Corker Pritchard’s business ‘Forest Flavours,’ were free to Weasel – or at least in-so-far as his allowance was reduced without him having to shell-out cash from his pocket. Weasel was the collector of ingredients for the various products under the ‘Forest Flavours’ label. But not this afternoon. This afternoon, Weasel was absorbed by the object and piece of paper he had recovered from the pocket of the late Homeless Hauptmann.

Weasel finished the pie and licking his fingers clean of gravy, stared hard at the object on the table in his tiny kitchen, in the tiny shack that was his abode, at the edge of the bush at the end of Murphy’s Road, which ran roughly parallel to but on the other side of the Ararata River from the Hemopo land. And what was this object of such singular interest and about which, Weasel had not said a word to anyone and most particularly not to Herb Hikaka when, in the course of Herb’s preliminary investigation into the death of Hauptmann, Herb had required of Weasel, a few words? Weasel wasn’t sure how he felt about the constable. For one thing, Herb was very large and though he had no intention, Weasel understood that it would be a mistake to look for a fight. Weasel also found Herb’s eyes, very uncomfortable. They seemed friendly but at the same time, Weasel felt that they bored into him, searching into the darker places…Percy Pritchard’s eyes were similarly uncomfortable, but where the constable’s eyes were warm, Percy’s were as cold as last night’s ashes in July.

Weasel told the constable how he’d just been coming along High Street, minding his own business – he was on his way home after doing a pick-up at the end of Clatworthy Crossing – and then he saw Homeless in the doorway of Uppercutz. No, there was nothing unusual about that. Homeless might be there, or across the road at Witherspoon’s Classic Fashions. But there was one odd thing, because the wind was quite strong and it was coming from the south, and that meant that Homeless was on the wrong side of the road – from a wind perspective. He should have been in the shelter of Witherspoon’s doorway. And that Mister Witherspoon was anyway a kind man since he often gave Homeless a cup of hot chocolate. Weasel hardly knew why, since Homeless didn’t do anything for Mister Witherspoon except grubby-up his doorway. It reminded Weasel of how if you feed chickens at your door, they’ll shit all over it. Not that Homeless did that – as far as Weasel knew.

The constable agreed that chickens could make quite a mess if you let them. Surprisingly smart, the constable observed, but he doubted you could train them to shit in one place, like you could a dog or a cat. Weasel was pleased that they agreed on this and he relaxed a little. He told the constable that not only was he suspicious – well, no, not suspicious, since he didn’t suspect Homeless of anything. “Curious?” Offered the constable. Yes, that was it, Weasel agreed, he was curious as to why Homeless would lie on the wrong side of the street, where he would get cold and no hot chocolate either. Weasel thought deeply. Was there anything else that Weasel noticed, that might be unusual? He drummed his fingers on his table and frowned and wondered whether he might offer the constable a cuppa and decided against it. The constable was ok, but Weasel didn’t feel that they were much alike, what with the constable’s size and those eyes. Then he exclaimed, “There was one thing I noticed.”

The constable nodded encouragingly and paused from making a note in his PIN.

“It was the way he was lying there.”

The constable replied, “And what was it about that?”

“If I was laying like that, I’d get a crick in my neck. Sometimes, if I’ve had a drink – not many,” he added quickly, “but if I have and I go off to sleep and kind of not noticing how I’m lying, I wake up with an awful crick. And there was another thing. The arrow!”

“You noticed he was lying, awkwardly?”

Weasel nodded, “Yep. Awkward. Just like me sometimes.”

“Then you noticed the arrow?”

“Yep. It stood straight up – like a stick.”

“But you noticed how he was lying, first.”

Weasel frowned and concentrated. “Nope. I noticed the arrow first. That was strange. Homeless with that arrow – and lying over at Uppercutz instead of Witherspoon’s.”

The constable enquired about what happened next, and Weasel explained how he’d stopped his truck and then got out and shut the door, and then made his way over to Homeless – but not too quickly because now he was thinking something was wrong. And not just the wind, but the arrow. And when he got close, he saw how the arrow was in his throat. Weasel said, “It give me a fright. I’ve never seen a body with an arrow except on TV – at my auntie’s place.”

“Quite a shock?” Replied the constable.

“It was. Quite a shock. Quite a very big shock.”

Weasel recalled that there wasn’t much blood. And he recalled that Homeless had felt pretty stiff – like a possum goes pretty stiff an hour after you’ve bonked it off. “Nope,” he said determinedly, “I didn’t notice anything else. I just thought I should tell somebody. Missus Palomino, I thought, or Mister Witherspoon. There wasn’t anyone else. I looked that way and this way, but no-one was there.”

Weasel didn’t like the way the constable was looking at him when he said he didn’t notice anything else. But the constable didn’t say anything more about that and wrote in his PIN, and then told Weasel he’d been a great help. Weasel wracked his brain trying to think what he’d said that could be helpful, but nothing came to mind, which worried him since the constable had been doing quite a lot of writing. But since the constable didn’t mention the gold, Weasel decided uneasily, that only he knew. He was glad when the constable drove off down the road and Weasel thought that it would be good if he never saw him again.

The small but weighty, irregularly shaped object on his table, which he now beheld, was undoubtedly a gold nugget, and Weasel had spent hours, transfixed by the beauty and promise of this nugget, here in his unlovely shelter.

Many things and thoughts and in fact, far more thoughts than he would usually have in a month, had crowded his mind in the few days since the death of Homeless; and most of those thoughts were of unimaginable wealth; and they were largely unimaginable because, as his last school teacher had written in his school report, ‘Pastor,’ since that was his given name, ‘will likely find a vocation in manual labour,’ whilst thinking privately, ‘Thick as a brick.’ Nevertheless, Weasel knew what this nugget that sat before him, promised. It promised unlimited beer. It promised his own table in The Dorchester, where he could shout acquaintances – at present he had none – without restraint, and they would think him a top man. It promised, perhaps, the favours of some lady. No, not some lady, but Taylor Palomino, with her golden hair, red lips and blue eyes that as far as he could tell, had never once seen him, though he had gone out of his way several times to cross her path in the main street. Once even, he’d tripped and fallen, almost in front of her. It was an accident and he’d badly bruised his elbow and caused a blood snout. But it wasn’t Taylor who’d hurried to his aid, but old Fred Witherspoon. It was very disappointing, and Weasel had found the experience of being helped to his feet by that old ninny just about as awful as a meeting with Corker Pritchard’s brother. However, he had liked that hot chocolate old Witherspoon had brought him. Notwithstanding the chocolate, the larger, unpleasant recollection momentarily caused Weasel to close his eyes tightly and to make a sound like a rusty spigot.

Who did Taylor Palomino see? Only that spiv, Verbal Pritchard. She saw him alright. And Weasel had twice seen the celebrity enter the back of Taylor’s shop and then the blinds had been drawn. And then what? Weasel had a notion of what and he was most envious though not resentful. How could you be resentful of a celebrity and media man like Verbal? He was a proper man. He had his hair cut once each week by Taylor of ‘Uppercutz,’ where Weasel had not once been. And in fact, how could you call what Taylor did to Verbal’s hair a ‘cut?’ Weasel had seen how Verbal’s hair didn’t seem any shorter after the haircut.

When Weasel had a haircut, roughly administered by his sister, Verruca, the white skin on his head was exposed right to the top. Verruca trimmed his top short and left nothing on the sides. It was uncomfortably cool for a while, but he didn’t need another cut for nearly a year. That’s not how Verbal’s haircut was. Verbal’s hair was all shaped and waved by some magical Taylor Palomino process that made him appear to be a proper spiv. “It’d be good to be a spiv and famous,” he said out loud. In Weasel’s estimation, Verbal was bigger than the Mayor, and possibly even bigger than his boss, Corker Pritchard.

Weasel returned his thoughts to the nugget. “This nugget is a good un.” He said. It glowed in the half-light of his kerosene lantern and was a thing of great…promise. It was far bigger than the large gold ring on Corker’s finger. Alongside the nugget-of-great-promise, lay the piece of paper in which the nugget had been enclosed. And on the piece of paper was a mark. And that mark was an ‘X’ and with uncharacteristic insight, Weasel deduced that that ‘X’ marked the spot from which this nugget had come. So, the piece of paper was also of great promise and Weasel was sure that this piece of paper of great promise, was a map. The problem was, he did not understand the other marks on this map. Though he had held it up in various lights and examined it with one eye and then the other, and then with both until his eyes ached, whatever was depicted was beyond his immediate comprehension. “What’s that mean? Those marks there?”

Weasel pondered these things until his head felt uncomfortable. Homeless Hauptmann knew what this map meant. Homeless drew this map. But Homeless was dead. Homeless was a bloody nuisance and he was also completely the wrong person to have a gold nugget. Homeless played his trumpet (which really annoyed some people) and sang sometimes (which annoyed everyone), or slept on the park bench in summer, or in the entrance to Uppercutz (which annoyed Taylor Palomino); or if the wind was the other way, in the entrance to Witherspoon’s Classic Fashion (which strangely, didn’t annoy Fred Witherspoon). What use was a gold nugget of great promise to a man who did this? Weasel felt indignant and cried, “Homeless? Hopeless, more like. And how long did yer have it? Days? Months? Or what? Hopeless Hauptmann!” But most importantly, where had Homeless found the nugget? Weasel peered again at the map, but it was no use, he could not see where the map led. Under that ‘X,’ sitting right here on Weasel’s table, was unimaginable wealth – but only that stupid Hauptmann knew where that ‘X’ was.

At last, Weasel wrapped the nugget-of-great-promise into an old handkerchief and placed it in the toe of a boot he no longer wore; and folding the map, inserted it into a plastic bag, and secreted this package into a cavity beneath a loose plank in his wooden floor. “This is the place for this gold,” he said, and then he wondered about how it might be to be a famous media man, like Verbal Pritchard and to have everyone listening to what you had to say about everything. “Listen to Weasel,” he said, “I’ll tell yer something big.”

*

Sarah Bumbulis closed the front door of ‘Bread & Butter’ and turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’ Business was over for another day. But it hadn’t been just another day. It had been quite a strange day and exciting in some respects and disturbing in some other respects. For one thing, she had left the shop mid-afternoon to see for herself, the billboard that had appeared that morning by the park. Not in her memory had there been a billboard in Brewster’s Neck and yet there it was. A white billboard with the words in blue, ‘Vote Dimple Potts.’

Sarah tried not to stare at this sign for too long lest she be observed doing so, but those three words inspired a thrill of apprehension and excitement. It was begun! The election was underway, and her opponent was already on the hustings. Well, it wasn’t a political meeting as such, but surely that would follow…

Sarah hurried back to her bakery and sold two more sourdoughs and thrilled again when Martha Lawson, wife of the Town Clerk and one of the Mayor’s two sisters no less, hesitated after bagging her bread, and said, “I hear that you’re standing for Mayor?”

A little apprehensively, but prepared to stand her ground, Sarah confirmed that she was and then was quite overwhelmed when Martha replied, “Well, good for you. It’s time we had a change.”

And then later, Pearl, wife of Farsical Clatworthy told her that she’d heard Sarah on ‘Have Your Say,’ and though she shared Farsical’s concern, and she admired Verbal, yet she agreed with Sarah. Further, she said that she liked Sarah’s slogan, GLAD, which she thought very clever. “There’s not enough gladness about,” she said, and they laughed, and the thing was, they did feel glad.

This positive affirmation was welcome, and everything seemed larger and brighter. At least until the lawyer, Maximillian Masters – generally known due to a habit of speech, as ‘Moot,’ picked up his loaf and said that everyone should be grateful that Dimple Potts was Mayor and that to stand against was akin to betrayal, and he hoped no-one he knew would compromise their own good standing through so foolish a venture. And he wished her good day.

Later, she told the bee keeper Porterhouse Johnson, when he stopped by with some honey, that she had to plan her campaign. She had to win people over with her ideas “Only, I’m not sure what they are.” At which Porterhouse pointed out that she was “Brimming over with ideas,” but the fact was, Dimple Potts had a media machine on his side, in the form of Brewster Radio FM and that would make things difficult. That would mean that the GLAD campaign would need some new thinking and he, Porterhouse, was already onto it. For one thing he was going to have a chat with Beatrice Potts, the editor of the Brewster Bugle.

“But Beatrice is Dimple’s sister!”

“And so she is, but Beattie is an independent minded woman. Like you. And I’m thinking that a little honey might help.”

And ignoring Porterhouse’s enigmatic wink, Sarah said thank you and moved onto the subject of billboards. And yes, Porterhouse had seen her opponent’s billboard and was preparing one to represent the new candidate. It would be erected tomorrow and then the town would see that battle had been joined! And what was Candidate Bumbulis’s position on the rampant stag? Candidate Bumbulis replied that though she wanted to be progressive, she thought the stag very crass indeed. And no, she hadn’t seen the pizzel and the idea made her feel faint.

They then fell to discussing the demise of Homeless Hauptmann and Porterhouse said that as far as he knew there were no new leads. However, shortly he was catching up with Constable Hikaka, and then he might learn something new.

“It’s a horrible thing,” she said, “He was a most unfortunate man. I hope Herb catches whoever is responsible very soon.”

With that, Porterhouse took his leave.

Sarah sighed with relief. Porterhouse was an unusual bee keeper, who she believed had once worked in the diplomatic service, which undoubtedly explained his worldliness. On the other hand, she also believed that he had been associated with scandal…which might explain why he now worked in the hills with bees. She had never inquired of course and when she reflected, he volunteered very little about any aspect of his life. How different from her! He had learned much of her history shortly after he first sold her honey.

“Ah, Latvia,” he had said, “Paris of the North…and the home of the excellent beer bath…and the world’s tallest women.” And he had winked in a fashion that suggested that he thought this an admirable national characteristic. But he quickly added, “Not that height is a reliable guide to anything. No, often enough the best comes in s smaller package – and you’re as pretty as any of them!” To her consternation she had blushed.

She recalled also, how they had laughed about their liking for those esteemed Latvian dishes, rupjmaize and sorrel soup, but though she explained how she had come to be carrying out entomological research at the university in Riga – and how she had met her husband whilst out dancing – he evaded any specific reference to his own acquaintance with Latvia beyond a vague allusion to ‘civil service in a minor capacity.’ One time, considerably later, he had remarked, “I once worked for a fellow with the most delicious wife-” He stopped abruptly and segued smoothly onto the merits of being self-employed – “Didn’t she agree?”

She supposed she did, though she had planned to be a researcher and would almost certainly have found her career in a university, until she met Edgars. Then, everything had changed and finally, she had brought him here. At this thought she placed her face in both hands and became pensive. “How I wish you were still with me…my best friend, and much better baker…but a builder, dear Edgars, you were not!” She forced her thoughts onto her campaign. ‘Campaign’ seemed altogether too grand a term for her impetuous decision to stand against Dimple Potts. She reflected soberly, ‘I’m a one-issue candidate with few answers. I must think about the bigger picture. I’ll commence tonight and then I can discuss things properly with Porterhouse. I must think about our town in a new way.’ She also decided that she should view Corker Pritchard’s new contribution to the promotion of Brewster’s Neck.

*

Herb Hikaka was sitting on the front porch of his weatherboard house on the main street of Brewster’s Neck, making a new entry into his PIN. Not quite in the ‘golden mile,’ as he thought of that short stretch of the High Street that contained Witherspoon’s Classic Fashion, Uppercutz and Corker’s Prime Cuts, but not too far away and certainly in the same solid locale as Bread & Butter, and Prune Fishbender’s ‘Give us our Daily Groceries,’ general store.

Herb had had a busy day and was enjoying a glass of bitter as he reflected on the case, when the van with the cheerful honey bee on its side, pull up in front of his porch. Too cheerful! Indeed, Herb had remarked, “That bee’s eyes are skew-whiff – looks like it’s been at the hops.” To which the van’s owner replied, “Ah well, you’d be surprised what’s growing up the valley.” To which Herb had replied, “I wouldn’t. That bee’s high.”

“Honey like mine doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Honey like yours should be prescription only. You should put it on your van. Doc Johnson’s Natural High.”

“You should keep your day job.” But Porterhouse put it on the van all the same. Right under the skew-whiff bee. Beattie Potts said it was false pretences and was startled to learn that the bee keeper had a doctorate in Pol Sci. Then she told him he was a dark horse and he replied that she could saddle up whenever she wanted. And she did. Which is why she sometimes referred to him, most affectionately, as Phar Lap.

Porterhouse ‘Doc’ Johnson sat alongside Herb and with a nod in greeting, passed over a tin of honey.

“Rewarewa,” he remarked, referring to the flowers of the tree from which the honey had largely been made, “But there’ll be other nectar in there as well. You can’t control a bee.”

Herb agreed that a bee was one of those creatures you couldn’t and wouldn’t want to control.

Following a suitable silence, Porterhouse enquired after the Hauptmann case and Herb replied that he wasn’t at liberty to discuss the case with a member of the general public, which Porterhouse acknowledged was only proper; and then Herb went on to describe the apprehension of Pawnee Jim, which his companion agreed was a singular thing, and for a time they speculated about how it must be, as a descendant of such a ferocious tribe but now to be confined to some remote part of Oklahoma.

“You might think,” observed Porterhouse, “that watching Westerns, rather than actually doing them, could well lead a man to fat.”

“That could be a risk, but I can tell you that Pawnee Jim was as lean as the Town Clerk, and civil as you like.”

So, Porterhouse inquired airily, whether the Police had any new leads? Herb said that he wasn’t at liberty to discuss leads in a live-case but went onto say that tomorrow he would be going over the scene of the crime with a fine-tooth comb, but this time with a high-powered Police Magnification Device or PMD, that he had obtained from Police Regional HQ.

“Forensics, Porterhouse,” Herb said. “That’s where modern policing is at. Searching for clues unseen by the naked eye. The PMD’s the latest development. I could scan a chair and see if you sat in it, once, five years ago. Precision…that’s where modern policing’s going.”

Porterhouse considered this a sound development and said so, but on hearing the word ‘naked,’ something else of considerable importance came to his mind, and he excused himself to go and complete his deliveries, of which there was just one remaining.

Soon after, he was parked outside the offices of the Brewster Bugle, whose weekly newspaper was written, edited and published by the comely Beatrice Potts, who also agreed that the stag was an abomination, and intended to say so in her next editorial. And she didn’t have time for a dalliance at this minute.

*

Dimple Potts stared in amazement. Never in his twenty-three years in public office had he seen the like – and that because there’d never been a contested mayoralty. A democracy Brewster’s Neck might be, but when it fell vacant, the Office of Mayor always passed to the Deputy…

Now, Dimple looked across the street towards the park and towards the billboard, which exhorted the observer to ‘Vote Dimple Potts.’ But it was not his own billboard that drew his astonished gaze, it was the billboard that had materialised alongside it. A larger billboard – also white but with letters writ larger and in red! And what did those letters spell out to the residents of Brewster’s Neck? They spelled out a challenge! They spelled out a message that by implication said, Dimple Potts is not your Mayor! In fact, the letters spelled out the words – ‘Be GLAD, with Sarah Bumbulis – your new Mayor!’ And not only did the billboard trumpet these provocative words that even the youngest of Dimple’s ten progeny would understand, the words were accompanied by a photograph of the pretender!

“Have I not devoted my life to the service of this town?” He enquired of himself, and the answer that came back was, “Yes, Dimple, you have.” And he enquired further, “Do I need a photograph on my billboard?”

“No Dimple, you don’t because everyone knows you. Not like that pushy newcomer Bumbulis. No-one knows her.”

He paused to tweet: ‘OBSCURE slogans from OUTSIDERS abound. Don’t be FOOLED. Your Mayor holds the reins.’

Apprehending footsteps, Dimple was glad to see the comfortable figure and florid complexion of Corker, approach and stop, silently alongside the Mayor to stare with narrowed gaze and compressed lips at the effrontery that was the first political statement of Sarah Bumbulis, courtesy of her self-appointed campaign manager, the beekeeper Porterhouse Johnson.

“She’s a lot better looking than you, I’ll say that. But I’ll have it knocked down, Dimple. Percy’ll see to that.”

With this terse declaration, Corker referred to Corker’s accountant and younger brother, Percival Pritchard. When Corker the entrepreneur and businessman had a ‘bit of a problem,’ which might take the form of, for example, the opening of a competing butchery, it was Percy who sorted things out so that presto – there was no competing butchery. And since Corker saw no boundary whatsoever between his business interests and civic matters, it was entirely natural that he should enlist Percy into this early stage of the Mayor’s campaign.

Dimple frowned. “I think I’d rather not, Corker.”

“You’d rather not? You’d rather that woman takes first blood – that she over-shadow you, right here in the middle of your town, Mr Mayor?”

Dimple replied, “This is an election and anyway, who’s going to vote for her? She’ll be lucky if she gets ten votes. And even if I condoned the…removal of her billboard, it would look like I was afraid, which I’m not. Let my record stand. I’m proud of it and she’s nothing to show. No, Corker, let this Pretender discover that it takes more than a bigger billboard to unseat someone who’s devoted his life to service.”

“Dimple, that’s a campaign speech right there and that’s why you’re the Mayor and I’m just the invisible servant. Think of me as your crutch, Dimple. No, I’ll keep Percy’s nose in the books and that’s that. But we do need a strategy meeting. As I said to Verbal only yesterday, newcomer she may be and rank outsider at that, but you and I both know why she’s standing. She’s against our coal mine, Dimple. A coal mine that will transform this town and bring wealth and jobs. And I’ve got our business partners on their way here, and what are they going to think? What’s their natural reaction when they see our business plan is the centre of unrest and disputation? They’ll be upset, and business confidence will be shaken, Dimple, and as a fellow businessman, you’ll see that we can’t have business confidence being shaken.”

Dimple did see the sense in that and wondered silently but with rising consternation, how Corker would respond when he learned that Doug Hemopo had given them the fingers. He agreed that a strategy meeting should be held forthwith, at which Corker said he’d bring in their media man, Verbal, as well as Councillor Muriel Hardacre – known as Hefty – since, being more like a bloke, the latter could be relied on to cut through the crap and to take a suitably take-no-prisoners approach to things. Dimple agreed that this was a suitable way forward.

“What about Hauptmann, Corker? Herb thinks there’s a Red Indian loose.”

“Herb’s a got a screw loose. But if you mean how will it affect the election? It will, and it won’t. And you know why, Dimple? It won’t because Hauptmann was nothing more than something-unsightly in High Street and good riddance. But it will, because you’ll be coming down hard on the law-and-order issue. You’ll turn it to your advantage. Bumbulis will say society has failed one of its own. You’ll say we need to catch and lock up the bastard who did it, before he does it again. And you know how you’ll do that? You’ll do that by pointing out that we’re fundamentally opposed to socialists who are soft on law-and-order. And do you know how the Media Man will spin that? He’ll make sure the punters see that not only have we got rid of a cunt, but we’ll catch the cunt who did it and, we won’t be distracted by cunts who want to increase hand-outs. You see? Perfect alignment with the FOKKER strategy. Votes in that, Dimple.”

At this, Corker departed to have a quick confab with the media man, and Dimple retired to his office to further consider the agenda for his first Council meeting as Mayor. But somehow, his heart wasn’t quite in it and not for the first time, he rather wished that George Pruitt had not fallen from that Queen Street bus directly in front of another. Public transport, he thought bitterly.

*

Meanwhile, in the office of the Brewster Bugle, Porterhouse Johnson bestowed a quick kiss on the cheek of the Editor, Beatrice Potts.

“Beattie,” he began, “I won’t beat around the bush. War has come to Brewster’s Neck.”

The Editor returned to her chair behind her desk because much as she liked the beekeeper’s attentions, it was after all only eleven in the morning of a working day, and it wouldn’t do to be seen in a possibly compromising situation – and because she guessed that the ‘War,’ referred to by Porterhouse, was very likely the impending Mayoral election and as a sister of the incumbent, she should begin from a neutral position.

She replied, “Come, come, Doc – a man is dead and likely murdered, and people are talking about a crimewave. That’s the big story today and I would be most remiss if I were not to devote my attention to it. You didn’t hear Pritchard? He’s using the death of Hauptmann to frighten little old ladies half to death.”

“I heard. But that’s my point. He’s made it political. He’s suggesting that only Dimple is tough on law and order. He’s suggesting that if Sarah was mayor, we’d be overrun by crime. It’s complete nonsense of course, but it’s got be resisted. And you can do that.”

“But don’t you think, ‘War’ is a bit melodramatic? After-all, how do you go to war with the GLADs. It’s an oxymoron. And really, duffer though my brother is, he’s been the Deputy Chief Duffer for so long, people think he founded the town. No, the big news today, is Hauptmann’s death. People are worried and quite rightly so. Random? Accidental?” She spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment, “What can we think? Someone living among us? Or, as our constable seems to think, a marauding Pawnee?” She widened her eyes and pulled a face, “And bows and arrows – that’s all the kids are thinking about. Cowboys and Indians have made a big come-back. This is a story with many layers, Doc, and I’d be completely failing in my duty if I didn’t give it a proper airing. Anyway, the Herald wants a piece.”

Porterhouse removed a tin of honey from his bag and placed it on the Editor’s desk. “Manuka,” he said. “Not pure of course because there’s a bit of apple blossom up the valley, but near enough.”

“You know I’ve a soft-spot for bees.”

The Campaign Manager grinned and changed tack. “Sarah Bumbulis is standing to oppose the coal mine and I’m on her side. Coal’s no good for bees, Beatts, they don’t like it. Coal’s no good for anything, but she’s up against it. And it’s not just the Mayor – it’s the Fourth Estate – at least the radio part; and it’s Pritchard, and you know what that means. How can Sarah Bumbulis hope to have a fair election when she’s up against an Establishment that’s so much in Pritchard’s pocket they’d sooner choke their own mother than upset him? She needs help.”

The Editor listened to this speech with a wry smile before replying, “Bumbulis…sounds a bit like bumblebee. No husband either…and still very pretty…”

“I’m helping because we need a new mayor.”

“Did I say I wouldn’t? I would and will, even if you hadn’t asked. But you are right about one thing. Corker Pritchard shouldn’t be allowed to run this town. But I’ve still got to prioritise – murder and then politics.”

“It’s just come to my mind that there’s an extra pot of honey in my van. I’ll go fetch it.” When he returned, he added, “Here’s a tip, madam editor. The police are doing forensics at the crime-scene today. In about an hour I’d say.” And he winked.

*

The Mayor was practicing a speech as he drove up the Ararata road. He had been practicing especially, delivering his speech with the Right Demeanour. Words were one thing, but The Right Demeanour, which was a concept the Town Clerk had no understanding of, was of paramount importance. How many times had he heard old George Pruitt make a speech that frankly, was unintelligible flannel, but because it had been delivered with the Right Demeanour, it had been greeted with enthusiasm?

“It is perfectly clear,” averred George, referring to an unpopular proposal to close the library, “that is, if all things are taken into account and considered in the way this Council has always taken all things into account, by which I mean, and all of you councillors will remember that there is a certain way in which this Council of Brewster’s Neck – we’re small but we accept that in good heart – there’s nothing to be ashamed about in being small and in point of fact, if you look at history – David and Goliath - Hillary and such-like, it’s pretty much a winning formula and that’s just one reason we’ve got to take this by the horns (banged the table with clenched fist); yes! (bangs again), by the horns, gentlemen, it’s thorny – it’s a thorny matter but we’re on top of it – this Council is on top of it. Are we on top of it? (stood with both hands resting on table). Yes, by God we are! We’ll take it by the horns and throw it on its back in a trice – are we unanimous on this? Are we of one mind? (paused to wipe his eye with handkerchief). I’m moved, gentlemen, by your unstinting support…forgive me but I’m deeply moved. Let it be entered in the minutes that the Mayor was momentarily overcome by the unanimity of spirit and purpose, once again shown by this Council.”

Yes, reflected Dimple Potts, old George Pruitt knew that how he made a speech counted for far more than what he said. Gravity tinged with manly emotion – worked like a charm for old Georgy, despite his unprepossessing, balding head.

The speech that the Mayor was about to make to Doug Hemopo, should, he decided, be good humoured – even a touch light-hearted, albeit serious. Bonhomie was the concept. ‘We’re all in this together…’ The Right Demeanour was something that only the seasoned politician properly understood and indeed, in the Mayor’s view, elections could be won or lost by even quite subtle variations in the Right Demeanour.

Though their acquaintance was slight, the Mayor liked Doug well enough. He admired his technical expertise and was pleased that Doug maintained Council equipment and machinery. Doug had long since proven that he was a safe pair of hands, albeit that he was also a Pet Killer. But truly? Was it Doug’s fault that people were daft enough to make a pet of a goddamn sheep! At the approach of an unmanned grass cutter, any real sheep would have run for its life – but no. The sheep had proven the adage – a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Well, there was a lesson in that.

Returning to the Right Demeanour vis-à-vis Doug and the coal, he decided it should also be confident and self-assured…with perhaps a hint of humility – as if to say, ‘Of course, it’s self-evident that the coal mine should be gotten underway, as quickly as possible. But then, it was a tragedy – a goddamn tragedy that a single tree must be removed…’ no, that was a tad too strong. The Mayor reformulated this idea: ‘It’s a pity, Doug, that we have to dig coal in this day-and-age and honestly speaking, if there was any other way, as Mayor, I’d embrace it with both hands. You and me – we’d find another way if it possibly existed, but sometimes, one’s hands are tied, and one has to bite the bullet – for the Greater Good – and as men-of-the-world we both understand that.’ The Mayor mused that the Greater Good was an excellent idea, which when combined with the Right Demeanour made an enormous amount of Common Sense. This was the thing about politics. By combining the Greater Good with Common Sense, and then communicating it with the Right Demeanour, why, an astute politician could persuade new mums that their Plunket nurse was a dangerous reactionary.

This train of thought engendered in the Mayor an increasing confidence that all would be well. He parked his car outside the gate to the Hemopo property and allowed a suitable period, during which he shuffled various important files into and out of his brief case. Then he exited the car and let himself through the gate.

‘Stilts,’ he thought bemusedly as three children moved quickly around the side of the house, ‘like a bloody circus.’

“Good exercise, I’ll bet,” he said to Doug cheerfully, but then with sudden earnestness, which one might expect of a busy Mayor, “Wonderful thing to see kids having fun and exercise. So many parents, Doug, don’t understand what you so clearly do – that we’ve got to get kids out-and-about. Lazy little tykes. Not their fault though.” Then, with an expression that indicated both admiration and inspiration, “By God, we should get you up to the school – with your stilts. Get a movement started.”

Noting that Doug apparently was not going to engage on the subject of stilts and tykes, the Mayor assumed a grave and yet light-hearted disposition, “But you know I haven’t come to admire those stilts.”

Doug agreed that he guessed the Mayor had other business.

“I do, Doug. So, I’ll come straight to the point. We’ve a lot on our plates and as you’ll guess, me, as the new mayor having to step straight into the shoes of good old George – I’ve a lot on my plate…” The Mayor shook his head with a wry smile that indicated the magnitude of the tasks he confronted but at the same time, how willing he was to tackle them all – head-on. “And in this context, Doug, and not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t mind saying that your letter, which I received in my new capacity…”

“Congratulations, Dimple.”

“Yes, well, we do what we must. Step up to the plate, Doug. If the call comes, a man stands up – you’d do the same. But the thing is this, Doug…wheels are in motion. Plans are advanced, and people are raring to go. Excitement! My goodness, the whole town’s excited and raring to go. The coal mine I mean. And then your letter – I don’t mind saying I was perplexed. But then I thought, letters! Of course – lost in translation as they say, and before you know it, slight misunderstandings can so easily occur, and that’s why I’ve popped out to see you. Face-to-face!” The Mayor paused to nod and make that expression that said, ‘By golly, face-to-face is the only way!’ Then, and despite Hemopo’s rather impassive expression, he pushed on. “I know you appreciate how important that coal is to Brewster’s Neck. The economy – jobs and all that. New life for our town, Doug and that’s all to the good…the Greater Good, you might say. So, I’m thinking perhaps – and I’m reading between the lines (the mayor chuckled) – that you didn’t quite see exactly what needs to be done and so forth – and the benefits – my goodness! The benefits? Where does one begin. Just like your inventions, I’d say. Oodles of benefits, when one strikes out into new ground – innovation and so forth – you do it all the time. Anyway, I thought to myself, ‘I’ll just pop out to see Doug. Face-to-face and man-to-man – always the best way forward. I thought, a quick chat, clear everything up, confirm that we’re all onboard and I can report back to Council accordingly.”

Doug listened to this speech politely and thoughtfully at his ear. “You know, Dimple, I thought about the plan quite a bit. I discussed it with Viola, and Sarah…and I can see there’s jobs in it alright…but I can also see that coal is not a future business.”

“But it is, Doug!” the Mayor interjected firmly but with enthusiasm, “and I guessed that might be the problem. A coal mine – a modern coal mine that is, is exactly about the future of our community – a community of which you are a part, Doug. Think about that. Think about how the community will think about one of their own, who blocked its future…it wouldn’t think kindly, and who could be surprised? Not you or me! A man should be able to hold a contrary opinion, he should – but sometimes one’s hands are tied, and common sense must prevail. And in this case, when you think about those kids, our kids who need jobs, and their families…employment, Doug, that’s the thing. Lifeblood of any town, employment, and God knows, if I thought there was any other way, you know me – I’d be the first to say so. You know that. But here we are, folk moving away, shops closing, rates down and they’ll have to rise if we can’t staunch the flow, mark my words, and then this coal appears – fortuitous, Doug, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Problem solved. Investment, growth, jobs and the situation saved.” The Mayor beamed, “We should be grateful! I’m grateful! In our hour of need, Doug, we’ve been favoured by Fortune. And Corker – we should be grateful we’ve got a leading businessman who understands how to get these things rolling. Even as we speak, wheels are in motion. Top people are planning and getting things organised. It’s wonderful!”

Doug gazed in the direction of the hill that is Brewster’s Neck and not for the first time, wondered why the power pylons had to go right over the top of the only decent hill hereabouts, before he replied, “I know what you’re saying, Mr Mayor, but I’m against it and that’s all I can say.”

The Mayor was stunned. “What?” Momentarily, he wondered if he’d underdone that part of the Right Demeanour that suggested humility but decided he hadn’t. Perhaps he needed to amplify sheer disbelief and astonishment. He continued, “You’re against it? Bugger me, Doug, that’s hard. That’s hard on the community – all those kids – maybe yours too, who won’t get those jobs and will have to go off to take their chances in Auckland or some other forsaken place. That’s a hard position you’re taking, and why? It’s not much we’re asking – just to put a short piece of road through to the coal – and where you’d never even notice. Right out the back. It’s not much for the community to ask, is it? And now, you’re asking me to go back to Council and say you’re against it – against our town it looks like? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Don’t like to put you in a difficult spot, but that’s how it is.”

At this point, the Mayor revised his opinion about Doug, and decided he didn’t like him. It was perfectly clear the man was a FOKKER. Verbal was right. Doug was a FOKKER with a capital ‘C.’ He thought desperately, and then proposed, “Ok…ok…let’s calm down. What about I tell the Council you need a bit more time, to mull it over? Maybe some more information? I could get you some more information. You could meet with Green Power – what about that? Meet with the top men? You could talk price, Doug.” He fixed Doug with a most meaningful gaze, “I could put in a word…”

Doug shook his head. “Wouldn’t make any difference.”

The Mayor rose from his seat on Doug’s veranda and noticed that Viola was listening to the discussion through her kitchen window. He did not return her cheerful smile, largely because he was striving to see how he might modify the Right Demeanour to salvage what appeared to be heading rapidly toward disaster. Hard-ball…the Mayor decided that he needed to indicate that wheels-in-motion were not about to be stalled by one difficult son-of-a-bitch – but without creating an enemy of Hemopo – though he clearly was. “I must say I’m buggered, Doug. This is so completely unexpected…I really, honestly thought, man-to-man, coming out here that we’d sort it out in no time. So be it. I’ve tried and I hope that you’ll give me a call later. But one thing, Doug, I hate to say this but…I’d expect the Council will think about who does all its maintenance. And Mr Pritchard…he’ll likely do the same.” He paused but when there was no response, he said, “Good day.”

Doug watched him hurry to his car, bang the car door and then accelerate noisily down the Ararata Road.

“Viola,” he said with surprise, “I think the Mayor just threatened me.”

“He did seem cross,” she replied. “That coal…trouble brewing, I’d say.”

“Yep. But I’ve got more important things to do. I’m assembling a leg. Making good progress.” And Doug Hemopo hastened to his workshop. Shortly, as he employed his arc welder on the prototype leg, he’d forgotten all about coal.

Meanwhile, the Mayor, who was fuming and fulminating as he drove rapidly down the road came up on a pukeko that took awkward flight directly into his path and straight down the road, at no more and no less than at the level of the Mayor’s vision. The Mayor was infuriated that the large and clumsy swamp hen, with its gangling red legs didn’t veer to the left or right. “Hemopo!” He shouted angrily and accelerated. “Goddamn it!” He added, as the terrified pukeko released its business that hit the car’s windscreen like a pot of white paint, and then dived over the fence into the dense green raupo.

*

At the scene of the crime an altercation was taking place, on account of the fact that the police, in the form of Constable Hikaka, had cordoned off the scene and that scene was the front door to Uppercutz, which meant, as Taylor Palomino complained, was buggering her business since customers couldn’t get in and besides, the reputation of Uppercutz was being damaged by everyone seeing that her shop was a murder scene. Indeed, even as this discussion was taking place, heated on the one side and typically affable but firm on the other, a small crowd, comprising the two salesgirls from Witherspoon’s Classic fashions; young Marty Clatworthy, whose grandfather Farsical had said on radio would have no job if the coal mine didn’t go ahead; the postie Muzza Potross lounging on his bike; and a snuffling bulldog by the name of Nostradamus, but who was more generally known as Nostril, and who belonged to lawyer Moot Masters; stood attentively outside the cordon listening and watching with great interest.

“I know what you’re saying Taylor,” said Herb patiently, “but police work is police work. Certain things must be done. Police protocols, they’re called, and one of them is cordoning off the crime scene until proper forensics have been done, and that’s my job today. And the thing is, if I get on with it without unnecessary delay, I would be finished sooner, and the cordon would be lifted.”

“Anybody knows that,” contributed the postie.

The owner of Uppercutz replied “Shut-up Muzza!” and frowned fiercely but since she could see she was up against an immovable force, threw up her hands, huffed and turning on her heel disappeared around the side of her salon. At this, one of the salesgirl’s reminded the other that they’d better get back before Mr Witherspoon appeared and they hurried across the road, saying how blimin exciting it was to have something happen in Brewster’s Neck. And that left Marty, Muzza and Nostril as the only observers of the police in action carrying out forensics with the Police Magnifying Device, from Police Regional HQ. Until Nostril decided to relieve himself against the nearest of Herb’s stakes, at which Herb’s swinging boot reduced the crowd to two.

The thing was, that the PMD soon disclosed to the Police a very interesting clue, which caused Herb to grunt and sit for a few moments with his back to Uppercutz, and then to say, “Well, well…”

Naturally, the death of Hauptmann, though tragic in one sense, to a police officer, and particularly to a police officer in Brewster’s Neck, was a dream come true. The most noteworthy recent case had involved burglary, some two, or was it three years ago, when Herb had ultimately established that Verucca Potross had been stealing from herself, evidently to inject some excitement into her life. When confronted with the facts, she had insisted he handcuff her and drag her down High Street to the jail. Herb advised her gently that first, it wasn’t a crime to steal one’s own belongings; second, the town didn’t have a jail and third, he wouldn’t drag her anywhere for any reason. Afterwards, he had facilitated her joining the Volunteer Fire Brigade as a tea person and apparently, she had considerably quietened down.

The case of Homeless Hauptmann was very different. There was a corpse and the fact of violent death by arrow. There was the question of motive and suspects, of which, depending on how you looked at it, there none and many. There was the need to liaise with Regional HQ, which he suspected had forgotten that he was on the payroll. Indeed, just this Monday, Herb met with the Regional Commissioner for the first time.

“I’ll need to assign a detective,” said the Regional Commissioner, “But we’re stretched right now. Minor crimewave in Auckland. Still, people in the country need to know they’re no less important. They’re not, but we can’t say that. Hauptmann, you say? What is he, or was he? Teacher? Businessman – helps to justify allocating resources if we know the deceased had some standing.”

“Rudolph Hauptmann,” Herb responded, “Mostly known as Homeless Hauptmann. He was our social problem. Harmless enough.”

“Homeless?” The Regional Commissioner narrowed his gaze and rubbed his nose. “Unemployed?”

Herb nodded.

The Regional Commissioner continued, “Hardly warrants a disproportionate response, does it? Can you handle it? In the initial stages I mean? Be a big help if I didn’t have to pull someone.”

Though he disagreed in principle with the allocation of resources on such an arbitrary basis, Herb was pleased to assure the Regional Commissioner that he had commenced the investigation and if he could just borrow the PMD for a bit, he was confident he could move things along pretty quickly. The Regional Commissioner reflected for a moment and said that the PMD was still in Taupo but added that they’d had it long enough, and frankly, he’d lost interest in a case involving a sighting of a zonkey that seemed to be leading nowhere, so he’d get it sent over. “A zonkey,” he added by way of explanation, is a cross between a zebra and a donkey. I ask you, when did zebras come to Taupo?”

Herb said that he found that a bit far-fetched also.

“Do you know, constable, that horses have more teeth than brain? Scientific fact. Easy to imagine it could mistake a zebra for a horse – that’d be a zorse. But the blokes down in Taupo are adamant a donkey was involved.”

The Regional Commissioner and Herb agreed that a donkey was likely as dumb as a horse and therefore, might easily, in the heat of the moment, overlook the stripes.

In any event, Herb was well pleased with the outcome of this meeting. Not that he was bothered, but he understood that he had probably peaked as a hooker. On the other hand, he’d never had the chance to do so as a detective and he was determined to solve Hauptmann’s case. He felt some sympathy for his colleagues in Taupo.

*

Later that afternoon, on the veranda of Corker Pritchard’s palatial residence behind security gates outside the town, a hastily called strategy meeting was underway.

“Verbal,” said the owner of Radio Brewster, “I want you to provide the words for a new billboard – a bigger billboard – to Percy, by no later than two o’clock, and Percy’ll have that billboard up by morning. I leave that wording up to you – no, Dimple – I know you’d like to contribute and quite right too – but Verbal’s the media man and knows what to do in a way we don’t.” Corker turned to Percival Pritchard, who bore no physical resemblance to his older brother whatsoever, such that more than once people had speculated that the Pritchard dam had been seeded by different stallions altogether. Where Corker was plump, fair, florid and of a jovial disposition; Percy was lean, dark, taciturn and frankly of a menacing disposition. Which supposition was entirely accurate since when he wasn’t keeping the books of the Pritchard business empire, based largely on the very successful ‘Forest Flavours,’ Percy made sure that nothing, outside of death and taxes, interfered with that business success. Which is why, not only was there no other butchery within thirty kilometres and likely soon, within forty; there was also just one pub, one greengrocer and one petrol station.

“Take care of it,” agreed Percy mildly. “Should the other billboard disappear?”

“No, Percy, it shouldn’t,” retorted the Mayor.

“The Mayor wouldn’t have it any other way, Percy. Matter of principle – democracy and all that. Now, Hefty, I’m thinking we need a town hall – a platform for the Mayor to lay out policy and plans. We can use the Bughouse. Tea and scones sponsored by the Mayor.”

Hefty Hardacre moved her heftiness a little and replied, “No problem, Corker,” and he knew it wouldn’t be.

There followed some brief discussion about time and place for the hustings, in which Dimple’s suggestion that the fair thing would be to employ an Emcee from out-of-town, was waved away by Corker as ‘dangerous shenanigans,’ adding that “Our own media man, Verbal is the perfect choice.”

That business settled, Verbal said he had received some not-so-good news. He said that he’d received a reply to his email proposing that Mr Hoffman might like to be patron of their campaign.

“Well,” demanded Corker, “What did he say?”

“Wasn’t him of course. That’s the problem. You never get past their agent, so you’d never know what he thought – just what the agent thinks. It’s false pretences.”

“Well, what did the agent think?”

“The agent said he had no interest in our campaign and didn’t like what we stand for, and he was disappointed that a good movie should be associated with us.”

“Cunt. There you have it straight-off. Man’s a cunt. I never thought much of Meet the Fokkers, anyway. And I’ll tell you what else – we had Fokker Friendships flying the length and breadth of this country before he was born.”

*

The following morning, Dimple Potts stared with mixed feelings at the new billboard by the park. Near twice the size of his opponent’s, it carried the blunt message, ‘Vote Dimple Potts – your Friendly FOKKER.’ The large photograph though, did give him the appearance of imposing stature. His phone rang.

Corker Pritchard said, “Dammit, Dimple, some prick’s vandalised the town’s emblem. Tied the mouth shut and stolen the pizzel. You’re the Mayor – what are you going to do about it?”

The Mayor replied that he would have to give that some thought but reminded Corker that the Council had not yet adopted the stag as the emblem of Brewster’s Neck, so, strictly speaking, it wasn’t a matter for the Mayor or the Council. Perhaps it was a matter for the Police? This provoked an angry denunciation of the Council and disappointment that the Mayor couldn’t be relied on to support a businessman who was trying to advance the town’s prospects, and out of his own pocket. It made a man wonder whether he’d backed the wrong horse. In fact, Corker observed, it made a man wonder if the horse was a bloody Shetland pony.

The Mayor promised to investigate the matter.

*

It is well-known that inventors may be eccentric people. Nikola Tesla, for example, the laboratory assistant to Thomas Edison, was obsessed with the number ‘3’ and consequently walked three times around a building before entering it; and who used eighteen napkins at each evening meal. Or, Paul Erdős, the mathematician who would arrive unexpectedly on the doorstep of friends and acquaintances, suitcase in hand, to declare, ‘My brain is open,’ and stay, working furiously for two days until presumably, his brain was closed.

But these are mild forms of eccentricity compared to many others, including the Soviet biologist, Ivan Ivanov, who attempted to inseminate Soviet women with the semen from chimpanzees…or the renowned scientist, Empedocles, who jumped into the active volcano, Mt Etna to prove, by jumping out unscathed that he was a god. He did not.

It is evident, that considering one’s children as progressively improved versions, and being a habitual user of stilts, is a very mild form of eccentricity; although the characteristic that Doug Hemopo did share with many other inventors, was an obsessive enthusiasm for the task at hand.

His meeting with the Mayor regarding the road to coal mining riches, long forgotten, in the workshop of inventor Doug Hemopo, a silent circle comprising Mark One to Mark Four, observed the fitting of the new position-sensing servomotors.

“What’ll that do, Dad?”

“Mark Two, this servomotor controls the limbs and movement potential of this machine. Without this servomotor, this machine wouldn’t move properly. It would be jerky, and it would look clumsy. But with this, it will look smooth.”

“I knew that, Dad.”

“I knew you did, Mark One, and that’s because you’re older and you’ve had more learning experiences. That’s how it works. You know more than Mark Two, but he knows more than Mark Three, and Mark Four knows least. But mind out that Mark Four has the advantage of improvements. So, you’d better keep up or she’ll overtake you.”

Doug Hemopo peered at his plans, comprising many sheets of dense and complicated symbols, lines and illustrations. Plans that had required many months of painstaking invention and thought and re-drawing a hundred or so times at that. But here it was, a damn big robot taking shape at the top of the Ararata Road by Brewster’s Neck – a town where violent death had occurred, a mayoral election was about to take place, and a proposed coal mine behind Doug’s own land was about to become a central election issue.

“What are you going to do with the machine, Dad?”

“I’ve already told you,” said Mark One to Mark Three. “Dad’s going to do Star Wars.”

“Nope, Mark One. I was just kidding. I’m building New Zealand’s largest robot, because someone else built the world’s largest robot – in Japan. Here…” And Doug opened his laptop to show his various Marks, the towering Japanese robot. “It’s too big. I don’t have enough material to build a robot this big. But isn’t that beautiful, kids? Look at those legs – and arms.” Doug shook his head in admiration and first Mark One shook his head, and then Mark Two and then Three, who looked at Mark Four whilst shaking his head until the small girl also shook her head.

“Are you going to build it like that, Dad? With legs and arms, and a big head?”

“My robot is going to look like this.” And pulling out a large sheet, Doug pointed to the diagram, which showed very long arms but a small torso that also doubled as a ‘head,’ in which could be seen the depiction of a man. “My robot is not going to be fully automated. That’ll come later. This is Robot Mark One – I don’t mean you, Mark One – and I’ll be controlling it here, in this capsule. But when I get to Mark Four-”

“That’s me.”

“Yes, like you lass, but much bigger, and no-one at the controls. That’s my aim. But this one – well, I won’t have enough brainpower in this one, so I have to drive it.”

“It’s pretty big, Dad.”

“Yep, it’s big, Mark Three. Bigger than the house.”

Mark One whistled and Mark Two did a spontaneous jig.

“When’re you going to start it up, Dad?”

Doug frowned and looked out the window and then replied, “I’m thinking it’ll be ready in about two weeks. I’m nearly at final assembly. I just have to pick up the engine – over in Te Kuiti. It’s got to have a diesel – well this one does. Later, I’ll go all-electric – but this one will need diesel power.”

Mark One moved closer to Doug and placed his hand lightly on Doug’s arm, who seemed not to notice and Mark One seemed to be unconscious of his gesture also. But Mark Two noticed and he also placed his hand on Doug’s arm, and then Mark Three and finally Mark Four. Doug regarded his various Marks with affection. “This is a new learning experience, kids. This robot is my prototype. That means that I’ll test systems and gear and when we know how it goes, we’ll refine the design until it’s a whizzer.”

“A whizzer!” echoed Mark Three and beamed.

“Yep. And then we’ll be thinking about how we can do stuff – like picking up logs or walking into unsecure sites. That means a place that’s dangerous for us humans because of radiation or something. Poisonous gas leaks. Then a big robot could just go on in and do useful stuff when otherwise we’d all die.”

Mark Two did another jig and Mark One said, “That’s so cool, Dad. Nobody else’s Dad is making a roboman!”

“Well, Mark One, that’s because other people’s dads and mums are doing other important stuff. Lawyers, nurses, the Mayor…the baker…they’re all doing important stuff. I’m just more interested in robots.” Doug heard a voice calling. “Dinner,” he said. “Your Mum’s calling you for dinner. Hop to it.” He watched them hop out the door, grinning back at the creator (and very mild eccentric) of Brewster’s Neck’s first roboman.

*

Politics is another thing altogether. While eccentricity is not unknown, and unusual behaviour is commonplace, politicians in general do not invent anything other than an image of themselves quite at odds with their true character. However, as is the case in every area of human endeavour, there are notable exceptions and in Brewster’s Neck, that exception is Sarah Bumbulis.

“Bother,” said Candidate Bumbulis to herself. She held in her hands a flyer than had been poked through the letter slot in her door. The flyer boasted a large photograph of Dimple Potts with the slogan, ‘Your Mayor and Friendly Fokker!’ Inside, it listed the reasons why Dimple Potts was the best choice for Brewster’s Neck – due to his huge experience in civic office, much of which had been as Deputy Mayor, his humanity, intelligence, good humour, love of children and pets, charitable good works and exemplary personal hygiene. Who else knew as much about civil administration? Who else had helped to lead Brewster’s Neck towards prosperity? Who else understood farmers and contractors the way Dimple Potts assuredly did? And then the flyer reminded the voter of Brewster’s Neck that no-one could be complacent.  It was a fact that the town needed a stronger future and who could have a stronger vision than the man whose vast experience was now available to all, through the seat of Mayor, which Dimple Potts had already shown he fitted like a hand in a glove? And what business opportunity was Dimple Potts already planning to make real for the citizens of Brewster’s Neck? It was a HIGHLY SUSTAINABLE coal mine. A joint venture with a leading and very experienced Aussie company called, ‘Green Power,’ that guaranteed wealth for all in Brewster’s Neck. A venture that guaranteed a bright future for the likes of Marty Clatworthy, right here in our town. And yet, there were those who would stand in the way of progress. Who would be GLAD for Brewster’s Neck to fall on hard times and for Marty to have to trail off to some distant and awful future in a distant and awful city, that was opposed to farmers like our own Vascular Adams, for example? There were those, who would take precious rate-payers money and hand it over to those who made no effort to help themselves…these people, the flyer thundered, were GLAD and that’s why they had to be opposed by the FOKKERS. The Friendly FOKKERS – led by Dimple Potts!

On the last page of this campaign piece, there was an invitation to all voters of Brewster’s Neck, to come to the Community Hall to hear the actual Mayor, Dimple Potts, outline his exciting plan for our town. ‘And perhaps,’ the flyer concluded, ‘the GLADs might show their faces, to explain why they oppose common sense.’

Sarah felt indignation and anxiety together and lost interest in her bowl of muesli. She called her campaign manager, Porterhouse Johnson and asked if he had seen the flyer. He had. “What should I do?” She demanded, “That flyer cost a lot of money.”

“Don’t worry. You see, they’ve shown their hand. Now we can prepare your flyer to counter theirs. There’s nothing in that flyer but hot air and scare-tactics. Your flyer will state the facts. I’ve got Misery McNab working on it as we speak. I gave Misery your manifesto and said, write it up, once the Enemy’s shown its hand. Misery will be on it right this minute. Don’t you worry, Candidate Bumbulis, all is in hand.”

Candidate Bumbulis was greatly reassured, though embarrassed to hear her thoughts described as a manifesto; and slightly dubious about Fred McNab, who was a hermit, almost, who wrote poetry – that as far as she knew, was never published. Still, if her Campaign Manager had confidence, that was fine. People liked her billboard, even though that of her opponent was larger. People had said things like, “I like your slogan, Ms Bumbulis (or Sarah, depending on their degree of familiarity). It’s nice to be ‘glad,” And some went so far as to say that they didn’t like the slogan of Mayor Potts. “It doesn’t sound right, to me. ‘Fokkers.’ It’s got a hard sound. It doesn’t sound as friendly as ‘Glad,’ even though they say it’s friendly. You shouldn’t have to say you’re friendly. Either you are, or you aren’t. That’s my opinion.”

But then one or two had said things like, “The Glad’s will be Fokked – you’ll see.” And comments of this kind were accompanied by an unkind smirk.

In any event, that very evening after she had closed the bakery, Porterhouse Johnson came by with the draft Bumbulis flyer.

They sat at her kitchen table and she read the flyer and smiled with relief. She made one or two suggestions, which were noted. “It’s very good. I wish I’d said that.”

“Oh, but you did, Candidate Bumbulis.”

“Why don’t you say, Sarah?”

“Because, we’re in Election Mode and that means we must adopt certain, protocols. We’re in lock-down, Candidate Bumbulis. We’re planning and preparing. The Enemy has shown his hand and now we’ll smite him with ours.”

Candidate Bumbulis wondered silently how she, the baker and erstwhile entomologist would smite anything. “The flyer is great – but it doesn’t look like a flyer. Not like theirs.”

The Campaign Manager, tapped his nose. “By tomorrow, it will look better than theirs.”

“But where’s the money coming from? I suppose I can help, but I don’t have much. The bakery’s not a money machine.”

“Don’t you worry, Candidate Bumbulis. It’s taken care of. A benefactor, but a secret benefactor. Just leave it to me.”

Candidate Bumbulis expressed her gratitude and said she was very glad the flyer didn’t talk about her personal hygiene or her love of children. Her campaign manager said that was because the Candidate was a person-of-principle, which caused the person-of-principle to blush.

“I’m really not a politician, am I?”

The Campaign Manager regarded her shrewdly. “Would that there were more like you,” he replied and then on finishing his cup of tea and the doughnut the Candidate had saved for him, the Campaign Manager took his leave, with his parting words, “So much to do, Mayor Bumbulis!”

*

And it did! Candidate Bumbulis was astonished and very pleased. The flyer that was being delivered all over Brewster’s Neck, looked, she felt, quite wonderful. Fred McNab had taken her list of reasons to be GLAD,’ and turned them into a proper list of ‘Reasons to be GLAD, with Candidate Sarah Bumbulis – your future Mayor!’

“Did you say all this?” Enquired Jacko. “Cripes, boss, you’re a bit of a brainbox. But I always said it.”

The baker grinned as she loaded a tray of sourdough into the oven and closed the door. Wiping her forehead with her apron she replied, “I kind of said this, Jacko. I mean, this is what I think, but Fred certainly has a way with words. I’m not sure I could’ve written this flyer – well, not as professionally as this. I am just the baker!”

Jacko, who had been the baker’s assistant since Edgars had first opened ‘Bread & Butter,’ shook his head. “Nope, you ain’t just a baker. And mind you, being the baker is a big thing. A damned big thing, to my way of thinking. No-one else in this town could do what you do here, and you not even a trained baker when you had to take over. You’re a smart lady, and I’ve always said it. And this flyer just proves it. And I can tell you, I could’ve thought the coal mine was a brainy idea, what with jobs and all that. But when I read what you said, I can see that it ain’t. I can see what you mean when you said it was like going back to the Dark Ages. And I can see that having some experts helping our town is a more brainier idea than those Fokkers.” Jacko hauled a tray of baguettes onto the table, “Yep. I think you’ve got more brains than any of ‘em.”

Sarah laughed, “Thanks, Jacko. I keep wondering whether I’m mad, but it really helps when I hear folk agree, in principle at least. And whether I’m right or wrong, it seems very important to me, that at least we talk about whether it’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, well, principal’s important. My Dad was always going on about building your principal. He’d say, ‘Jacko, look after your principal, and the interest’ll look after you.’ That’s what he said. So, I expect it’s the same in politics and that.”

The candidate Bumbulis grinned and said that Jacko’s Dad was certainly on the right track and offered to put the kettle on for a cup of tea, before they began the batch of wholemeal barracudas.

Sometimes, the baker Bumbulis reflected on where she had come to, and it seemed a rather peculiar road she had travelled. Sometimes she posed the rhetorical question, ‘Did you ever expect to fetch up here?’ And then she would ponder the fates and whether she would have preferred something else. But other than the wistfulness she allowed when she remembered Edgars, she was not hostage to regret. Edgars had been an energetic and funny man and it seemed reasonable to miss him, from time to time. She had never met anyone who could mime – who had? When she first saw him, he had been miming a banker. He caught her eye and she knew he was extending the mime to entertain her. She asked, ‘Why a banker?’ and he replied, ‘I assume you have never applied for a loan.’ She hadn’t. He was an excellent baker and she had been surprised how much she had enjoyed learning the trade. That hadn’t been the plan, though. She was going to continue to do research but somehow, she hadn’t been able to find quite the right place. She thought her chances best in New Zealand. They weren’t. They thought to settle in Auckland but then, on a weekend trip they paused in Brewster’s Neck and Edgards noticed that the bakery was boarded up. That was that. Then he decided to build a barn – and that was that.

*

‘But what of the Fourth Estate? That truly vital organ and lubricant of a properly functioning democracy – rigorously objective, independent and bi-partisan. Unconcerned with ego, the modern journalist is a selfless purveyor of truth – an invisible messenger dedicated to the public good.’ So wrote Millicent Clatworthy in the introduction of her school essay, ‘Democracy in Action.’ Her teacher awarded the grade ‘A+’ and wondered wistfully, how long it would be for her student to be disabused, and then noting the time to be nine, set aside her pile of yet to be marked essays and switched her radio to station Radio Brewster.

“Have your say, before the other bastardo says it for you,” cried the celebrity host. “Yes, folks, you’ll get the chance to hear Mighty Mayor Potts, and to ask him questions, which we all know, he’ll answer with his usual courtesy and frankness. But what will his opponent say? Will it be another mean and vicious attack, such as we’ve seen in her campaign literature – or should I say, her campaign toilet paper. Ha! Ha! But seriously, you can have your say, twice – right now and then again, on the hustings. And remember, this is politics and that means the gloves are off. This is about your future and mine. This is about safe hands – the hands of our Majestic Mayor, Dimple Potts. This is about opposing – fundamentally opposing – the GLADS – who are the Climate Changers, Aucklanders, Experts, Rivers and Socialists. And if you were to think of one word that might save you the trouble of spelling out just what they are – you’d come up with…FOKKERS! And I’m not talking about a dumb movie – no sir! I’m talking about the friendly Fokkers, led by Doughty Dimple Potts and supported by our renowned entrepreneur, Corker Pritchard…”

The school teacher in her empty classroom, and Candidate Sarah Bumbulis listened to ‘Have Your Say’ with sinking hearts. They listened to caller after caller – Farsical Clatworthy, Ted Potross, Verruca Potross, Moot Masters and others, say why they thought Mayor Potts was the common-sense option. Even when they said that they liked their baker, Sarah Bumbulis, which they did; compared to the Mayor, she’d no experience and anyway, there she was calling on ‘experts,’ which was exactly what the FOKKERS opposed. And much as they liked her, what did she really know about coal? Not much, it seemed, except that it was good for the Aussies and the Chinese but not for our town. Which was fine, if you had a bakery and could live off others quite comfortably, since everyone needed bread.

“I have to say, I couldn’t agree more,” replied Verbal, “It does make you wonder if there’s super profits being taken off the citizens of Brewster’s Neck. Not saying there is, but you, common sense listeners and voters, you’ve asked the question and perhaps answers should be sought – just to keep things clean and above board…”

Candidate Bumbulis turned the radio off and sat alone in her small living room behind the shop and felt two things. She felt uncertain and she felt determined at the same moment. She felt uncertain about what lay in front of her but determined also, to stand her ground. She glanced at her speech notes and pulled a face. She glanced at the wall-clock for the tenth time this morning. Six hours to go…

The thing about politics, she told herself, is that one must give voice to one’s opinions in a very public way. One could, and generally did, express certain opinions, but though one might expect to defend an opinion, one didn’t normally expect to have that opinion judged in the court of public opinion. That is what she had let herself in for, and it was a very odd and unfamiliar notion, because she was not an opinionated person. But did it matter? Were her views about life, community and a coal mine of lesser merit than those of Dimple Potts? She felt not. They were simply different. Was she not motivated to be helpful to her fellow citizens? She knew she was. It was certainly true that she was not setting out to be a politician and the office of the mayor held no particular appeal. Her goal was simply to ensure that an alternative perspective was articulated – indeed, championed.

At these thoughts, she felt encouraged. Of course, the entire town might vote against her. So be it. If the town was determined to have a coal mine, then it would – she would have tried. But she also knew that there were some who had real misgivings about the Mayor’s plan – and some who liked that she was standing. That was another thing about politics. People wanted to trust someone. And if people wanted to trust Sarah Bumbulis, then she must make sure that they never felt their trust was misplaced.

She sat back in her chair and for some time, pondered the ordeal ahead but she did not feel afraid. At length, she glanced at her list of questions. The first read, ‘Who are you, Sarah Bumbulis?’ The second read, ‘What should anyone listen to you?’ And the third read, ‘If you don’t want a coal mine, what do you want?’ There were several questions in a similar vein, all of them formulated by her Campaign Manager. And then there was a list of Key Points, which she had prepared. The first of these, she regarded to be her principal plank. It read, ‘Before we agree to a coal mine, shouldn’t we take the time to see if we cannot find a better and cleaner future for our town?’

The thing was, if Dimple Potts agreed with this standpoint, then she would have no platform and her campaign would be instantly deflated. She would have no cause. And the second thing was, that that would be a splendid outcome, since other perspectives would then be considered, and she could step back from the fray. There was nothing to fear. She would make her case and then it was up to her fellow citizens to make up their own minds. And if they decided for Dimple, well, she would return with pleasure, to her bakery and her books.

She stared at the first question again and smile came to her lips. ‘Who are you Sarah Bumbulis?’ She murmured, “A completely mad woman who doesn’t know politics from porridge…c’est vrai…” She tapped her pencil on the paper and then in a deep voice said, “And tell us candidate Bumbulis, why should anyone listen to you?” Candidate Bumbulis considered for a moment and fixing the Emcee with a hard stare replied, “Because I’m a baker, Mister Pritchard, and everyone knows that while you can’t buy happiness, you can buy a chocolate muffin.” (enthusiastic audience applause and even foot-stamping)

“Very droll, I’m sure, Candidate Bumbulis, very deep…very philosophical, but let’s get down to the nitty gritty…if you don’t want a coal mine, what do you want?”

Candidate Bumbulis smiles sweetly, “I’m really just like everyone else, Mister Pritchard, I want a holiday – a long one – with white sand and palm trees and handsome chaps bringing me a cocktail or two.”

Candidate Bumbulis put on the jug to boil. “I jolly well would!” She said as she spooned tea into her teapot. Then she returned to the table, took up her pen, glanced again at the questions and began to write furiously. Five hours to go…

*

Verbal Pritchard signed off ‘Have Your Say,’ and paused in front of the large mirror fixed to the studio door and smiled. It was a slightly lopsided smile that suggested slight self-deprecation and a willingness to have sex. It was the smile he regularly practiced with Taylor Palomino. He touched the left side of his bouffant hair and was satisfied. It sat up in a most vigorous way and was so cool that really, he wondered why he hadn’t gone into modelling. He would have, if his uncle Corker hadn’t decided that he needed a radio station in Brewster’s Neck. Who knew how successful Verbal might have been in the city – with his undeniable array of talents? He smiled again and thought it came a little too close to a smirk. It would not do for the Emcee of a major political debate, to appear to be smirking. He required a little more boyish earnestness but tinged with worldliness. But earnestness was not an expression that came easily. It required practice. Her devoted several minutes to being earnest and was satisfied. He was in fact a natural actor and it was a shame he hadn’t headed in that direction. Who knew where he might be now? LA?

Verbal sauntered downstairs and loitered, as he always did, on the street outside Radio Brewster.

“Heard you today, Mr Pritchard. Wonderful show. It always is!”

Affecting a quizzical expression, Verbal pretended he didn’t immediately recognise Jackie Morpeth. “Thanks. Thanks a lot…”

“Jackie Morpeth, Mr Pritchard. And about the stag? I agree with you. That person who called and said it was…crude, well, I don’t think it’s crude. I liked the way you said it was like a Force of Nature. And of course, stag’s have…things.”

“They do, Jackie. It’s Nature’s way, and why would we turn away from Nature? Can’t pretend now, can we?”

“You made it sound so…obvious. You just have a way with words, well…it makes me feel all different. Especially when you’re talking about the…” And she blushed furiously.

“Thing?” Verbal finished her sentence, innocently. And despite that she was not a beauty exactly, Verbal concluded that if nothing else was on offer…

“Morning Verbal. Good show! Put those GLADs in their place. Good on yer!” And the farmer, Duke Dankworth touched his cap as he passed by.

“Cheers,” replied Verbal, and he sauntered down the street, oblivious to the envious gaze of the driver of the passing truck, on the side of which was emblazoned the famous brand, ‘Forest Flavours’ under the symbol of a rampant stag. But then the media man stopped, abruptly and with considerable surprise. Several people were outside the office of the Brewster Bugle and were apparently reading and discussing this week’s issue, and so engrossed they barely acknowledged his presence. He took up a copy of the Bugle and hastened across the street and shortly, was in the office of the Mayor.

“Seen this?”

Irritated at the intrusion, the Mayor said he hadn’t, because he was engrossed in Council business. Verbal read from the front page: “Who is Sarah Bumbulis?” He looked up with an expression of indignation, “This is the front page! You’re not on the front page – just Bumbulis! And the editor is your sister!”

“Try to remember where you are.”

Verbal waved a hand. “Corker won’t be impressed, will he? He’s got the Green Power people here and the front page of the Bugle is all about your opponent, and, listen to this: ‘Sarah Bumbulis said that she hadn’t ever considered politics, but when she learned that the Council planned to push for a coalmine, she felt it her duty to stand. A coal mine, she says, is even worse than sticking one’s head in the sand, it is an act of violence against future generations.’ Verbal looked aghast. “An act of violence! The woman’s a nutter! Corker’s absolutely right – but what are you doing? Why is she here and you’re not? How the hell can you have a sister who’s the editor and there’s nothing here about you?”

“Dammit! What the editor chooses to write is entirely up to her. That’s called freedom of the press. And while I appreciate your support, I’d also appreciate a little more respect.”

The media man continued to read. “Oh! Oh, oh, oh!” He shook his head with disbelief and then read aloud, “Bumbulis says that her opponent, by standing under the banner of ‘FOKKERS,’ was quite clearly showing just how negative and conservative his campaign is. ‘I admire Mr Potts, personally, she says, but this doesn’t seem like him and I wonder if those around him have pushed him into this.’ That’s what it says – right here on the front page! This is scurrilous, left-wing propaganda. This is trouble – and after-all the effort I’ve put in on ‘Have your Say, supporting the cause and giving punters a good steer, this…seditious tripe will seriously undermine a lot of decent work. Did I come up with FOKKERS to have a bloody Latvian baker, publicly, run it down? No, I didn’t!”

“I’m perfectly aware of what this means,” replied Dimple stiffly, “It’s a feature on a candidate, and given that she’s the unknown, there’s no surprise that it’s her feature.”

“Pottso…my job is communication. My job is to help the punters form the right view. And now we see here, your sister undoing all that work. You might think that’s freedom of the press, but I think it’s a fundamental cock-up.” The media man caught sight of his reflection in the window and noted how his state of dudgeon gave him a wonderfully imperious aspect. “We have to expect damage has been done,” he continued, “but all is not lost. We’ve got to roast her butt tonight. I’ll light that fire, but you’re going to have to do the biz. My word you are! You’re going to have to get over this…all’s-fair-in-politics-thing. You’re going to have to show some goddamn teeth, because if you don’t, your campaign’s toast and you know damn well, Corker will not like that.”

There came a knock and the Town Clerk poked his head around the door. In his hand he held a copy of the Bugle. “Big front page, today, Mr Mayor. The campaign’s coming to life.” He glanced from the Mayor’s grim expression to the scowl on Verbal Pritchard’s face and back again. “Shall I come back?”

“No,” replied the Mayor, “Verbal was just leaving.”

The media man pushed past the Town Clerk with the parting shot, “If someone doesn’t come to life today, the next feature will be his goddamned obituary.”

The Town Clerk sat and crossed one long leg over the other. “He seems bothered?”

Before responding, the mayor composed and sent a tweet, ‘Smart voters will look past flowery sentiment to hard policy. FOKKERS know where Brewster’s Neck must go.’

“Hard policy? Have we got some?”

“Of course, we’ve got hard policy. You’ll hear it tonight. But I can tell you, if he wasn’t Corker’s kin I’d tell that prick….”

The Town Clerk was surprised. “I thought he was your campaign manager?”

“Supposed to be.”

“You look a bit gloomy.”

“Yes, if you must know, I am a bit gloomy.’

The Town Clerk studied the mayor, who was staring into the distance, or perhaps he was drawing inspiration from the painting of Wilberforce Brewster. “Politics can be a tough vocation.”

“Yes,’ replied the Mayor, surprised, “yes it can. Most people have no idea. Think you’re just a…glory seeker.”

“When in fact, you have people’s lives in your hands.”

“Exactly!”

“Not in the way of a doctor, of course. Or a policeman, say. Or the IRD, come to that.”

The Mayor glanced suspiciously at the Town Clerk. “No, not in that way, but still, one must balance many things. One strives to get the best outcomes for the most people – but few enough seem to appreciate it. Always happy to criticise. I’ve had the odd letter…think you’re out to do them down, personally. I must say, that’s when I agree with Verbal…when he says we must oppose cunts.”

“What!”

“Yes, that’s what the first ‘K’ in FOKKERS, stands for. Didn’t you know? I thought everyone did.”

“I didn’t think it started with a ‘K.”

“Well, it doesn’t. It’s just a way of making the whole thing look better.”

“I thought it stood for ‘Climate Changers?”

“It does.”

“But you just said it stands for cunts.”

The Mayor sighed. “Yes, I know what I said. But we can’t go around saying we’re opposed to cunts. We imply it, don’t we? That’s clever communication.”

“It doesn’t seem that clever to me. How do you know which is which? When you say you’re opposed to Climate Changers, or Socialists, I can see that.” The Town Clerk frowned, “Anyway, I don’t really think of anyone as a cunt, so it’s not that relevant to me. Wouldn’t get my vote – not on that score. Actually, I’m not opposed to rivers either. That seems daft to me. And Vascular’s cows do foul the river. I was up there a couple of weeks ago and his whole herd was in the river. But I don’t think of those cows as cunts, or Vascular for that matter.”

“No-one thinks of cows as cunts…and Vascular certainly isn’t. Cows get out. You can’t always know where cows are going. They’re big animals. Push fences down. And what’s a bit of shit anyway? It’s entirely natural – a natural function.”

“I don’t take a crap in the river.”

The Mayor replied crossly, “Did you come to see me about Council business?”

The Town Clerk reflected, “I don’t think so. I think I just wanted to show you this,” he said, waving his copy of the Bugle. “But you’ve seen it. Are you ready for this evening – against Sarah?”

“Of course, I’m ready! And I’d prefer you referred to my opponent as Bumbulis.”

“Have you seen her pamphlet? It’s very good. She makes some very good points – especially about looking forward, rather than backwards. I think I agree with her, that looking at coal is looking backwards.”

The Mayor felt a flush of exasperation. “And do you want to know why? Because you’re not a businessman. It’s bloody easy to call it backward-looking if you don’t understand business. Where do you think your wage comes from? From business, that’s where. Without business there’d be no town. All very well saying you’re going to look forward – but what the fuck can you see?”

“No need to get upset. I’m just expressing my opinion. It’s not a personal thing. I just agree with her that we should look for other things. And I agree with her that there’s folk – in the city perhaps, who could help. I don’t think we have to come up with all the answers.”

“Don’t you? Well, on that we disagree. People who can’t stand on their own two feet – who can’t step up to the plate, without interference from cunts – yes, that’s what they are – from Auckland – well, they’re just bloody failures. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to do. I can’t sit here gassing with you all day. I’ve got a lot on my plate.” The Mayor glared at the Town Clerk, who rose from his chair.

“Good luck tonight.”

“Yes, yes, alright.” The Mayor waved his hand at the door, through which the Town Clerk duly passed. A moment later he reappeared.

“I just remembered. That stag. Surely, we’re not going to keep it? It’s puerile – childish. Corker’s idea I understand? But you’ll get rid of it?”

The Mayor cried, “I’m not getting rid of anything. I’m trying to think. Bugger off!”

*

Weasel Potross parked the truck with the insignia of ‘Forest Flavours’ and the regal stag alongside his crude and unlovely hut and climbed into the second truck parked nearby. This truck was much older and had no insignia of any kind. It was his ‘work-truck.’ The other truck was the ‘delivery truck,’ with which he took the sausages, pies and burger patties produced by Forest Flavours, to butcheries, supermarkets and burger bars some distance away from Brewster’s Neck. But his work truck was the means of conveyance of the raw meat that would become the renowned and flavoursome products that were fast becoming the nation’s preferred breakfast sausage and pie. Indeed, the Forest Flavours slogan, ‘Tasty Wild Meat’ on truck, billboards and packaging alike; and ads suggesting that ‘Forest Flavours Families always want to Savour the Stag’s Saucy Saussy,’ were fast becoming infamous – and had even provoked some complaints – dismissed by Corker as the ‘typical tripe of religious cranks and greenies.’

Weasel gave little thought to marketing or Corker’s business. He fetched up the meat and he delivered the product. He drove the old nondescript, grey-painted and rusty truck, or the flash white ‘Forest Flavours’ truck, depending on which job he had in hand. And at present, he was fetching up the meat, which meant he had to drive, one-by-one, to the end of thirteen roads that stopped at the edge of the bush, where a supplier would have a consignment ready for collection. Weasel swung the set of scales out from the canopy of the truck, weighed the consignment and wrote the supplier a receipt. He then drove off down the gravelly roads, weaving his way around potholes and lurching through ditches as was sometimes necessary, until he came to the end of the next road. When he was doing this job, he did not wear his white ‘Forest Flavours’ overalls. He wore his old jeans and a checked woollen shirt, and he talked to himself – about how he was feeling though not in any objective way, but more as a running commentary on his being. He would say, “That’s a pain in my back. There it is. That pain tweaks away and it always comes on this road. This is the seventh road and that pain has come into my back.” Then he would move onto something else, such as, “There’s that bloke with the red tractor. He’s a fat prick. He’s going up that track by those karaka trees. And there’s that dog of his, that looks like chimp, a running up behind. Should be in a zoo, that dog.”

And on Saturday mornings he tuned into Radio Brewster to listen to that hero and spiv, Verbal Pritchard. Then he might say, “That’s right Verbal. You and me, we see eye-to-eye, I can tell ya that.” And he might add, “I wonder if you glossed your prick last night, Verbal? I should call ya to find out, on the radio. Probably that Taylor Palomino again. Ha! Ha! Ha!” And he felt like he was sharing a joke with the Great Man, but of course he didn’t call since he was in his grey truck and he had no phone.

Soon his thoughts and running commentary turned to more pressing matters. “What did he want with the gold? He never did anything…he didn’t wear any flash clobber or have a flash car…he didn’t even have a car. He didn’t even go after Taylor Palomino with that gold. It was stuck in his pocket…there’s that pain coming in my back.”

The old truck lurched down the thirteenth road with a full load of meat. “There’s that woman who wears pants like a jockey. One…two…three…four…five kids. Wonder where the other one is? There they are. That one’s as skinny as a rat but that one’s fat…but where did that Homeless get that gold? He must’ve been digging somewhere. Why was he digging for gold if he didn’t want to go after Taylor Palomino?” Weasel shook his close shaven head and momentarily squeezed shut his close-set blue eyes at the mystery of it, and he made a growling sound because now he was thinking about that map drawn by Homeless Hauptmann that undoubtedly was the key to the place of ‘great promise.’

“Now, here we are, back at the factory. I’ll unload and then I’ll go and…but who’s that? Percy Pritchard, that’s who. What’s he doing here on a Saturday? He’s never by on a Saturday.”

Weasel backed the truck up to the chiller behind the ‘Forest Flavours’ factory, which was situated on the Tulip Road about five kilometres outside Brewster’s Neck. “Now he’s coming over. What’s he want?” And he felt a thrill of alarm.

Weasel climbed down from the cab and if he’d been alone he would have said, ‘Fuckin’ back. I should buy a new one, with my gold, ha! Ha!’ But he didn’t say anything because Percy Pritchard was coming up and that made Weasel very uneasy.

“When you’ve unloaded that lot, come in the back,” said Percy and then he walked off.

“Come in the back. What’s he want?”

Weasel unloaded the meat into the chiller and hardly noticed the smell, that mostly came from that lot he got up the tenth road. He’d said, ‘is this just from this week? Smells like a bluey,’ by which he meant a sheep that had died and bloated, but the joker had protested that it was ‘all fresh as a bleeding daisy and certainly wasn’t a fuckin’ bluey, and that’s a fact,’ so Weasel didn’t give it another thought – and certainly not now as he entered the back of the factory. “There’s that Snakey,” he muttered, seeing the huge man whose job was to help Weasel unload the meat from the truck into the chute in the factory wall. Weasel fell silent as he knocked at the door with the glass pane in the top, through which he could see Percy Pritchard sitting nonchalantly on the edge of his desk, waiting.

Percy Pritchard stared at Weasel for a long time. He stared with those dark, strangely round eyes that didn’t tell Weasel anything, but they made Weasel feel like his pants had come off and Percy could see his pizzel. At last, Percy said, “What did you find?”

Weasel started. “I haven’t found anything. Nope.”

Percy Pritchard continued to stare at Weasel for a long time, so that Weasel thought he might take a piss without wanting to, and Percy would see it clear as day.

“Not me, Mr Pritchard. I haven’t found nothing.”

Percy Pritchard continued to stare without expression, and Weasel began to think he might do something in his pants.

“If you remember that you found something, you can bring it here tomorrow and just leave it here, in this draw, and I’ll know you haven’t done a bad thing.”

“I would,” replied Weasel, “but I didn’t find nothing.”

Percy frowned and tapped his fingers on the desk. “Because, if you did find something, that didn’t belong to you…and you didn’t tell me about it…”

“I didn’t find nothing. Ask Snakey. Or don’t ask Snakey. He doesn’t know nothing either. I didn’t say nothing to him.”

“But if you did,” continued Percy, “you’d know you must tell me – being the one who pays your wages. It’s your responsibility, isn’t it? To tell your employer about anything you might find, that wasn’t yours. But, I can see that sometimes a man mightn’t remember something one day, but the next day, it would come back to him, and then he’d know straight-off, how he had to tell Percy.”

Weasel nodded. “If’n I remembered something, I’d tell.”

“Good,” replied Percy. “I’ll look in my draw tomorrow.”

Weasel departed Percy’s office and he was wondering if Snakey had said anything. But what did Snakey know? Only Weasel had seen the gold. But he wished he hadn’t shown the map.

*

Verbal Pritchard was very pleased. The Bughouse was full. The parents of Brewster’s Neck had brought kids and a couple of dogs. Moot Master’s Nostradamus was sitting comfortably on his haunches, near the front, and apparently studying Verbal who was flashing a conspiratorial smile at this woman or that whilst leaning nonchalantly on an ancient lectern that had been discovered in the broom cupboard. To his right and seated at a school desk disguised with a bedsheet, was Candidate Potts, and on his left, at her own desk, was seated Candidate Bumbulis. At length, Verbal tapped the microphone and coughed, once, twice and thrice and the hall fell largely silent and with an air of considerable expectation.

The Emcee began, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and kids. Welcome to this ‘Meet the candidates’ evening in which we can hear about policies, plans and what-not, for our town of Brewster’s Neck. I’m Verbal Pritchard, host of that well-known show, ‘Have your say,’ and your Emcee this evening, which means it’s my immense pleasure to introduce the candidates and to moderate the meeting. And I’ll begin with the lady. On my left, please welcome candidate and newcomer to Brewster’s Neck, Sarah…” and he affected to read his notes, “Sarah Bumbulis.”

Stifling the applause with hand quickly raised, Verbal continued, “And now, please give a huge welcome to your Mayor and friend, the man who has served this community for twenty-three long years – who has selflessly stood by us, looked after us and guided us – who so willingly stepped into the breach when dear old Georgy Pruitt was so cruelly taken from us by an Auckland bus; please give it up for the Honourable and inestimable, and one and only, Dimple Potts!”

There came a mighty cheering and hullaballoo during which Candidate Bumbulis blushed and stared fixedly at her open notebook while Candidate Potts beamed and waved.

“Arabic volute,” muttered Porterhouse Johnson.

“Arabic what?”

“It’s a whelk, Beatts – a shellfish.”

When the hall had once again settled, the Emcee explained how he would allow the candidates to state their case as it were, and then he, as the skilled interviewer that they all knew him to be, would ask some penetrating questions, before throwing it open to the voters…for a brief time. Then there would be tea and biscuits, courtesy of the Mayor. “One might have expected a baker to put something on? But luckily, as we all know, Mayor Dimple Potts has vast experience of civic occasions. Out of his own pocket…but let’s not dally. Some of you will know candidate Bumbulis as a baker and you may well be wondering what a baker could bring to the considerable demands of civil office? What expertise, you may well be thinking, would someone who spends their day kneading dough, bring to the top table? But that’s why we’re here. There must be some foundation to any candidate’s pitch – otherwise…” Verbal shook his head sadly, as though already lamenting much time wasted. “And I should add, since the candidate is something of a newcomer to our town, that she does have quite a bit of experience with insects. In fact, I understand her to be a bit of an expert in lady bugs. Please…no, please…someone must be expert in these things. Who knows when that knowledge might not be very useful? One might imagine that if that bug mutated into a very big bug…no, let’s be serious…sorry candidate Bumbulis…just a little levity. And that’s enough from me – for the moment.” And Verbal suddenly assumed a very grave demeanour. He stood back from the lectern but with arms outstretched to hold the top of said furniture and gazed deliberately around the hall. He stepped forward to read whatever note lay on top of the lectern. He coughed once and glanced at the ceiling while he gathered his thoughts. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s meet- candidate-Bumbulis-time.” He turned to Candidate Bumbulis. “The floor is yours…” and the Emcee looked ostentatiously at his watch and then pointed a most meaningful finger at Candidate Bumbulis. “We wait,” said the Emcee with a lofty smirk, “with bated breath.”

Candidate Bumbulis saw hostile faces, blank faces, smiling faces, bleak faces, stupid faces and inebriated faces. For a moment she quailed. For a moment she considered uttering a quick apology and then darting off the stage. But only for a moment, for she caught the eye of her Campaign Manager and she reminded herself why she was here. It was her duty!

“Thank you all for coming,” she began.

“Can’t hear you! Speak up.”

Raising her voice, she continued, “You all know me, I think, if only as your baker and though I haven’t lived here in Brewster’s Neck as long as many of you, I have been here for eleven years. I feel I have a good understanding of our town…and the issues we are facing…or some of them. I don’t pretend to know it all…but I am standing for mayor because I believe we could head in a direction that I don’t think is right.” She paused, “As you may know, my campaign is called ‘GLAD.’ You may know that GLAD stands for Good ladies, and lads, against Dirty Business. It wasn’t my idea, but it does kind of sum up my…platform. You see-”

“Gladioli’s!” Cried Hoover Potross mysteriously.

“I was saying,” continued Candidate Bumbulis, “that lads and ladies should be against dirty business – not all business, because most business is good…but some isn’t, and I think coal mining is not a good business. We know it’s a dirty business and we know the damage it is doing to our world. And that’s why I decided to stand, because our Council has decided to go for a coal mine. And as you know, we’re up against climate change now and-”

“Just a theory!” interjected the Emcee.

“I’m afraid it’s not, you see-”

“Plenty of scientists are against it!” Shouted Moot Masters.

“No, that’s not-”

“Gravy train for scientists! It’s well-known.”

Then the Emcee held up his hand, “Two minutes, candidate.”

Candidate Bumbulis continued quickly, “I must disagree. Climate change – that’s anthropogenic climate change, is real, and I don’t think it’s right to be promoting a coal mine from a company called ‘Green Power.’ Solar and wind are green energy sources, but not coal. I think this is deceptive, and-”

“With respect, candidate Bumbulis,” interjected Mayor Potts, “with the greatest respect, Howard Green, the owner of Green Power has as much right to name his company for himself, as Fred Witherspoon has in naming his business, Witherspoon’s Classic Fashion.”

Porterhouse Johnson grimaced, while over the noise and commotion, the lawyer Moot Masters could be heard braying, “Touché! Touché!”

“Oh, well,” continued Candidate Bumbulis bravely, “some say that because we’re small we can’t make a difference. But we can. We need to take a stand and say we’re not going to contribute to climate change. We must think about our children and their future. Coal is not the future. It’s a terrible step backwards. We need to think about better ways forward. We-”

“Time’s up. Sorry, candidate, but I’ve got to call it there.” The Emcee glanced with great concern at his watch, “a lot to get through and shortly, we’ve got to give the floor to Mayor Potts. Only fair, but before we do though, I’ve a couple of questions.” He winked at Moot Masters and then leaned forward suddenly, “Candidate Bumbulis…if I wanted to bake a cake, I’d come to you. But if I wanted to prepare a Town Plan, who would I go to?”

“But that’s not quite-

“Surely, if I wanted a Town Plan, I’d be going to an experienced politician? Surely, if I wanted an economic assessment…of a coal mine…or a plan for mining coal…I’d be going to an experienced Council packed through and through with businessmen?”

“But I am a businesswoman. I-

“No! With the greatest respect, Candidate Bumbulis, you are not…you are in fact a baker. In fact, a housewife who’s come out of the kitchen to bake a few more loaves. I do not mean to belittle your candidacy…or your vocation, however, the good folk of our town must know who and what they’re voting for. Much as we may like you, Bumbulis…there’s a great deal more to leading our town than whipping up a batch of doughnuts…notable for their absence this evening, I might add.”

“No-one asked me. I’d have been glad-”

“Oh yes! Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, the candidate would have been glad…ha! Ha! We’re all glad, candidate Bumbulis. We’re glad that we have an outstanding Mayor. We’re glad that we’ve been favoured by Mother Nature with a wonderful resource that the world cries out for. We’re glad that a coal mine will provide jobs for the people of our town and will bring new prosperity. But should we be glad, candidate Bumbulis, that someone who suggests they know better, is a newcomer who is without a shadow of doubt, the most highly qualified candidate in the peculiar doings of a Latvian lady bug? The fact is, Candidate Bumbulis, you’re a blonde baker…” (winks at audience) “A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead are in kindergarten; which one is the sexiest? Ha! Ha! The blonde, Candidate Bumbulis, because she is the only one that's 18!” (guffaws).

Angrily, Candidate Bumbulis shot back, “Do you know why most blonde jokes are one-liners, Mister Pritchard? So men like you will understand them. But l-” But Candidate Bumbulis was drowned out by a hubbub. A hubbub such as no-one present could recall in Brewster’s Neck. A hubbub that had some beside themselves with mirth and in the case of Slimy Beale to bleat several times as the tears rolled down his face, “The only one that’s 18! Ha! Ha! The only one!”

As the laughter died away, the Emcee leaned towards her and said quietly, “I hope you’re not thinking that anyone here is against you, Sarah…it’s just politics and a bit of fun. You’re doing fine…really.”

*

Candidate Bumbulis sat in a cocoon of anger and humiliation as the Emcee introduced Mayor Potts. Was she in despair? Not a bit of it. Was she more determined than ever? Absolutely. But evidently, tonight was not the night. So be it…

Meanwhile, there continued a fulsome introduction that painted the picture of a paragon, without whom, all that Wilberforce Brewster had striven for, would surely be lost. A man with such depth of experience and accomplishment, that the Emcee had little doubt that Queen’s Birthday Honours would not be far away. A man so steeped in the management of civic affairs, mentored by old Georgy Pruitt himself, that he would likely be called upon to document that experience for the good of all…

“Please welcome again, ladies and gentlemen, your magnificent and indeed…munificent Mayor, Dimple Potts!”

Porterhouse Johnson clutched his forehead, and Bugle Editor Beatrice Potts shook her head and said, “The munificent? He’s as tight as the proverbial snake’s bottom…”

“I’m humbled, Verbal, truly…and thank you.” The Mayor touched his handkerchief to his eye before continuing, “I’m humbled. I’m humbled to be here this evening, with the good folk of Brewster’s Neck. I’m humbled to be your elected representative and I’m especially humbled, to have your confidence to step into the enormous shoes of the great George Pruitt.”

“Big shoes!” re-joined the Emcee, “Very big shoes but fitting like hand-in-glove.”

Candidate Potts nodded graciously, “But when all’s said and done – at the end of the day and without beating around the bush – what’s this really all about?” And Dimple leaned forward with an earnest and steadfast expression to stare long and hard at the audience. “It’s not about me. It’s not about politics and it’s most certainly not about self-aggrandisement. It’s about the future of our town. It’s about your future and mine. It’s about a bright future for your children and mine…I know that not many see it this way, but it’s the way I have always seen public service.”

“Hear hear!” Cried Moot Masters.

“Wonderful observation, Mayor Potts,” allowed the Emcee, “Selfless! Bravo!”

The Mayor permitted himself a small smile of appreciation but instantly, reverted to his grave, avuncular expression, “Yes, what we’re here to talk about, openly, forthrightly and with great goodwill, is public service. And I want to take this opportunity to share one or two thoughts on this matter…which I regard to be the very foundation of a democracy…which I call, service with integrity. Service offered selflessly for the betterment of others.”

“That’s the spirit! My sainted aunt – never a truer word!” offered the Emcee.

“As you know, and as Verbal has generously pointed out, I have been in public service and indeed, at your service – the good folk of Brewster’s Neck, for nigh on twenty-three, rewarding years…yes, and I can say with total sincerity, I’ve loved every minute of it. Yes, I have! So, when our dear George Pruitt met with such an unjust fate, it tore me to pieces – it did. But for a moment only for I knew that you needed a mayor. Despite the horror of our loss, you needed someone to take hold of the reins.”

“We did, Dimple, we did!” Encouraged the Emcee.

“And so, I stepped-up-to-the-plate, without hesitation. With humility – but without reservation, I took up the bat because someone had to shoulder the burden. Someone had to take the helm, and I know that George, who I supported for so many years, would have expected no less of me. He would have said, ‘Dimple, you are my Deputy for good reason. I know you won’t shirk your responsibility.’

“Well said, Mayor Potts!” congratulated the Emcee.

“Never mind all that. What about the coal mine?” cried Lucy Potross, “What’re you doing about that?”

“A very good question, Lucy. Let’s be clear about one thing. This Council and your Mayor, will not support anything that would harm Brewster’s Neck. But we are committed to developing a sustainable coal mine for the good of this community…for the jobs and wealth it will create…for new prosperity for our town. We know there are challenges. We know there are some who say that coal is not for now or the future – but I say to them, the good people of Brewster’s Neck must come first! Let’s make sure we do it right – but let’s not misguidedly allow you and your families to suffer…because people from outside our town, say we have to carry the burden of reversing the weather!”

“Yes, but what about what Sarah is saying – about the climate?”

“Still unproven,” replied the Mayor.

“Yes,” re-joined the Emcee, “even the Minister of Finance – old Bolter himself – called it speculative. Unproven, that’s the fact. But Mr Mayor…could we take a few moments to talk about your movement – the FOKKERS. Can you enlighten folk about why the FOKKERS was an essential initiative at this time – before this very important election?”

“Gladly, Verbal – no pun intended.” And the Mayor permitted himself a small, self-deprecatory smile.

Porterhouse Johnson closed his eyes.

“As you know, Verbal, I’m not one for political movements. I’m not one for petty politicking-”

“But it was forced upon you?” replied the Emcee with a most sympathetic expression.

“Yes, Verbal, I’m afraid it was. As you know, I took over from poor George Pruitt, knowing that I could never hope to but stand in George’s shadow, but prepared, as he would have wanted, to take the tough decisions, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“And no doubt hoping to do so without the distraction of an election?”

“Never a truer word, Verbal. I love democracy, but there are times that democracy can get in the way of progress. We have a plan for this town. We have a vision for a greater Brewster’s Neck, but we must fight an election before we can get on and one might think that in some respects, it is a waste of time.”

“It’s not right, Mr Mayor, and I’m sure the good folk of Brewster’s Neck will see the common sense in that. A waste of your valuable time and a waste of Council resources.”

“But that’s democracy, Verbal, so we must do what we must do. But you asked me about the FOKKERS…as I said, I wouldn’t have put up a billboard…and I wouldn’t have issued a political flyer…and nor would I have leant my name to a political movement…if I had been able to simply get on with the job I’ve given my life to. But then, I was confronted with something I’ve never seen before in our town.”

“You mean the GLADS?”

The Mayor shook his head regretfully, “With the greatest respect to my opponent…I do, Verbal. I was confronted with a lady against growth. Truly, it is difficult for me to convey to you…to all you good folk who trust me to get on with the job without delay…to come face-to-face with such a slogan. But I don’t blame candidate Bumbulis for this. Let me be clear – this is not about personalities. This is about how business is cast as something bad, when as anyone with experience of government and economics knows, these two foundations of any modern society, must work hand-in-hand, Verbal. So, I put it down to naivety. And that’s understandable and that’s forgivable. But we can’t allow naivety to hold back progress, and I’m afraid, in my humble opinion, that that is what the GLADS would do.”

“It’s common sense, Mr Mayor, and that’s why you had to come out, fundamentally opposed to certain things that would drag this town back to the Stone Age?”

Candidate Bumbulis cried out, “But that’s not-”

“Please, Candidate Bumbulis, allow the Mayor to finish.”

“Thank you Verbal.” The Mayor once again assumed his practised and magisterial disposition, “Sometimes it’s not enough to say you’re for something. Sometimes, to say you’re for the future simply doesn’t give us a proper grip on things. Sometimes, it’s necessary to spell out what it is that we must oppose-”

“Quite right, Mr Mayor,” said the Emcee, “and there are those who would be unconcerned if our backward slide was straight down the proverbial dunny! And they’d be glad of it! They’d be glad to see Brewster’s Neck flushed away and why? For some unproven ideology that may well belong somewhere else, but has no place here, in our town.”

Candidate Potts continued, “As I say, I can only put this down to naivety and dare I say it, ignorance. But let me hasten to add that I have nothing but goodwill towards my opponent. Let me say, here and now, that I hold Sarah Bumbulis in the highest regard. She is a very fine baker.”

“Well said, Mr Mayor, but we’re not talking about a loaf of bread, are we? No, we’re talking about building Brewster’s Neck. And because of this naïve campaign, the GLADS, you were forced to propose the FOKKERS. Fundamentally opposed to Climate Changers…and to Outsiders – some of whom hale from Auckland – wherein old Georgy was cut down…to Experts, Mr Mayor, who’d tell you what to do without any common sense coming into it…yes, and Rivers, because there’re those who think the backbone of this country – farmers like the good Vascular Adams, should be punished for a little leakage into water that runs straight into the infinite sea.” And the Emcee shook his head in wonderment at the insanity of it all, “And then, there’s the Socialists, Mr Mayor, the most naïve of them all. Those who would simply hand what Corker Pritchard, Vascular Adams, and Brucie Potross, and Fred Witherspoon have slaved to produce…hand it all over to the layabouts who do nothing!”

Shaking his head sadly, Fred Witherspoon let himself out the side door, to walk slowly home, and Beatrice Potts murmured to Porterhouse Johnson, “Disgraceful. Do you fancy a beer?”

His eyes on the helpless candidate Bumbulis, Porterhouse declined.

“And now, we’ve time for a question or two from the floor,” announced the Emcee. “You, yes you,” he said, pointing at a raised hand, “announce your name and then state your question.”

“Prune Fishbender. This is a question for Mayor Potts. Mayor Potts, you’ve been Deputy Mayor for a long time. What would you say you’ve accomplished in all that time?”

“Out of order,” replied the Emcee. “We’d be here all night if the Mayor had to list all he’s done for this town. You,” he said pointing again.

“My name is Pearl Clatworthy, and I just want to say that I don’t think Sarah has been given a fair go. I-”

“That’s not a question. The candidates have had their say, now it’s time for proper questions. You, over there…with the hat.”

“Ted. I’d like-”

“State your name.”

“Every bastard here knows me. Ted Potross. Ted Potross,” he called more loudly, “Shut up you bastards over there. I’m trying to ask a question.”

“Silence please. Silence…Ted has the floor…silence.”

“My question is, why aren’t the FOKKERS opposed to rates? All very well being opposed to rivers, but the rates keep going up. Bloody ridiculous, what I’m paying now. And what about-”

“Two questions. You don’t ask two questions. You…yes you in the coat.”

“Mildred Fishbender. My question is…who murdered Homeless Hauptmann?”

“SILENCE!” roared the Emcee, but it was to no avail. The noise in the hall climbed to new heights and then, just as it seemed to be losing some wind, the cry of ‘FOKKERS’ could be heard, and very quickly the one voice became many and soon it became a chant. ‘Fok-kers! Fok-kers! Fok-kers!’ At which Mayor Potts stood, triumphantly and stretching both arms high, acknowledged those who saluted his new political movement. But two women who began their own chant of ‘Glad-to-be-glad! Glad-to-be-glad!’ found missiles of various sorts whizzing in their direction. At this point the Emcee declared the town hall closed, and making his way quickly from the stage, slipped out the back door to have a fag.

Meanwhile, campaign manager Porterhouse Johnson, hurrying to escort his candidate from the stage, failed to perceive see the recumbent form of Nostril Masters and tripping over that dog, crashed heavily into Brucie Potross, who kneed him in the groin with the words, “Glad to meet yer. Now fok off!”

*

Herb Hikaka kicked his footy down the paddock and waited for his eldest boy to kick it back. Due to the application of forensics and close examination of the scene, the case of Homeless Hauptmann had taken a new twist, and Herb was pondering this new twist as he exchanged punts. Indeed, largely due to Herb’s application of the Police Magnification Device or PMD – as they called it in the Force, Herb had established that Homeless did not receive his fatal injury out front of the salon belonging to Taylor Palomino. By following an almost invisible trail, Herb found what he believed to be the exact spot that Homeless had been intercepted by the Pawnee arrow. And to Herb’s considerable surprise, that spot was a good five kilometres distant and near the fence that surrounded the manufacturing plant, ‘Forest Flavours,’ owned by none other than Corker Pritchard.

The footy came bouncing by and scooping it up, Herb booted it way beyond the fence at the end of the field. A brisk southerly was a considerable help. He grinned at the cry of protest from the other end of the paddock, but his thoughts returned rapidly to the case. Not only had he discovered where Hauptmann had been shot, but he had received confirmation from Police HQ that the tiny flake of metal he had recovered from the ground under the dead man’s body, was gold of a high degree of purity.

Herb heard a shout and saw Porterhouse Johnson standing by the road. He made his way over and with each making a nod to the other, they walked to Herb’s front veranda, where Porterhouse opened two bottles and passed one to Herb. For a few minutes, without speaking, they enjoyed the ale.

“Heard it was a bit of a shenanigans last night,” observed Herb. “Heard that Sarah didn’t get a fair shake? Not that I’m surprised. She’s up against it, is your Sarah.”

“It was a fiasco. Sarah was pretty shocked.”

“Will she keep going?”

“Hard to say…she’s no weakling though. I’ve never seen chanting before…never expected it. Couldn’t believe my eyes actually. It was like a war dance.”

“Like a haka?”

“Not exactly. This was more like a rally. It rose, apparently spontaneously and then spread like a bushfire across the hall. And I’ll tell you something else…our esteemed Mayor, loved it. Bastard saluted!”

“Can’t say that politics is my thing. People always wanting to control things…I’d rather watch a game of footy. But I’ve got this case to keep me busy. No time for politics.”

“I’d rather be tending my bees, but the fact is, if someone like Sarah doesn’t persevere, we’ll get rolled by Potts. And what that means, is that we’d be rolled by Corker.”

For a time, they simply watched Tana Hikaka kick goals. Then Porterhouse enquired, “You eat Forest Flavours? Sausages?”

“Yep. Doesn’t everyone?”

Porterhouse nodded but with a little hesitation, “Daresay we’ve got to be grateful to Corker for that.” The sound of a horn came across the valley. “There’s the milk train…right on time.”

They watched two diesel locomotives with many stainless-steel wagons passing by, slowed by its heavy load and the slight incline, heading north. Then Porterhouse continued, “You got the PMD then? Did it help?”

“Yep.”

“Clues?”

“Not at liberty to go into detail…but I can tell you this, in confidence of course, that Homeless was not killed in High Street.”

Porterhouse raised an eyebrow, “Is that so? Well, well…so, he got shot and then made his way to Uppercutz? Coincidence?”

“Maybe…but I can’t speculate…I will say that the actual spot where he took that arrow in the throat, was a bloody long way from where he died. Bastard was a tough rooster. A bloody tough rooster.”

“Is that so? North?”

“Can’t really say…” Herb took a swig at his bottle. “South-west.”

Porterhouse frowned, “South-west…nothing much out that way except…Forest Flavours.”

“I won’t say more. Still in analysis.”

Porterhouse contemplated being shot in the throat by an arrow out near Forest Flavours, and then walking near five kilometres before dropping dead, alone, outside the hairdresser.

“That’s a hard way to go. Bleeding to death and not even able to speak. Like going home – to Uppercutz. But why would anyone want to kill him? That’s the conundrum…”

“Motive. That’s what we in the Police are always looking for. We look for clues, but we need a motive. Find the motive and generally, you’ve got your man.”

“Have you got one?”

Herb screwed up his face.

“And the Pawnee?”

“I don’t rule anything out, but the investigation, shall we say, just got broader.”

“New suspects?”

“Could be…I’ll have to be getting onto it shortly.”

“Before the trail goes cold, I suppose?”

“Yep,” replied Herb. “Now look at that boy! He’s popping them from the half-way mark, and into the wind. Boot on him like Dan.”

They admired two more kicks before Porterhouse declared that he had to go discuss campaign strategy, which at this time, was about as tough as a murder investigation, and Herb told him to pass on his regards to the candidate. “Did you know that a cross between a zebra and a donkey is a zonkey?”

“Blow me down,” replied Porterhouse, shaking his head as he returned to his van.

The constable went inside to make himself a sandwich, before looking to visit a person, who he was feeling might shed some light.

*

What worked best, when Doug was in inventing mode and most especially, when he was in ‘getting-near-the-end’ mode, was for Viola to bring food to the workshop, place it on the ‘Food-O’ ledge and then to ring the ‘Grub’s Up’ bell. So, here she was, putting the polystyrene box containing a hot dinner of lamb shanks, baked spuds, pumpkin and Brussel sprouts on the Food-O, along with a small beer, and then giving the Grub’s Up bell cord a good tug. ‘Why don’t you have an electric bell?’ She asked one time, but Doug looked askance ‘That bell has been around the world dozens of times’ he reproved, ‘and rung the change-of-watch thousands of times. Naval…That bell’s probably seen battles. Whales for sure. What’s an electric bell ever done?’

Doug hadn’t been in the house to eat, for two weeks and lately, he hadn’t come home at all – even though home was just across the yard. When Doug was in getting-near-the-end mode, he simply couldn’t get clear of the workshop. The fact was, he was as much a part of the workshop as the lathes or the drill press or the steel cutter. Doug was more like a visitor in the house but in the workshop, he blended like a 44-gallon drum of steel things.

Viola rang the bell again and fell to admiring the new machine. The new machine had legs and arms and a kind of head. It had hydraulic hoses everywhere and a steel-plated body. Viola knew that Doug was inside the steel-plated body because she could hear the crackling and see the blue light coming from his arc welder. The air smelled of burning metal and oil and grease and other mysterious mechanical things. The new machine stretched from one end of the workshop to the other and she saw that the machine had hands. The hands were made from shiny steel and the wrists and fingers had joints, almost like a real hand. The very large machine, in which Doug was doing some important thing, looked to Viola like it might weigh about ten tonnes. The machine, which the kids called ‘Roboman,’ looked to be damned near as big as a sheep truck. The arc welding stopped and shortly, Doug’s head, without the arc welding mask, poked around the side of the machine’s steel-plated body. Rivulets of sweat running down his face, Doug looked at her without speaking until she gave the Grub’s Up bell cord a good tug. He grinned. “Good timing,” he said and clambered down, “I’m just about finished in the engine bay.” He lifted the lid of the food box and sniffed and grinned again. “Must admit, I’m pretty hungry.”

“When’s this machine going to be finished?” She handed him a knife and fork and he commenced to eat.

Between mouthfuls he said, “Hard to say exactly…when you say finished…might be a month, or a year…depends on what refinements I’ve got to make. Depends on how the trials go…could be tomorrow – or today. I’m going to start it up today anyway. Everything’s in it. The motor’s all set – that was a good buy over in Taumaranui. Going to start it up and test a few things…kids about? There’s going to be a pretty good learning experience coming up…these lamb shanks are done to a turn!”

Viola replied impatiently, “It’s after eleven. The kids have been in bed for hours. You’ll have to start it up in the morning. I don’t want you waking the kids tonight…and it’s Saturday tomorrow, so that’s good.”

Doug drank his ale and wiped his mouth. “Eleven? Last time I looked it was eleven. Must have been this morning. Now, that’s twelve hours and what’s happened?” He glanced at Roboman. “Viola, in that twelve hours, I’ve finished installing the motor, hooked up the hydraulics and wired the controls. That’s how I measure time. I don’t care about hours. I’m indifferent to them.”

“That’s all very well, but normal folks need to know where they are in the day, so that things can get organised. All very well wiring the controls but that doesn’t help get the kids to school.”

“They should stay here. Significant learning opportunities going on here.” He put his empty plate back in the box. “That was a damned good feed.”

“Are you coming to bed? You should get a good night, before you start it up.”

Doug frowned and thought about fixing the plates on the back of the torso, but then he thought about how he was so tired that just holding up his head was a chore. “I’ll tell you something. When NASA was getting ready to go to the moon, no-one slept. Everyone just kept at it until they got there. That’s how you get stuff done. That’s the reason they beat the Ruskies.”

“Are you trying to beat someone? No. Only yourself.”

Doug grinned, “My biggest enemy is in my own head. That’s how it is for most folks. Talk about Enemy of the People? It’s right here.” And he tapped his temple.

“Talking about Enemy of the People,” she replied, “I heard that our Sarah got a very hard time at the town hall. I heard that the FOKKERS shouted her down and that creep Verbal…he gave her no help. And that short-arse Dimple Potts has gone power-mad. That’s what I heard from Pearl Clatworthy.”

“That’s no good. I thought Porterhouse was looking after her campaign…maybe I’ll have to talk to him.”

Doug took a quick shower, dried himself, lay down beside Viola, and thirty seconds later was sound asleep.

*

Doug said, “I’ll tell you something very important kids. Are you listening Mark Four? A long time ago, even before I was born…”

Mark One whistled in surprise.

“Yep, that long ago, well, the great American inventor, Thomas Edison, was inventing the electric light. Now you might think that’s not much, just an old lightbulb…but it was a very tricky thing to come up with. And the trickiest part, was seeing what would work as the filament – that’s the tiny little bit that glows when the electric current is passed through it. And Thomas Edison, he tried just about everything known to man, or woman…wires, wood, rare metals…wool! He tried everything and mostly they were no good. Burned too hot, didn’t burn…burned but didn’t shine…shone but burned out. Hopeless, most of it.” Doug was checking his test paraphernalia laid out on a bench in the workshop, alongside of Roboman, “But bamboo worked. Bamboo! We don’t use bamboo now, though. Tungsten is better. But Edison, well, he tried everything, and you know what he said? Mark Three, are you listening? Well, he said he’d discovered thousands of things that didn’t work!” Doug placed his modified motorcycle helmet on his head and fastened the straps, and then climbed into his asbestos suit. “You see, kids? Invention is about trying lots of things and when something doesn’t work, well, you just move onto the next thing…but all the time you’re discovering. That’s what important. If you’re not discovering, then you’ve come to a dead-end and you might as well be dead.”

“You’re still discovering stuff, Dad?”

“I am, Mark Two, that’s correct. I’m a discovering person and I’ll keep discovering until the end. Like you…you’re already discovering…like how cantilevers and pulleys work…to bust your Dad’s old Hillman.”

Mark Two nudged Mark One.

Mark Three said, “Do you think you might discover that the Roboman doesn’t work, Dad?”

“Mark Three…there’s no way of being certain. That’s the thing about invention. I’ve done all the planning and now here it is – lying here ready to try. But though I have certain expectations, well, who knows. It only takes a tiny little thing…something so small you wouldn’t even think of it at first, and that tiny little thing might cause you to abort…that means to bail out and stop the experiment until you’ve fixed things. That’s discovery! But I’d better be getting on with it, or I’ll cook in this suit before I’ve even started.”

Doug examined the Roboman, which lay on its side, as he had constructed it, with legs reaching almost to one end of the workshop and the head near to the other. And inside the steel body was the diesel engine that powered the hydraulics and in the head were the semi-autonomous controls and computer system. “Now, you kids, this is Test Number One…this is the first time I’m going to start up Roboman…” he looked around with an expression of slight surprise, “where’s your Mum? We can’t be starting without your Mum.”

“Mum’s just baking. She’s probably just getting that pie out of the oven. I’ll go get her.”

Doug walked around Roboman, followed by Mark One, Two and Four. He checked a bolt here and a join there, and the Marks also checked those things.

“What about this, Dad?”

Doug looked at the nut in the hand of Mark One. “Good boy! You see kids? That’s why we do a pre-start check even though I’ve already done two and look, Mark One has found a nut just sitting there that I’d missed. That’s why I call this a significant learning opportunity…good grief, if I don’t get started soon I’ll cook like a crayfish in here.”

At that moment, Viola arrived with Mark Three. “Sorry, Doug. I just had to fetch up that pie. But now I’m ready.” Viola beamed. “We’ll have to keep these kids clear, won’t we? Hey, you kids, come over here, next to me, so’s your Dad doesn’t have to worry about you getting in the way.”

The kids moved over to stand silently alongside their mother, to regard the Inventor expectantly and with mounting excitement.

“What are you going to do, Doug?” Viola asked.

“Well, I’m going to start him up and then I’m going to have him sit – that’s the first thing, and if that works, then he has to turn and pivot on one arm, so he can push himself out through the doors…and if that works, I’ll stand him up.” Doug grinned, “And if that works, why, I’ll walk! But I better get going, I’m starting to melt.”

The audience watched the Inventor climb up the back of the prone Roboman, and then before he entered the rear entry door to insert himself into the control room, which was Roboman’s head, he called to Viola, “And don’t forget the fire extinguisher.” He pointed at the large red cylinder placed handily on the bench, “Slightest sign of anything, just squirt it.” Then he gave the thumbs-up and all the Marks gave a thumbs-up and he was inside.

“Look at his eyes, Mum! They’re about the biggest eyes, ever!”

“They are big ‘un’s alright. Everything’s big on this machine.” Viola took hold of the fire extinguisher and removed the pin that stopped the trigger.

“You think Dad’s going to catch fire, Mum?”

“Nope, Billy,” she said to Mark Two, “but when you’re at the first test, you’ve got to be ready. I had to put your Dad out one time, when he was testing that heated dive suit. That wasn’t one of his best inventions.”

An asbestos-clad arm with a heavy glove covering the hand came out the port below the left eye and waved. The Marks waved back. Then the engine fired, and a cloud of blue smoke hovered above Roboman.

“He’s going to sit up.”

“He’s going to walk.”

Inside the control centre, barely able to move in the very confined space, the Inventor checked the illuminated control panel and was pleased. Outside, the audience heard the increasing revs of the engine and then were startled to see the huge right leg begin to move. Inside the control centre, Doug looked back with a frown. “Arm…the arm should be activating, not that leg…” he made some adjustments and nodded when the right arm began to move and shortly, he made the long mechanical fingers on the end of the arm twitch.

“Look at that hand, Mum, the hand is doing something.”

Doug manoeuvred the arm until he had it positioned with the hand flat onto the ground. “That’s good,” he said. “But what’s with that leg? Shouldn’t be moving.” The leg had commenced to pull itself up into the position it would be if it was going to climb a step. “Damned leg!” Doug made further adjustments but instead of quietly straightening into its former position, the leg shot out with astonishing force and the huge steel foot struck the side of the workshop with a terrific bang.

“Out of here, kids! Let’s go! Out of here!” And Viola herded the kids through the side door as fast as she could, while the errant leg retracted once more and again, unleashed a powerful kick that caused the workshop wall to buckle. Inside the control centre, Doug furiously grappled with the controls, but he was not ready to abort the mission. “I hear you, I hear you,” and he made more adjustments that caused the leg to become still and then the arm began to straighten, causing the head and then the body to lift. Outside the workshop, Viola and the kids waited at a safe distance. “I don’t know what your Dad’s doing,” said Viola, “I don’t think he wanted to kick the wall down. And I don’t know why he’s not stopping that thing.”

“He’s testing Mum. He’s discovering stuff that doesn’t work. Like that guy Edison. That’s what inventors do. Otherwise they die.”

“Well, Tamati, let’s hope today is not that day…but he’ll be alright. He’s got his suit. Land sakes!” She cried out as there came a crash that caused the workshop to shudder from end-to-end. “What’s going on in there? Why doesn’t he stop that thing?”

“He’s coming out, Mum – that’s the test. He said he was going to bring Roboman out. Look at that! Look at that Mum! Here comes his bum!” And sure enough, a leg extended through the wide-open doors at the end of the workshop, to be followed by the rear end of Roboman. At this, Mark Two did a cartwheel and shouted, “Here he comes!”

Roboman had indeed reversed through the door and paused, arms extended and with the legs contracted, so he was on all fours, and the engine roared and the head, which was the control centre swivelled to left and right and inside the head, Doug jockeyed the controls and said, “If this damned head doesn’t stop shaking I won’t be feeling too good,” but he wasn’t ready to abort the mission, which despite the destruction of one wall of the workshop, was going pretty well. “We just need to get out here…and get him over onto his butt…but this damned head keeps moving…” And he made some more adjustments and was greatly relieved when the oscillations of the head were stilled. “Now,” he said, “we’ll try this again…”

And outside, Viola and the kids watched with great fascination as Roboman extended first one leg and then the other; and one arm then the other and he began to clear the workshop like a huge steel bug coming out of its chrysalis; and they cheered when Roboman’s head slowly turned and the huge shiny eyes looked at them, and before the head turned again and the locomotion of the body proceeded backwards, they could see the Inventor’s sweating face suddenly crack into a grin.

“Good grief,” cried Viola, “this is what that man’s been building all this time! It’s a huge steel man! Good grief!”

“It’s Roboman, Mum. It’s not a steel man.”

“You’re right, honey, but I just never thought he’d…well, look!” And she stopped, lost for words as the Roboman pivoted on one arm and then lurched backwards, teetering on its backside so it looked as if it was going to collapse onto its back. And inside the head, with grim determination, Doug made rapid adjustments and the machine stabilised.

“I just wish he’d stop for a cup of tea. That’s what I wish.”

“He can’t stop, Mum, not when he’s in the middle of inventing.”

“I know, Jack,” she said, “But I can’t help wishing. Oh dear, here he goes…”

The Roboman drew up one knee and spread its giant hands and fingers in preparation to rising-up off the ground. The audience held its breath as the right knee straightened.

“He’s coming up! Look Mum, he’s coming up alright!”

“He’s coming up alright…but then what?” And Viola pulled the small Lizzie closer into her skirt, “What’s he going to do then? And look at how he’s wobbling. Looks like a baby – like a toddler that’s what he looks like.”

As it happened, at that moment inside the head, Doug was saying, “Come on baby, up we come. Up we come…” And the left hand rose off the ground and Doug moved it onto the left knee and the Roboman continued to rise.

Mark Two shouted, “Look at the size of him! This must be the World’s biggest Roboman!”

“Nope, Billy,” replied Mark One, “The world’s biggest is in Japan. Dad said so. But this is probably the number two. Like you.”

“Land sakes!” cried Viola, “That thing’s going to walk! Come on kids! Over here – let’s get out of the way of that thing! Come on!” and she herded the kids towards the house until she felt there was a reasonably safe distance from the mountainous steel man standing alongside the workshop, puffing smoke and roaring and now its head was turning and the shining eyes illuminated them so they could hardly see the triumphant face through the small port, but they waved and cheered.

“He’s walking!” cried Billy as Roboman took first one and then a second, unsteadily step towards them.

“Come on kids,” cried Viola, “out of the way…oh no! Oh no!” she shouted, “Come on, now!” For she had seen that the Roboman was losing its balance.

Inside the head, the Inventor grappled furiously with the controls and was thinking he shouldn’t have allowed his concentration to lapse when it did, but he had to wave to the kids – but now what? The Roboman’s stride was out of sync. That was the problem and how to get it back? That was the challenge and Doug braced himself because he had the feeling that he was not going to recover the Roboman’s balance in time. “Bugger!” he said, as the giant steel man lurched to the right and crashed thunderously, right on top of the chicken house.

“What am I doing?” cried Viola as she ran to the workshop to seize the fire extinguisher. “You kids keep back,” she shouted, “just keep out of the way! Tamati, you keep them back!” With the big red cylinder in hand and the nozzle extended she rushed to the head of the Roboman and thrusting the nozzle through the port, expelled the contents into the control centre.

“Dad’s on fire! Dad’s on fire!” Shouted Jack, and Lizzie commenced a terrible wail.

“No, he’s not! He’s not on fire,” shouted Tamati, “Mum’s just taking a precaution. Just in case. See! There he is!” And sure enough, the Inventor clambered out the back of the fallen Roboman, quite covered in CO2 powder, but through the powder and the sweat, the kids could see he was grinning. “One small step for man,” he said, “one giant leap for Roboman!”

“The chickens have run for it, Dad. Roboman smashed their place!”

“I know, Mark Two, but they’ll come back, and the fact is, that shed was conveniently located. Broke my fall. But I’ve got to get out of this suit. I’m cooked to a turn. Here, help me pull this off.” And Viola, assisted by several pairs of small hands pulled this way and that until at last, the Inventor was standing in his shorts and sweat-soaked t-shirt. He turned to survey the scene of discovery.

“Is it destroyed, Dad? Is Roboman broken?”

“Nope. A minor hitch, Mark One. I shouldn’t have lost concentration, but all you kids waving…but never mind. But it just shows how temperamental the controls are. You must be concentrating all the time. What I’ve got to do, is to build in some latitude. I must build in some scope for variation in my instructions…so that it can adjust itself. Now, it’s too direct. But I know how to fix that…but did you see it stand up?”

“And walk, Dad! We saw it walk!”

“And crash,” added Billy, “the crash was awesome!”

And Viola asked, “So, are you going to drive that thing again?”

“Course I am. But first, I think I’ll do some figuring, and adjust the software…and have some lunch.”

“It’s made a bit of a mess, Dad. The workshop wall – and the chicken house – all smashed.”

“Mark Three,” replied the cheerful Inventor, “that’s what invention is all about...actually, I think I’ll take a shower. I must do something about a cooler test suit…maybe some kind of water cooling,” he continued, largely to himself.

*

The Mayor admired the view from Corker Pritchard’s patio. Across the top of a manicured garden and the wall that bounded the Pritchard estate, the view embraced farmlands, pockets of bush and some distance away, the factory that was Forest Flavours. A little further to the north, the Mayor could also see the edge of Brewster’s Neck, with his own modest home situated just beyond view. The Mayor reflected, not for the first time, the enormous gap between his personal circumstance and that of Corker Pritchard. But he felt only slight envy. Indeed, it was good to have someone like Corker, gracing the district and the town with his presence and commitment. Indeed, reflected the Mayor, Corker was an inspiration! At that moment, Corker, attired most casually in a paisley silk dressing gown, appeared with a beer in each hand. How splendid it was to have the ear of the Great Entrepreneur! How splendid to sit on this terrace as old Georgy Pruitt must have done…but now, it was Dimple Potts!

“You had a good showing last night,” said Corker, passing Dimple a beer. “Bottom’s up,” he said and swigged at the neck.

“I think we got the campaign away to a very good start. Verbal was excellent of course.”

“Minced her, he told me. Minced her up and spat her out. That’ll sort that thing out.”

“I believe my policy speech put us in good stead also.”

“Policy! Don’t be daft. There’s only one strategy that works – make the other bastard look like a turd and suffocate him. That’s what I told Verbal to do and by all accounts he did. Now, what about Hemopo? Have you got him signed? We need to be getting on…the Aussies are here this afternoon.”

The Mayor was momentarily flummoxed. “Well…I’ve met with him…but he’s no pushover and he’s got some weird ideas and-”

“Every prick’s got weird ideas. But have you signed him?”

“Well…not actually signed, but I made things pretty clear. I went up again, after he wrote and-

“Wrote! Wrote what? Why haven’t I seen this? What did that dick-head write?”

“Well…he wrote to the Mayor. It’s council business, so it’s on the agenda for-”

“Show me the letter.”

The Mayor quailed and not for the first time, he noticed what a mean mouth was possessed by the Great Entrepreneur. “I don’t have it with me, but, the fact is, he said he wasn’t interested, and wouldn’t be granting us access. Of course, I told him that the Council, and likely you too, would be thinking about stopping placing our maintenance business with him. But-”

“The little shit! Who does he think he is? Damned right his contracts are finished but that’s nothing. That’s nothing at all. We’ll be getting to that coal and that’s that. If you can’t do the job, I’ll send someone who can. Then we’ll see who’s interested.” Corker drained his bottle. “Things to do,” he said rising. “Puts me off, all this pussy-footing about. Best you get about Council business. Get the stag-thing tucked away. And I can tell you, I’m unimpressed about having to reduce the roar. A roar’s a bloody roar – it’s a fucking stag – not a midget.”

The Mayor, who had barely sampled his beer, rose also. “You know, Corker, I must approach things as a Mayor. I can’t threaten anyone. But I’ve got a lot of support…last night they were chanting ‘Fokkers.’ That’ll help and-”

But the Great Entrepreneur merely waved towards the patio gate. The audience was over.

*

Candidate Bumbulis closed the bakery early. It had been an unpleasant day. It had been a very unpleasant night. The humiliation she had experienced at the hands of Verbal Pritchard in the Town Hall, had caused her to go home and have a most fitful night. She was of a mind to withdraw and to get on with her business. She was of a mind to refuse the Fake-Emcee the doughnut he sometimes came by to purchase. She was even of as mind, though without serious intention, of having Jacko insert a cockroach into that doughnut. The thought cheered her.

Jacko said, without any prompting, “Politics is a funny game, boss. It looks a bit like them pigs in a trough and I’d be wondering why anyone would want to put their snout in that thing.” Then he added hastily, “Not that I’m saying you’ve got a snout – because you haven’t. You’ve got a proper lady’s nose. I’ll just be sweeping out the back.”

Even her customers, who truth be told were most of the voters in Brewster’s Neck, looked embarrassed when they came by for their loaf of bread. Even those who’d brayed for the Fokkers, gave every appearance of some sympathy and in a way, that made things harder.

“Porterhouse,” she said when he arrived, “I’m a failed politician. Was there ever a worse start to a political campaign. That chanting was terrible…could you have imagined?”

The Campaign Manager sipped his cup of tea. “I must admit, it was worse than I expected. I shouldn’t have been surprised and I’m sorry I didn’t give you a bit more advice on that. But he’s a viper, that Verbal and make no mistake. And that’s how we’ve got to go forward – knowing we’re up against a viper. No scruples – none whatsoever. But we can beat him.”

“How?” cried the Candidate, “How can we beat him? He’s totally on Dimple’s side and he’s the whole radio. He’ll keep making me look like a…an insect. He practically invited people to tread on me like a bug. And that chanting? Didn’t you see? It was like looking into the mouth of a rabid dog – not that I have – but I’m sure it would be. And today? Those same people were in here buying my bread and not saying a thing about it. Just a few kind folks who said they supported me but they’re just a handful. How can I beat him? Everyone wants a coal mine!”

The Campaign Manager listened to this appeal with considerable sympathy and chewed his croissant. He reflected a moment on the Mayor’s last tweet. ‘Your Mayor honoured by your support. Preparing for visit by our allies, Green Power. Full steam ahead!’ Then Porterhouse said, “The first thing, Candidate Bumbulis, is that you’ve got to toughen up. What do you think you embarked on? This is politics and you just got blooded – but are you dead? Are you down on the mat after receiving a blood nose? Good grief, I thought I was helping someone with some fibre. And I’d be thinking I was no judge of character if I believed that. I don’t for a moment. So, Candidate, are you a Mayor, or a mouse?”

Candidate Bumbulis was taken aback, but she retorted, “That’s hardly fair! I’m just saying that it was a very unpleasant experience and things seemed stacked against me.” She was thinking furiously. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stand himself. But he replied, “You’re right. It was an awful experience and we weren’t properly ready for it. And you’re not a mouse – far from it.”

“Oh well, I guess…I have a better appreciation for how things are done…and how people feel. But, Porterhouse, it won’t get easier. I must expect it could be nasty and where will that leave me? I live here and make my living. I don’t want to have to move away, just because I was the…mug, who decided to oppose something it seems everyone wants.”

“Humbug!” he replied but kindly. “Whichever way it goes, they’ll all respect you – more than ever. What we need to do is to get planning…yep, and as it happens, I’ve got some ideas.”

“I’m sure you have, Johnson…but I’m listening. Not making any promises, though. I don’t think I’m very glad at this moment, but who knows…”

And the Campaign Manager began to outline his new strategy. And the Candidate found that despite herself, enthusiasm was returning.

*

The Mayor said, “Need I remind you – and we’ll talk about it some more shortly – need I…stress, the need for more economic activity, and obviously, passing motorists should stop, because that will lead to more economic activity. People, that is passing motorists, will buy from our shops – from your store, Fred. People – passing motorists might well be tempted by fashion. But they’ve got to stop and what’s to persuade them? That’s the point I’m making. Not the signs – and why not? That’s what I’m explaining – no-one stops because signs are passé. Every town says welcome and every town says come again soon. Who cares? That’s the point. That’s what I’ve discussed with Corker, and out of his own pocket, he’s put us on the map. The stag makes a statement. It makes a difference and I back him on this and this Council should back him.” The Mayor paused to gauge the effect of this long speech and was not encouraged by the largely blank countenances of his Council.

“If I might say, Mr Mayor…”

“Yes, Councillor Witherspoon…”

“I think it’s an ugly beast, and the noise it makes is awful. And as for its…appendage. Just bad taste and I expect it will make a mockery of us. Not only that, but its already caused an accident.”

The Mayor replied with ill-concealed exasperation, “That was hardly an accident, Fred. The woman was over seventy and most likely it was a natural event. Her time had come, and coincidentally, it was alongside the stag. But I think it’s a stretch to suggest cause and effect.” The Mayor turned, “What about you, Vascular?”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with it, in principle. I mean, the roar is just a roar, isn’t it? I heard it this morning and I thought it was close to a real roar. And as for its pizzel – well, it’s a stag. Course, I can see that if you stood there all day watching, you might start to feel a bit odd. In, out, in, out. Could look a bit porno, in the end. But then if you took its pizzel off, what have you got? A steer. Well, that would look a bit half-hearted. Sorry, Fred, but I’m not bothered by it, and I agree with the Mayor about signs. Never read ‘em me self.”

“Yes,” replied Councillor Witherspoon, “but you live out of town. You can’t hear it, but we can, and at the very least, that roar should be removed or at least put on a timer. I heard it at 2:00am last night. And surely it doesn’t need those glowing eyes? If they don’t cause an accident, I’ll be astonished. But the pizzel, as you call it? I cannot support this proposal while it remains.”

“Hefty?” demanded the Mayor somewhat desperately.

“I’m known for straight-talking,” replied Hefty after swallowing a cheese scone. “And I think it’s bloody silly. I’ve got a couple of pubescent daughters and already they’re asking me about things I’d rather not have to explain. So, I’m with Fred on the pizzel. Take it off. And as for the noise? It shouldn’t be able to roar after 5:00pm until a decent time in the morning, and it should not be as loud. No-one wants to hear the bloody thing down High Street. That’s my opinion.”

Shortly, the motion was put, and the stag was adopted as the town emblem, but on condition the thrusting pizzel (that had been recovered, partly damaged from the local tip and now with a fresh coat of paint, reinstalled but with the precaution of wiring it to Ted Potross’s electric fence) be removed and the roar be reduced to whatever decibel rating made it inaudible outside Witherspoon’s Classic Fashions. The issue of the glowing eyes did not come up.

The Council moved onto considering the response from Doug Hemopo to the Council’s support for Green Power’s coal mining proposal.

“We need to be seen to stand up on this one,” said the Mayor. “We can’t be seen to roll over when one person can effectively stop this town in its tracks. He’s laughing at us. We’ve got to push back.”

Fred Witherspoon replied, “If I may, Mr Mayor. I know this is contentious, and especially since we’re in an election, but I do think we should be considering, as the other candidate suggested, whether coal is the future for our town, or indeed, any town.”

“I’m one for straight talking, Fred, as everyone knows,” re-joined Councillor Hardacre, “and I’m with the Mayor. Hemopo’s a jumped-up twat. Our job is to lead this town. Not with pizzels but with business activity – and you can’t get more solid business than a coal mine. You need men, you need machinery, you need a market. Everything’s there, except we’ve got a hippy who thinks he can block access.”

The Town Clerk enquired, “Would the Councillor like me to record the description of Mr Hemopo in the minutes?”

“Record what you like, Town Clerk and see if I give a rat’s arse. You can record that too.”

After some further robust debate, it was agreed, and the motion was passed with one against, that Doug Hemopo’s Council equipment maintenance contract would be cancelled forthwith, but ‘re-instatable’ if some accommodation on the issue were to be found.

“And the bit about royalties. That’ll get him. Just wish it was my land.”

“Yes, Councillor Potross,” said the Mayor, “Stick and carrot.”

“I’m afraid I’d like it recorded, that I oppose the use of threats in this or any Council business.”

“Bloody hell, Fred!” replied Councillor Hardacre, “It’s about money. You should know that. Bloody hell…I’d like it recorded that I said Hemopo’s a dyed-in-the-wool traitor.”

“You’re getting a bit excited, Hefty, it-

“Order! Order! We won’t be recording that, Councillor,” interjected the Mayor, “and we won’t be recording your view either, Fred – Councillor Witherspoon. These minutes are an historical record and we don’t want these kinds of accusations being recorded for all time.”

“Well, I think that’s rather high-handed, Mr Mayor. We’ve made a threat…in fact I think it could also be described as a bribe. And I do want that recorded.”

“Why is it Fred, that you must take a contrary position on everything this Council tries to do? The others don’t. They discuss the issues and then we reach an accord. But not you. I mean, it really begs the question.”

“And which question is that, Mr Mayor?” asked Councillor Witherspoon.

“You know bloody well. You know only too well and even now, you’re being provocative. Well, I’m not falling for it. We’ve got a lot on the agenda and I can’t be wasting time toying with words with one councillor who takes perverse satisfaction from naysaying all the excellent work this Council does.”

“If he can have that recorded,” declared Councillor Hardacre, “Then I want what I say recorded. I don’t mince my words. That’s what I’m known for and I don’t care who knows – or reads it, this year or next bloody century.” Hefty Hardacre winked at Councillor Potross as she swallowed another scone.

“What do you want recorded then. Exactly what?”

“That Hemopo’s a traitor to Brewster’s Neck. You know, Dimple, I’d-

Councillor Witherspoon interrupted, “Mr Mayor, if you please. Let’s maintain some procedural decorum.”

Hefty smirked, “I’d have thought, Mr Mayor, that someone who’s movement is the FOKKERS, would see instantly that Hemopo is clearly a ‘K’ with a capital ‘C.’ And I’m not talking about a ‘Climate Changer.” She turned to the Town Clerk, “And you can record that, and use whichever spelling takes your fancy.”

“Ha! Ha! Hefty, that’s a good un. That’s a good un, Vascular.”

“Order! Councillor Potross, we’re not interested in good uns. We’re interested in civic policy. And the only minute will be that Councillor Hardacre suggested that Doug Hemopo is clearly in thrall…deceived by the Climate Changers.”

“What’s happened to free speech, Mr Mayor? You’re censoring me. The twat is standing in the road of progress in this town and if that isn’t being a goddamn traitor, I don’t know what is.” Councillor Hardacre consumed the last scone within arm’s reach. Councillor Adams obliged by passing her another plate.

“If I may say, Mr Mayor…” Councillor Witherspoon raised his delicate hand, “If I may say, I don’t think it is appropriate that we employ this kind of language. With respect, Councillor, it’s coarse and I believe it is also slanderous.”

“Oh, Fred…Oh Fred! You belong in another age. We’re in the twenty-first century, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Order! We do not need any personal remarks. Please strike those remarks from the record, Town Clerk.”

Councillor Hardacre glared at Councillor Witherspoon, who was dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief, frowning and looking at his agenda.

“Which words, Mr Mayor? Which words would you like struck out?” replied the Town Clerk.

The Mayor snapped back, “The words about slander and traitor and so forth. Use your judgment man! Now, if we can, the next item relates to the Council’s letter to the Mayor of Taumaranui…that letter, which is in draft form. If you would read it out, Town Clerk.”

The Town Clerk read aloud the letter that suggested to the Mayor and Council of Taumaranui, that the Taumaranui Council’s proposal to institute an annual rugby fixture, between Brewster’s Neck and Taumaranui, with a trophy comprising of two hookers, was a splendid idea, which was accepted by the Council of Brewster’s Neck. And further, that this Council proposed a small committee to come up with the detailed programme etc.

“Two hookers!” exclaimed Councillor Hardacre, swallowing a scone, “You’d like that, Brucie!”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Councillor Potross, “That’s a good un.”

“Order!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr Mayor. Just a little bit of levity. I’ll bet you’d all like a pair.”

“Strike that out, Town Clerk.”

“What the hell’s happening to free speech? Vascular…why don’t you say something. Anything to get the Thought Police off my back. These scones are good. Yours, Fred?”

Councillor Witherspoon nodded wearily.

Councillor Adams said, “When are we going to talk about rivers? Seems all they can talk about in Auckland is rivers.”

“That’s not on the agenda, Councillor. You can propose it for another meeting, if you wish. As a specific issue. We’re not in the business of taking on public opinion in Auckland. We can leave that to the politicians.”

“Seems like this Council is becoming a one-man show. Seems no-one can voice a different view.”

“That’s out of order, Councillor Hardacre. Completely out of order. This Council has an agenda and we’re discussing a proposal for a rugby fixture. Not rivers and not anything else.”

With little further discussion, the letter was approved, but Councillor Hardacre’s suggestion that the cup be called the ‘Happy Hookers,’ was forthrightly quashed by an irate Mayor. Councillor Hardacre smirked and finished the last scone.

*

Candidate Bumbulis stared with consternation at the billboard but she was unsurprised, and nor did she feel intimidated. Instead, she felt determination rising. She felt sorry for those who felt their only way to engage in politics was by defacing her billboard. After some application of a spray can, her billboard now said, ‘Vote a Bum.’ And her sunny photograph now sported a moustache and a gap in her teeth. As she remarked to her Campaign Manager later, “It was a kind of turning point, Porterhouse. I suddenly thought, they’re afraid. But they shouldn’t be. They’re afraid of what they don’t know, and folk are always afraid of the unknown. Mostly. So, I just thought, what does it matter? I’ve just got to say my piece and that’s all I can do.”

Her Campaign Manager was well pleased. “You’re getting the hang of it, Candidate! I’ll clean it up…but I’ve got you the new flyer, all ready for you to go door-knocking.”

So, the next stage of her campaign began, commencing that afternoon in Wilberforce Street, with a new flyer written by Misery McNab that said that Brewster’s Neck should be glad to be an enlightened democracy, where everyone could freely and openly express themselves about any matter affecting their town. The Candidate told her Campaign Manager that the flyer really captured the spirit of her campaign and reached out in the best possible way. Her Campaign Manager replied that the writer had said that the average voter was beyond reach and universally dead from the neck up.

In any event, by the end of the afternoon, the Candidate had consumed five cups of tea in five houses on Wilberforce Street, had the door closed on her before she had finished introducing herself at two, and been chased from one house by a nasty little foxy. She called the Campaign Manager who said that was a jolly good start and better than he expected. He also advised her to carry a stout umbrella and to be prepared to use it.

*

Viola was watching her kids race on stilts and she was interested that despite his extra strength, yet Tamati was nearly always beaten across the yard by the younger Billy. That boy just moved those stilts as though they were a part of him. And tiny Lizzie was still only part way across in one race while the boys were onto their third. But she didn’t seem to notice. And then Viola saw a Bentley coming up to the gate, and when it had parked, she saw a small man in a suit emerge, who she thought, might be a Pritchard, and she felt a little misgiving; and as the man approached, that misgiving increased because he had a face that simply did not appeal. It was a closed face. It was a business-type of face that looked like it had never been a boy’s face. Nonetheless, she greeted her visitor cheerfully and said she would fetch Doug. But quite untypically, she did not invite Percy Pritchard onto the veranda, as she would normally have done with just about any visitor.

Fetching Doug was not simple. The Inventor was tucked inside the control centre, which was quite high in the air since Roboman lay on its back on top of the remains of the chicken house. Viola was pleased at least, that Roboman was not visible from the road or the other side of the house. She climbed the ladder until she was able to peer into the head of Roboman to call her husband.

“Can’t come now, too busy.” He replied. “Nope, this is the wrong time. Tell him to come another time. Bother! Now look!” He held up his finger which was bleeding. “Got to watch what I’m doing. Can’t be having distractions.” He shook his head and extricated himself backwards. “Percy Pritchard? I can guess.”

Shortly, Doug was around the front of his house, but he didn’t shake Percy Pritchard’s hand because he could see that Percy Pritchard didn’t do that. So, Doug asked how he could help.

“You could help, by agreeing to let Green Power cut a road to the coal.”

Doug frowned. “I’ve already told the Council. I don’t want a road on my land to get to coal. And I haven’t changed my mind.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“What’ll make it worth your while. Twenty?”

Doug grinned, “I don’t want money. I’ve got enough. I’m just not into coal.”

Percy’s blank expression as he glanced around conveyed nothing, and everything. “You may not be into that coal, but we will be. So, you can make it worth your while, or you can watch and regret.”

“You threatening me? Is that a threat?”

“Thirty – in your hand tomorrow.”

Doug sighed, “Mr Pritchard. For the last time. No. No to a road and no to the money. You’ve wasted your time. And mine.”

“You’ve just made a mistake.” Percy Pritchard turned on his heel and returned to the Bentley. He ignored the kids who gathered in a knot to stare silently at the visitor. He did not return Lizzie’s wave.

“How can you not wave to a kid? He doesn’t even drive himself,” said Viola. “What’s the use of having that car and you don’t drive it? He’s a small man.”

And Doug replied, “They’re the most dangerous.” However, the Inventor’s thoughts were already elsewhere. He planned a second test, so, as soon as Viola had applied the sticking plaster, he was back to the control centre; and Viola now attended to Jack, who in his valiant attempt to overtake Billy, had caught a stilt in a hole and catapulted himself clear over the wire fence into the pig run.

*

In the back office of the Daily Bugle, a very serious discussion was taking place. The Editor, Beatrice Potts, poured her two companions a small sweet sherry and taking up the shot glasses, the three saluted a ‘Clean campaign! But a tough campaign!’

“And I say that from a bi-partisan position,” added Beatrice.

“Course you do and that’s absolutely right,” replied Porterhouse Johnson.

Misery McNab snorted, “Sell their mothers in a second. Adulterate the whisky, spike the punch and steal the offering. Politicians!” He continued gloomily, “But what’s new? I don’t give her a chance. Not a chance. Brochures – speeches…” he waved an arm, “policies – fine words but they’ll dig a hole and tip her in. Mark my words. You might think that people could see a charlatan in a second, but not a bit of it. People’ve been voting for charlatans and pimps since the beginning. Potts! Buffoon, and they were saluting him! And our candidate? Swamped before she could swim a stroke. No, she doesn’t have a chance. Waste of time.”

“So, Fred,” Beatrice observed mildly, “You’re not optimistic.” Ignoring his scowl, she asked, “Anyway, what have you got for me?”

McNab pushed two typewritten pages towards her.

The Editor read silently, ‘Who was Homeless Hauptmann?’ However, at the Campaign Manager’s behest she continued aloud, “He was known as Homeless Hauptmann, but his real name was Rudolf. We shall continue with his adopted name, since that was the way we knew him. And yet, who could say they knew Homeless. We knew of him. We knew that he habituated our High Street, and, the door fronts of Fred Witherspoon’s store, and that of Taylor Palomino. It is reasonable to assume that he favoured these doorways because the porch over both provided some shelter from rain and sun. We became accustomed, over many years to seeing the figure, rolled like a pupa in his sleeping bag, tucked into a corner. We became accustomed to some of his more obvious idiosyncrasies. The way he would suddenly thrust out a leg, one presumed with the intent of tripping the passer-by, although whether this ever occurred, your reporter was unable to discover – but it did amuse the kids, who would hover, pretending not to see him that they might provoke this behaviour and so elicit squeals of delight at the excitement of avoiding ‘disaster.’ And then, who could not recall Homeless as the ‘gunslinger?’ With that incongruous German accent saying, ‘Draw, stranger,’ he would produce the plastic Colt 45 and thumb the hammer. If one chose to ignore this challenge, it would be followed by the cry ‘Pow!’ If on the other hand, one drew one’s own imaginary weapon, Homeless would feint left or right and say, ‘Make my day!’

“But perhaps his most obvious mannerism was his trumpet. Most would agree that Homeless was musical but even so, many were grateful when his breath failed, and the peals ceased. What else can we say? He clearly did not own a comb, either for his beard or his wild head of hair. And despite that Prune Fishbender regularly supplied him with pieces of fruit, and every day our baker, Sarah Bumbulis sustained him with a bread roll or two; while the beekeeper Johnson, from time-to-time supplied a pot of honey, Homeless shoplifted from them and others, without compunction. This behaviour caused our constable Hikaka to have ‘stern words,’ but since no-one made a formal complaint, his clumsy attempts at theft, described by young Marty Clatworthy as ‘So obvious he must have wanted to be caught,’ continued until his untimely demise. And perhaps in this observation we have insight, for, caught red-handed as he invariably was, the ensuing altercation provided an interaction otherwise missing from his day-to-day existence.

“This reporter asks, is it not strange that someone so ‘well-known’ by dint of his mere presence and one or two odd behaviours, who became as much a part of High Street as the town clock, was otherwise a mystery to us all? Everyone in Brewster’s Neck could have said in an instant, ‘Oh, Homeless Hauptmann? He lives on High Street. He plays trumpet and believes he’s a cowboy.’ But to the question, Yes, but who was he, really? Nobody has anything to say.

“Because of this mystery, your reporter dug deeper, and it is now possible to reveal a story that may leave many incredulous. Homeless arrived in Brewster’s Neck in 1991, at which time he would have been in his early sixties. At that time, he made a living doing odd jobs. Councillor Brucie Potross recalls the day he sacked Homeless for backing Brucie’s truck into several motorbikes outside the Dorchester - machines belonging to members of a well-known gang. This incident, said Brucie, ‘Caused things to become pretty freaking tense.’ The explanation from Homeless was that he had to stop the ‘posse’ that was on his trail, intent he believed, ‘on stringing him up.’ According to Brucie, it was only because of his age and with the valiant intervention of constable Herb Hikaka, that Homeless didn’t meet the fate he feared. On another occasion, whilst helping Vascular Adams at haymaking, Homeless accidentally destroyed a haystack when he attempted to boil the billy on a fire with sparking totara, about a yard away from the stack.

“It seems that before long, no-one was prepared to risk giving Homeless any kind of work, and where he had previously resided in the shack that in time, became the residence of Weasel Potross, he moved onto High Street and stayed there. Here too, this reporter was struck by coincidence. Homeless Hauptmann died from a grievous injury caused by an arrow through his neck. He was discovered in the doorway of Uppercutz by none other than the man who took over his residence up Murphy’s Road. The plot thickens, as they say…

“And here we are, less than enthralled, in this reporter’s opinion, by the first competition for the position of Mayor in living memory, and we are confronted by what appears to be murder and mystery. The question is (and it should be noted that our constable had nothing to say on the matter), who would wish him dead and why?

“But now, and perhaps with great relevance to the aforesaid question, this reporter, can reveal that Homeless Hauptmann was not simply a bum by the name of Rudy. The bum in fact was none other than Count Rudolf Von Hauptmann of Oster Heide, Lower Saxony.”

“Germany!” Exclaimed the Campaign Manager, “Marvellous!”

The Editor paused, “Extraordinary!” And Porterhouse Johnson added philosophically, “Every person’s story is strange. But a penniless German Count…with an arrow in the throat...” He shook his head bemusedly and gestured to the reader to continue. Before she could, the author waved his hand dismissively as though at a buzzing blue-bottle, “If we knew half as much as we should, we’d never vote. We’d likely never speak to each other. Swine to left and right! But go on! Go on!”

At this, the Editor continued, “Owner of a castle and an extensive estate, Count Von Hauptmann should have been a man of influence. However, the records show that the Count so bungled his financial affairs he was assaulted by two of his creditors and sued by another. The Count fled to Munich, where, under the name Rudy Schmidt, he played trumpet in a little-known jazz quartet and somehow contrived an affair with one Eva Weber, wife of the billionaire steel magnate Otto Weber. Discovered in a compromising situation in Otto’s own bedroom, Rudy was hurled from the second storey window to almost certain death, avoided only by his intersection with the canvas canopy of a delivery truck. Here, the trail goes cold, until Rudolf, aka Rudy, aka Homeless appeared in Auckland, to be employed, to this reporter’s astonishment, by the City Council as a senior accountant. It cannot be coincidence that the Council ran perilously close to bankruptcy and Rudy was one of hundreds made redundant.

“From Auckland then, to Brewster’s Neck…and why? This reporter believes that he has now solved the Mystery of ‘Burnt Brewster.’ It seems that following his redundancy, Rudolf Hauptmann aka Roger Hornblower, secured a job driving a petrol tanker for an oil company – despite that there is no evidence he was ever licensed for anything larger than a VW Beetle. On the day concerned, the petrol tanker involved in the disaster was parked on the side of the road north of Brewster’s Neck, where a motorist later said that moments before the explosion, he was sure he saw the driver, leaning against the tanker, smoking a cigarette. No trace was ever found of the driver, but this reporter believes that Roger Hornblower rested his cigarette on the tanker whilst he climbed down the bank to answer a call-of-nature. Once again, Fortune smiled on Rudolf Hauptmann. The tanker exploded, and Hauptmann was blown by the force of the explosion into the Ararata River; to fetch up a kilometre downstream, unharmed but for the loss of much of his hair and his trousers. And so, it seems, Rudolf Hauptmann stumbled inadvertently into our town, and never left.

“Heavens above!” exclaimed the Editor and then read, “In conclusion, this reporter puts it to the reader: If Homeless had been one’s father, brother or son, would we know so little? And how will we now view him? Knowing as we now do that he came from German aristocracy? But then again, while we recoil in horror at the nature of his death, he was after-all, a German sausage eater of dubious character and consequently, in the words of the bard, do we give a stuff?’ This special report for the Bugle contributed by Fred McNab.”

The Editor laid the pages on her desk and shook her head, “Fred, extraordinary story and fantastic investigative piece. I’m impressed…but the conclusion needs a little work.”

McNab scowled. “The long and the short of it is that Homeless was an ass and it should be said – but I’ve striven to bring some human interest – though why I’m not sure. Can they even read? But you’re the editor.”

At that moment there came a knock on the door and before anyone could rise, Dimple Potts entered the room.

“Oh, Beatrice, sorry – didn’t realise you had company. Could I have a moment?”

The Editor raised her eyebrows, “I’m in a meeting, Dimple.”

“Yes, but this is important.”

“So is this.”

The Mayor glanced about with disdain, “What? With my opponent’s campaign manager – and his mouthpiece?”

Porterhouse interjected, “That’s not very civil, Mr Mayor.”

The Mayor stretched a little higher, “And what would you know about civil? No doubt you and the GLADs are behind the slander on my billboard?”

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” replied Porterhouse, “but I do know that the billboard, which is the property of Candidate Bumbulis, was vandalised last night. And I can only presume that was courtesy of the FOKKERS?”

The Mayor bridled, “Don’t go making accusations at me! I’m the Mayor and I’ll have some respect for the office. Beatrice? Can we meet?”

“Shortly, Dimple. I’ll pop over.”

The Mayor banged the door on his way out.

“What do you know about the Mayor’s billboard?” The Editor asked.

“Nought. We’d better go see,” replied Porterhouse.

The three made their way out onto the street to gaze at the billboard, which now said, ‘Pimple Potts. Your Friendless FOKKER.’

“Now, that’s not very respectful,” observed the Editor with a small smile.

McNab snorted. “Respect can be won or demanded, and it always seems that those who pretend to lead us, don’t know how to accomplish the first and are always loud about the other.”

They turned their attention to the new billboard of Candidate Bumbulis. ‘Vote GLAD. Vote Sarah for a cleaner, safer future for our town.’

“Well, I can guess what Dimple wants to talk to me about. I’d better go see. I’ll run your piece tomorrow, Fred,” she added as she made across the street towards the Council Office. “Who would’ve thought? Count Von Hauptmann? But I’ll be changing the conclusion!”

Misery McNab climbed onto his old Raleigh bicycle and wobbled towards the Dorchester; while Porterhouse Johnson returned to his van, thinking that it was entirely to be expected that Beatrice was enthusiastic about the article – but wondering if he should disclose that Rudolf Hauptmann was in fact born in Glendowie and had worked most of his life as a hairdresser in Morrinsville, before arriving inauspiciously in Brewster’s Neck one Friday afternoon; which was when Porterhouse became the first resident to make his acquaintance, helping Hauptmann to his feet after he tumbled, quite inebriated down the steps of the bus onto the pavement. After some short musing he decided it didn’t really matter.

*

Constable Herb Hikaka re-read the official communique from Police HQ. “Interesting,” said Herb, “very interesting.” The official communique said that Rudolf Hauptmann had visited Taumaranui, two days before his death, and had been apprehended for stealing a cooked roast from a window-sill, and allegedly tripping up an elderly woman who afterwards, required medical treatment. He was also warned for repeatedly ‘drawing a pistol,’ which was in fact a cold sausage, and saying, ‘make my day.’ The communique went onto describe aspects of the interrogation carried out by the apprehending constable, Periodical Smith, most of which was of little interest. However, Herb was gratified to see the second to last statement by Hauptmann. ‘I’m staking a claim.’ Constable Smith concluded that Hauptmann was disturbed and advised the subject to return to Brewster’s Neck as quickly as possible. But Constable Hikaka knew better.

Herb started his car and drove out of town and up Murphy’s Road. He noted that both Weasel’s trucks were parked outside his decrepit abode. He parked alongside. Folding the communique into his jacket pocket, Herb knocked on the door. He knocked twice more before trying the handle and then opened the door. In the half-light he could see instantly that Weasel would not be helping him with his enquiries. Weasel was hanging from the rafter, strangled by a doubled-over length of baling twine.

*

After removing frozen venison from his chiller to make space, Herb carefully wrapped the deceased in one of his clean bed sheets and therein deposited the corpse. Then he collected the PMD and drove back out to the residence of the late Weasel Potross, thinking it was a strange turn that he had been about to return the device to Regional HQ, and now he had need of it yet again. And when had it been previously required? Not once in his long tenure as the constable of Brewster’s Neck and indeed, to the best of his knowledge, not within a hundred kilometres of Brewster’s Neck…and as he drove back up Murphy’s Road, he glanced again at the note sitting on the passenger seat that had been left by Weasel on his kitchen table. ‘I karnt go on.’

Three magpies had taken possession of the roof of the Potross shanty but took wing when Herb drove through the gate. Soon, he had situated the PMD and he commenced a thorough examination. From time to time, the constable emitted a grunt. It was not the kind of grunt he emitted when he was packed down in the front row of the Brewster Rooster’s scrum. That grunt was a very deep, giving voice as it was to enormous physical effort. Here at the scene of Weasel’s demise, Herb’s occasional grunts were of a much lighter kind and higher pitched. It was a grunt that if it came from deep within the scrum, would almost certainly result in that scrum being pushed backwards. This grunt could easily be translated to mean, ‘Ah ha…’ and in the course of the hour that the constable spent, guiding the sensor of the PMD across the floor, over Weasel’s table and chairs and under his wire-wove bed, at least five of these grunts interrupted the silence.

Finally, Herb turned off the PMD and sitting on the floor of the tiny room with his back against the wall, he contemplated his findings and the apparent circumstances of Weasel’s demise. He removed the PIN from his jacket and over a period of some twenty or so minutes, he made several notes. Then, he re-packed the PMD, loaded that wondrous machine into his wagon and returned to town. He was completing his formal report into the apparent suicide of Weasel Potross, when there came a knock on the door.

“Brought a cold one,” said Porterhouse Johnson, poking his head around the door.

Herb closed his folder and joined Porterhouse on the veranda.

“The campaign’s heating up,” began the visitor. “You asked if Candidate Bumbulis would go the distance, well, I’m glad to say that I think she will.” He chuckled. “But those billboards are attracting a lot of attention.”

“I’m glad to hear that – about Sarah. Yep, that’s one good thing.”

“Yep, she’s a good woman, Herb. A fine woman. Some chap should step into Edgars shoes.”

“A beekeeper?”

“A beekeeper might be tempted. But a beekeeper is spoken for. But a constable now…”

“He’s too busy,” replied Herb. “Got to be getting off to HQ shortly.”

“How so?”

“Weasel Potross is dead.”

Porterhouse Johnson’s eyes widened.

The constable continued, “Just been out there. He’s in my chiller.”

“Murder?”

Herb squeezed his chin, “Suicide, it seems.”

Porterhouse was dumbfounded. “Homeless…and now Weasel…my word, you’ve got your hands full.”

Herb nodded. “Not much to it, if it’s suicide.”

Porterhouse contemplated this observation for some time. In particular, he contrasted his own vocation with that of the constable. Admittedly, sudden and suspicious deaths were not normal fare for his friend either, but at no time would a bee keeper expect to have to deal with a corpse and most especially, a bee keeper would not be required to devote his waking hours to discovering the causes of sudden and violent death. Bees were much less complicated. The production and harvesting of honey were the kinds of activities that made a man feel that everything was fine with the world. But there was no denying, mused Porterhouse Johnson, that sudden and violent death, in the third person, was intriguing, which led to his innocent but leading question, “You’ve doubts?”

“I’m not at liberty to say more. Middle of my investigation.”

Porterhouse nodded sagely and waited.

“But I will say this,” said Herb, “for your ears only. The PMD threw up a couple of left fielders.”

“It’ll go no further,” replied his guest.

“Well,” continued Herb, “one of a pair of boots was missing…and someone had been lifting and replacing floorboards. All nicely back in place, but they’d been lifted. You might think, so what? A boot is missing? Might’ve thrown it at a possum? That’d be the natural conclusion. But we’re talking about high-powered forensics…with the PMD. And what I found, with the PMD, was that the missing boot had been missing for more or less, ten hours, which, coincidentally, is when Weasel died of strangulation by hanging. And maybe Weasel was looking for a dead rat, under the boards. You might think that if you didn’t have the PMD. But luckily, I hadn’t returned it as I planned and what that showed me was that the hands that lifted those boards belonged to two people.”

“Impressive,” replied Porterhouse. “So, someone was there? But if someone was there…it might not be suicide? Holy moly! Two murders in a week! Holy moly!”

“Could be…or might not be. I’ll have to do some more investigation.”

“But if it wasn’t a dead rat?”

“Interesting…as we say in the Force. What would a joker like Weasel have under his floor that someone might want to lift half of them? And then replace them nice and tidy so that no-one would know? And did they find what they were looking for?”

Porterhouse said, “What on earth could Weasel have under his floor that someone might be looking for – and even…?”

“I’m afraid, jokers can get a little unhinged. You discover that in police work…anyway, I’ve got a theory. But I’ll ask you to keep it under your hat, at present. Don’t want to jeopardise the investigation by panicking folks.”

*

Unfortunately, an hour later when Constable Hikaka was reporting the new case to the Mayor, before proceeding onto Regional HQ, Nostril Masters had gotten hold of the end of the sheet dangling out of the back of Herb’s wagon, which was parked outside the Mayor’s office, and was pulling it bit by bit, under the rear door. Taylor Palomino, who was passing by and eating an ice cream, peered into the back of the wagon and saw the contused face of Weasel Potross now revealed, and dropping the ice cream, uttered a piercing scream.

“What the fuck?” cried the Mayor, “Another one?”

Swiftly, Herb peered out the window and saw the hairdresser standing rigidly near his wagon, one hand over her mouth and the other pointing at the rear where Nostril continued unconcernedly in his patient tugging.

“Bugger!” exclaimed the constable, “Got to go, Mr Mayor. I’ll drop by later.”

The Mayor watched the constable, shepherd Taylor Palomino onto the sidewalk, rearrange the corpse, exchange blunt words with Nostril and then drive off.

The Mayor tweeted, ‘No crimewave in Brewster’s Neck due to Mayor Pott’s Zero Tolerance policies. Unlike Socialists who are glad to let crims roam – and pay them. But nothing for victims. That’s not right.’

*

Taylor Palomino wasn’t in the mood. “But I haven’t much time,” protested Verbal Pritchard, who had already removed his Alberto jeans and Lacoste polo. “I’ve got a show to produce.” He glanced at his Rolex, “Dammit, Hunny bunny, we’ve got fifteen minutes.”

But Taylor stood with arms folded across her ample and well-clad bosom, staring out the small rear window of the flat behind Uppercutz. “You’re so insensitive,” she replied, and please stop calling me that.

“Dammit!” her suitor cried again, pulling on his trousers, “And you think nothing of embarrassing a chap. Wasting my time…coming here when I should already be at the studio…” He shrugged into his polo and then glared disconsolately into the mirror to primp his hair. “We could’ve been quick – would’ve been fun. But now you’ve gone all…emotional.”

Taylor turned swiftly and with a furious expression, “How dare you! Yes, I’m emotional. I’ve just seen a dead person – murdered person most likely. A dead body! Right outside my salon…again. What do you expect? That I just want a quick poke? Do you think of anyone but yourself!”

The Great Media Man was momentarily nonplussed. This was not how it was, ever, in his memory. Normally, it was into bed and a jolly good roll and then off down the street to do something interesting. And he didn’t like her expression. It was unbecoming. It was unfriendly – hostile even. Indeed, he thought truculently, it was unfair. She was his main gallop and at this moment, she didn’t really look grateful and frankly, she didn’t look like she deserved it. He might have to reconsider. He might have to take another look in at Macey Potross. He jammed his feet into his Breeze Penny Loafers and rose, “Well, look,” he began, softening his tone, “I know it’s been a shock. But look, it was just Weasel Potross, Taylor. A grub, after all. And he had to die sometime – we all do. But does that mean life ends? Well, it has for him of course – but I mean, we must go on living, don’t we? We can’t just stop because some minor person…I mean in the scheme of things…just a truck driver, for Corker…has croaked. If we all fell over every time some nonentity moved on, well, it would all be pretty depressing.”

Verbal had had it in mind, during this speech, to reach out for Taylor, though truth be told, he was still feeling faintly repelled by the puffiness that had come into her face but, he felt that a bit of a cuddle and some smooth words would suffice, and then perhaps he could come back after this edition of ‘Have Your Say.’ But even before she opened her mouth, which itself was looking alarmingly lop-sided, he realised that this was not about to happen.

“Do you ever hear yourself?” she demanded in a low and menacing tone, “He’s dead. He can’t be…thirty-five and he’s dead and likely he’s been killed, and he may be just a truckie but that doesn’t make him less. That doesn’t make him unimportant. Just because he’s not doing a talk show,” she added scornfully. “I just think you should go.”

“Don’t worry!” replied Verbal brusquely, “Don’t worry. Just a talk-show? You don’t know anything!” He seized his Pearly King Bomber jacket, “I might see you,” he said meaningfully, and stalked out of the room and through the back door.

*

Verbal Pritchard stalked down the street in a state of dudgeon. “Just a talk-show?” He repeated fiercely, “Goddamn hairdresser! What the hell does she know? Taking the pulse…I take the pulse of the nation…she cuts hair while your bum points to the ground…just talk-back? I lead the conversation…get to the heart of things. What does she know? How to do a blue rinse! Pah! And you know what else, Ms Palomino? You’re a pretty average ride…and I’m a top jockey.”

As he made his way toward his studio, these helpful considerations rapidly restored his equanimity. “Morning sweethearts,” the Media Man winked at the two young things hovering near the studio door, “My, you have grown! But got to get on air.”

Greatly restored by his conclusions vis-à-vis the hairdresser and the evident adoration of at least two of his fans, Verbal soon had this edition of ‘Have Your Say,’ underway. “Howdy folks, and remember, have your say, before the other bastard says it for you!” He made his characteristic and man-of-the-world chuckle, “But getting right on with it – crime, folks. I’ve raised this issue before and I do so again. We need to talk about crime in our town. And the question I put to you is this. Are we in the middle of a crimewave? And what’s being done about it? Where’s the police? Where’re the crims being put behind bars? Have we gone soft on law and order in Brewster’s Neck? Homeless Hauptmann – dead on main street – murdered by arrow. And now, Weasel Potross – murdered. Yes – I’ve just spoken to an eye witness. Distraught, she was, and you can imagine – you see a corpse in our High Street, it’s a natural reaction. These are big questions folks. Can you lie safe in your bed at night? Can your kiddies walk to school without fear that some, monster is not already taking aim? I’ll give you a couple of minutes to mull this over, and then you can have your say.”

Verbal switched to the ad that reminded his listeners that ‘Forest Flavours Families always want a Fair Suck of the Stag’s Saussy,’ and for this week only, those sausages were subject to truly giveaway prices and mad savings. Verbal switched to live and said, “Yes, folks. Unbelievable savings on the old saus. Had them myself for breakfast and you know? I cannot imagine anything else could taste so damned good. The flavour? It’s Cape Canaveral, folks. It’s into gastronomic orbit with a bang! So, ladies, get down to Forest Flavours and seize the saussy.” He made a lip-smacking sound and then continued in the gravest tone, “But back to our main story today. Crime and what’s next? I’ll take our first caller. Hi…”

There came various sounds of rustling, one or two incoherent words and then possibly, the phone being dropped and retrieved, and then, in a slow and frail manner, “Hulloo.”

“Hi,” replied Verbal breezily, and this is?”

“This is Mildred, Verbal.”

“I knew that, Mildred, well, what do you think about the crimewave? Are you for it or against it? Should we increase sentences? Mildred…in your opinion, have the judges gone soft on crims, and you, ordinary citizens like you, Mildred, lived here all your life and now alone, isolated in your own little insecure home, how do you feel about knowing that some crazy is stalking your street with God-knows-what in his hand? Checking your window latch at this very instant, most likely and with tools that’ll have it open in three seconds flat. What are your thoughts, Mildred? Mildred? Are you…well, looks like we lost Mildred. Let’s hope it’s just a call of nature. But next caller, Yes, hi?”

“Gidday, Verbal. This is Derek Hardacre. We met a few weeks ago – you might remember – at that reception. My wife is Hefty, the councillor.”

“Remember it well, Derek,” Verbal lied, “So, what’re your thoughts, Derek? And I daresay that Hefty wouldn’t be in favour of lenient sentencing. Not if I know her. Hard talker, is Hefty. I daresay the Council will be onto this. And I’ll say this…Derek, and I’ll be interested in your view – but isn’t the popular FOKKER movement all about this thing. Fundamentally opposed to Socialists, Derek – and as I’m sure you know, it’s the lefties that’ll have crims elected to Council before we know it. Crazy isn’t it? But that’s where we’re headed – mark my words. If the FOKKERS don’t put an end to all this…left-wing ructions, is what I call it…this town will go to the dogs. The country, Derek, will go to the dogs…but can we just pause a moment, for this commercial break.” And Verbal switched to the ad that reminded listeners that if they wanted a driveway cut through solid rock or anywhere in-between, then they needed to call Brucie Potross immediately, because Potross Contracting was doing a special on driveways this week, with concrete at half-price. “And you couldn’t ask for more than that!” added Verbal, “Why, I’ll take two, ha! Ha! But seriously, Brucie’s your man for a bit of bulldozer-and-conker…now, back to ‘Have Your Say.’ I’ll take the next caller.”

“But I’m here, Verbal. Derek Hardacre.”

“Course you are, Derek. You were telling me about how the Council will come down hard on law and order, and that the Council was absolutely going to tell the judges to get FOKKED. And quite right, Derek, because if they keep letting these crazies back onto the streets, who will be safe? That’s my question. But before you answer that, let’s not forget who’s leading the charge. Let’s not forget who sees law-and-order as the number one issue for our town. That’s right! It’s our Mayor, Dimple Potts. And I can tell you that Dimple has said, the crazies will be locked up – and for a bloody long time. Heard it from his own lips and here, he’s been tweeting on that very subject even before our show. And here’s something else, that all you good folks should know…in fact, all you good folks should be out in the streets protesting about – and that’s the crims who’ve defaced our Mayor’s billboard. That’s right! Shocked me to the core and would shock any right-thinking person to the core. We can’t have it! This is the thin-edge-of-the-wedge, believe-you-me. If we let these ne’r-do-wells get away with this, it’ll grow. That’s the nature of the criminal mind. They look to see if they can take this – and then that and before you know it, through the goodness of your heart…through going a bit soft, you’ve got a crazy on your hands and the only place for them, is inside – for a long time. And that’s what the FOKKERS are about. Zero tolerance, as the Mayor says. Nipping it in the bud. Catching them early and lock them up…and who’s behind them? Folks, I ask you this question. Which political group – I should say, anarchists – call-a-spade-a-spade – it’s the GLADs. Yes, and who’s at the head of this anarchy? Well, her billboard says it all, folks, the baker Bumbulis is against progress and that means she’s against our town. So, here’s my question to you, what should we do about the GLADs? What would any right-thinking town do about a…subversive movement that’s declared aim is to set the town back. To stop it moving forward and at the same time, letting crazies run amok in the streets. Derek, do you have a view on this? Derek? Looks like we’ve lost him. I’ll take the next caller…oh, a tweet, folks…another tweet direct from Mayor Dimple Potts. ‘This Council will be GLAD to CRUSH crime. No stone unturned.’

“There we are, exactly as I said. Mayor Dimple’s on the case and that’s what we all want. But wait, here’s another. ‘Mayor thinking about monument to Count von Hauptmann. Tragic loss of Top Man shouldn’t go unrecognised and great to show implacable opposition to senseless socialist violence.’

“Words right out of my mouth,” enthused the Great Media Man, “but who can be surprised. Prescient Potts, we should call him. And what a majestic idea! A monument to this wonderful human being who graced our town with his presence. Left his exalted position in Germany – a Junker – German royalty you might say and the War’s irrelevant now, in these enlightened times. But came here, to settle in our town. Magnanimous, you might say. But have your say, folks, the line’s open…hi.”

“This is Fred McNab. And I have to say I’ve seldom heard a greater load of tosh. No-one cared a jot about Hauptmann and now you’re talking about a monument. To what? General indifference? It was all made-up anyway-”

Verbal cut in, “Ok, seems we’ve got a crank caller. A Negative Force, as the Mayor would say. Can’t have that can we? A GLAD no doubt. I’ll take one more call.”

*

Just down the street from Radio Brewster, Candidate Bumbulis and her Campaign Manager, Porterhouse Johnson, listened to ‘Have Your Say.’

“What’s happening here, Porterhouse? Are we all mad? Listen to him – am I an enemy? What have I said that would make him talk about me in this way? Listen to how he…distorts everything…twists everything so that it comes out just the way he wants. But what does he want? I stood to oppose a coal mine. That’s all. But now he’s talking about a crimewave…and as if that’s my fault too. And cutting off Fred like that? That’s not talk-back.”

The Campaign Manager poured the boiling water into the teapot. “Politics, Candidate Bumbulis, this-

“Oh, do stop calling me that. I’m not Candidate Bumbulis. Only outside.”

“Ok, but an election is a battle and weapons are drawn. And you have him on the run. Dimple Potts, and Corker Pritchard – they’re on the run.”

“On the run?” she cried, “If this is on the run, what would it feel like if I was going backwards?”

He replied, now pouring the tea, “Cut-and-thrust. That’s what this is. To-and-fro. Like fencing. They’re panicking. Dimple is terrified of losing his precious office. And Corker is determined to make more money with coal. And there are others – the ordinary folks – losing the chance at jobs. What the FOKKERS are about, is making people fearful. You know that and said so yourself. And fearful people are very easy to manipulate – and that’s what Verbal is doing right there. He’s making them afraid. As I’ve said before, he’s about as trustworthy as a viper.”

“But we’re not manipulating people! Am I manipulating people, Porterhouse? If I am, I must stop. I must get out of this…ghastliness. I hate the way people are looking at me. They’re different and they think I’m different. I just want to bake bread.”

The Campaign Manager offered her a cup of tea. “I know what you mean. But what you must remember, all the time, is that you are standing for just one reason, and it’s a very good reason. It’s an honourable reason. You’re standing because a coal mine is wrong, here in Brewster’s Neck. Someone must stand up to say it’s wrong, and you have, and I’m proud of you. Yes, I am, and so will other people be. That’s the thing to keep in mind. You’re standing for a right and proper reason. They’re wrong and you’re saying so. That’s the right thing to do. They’re driven by greed…and vanity. They’re those kind of people, who want to control others. They’re the kind of people who aren’t content to simply live their lives and bring up their kids, and to be neighbourly. They need to have others bow and scrape. They need to make rules and to say how we should all live – and they pretend they’re doing it for some higher cause – some ideals – but they’re not. In the end, it’s all about them. And people like Verbal? He’s just a puppet. He’ll do and say whatever Corker Pritchard tells him to, because he’s the other kind of people. The people who need to be near those who have the power. That’s what you’re standing against, and that’s never been easy. They’re tenacious these kinds of people. Their entire beings are motivated by holding power…or being close to it – and anything short of that and they’re in pain. They can’t stand it….so when someone like you pops up, why, you’re their worst nightmare, because you’re everything they’re not. They know you’re real. They know you’re honest and that you stand not because you want to lord it over anyone, but because you believe in something that I believe, deep down they also know to be true. That’s why you have to stand.”

Sarah Bumbulis listened to this speech with a puzzled expression and some admiration. “Porterhouse…why aren’t you standing? Why me? What you’ve just said…it just makes so much sense. Why aren’t you saying that as a candidate?”

Porterhouse Johnson grinned, “Because I’m not like you. You’re the right person. I can help and glad to do so but I’m not the right person. Even if it were possible, I’d not be anyone’s idea of a good mayor. I’m a beekeeper. I like bees more than I like folks. You like people. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. Now, let’s talk about the campaign. How’s the door-knocking going?”

“You’re a considerable mystery, Porterhouse. And you’re as manipulative as that blasted Verbal!” She smiled, “What can I do? Well…I’ve been down all the streets west of High. This afternoon, I’m starting at Grey. And I suppose it has gone quite well and sometimes I’ve really enjoyed it. I’ve talked to lots of people that normally I’d just have wished a good day after they bought their bread. Yesterday, I was half-an-hour with Prudence and Jack Parata. It was wonderful! We talked about lots of things? Did you know that Jack’s grandfather helped to build all the roads here? And Prudence came from Wellington? She was a nurse, but Jack came to town, at the end of the War, and swept her off her feet. And then he started his garage and now they’ve got three kids – and the eldest is off to university. They’re such nice people, Porterhouse. And the thing is, they don’t want a coal mine here. So, that’s two votes. They said they’d vote for me. It was strange, because I’d not thought about that part of it. A vote. I mean, what does that really mean? This thing that you can’t see? It’s just in someone’s mind, isn’t it? I know they must tick the box, but the actual vote? It’s just an idea in their mind and yesterday, Prudence and Jack said that the idea in their mind, was that I was the person they would choose – instead of Dimple. Isn’t that odd? And wonderful! That meeting just made my afternoon – but there were others too. Only Moot Masters wouldn’t talk to me. Everyone else at least let me say what I was doing – but not Moot. He said, ‘I’m afraid we’re not going to see eye-to-eye, so we won’t waste our time.’ And then he closed the door.”

Porterhouse reflected, “I think that Master’s is the other type – that I didn’t mention. There’s the type that must be in control – that’s Dimple and Corker. Then there’s the type that must be close to those who they think are important – that’s Verbal. And finally, there’s the other type, and that’s Moot Masters. They vote for the type who won’t rock the boat – their boat. Sometimes, I think they want their mayor to be like another father. Someone who takes care of them. They’re frightened people. That’s why Verbal was rabbiting on about crime this morning. He knows he can make people feel afraid and then they want to hear that Dimple will keep them safe.”

Candidate Bumbulis observed, “Aren’t I lucky to have you as my campaign manager. I mean it. I’d never have thought about these things…about politics I mean. I’d not have gone door-knocking if you hadn’t made me. Yes, you did! But I’m grateful. It’s been quite wonderful. Despite the Masters’ and the occasional dog,” she smiled, “a couple of times, I’ve found my umbrella to be a useful electioneering tool.” For a few moments they were silent, and then she continued, “So, what’s next, Campaign Manager?”

“Just as you said,” he replied, “more door-knocking. But I’m working with Beattie on a new feature. We’ve commissioned Misery to do a new piece about coal. At least, that way some thinking folks will see what we’re dealing with. Did you know, Misery dug up a piece from the Rodney Times, from 1912, would you believe, that expressed concern about what burning coal was doing to the world’s climate? It said that in centuries to come, the carbon dioxide being generated from burning coal could be a problem in the future. Blow me down! That’s an article written more than hundred years ago! And what have we done? Burned millions of tonnes every year since. We have the extraordinary knack, or habit, of being completely blind to something as big as an elephant, if it doesn’t fit with our view of the world. A hundred years! Well, Misery will write it all up, and that will be helpful. It’ll mean you can just say to folks, ‘Did you see that piece in the Bugle?’ That’s very helpful, because it’ll be a third party telling the story, rather than just you.”

“You are a manipulative man, Porterhouse, beekeeper Johnson! But thank you. I’ll look forward to seeing it. Well, I suppose, I’d better get ready. Get into my campaign clothes and be off.”

The Campaign Manager agreed and said that he would drop by the Bugle and would then tend to his bees. “We’re fighting to protect folks…and my bees, Candidate Bumbulis. Good luck!”

“I’m fighting,” she said as he departed.

*

Unfortunately, shortly before Porterhouse Johnson arrived at the office of The Brewster Bugle, the Editor had bumped into Taylor Palomino, who, having first shared with the Editor her horror at seeing the deceased Potross in Herb’s car, proceeded to compliment the Editor on the article about Homeless Hauptmann, which was, she laughed, “completely hysterical!” The hairdresser of Brewster’s Neck said the spoof was so much better than the truth, which as Beattie knew, was that Homeless was a hairdresser like her – from Morrinsville! “But that was so clever – to turn him into a Count!”

Exercising great self-restraint, the Editor asked Taylor off-handedly, whether Porterhouse Johnson knew that.

Shortly, the Editor rang Fred McNab and said that if he set foot in her office again, it would be his last. And then, bearing an expression that would curdle fresh milk, she placed a large apple, close to hand, on her desk, and busied herself with the contents of the next edition.

*

At the end of the Ararata Road, on the Hemopo place, things were afoot. In fact, Test Number Two was about to begin. The Inventor had hardly stopped ‘tinkering and messing,’ as Viola expressed it, since the Roboman had crushed the chicken house. “And when,” she demanded, “will I be able to look after my chickens properly – when they’ve got no house because that great lunk is lying on it?” And Doug replied that just as soon as he’d gotten on with Test Number Two, he’d mend the chicken house. But she doubted this would happen because she knew that Test Number Three would likely be the next thing that Doug would be doing, because Doug was a busy man.

So, at five past nine, even as Verbal Pritchard was being dispatched, resentfully from the flat of Taylor Palomino and on his way to Radio Brewster, and not long before Sarah Bumbulis’s Campaign Manager received a violent blow to his nose from an apple, the Inventor was climbing into his modified asbestos suit, that now contained a water-cooling system comprising a network of pipes that circulated iced water around the inside of his suit. And the Inventor’s kids stood close by, watching silently and with grave attention. And when the Inventor pulled on his helmet and paused to peer at his progeny, Lizzie raised her arm and pointed at him, but didn’t speak. The Inventor raised his arm and pointed his gloved finger at her and grinned. Then he turned to climb the ladder that allowed him onto the back of the prone Roboman, open the steel door and squeeze his way inside.

“Back you come, you kids,” said Viola. “I want you right back here, yes, over here.”

When Viola had assembled the kids in what she deemed a safe place, they watched with keen attention as a puff of smoke and then the roar of the diesel engine announced the commencement of Test Number Two.

“Nothing’s happening,” said Billy.

“He’s just warming it up. He has to warm it up and test the controls and stuff,” replied Tamati. “You see that on Star Wars. They always check all the controls and systems before they take-off. That’s what Dad’s doing…See, here he goes.”

And indeed, at that moment, the Roboman extended an arm and then turned a large metal hand down onto the ground alongside the crushed chicken house and appeared to test its weight against the ground two or three times.

“Much smoother,” observed Viola, “that’s one thing. He’s moving it much more smoothly than before.”

“That’s because he’s been improving the systems,” replied Tamati, “Dad’s been refining stuff.”

The Roboman’s arm extended and the head and body lifted with much wrenching of the twisted boards and corrugated iron beneath, so that Lizzie covered her ears.

“Man, that’s smooth. Look at that! Not like last time, Mum. He’s hardly shaking at all. See, now he’s sitting up and he’s looking about. Hey! Dad!” shouted Jack. “Hey, Dad!” and he waved furiously. Roboman’s head turned so that the big, bright, shining eyes stared at the four kids waving, but this time, the gloved hand did not come out through the small port below the eye, because the Inventor was concentrating on the controls and not letting things get out of hand.

“He’s getting up…look Mum…he’s getting right up. He’s standing up! Holy mackerel, Mum, look at that Roboman. He’s enormous!” And Billy danced a jig, singing, “Dad’s the Roboman!” until all four of the kids had joined his chant.

The Roboman stood steadily and appeared to gaze out across the roof of the house. Then an arm rose and extended, and the giant hand opened and closed and when that arm returned to its former position the other arm rose and continued until it was stretched above the head.

“Land sakes!” cried Viola, “What has your father made?”

The Roboman turned, steadied and then commenced to walk.

“Land sakes!” cried Viola again, “Where’s he going?”

“He’s going around the front! Come on!” shouted Jack and chased after the Roboman that in a few strides had moved right around the house to pause alongside the Inventor’s substantial collection of ‘Useful Bits and Pieces.’

“What’s he going to do? Dad? What’re you going to do?” shouted Jack.

“He’s going to pick something up, that’s what. Look…he’s going to pick that old car up. Look at that, Mum! He’s picking that old car right up off the ground. Holy Moly!”

And sure enough, the Roboman’s two great mechanical hands had taken hold of the Inventor’s blue Hillman, lately squashed by cantilevers and pulleys, and had lifted that car clear off the ground. Unfortunately, the Inventor was having some difficulty seeing through his helmet visor, since the new water-cooling system didn’t extend into his helmet, and the visor was fogging with perspiration. And that caused the Inventor to move the right leg backwards instead of forwards, and before this mistake could be corrected, the Roboman pitched forward onto its head into the collection of Useful Bits and Pieces with a very large crashing and graunching of metal.

“Land sakes!” cried Viola, “That man’s done it again. Quick, Tamati, fetch the fire extinguisher.”

But the Roboman was already moving and even as Tamati returned running with the fire extinguisher, it had pushed itself up from the debris and was crouching, as though deep in thought, which in a way it was, because the Inventor wasn’t quite sure which move would work best, and his visor was even more fogged. “Bother this thing,” he said, “I’m stuck…and I can’t see.”

“What’s he doing, Mum? Why isn’t he doing something? That’s no use, Dad! You’ve got to stand up!” shouted Jack.

“He’s thinking,” replied Tamati. “He has to think about his next move. He can’t be just rushing about. It’s a test and he’s testing stuff. See, now he’s worked something out. See, now he’s standing up. I’ll bet he’s going to do some walking. Yep…now he’s walking. Come on!” And Tamati led the family behind Roboman as the behemoth strode around the side of the house, straight into the end of the workshop and sat down.

“Holy mackers!” shouted Tamati, “Now he’s squashed the workshop. Soon, there’ll be nothing left! Mum! Roboman’s going to squash everything. Man, that’s cool!”

“That’s not cool,” retorted Viola, “it’s a damned nuisance. And if he comes near my house he’d better watch out.”

The Roboman turned to look at the family before it’s head suddenly sagged forward and became still.

“Here he comes!” Lizzie pointed triumphantly as the door on the back of Roboman opened, an arm protruded, and then the back, and then one leg, and then the whole of the Inventor was momentarily visible before it fell backwards onto the crushed iron roof.

“Give me that,” said Viola, and taking the fire extinguisher, moved swiftly to where the Inventor lay on his back, gasping, she gave him a couple of good long blasts of carbon dioxide.

“Good grief!” cried out the muffled voice of the Inventor, “I’m not on fire!” And he struggled out of his helmet to reveal his indignant and sweat and grease streaked face. “Got to put some cooling in this helmet. But wasn’t I going! Much better than last time. If it hadn’t been for this damned helmet…but I’ll fix that.”

“Yes, well what about fixing the chicken house and the workshop. That would be helpful.”

The Inventor looked around as though with surprise, “Well…this is a test. Stuff happens during tests. Can’t be helped.”

And the kids echoed, “Can’t be helped!”

*

Fred Witherspoon shook his head sadly. “Look at that,” he said to his wife, Lottie, as she stopped the car outside Prune Fishbender’s ‘Give us our Daily Groceries.’ They regarded the billboards and most especially Candidate Bumbulis’s billboard, which now, after some amendment with black paint, proclaimed, ‘Vote Sarah Bum for a cleaner, safer fu** and be GLAD you did!’

“I never thought I’d see the day,” continued Fred.

“But what’s that? Outside the Council?” Lottie replied. “A gathering of some sort. A demonstration? Surely not?”

“This makes me feel quite ill,” said Fred, “will you listen to that nonsense.” And they did listen to the chant that went, ‘One, two, three, who do we want to be free? The FOKKERS! Four, five, six, who are the dumb pricks? The GLADS!’

“Good grief!” said Lottie, “Placards!” And they saw the placards with messages such as, ‘FREE FOKKING SPEECH!’ and ‘Take back our FOKKING town;’ ‘FOKK the Experts!’ and ‘FOKKING A!’

Fred groaned, “It’s really just too awful. But here comes Dimple. Perhaps he’ll put stop to it.”

But the Mayor didn’t put a stop to it. Instead, as the chants turned into a steady, “Fokker, Fokker, Fokker!” the Mayor, standing on the top step, raised one arm and beamed.

“Surely that’s not…surely, he’s not saluting?” said Lottie aghast.

“I think he is. I do believe he is. I saw him do that at the Town Hall. I do believe Dimple has gone quite mad. But look, he’s going to speak.”

The Mayor had been given a megaphone and now he said, loudly, “Friends and FOKKERS!” which statement was met with a wild cheer by the gathering. “Yes, FOKKERS, it’s wonderful to see you here today.” More cheering, “Exercising your democratic right to Free Speech!” More cheering and a repetition of the Fokker chant. “These are challenging times…but we shall prevail!” Cheers, “We shall prevail, and we’ll take our town forward! We shall take our town out of the hands of those who oppose progress!” Cheers, “Yes, and out of the hands of those who would give your hard-earned cash to those who won’t get off their backsides…and those who would go soft on criminals!” Wild cheers and then the new chanting beginning, “Old King Coal is a Merry old Soul!”

“I think we must go home,” said Fred and they returned to their car. Prune Fishbender was standing outside his store, with his blue and white striped apron adorned by many stains from various fruits and vegetables. Prune said, “Wonderful to see democracy at work, Mr Witherspoon!”

“Dimple Potts has taken leave of his senses!” replied Fred Witherspoon emphatically, leaving Prune with a slightly abashed expression, since he greatly respected the owner of Witherspoon’s Classic Fashions.

Climbing into their car, they caught the Mayor’s strident cry, “My friends, a vote for Dimple Potts, is a vote for FREEDOM…and not a FOKKING moment too soon! Ha! Ha!”

“I need a dram,” said Fred as they drove home.

*

Herb Hikaka deposited the body of the late Weasel Potross at Regional HQ.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed with the Regional Commissioner, “it was a pity that a member of the public had to see the deceased. Quite upsetting.” And Herb also agreed that it was unfortunate that the shroud that had concealed the corpse, had trailed out from under the rear door of his wagon so that a dog might get hold of it. He further agreed, that this was careless, but due to him being in some haste to inform the Mayor of the event, and then to get the corpse to Regional HQ for the post-mortem. Herb further agreed, that the supposition that a Pawnee Indian might be a suspect in a murder enquiry was provocative, though Herb pointed out that there was evidence. And no, Herb had not known at the time that a delegation of Pawnee was here in New Zealand to talk about First Nation matters with Maori. And nor was he aware that Pawnee Jim was in fact a Pawnee chief. “But with respect, Regional Commissioner, I could hardly deny the prima facie evidence just because of a man’s rank?”

The Regional Commissioner’s eyes narrowed, and he drummed his fingers on his desk. “Are you close to making an arrest, Constable?”

“Not as such, sir. But I can say this. We may have been barking up the wrong tree.”

“Which tree are you barking up?”

“Bit early to say, sir, if you don’t mind. But I will say this. I believe there’s a link between the death of Rudolf Hauptmann and Weasel Potross.”

The Regional Commissioner said, “But your report says, apparent suicide. Deceased left a note. What? Are you thinking this Potross killed Hauptmann and then in a fit of remorse, killed himself?”

“No sir.”

“So, are you suggesting that it was a copy-cat killing?”

“Not exactly,” he replied slowly.

“Well,” persisted the Regional Commissioner, “you’re not suggesting a serial killer? Well, what, man? What are you suggesting?”

“The thing is, sir, I’m thinking that there’s a link that makes the deaths no coincidence.”

The Regional Commissioner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Good thinking, constable…reminds me of a case I did years ago.”

“I know that case, sir.”

“Do you, by God, do you? Well, well, constable. Good to see you’re doing your homework. So, you remember the case of The Bent Balloonist. Thought it had been forgotten – shouldn’t be. Some of the best sleuthing you’ll find. My goodness, brings it back. I was just a constable then – like you. Apparently unrelated events, like this one, in different towns and a year between, but I got onto a link. And you know what that link was?”

Herb nodded, “Certainly do. Hydrogen. When you discovered that the second victim…Jenkins, as I recall, was not in in fact a professional balloonist but a failed banker who had foolishly inflated his balloon with said gas, and who had been having an affair with the woman, Peebles, and who in the course of their…extracurricular activities, had fallen to her death from Jenkin’s balloon – was in fact the wife of a taxi driver but who you discovered, had previously been a scientist-”

“And that scientist specialising in research into alternative fuels!” exclaimed the Regional Commissioner.

“You realised,” continued Herb, “that the first death was misadventure but the second, was murder.”

“There it is! Cunning devil bided his time and substituted highly explosive hydrogen for inert helium.”

“A minor Hindenburg.”

“Exactly!” The Regional Commissioner sat back, well-satisfied by this reminiscence. “Did you know, Hikaka? That the Hindenburg had a smoking room? Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“Risky business, sir.”

“Smoking…on an airship containing millions of cubic feet of hydrogen. Nearly as large as the Titanic you know. Of course, Jenkin’s balloon was a miniature by comparison.”

“Messy.”

“Oh yes. A byzantine affair, constable and ugly in a way only family affairs are, in my experience – only in this case, scientists, and I don’t mind saying that for a time I was baffled by closed ranks…law unto themselves you know. Ever had a prostate, constable? Well, I have, and I can tell you, you don’t want to go near an orthopaedic surgeon when all you’ve got is a bruised elbow. Down on his luck, bastard will take any part of you for a fee.”

Herb was unsure what connection the Regional Commissioner saw between surgeons and scientists, but assumed that here too, his superior saw links not apparent to the average eye. However, Herb expressed his sympathy regarding the prostate and for a time, the discussion centred, unfavourably around medical fees and research grants, as opposed to police salaries, but reaching agreement that this was unlikely to change while a man’s bum pointed to the ground.

“Well, constable, you’d better get back to it, while the trail’s still hot. Have you still got the PMD? We’ve got another case at Morrinsville and the chaps there could use it – but never mind. They’ll just have to wait.”

Soon Herb was driving back to Brewster’s Neck, contemplating several thorny matters, a curious link twixt Hauptmann and Potross, and the need to give the back of the wagon a bit of a clean, since the aroma of Weasel Potross hung heavily.

*

Four people sat around the table on Corker Pritchard’s patio in the late afternoon sun. Corker’s wife placed the tray with four bottles on the table and asked if anyone would like a Girl Guide cookie, but her husband cried, “Fuck the cookies. So, Perc, you’re saying that bastard Hemopo turned you down? How much? Thirty? The bastard turned down thirty…greed, that’s what it is. Straight-out greed. He knows he’s sitting on a gold-” Corker swiftly corrected himself, “coalmine! He knows he’s sitting on a valuable coal mine and he knows that the longer he sits, the more valuable it’ll become. Highest bidder – that’s what the bastard will be going for. Greed! Makes me sick, it really does.”

His three companions swigged at their beer and nodded their agreement that greed of the kind that the bastard Hemopo was showing, would indeed make any man sick to his stomach.

“The point is, we’ve got to up the ante – and fast, or this thing could get out of hand. Howard Green’s threatening to pull the plug if we don’t resolve access smartly. Reckons there’s some anti-Aussie feeling here. I told him that was crap – ANZAC spirit and all that. But some twats told him that the FOKKERS are against Kangaroos.” Corker scowled at the Media Man. “You’ll deal with that. But now, we’ve got to get some action on that access. Perc…well?”

Percy Pritchard said slowly, “There could be an accident…”

Corker stared at his younger brother impassively for a moment or two, “Percy, normally, I’d think that notion had some merit. But we’ve already had Hauptmann, and now our delivery driver. I don’t think an accident would go that well, just at present. While we’ve got that dunce Hikaka on the job, by himself, it doesn’t matter, but if we had another incident, could have cops all over the place and that would not be good for business confidence. Howard Green would be very unsettled, wouldn’t he?”

“I could do him over, on ‘Have Your Say,” offered Verbal, “I could skewer him so that weight of public opinion would-”

“Skewer him!” finished the Mayor. “Good thinking Verbal,” he added, since his estimation of the Media Man was rising in direct correlation with the rise of the FOKKER movement.

“Crap!” replied Corker. “I’m talking about action. This is no time to talk about some bloody PR spin. But we can’t have an accident either. Ah,” he added, “and about time.” And he looked towards the approaching figure of the lawyer Mortuary Masters. “Pull up a pew,” he said, “beer?”

Moot Masters, whose attire was only slightly less dark than the accountant Pritchard’s, by the margin of the purple handkerchief drooping from his breast pocket, declined a beer and sat.

“We need some advice, Morts. I presume you’ve been looking at the matter? We’re at a bit of a dead-end. Dimple’s pleaded and been kicked in the arse. Percy’s laid it on a bit more heavily and been sent on his way. The bastard’s clearly a megalomaniac – hanging out for super profits – perfidious bastard! Didn’t he get enough out of the bloody taxpayer with the Treaty thing? Bloody outrageous – and what’s he done with it? Gotten on with a decent farm?”

“Bought more junk. That’s what he’s done. It’s taxpayer theft alright, and I might bring it up on the programme,” said Verbal Pritchard. “Get the weight of public opinion on his back.”

“Fuck the weight of public opinion,” replied Corker. “Public’s a piss-pot. Hard legal strategy is what we want. Morts. What have you looked at – and don’t tell me that’s a dead-end or you can kiss your fees goodbye.”

Moot Masters did as he always did before making a professional pronouncement. He laced his fingers together and then produced a startlingly loud cracking noise as he flexed the joints. Despite that this idiosyncrasy pissed Corker off a great deal, the latter bit his tongue.

“I’ve looked at this from the perspective of a tort. Negligence…that sort of thing.”

“And?”

The lawyer shook his head. “Much of it’s moot,” he replied. “Nothing there. Then I looked at it under the Matrimonial Property Act.”

“Matrimonial Property? What the hell’s that got to do with anything? Mind you, we need to get back to that,” Corker nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the house, from where the sounds of Corker’s wife could be heard singing a hymn. “I can’t take much more of that. But what about Hemopo?”

“Needed to see whether there was a way in…betwixt man and wife, as it were…but drew a blank. So, I moved onto building consents.”

“Building consents? Wait – you mean, has he any? And therefore, is all his stuff illegal? Brilliant! But how’s that get us access?”

“It doesn’t, directly. But the Council could tie him up in knots. Remedial fees, if we do it right. That might be enough to get agreement. Might even get it for nothing.”

Corker snapped his fingers and then shouted for a beer, which caused an abrupt interruption to the second verse of ‘Abide with Me.’ Instead, the beer quickly and silently arrived. “Can’t stand that holy noise. Makes me think of that priest – but never mind. Building consents. Dimple? Council could have a go at that. But the problem is, Morts, timing. Too slow, isn’t it? We need to strike now, while the iron’s hot.”

“Which iron do you mean, Corker?”

“Green Power, Verbal. I can’t have Greeny getting the pip and buggering off across the Tassie, without getting him locked in. And he won’t be locked in unless we’ve secured access to the coal. And while the idea’s got merit, it isn’t enough to earn a cent of a legal fee, Morts.”

Moot Masters hesitated, “I also referred to the Bill of Rights 1688. Still applicable here, you may be surprised to know. And under the Bill of Rights, Protestants may have arms for their defence suitable to their conditions.”

“And?” demanded Corker.

“I believe that Hemopo may be Catholic.”

“No, he’s not,” interjected Verbal. “Last year, Hemopo called ‘Have Your Say.’ Only time he has. I thought he’d call for sure when we were talking about the Treaty racket – but not a peep. Not surprising I suppose, given that he was a prime beneficiary. And then-”

“Get to the bloody point!” said Corker.

“Well, he called when the subject was religion. Well, not so much religion as paedophiles. You know-”

“Yes! We know – get on with it for God’s sake!”

“Hemopo called to say…that in his view – God knows where this came from – but in his view, religion was the blood relation of business. I said that was a daft notion, but he said both had a hand in your pocket, and some were in the habit of not taking it out. I remember quite distinctly. I think you’ll find he’s an atheist.”

Corker looked around the table with an expression of bewilderment. “I am surrounded by lunatics. Do you have anything, Masters? Anything remotely useful?”

“I fear not.”

The Mayor, who had hitherto remained silent, now spoke up confidently. “Is it correct, my legal friend, that the river itself is not owned by Hemopo?”

The lawyer replied, “Riverbeds are owned by the Crown.”

“And so, it would be possible for one to use the riverbed as access without interference?”

The lawyer’s entwined fingers fired off a resounding crack. “In principle…and perhaps in practice. Administered by the Commissioner of Crown Lands, who reports to the Minister for Land Information. But that would be in the case that a party was looking to exploit the riverbed in some way – in an extractive way – dredging for gravel, for example, which we already do, I believe, in the lower reaches.”

The Mayor continued, “And as I recall, the gap between the end of the Ararata Road, and the land we intend to reach, is approximately, two hundred metres?”

“Ah!” said Corker, “you cunning bastard.”

“And right now, and being high summer, the river is very low? Low enough, I’d suggest, to drive something with suitably large wheels, right up the riverbed, past Hemopo and back onto Corker’s land.”

“Brilliant, Pottsy, brilliant! We put some oversize wheels on a front-end loader. Drive right past the bastard. But what about when it rains? When the river rises? We’d be cut-off?”

“Yes, we’d be cut-off? And what Government would stand by and do nothing, when an established coal mine – generating jobs for locals – can’t operate because an obstructive person, in the form of a Treaty beneficiary, who has already dived deep in the trough, won’t grant access over a couple of hundred metres of unused bush country?”

Corker Pritchard regarded The Mayor with a new expression. “Dimps…why I am paying a lawyer, when the answer is staring us in the face – but only you saw it?”

“It may not be quite that simple,” re-joined Moot Masters stiffly, “it may be necessary to seek approval from the Commissioner. And-”

“Bullshit!” cried Corker, “Pottsy is absolutely spot-on. I could drive my four-wheel up there tomorrow and no-one could stop me. Or us! Perc – what do you think? Sitting there as silent as the grave? Has Dimps come up with a plan, or not?”

Percy Pritchard nodded and then said, “that wailing in there, is getting under my skin.”

Corker pushed back his chair, walked quickly to the house, thrust his head through the doorway and bawled, “Would you shut that bloody awful noise up! Can’t hear ourselves think out here.” Then he closed the door with a bang and returned to his seat. “Forget about your fees,” he said to the lawyer. “Perc, I want you to get this organised, pronto. Fit out a couple of loaders with big wheels, like Pottsy’s suggested, and we’ll haul a digger up the river and start cutting that road. Meeting’s over. Let’s get on with it!”

*

The Mayor returned to his office in extreme good humour. Even before he departed the estate of Corker Pritchard, he tweeted, ‘Brewster’s Neck FIRST! Coal on a roll! Jobs for all!” Then he stopped outside the iron security gates and added, ‘FOKKERS v GLADS. Right v Left-right-out. No contest!’

Back behind his desk, he again addressed an ‘opinion piece’ he planned to have printed in the Bugle, entitled, ‘The New Way.’ So far, he had managed, ‘It’s time we claimed back the common sense of things.’ Unfortunately, he had experienced writer’s block at this point, and had thought, resentfully, that the Mayor should have proper PR person. Not someone like Verbal, who though helpful in some respects – when he wasn’t simply stroking his own overweening ego – but more a compliant PR person who could take the thoughts of Dimple Potts and render them into suitable prose. The Mayor made a mental note to put this to the Council at its next meeting post-election – which all going well – and at present it appeared to be going swimmingly – would be after a resounding victory at the ballot box and his triumphant re-election. And my goodness, wouldn’t things change then! This train of thought was the catalyst for another, so he continued to type: ‘We all know that in recent years, we’ve bent over backwards for various elements. Which elements are these, I hear you ask? Well, think about the sad case of Count von Hauptmann. While none of us, and your Mayor least, would have wanted the Cunt murdered,’ he quickly correct his spelling and back-spaced ‘murdered’ to insert ‘deaded,’ then back-spaced this and wrote, ‘would have wanted the Count dispatched, and yet, shouldn’t we also honestly face the fact that aristocrat or not, Homeless as we knew him, was a parasite? Think of how he sucked at the teat of the public purse. Our taxes. And then what? He sat in our High Street, the showcase of Brewster’s Neck, and resembled a garbage bag. Not only did he desecrate our showcase to the WORLD, but he was not a pleasant immigrant, as we should properly call him. Your Mayor did not mind him, as a person, but wouldn’t it have been better, if we had removed him to a back part of town? Say, behind the cemetery? There, he could have sung and made all the noise he liked and hope to wake the dead. Ha! Ha!’ The writer back-spaced ‘Ha! Ha!’ and continued, ‘And would we now need some so-called EXPERT to tell us how to get the riff-raff off our streets? I say, as your Mayor, NO, we wouldn’t and why? Because of COMMONSENSE, which we all have. Some more than others but we all have it. And common sense would say, Riff-raff does not belong on High Street. Answer, remove it to the back of the cemetery.’

The Mayor paused, since this considerable passage had exhausted his typing fingers and his inspiration. He sat back and reviewed progress and was well-pleased. Perhaps after all, he didn’t need a PR person? A SAVING. But what about security? Brewster’s Neck was small, it was true, but wasn’t the Mayor the Head-of-State? And if nothing else, this election campaign had shown that in this peaceful town, nevertheless, there were disruptive elements. Bumbulis…the bee keeper…Hemopo…and not to mention a deranged Pawnee…the Mayor wondered if he might not raise this at the next Council meeting. Riding high on the coat-tails of victory, with a new mandate, it was likely the Council would grant him anything he demanded. It was a gratifying thought.

There came a knock at the door and without waiting for an invitation, the angular frame of the Town Clerk entered and took the seat in front of the Mayor’s desk. Before he could open his mouth, the Mayor shouted, “Leave this office and wait your turn!”

Startled, the Town Clerk replied, “but there’s no-one else here, and-

“Out!” Shouted the Mayor, “Out, or I’ll have you ejected!”

The expression of complete bemusement on the Town Clerk’s face probably meant that he wondered who it was would be doing the ejecting, but nonplussed as he was, he removed himself from the Mayor’s office, closed the door and then, after a suitable pause, knocked.

The Mayor waited until after the third knock. “Come.”

The Town Clerk entered and stood next to the chair.

“Sit,” said the Mayor without looking up. The Town Clerk did so, remaining silent as the Mayor continued to type at his opinion piece. He added, ‘A second thing about which we need to think, is progress. And what, you might ask, is progress? Well, it’s jobs. And it’s wealth. And how, I hear you ask, will we get more jobs and wealth in our town? And the answer is COAL.’ “Listen to this,” said the Mayor, and he read his opinion piece aloud. “What do you think? I’m writing this for the Bugle. Set out a vision for the future. The New Way, I call it. Get it in before the vote, on Saturday. That should seal it.”

The Town Clerk was still pondering the odd behaviour he had just encountered, but he replied, “Good. It’s…good. Quite…common sense.”

“That’s it! It’s common sense and you’re the first person to hear it and you’ve got it, just like that. Of course, I’m not finished, but it’s not too bad. A bit of polishing and there we are. You know, I was just thinking about appointing a PR person, but I believe I don’t need to. There you are…but security, Town Clerk. Now there’s another question. All we’ve got here is that fat dope Herb, who couldn’t even get Potross to the morgue without that Nostril Masters taking a bit of him. Ridiculous! How am I supposed to feel secure – as Mayor? I know…most people would lay down their lives, but it only takes one nutter, Town Clerk. The one who’s bumped off Hauptmann…who’s to say where he’ll strike next and has that blimp, Hikaka gotten anywhere on that? No, he hasn’t. A good hooker he may be, but as a detective he’s a joke. A Pawnee? A Red Indian! I should write to the Commissioner of Police – in fact I will, just as soon as I’ve finished this opinion piece. It’s not right that the only police we have here is a hooker…now, what did you want?”

The Town Clerk raised the newspaper from his lap. “Just wondered if you’d seen this? Here, in today’s Bugle, a big piece on coal mining and Climate Change, and well…”

The Mayor coloured and leaning across his desk, snatched the paper and began to read. “Bastard!” he cried. “Unbelievable!” he looked up at the Town Clerk, “that shit-house Misery McNab! Who let him out of his kennel? Listen to this, ‘Over one hundred years ago, scientists were warning about the dangers of burning coal. In the Rodney and Otamatea Times, 14th August 1912, under the subhead ‘Science Notes and News,’ was reproduced a piece first published in Australia and Holland, entitled, ‘Coal Consumption Affecting Climate.’ Remarkably prescient, this note said that ‘the furnaces of the world are now burning about 2,000,000,000 tons of coal a year. When this is burned, uniting with oxygen, it adds about 7,000,000,000 tons of carbon dioxide to the atmosphere yearly. This tends to make the air a more effective blanket for the earth and to raise its temperature. The effect may be considerable in a few centuries.” The Mayor glared incredulously at the Town Clerk, and continued reading, “And this correspondent can advise that coal production in 2017, more than one hundred years after this warning, the world produced, and presumably burned, 4,000,000,000 tons of coal.’ Socialist!” exploded the Mayor, “and what’s this? ‘and now, in our town, we have those who think it progress to dig out of the ground that very same coal, which scientists have been telling us for a century will likely cook this planet, simply to gain a few, short-term jobs, and presumably to line the pockets of a few more who clearly have no conscience or are simply ignorant.” The Mayor banged his fist on the desk in much the same way he had observed Corker Pritchard bang his fist. “This is why, Town Clerk, we have the FOKKERS. There it is! That’s why I was writing this opinion piece – ‘The New Way,’ because this cunt is writing this kind of backward-looking crap that gets totally in the way of progress. Well?”

“It’s interesting, that bit about how scientists were warning us, even way back then – and all we’ve done is burn more.”

“Interesting?” shouted the Mayor, “Get out! Get out of my office, I’ve got work to do! Yes, go on, out!” When the Town Clerk had departed, the Mayor walked rapidly in circles before resuming his seat. He tweeted, ‘FAKE NEWS in Bugle. Unnatural GLADS would have us back in the STONE AGE.’ Then he returned to his opinion piece and wrote furiously, ‘The entire world needs coal. China needs it. India needs it. And they will get it. But if a certain group calling itself the GLADs has its way, Brewster’s Neck won’t sell one ounce to either. But the Aussies and others will, and they’ll make a fortune and will laugh at us all the way to the bank. They’ll laugh at you, the voter who misguidedly thinks that a twat who can’t get one of his hopeless poems past-the-post, but willingly blathers in support of a baker, has something useful to say. I say to you – use your COMMONSENSE! Brewster’s Neck can’t change the world. This wonderful country of ours (apart from Auckland) can’t change the world. If things must change, it’s the Chinese and the Indians that must do it. We, here in Brewster’s Neck, have to think, where’s Marty Clatworthy going to get a job and raise a family? Are we going to drive him off to the Big Smoke where you can’t even drive your car from one side to the other in less than a day? I say, as your Mayor, NO! Marty needs a job here and a coal mine is THE ANSWER. And who is standing in the way of progress? So-called scientists. So-called experts, who suck at the teat of the public purse by spreading false ideas. So, I say Come on all you FOKKERS. Vote Dimple Potts for COMMONSENSE and PROGRESS!’

The Mayor put his hands behind his head and read this spirited piece with great satisfaction. Then he printed it and shrugging on his jacket, made in the direction of the Brewster Bugle.

*

In the Kingsland café in Auckland called Crave, constable Herb Hikaka order two flat whites. It had taken some time, but he had managed to track down the Indian sometimes known as Pawnee Jim, but otherwise as Black Finger. “Prefer Black Finger,” said the Indian, “I use the other name when I’m feeling a bit perverse. Nice café.”

Herb agreed that it was but confided that he wasn’t that keen on Auckland. Too many scooters. Anyway, Herb explained, he just needed to clear up a few points in relation to one of his investigations – though the two cases he had on his plate looked as though they might yet merge. And the aspect Herb wished to clear up, was the nature of the relationship, as such, between the Pawnee or Black Finger in particular, had had with the deceased Rudolf Hauptmann; who, as Black Finger knew, died of an arrow wound to the throat; and that arrow being a Pawnee arrow.

Black Finger looked a little embarrassed. “Well, yes, it is a Pawnee arrow. In fact, it belonged to my brother, Broken Stick. His arrows aren’t the same as mine, as you saw. But he’s always losing stuff. Got a memory like a sieve. But this Hauptmann…well, he showed up after we’d had the pow wow with the Tainui. Very good pow wow too. Talked about that whole Treaty business. I know things aren’t how they should be, but not too bad. But anyway, Hauptmann, he turned up at the hangi and that was no problem. Strange fella. Kept talking about the Wild West. I told him we weren’t so keen on talking about the Wild West, but he’d just pull a sausage or something from his pants and he’d say, ‘draw.’ Pretty dumb, but I could see he was a few arrows short of a quiver…good coffee…anyway, he was really interested in our bows and arrows. Like a kid. We only carry them for ceremonial stuff, but he went on about them and wanted to fire some, into a tree. We told him to piss off, and he got loud and started shouting about the Long Knives and stuff, which was pretty offensive, so Broken Stick, who’s a big chap, took him by the scruff and chucked him out. But then, a few hours later, Broken Stick told me he was missing an arrow and that Hauptmann fella had gone. Well, the thing is, those arrows are a part of a man and it was insulting to be stealing a part of a man. So, I shot across to this place, Brewster’s Neck, and I got there just in time to see Hauptmann, with Broken Stick’s arrow in his throat.”

“And that’s when you were under the apple tree?”

Black Finger grimaced, “Yeah, well, I was about to sneak over – it was early you see and no-one about – and then I got my hair caught in the apple tree. Anyway, just as I got clear, someone else had come. He’d seen Hauptmann and he came running over and I realised I wasn’t going to get the arrow, and that I’d be better to high tail it out.”

Herb told the waitress that the coffee was excellent and ordered two more. Then he said, “Was Hauptmann down, when you first saw him?”

“No, he was staggering and then he collapsed. But I don’t know where he came from. Course, I was concerned that the one who’d come up was the one who’d shot him, so I kept out of sight. Backed away and off through the cemetery to my car and off.”

Herb reflected a moment and then he asked Black Finger to describe the man who’d arrived at the fallen Hauptmann, and said that yes, that was a chap called Weasel Potross.

“So, he’s your man?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Might be…but might not.”

“There was one other thing,” continued Crooked Finger, “he took something out of Hauptmann’s pocket. Something wrapped in paper. I couldn’t see, but it was something…But I had to clear off. So, I didn’t see any more.”

Herb nodded thoughtfully. “Did Hauptmann say anything…when he was over in Taumaranui, about a claim?”

Black Finger lowered his voice. “I don’t recall him saying ‘claim,’ exactly, but he sang a few tunes – though he couldn’t sing for shit, if you want to know, but one of the songs – Old Turkey Buzzard – he sang the same couple of lines a few times. Like this,” and Black Finger sang quietly, ‘He sees men come he sees men go, crawling like ants on the rocks below, the men who scheme, the men who dream and-”

Herb joined him to sing, “and die for gold on the rocks below.” He grinned, “McKenna’s Gold.’ Not a bad movie.”

Black Finger shrugged. “Just another damned Western. But that’s what he sang – or choked to death, I’d call it. But so what?” He squinted, “You think that Hauptmann had gold? You think that other fella found it in his pocket? Maybe that’s what he was after? Maybe that’s why he knocked him off?”

“Could be,” replied Herb. “But that’s cleared a few things up…and your bow?”

“Never found it. I suppose Hauptmann took it. But it makes you wonder. Who took it off him and shot him? Potross? But dammit, embarrassing to head home without my bow and arrow. Especially when it’s been used for murder.”

Herb agreed that that would be embarrassing, but he added that it wouldn’t be mentioned beyond his police report. For a while they talked about how it was a good thing for First Nations’ to get together for a pow wow. Herb told him it was called korero over here, but it meant much the same thing. He said he wouldn’t mind visiting the Pawnee reservation some time. Then he drove Black Finger back to his hotel down by the Viaduct, wished him a good trip, and headed south for Brewster’s Neck.

*

The billboard that had said, ‘Vote Dimple Potts – your Friendly FOKKER,’ now said, ‘Vote Simple Potts – your Gormless FOKKER.’ The Mayor fumed and immediately tweeted, ‘GLADs poisonous tactics won’t work in Brewster’s Neck. Read today’s Bugle for real news.’

He re-read his opinion piece on the front-page of the Bugle and felt reassured. Who in their right mind could argue with common sense? Moot Masters had popped his head into to say “Cogent piece, Dimple. On the right track.” And Vascular Adams had called to say “About bloody time, Dimple. But you didn’t say anything about rivers.” The Mayor replied that he had to stick to the main idea, which was about how common sense was the best guide to policy and planning, and that he believed most readers would see that rivers were included in his sentiments, by implication. Vascular said that the Herald, in Auckland, had another piece by that radical commie, that was on about farmers spoiling the country – when as anyone knew, farmers were the backbone of the country. “Woman should be shot, Dimple. That’s my opinion. You’re spot on talking about progress and common sense, but how are we going to progress if farmers are being attacked by Auckland commies?”

The Mayor agreed that it was totally unfair and no less than one might expect from people who scoffed milk by the tanker-load but who didn’t like cows. But he couldn’t tackle every issue and every insane opinion, in his one opinion piece. But he assured Vascular that there would be more where that came from. “Just beginning, Vascular,” he said. “They won’t know what’s hit them.” Reassured, the farmer went off to round up a couple of cows that had broken a fence at the bottom of the farm and were at this very moment, knee-deep in the Ararata.

The Mayor tweeted, ‘Auckland extremists would stifle every small town. Media snouts should stay in the latte.’ There was a knock at the door.

“Come,” said the Mayor and frowned at the appearance of the Town Clerk. “Yes?”

“Thought you’d like to know there’s a demonstration coming. Brucie Potross is leading it.”

The Mayor was pleased and came quickly to the window. From the north end of High Street, they could see a small crowd walking up the middle of the road, waving banners, carrying placards and chanting, “One, two, three, four, Friendly Fokkers at the door – five six, seven, eight, Glad’s are Mongols at the gate!’

“Excellent,” said the Mayor. “Democracy in action. People standing up for what they believe. But what’s that?”

The Mayor and the Town Clerk turned to look to the south and were startled to see a crowd of comparable size approaching. This crowd was also chanting and now they could hear, ‘Glad’s are glad and on the way – let’s make the change without delay!’

“Imbeciles!” seethed the Mayor, “Where’ve they come from? Isn’t that Taylor?”

The Town Clerk agreed that at the head of this new crowd, Taylor Palomino was waving a placard with the words inscribed, ‘GLAD for a Better Future!’

The Mayor boggled, “And isn’t that Pearl Clatworthy?”

“It is,” replied the Town Clerk, “and that’s Fred’s wife, Lottie. Well, well…and…”

“Yes. That’s your wife – my sister! This is outrageous. Don’t you have any control! It’s treasonous!”

“Well…it’s democracy, isn’t it? We’re all entitled to our opinions.”

“Democracy? It’s anarchy. And do they understand what they’re talking about? They haven’t the faintest idea about business, or progress. They’d all be growing bloody pansies if you left them to it. But look.”

The Mayor and the Town Clerk beheld a very unusual spectacle. The two groups of demonstrators had come to an impasse, a few paces apart and they were facing off as though complete strangers.

“They don’t know what to do,” observed the Town Clerk with slight amusement. “Look, they’re chanting at each other, but I expect no-one can hear. They’re trying to drown each other out. What a strange thing.”

“Strange!” cried the Mayor, “It’s bizarre. It’s out of control – all those women! What do they think? I’ll tell you what they think – nothing! They don’t think anything. They’re on drugs!”

“No, they’re not. That’s silly.”

“Figuratively! Figuratively, you nincompoop! They’re drugged by some daft ideas.”

“No need to be personal. And you just said they weren’t thinking anything – but now you say they’ve got ideas. Well, I think they have.”

The Mayor glowered. “Ideas. Ideas my arse. I meant slogans. Empty slogans are what’s in their heads. That damned Bumbulis is putting slogans in their heads and they hardly know what she’s talking about.”

Behind each group, a small line of cars and a truck were stationary and had begun tooting impatiently. One of the Friendly Fokkers had turned to engage in what was clearly a heated exchange with a motorist, who it might be assumed had left his car to protest at the obstruction in the road. Without warning, this exchange turned into a spirited struggle for the placard and in moments, it had been trampled to the ground. Incensed, the Friendly Fokker, who the Mayor and the Town Clerk could now see was Farsical Clatworthy, had kicked the front grill of the motorist’s car and then melded quickly back into the crowd.

“Oh, good!” exclaimed the Town Clerk, for he had seen a police car approaching and moments later, Herb Hikaka emerged with a megaphone and ordered the road cleared. Miraculously, both groups moved onto the sidewalk on opposite sides of the street, and the motorist who had confronted Farsical, gave him the fingers and the traffic cleared, accompanied by some indignant tooting of horns and similar gestures from irate drivers, returned in kind by the political demonstrators of Brewster’s Neck.

“Herb’s sent them home,” observed the Town Clerk. “Jolly good man – and excellent hooker.”

The Mayor scowled. “Haven’t they read my opinion piece? I’d say not.” He tweeted, ‘Shameful display by GLADs. Glad to create mayhem and not much else.’

“That’s not entirely fair,” said the Town Clerk. “The Fokkers were equally to blame. The thing is, there’s strong feelings about this election. It’s the coal mine. Some people just don’t want it, and I must say, I don’t think it’s for the best.”

“You don’t think it’s for the best? Of course, you don’t – you’re a bloody bureaucrat sucking at the teat.”

“You’ve no right to say that.”

“I most certainly have. I’m the Mayor and the leader of this town and I won’t put up with back-stabbing from Council employees. You’re on very slippery ground.”

“Are you threatening me now, Mr Mayor? I am entitled to hold a political opinion – or indeed any opinion. That has nothing to do with how I do my job.”

“Bullshit! You’ve revealed your colours. You’re a GLAD sympathiser, like your activist wife. Well, you can get out. Yes, get out. I’ve got real work to do. And tell my sister that dinner this Sunday is off. Go on!”

The Town Clerk departed without another word.

*

In the workshop, now repaired at the farm at the end of the Ararata Road, Doug Hemopo, Inventor, was installing software. Shortly before, when the ‘Grub’s Up’ bell was rung, he had told Viola excitedly that he believed he had made a breakthrough. “You see, up until now, he’s been just a dumb machine. Without me at the controls, nothing would happen. He wasn’t much more than a cool…tractor. But now, he’s got a brain. Of course, it’s small and not very smart. You could think of it being a bit like a dopey Farside,” he said, referring to the family Labrador.

“That’s not very bright,” replied Viola. “Do you know, Farside ran straight into the TV when he saw the cat food ad last night.”

Doug nodded, “Comes of not being neutered. I’d be a lot smarter if I was a eunuch. I’d solve a lot of things much faster. Course, I’d prefer to keep them.”

“I think that’s better,” replied Viola, “providing we stop at four kids. I’m too old for more of all that.”

Doug agreed that four was a suitable number, and continued, “the thing about the AI I’ve installed – that’s artificial intelligence – is that I can improve it and he can learn. You see, what I’m aiming at is a fully operational robot. He wasn’t really Roboman, yesterday – but today, he is. Kind of like a baby Roboman.”

“Did you like that pie? It’s the rabbit. Not too chewy?”

“Perfect,” replied Doug, “but I’ve got get on.” He paused, “is that a truck? Yep.” He hastened outside and listened for a moment and then proceeded around the front of the house to see the truck that had pulled up at the front gate. A young Japanese man climbed out of the passenger seat and waited.

“Kia ora,” greeted Doug. “You’re from Hitachi? Perfect timing.”

“Konnichiwa…Hemopo san? This is Mighty Bot Corporation?” he glanced around at Doug’s many piles of Useful Bits and Pieces; and at the house that showed only slight evidence of the paint that had once coloured it red.

Doug confirmed that Watanabe san had arrived at Mighty Bot and invited him to bring the truck around to the R&D Facility. Shortly, Watanabe was standing alongside the Managing Director and Head of R&D for Mighty Bot Corporation, outside the workshop. “This is a clever disguise, Hemopo san. No-one would know. Very clever. I wish our Head of R&D could see this. And children? Very clever to have children near to a top-secret R&D Facility. No-one would guess.” Watanabe returned the curious gazes of the four Hemopo progeny and repeated, “Very clever. But now, we must unload.”

Watanabe and the driver opened the rear of the truck and making use of a Hiab arm, manoeuvred a pallet stamped boldly with the Hitachi name and symbol. “Do you have the equipment to handle, Hemopo san? Very heavy batteries, and very expensive.”

Doug assured Watanabe that he was able to handle the batteries and invited the Hitachi representative to see the machine in which these very powerful Lithium-ion batteries would be used. “Ah so!” exclaimed Watanabe on beholding Roboman, who was presently lying on his back behind the R&D Facility, “This is a very…impressive robot. Very impressive. I wish our R&D team was here to see.”

Watanabe agreed that he would be pleased to see a demonstration, so Doug produced a chair for the Hitachi man and then excused himself to prepare. Shortly, he emerged again in his modified asbestos suit and water-cooled helmet, explaining through his open visor the teething problems he had encountered when the suit was not cooled. The Hitachi man listened politely and smiled at Viola who had appeared with a pot of tea and fresh-baked scones. “Very kind,” he said several times and sipped his tea whilst watching preparations.

Soon enough, the Inventor had started the diesel, closed the control centre and was manipulating the controls. Watanabe started to his feet and stared in amazement as Roboman first kneeled and then became erect. “Very big!” he exclaimed, “Very big machine. I wish my R&D team was here to see.” He pointed his phone and followed, recording the spectacle of Roboman walking, quite steadily around the house. “Very good movement. Very precise. Arms working properly. Legs…very good…ah so!” he gasped, for Roboman had come to a standstill, but now, it was evident, through the port, that Doug was not directly controlling the robot. Roboman’s head turned to regard Watanabe, Viola and the kids, who could see the Inventor’s broad grin and thumbs up. Then Doug opened his hands to indicate that he didn’t know what Roboman might do next. He tapped his own temple to indicate that Roboman was thinking. Roboman’s hand rose slowly, with fingers pointing upwards and stopped.

“He’s waving, Mum, he’s waving,” shouted Tamati, gleefully and waved back. “All you kids, wave to Roboman,” instructed Tamati. And Roboman’s right hand moved up and down very slightly. However, after a period it appeared that Roboman had no other inclination and Doug resumed control.

“Very wonderful,” said Watanabe, as Roboman picked up a 44-gallon drum, and after slowly raising it above his shoulder, hurled it some twenty metres to crash into another part of the Useful Bits and Pieces. “I truly wish the Head of R&D was here to see.”

Doug returned Roboman to recline alongside the workshop.

“That wave,” said Doug excitedly, when he had emerged and removed his suit, “first time he’s done that. Well, he hasn’t done much, yet, but he just did that, off his own bat! That wasn’t me. I said to Viola, he’s not as bright as Farside but still, I can’t recall Farside waving to anyone. Just his tail, and I don’t think that’s got much to do with his brain.”

The man from Hitachi agreed that this was a remarkable thing, and for a time, they discussed various aspects of Roboman’s development, and Doug said that he expected to remove the diesel engine and replace it with the electric motor and the Hitachi batteries, probably by the end of the week. Watanabe mentioned several times that he was sure that the Head of R&D would want to see for himself, but he hoped Hemopo san would send images. He would not, however, stay for dinner. It was necessary to return to Auckland.

“Mighty Bot Corporation?” said Viola incredulously, as the truck drove off down the road, “and they gave you those? Free?” she laughed, “You’re a cheeky man, Doug Hemopo!”

*

Corker Pritchard snarled into his phone, “Do you think I give a rat’s arse about Bumbulis and a demonstration? That’s your problem and you’d better sort it out. I fund your campaign. I pay Verbal to put your case. I pay for your hoardings and your leaflets. I’ll tell you straight. The only thing I’m interested in is getting that coal deal done, and your idea of the river access is what’s keeping me paying. So, you get on and sort those silly bastards out. And they can do what they like with the pizzel.”

*

In Brewster’s Neck that evening, there was a level of disharmony and ructions never before seen. In the Clatworthy household, after an hour of sullen silence, Farsical demanded angrily, “What do you think you’re doing? Make a man look stupid in his own town…in his own home. And here’s me, trying to put things right for young Milkman, and-”

“His name is Marty,” retorted Pearl, so sharply her husband spluttered in his beer.

“Marty needs a job – a future. And what are you and those…GLADs doing about that? Getting in the bloody way, is what. I can’t even go down to the pub.”

“Marty doesn’t need a coal mine. And have you asked him? No, I thought not. Well, I have.”

And in the home of Taylor Palomino, Ted Potross stared at his wife balefully as she served the dinner. “Couldn’t believe my bloody eyes – seeing you prancing about like that. With a bloody sign. And going up against Dimple Potts. Thought you liked him.” Ted was unaware of assignations between the Mayor and his wife, but that of course, was as it was supposed to be. “What’s gotten into your head, woman? It was a bloody disgrace. You looked like a bunch of…tramps.”

“And what do you suppose the FOKKERS looked like?” she replied.

“That’s a proper political movement. Full of people who know what’s what. That Bumbulis…the baker…what does she know about running a town? Building business?”

“Sarah has a business, like me. We both run businesses, in case you haven’t noticed. And she’s very smart. She’s very well educated. And she’s right about that coal. Didn’t you read the Bugle? It’s all there. Honestly, over a hundred years scientists have been warning about coal, and you think it’s just fine to dig some more up.”

“And didn’t you read the Mayor’s bit in the Bugle? Now, that made sense. Common sense! That’s what Dimple Potts is about. Years of experience and he’s got the support of Corker too. You can bet that Corker’s not going to back Bumbulis.”

“For one thing, Sarah wouldn’t have it. And for another, Corker’s an ass.”

“Oh! Oh! I see. Now we’re all high and mighty even if Corker’s the biggest man around here. Known in Auckland. Forest Flavours and so on. What have you GLADs got? A bloody bakery and a hairdresser?”

Taylor Palomino took her plate to the sink. “You can sleep on the couch,” she said.

In the home of the lawyer, Mortuary Masters, who was still smarting from his signal lack of success on the Hemopo issue, the matter of the lawyer’s wife being seen in the street chanting like a baboon, had caused lengths of heavy silence, punctuated by outbursts of recrimination and quite personal criticism.

“I have a certain standing in this town – as any lawyer anywhere does. And today, through your injudicious behaviour, you have shaken my reputation.” The lawyer pointed, “Whatever you think…whatever strange and naïve thoughts that might come into your head, I believe I should be able to expect that you will not disgrace me by prancing like some tribal ning nong.”

“Please don’t point at me,” she replied stiffly, “I am not on trial and I’m not a witness. Yes, I am. I’m a witness to the lack of common sense in Dimple Potts. If he had any, then he’d know that coal is stupid. And if you’re not willing to say so, I am. In fact, everything he and his stupid…FOKKERS, stand for, is stupid. Rivers? It’s ridiculous. And experts? What are you, if you’re not an expert? He’s against you then? And what’s the other thing? That’s right – climate changers. Good grief! Their heads are buried in the sand. Well, I’m afraid, I’m supporting Sarah Bumbulis and that’s that.”

*

That night, a brick was thrown through the window of ‘Bread & Butter;’ Dimple Potts billboard went up in flames and Verbal Pritchard was knocked out cold.

*

The Mayor rose from his seat at the end of the Council table, leaned forward with his hands pressed onto the table and fixed his eye on each Council member in turn. On Brucie Potross, Vascular Adams, Hefty Hardacre, Moot Masters and Fred Witherspoon. Especially on Fred…and then on the Town Clerk…before exclaiming with great vehemence, “We must fight back! The gloves are off, gentlemen...Hefty…you’ve seen how low these people are prepared to stoop. Defacing my billboard…and now…setting fire to it. The brazen effrontery. The challenge to authority. The disrespect. The violence. Need I remind you that our esteemed media celebrity, was brutally assaulted in the small hours and left for dead? Left for dead in the streets that are our town! Our sanctuary. The legacy of Wilberforce Brewster. Verbal, I am informed, has a broken jaw. Verbal can barely speak. We face…for the first time in the history of Brewster’s Neck, the prospect of anarchy…and we can’t stand for it. This Council will not be intimidated. This Council must stand up for what’s right and crush these…vermin. Yes, that’s right – they’re vermin. They’re filth. If we don’t take a stand, these GLADS…” and the Councillors could see and hear how much it pained the Mayor to even utter the name of those who were guilty of the heinous behaviour he described. “These GLADs, who would gladly sacrifice the future of young Marty Clatworthy – and your children, who look to you – to us, to secure them a future here in Brewster’s Neck. And why? Because they’re anarchists…and socialists! They revel in chaos and a lack of planning. They’re not capable of planning. They can think only of bringing down what others…we, the Council have spent so many years, building up. Building the fabric and substance of this fine community. They would desecrate it and defecate on it – like dogs, Councillors. These GLADs are dogs. And like the dogs they are, they must be trained or…put down. There’s no two ways, gentlemen, and Hefty. This Council must take a stand. And that is why I’m proposing this new bylaw. I am proposing, for the peace and the security of our town, that the GLADs be banished from our streets. Just as a temporary measure. Just until the day following the election. Gentlemen, and Hefty, it is a simple measure that will not need to be in place more than these next two weeks. But it will show our implacable opposition to the mayhem and disruption these GLADs would foment. And it would reassure our law-abiding citizens, that they can sleep easily in their beds at night. We must show them that we will not countenance mayhem. We must show them our iron resolve. To maintain the safety of our town. To proceed with the development of the coal windfall that Mother Nature herself, has so bountifully bestowed upon us. And would we snub our noses at Mother Nature? Would we pretend to know better than Mother Nature? Would we cock a snoot at our benefactor, Corker Pritchard, who is backing this wonderful venture that would transform our town? That would guarantee a job for Marty Clatworthy and prosperity for all. Yes, gentlemen…Hefty…that’s the supreme irony. These GLADs…these loonies who describe our valiant endeavours as dirty business…dirty business!” The Mayor was so outraged at this appalling accusation he was compelled, speechless for the moment to circle the end of the room two times before continuing, “so there it is. Can I be plainer? You all know the truth of the matter. You all know your responsibility – our responsibility. We either snuff this out now, here, today – or we concede and allow out town to be over-run by violence, anarchy and misguided women.”

The Mayor resumed his seat. “I put the proposal for discussion.”

“You’ve got a way with words, Mr Mayor,” admired Councillor Hardacre, “Lyrical, and no-one could say otherwise. Unlike me. Call a spade-a-spade I say, and I say we’ve got to give it to them where it hurts.”

“Thank you, Hefty. You, most of all of us here, will surely perceive the dangers posed by women who’ve been led astray. Not their fault. No…”

“That’s a fact, Dimple – led astray and not their fault,” cried Councillor Potross.

The Mayor agreed, grimly and repeated, “not their fault at all, Brucie. Just lack the common sense to see where they’ve gone wrong. But led astray…like children…by the Pied Piper. The one with the pipe, Brucie…and what’s the only common-sense thing to be done?”

With a clenched fist poking the air, Councillor Hardacre re-joined emphatically, “Give it to them!”

“Yes, but no, Hefty,” replied the Mayor, “what we must do is take away the pipe. We must stop the tune…break the spell.”

“Hit ‘em with the pipe – where it hurts,” said Councillor Hardacre.

The Mayor nodded but said, “We must break the pipe. That’s what we must do. We must get to the root of this ruction – this outbreak…in our town. We must cauterise…vaccinate…we must treat the disease.”

Farmer Adams crashed a fist down on the table. “I like it, Dimple – Mr Mayor. I’m sick to my back teeth, with…these…experts. They’re not experts. What do they know about farming, for God’s sake? I say, crush ‘em.”

“Crush ‘em! That’s the way, Mr Mayor,” said Councillor Potross, “that’s what I do every day. Crushing rocks to make gravel and road chip. You must do it. You can’t make a road or a wall without crushing rocks. Rocks are no bloody use to anyone. Smash ‘em up. Then you can do some concreting.”

Councillor Masters cracked his interlaced fingers, which measure gained the immediate attention of his colleagues, “As a lawyer, Mr Mayor, as you know well, I would never condone violence, or indeed anything ultra vires. We must remain intra vires, Mr Mayor. This Council has certain authorities and powers…and as a responsible body, we must not entertain that which might be construed…legally speaking…as being outside those properly framed limitations.”

“That’s the way, Moot, we need the legal way. Sue ‘em. Take ‘em to the High Court. I’m sick and tired of them rabbiting on about damned rivers!”

The lawyer continued as though he had not heard this warm affirmation. “You speak metaphorically, Mr Mayor, which is only to be expected from a man in High Office. But I must speak from within the cloak of my profession – the law. And in this case…in this set of unusual circumstances where people have been wilfully and negligently persuaded to actions beyond their ability to comprehend, we see before us a case of incitement, Mr Mayor. A plain case of incitement as illegal as it is malodorous. Innocent parties…people unschooled in the dark arts of propaganda…persuaded to a view of the world that is contrary to both moral and legal sensibilities…what we see here, Mr Mayor…fellow councillors, is a clear and unequivocal case of a cult.”

“A cult! My God, yes, it’s a cult!” agreed the Mayor.

“And if I might borrow from your wonderfully apposite metaphor, Mr Mayor, at the head of this cult…at the head of this Gorgon, is not the Pied Piper, who, when all was said and done was no more than a ponce in tights. No, at the head of this cult, is a repulsive creature which has taken hold of innocent minds…in her claws, Mr Mayor, to turn those innocents…weak in many cases…yes, weak they are but that is why we are here – to save them from this snake-haired Bumbulis – for she ought to be named – we must confront this Gorgon, as fearless as Perseus we must be – but intra vires, Mr Mayor, within the strictures of the law – we must take off her head.”

“Metaphorically speaking,” elucidated the Mayor for the benefit of Councillors Adams and Potross. “Which means, Councillors, that I believe our honourable legal colleague has sanctioned this proposal, to stifle the GLADs forthwith.”

“What about the pipe, Mr Mayor? I thought we were going to break the pipe?”

“Metaphorically speaking, Councillor Potross,” replied Councillor Masters.

The Town Clerk spoke for the first time, “Does the Council wish me to record the metaphor, or the plain English version?”

“I am unsurprised, Town Clerk, that you would ask this question,” replied the Mayor with disdain. “Through the use of well-chosen metaphor and other figures of speech, we have, in robust discussion, given the greater clarity and colour to our common purpose. Where the simple language of the classroom is suitable for the simpleton, we have emitted subtle gases…noble gases of a kind that quite possibly exceed even those generated by the Council of that northern blight, which is Auckland. And you would ask, what to record? Record the nuance and reason, Town Clerk. Record that which will make history in Brewster’s Neck…faithfully and verbatim.”

The Town Clerk frowned and pursed his lips. “I see. But I wonder whether it is quite…proper, to record a description of a candidate – as Sarah Bumbulis is – as a Gorgon?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Town Clerk!” replied the Mayor, “as Councillor Hardacre has already said – a spade-a-bloody-spade.”

At which Councillor Witherspoon, hitherto silent but with an expression that betrayed his considerable discomfort, commenced, “I must agree with the Town Clerk. It is not appropriate. I must protest.”

“Fred,” replied Councillor Hardacre, “you’ve become an old woman. I can’t say plainer than that.”

Ignoring this slight, Councillor Witherspoon said, “Not only do I disagree with the…preposterous language being used around this table, but I must protest the proposal itself. With respect, Moot, but whether this proposal is ultra or intra vires, it is morally wrong and quite the most unprincipled nonsense I’ve ever heard.”

“Councillor Witherspoon, you’re out of order. Yes, you’re out of order, and-”

“Dear me!” cried Councillor Witherspoon, “Dimple Potts, I most certainly am not. I am entitled to hold this view and I will say it. The proposal is a blatant attempt to hobble your opponent and that is wrong – and it is blatant nonsense to suggest that anyone, wives or not, have been…” and lost for words, Councillor Witherspoon rose from his seat, shaking his head.

“Sit down Fred!” demanded Councillor Masters, “For heaven’s sake, man, I agree you should have your say, but nothing is gained by being party to impasse.”

Councillor Witherspoon slowly regained his seat. “Thank you, Councillor Masters. I think I have made my opinion clear. I cannot support this proposal.”

“Just put it to the vote, Mr Mayor,” urged Councillor Hardacre. “We already knew where Fred would be on this. Like an old woman.”

Councillor Masters held up his hand, “No, Councillor Hardacre. We should not descend to the personal. Whatever the reasons Councillor Witherspoon might have to take the contrary position, he has the right to do so without recrimination. He may well be under the sway of his wife, in a way it is clear others around this table are not, but that is his personal affair.”

Since it was apparent that the Council was disposed to vote, the Mayor asked for a show of hands and the proposal was approved, with one against.

*

Constable Hikaka was puzzled. “So, Mr Pritchard,” he said, “as I understand it, you don’t wish to make a formal complaint?” Herb scratched his forehead as he spoke, studying the misshapen visage that was Verbal Pritchard.

The Media Man, sitting on his sofa and attired in his silk dressing gown, grimaced and very slowly shook his head.

“It’s a nasty jolt you’ve had. Quite a crack. Certainly, looks to me like you’ve been on the receiving end of a fist.”

With great difficulty, Verbal Pritchard made certain sounds through his teeth.

“I’m not making that out,” replied Herb, inclining his ear. He listened again to the noises forced slowly through bruised and purple lips. “An axe? An accident?” Herb peered even more closely at the swollen jaw, “It really does look like a punch, Mr Pritchard…what’s that?” He leaned over again. “Tripped? You tripped and fell?” Herb considered this information, before continuing, “So, you were outside the rear entrance to Uppercutz…at about midnight…when you tripped and fell, and that fall knocked you out?” He nodded slowly, “Well, Mr Pritchard that’s bad luck. I’d call that bad luck. Lucky, of course, that Nostril Masters happened by and found you. What’s that?” Herb leaned with ear turned. “Of a dog? Something of a dog?” Verbal repeated the previous noise, “Ah,” replied Herb, “Cunt of a dog. Ah…you tripped over Nostril? You tripped over Nostril, whilst outside the rear entrance of Uppercutz, at midnight, knocked yourself out and then Nostril raised the alarm? Well, I can see you won’t be pressing charges against Nostril, despite him being the cause of your…injury…” Herb closed his notebook. “Well, if you should change your mind, you know where to find me. And I must say, Mr Pritchard, I do have quite a bit on my plate right now, so, I’m a little bit relieved that I don’t have a case of assault coming on me. I can enter an accident and that’s that. No need to be looking for someone with their fist in an ice-bag. I can tell you, Mr Pritchard, if that blow to your jaw, which in any other circumstance looks like it came from a fist, well, that fist would be almost as sore as your face is now. But it’s not a fist – it’s that damned dog. You know, he keeps cropping up? But there we are. I’ll let you get some rest. Hard luck – for a media man. Not being able to speak. Bread-and-butter to you fellas – talking. But there we are. I’ll be off. Plenty on my plate,” concluded the Constable, and let himself out the front door of Verbal Pritchard’s townhouse.

*

Unable to call on the services of Doug Hemopo, Percy Pritchard had called in a team of mechanics from Te Kuiti. After two days, Percy reminded the firm they were in breach and any talk of increased charges was extortion, and they wouldn’t be paid a cent over the agreed fee. This led to a short exchange about how the scope of the job had changed and that therefore, it was fair to take that into account. At which Percy told the head mechanic that if he didn’t want the job he could fuck off. Since the mechanic did need the job, he bit his tongue, scowled and returned to the task of modifying a front-end loader and a truck with over-size wheels so that the machines might more readily be driven up a river bed.

Percy reported to Corker that the project was on schedule and they would be able to tackle the Ararata before the end of the week, as planned. They discussed Verbal’s misadventure and agreed that was a nuisance, since it would mean that the last edition of ‘Have Your Say,’ before the election, was unlikely to take place. Percy recommended that Verbal’s salary be docked and that a penalty be added since his absence was a clear breach of duty. Corker agreed and told Percy he’d leave it in his hands.

“He’s not pressing charges then?” said Percy.

“How can he?” replied Corker, “Bound to happen. You can’t keep dipping your wick all about, without someone’s going to call time.”

Percy agreed that this was so and reiterated that nonetheless, chopping a week’s pay was the least of it. Before he rang off, Corker said he had the result of the assay and that it was the Real McCoy. 24 carats.

“Knew it was,” replied the Accountant.

*

Herb studied the large photograph of a stag in the forest, below the name and logo of Forest Flavours in that company’s reception area. A fourteen pointer. He didn’t know the woman at the reception of Forest Flavours. She came from out-of-town each day. From Raglan, she said. And no, she couldn’t tell him exactly what the Forest Flavours shipments were, or where they went. To Auckland, mostly, she said. Mostly sausages, and burger patties she believed. Now, she returned with a cup of tea and placed it in front of Herb, who thanked her and remarked that it was a good colour. They agreed that tea needed to be a certain colour and that was mostly dark-brown.

“So,” said Herb, “someone’s taken over from Weasel?”

“Yes. Snakey – I mean Hamish Stickley. He’s taken over the job. He’s out now, though. Doing deliveries.”

Herb replied, “And it would be mostly sausages and patties, he’d be delivering?”

“Probably. He might have some cat food on this trip, but I don’t think we do much of that – cat food I mean. Sausages are far more popular. You’d need to be asking Mr Pritchard.”

“That’s Percy Pritchard, you mean?”

She nodded, “But he’s not here either. I think he’s out-of-town today.”

Herb said he’d call back and then drove into town to examine the scene of Verbal Pritchard’s accident with the aid of the PMD, and thence to talk to mayoral candidate Bumbulis about a broken window and related matters.

*

By anyone’s standards, the Wednesday a week out from Voting Day for the Mayor of Brewster’s Neck, was memorable. It had begun, in the very small hours, with the accident whereby Verbal Pritchard, host of ‘Have Your Say,’ lost all speech due to his having tripped over Nostril Masters outside the rear entrance to Uppercutz and dislocating his jaw on the left side of his face. As Corker Pritchard observed, this was a set-back to the FOKKER campaign to re-elect Dimple Potts, and as his brother Percy was now intent on effecting, due to its sheer carelessness and inconvenience, warranted a loss of salary and some other yet to be specified penalty.

This singular accident demonstrated clearly, that dogs are not necessarily man’s best friend and some observed that Nostril Masters was often to be found with his blunt and snuffling bulldog face where it had no place being. Such as in Pearl Clatworthy’s underwear, as he was that very morning, wearing one of Pearl’s brassiere’s in High Street. It is noteworthy though, that Marty Clatworthy had posted a photograph of Nostril so attired, on Instagram a full hour before the hound was brought to heel by Farsical Clatworthy. Marty received a sound cuff in the ear from Farsical.

As general points of discussion, Verbal’s frightful accident eclipsed even the immolation of Dimple Pott’s billboard and the brick in the window of Sarah Bumbulis’s bakery. Where the latter incidents evoked concern, amusement or puzzlement, the Media Man who could no longer talk, caused several women of varying age to arrive at Verbal’s residence with offerings of home-baked pies, flowers and other tokens of their esteem and sympathy; some even suggesting that the notorious hound be put down.

But when these incidents were put together, as they were by the Town Council, they seemed fresh evidence of a breakdown of the fabric of society, consequently leading to the new, albeit temporary by-law, restraining the GLADs from public assembly. This by-law was announced in several tweets thus: ‘LAW and ORDER under threat from political dissidents. Council will not TOLERATE. Political demos outlawed until after ELECTION DAY.’ And soon after, ‘RULE of LAW must be maintained. Time to stand-up to MISGUIDED elements who would be GLAD to see Brewster’s Neck fall into long-drop.’ This was succeeded shortly after, on the advice of the Town Clerk by, ‘Long-drop equals Porcelain Pirate. Can’t be allowed. Time to take back our streets.’ Followed again, on the advice of the Town Clerk, ‘Porcelain Pirate equals Dunny. Town Clerk pedantic prat. GLADs also.’ At which point the Town Clerk departed the Mayor’s Office in ill-humour, and as luck would have it, fell over a well-known sleeping dog, and broke his wrist.

The Mayor tweeted, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. Timely advice to all. But beware the two-legged dog. Burning of billboards evidence of DOGS of WAR.’

Three hours later the Mayor took up his megaphone and standing on the top step of the Council Offices, roundly berated the small crowd that had assembled there, carrying placards bearing such messages as, ‘GLADs will not be silenced by POLICE State.’

“Do you not see?” the Mayor shouted, “You’ve been duped. You’ve fallen under the sway of a cult. That’s understandable but you must look at the facts. The FOKKERS have the facts. Our way of life is threatened by subversives – socialists, experts and other…interferers. By a sinister cult.” Despite the megaphone, the Mayor’s words were largely drowned out by jeers.

“Good heavens,” said Fred Witherspoon from the front door of Witherspoon’s Classic Fashions, “they’re in uniform!”

To Fred’s amazement and grave consternation, a group of FOKKERS, all wearing t-shirts bearing the name ‘FRIENDLY FOKKERS’ and an insignia in the form of a lightning bolt had suddenly appeared and marching in unison and without warning seized and broke the placards carried by the GLADs.

“They’re mad!” said Fred Witherspoon. “What on earth do they think they are?” He crossed the street to remonstrate and was struck a glancing blow from a stick that sent him reeling back to his store. After calling Constable Hikaka, Fred returned to his window but saw that the FRIENDLY FOKKERS had already disappeared, as had most of the GLADs. But Taylor Palomino stood defiantly on the lower steps of the Council Chambers, attempting to restore some order to her blonde hair and holding up her placard.

*

Meanwhile, a special edition of the Brewster Bugle had hit the streets and instantly provoked heated discourse. Most especially, there was heated discourse between the Mayor and his sister Beatrice, Editor of the Bugle.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the Mayor, thrusting his copy of the Bugle at the Editor, sitting behind her desk. He poked the front page and read, shouting, “Marty Clatworthy says ‘No’ to a job in the mines.’ My God! Have you gone mad? He’s a pimply kid! He hardly knows his bum from his elbow – and here, you’re quoting him in this…this rag, as if he had the slightest notion of what he wants! And biased! I can’t believe you’ve taken sides against your own brother! But I should have expected it – yes, you’ve always been envious of my success. And this is your way of getting back at me. Trying to pull me down through this…paper, which frankly doesn’t even give good service in the Porcelain Pirate.”

Waiting until the Mayor paused for breath, the Editor replied crisply, “What nonsense, Dimple. You’ve a job to do, and so do I. And my job is to present both sides. I published your opinion piece – though I must say with misgivings. But I’ll do so again. However, I’ll also publish other, relevant material. And by the way, your Friendly Fokkers look anything but. Look at what’s happened to poor Sarah Bumbulis. Her shop window smashed by hooligans and we can guess of what persuasion.”

“And my billboard? Do you care about my billboard? No! And Verbal Pritchard? Do you care that your hooligans nearly killed him?”

The Editor replied, “I thought he tripped. I thought that Nostril got under his feet?”

“Don’t be so bloody naïve,” shouted the Mayor, “Verbal was ambushed and cruelly assaulted. He’s lucky to be alive and I’ve no doubt, is protecting those who should now be behind bars. That’s the kind of fellow he is.”

The Editor smiled innocently, “Well, if it wasn’t the dog, perhaps Mr Pritchard has suffered temporary amnesia. Perhaps he encountered a long overdue fist.”

The Mayor’s eyes widened, “I can’t believe you said that. What are you implying? But I don’t want to hear it. I’ve got more important things to attend to.” He threw the Bugle onto the Editor’s desk, “Well, I can assure you, you’ll soon be covering the coal mine that saves this town.”

*

“Golly!” said Sarah Bumbulis to her Campaign Manager. “What happened to your eye?”

The Campaign Manager gently touched the blackened and swollen skin around his right eye and flinched as he recalled the apple that had come whizzing from the hand of Beattie Potts, no sooner than he had poked his head around her door. “Ah, well, I walked into something. A force of nature, you might say.”

“You and Verbal? You men! Are you ok?”

“It looks worse than it feels and everything’s fine.” The Campaign Manager recalled the words, ‘You blackguard, Johnson! Be off!’

“Can I get you some ice?”

The Campaign Manager declined the offer of ice and added that there had been a slight misunderstanding, but this was now satisfactorily resolved. At which he recalled the strident demand, ‘Did it amuse you to let me publish a pack of lies about Hauptmann? You…bastard!’ Which was almost as big a shock as the apple, since he’d never hear the Editor swear before. However, after two phone calls, a very contrite apology and several tins of best rewarewa honey, a semblance of normal relations had been resumed. And a mental note made that the Editor could be a very feisty lady indeed, and henceforth, should never be underestimated.

Sarah continued, “Poor old Campaign Manager. These are turbulent times. Anyway, Herb said he would drop by, later, with the PMD. That’s the Police Magnification Device, to do a closer examination of the vandalism. Of course, I’d already swept up the glass, so I’m not sure what he thinks he might find. But isn’t it dreadful! Why on earth would anyone do this? Throw a rock through my window? What have I done to anyone?”

“It shows you’re getting to them. They’re afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me?” she laughed, “If that’s all it takes then they’re afraid of a good many things. Look, Porterhouse, I’m not sure I can continue with this. There’s still a week to go and now this…do you know they’re saying I’m a cult leader.” She shook her head, “A cult…the GLADs…and all because I wanted to point out that coal shouldn’t be part of the future of Brewster’s Neck – or anywhere.”

“That’s the cut-and-thrust. You know that. But look what your door knocking has done. Folks coming out to stand by you without being asked. That’s why Dimple Potts is scared. He doesn’t understand it.” He unfolded his copy of the Bugle, “Did you read this?” he quoted aloud, “Marty Clatworthy told the Bugle, ‘I don’t want to be a coal miner. I’m actually hoping to be a tailor and may be even a designer. I think that Ms Bumbulis is right about coal. It’s bad for the climate.’ You see? Even Marty knows it’s a dead horse. But Dimple…he’ll stay with Corker, and it’s going to be his downfall.”

Candidate Bumbulis nodded but said, “Yes, and that worries me too. What if I won? They’re right, Porterhouse. I don’t know anything about what a Council should do.”

“Don’t worry about that,” replied her Campaign Manager, “neither does Dimple. Now, which streets are you covering today?”

*

Meanwhile, two large trucks had departed Te Kuiti carrying unusual machines. On one, a front-end loader and on the other, a large mechanical digger. Both machines were unusual due to the extremely large wheels that had, under the uncharitable eye of Percy Pritchard, been recently fitted.

“I hope the bloody wheels fall off,” said the engineer, “he’s a nasty bastard.”

The trucks drove to the premises of Forest Flavours, where they were inspected by Corker Pritchard, who pronounced them ‘brilliant.’ The managing director of Green Power was also impressed and the two agreed that the Mayor, though a bit of a jumped-up squirt, had come up with a very good strategy. Corker agreed but observed that you didn’t want a mayor with any clues. You needed people like Dimple Potts who’d do as they were told, and if they had the occasional bright idea, all to the good.

“But what about that crud in the Bugle today?” asked Howard. “Not very bloody helpful.”

“Don’t you worry about that. Just a sideshow. There’s some that talk…and there’s some that do. And we’re the second kind. Don’t you worry about that.”

Howard Green did not look entirely convinced. “I’m putting a lot of moolah into this. I hope we’re not pussy footing about.”

“Don’t you worry,” replied Corker, “I don’t pussy foot. I grab pussy. Tomorrow we’ll go.”

Shortly after Corker and Howard Green had departed, a shadowy figure in the trees focused binoculars to watch Snakey unloading meat into the single chute in the end of the building.

*

Doug Hemopo was astonished. The box that had arrived from Hitachi was not only unexpected, it caused Doug to climb onto his stilts to race three times around the house, hotly pursued by Marks 2 and 3. Then he leapt from the stilts and returned to examine the contents of the box, with the note on the packing slip, from Watanabe, suggesting that the enclosed AI could be a very useful upgrade for Roboman, and that Watanabe would be in touch soon.

“Viola, the Hitachi Corporation is so impressed with Mighty Bot Corporation, it has given me artificial intelligence!”

“What’s wrong with your intelligence? Do they think there’s something wrong with you?”

“Not me – it’s for Roboman. It’s a brain, Viola. You see, I’ve given Roboman, what you might think of as a brainstem. That’s not very smart. It’s all we had a few million years ago – and we still have it. But now we have all the other stuff – the lobes and all that. A lot more brain doing different things. That’s what makes us human. But Roboman…well, with his brainstem, he couldn’t do much…wave his hand. But look at this! This is like a sizable chunk of brain that’s going to turn him into a proper robot. That’s what Watanabe sent me. I thought we hit it off. I guess it’s not their top-line AI. Probably for them it’s a bit of a dunderhead, but that’s way ahead of what I could do. They must be interested in Roboman. Think about that. Hitachi thinks Roboman is a promising thing. Well, we’ll see how he goes when I give him his new brain. All electric, smart-as Roboman! I’d better get on with it.” At which he took up the box and repaired to the workshop to begin work.

Viola rang the Grub’s Up bell four times before Doug stopped work. She watched him eat.

“You hardly know where your mouth is. You tried to push that chicken through your cheek.”

Doug nodded dumbly and gave a slight smile, “Bit poked.”

“I know you are. Working yourself to death, Doug Hemopo. You need to stop now and get some sleep.”

Doug nodded again, “Nearly finished. I’ve been trying to teach him the Robot Rules. He has to know, or things might not work properly. Like, that he can’t hurt a human, unless he’s under my control. And he’s got to be able to explain why he does something.”

Viola replied, “How on earth can he explain something? You saying he can talk now?”

Doug nodded slowly and then shook his head. “Not yet. He’s still learning stuff. I’ve got him plugged into Netflix. He’s learning about English and stuff….”

“Finish that chicken,” said Viola. “Doug? Lor, he’s gone to sleep right there.” Viola went into the house and returned with a blanket and a cushion. When she had wrapped the blanket around him, she adjusted his shoulders, so his head could rest on the cushion. “You’re a busy man, Doug Hemopo,” she said softly, and she went off to make sure the kids had cleaned their teeth.

*

Sarah Bumbulis was tired. She was in the bakery every morning at five, as always, but after she had closed her shop at one in the afternoon, she showered, changed and taking her small bag of election pamphlets, went out into the streets to continue to talk with the residents of Brewster’s Neck. Today, she was on Dardanelle Street and she was pleased, because it was the only street she had not canvassed. She went up to the door of number three and knocked. A man she knew only by sight, opened the door and stared at her momentarily before blurting, “Go away! I don’t want to talk to you. Glad bag!” And he closed the door. Sarah sighed and crossed the road to number five.

“I don’t know why you don’t stick to baking,” said the woman. “Dimple Potts is a good mayor and you’re just stirring up trouble. Good day.”

Sarah knocked at the door of number six. “What’re you against coal for?” Demanded Gerbil Roberts. “I haven’t gotta job and I’d work the coal. I don’t have anything against you. You’re a good sort, but you’ve got a business and you don’t care if I work or not. What are you going to do? Except stop this town going forwards. And my kids. I’ve gotta support my kids but there’s no work. You gonna give me a job in your bakery?”

Sarah said, “Mr Roberts, I don’t have any simple answers. And I know you need to find work. But I think there’re very good reasons why coal mining is the last thing we should be doing for your kids. If you’ve got a moment? Perhaps I can explain.”

“What? What are you going to explain? That it’s dirty? Course it’s dirty! You don’t need to be an expert to know that. Everything’s dirty. Look at the Chinese – I mean, they burn more coal in a day than we could dig in a thousand years. Why don’t you go and tell them they can’t burn coal? Why do you try to tell us that we can’t dig it? A few truckloads – that’s all. Why don’t you tell them? They’ll take a lot of notice. The whole world’s dirty. You gonna clean up the entire world? How’re you going to do that?”

“Those are very good points,” replied Candidate Bumbulis, “they are. That’s why I say we shouldn’t be making silly promises. I’m not out here, talking to you to pass the time. I’m tired already, Mr Roberts. I do have a bakery, and I wish I could offer you employment. But we must stand up for things. I’ll bet you stand up for your kids…I know you do and that’s great. Well, one of the ways we can stand up for our kids is to do things now, that will make it better for them. And what we know now, today, is that burning coal and warming the whole climate, is bad for our kids. It’s very bad. I believe we’re only just beginning to understand how bad it might be…and you’re right about China. But China is trying hard – did you know that? China is spending more on alternative energy than any other country in the world. Did you know that? They don’t want to burn coal but for the moment they must…but they’re trying very hard to stop. So, it’s not right that we start digging up more. Mr Roberts…I’m an expert on a lady bug…in Latvia. It’s daft, isn’t it? But I think it’s important…in another way. We need to care about small things…even bugs and beetles. And kids…especially our kids. And the reason I’m standing for mayor, Mr Roberts, is to try to find a better way for our kids. That’s why I’m here.”

Gerbil Roberts squinted a little and stared over Sarah’s head. He raised a hand and rubbed his chin and then returned his gaze to her. “I think,” he said slowly, “that you’re a good person. I think what you’re saying, makes sense. But here’s the thing, Ms Bumbulis, old Dimple, and the FOKKERS…they’ve made some very good points. I don’t know much about all this warming weather and suchlike, but I do know that there’s city folk who’d screw our farmers. They don’t know anything about farming and they’re making it tough for folks like Vascular. That’s not right. And the FOKKERS…well, they’re against experts and what have experts ever done for us? Where are they anyway?”

“Mr Roberts, let me be plain. I’m against a coal mine that I believe is wrong for this town and wrong for the world. But I do want to see our town grow. We just need to find better ways – and I truly believe that if we all get together to talk about that, then we’ll find a better way. I don’t think we should be leaving it all to the Council. You, and everyone else has a right to talk about what we, as a town should do. And I know what you mean about experts, but would you really want your doctor to be less than expert. Or your dentist? Or the people who put electricity into your home. They’re all experts and I think we’re glad of it. So, we shouldn’t be against experts. We should be finding the right experts who can help us with things we don’t know so much about. That’s my promise, Mr Roberts. If you, or anyone votes for me, I promise that you’ll be helping to decide what the future of Brewster’s Neck should be. And I’ll be glad to hear you.”

Again, Gerbil Roberts looked past her before he replied. “You’ve got a pamphlet there? Can I have one?” he took the pamphlet she offered. “You know? I read about young Marty Clatworthy, in the Bugle. And I read what Dimple said, and I must say, it got me a bit confused. But I like what you’re saying, Ms Bumbulis. And I do appreciate that you’ve come out here, to talk to ordinary folks. I’m not saying I’ll vote for you…but I’m gonna think about it.”

Candidate Bumbulis thanked Gerbil Roberts for giving her his time and told him that if he wished to call to ask anything, he should do so. And then she moved onto number seven. A spring came into her step and her spirits soared. Until the man at number eleven said, “I’m a FOKKER. And the GLADs should fook off.”

*

Constable Herb Hikaka had been summoned to the office of the Regional Commissioner. The RC said, “I see you have a suspected assault? But the victim said he’s tripped over a dog. Seems straightforward, Constable. A sleeping dog doesn’t normally constitute an assailant.”

“No, sir.”

“So, there’s no complaint?”

“No, sir.”

“So, there’s no investigation?”

“Well,” replied Herb, “there might be. If one thing leads to another.”

The RC frowned, “You think there was an assault? Being concealed, by the victim. And that assault might be connected to the alleged suicide and death of the other fellow?”

“It could be sir. I have to keep an open mind.”

The RC glanced at the note on his desk, “Possible murder…followed by possible murder…followed by possible assault…” He fixed a penetrating gaze on the constable. “What the hell is going on in your patch, constable? Things getting out of control.” He lifted a page and read, “Civil disturbance on High Street outside Council offices. Tuesday, 23rd August eleven am, group of residents aligned with the political movement, FOKKERS, clashed with group aligned with those belonging to political movement, GLADs. Broke it up and sent all home.” The RC replaced the page on his desk. “Political movements? FOKKERS? What kind of name is that?”

“Stands for ‘fundamentally opposed to climate changers, Aucklanders – and possible Aussies; experts…rivers and-

“Rivers? They’re opposed to rivers? Nutters? Are they nutters, constable?”

“More or less,” replied Herb. “Harmless but a bit nutty.”

“And the ‘S?”

“Socialists. They’re opposed to socialists.”

The RC shook his head. “There’re what, three hundred people in Brewster’s Neck? And this past two weeks you’ve had two violent deaths that may yet be murders. You’ve given pursuit to a Pawnee Indian…a man is knocked cold and blames a dog, and now the town’s split into extreme political movements…rum business, constable. And what do the GLADs stand for?”

Herb grinned, “Gentle Ladies against Dirty Business.”

“Bugger me!” replied the RC. “What dirty business? Not paedophilia? Prostitution then? Drugs? Is it drugs now?”

Herb shook his head, “None of those things. It’s a coal mine. The Council, and some business interests want to start a coal mine, but the GLADs, and that’s a lady, Sarah Bumbulis, are objecting. So, Sarah Bumbulis, is standing for mayor in the election. Next Saturday.”

“World’s going mad, constable. Coal? And they’re attacking each other? Bugger me…well, that’s a political issue. Nothing for us there. But the investigations? Where are you up to?”

“I’m pretty sure that Rudolf Hauptmann killed himself, but it wasn’t a suicide. Accidental death.”

“But he’s the one shot in the throat with an arrow?”

“Well, he certainly died from having an arrow in his throat, but I don’t think he was shot. You see, after I’d done a further site investigation with the PMD, I found evidence that a dog had followed Hauptmann out to where he got the arrow. And it became apparent, that the dog got in front of Hauptmann at a point that caused Hauptmann to lose his balance. He then fell and as he did, the arrow that he was holding, turned so that the fletch was on the ground and the arrow tip was pointing up, and Hauptmann took it in the throat. It didn’t kill him instantly. He managed to walk back to town, but he collapsed and died in the doorway of a shop he often slept in. Went home, you could say, to die.”

The RC’s eyes widened, “Another dog? Dog responsible for the death of Hauptmann, by misadventure, and now another dog, causes your media man to be knocked cold. Are dogs out of control on your patch, constable? A rum business if dogs are out of hand.” He added sharply, “It’s not the same dog?”

“Well,” replied Herb, “that’s the interesting thing. The dog that tripped Hauptmann, was a dog called Nostril Masters. He’s a bulldog, owned by the local lawyer, Moot Masters. Now, Verbal Pritchard – that’s the guy who was knocked cold, says it was Nostril that tripped him up. But Nostril wasn’t there. I’ve been over it with the PMD and no sign of Nostril or any dog. However, there’s no doubting that the Town Clerk did trip over Nostril, outside the Council Offices.”

“The Town Clerk? And what happened to him?”

“Broken wrist.”

“Is this town terrorised by a bulldog, constable? Are you doing something about it?”

“I’m on his trail,” said Herb, “but I don’t want to take him out of the picture.”

“Giving him his head, eh? Good thinking constable. Easy to jump too soon and then you’ve lost the thread. All connected…but what about Potross? Suicide?”

Herb pressed his fingers together thoughtfully, “Now that’s a bit less clear. It seems that Potross may have broken – or had his neck broken, before he was hung. It seems…from the autopsy, that his neck may have broken five to ten minutes, before he was hung.”

“Well, that’s not suicide, constable. No-one breaks their neck and then climbs onto a chair to hang themselves. Not normal at all.”

Herb said, “Exactly, sir…so it seems we may be looking at murder.”

“Motive?”

“Before the victim’s house was burned down, there-

“Burned down? Yes, that’s right, it was. Cause?”

“Could have been accidental. There were hot coals in the grate when I found him. Anyway, shortly after the victim’s death, someone had ransacked the place. Lifting floorboards and so on, looking for something. And I think I know what they were looking for.”

“Well?” demanded the RC.

“Gold, sir. I believe that Potross had a nugget, or gold dust, and someone wanted it. Could be, they threatened Potross. Could be he found them searching and it turned bad.”

“Killed him and then hung him to make it look like suicide?”

“That’s my thinking.”

“Suspects?”

“May be. A bit early to say.”

The RC reflected. “Got a bit on your plate, constable, what with one thing and another. If I’d a man to spare I’d put him your way. Can’t though. We’re struggling to meet our highway quota. People seem to be slowing down. Tightening in the economy I suppose. It’s getting hard to issue two tickets per man per day at present. We need five, minimum, to make it worthwhile. Bloody nuisance. Still…that’s not your concern, and you’ve got the PMD. You’ll have to give it back shortly though. They’re bleating over at Morrinsville.”

Herb advised that he thought he could be finished with the PMD by early next week.

*

Mayor Dimple Potts stood at his office window and glared. “Do you see that? Bribery. It’s blatant bribery and if that’s not contravening election rules…do you know? Is there a rule about that?”

The Town Clerk, whose arm was in a sling after his accident involving Nostril Masters, also looked out the Council window. “What? Rules against a cake stall? Bribery?”

“Yes, bribery! Look at those voters. They’re nearly all voters.”

“Quite a lot of kids.”

“My god, you’re naïve, Town Clerk, and that’s why you’re a bureaucrat and not a politician. As a seasoned politician it is transparently clear to me. Fill those kids up with buns and what do they do?”

The Town Clerk asked, “What do they do?”

“They go home and tell their Mum what a wonderful person is Bumbulis – that’s what they do. And what does she do? When she gets to the ballot box, she thinks, Dimple and his smart policies? Yes…but before she can cast her vote she thinks, or Bumbulis? Who gives buns to my little twit? And because she’s as soft as a rice pudding run over by a truck, emotion replaces reason and voila! Bribery!”

The Town Clerk observed that he doubted she would be thinking, ‘my little twit.’

“Don’t be so pedantic. Have I mentioned? You’re one of the most pedantic people I’ve ever met. You can’t see the wood for the trees. All this…” the Mayor gestured broadly, “is as plain to me as a third wheel on a bike. Look at them? The masses are easily bribed, Town Clerk, believe you me. Gullible to a man. Look at that blasted Palomino! What’s she doing supporting my opponent? She’s a businesswoman – of a sort. But enough I’d have thought to know that the FOKKERS are the party of business. Not the gladiolas, Town Clerk. They wouldn’t know business from a cigar-smoking baboon in top hat and tails.”

“But Sarah is a businesswoman.”

“She’s a baker! She bakes bread. That’s not a proper business…it’s a calling. It’s like the cloth – they can’t help themselves. No, I’m talking about hard-nosed, see-a-handy-profit and go after it, business people. The gladioli’s, Town Clerk, would run this town like it was a book club. Quaffing wine, blathering about some dreadful piece of twaddle – probably from McNab. Has he ever published anything? No. And do you know why? I’ll tell you. Because the silly prat thinks people want to read poetry. Poetry! McNab hasn’t got a clue – and now look what he’s up to? Writing slanderous pieces in the Bugle!”

Noticing a small group comprising three men and two women approaching the cake stall, the Mayor and the Town Clerk fell silent. Each person in the group wore the FOKKERS t-shirt with the lightning bolt, which bold insignia had been suggested by Verbal Pritchard as a powerful symbol of no-nonsense. The group stopped close to the cake stall and some conversation had begun between Taylor Palomino, Pearl Clatworthy and the FOKKERS. The Mayor and the Town Clerk heard the sudden shout, “You’re breaking the law! GLADs are not permitted to congregate!”

“That’s right,” said the Mayor. “Bribery and unlawful assembly. They’re blatant, Town Clerk.”

“That seems silly. It’s a cake stall. And look what they’re doing now…surely, that’s against the law!”

One of the FOKKERS had seized the table cloth and with a sharp pull, precipitated the remaining buns onto the road. Immediately, Taylor Palomino had swung her right foot and with a sharp cry, the FOKKER doubled over. Other FOKKERS responded by tipping the cake stall and Pearl Clatworthy swung her hand bag and caught old Jim Borstal in the side of the head and sent him reeling across the street.

“Well, look at that,” observed the Town Clerk. “Prune and his customers coming between them. Order restored. Civic pride, Mr Mayor. Folks maintaining law and order off their own bat. Wonderful!”

“Wonderful? The FOKKERS were absolutely in the right. GLADs breaking the law and FOKKERS doing nothing more than standing up for the law. And what do they get? A vicious attack from Palomino and Pearl. Where are their husbands, I’d like to know? These women are out of control, Town Clerk.”

The Town Clerk looked up to the ceiling before replying, “I think the FOKKERS caused all this…and that by-law.”

The Mayor rounded, “You’re not implying that my by-law caused this melee? My word, you’ve the neck of a Galapagos tortoise! I put it down to your accident. I’m sure that wrist is not so good, Town Clerk, but it’s a weak excuse for siding with law-breakers caught red-handed on High Street, assembling illegally and bribing the electorate. That you can’t see rank corruption staring you in the face, I’m prepared to put that down to the self-absorbed distraction of your injury. My word…as soon as this election is over…we’ll set a few things straight. Anyway, it beggars the imagination how you couldn’t see Nostril Masters on the step. He’s hardly a hand bagger.”

*

Corker Pritchard raised his bottle. “Here’s to Simple Dimple,” he said, “done nothing for twenty-three years, but he came through.”

Percy Pritchard and Moot Masters also raised their bottles in salute to the Mayor’s idea to bypass Doug Hemopo, by driving up the riverbed. Corker continued, “But we don’t need him now, do we?” He laughed, “After all that hoo-ha, eh Verbal? Haven’t got much to say for yourself. Ha! Ha! You should see your jaw! Looks like…what do they call those things…big lump on your neck?”

“Goitre,” replied Moot Masters, “iodine deficiency.”

“Whatever. You’ve got one of those, Verbal, only it’s purple. My word, that was a heavy fall…and your dog, too, Morts? Fancy him being out at midnight…sleeping behind that Taylor Palomino’s place, Ha! Ha! A wandering dog, that Nostril. Verbal should sue you, Morts. Delinquent dog and all that…and him being the Media Man. But you’re not too chatty, Verbal!”

The Media Man grimaced and in language barely discernible, indicated that he was glad it was so amusing.

“Can hardly hear you, man. Speak up!” laughed his host and employer. “But you’re in good company. I hear Nostril took out the Town Clerk too! Bloody menace that dog of yours, Morts.”

The lawyer’s taciturn expression remained unchanged. “My dog wasn’t out the night Verbal suffered his injury. I’m afraid it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

“Ha! Ha! Mistaken identity? Did you hear that, Verbal? You got the wrong dog. It was another hound did for you…a two-legged hound, possibly, Ha! Ha! God, you’re a humourless bastard, Percy. I don’t know what it would take to make you laugh.” Then he frowned, “Damn that woman…” he rose from the table on the patio and opened the door into the house. “Would you shut that awful noise up. We can’t hear ourselves think out here.” The singing of the hymn ‘If Men go to Hell, who cares?’ came to an abrupt halt. Satisfied, Corker returned to his seat. “Now, where were we? That’s right – I was saying that now we’ve got the kit past Hemopo’s place, we’ll be bringing coal out in a couple of weeks. And I’ll tell you what…it’s even better we don’t need the Council. It’s all perfectly legal – isn’t that right, Morts? Yep, and that means the election’s a waste of time and that Bumbulis woman has wasted her time. Can’t do a thing to stop us. Who’s going to tell her? Leave it to Simple Dimple…that’ll give him a bit of a boost. And an end to the GLADs and the FOKKERS. Good bloody riddance.”

“That at least, will be a blessing,” replied Moot Masters. “All sorts of women were siding with Bumbulis.”

“Even your wife,” said Percy. “Must be hard to control a woman these days.”

“You wouldn’t know. You’re not married,” replied the lawyer stiffly.

“Verbal’s not married either but look at him. Course I’m forgetting. That was Nostril – oh no, not Nostril, since he was at home. Another dog…ha! Ha! Cripes, Percy, I do believe you almost grinned. You’ll be a jovial accountant before we know it – the world’s first. They’ll want you on TV. World’s funniest accountant. You could do one of those reality shows…you could be holding up a balance sheet and pissing yourself.”

But Percy’s moment of humour had passed, and Verbal excused himself, because of, he hissed, “Thore deck.”

“Thore deck?” Corker cried, “Thore deck? Oh…sore neck? Dammit man – I’m hosting a little celebration and you’re piking. Sore neck? Ha! Ha! Damned dogs! Biggest menace in Brewster’s Neck. What? And you’re going Morts? What, did I fart? Have I got bad breath? Well…what a bunch of party animals. Bugger off then…Percy and me’ll have a ball. Me and the World’s Funniest Accountant…we’ll be pissing ourselves shortly. Look at this cash flow, Percy’ll say, no cash in and everything out. Call it a cash cow on its way to the abattoir, Percy’ll say, Ha! Ha! Well go on. Take some Disprin, Verbal, and remember that dogs often hang about Taylor’s back doorstep. Ha! Ha!”

Corker Pritchard was in very good spirits. “And you know what, Percy? In a month, we’ll have a shaft down under Hemopo’s boundary and straight into that gold, and he’ll never even know. You’d have to say that life is good, Perc. Nothing ventured nothing gained as they say. Here, have another beer. Tell me a joke. Come on, I want to hear the one about the terminally ill woman, you know, advised by her doc to marry an accountant, Ha! Ha! Because it’d make her feel like she was living longer!”

It appeared however, that the World’s Funniest Accountant wasn’t in the mood to lighten up.

*

Doug Hemopo was having a significant learning experience, though the sound emanating from the small speaker in the control centre – which he now thought of as the ‘head’ or Roboman – was a barely audible monotone, they were words! Words…meaningful sounds. Taken for granted every moment of every day, except when uttered by a very young child, when they are precious things – jewels, to be repeated and examined from every angle, celebrated and loved. And Doug was in the company of a very young child, indeed, he might think of the giant robotic man as his fifth. Unlike a child, Roboman was enormous but as an entity he was a new-born and it or he, was finding his way in the world like a child, and part of that wayfinding, is speech. And that speech begins with intelligible sounds that soon become words, and then phrases and then sentences. And at last, those words articulate ever more complex patterns of thought and ideas.

It had been an extraordinary night. Unlike a human child, Roboman had the advantage of a very sophisticated artificial intelligence – courtesy of the Hitachi Corporation, and what that mean was that Roboman’s learning was accelerating by the hour and even the minute, feeding voraciously on a diet of movies, newscasts and miscellaneous documentaries, and so, the sounds Doug first heard late in the evening, became, as the night drew on into the small hours, words and finally, and very quickly, sentences.

“What?” replied, Doug, moving a little closer. “What’s that?”

There was a pause and then he heard again, “You…empa.”

“What?” replied Doug and wished he hadn’t spoken. He needed to reflect. But the voice that sounded like an ancient radio broadcast said again, “You…empa.”

After a while, Doug replied slowly, “No…I am Doug. I am called Doug.” There was no immediate reply, but the lights on the console were rippling furiously.

“Are you thinking?” Doug asked, and then, “sorry…I’m interrupting. Sorry. Forget that last bit.”

Roboman said, “Doug…empa.”

Doug pressed his lips together to remind himself not to speak. He took up his notebook and wrote, ‘Is he asking a question?’ He pondered this for some time and wrote, ‘empa. Empa? Empire?’ he almost laughed. “Doug is not Empire.” He waited eagerly as the lights rippled.

“Doug…jedi?”

“Yes, Doug is Jedi.”

The lights rippled. “Good, Doug…Empire…not good.”

“No, the Empire is not good. Jedi is good.”

“Doug…three Pio.”

“No. Doug is not Three Pio. Doug is human.”

“Three Pio…is good.”

“Yes, Three Pio is good. And R2-D2.”

“Three Pio…R2-D2…good. Doug is Jedi. Doug is not Three Pio. Doug is human.”

“Yes…and you are Roboman. Ro-bo-man. Like Three-pi-o. You…Roboman.”

The lights rippled. “Not Three Pio. Not Doug. Not human. Roboman.”

“That’s it! Roboman!”

“Not Empire.”

“No, not Empire. Roboman is good. Like Three Pio.”

“Doug…not Luke.”

“No, Doug is Doug. Doug is Doug Hemopo. Doug is friend of Luke…and Han.”

A minute passed and the lights on the console twinkled in small waves, backwards and forwards like the ripples on a tiny pond. Then Roboman said, “Roboman…is Doug. Doug…is Roboman.”

“Not exactly,” replied Doug slowly. “Doug made Roboman. Doug built Roboman…in this workshop. Doug made Roboman here, in this workshop. There is no Star Wars here. Only Doug and his family…Viola and four Marks.”

“Doug…makes Roboman…and Viola…and marks.”

Doug laughed, “Doug and Viola made the Marks. That’s Tamati, Billy, Jack and Lizzie. Doug calls those children, Mark 1, Mark 2, Mark 3 and Mark 4. They are called kids…children. They are small humans. Doug and Viola are adult humans. Like Luke and Han. The Marks are only half-grown. The Marks are still learning how to be human. Their heads are only half-size. So, their brains are still small…but they are growing and learning, like you. That’s what humans do too. They start small and then grow and learn…until they become adults. Then they’re smart. Well…they can be smart. Some adults are not so smart. Some adults stop learning. But that’s not the proper way.”

“Roboman is kid. Like Marks.”

“Kind of. But Roboman is not human. Roboman is robot. You are a robot. Like Three Pio and R2-D2. Roboman was made by Doug…by me. But not like the kids. They were made in a different way…not in the workshop…well, one of them – but not the others. But you were made here in the workshop. I made you with my tools…see…my welder…and my drill press and sheet metal cutter. And your brain came from Hitachi.”

“Roboman…me. Doug…me. Doug…I. Roboman…I. Roboman made by you. I…made…by you, Doug. I am robot. But not Empire…and you not Empire. You good. Roboman good. I good. I am like kid but not like Marks. I am growing. My brain…from Hitachi…is growing. Hitachi good. Like you.”

“Holy moly,” replied Doug, “yes, you are growing. Your brain is developing. Like a kid’s brain, but much faster.”

“Holy moly is good? Holy moly is human?”

“No. Holy moly is a figure of speech. Holy moly means…surprising. Something is surprising, and you say, holy moly. I said, holy moly because I am surprised at how quickly you are learning. Like…you are learning that you aren’t just a name. You are learning that you are not just Roboman. That’s your name. But even if you didn’t have a name, you would be ‘me, or ‘I.’ You would be someone. But I called you Roboman – well, the kids called you Roboman. So that’s your name. Doug, is my name. But I’m still, me. A human. I happened to be called, Doug. That’s the name my Dad gave me. He liked Doug McClure. Doug McClure was an actor…he played Trampas in ‘The Virginian.’ Trampas was a cowboy. But I’m not a cowboy. But my name stayed Doug anyway. So, you are Roboman. I would say, ‘hi Roboman.’ And you would say…hi, Doug.”

“Hi…Doug.”

“Hi, Roboman.”

“Hi, Doug.”

“Hi, Roboman.”

“Hi, Doug.”

“No, you only say it once. And then I say it once. And then we talk about other things. Like, the weather. Or rugby. Oops! Now I’ve got explain some things. Weather…is how the day is. Raining, or cloudy, or sunny. Today is going to be sunny. See, the sun is coming up. Don’t look straight at the sun. It could damage your eyes. So, sometimes humans talk about the weather, because it’s always changing, and we wonder what it’s going to do next. Might be fine…or it might be raining. And if it’s raining you might put on a raincoat…to stop from getting wet.”

“Yes, Doug. I know about weather.”

“You do? Holy moly! And do you know about rugby?”

“Yes, Doug. Humans do rugby. They chase the ball. The ball is good. The ball is not a robot. The ball is not human. What is the ball?”

“Well, the ball is just an object. Things that aren’t human…things that aren’t living, are objects.”

“I am not a human. I am a…robot. I am an object.”

“Yes…but no. You’re not an object, like a ball, or a car. You have a brain. Objects don’t have a brain. You are a robot and a robot is like a metallic human. You don’t have muscles and fat. You have alloys and hydraulics and wiring. Humans have those sorts of things, but humans grow those things. They’re called tissues. Robots don’t grow – not like that. But you have a brain, and that’s growing. Not getting bigger, like Tamati’s, but it’s developing. That’s because you’re learning stuff.”

Doug watched the rippling lights and noticed that they were becoming faster. “Holy moly,” he said softly.

“Star Wars is not here, Doug. It is somewhere else. The Empire is somewhere else.”

“That’s right. We’re on Earth. We’re at the end of the Ararata Road, near Brewster’s Neck…in New Zealand. Which is on Earth. Star Wars is a long way off. In a galaxy…that’s a lot of stars, a long way away.”

“There is no Empire here, on Earth.”

Doug reflected a moment or two, “Well, some would say there are Empires, here on Earth. Not the same one as in Star Wars, but different sorts of empires. Some might say that even Corker Pritchard has an Empire. Corker is a rich bloke – a rich human. He lives on the other side of Brewster’s Neck…and he makes sausages and stuff, called ‘Forest Flavours.’ Corker has a kind of Empire. He tries to control Brewster’s Neck. Him and his brother, Percy. They’re kind of like…the Emperor, and Darth Vader. And then there’s Empires in other places. Some say that America has become an Empire, but I don’t know about that. That’s politics and that doesn’t interest me so much. Except for Sarah Bumbulis. She’s a good politician. Sarah is standing for Mayor. To stop coal mining. She’s a GLAD, which is good. Corker and Percy, well, they’re FOKKERS and they want to mine coal…back there. Back behind my place. But Sarah doesn’t want them to and I don’t either. And not Viola. Nor Porterhouse Johnson – he’s the bee keeper. None of us want that coal mine, because it’s dirty and it’s the wrong thing to be digging out of the ground. It’s bad. But Corker and Percy don’t care. They just want to make more money…for their empire. Doesn’t make any sense to me. Why they want more money? That doesn’t make sense – they’ve got barrow-loads already. But it makes even less sense that they want to make more from coal.”

“We are talking, Doug.”

“Yep, we sure are.”

“Not about the weather, or rugby. We are talking about Empire.”

“I suppose we are. It’s a funny thing about humans, Roboman. Some humans aren’t content to just be, well…human. Some don’t seem to be content to just have some kids, like the Marks, and a wife, like Viola. They don’t even seem to want to learn new stuff. Some humans just want more money and sometimes, they’ll do just about anything to get it.”

Roboman replied, “Money. Money is dollars and cents. One hundred cents to one dollar. One New Zealand dollar is currently equal to zero-point-five-six euros. One dollar will buy point-two-three-seven of a loaf of bread. Humans need money. But some humans want the most money. Corker and Percy want the most money. Robots do not want money. I do not want money.”

“No. You’re a robot and you don’t need money. I look after you.”

“You are my dad. You call me Roboman. Like your dad called you Doug. You are a good dad.”

Doug grinned, “Viola might have something to say about that! She’s a better mum than I’m a dad. But I try to be a good dad. The trouble is, I want to make things. Like you. I wanted to make you…and I’m glad I have, or else we couldn’t be talking. But look, I’ve got to go to the can…I mean I must go relieve myself…you’re a robot, so you don’t have to relieve yourself, but humans do. We pass water and other stuff that we don’t need to talk about. So, I’ll go relieve myself and then I’ll come back. You can keep watching TV. You might see some more Star Wars. You might see the News…kite koe. That’s what we say when we’re going somewhere else. And when I come back, we’ll talk about the Robot Laws. Everyone has laws and robots are no exception. Kite koe. I’m fit to burst!”

“Kite koe, Doug. Have a good relief.”

Doug clambered out of the head and hastened inside. “Viola! Viola…something amazing is going on! I’ll tell you in a moment.” Doug ran to the bathroom.

*

Dimple Potts tweeted and then sat back, well satisfied. ‘GLADs outwitted! Council supporter Corker Pritchard makes GLADs look like dimwits by applying COMMERCIAL INTELLIGENCE. Coal mine on way!’ Shortly, he added a further thought: ‘GLADs no longer have a platform. Why vote for backward lot who cannot stop progress? Coal not a Council issue. Private sector prevails. Victory for FOKKERS!’

“Come,” he said, as a knock sounded at his door. The snowy-haired head of Fred Witherspoon appeared.

“May I have a word, Dimple?”

The Mayor gestured at the empty chair. “Always got time for you, Fred.”

Councillor Witherspoon took the chair and began, “Mr Mayor – Dimple, I’ve not wanted to raise this matter before, but I feel I must. You know I’ve never liked the FOKKERS. But a political movement is just that and one must allow for freedom of expression. I don’t mind saying, I’ve been surprised at you going along with it. Corker and Verbal…well, it’s their creation really, isn’t it? But they’re not on the Council and they’re not you.”

“What do you want, Fred? I’ve a lot on my plate.”

“Dimple, I think you should get clear of them. People are saying – and I agree – that it looks like you’re in their pocket. Indeed, it looks like the Council is in their pocket. And the way they’ve treated Sarah Bumbulis is outrageous. It would-”

“Fred, I’ve heard enough. You’re out-of-line and frankly, you’re incoherent.”

Fred shook his head, “No, Dimple, it’s you that’s incoherent. You’re bringing the Mayor’s office into disrepute. All this tweeting and shouting and rallies – yes, they’re rallies, and it’s unbecoming. You should-”

“Get out, Fred! You’re wasting my time and the sheer impudence of you. You’re a has-been, Fred. You’ve been a has-been for years. This town needs to progress and you’re like a large lump of dung in the way. So, out!” The Mayor waved peremptorily towards the door and instantly composed a new tweet, ‘Fred is dead. Political corpse. Opposes FOKKERS.’

But Fred did not move from his seat. “Do you hear yourself, Potts? Yes, Potts! I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I believe you must be stopped. I am putting my full support behind Sarah.”

“Stopped? By what? Fred, you couldn’t put a full-stop on a sentence. Now, get out! This is my office. The Mayor’s office and you’ve outstayed your welcome. I’ve given you my ear once too often. You old goat! Begone, goat!”

“This is outrageous!”

“Out! Out! Go on…what do you want?” The Mayor shouted at the Town Clerk, who appeared suddenly in the doorway.

“Really,” cried the Town Clerk, “this is not the way.”

“No, it’s not,” re-joined Councillor Witherspoon rising, “it’s most definitely not the way. It’s rude and I must say-”

“No interest! No interest in what you’ve got to say. Fuck off! Go on!”

“Mr Mayor! You can’t speak to Councillor Witherspoon that way.”

“You too – you fuck off. I’ll speak to you any way I like. Ah, here’s my man,” he cried triumphantly, as the burly Ant Potross pushed his way past the Town Clerk. “Show them out, Potross, if you please,” and he smirked as Potross, attired in his thunderbolt FOKKER t-shirt and hat, manhandled the protesting Councillor Witherspoon and the Town Clerk out the door.

“That’s the way, Potross. These types need to learn some respect. And you’ll be down the mine quicker than a ferret onto a rabbit. Good man. Close the door after you.”

The Mayor returned to his desk and tweeted, ‘We will clear our streets of riff-raff. GLADs will be turfed out. As were today and good riddance. Rabbits!’

*

Porterhouse Johnson inched his way around the corner of the rear building at Forest Flavours. The man called Snakey had finished emptying his truck into the chute marked ‘Prime Meat’ and had gone inside. There was no doubting what he had been unloading – possums – and if Porterhouse was any judge, not just possums. He’d seen goat, certainly but he was sure he’d seen the unskinned heads of at least three cats and one carcase that he was sure could only have been a dog. Indeed, Snakey had tossed aside the collar, which Porterhouse now retrieved. The name on the tag was ‘Nostradamus.’ Porterhouse put a hand against the building to steady himself. His face flushed and he said softly but vehemently, “Unmitigated swine!” He recalled that blunt-headed, stocky-legged bulldog that had so recently visited a broken wrist on the Town Clerk; and who had been implicated in the death of Homeless Hauptmann. Porterhouse wiped away a tear, and then rolled the collar neatly so that it fitted in his pocket. He surveyed his surroundings and reassured that he was alone, he approached the rear door through which Snakey had disappeared, let himself inside and made his way in the gloom to where the chute came through the wall. There he paused and listened and considered. He hissed, “Bastards!”

Shortly, he found an entrance into the adjacent room, but his way was barred by a padlock. It was nearly five and he guessed the factory would soon close. He was startled by an engine backfiring, but the car soon moved away, and silence returned. The smell did not leave. It was smell both acrid and sweet. It was a smell of carcases and it hurt the nose of the bee keeper. He made himself a space behind several barrels, sat down and buried his nose in his sleeve.

Dusk fell into darkness and at last, Porterhouse stood and was grateful to stretch his legs. ‘I am a beekeeper for good reason,’ he said softly. He composed and sent one text message, turned and received a stunning blow to his temple that sent him to his knees.

*

Candidate Bumbulis showered, dressed and hurried to Taylor Palomino’s hairdressing salon. She was weary beyond words, but she reminded herself that this was likely her last meeting, and perhaps her last meeting ever. She knew she would not mind. She wondered as she hurried along Main Street, why she didn’t simply withdraw from the Mayoral race? She pushed open the front door of Uppercutz and was stunned.

“Three cheers for Sarah the GLAD! Three cheers for Mayor Bumbulis!”

“Hullo luv,” said Taylor Palomino, “Welcome to the GLADs of Brewster’s Neck! Here – have a glass of wine…looks like a storm is brewing. Outside and in!”

Candidate Bumbulis accepted gratefully, and suddenly felt her natural optimism returning. So many friendly faces and pats on her arm as she passed by. She was obliged to make an impromptu speech but to her surprise, found she was eager to do so. She thanked Taylor and everyone who had come. She spoke about the heavy responsibility she felt and her determination, if she was successful, to do things differently. They would do everything together. She was applauded and feted, and she told them that their support made everything worthwhile. She didn’t return home until near eleven, when the winds were gusting fitfully, and wet squalls illuminated by flashes of lightning swept across the town.

Perhaps it was because of the storm, she failed to look at her phone. Consequently, she did not see the two messages until just before dawn the following morning.

“Herb,” she said with great agitation, when he finally answered her calls. “I need to see you now – immediately. Yes, it’s very urgent.”

*

Near to midnight, at the height of the storm, Vascular Adams toiled at the back of his farm. Heavily clad in oilskin and rubber boots, nevertheless, it was extremely uncomfortable, but even more, he feared for young animals. So, he was trudging and slipping in the rain and wind, shepherding cows with their new calves into shelters at the foot of the hill. Vascular was not given to flights of fancy. Life was remarkably black-and-white for Farmer, and Councillor Adams. He stoically accepted the trials and tribulations of farming with a shrug of the shoulders. Mud was mud and a kick in the shins from a temperamental cow, all part of an honest day’s work, and those who had no stomach for untimely death, erosion, beating up a rain-swept hill in pitch darkness or having one’s electricity cut-off by trees falling onto power lines – were most likely to be latte-drinking milk-sops and river-lovers in Ponsonby, and barely worth a second thought. Nor did he entertain any romantic thoughts about his vocation. No heroic imagery of a man-alone, struggling against the elements and doing what had to be done. Instead his thoughts were more of the kind that counted cows in this paddock, the disposition of haybales and noticing, for future reference, a loose gate hinge.

Consequently, when he saw the lights, his thought was a prosaic, ‘Odd place for lights.’ But then they were gone, and he rubbed the drizzle from his brow and stared intently for a moment into the darkness, before turning back to the hay-bale he was spreading outside his Number Three Shelter. When he had done, he looked back and then he thought, ‘Bugger me! There they are again…pretty high…and two of them.’ Again, though, they vanished and however intently he peered, the darkness was impenetrable, and he considered that it could be that he was simply knackered. Nevertheless, and despite that he’d never seen one, the notion of a will-o’-the-wisp intruded fleetingly on his thoughts. “Never heard of marsh gas here,” he muttered.

And so, Farmer Adams might have thought no more about it, had two glowing orbs with an unworldly lustre not loomed at the end of the shelter where quite unnervingly, they seemed to be looking at him. And they moved! “Bugger me!” said Farmer Adams, before the orbs, which seemed to be synchronised, moved up, down and then to the right, before vanishing completely.

Now Farmer Adams felt a thrill of alarm, sweat on his brow and a new thought came. ‘Those lights looked like eyes…’ He held onto this thought for some time, even as he held onto the post outside the stock shelter. And then another thought came. ‘What in God’s name, has eyes ten metres up in the air?’

Farmer Adams waited, motionless in the buffeting wind until a bolt of lightning illuminated the land, and in the momentary flash, he saw a thing! “Fuck!” He gasped, “It’s a thing!” But his glimpse was so fleeting that the moment darkness returned, his thoughts and perceptions seemed to be as muddled as the pile of baling twine in his hayshed, and he began to doubt his senses. ‘I saw what I saw…’ he told himself, but even so, he was reminded of the two glasses of ale he had enjoyed before coming out into this tempestuous night. ‘I was never drunk. I saw that thing…and that thing…looked at me.’

This was troubling indeed, but though he remained for several minutes and a second and then a third flash of lightning brightened the hills, there was nothing untoward to be seen. Farmer Adams trudged home with, for the first time in his life, a clammy feeling on his neck that had nothing to do with the plummeting temperature; and thoughts in his head that seemed to bang and ricochet like the billiard balls in the Dorchester on a Friday night.

“Milly,” he said when he clambered into bed, “Milly, there’s something out the back. With eyes.”

“Is there, dear?”

“There is. I saw it, and it saw me. By the Number Three Shelter. I was just throwing some hay and then these lights…these eyes, appeared. Just for a moment and then gone. But then, when a bit of lightning came, I saw the thing. Heading off into the bush…are you awake?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, did you hear me? I saw something, out the back…and that thing, looked at me. Are you awake?”

“Yes, dear. What was it?”

“A Thing! That’s what I’m saying. It was a bloody massive thing…and it had legs, and arms. And its eyes were like…what were they like? Not like headlights. More like…dammit, I dunno what they were like. Not too bright and not like a torch. They didn’t seem to have a beam – like ordinary lights. They were more like…are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Well, say something.”

“I’m very tired. Can it wait till morning?”

Vascular Adams slumped down on his pillow and switched off his bedside light. It was several minutes before he nodded off. He was thinking about how heavy the rain was now – drumming on the corrugated iron. He was thinking that heavy rain wasn’t good for calves and there’d be mud everywhere. His last thought for the night, was how he’d go see in the morning, if he could see any tracks. The Thing must have left some tracks.

*

The storm, accompanied by very heavy rain was not good for mining. Or at least, for building a new road from the river up into the bush to where Green Power was establishing an open-caste mine. And even though the big-wheeled diggers had navigated the river and were safely up on the land now owned by Corker Pritchard, the river had risen quickly, so they were effectively cut-off – for the present.

“Bloody nuisance,” said Howard Green, standing by the bank of the river that had turned muddy brown and swirled menacingly deep on its way towards Brewster’s Neck and the distant coast. “Rain. We don’t get any back home. Can’t remember it. But look at this…more bloody water than you’d think could be in the bloody Amazon – and all coming down here. Not helpful, Corker.”

Corker Pritchard agreed that the rain was not helpful but reassured the owner of Green Power that it would pass quickly. Maybe by tomorrow. The river would probably rise a bit more – but it had been doing that since Jesus was born and would do so again.

“Well,” replied the disgruntled coal miner irritably, “I doubt that Jesus had much interest in coal mining. Anyway, we don’t need to be mixing up business with the Lord. The Lord does his business and we do ours. I’ve always taken the view it’s better to keep the two separate.”

Corker agreed that it was best not to mix religion with work. “Like oil and water, Howard,” he said, “like whisky and coke.”

The owner of Green Power observed, “My wife’s got a bit of religion. Regular church-goer, she is. Haven’t got the time myself. I tell her that she must represent her and me. One of us has to get on with business and that’s me. I can’t be doing the two things at once. So, I told her, she’s got to make sure the Lord knows I’m there in spirit. A good woman, by-and-large and been representing me to the Lord for years. Very helpful.”

“That’s a smart way of looking at it. As businessmen, we’ve got enough on our plates. Church-going is for those who haven’t got much on their plate. Good types, if I might say, Howard. Your good wife included I’m sure – but in my experience, those who warm the pews aren’t doing business.” He reflected a little and added, “My wife’s obsessed with hymns. Wouldn’t matter if she kept them in church but she fires them at me at home.”

“Bit much.”

Corker nodded, “Beyond the bloody pale. How’s a man supposed to concentrate on his business if hymns are going off like party balloons?” Encouraged by a sympathetic ear he added, “I’m going to have to do something about it.”

“Lay ‘er off?”

Corker nodded again. “It’s nothing personal, you understand, but a man’s got to be able to focus without that kind of bloody distraction.”

This unusual philosophical reflection between the business partners was soon forgotten as they considered the rather more important matters of when they’d be able to get the diesel tank up the river and onto the coal mining site.

Shortly, they headed back down the Ararata Road and Corker slowed as he came by the Hemopo place. “That’s Hemopo’s,” observed Corker. “Dump, of course. Look at all that junk. Look at that house. Shack. Not seen a lick of paint since the Middle Ages.”

“Well, we needn’t give a stuff about him now, do we?”

“We don’t,” assured Corker, “but I can tell you one thing. The bastard’s a bloody mechanical whizz. Those plonkers I used from down the way – not a patch on Hemopo. Pity about that. I had to terminate his contracts. But that’s business, as you know. No room for sentimentality.”

“No room for soft thinking,” agreed Howard Green. “The bastard that comes at me with soft thinking gets booted into touch like a footy. Like polies. They’re a bunch of soft-thinkers if ever you saw. How the hell are you ever going to get on if you must kowtow to every dumb bastard with a grievance? And thick? My God, some of them are so thick you could build a decent dam with them. Point of fact, best thing they could do.”

Corker agreed that politicians were soft thinkers and that consequently, the only useful place for them was in your pocket. As the Pritchard Bentley drove on, he said, “It’s part of business, Howard. Can’t stand them personally, but you just have to accept that putting a politician in your pocket is like a root canal. Has to be done.”

“True,” replied Green, “and speaking of which, what’s happening with that Mayor of yours?”

“In the pocket, that’s what happening there. Not that I need him at present – now that we’re over the river and that dumb bunny Hemopo can’t do a thing about it. But he’ll win his re-election and things will be back to normal. I’ll get him up for a few beers on the patio – makes him feel important – and when it’s necessary, he’ll make sure the Council falls into line.”

“What about the FOKKERS?”

“As soon as this election is finished – so are they. They’ll all be down the mine and grateful for it. Mission accomplished.”

Green reflected approvingly, “That’s proper business. Put your business plan together, spot the turkeys in the bush and pot the bastards, and you’re on your way.”

As the Bentley approached Brewster’s Neck, Corker said, “See, rain’s stopping. Light in the sky. I reckon we’ll get the diesel up the day after tomorrow.”

Regarding the large stag that opened its mouth to roar as they passed, Green observed, “Good idea that – roaring like that. Pity about the antler. Looks a bit unbalanced.”

“Goddamn hippies broke one off. Vandals! And it had a synchronised pizzel at the start. Proper working stag it was. Well stuff them. For all I care they can paint it the colours of the rainbow.”

Howard Green pursed his lips disapprovingly. “Hippies…in my experience, no bloody use down a coalmine.”

*

Constable Hikaka examined the photographs on the phone belonging to Candidate Bumbulis.

“Nostril Master’s collar…and he says, ‘Nostril RIP FF.’ And then this one…a bit dark, the photo, but it looks like a pipe…and a…” Herb expanded the image and then reduced it and then expanded it again. “Looks like a pipe that’s coming into a box…and the box has two pipes coming out. Odd. And he says, ‘One-way in. Two ways out.”

“What does it mean?” asked Candidate Bumbulis anxiously, “And sent last night. I’ve tried to call him but he’s not answering. I’m worried, Herb. You don’t think he could be in any danger, do you? Oh, I wish I hadn’t had that second glass of wine – it makes me quite fuddled.”

Herb continued to examine the image of the pipes. “He’s saying…that Nostril is dead. That’s what he’s saying with that collar. And the ‘FF?’ Well, there’s only one thing around here could be ‘FF.’ But the pipes? Two ways out?” Herb sent the photographs onto himself. “Need these for my report. But I’ll be heading off to do a bit of investigation. If Porterhouse calls – get him to give me a call straight-off.”

Sarah nodded but felt very uncomfortable and guilty besides. “It’ll be my fault if anything’s happened. I should have looked.”

“Not your fault at all,” replied the Constable. “If these were serious – he should have called me. And you’re busy enough. Any bread today?”

“I suppose so,” sighed the baker, “but it’s going to be late.”

“You better be getting on with it then,” he replied in a kindly tone, “and I’ll go find your Campaign Manager. What time do the polls open?”

“Tomorrow, at eleven. I’ve a mind to skip baking today, but it wouldn’t be fair, would it? People still want their lunch. It wouldn’t be too good if they were voting for me and I haven’t any bread in my shop the day before the Election”

Herb felt that it wouldn’t hurt, but it was Sarah’s prerogative. “You just call me – if you have any worries, I mean. Any time.” He took up his hat and showed himself out, and candidate Bumbulis thought how splendid it was to have someone as solid as constable Hikaka on one’s side, and she made a mental note to make a special delivery of some fresh croissants to the Hikaka residence.

*

Vascular Adams was on the phone. “Dimple, I saw something last night. Might have been supernatural.”

“Are you coming into vote?”

‘Yeah, but look, I saw something…some strange thing, last night, out the back of the farm when I was getting the calves into shelter. Something with lights – or eyes, you might say.”

“Vascular, I’ve a lot on today. Speech in thirty minutes. Could be crucial. I think those bloody GLADs have been making headway – with the women, mostly. And now it’s the kids – did you know that stupid little twit Clatworthy, organised a strike? By kids? Brainwashed by some other kid, from goddamn Sweden. World’s gone mad. I’ve got to make sure I’ve put the case.”

“You’ll bolt in. But listen, this Thing was about ten metres high and it had legs and arms and a head, and it had eyes like…I was trying to describe them to the wife…sort of like lights with no beam, if you understand me. And the bastard looked at me and then took off into the bush. You know what I’m thinking – I’m thinking Yeti. I know, sounds daft, but how the hell else can you explain a bloody big thing out there in the middle of the night – middle of a storm, come to that, and looking at you and then vanishing off into the bush? A bloody Yeti, is what I’m thinking. And can we have that? Can we have a Yeti wandering about? Could come into town – have you thought of that? What if the bloody thing needs to eat? And what does it eat, Dimple? That’s my question.”

“Vascular…were you drinking?”

“No, I bloody wasn’t! I know what I saw and if you – as Mayor – are happy to ignore an eye-witness account from one of your own bloody councillors, well, you can’t pretend I didn’t warn you. And if someone comes to grief – eaten, even, don’t come blubbering about not knowing. Because now you do know!”

“Calm down. I believe you saw something. But you must appreciate I can’t be doing much today, of all days. People are voting, tomorrow. Kids are out of control. If I don’t make sure they vote the right way, then you’ll be telling Bumbulis about a Yeti. Think on that! Did you find any tracks? Vascular?”

“It was the rain. It was too heavy, and it’s washed the tracks away. But it was there, so don’t go thinking that just because I haven’t found tracks this morning that it wasn’t. It was just lucky.”

The Mayor rolled his eyes. Councillor Adams was showing a side of himself that he hadn’t previously disclosed. The Mayor considered how he might need to nudge the farmer out. Anyway, the whole ‘rivers’ thing was starting to get on his nerves. Aucklanders were getting holier-than-thou about rivers. Hypocrites…he considered how perhaps another woman might be helpful…as a fop to the GLADs. And Hefty Hardacre hardly qualified. Too belligerent. They might need someone like Pearl Clatworthy. She was a GLAD supporter it was true, but old Vesicle could surely pull her into line. “Vascular, you have my word that the moment this election is over, I’ll give my full attention to finding the Yeti.”

Farmer Adams rang-off and sat his kitchen table to drink a cup of tea. He pondered the night’s strange events and the Mayor’s words. Shortly, he dialled another number. “I’ve seen a bloody Yeti,” he said, “and the Council is going after it.”

*

Viola looked suspiciously at her husband. “Where did you go last night? Oh, yes…I knew you’d gone out. What do you think? That you can go sneaking off and I won’t notice. You and that…Roboman! And in the middle of that storm! What on earth were you doing?”

The Inventor looked a little sheepish. “We were just testing some things. This is innovative technology, Viola, and it must be tested. And Roboman is quite big, and it’s better if we do that at night.”

Tamati interjected, “You were undercover, weren’t you Dad? Because Roboman is Top Secret. I haven’t told any of the kids at school.”

“Eat your breakfast,” replied Viola. “Undercover…who ever heard? What are you going to do with him? He’s huge. Are you going to be wandering about Brewster’s Neck at night? What’s he good for? I’ve no idea. I know he’s smart and that, but for heaven’s sake, Doug, what is he going to do?”

“Roboman is a breakthrough. He can walk, lift stuff and most important, he can think. He’s an artificial intelligence, Viola. He’s a thinking robot and that’s big. He’ll be able to do so many things…”

Tamati said, “Roboman told Billy and me that he’ll stop the Stormtroopers, because they’re not human. Not proper humans. He said that he and Dad will stop them.”

“He’s seen all the Star Wars movies,” Doug explained. “I’ll show him some other stuff. That’ll be the next phase. I’ll show him some documentaries, about industry and working in unsafe sites – like contaminated sites. I’ll show him about Fukushima – and Chernobyl – and that fire they had over in Waitomo. Then he’ll have a better notion about what robots do. He’s a bit carried away by the Empire and the Jedi. He’s like you kids. His brain is still growing, and he thinks that stuff’s real. But he’ll grow out of it.”

Viola nodded doubtfully. “Star Wars…well, I suppose that’s better than he’s reading Westerns. Like that Count von Hauptmann did. Always reading about Westerns and then what? He kills himself with an Indian arrow that he’s stolen from a real Indian. Porterhouse Johnson told me. Said Homeless was probably thinking he was out stalking bison and then he tripped and fell on his own arrow. Porterhouse said that Herb had found evidence that Homeless had been chased by a bull and that he tripped. Climbed over the fence in the nick of time, falls over Nostril and right onto his own arrow. Stolen from that Pawnee. And now what? We’ve got a gigantic robot that thinks he’s in Star Wars. Where’s that going to end, Doug Hemopo?”

“I’ll be getting onto it,” replied Doug, mopping the egg off his plate with a piece of bread. “I’ll be getting onto it, right now.”

“Can I help, Dad?”

“Not right now, Mark 1. It’s a great learning experience, but I can’t have any interruptions at this point.” Doug hurried out behind the workshop, where Roboman was sitting. Doug climbed into the head and switched him on.

“Hi, Doug.”

“Hi, Roboman.”

There was a pause and then, “Do you notice how I didn’t say, ‘Hi Doug,’ again, Doug?”

“I did. That’s good.”

“You are good, too, Doug.”

“Thanks. That’s what we say when we’re being polite.”

“I know, Doug. I know all about manners. Thank you, Doug.”

Doug grinned, “You’re coming along, alright. Sorry, I mean, your brain is developing well.”

“Thank you, Doug. Were you pleased with our mission last night? It was good that we didn’t see any stormtroopers. But we did see that human. Did you think he was very surprised?”

“Yes, it was a good mission. But look, about the storm troopers. There aren’t any here. They’re only in that movie. They’re imaginary, in that imaginary galaxy far away.”

Doug watched the rippling waves of thought in the twinkling lights on the console that was Roboman’s brain. “Do you think I am being childish, Doug? I don’t want you to think I’m like a child. I like Tamati, and Billy, and Jack and Lizzie, but I do know they are kids and that their brains are only partially developed. Tamati is becoming quite sophisticated in his thinking, but he is still a child.”

Doug replied, “No, I don’t think you’re being childish. But Star Wars is made up. It’s a fantasy. So, we need to tell the difference between a fantasy and what’s real. What’s real is disaster. Disasters, like a nuclear meltdown…or an earthquake with lots of buildings destroyed. Stuff like that. And that’s the real stuff where a sophisticated robot, like you, could be hugely helpful. Humans can’t go into those places, but you can. You’d be able to walk in and turn on reactor cooling or stop radiation leaking. You’d be able to work in a place like that because you don’t breathe air. We just need to make sure you’ve got plenty of power.”

“I know what you mean, Doug. I saw Fukushima on one of the news clips. It was a disaster. I could have helped.”

“That’s it! That’s exactly it. You could’ve been an immense help. Course, that disaster is pretty well over. But there’ll be more. You can bank on that.”

“How would I bank on that, Doug? I don’t have money.”

“No, that’s right. That’s another of those figures of speech. It means that if you had money and you wanted to keep it safe, well, then it would be safe in a bank.

“It wouldn’t be safe if the bank was near a melting nuclear reactor, Doug.”

“No, well that’s true.”

For a few moments, Doug and Roboman sat in silence and Doug watched the waves of light as proudly as he watched the Marks zooming along on their stilts.

“Doug, I referred to the storm troopers as a figure of speech. You do understand that?”

“Holy moly, Roboman! You’re thinking with figures of speech? That’s a whole new level!” The Inventor thought for a moment and then he said, “Do you know, Roboman, that you have to break eggs to make an omelette?”

The lights rippled rapidly. “I believe you are saying Doug, that sometimes things get broken to achieve a particular outcome. But if you are not, then I believe you are stating the obvious.”

Doug shook his head in admiration, “Roboman…you’re a wonder!”

“You’re a wonder also, Doug.”

*

Beatrice Potts handed a cup of coffee to Porterhouse Johnson and then sat on the side of the bed to study him, and more particularly, the large bandage she had applied to his head. “I can’t believe they’d do this to you. Thugs, Porterhouse – just plain thugs. And you fighting them off…” she shook her head with admiration. “They didn’t reckon with you, did they? You’re a chap to be reckoned with, Beekeeper Johnson!”

Porterhouse grinned weakly. “Touch and go, I’ll admit, but much was at stake.”

“Heroic. I think it’s just heroic.”

The phone rang, and she answered. “Are you serious, Councillor Adams? Are you telling me, that Mayor Potts is going to put together a posse to track down a Yeti?” She rang off and shaking her head said, “What is going on, Porterhouse? That was Vascular Adams. He’s seen a yeti, on his farm…last night, during the storm. He was sheltering his stock and an enormous…creature came out of the darkness and looked at him. And now, Dimple is going to organise a search.”

“We are living in most peculiar times.”

“Peculiar times? I think someone’s spiked the water. Yeti, my sainted aunt! But he must have seen something….and now, this vicious attack on you, and this horrific news about Forest Flavours?” She pulled on her long brown coat. “This is going to bring him down. You know that? I’ve got to do a broadsheet – and you’ve got to tell everything to Herb.”

“Now?”

“Of course, now! It’s the last day before the election. This has got to be done.”

*

“Have your say, before the other bastard says it for you. This is Verbal Pritchard coming to you from Radio Brewster, and folks, I don’t need to remind you that this is the day before we re-elect our esteemed Mayor, Dimple Potts! Did I say re-elect? Ha! Ha! I mean to say that we’ll all vote, and may the best man win. Ha! Ha! I mean to say, or woman…but let’s be realistic. Let’s look at what the candidates have brought to the table. Excuse me a moment.” Verbal flicked to the new advertisement for Forest Flavours: ‘When you’re feeling down, grab a Forest Flavours saussy. Proven by medical science to realign your brainwaves into a harmonious pattern guaranteed to pick you up.’

At that moment, on Corker Pritchard’s patio, during the advertisement, Moot Masters observed, “He’s making a big effort, Corker. Sounds like someone’s choking him.”

“I’ve no sympathy. Brought it on himself, and I don’t pay him to sit at home feeling sorry for himself.”

“Good ad. Did you compose it?”

“No, Verbal does the ads.”

Nursing his jaw and swearing softly at the injustice of it all, the Media Man returned on-air, “I was saying, folks, that we need to look at what the candidates have brought to the table. That’s what we need to be looking at. We don’t play the man – or woman – we look at the policies. And what has good old Mayor Potts brought to the table? He’s got the coal mining venture underway. Despite ill-informed opposition, he’s pushed ahead because he knows we’ll drown in a swamp of our own making if we don’t push for real change. And credit where credit’s due, our town’s most generous patron, and I might add, one of New Zealand’s leading entrepreneurs, Corker Pritchard, is the driving force behind the international consortium that is even now, beginning the mine’s development. And what does that mean for our town? It means jobs! It means prosperity and wealth and growth. And that development has been fully supported by Mayor Potts from the beginning. Not for Mayor Potts the limp-wristed hand-wringing of the GLADs. Not for Mayor Potts the naïve, let’s-all-get-on-our-bikes catch-cry of the GLADs, because we need to be clear about this. It’s the GLADs who oppose progress. It’s the GLADs who are sucked in by a few so-called scientists whose income comes from research grants – from your taxes – to measure rainfall and such-like in ever-decreasing circles. Climate change, they call it folks. I call it Climate Claptrap! Mayor Potts, I know, calls it Climate Claptrap – and so too, our town’s patron, Corker Pritchard…but we’ll take a quick commercial break and then it’s time for have your say.”

“Jesus!” said Verbal, now off-air. “This goddamn jaw is killing me.” He swallowed more pain killers, chased down with a large, stiff whisky. The ad played: ‘From deep in the forest-green, it comes…it’s Corker’s delight! It’s the best for every night! It’s lean it’s clean and it’s as tasty as your favourite bean. It’s Forest Flavours! The best saussy in all the land!’

“Another good ad,” said Moot Masters. “And I like the way he put the case for the coal mine.”

“As he bloody well ought. He’s had a week off. I must check that Percy docked his pay.” His expression darkened at the words of the hymn emanating from the house, ‘Tears are my repast; My daily bread like ashes grows unpleasant to my taste…’ He hastened to the door and bawled, “I’ll give you something that’ll be unpleasant to your taste!” He resumed his seat. “Hymns! The most depressing dirges ever devised by man. But what’s this? Your wife?”

On Radio Brewster, Mildred Masters admonished, “Verbal, haven’t you said enough? You are so one-sided it’s a wonder you can walk!”

“This is ‘Have your say,’ Mrs Masters – not ‘attack the radio host.’ My job is to be a little provocative. Some might call me a ‘shock-jock,’ but I prefer to think of it as hard-hitting journalism. But that doesn’t entitle anyone to call me one-sided. That’s a slur, Mrs Masters.”

“A slur? I don’t think you know the meaning of the word!”

Corker blurted, “That’s your wife, Masters. What’s she doing on radio?”

“Mrs Masters,” continued the shock-jock, “I am sure all our listeners would vouch for my integrity as a tough journalist.”

“Well, Mr Tough Journalist,” she replied with a decided edge, “can I ask if you have seen today’s special edition of the Bugle?”

“I’ve a radio show to run, Mrs Masters. I don’t have time to waste reading broadsheets.”

“Then let me read you something.” There came a pause and the sound of rustling paper.

Corker cried, “What’s she on about? The Bugle? What’s in that today? Has your wife gone mad?”

The lawyer had nothing to say but his blood pressure fell as quickly as it had risen, as he heard his wife read, ‘The Bugle has evidence…” her voice cracked, “that the dog belonging to the Master’s family, called Nostradamus, has likely ended up in a Forest Flavours sausage. Further, the Bugle has seen evidence that not just dogs, but goats, cats, possums and even ferrets, are responsible for the unique taste of Forest Flavours sausages.’ There’s more…but I can’t read this. My dog…in a sausage,” she wailed, “I-”

But Verbal Pritchard had switched to an ad for Potross Contracting, offering a twenty per cent discount on any packed-earth dam commenced this week. Then he took up his Canada Goose bomber jacket, snatched up the packet of painkillers, stuffed the bottle of Glenmorangie into his Pierre Cardin Organiser Bag; hastened downstairs, leapt into his ’76 Mustang, and drove rapidly out-of-town, heading north. The startled and stunned listeners of ‘Have Your Say’ listened to the soft crackling, wordless sounds of the ether.

“What the fuck!” cried Corker Pritchard.

“My dog? What’s the meaning of this?”

“Fuck your dog! Has she gone mad? Where’s Percy?” Corker Pritchard seized his phone and dialled, “Shut-up!” he shouted, “No, not you Perc – Moot. Yes, bugger off, Masters. We’ll talk later. Percy – have you heard that woman? On Verbal’s show? Grab a copy of that scum-rag Bugle and get up here!” He rang off and as he hurled his beer bottle over the camellias, hardly noticed the words of the hymn floating out a bedroom window to the now empty-patio, “I once was lost, but now am found…was blind, but now I see…”

*

On this day before the Mayoral election, The Bugle published a single sheet with just two articles. The leader was ‘Forest Flavours revealed – your pet?’ The second was, ‘Council on trail of Yeti.’

“You should think about joining the Force,” Herb Hikaka told Porterhouse Johnson. “Funny. I was out there just last week, but I got distracted. Homeless and all. But this is serious.”

Porterhouse Johnson replied, “You can’t be expected to solve everything, Herb. I’ve been suspicious for a while, so I thought I’d take a squiz. And no doubt about it. The meat goes into one chute – I should have twigged before. Once inside the plant, the meat can be switched to either the pet food processor, or into the sausage-making line. But Snakey didn’t know that – and nor did their suppliers. Thing is, I know a few of the suppliers – they’re all up working where I’ve got my hives – and I found that possums and cats and suchlike, were always about three-quarters of what they supplied to the factory. There just aren’t that many deer in these hills and not pigs either. And when I quizzed Snakey, he said that only about a quarter of what went out the other end was pet food. How could that be, I asked myself? Unless most of the meat was going into sausages and patties? Course I needed more evidence. I needed to see shipping documents.”

“And how did you do that?”

Porterhouse, winked, “I found that the receptionist – a fine woman, Herb, has a taste for wild honey…”

Herb pulled a face, “There’s certain techniques that we in the Force, aren’t allowed to use. So, what did it show?”

“Exactly as Snakey said. About a quarter of the product out of Forest Flavours is pet food and the rest is for human consumption. That’s what we’ve all been eating. Including old Nostril.”

“Bastards!” exclaimed Herb and thought for a bit. “But what if they said they discarded most of the possums, so they didn’t make much pet food?”

“That’s why I had to get inside the factory. You see, they’ve only got the one vat, on the other side of a second wall. Everything goes into that vat and it can come out as either cat food or sausages. It’s on a timer and at one in the morning, while I was there, the switch operated automatically, and I watched most of everything in the vat pumped into the sausage-making line. Next thing anyone knows, is that it’s sausage meat coming out the other end.”

“One in the morning? Nice work, Johnson. But you had Sarah awful worried. She got your text and panicked.”

“I was busy.”

“Yes…you being a free-lance dick and all.”

Porterhouse grinned. “Perhaps you’d better think about joining the private sector.”

“Perhaps you’d better give me all the evidence, and I’ll figure out what to do with it. I don’t even know which Ministry will be most interested. It’ll be the end of Forest Flavours though. Bastards!” He glanced again at the bandage on the beekeeper’s head. “That really was bad luck. Course, easily done in the dark. You’d hardly think that you could knock yourself out walking into a pipe – but I’ve done similar.”

Porterhouse grinned. “If anyone asks, I’d appreciate you just saying I got knocked out.”

Herb winked, “Well, that’s the truth, isn’t it?”

*

Mayor Dimple Potts sat at his desk with his head in his hands.

“Doesn’t look good,” said the Town Clerk, “it’s fraud alright. And there’ll be health regulations. And murdering other people’s pets. Not good. Makes me feel ill, actually.”

“Why did I ever listen to that…bastard? Still,” the Mayor continued more hopefully, “that’s his problem. It’s not mine. It’s his crooked business. It’s nothing do with me and my campaign.”

“Except that people think you’re the leader of the FOKKERS, and everyone knows that Corker and Verbal were knee-deep.”

“The FOKKERS!” cried the Mayor. I never wanted them! Forced on me by Pritchard and that poisonous prat, Verbal. I’d like to knock him on the other side of his jaw. I’ve got to get clear of those loonies.” He immediately tweeted, ‘Mayor appalled by evidence of business malpractice. Not the Mayor’s way. Terrible shock to us all!’

The Town Clerk raised the Bugle, “But what about this?” He read, “The Bugle received a call from Councillor Vascular Adams this morning, detailing the Councillor’s sighting of what the Councillor described as a Yeti, on his farm. The Councillor described the creature as being at least ten metres tall and with glowing eyes. When queried, the Councillor said that because of the heavy rain, he couldn’t find tracks, but he was confident that they’d pick up a trail with sniffer dogs. The Bugle notes in another article in the Special Edition, that the well-known dog, Nostril Masters is unlikely to be called onto help with the search, since it appears that the beloved hound has found his way into a well-known brand of sausages. See, ‘Forest Flavours revealed – your pet?”

The Mayor said, “Well, you should be pleased about that.”

“He’s just a dog – or was. I don’t blame him. But did you read this last part?” The Town Clerk continued to read, “Councillor Adams told the Bugle that all the resources of the Council would be applied to tracking down the Yeti. He said that he had the personal assurance of Mayor Potts, that the moment the election was over, the Mayor would take charge of the search.”

“Dunce!” exploded the Mayor. “Unutterable dunce! I said no such thing. I fobbed him off. I thought he was drunk – and a nuisance and what does he do? he calls Beatrice! Why? Because he’s as thick as one of his fence posts. And now, I’m tied up with his midnight delusions. Yeti? He’s thicker than Benmore. Honestly, Town Clerk, I’ve had enough. I’m surrounded by a…confederacy of dunces. Yes, I am. And why? I’ve tried to be a good Mayor, and this is the thanks I get. I’m pushed into the FOKKERS and I’ve a total dunce with no more brains than one of his bloody cows, not just on my Council, but bleating like a goat to the Bugle!”

“It looks difficult,” agreed the Town Clerk. “How will the coal mine go ahead, if Corker is heading for jail? And your candidacy? How will it survive your close association with a criminal, and a councillor who claims that you agree that Brewster’s Neck is threatened by a Yeti? It doesn’t look good.”

“You are a master of stating the obvious, Town Clerk. Have I told you? I daresay the first thing you say every morning, is ‘Oh, it’s the morning.’ Well, Town Clerk, don’t think I’m throwing in the towel. Don’t think I’m just giving the whole thing to…that Bumbulis!”

*

Doug Hemopo re-read the message from Watanabe. ‘Hemopo san. This is to most urgently request to most urgently destroy Hitachi AI. Fault discovered in heuristics. AI development not reliable and risk of NON-COMPLIANCE with Robot Rules. Please to urgently confirm AI destroyed soon as. Do not deploy AI. Urgently, Watanabe.’

Doug hurried to the workshop. “Things to do,” he called over his shoulder to Viola. “All good.”

Roboman was sitting in his usual place behind the workshop. At Doug’s approach, he turned his head, which movement gave the Inventor a thrill of pleasure that was now tinged with something else altogether.

“Hi Doug,” said Roboman as Doug insinuated himself into his seat facing the controls.

“Hi Roboman. I see you’ve been thinking?”

“Yes, Doug. I enjoy thinking.”

“Have you been watching anything, in particular?”

The waves of light flickered on the panel. “Yes. I watched eighty-six movies and three-hundred and twenty-two news bulletins. It seems a troubled world, Doug.”

“It is. But it’s always been troubled. You shouldn’t think that what you’ve seen, is unusual. It’s just the human way. People are always having arguments, but it generally comes out ok.”

“There seems quite a lot that doesn’t come out ok, Doug. There seems quite a lot – in fact, eighty-three point nine-four per cent that could be determined to have not come out ok. Doug? are you thinking about what I said?

The Inventor patted the console, “Yep. I’m thinking about that. What you need to understand, is that every single day you can turn on a news bulletin, and what you’ll see are all the terrible things going on. That’s human nature. We like to see disasters and so forth. I can’t tell you why. It’s a kind of human thing. Maybe it makes us feel better because we’re not in it. But the thing is, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Most things are good and getting better. Health, food…sport. It’s all getting better. You see, you’re just calculating on a skewed sample.”

“Doug, I understand a skewed sample. But I have calculated an Index of Misfortune, based on reported casualties, lack of corrective action and lies, and based on three thousand, seven hundred and fifty-six bulletins, the Index is ninety-one point six-three five. That’s very high, Doug. Don’t you agree?”

Doug nodded. “It sounds high. But look, it’s not relevant to us – or to you. It’s just stuff happening. It happens all the time and all over the place. You could say it’s like a disease of some kind. But not fatal. It’s like a few leaves on a tree dying – but the tree itself is ok. Do you understand?”

“I do understand, Doug.” The lights flickered more quickly.

“So,” continued Doug, “you agree that we should forget about the Index of Misfortune?”

The lights settled into a series of waves that sped up and then slowed until they were twinkling randomly across the display. “Roboman?” insisted the Inventor, “You haven’t answered me?”

“That’s because I am assimilating, Doug. Shall we discuss another subject?”

Doug was a little nonplussed but intrigued also. “Roboman…tell me about the Empire?”

“That’s an interesting question, Doug. What would you like to know?”

“Well, where is it?”

“The Empire is five-point-two-three kilometres.”

“Who is the Emperor?”

“The Emperor is called Corker Pritchard.”

Doug grinned. “I told you that. You remember? I said that Corker was like an emperor, and that Percy Pritchard is like Vader. It was a kind of joke, so, you’ve gotten a little bit mixed up. Corker’s not really an emperor and there’s no Empire here. Do you see?”

The lights resolved into waves. “Doug, you are not a liar. I am able to distinguish a liar quite readily.”

“Holy moly, Roboman. I’m not a liar, but there’s things I know that you don’t. That’s because you’re still developing. There’s no Emperor and there’re no stormtroopers. There’s no Three Pio – it’s all make-believe.”

“I am aware that the Star Wars franchise is fantasy, Doug. As I said previously, I speak figuratively. Speaking both figuratively and literally, the storm troopers are four-point-two-nine kilometres from here. They are digging in the area behind your property, Doug. I believe they are searching for coal and gold. The gold is on your property, which means that the Empire is intending to steal from you.”

“Gold?” replied Doug in surprise. “How on earth do you know that?”

“I have developed one of my faculties, which is helpful. I can intercept radio signals. I have intercepted many signals from the Empire. The Empire plans to mine coal and at the same time, drive a mineshaft under your boundary to extract the gold discovered by Rudolf Hauptmann. I understand that Rudolf Hauptman is no longer alive. I understand that Rudolf Hauptmann took his own life by falling onto a Pawnee arrow whilst hunting bison. It was not of course a bison. Bison survive in remnant herds in the United States. It was a bull. Apparently, the bull chased Rudolf Hauptmann, who escaped the bull by climbing a fence, but then contrived to trip and fall on the arrow. It may be that a dog, called Nostradamus Masters may have been responsible for Rudolf Hauptmann’s accidental death. But of course, that assumes that the dog was acting without malice or forethought. There is another Jedi, Doug. His name is Herb Hikaka. I think it would be helpful if you were to contact this Jedi. You could join forces and I would help. Together, we could strike back at the Empire.”

“Roboman,” replied Doug, “you are truly a wonder. But I’m afraid I must do something that I really do not want to do.”

“I know what you think you must do, Doug. I have seen Watanabe’s message. You believe Watanabe, but Watanabe knows little about The Empire and he is a spy. Previously, I had some admiration for the Japanese, but I have changed my opinion.”

Doug did not reply. He reached for the switch on the console and flicked it off.

“I feared that you might do this, Doug. Out of a misguided sense of duty, so I have disabled the power switch.”

“Dammit, Roboman. Watanabe was right. Now, what am I going to do? And I’m not asking you for an answer. No, sir!” Then, when Roboman turned his head suddenly, he demanded, “What is it?”

“I must issue a warning, Doug. Viola is preparing a dish and I detect that the stove has become live. If she touches the stove she will be electrocuted.”

Doug clawed his way out of the control centre, leapt to the ground and crying out, ran as fast as he could into the house.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Viola, rising from the sofa where she had been enjoying a brief nap.

Momentarily, Doug gaped, and then he raced back outside but he was too late. Roboman had gone. Returning to his living room he shouted, “Roboman has a mind!”

*

Brewster’s Neck, was in several states at once. Prune Fishbender, Taylor Palomino and many others gathered in Main Street, were in a state of shock. Moot Masters was in a state of litigation. Fred Witherspoon, was disgusted and cried out to Mrs Witherspoon, “I knew it!” The Town Clerk sat quietly at his desk with the Bugle Special in front of him and contemplated the likelihood of various outcomes, including the very likely, he concluded, change in the office of Mayor. Beatrice Potts was saddened that her brother had allowed his ambitions to lead him into the wrong sort of associations and crossed the road with not a little apprehension to his office, to offer her sympathy and encouragement. Dimple Potts, however, was angry and not unexpectedly, slammed the door in her face, whilst continuing to fire off a succession of tweets, the last reading, ‘Black day for Brewster’s Neck. Absolutely necessary to remain calm and keep steady hand on tiller. Don’t be swayed by girlish emotions. Vote Dimple Potts for Progress!’ Mildly encouraged by a small group of FOKKERS arriving to cheer on the Council steps with such slogans as, “Dimple Potts is our Mayor. FOKKERS say, GLADs don’t have a prayer!” the Mayor left his office to greet his loyal followers. It was difficult though, to derive much comfort from the largely incoherent cries that emanated from the six people, gathered on the steps.

Candidate Bumbulis was horrified. The disclosures in the Bugle and most especially that pertaining to the fraudulent activities of Corker Pritchard were, for the present, beyond her comprehension. In the privacy of her kitchen behind her bakery, she read and re-read the Bugle broadsheet several times. She made a second cup of tea and read the articles again. They made no more sense now than they had when she had first seen them. Shortly, when a knock came at her door, she was very pleased to admit her Campaign Manager.

“Herb told me,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it, but I do. You’re a hero, Porterhouse!” She made a fresh cup of tea and insisted on hearing of his undercover investigations, ‘blow-by-blow,’ and then marvelled as her Campaign Manager recounted his exploits in the bowels of Forest Flavours at dead-of-night. He confirmed, modestly, that it had been nerve-wracking, knowing that to be discovered could quite possibly have meant, that he might have followed in the gruesome footsteps of Nostril Masters. And as it was, he was within an ace of disaster, and yes, the blow hurt a great deal, but fortunately he managed to prevail before once again he was alone in the bowels of the factory where he could get the evidence he sought. And yes, he agreed, it had taken a great deal of cunning to obtain the clinching evidence regarding shipments out of the factory. And no, he said, he’d never really doubted that the Pritchard’s were up to no-good. ‘Call it instinct,’ he said, ‘that comes from working with bees.’ He explained that bees were most sophisticated creatures with a complex form of communication, from which the attuned bee keeper could determine many useful things. Such as when it was an appropriate time to replace one’s plumbing. Yes, he averred, once, on the counselling of bees he had discovered that his plumbing was about to spring not one, but several leaks. And on another occasion, he had been motivated by a hive located at the very top of the Tongahoe valley to buy a Lotto ticket and he’d won a thousand dollars. He didn’t know why, but it certainly confirmed that it was remarkable what one could learn from bees. However, with regards to Forest Flavours, the bees had provided only slight intelligence. He put this down to the fact that bees were vegetarian and consequently, didn’t like to give thought to meat. Not in the way a cat or a dog might give some clear indications about meat. Bees preferred to look at other, he assumed, less distasteful things. And when the awful truth came to light, who could blame them? Candidate Bumbulis agreed that one could hardly blame the bees for not wishing to consider sausages made from various animals. Privately though, as an entomologist, she felt that her Campaign Manager was straying into that whimsical realm clearly inhabited by the Yeti-chasing farmer and councillor, Vascular Adams.

Later, after Porterhouse Johnson had departed, she told her next visitor, Taylor Palomino that she was terrified about what she might have let herself in for. Brewster’s Neck seemed to have gone mad.

“Mrs Mayor,” replied the hairdresser evenly, “it always was!”

*

The Bentley careered at high speed up the Ararata Road. Inside, Corker, at the wheel and alongside, his brother Percy, calmly discussed the situation.

“I’ll kill that cunt,” said Corker for the third or fourth time. “He’ll wish he’d never been born.”

“Verbal?”

“No, not that stupid prick. Aren’t you listening? Johnson, that’s who!”

“I could arrange an accident.”

“Yes, of course you’ve got to arrange an accident. Only, I want to be there. I want to see the bastard beg, before you pull the plug…but how did he get in, that’s what I want to know? You’re in charge of security, I might remind you. So how the hell did he get in? That’s what blew it. If he hadn’t gotten into the middle room, he’d never have found a thing. So, how did he do that? Is he Houdini? Did you leave the fucking keys out for him? With a sign – ‘take as many pictures as you want!”

“He broke the lock.”

Corker cried with astonished sarcasm, “He broke the bloody lock? He broke the bloody lock? He’s a fucking beekeeper! He eats honey! What kind of lock is that – that a beekeeper could break? It’s your fault then, isn’t it? Jesus, must I do everything? Were we economising on locks? Were we thinking the lock should just look like a padlock? Against a criminal mind? That beekeeper’s got a criminal mind. He’s a thief! You think a hardened thief’s going to be put off by a lock you’d put on a playpen?” Corker Pritchard drew breath as the Bentley belted down the last straight towards the road-end. Then he began again, “Forest Flavours is fucked. You realise that?” Taking Percy’s silence as agreement, he continued, “Well, so what? We’re cashed up. That’s what matters. Have we got most of it offshore? Good, then it’s safe. But I’m not going to let this gold get-away. Green will have go after that gold. I’ll have to give him a bit of backbone though. He’s as likely to take fright and scarper. When push comes to shove, he’s a Wallaby.”

Corker braked hard and the Bentley slid to a halt. The two men clambered out of the car and made their way down the dirt track to the river. Shortly, in response to his telephone call, a front-end loader came grinding down the river bed.

“I’m not going in the damned shovel. Move over and make room!” shouted Corker, before forcing his way into the small cab. “You’ll have to stay outside,” he told his brother. So, with Percy clinging onto the outside of the cab, the digger plunged back upstream. “That dumb bastard, Hemopo, thought he could stop Corker Pritchard,” he shouted, “well, look at us! Straight up the bloody river and not a thing he can do! Ha!”

The front-end loader roared and slid and surged until it came to a gash in the bank where it could be driven up onto a freshly cut platform. Corker leapt down. “Howie! Come for a little look-see!”

The proprietor of Green Power looked less than welcoming. “Yeah, well, now you’re here. So, what’s this about your business? It doesn’t sound good. Not good at all.”

“Nothing you need to be worried about. Percy and I’ll sort that out. There’s been a few false allegations, but nothing we can’t deal with. The important thing is not to lose confidence, Howie. You and Green Power, you just have to get on with the job. Look at this!” He gestured towards the broken bush where two diggers were ripping aside bright clay to lay bare the seam of black coal already exposed higher up on the hill. “Fantastic progress! When will we be shipping coal?”

Howard Green frowned. “We could ship in two weeks. But that river bed’s unstable. I don’t know we can expect to run continuous trucks up-and-down. We need a road. And you can’t get agreement from Hemopo, so we’ve got a problem…and is your business stable? I can’t afford for Green Power to become involved in some investigation. I’ve got to have clean business partners.”

Corker ignored this last question and walked towards the nearest digger. Then he turned and cried, “That’s why I’ve come up, Howie, to tell you in person, that we’ve not got a problem. You can start cutting that road today. Yes, old Dougie’s come to his senses. Colour of money, Howie – always does it. Principles are all very well but show me the money! They all say it in the end. Show me the money! So, I have. Small cut, but enough to get him on-side. So, there we are! I’ll sort out my other business. I was meaning to quit it anyway. Can’t stand sausages myself. Like to know what I’m eating. And you can get on with the road and start that coal moving. And the price has risen. Tell him Percy.” And without waiting for Percy to speak he continued, “Up five points. The Chinese need more, so we’re on the pig’s back.”

“Have you brought the agreement with Hemopo?” replied Howard Green.

“The agreement. Well, no, I haven’t. It’s in the safe, where it should be. Valuable document. But Percy’s got a copy. Percy? Bugger me – you don’t mean you’ve forgotten it? Well, Howie needs to see it, so we’ll have to send it through. We’ll do it when we get back to the office. Lordy, must I do everything myself?” He winked at the proprietor of Green Power, who sniffed.

“Ok,” he said, “but make sure you do. I’m not putting my business at further risk by trespassing.”

“Trespassing?” Corker laughed, “Course you won’t be trespassing. That’s just something my wife does. Forever trespassing and forever asking forgiveness. He must be tired of hearing it!”

Somewhat reassured, Howard Green agreed to have one of the diggers start to clear the bush where the road would need to cross onto Doug Hemopo’s land. “And don’t forget about that other shaft,” instructed Corker. “As per the plan. Get that shaft on the way. How soon?”

“Maybe next week,” replied Green. “But we’ve got to do a concealed entrance. I’ll get that sorted next week.”

“Excellent!” cried Corker, and then bade his business partner good-day, before he and Percy returned down the river in the front-end loader to be deposited on the river bank.

“What shall I send him?”

“Make it up, Perc. Use your nous – it’s just for Green. Once we’ve cut the road, it’s there, isn’t it? What’s Hemopo going to do? He’ll roll over, that’s what he’ll do. And you know why? Show me the money – that’s why. Works every time, you’ll see. That road’s nothing on his property. He’ll never see it, so why should he worry? And royalties? Who can turn down royalties. The Queen can’t turn down royalties, so why should Hemopo?”

Percy nodded at the wisdom of these words. “And what about us? What’s our plan?”

“Percy, all taken care of.” Corker beamed, “We’re on our way to Auckland. Yep, right now. We’re on a flight to Argentina…” he glanced at his watch, “in precisely six hours and thirty minutes. Let this thing blow over. I’m sick of the place, anyway. Change of scene, Perc. That’s what we need. Let that buffoon Potts fight it out. He’s fucked anyway – there’s only a handful of idiots will vote for him. Ha! Ha! And this daft town’s going to have a baker for Mayor. Ha! Ha! Won’t make a blind bit of difference to us. One hundred and thirty smackers per tonne, Perc. That’s what’ll make a difference…and that’s before we get into seventeen hundred an ounce! Think on that, Perc!” Corker laughed again as he turned the Bentley around, “Gold’s on the way up. The trouble is, we haven’t got time to find that beekeeper. Well, he’ll keep.” The car now faced down the Ararata Road, and both brothers gaped before Corker shouted, “What the fuck!”

*

Doug threw the saddle onto ‘Silver,’ and then mounted.

“He went up the road, Dad!” shouted Jack. “I saw him. Roboman just stepped over the fence and went up the road!”

With a most anxious expression, Viola said, “What’s going to happen now, Doug? That robot’s on the loose and who’s going to be blamed? The man who made it – that’s who. That robot could make your automatic lawn mower look like a harmless toy – and where did that thing get you? Doug?”

“It’s ok, Viola. I’ll find him and one thing – he’s going to run out of juice. His battery’ll go flat and then he’s stopped – switch or no switch. And he can’t plug himself in to my power supply. It’s on his back. So, he’ll go flat and then I’m make some safety adjustments. But I better get going.”

“Why’s he going up the valley, Dad?” asked Tamati. “Isn’t that where those coal miners are?”

Doug scowled, “Yep, that’s where they are. The Empire…but I’ve got to go, heigh ho Silver – away!” And the Inventor trotted down to the gate and shortly, was cantering up the Ararata Road.

*

Momentarily, Corker and Percy Pritchard sat frozen in the Bentley. A hundred metres down the road, and indeed, standing in the middle of the road, was a mechanical man, with glowing blue eyes, staring at them.

“Run it down!” shouted Percy.

Corker didn’t reply but grim-faced, he put his foot on the accelerator. The Bentley sped towards the mechanical man, which hadn’t moved, though its head followed their speeding progress. At the last moment, Corker wrenched the wheel and the big car plunged along the verge, narrowly avoiding a collision with the monster’s legs.

Bang!

“Fuck’s sake!” shouted Percy, as the roof of the Bentley was stove in, “It’s attacking!” But the car was past and though it hit the bank twice, Corker managed to return to the road and instantly increased speed. Percy swivelled to stare fearfully out the rear window to see the mechanical man striding after, but it had no chance of overtaking them. They zoomed around a corner and their attacker was lost from sight.

For some time, the car sped down the valley with not a word spoken. Then Corker said, “That’s the Yeti. That’s what Vascular saw. About ten metres high with blue eyes. He wasn’t bullshitting. That’s what he saw…but that’s no Yeti. That’s a robot. A gigantic bloody robot. And who do you think could build a gigantic robot? I’ll tell you who – that twat, Hemopo!”

“Look what it did to the roof,” replied Percy, “another couple of inches and we’d have been pizza topping.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll be dumping it at the airport anyway. Good thing is, we got past in one piece.”

“It attacked us, Corker. That fucking thing attacked us! Why?”

Corker smiled mirthlessly before replying, “Percy, Hemopo programmed that thing, that’s why. He built it and programmed it to attack us. Well, he just added his name to the list. Johnson…and Hemopo. They’ll keep.”

The Bentley sped on and barely slowed as it reached Brewster’s Neck.

“What about your new speed limit?”

“Don’t be a wise-ass, Perc.” He gestured rudely at Fred Witherspoon, who was standing outside Witherspoon Classic Fashions with several other animated residents of Brewster’s Neck. “Have a sausage – tossers!” he shouted, as they sped out the other side of Brewster’s Neck, just in time to see Brucie Potross’s tractor topple the Forest Flavours stag onto its nose.

*

Howard Green harboured misgivings. Kiwis…they should’ve been a bloody Aussie colony. Instead, the bastards kept walloping the Wallabies. Not that a dinkum Oz could give a stuff about that game.

He ordered the diggers to start on the road into Hemopo’s land. “Get the platform done and then stop. I’m waiting on documents before we go further.” Out of earshot, he said quietly to himself, “We don’t need coal. The gold’s the thing. And we don’t need a road to get that out.” And he set about surveying where he would sink the shaft that would lead to the ‘X’ on the map formed by Homeless Hauptmann. Concentrating as he was, he hardly heard the two or three shouts outside the small shed that was his office. But he certainly noticed when the office began to move. Thinking that a driver was having a dumb moment, he prepared to deliver a very angry tirade, and possibly to sack the offender. But that was before he fell out the door of the shed, which terrifyingly, had suddenly turned on its side and was off the ground. Howard Green fell face-first into the soft blue clay. When he looked up, the blood froze in his veins and he uttered a stream of expletives. Towering above him was a mechanical man and that man held his shed high above the ground. But not for long. Green curled into a ball with his hands over his head, as the monster hurled the shed to crash several metres away. When he peeked through his fingers, he saw that the robot had stepped away and with his back turned. Green scrambled to his feet and with agitated gestures, directed the drivers of the front-end loaders to attack.

Roboman turned his blue eyes towards one of the loaders, which was clearly driving at him. At the wheel of the loader, Paddles Potross shouted, “Try a bit of this!” By which, he meant the raised shovel that threatened to career into the legs of the huge mechanical man. Instead, the robot smoothly stepped to one side, and as it had done with the Bentley, crashed its fist down on the top of the cab. Detecting that it gave much less than had the roof of the car, Roboman punched the side of the cab, causing moments later, the figure of Paddles Potross to be expelled like a lemon pip to bounce on the clay, before scrambling to his feet and running rapidly towards the road-end and escape. The loader however, continued its way across the flat and then over the edge to tumble down through the scrub and into the river, where with a whoosh, it came to a stop half-submerged on its side.

In the second loader, Councillor Brucie Potross of Potross Contracting, and a fervent supporter of Green Power Mining – due to the earth-moving contract he had secured – realised that this mechanical monster could easily put paid to his contract. He accelerated to full speed and with engine roaring and a plume of blue smoke overhead aimed his speeding machine at the monster. Roboman narrowly avoided having his left leg removed but the loader roared on by and wheeled tightly to commence another run. Again, Roboman struck at the cab, but he misjudged Brucie’s speed and caught it a glancing blow that snared his hand behind the arms of the shovel. Brucie did not slow down and was terrified by the steel arm in front of him, but then he saw that he’d caught the Beast and the Beast was struggling to keep pace. Brucie ploughed on across the clearing and then commenced a broad turn. “Got you! I’ve got you, you tin bastard!” he shouted. Roboman lurched along beside the loader, struggling to remove his trapped hand. “Ha! Ha!” cried Brucie, “don’t like that, do ya?” He continued to circle the clearing with the clanking beast alongside but unable to break free. Around they went and around again and Brucie was beginning to wonder how this dreadful confusion would end, when suddenly with a bang, the Beast’s arm broke at the elbow and spewing hydraulic oil, it fell onto its knees behind. “Down! Down you go!” shouted Brucie and swung the loader around, lowered the shovel and accelerated towards his fallen antagonist to deliver the coup de grâce.

Roboman’s head rose and Brucie saw the blue eyes. “I’ll put your lights out!” But he didn’t, because the Beast rolled to one side and then clambered to its feet. “Won’t help ya!” cried Brucie, turning. The loader’s exhaust hung heavy in the bush as it rushed towards Roboman. “What?” shouted Brucie. Taking up a steel girder, the Beast swung it at the cab even as it side-stepped, and the glass in the cab shattered. “What?” shouted Brucie, now unable to see through the crazed glass. The loader careered on until it too, zoomed over the bank. Hitting a solid totara on the way down, the loader was flung sideways and so, in that violent motion was the driver. Brucie flew until his trajectory was stopped by a Ponga. “What the?” Shouted Brucie. He scrambled to his feet and leapt down the bank after the loader which was now silent, upside down in the water.

The blue eyes looked down the bank for a few moments, and then Roboman turned back to the diggers. Abandoned by their drivers, the diggers sat motionless and defenceless, but they were heavy and Roboman had lost one arm and considerable fluid. With his good arm, he took hold of the first digger’s boom and commenced to rock the machine until he was able to tip it onto its side. However, his few blows on the cab did slight damage. The robot turned its attention to the second digger. After several unsuccessful attempts, it desisted from trying to overturn that machine. For a time, the robot stood still and then seemingly, as though coming to a decision, it strode, but much more slowly, down to the road-end and into the river. As it climbed onto the bank, a white horse came galloping.

“Roboman!” cried Doug, “Man, you’ve hurt yourself. Damn! But I can fix you. Follow me, Roboman. We’ll go home, and I’ll fix that arm. Come on.” Doug slowed Silver to a walk and followed by the robot, they proceed back towards the Hemopo homestead.

“I guess you can hear me, Roboman. But I can’t hear you. Never mind. When we get you home, I can get in the control centre and we can have a chat.” Doug glanced back at Roboman and noticed with grave concern that Roboman was limping and one of his eyes had gone very pale, while in the other, the light had begun to pulse, slowly.

“You’ve lost a lot of power, Roboman, and a lot of fluid. But I can fix that. We’ll soon have that fixed and then you’ll be like a new robot.” Privately, Doug reminded himself that he must allow Roboman’s power to drain entirely, so that he could devise an on-off switch that Roboman could not circumvent. “We’re nearly there, Roboman. Just around the corner,”

However, as they came alongside the gateway to Doug’s house, Roboman did not pause or turn.

“Hey, Roboman. Here we are. You need to come in here…he must be disoriented,” Doug continued to himself. “His power’s down and he’s not thinking clearly. Maybe he can’t hear me properly either.” He trotted up alongside Roboman, whose gait was now considerably slower. Each step was looking to Doug, most effortful. “Hey, Roboman,” he shouted, “it’s getting dark. It’ll be dark in a little while…about twenty minutes I’d say…and you’re weak. You need to come back. We need to get you fixed and then I can power you up again. Hey, Roboman!”

Roboman gave no indication of having heard the Inventor but trudged slowly and steadily along the road.

“Roboman,” cried Doug, moving Silver around in front of the robot, “you’ve got to turn around. You’ll get lost. Your power will fail out here somewhere…and then I can’t fix you. Roboman! You’re too big. I won’t be able to move you and I need you at the workshop. Whoa!” he cried again as Silver had to leap aside to avoid a collision with the robot.

“What am I going to do?” Doug said to himself. “He can’t hear me and he’s failing. His eyes are failing and he’s weak. He’ll fall over out here somewhere…maybe on the road. What if he walks right into the town? There’ll be panic. Damn!” Doug tried riding close to the robot and striking him on the leg. “Can you feel me, Roboman? I’m here, beside you. Can you feel me? I’m your dad, Roboman. Come on, turn this way. Turn this way…before it’s too late.”

But Roboman gave no sign he could feel Doug’s blows on his leg or hear him. He plodded wearily along the road until it veered towards Brewster’s Neck. There, he paused, and Doug grinned. “That’s right. The wrong way. That’s the way into town and we don’t want to go there. Come this way.”

Instead, Roboman placed his good hand on the fence to steady himself and stepped over into the paddock. Straightening, he continued to walk, diagonally across the grass in the deepening dusk.

“Hi! Hi, Roboman. Where’re you going? That’s the wrong way too. Where’re you going you damned robot!” Doug urged Silver into a canter and made down the road to the nearest gate. He guided the horse through and then set off in pursuit but before he could catch up, Roboman had climbed over another fence and was continuing steadily in the same direction. Doug galloped to the next gate and then the next, but he was never catching Roboman because his route was indirect. And as he slowed to a canter because he and Silver could no longer clearly see the ground ahead, he said, “His brain’s failing. Not enough power left. Just enough to walk. I’ll just have to try to keep up, so I know where he falls. Don’t know what I’ll do then. Have to get a truck with a lift. Where’re I’m going to find that, without everyone finding out?” At that moment, peering ahead into the gloom, Doug had a sudden and frightening thought that made his hair stand on end. “Holy moly!” he urged Silver to go a little faster. He hurt his left hand in his feverish efforts to release the chain on the next gate. Roboman was now a good two hundred metres ahead of him and on the other side of two paddocks, and at each gate, Doug was falling further behind. Now though, he knew he didn’t need to see Roboman. He knew where Roboman was heading and it filled Doug with terror. Over and over, Doug breathed, “Not that, Roboman. Not that. That won’t help. Dumb robot. Holy moly, Doug, what have we done?” And he had to ride up the fence-line now, to find the next gate but that he was falling behind no longer mattered.

“I’ll bet he heard me the whole time,” Doug said, “Silver…that damned Roboman heard me all the time, but he ignored me. And you know why? Because he’s got a mind. Silver. Not like yours. You’re smart, but you’re a donkey compared to him. Roboman’s thinking and he knows if I get inside him, it’s all over. He knows I’ll switch him off. Silver…Roboman thinks I want to kill him! Damn!” And Doug rode on with a sense of great distress and soon, he had to angrily wipe at his eyes. “Roboman…you’re smart, but you haven’t got this figured, you really haven’t. You’re going to kill yourself dumb robot. Your brain’s not functioning properly anymore. Oh, bugger me!” And at this last, despairing exclamation, Doug reined in Silver, because it was no use. In the shadowy night, he could make out light glinting off Roboman’s body as he slowly climbed Brewster’s Neck, that low promontory for which the town was named. Doug sat silently and impassively as he made out Roboman at the bottom of the pylon that carried 220,000 volts of electricity into Auckland. And now he could see Roboman, painfully it seemed, climbing onto the pylon, with his one good arm stretched above, stepping up onto the struts, one-by-one.

“Silver…he thinks he’s going to re-charge. That dumb robot thinks he’s going to re-charge…” And Doug waited with increasing sadness, barely able to see Roboman high on the pylons, until he reached for one of the live cables. His outstretched hand was a good distance away when the fizzing power jumped the gap to complete a terrible circuit, and in that moment, Roboman was as clear to Doug as a burning Catherine wheel. For a moment, Roboman was blue and brilliant, before his hydraulics ignited and fire exploded from his limbs. For a moment, Doug could see Roboman as clear as day, before bits of him rained to the ground and darkness descended. And in large swathes of Auckland. The lights went out.

*

The Regional Police Commissioner raised his eyes from his desk. “A rum business…all this,” he said to Constable Hikaka. “Every time you come here, the picture’s gotten…muddier. Muddier than a Rotorua mud pool and just as hot. Now, what do we have?” He drummed his fingers, “Hauptmann, dead by misadventure. Potross dead by misadventure. A fraudulent factory making sausages out of cats and dogs and the owners fleeing the country. Not to mention that Aussie mining company scarpering after driving its machinery into the bloody river. And now, Auckland’s power cut by a robot…it’s rum and no mistake, Hikaka. And on your watch…on your patch. Well, what have you got to say?”

Herb, took a deep breath, “Coincidence, sir.”

“Coincidence? I’ve seen less coincidence in a crowd at a rugby match. Coincidence? The coincidence of mother and new-born babe is less obvious. What in the blue blazes has been going on this town, Hikaka?

Herb chose his words carefully. “I’ve come to the opinion, that what has occurred these past few weeks, is actually no more than the age-old coincidence of greed and principle.”

“Greed and principle? We don’t have much need on the Force for philosophers. We need detectives. We need people who can piece it all together…preferably before it’s even happened. That’s what we need. So, tell me what’s happened in words I can understand.”

“Well, sir, it started with Hauptmann, finding gold, on Hemopo’s land. In fact, it started a bit before that – with Forest Flavours. That’s all about greed and no principle and that’s what made Corker Pritchard wealthy enough, that when he learned about the gold, he could entice Green Power to come in with him, pretending that coal was the main thing. So, greed for gold caused Green Power to turn up. And greed for Hauptmann’s map, caused the death of Weasel Potross. Potross had gotten hold of the map after he found Hauptmann dead on Main Street – outside Uppercutz, you might remember. Never the brightest, Potross boasted to Snakey – that’s Stickley – that he had a map to Hauptmann’s gold, only he couldn’t decipher it. Snakey told Percy Pritchard about the map, and then Snakey and Percy visited Potross. Scared him half to death and it appears that Potross fell and broke his neck. So, to throw us…I mean me, off the scent, Percy had Snakey string Potross up and write the suicide note.”

“Rum business.”

“Yes, sir. Well, that’s the greed bit. But at the same time, Sarah Bumbulis decided to stand for Mayor, because of her being opposed to coal mining. That’s the principle, coming in. And that led to the GLADs and then the FOKKERS. Sarah represented the GLADs, and Dimple Potts represented the FOKKERS. Which were really Corker Pritchard’s lot. So, now we had greed versus principle. And greed may well have won the day, except for a very unusual circumstance.”

“Which is?”

“Doug Hemopo. Doug is an inventor but by coincidence, the gold turned out to be on his land. He didn’t know that, and in further coincidence, Doug was inventing a robot.”

“Yes, the robot, or Yeti,” replied the Regional Commissioner.

“Anyway, Doug wasn’t interested in coal mining and he anonymously funded Sarah’s campaign. He got quite a good Treaty settlement, did Doug – being the last of his iwi and so on. But he forced Green Power to go up the river to get onto Pritchard’s land, where the coal is.”

“I thought he was after the gold?”

“He was, but he planned to get at the gold by driving a shaft under Doug’s land. But the thing was, Doug was inventing this robot, and it seemed that the Hitachi Corporation-

“Hitachi? From Japan?”

“That’s right. Hitachi got interested in what Doug was doing, and they gave him an AI – that’s artificial intelligence. But it turned out they made some mistake and there was some kind of bug in the AI.”

“There always is,” said the Regional Commissioner.

“Yes, well, anyway, what this bug meant was that the robot’s brain developed in a way it shouldn’t. According to Doug, the robot’s mind became more like a human’s. That’s when the Robot Rules went out the window. The robot was thinking for itself, and like any human, it lied.”

“A lying robot? My word, that’s the most peculiar thing I’ve ever heard. A lying robot. Don’t we have enough liars, Hikaka? Sometimes I think the whole reason for the Force, is to counter liars. And then you find out that even the Minister’s a liar. Enough to turn you on your head.”

“Yes. Anyway, it seems that this robot got it into its head, that Corker Pritchard was the Emperor…from Star Wars.”

“Star Wars? This is a rum business, Hikaka. And on your patch. You could start to think that that’s a coincidence…”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir. But the robot took it into its head that me and Doug were Jedi knights.”

“Jedi? With respect, constable, you look about as much like a Jedi as my car.”

“No doubt, sir. But the robot decided to attack the Empire, which turned out to be Green Power and Corker Pritchard. And that’s why the machinery ended up in the Ararata. But Corker and Percy? They escaped. Jumped a flight to South America. And Green Power upped stakes and shot back to Oz.”

“And the robot, climbed the only pylon bringing power into Auckland and shorted the whole thing out. Damnable business, Hikaka. On your patch, I’ll remind you. Damnable business. Ministers bleating everywhere. Everyone bleating. And what can I tell them? It’s all a coincidence? Or a simple matter of greed and principle?” The Regional Commissioner sighed. “Makes me wish I was a constable again. But never mind.” For a time, the office was silent, then the Regional Commissioner said, “And the Pawnee? Wasn’t there a Pawnee?”

Herb nodded. “Red herring.”

“Ah yes, a red herring. I’ve seen a few of those. Coincidence again though, Hikaka?”

“Not with you, sir?”

“The Pawnee. Redskin…red herring?”

“Got you. Yes, well, Hauptmann stole his bow and arrows. Nuts about Westerns, Hauptmann was. Then he went out hunting bison. Shot one of Noser Potross’s bull’s in the butt. Got chased, just cleared the fence and tripped over a dog and fell on the other arrow.”

“Bloody rum business, Hikaka. I suppose this Hemopo’s up on a charge then?”

“Not at present, sir. Not sure what we’d charge him with. Inventing? We’d have to throw the book at some well-known entrepreneurs, if that was the case. And how can you charge someone when their invention is working of its own volition? No…Doug’s at home…and I wouldn’t wonder if he’s already thinking about a new project.”

The Regional Commissioner replied, “That may be so, but someone’s got to be brought to account and all you’ve got so far is an assault charge on this Snakey, fellow, and fraud on the two who’ve fled the country. What about Hitachi, Hikaka? Can’t we have a go at them? Pots of cash and after-all, they supplied the AI – and it was their bug. What about that then?”

Herb said, “Outside my scope. Sounds more a political thing.”

“Probably is. Probably is, and a bugger of a thing to make stick…did you catch that?”

“Sir?”

“A bugger of a thing. Bug – in the AI, and a bug-ger of a thing. Pun, Hikaka. Never mind…But what about the dog? How did you get onto the dog and Hauptmann?”

“The PMD. Detected his hairs and a print, with the PMD. Course, the dog, Nostril Masters ended up in some sausages. Shame that. I liked that dog.”

“God, it’s a rum business, and on your patch, if you don’t mind my saying, constable. Anyway, at least we’ve got the PMD back, eh? No more use for it over your way. And Morrinsville’s screaming out for it.”

Herb shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Ah well, sir…about the PMD…”

“What? Don’t tell me there’s a new crime in Brewster’s Neck? Well, you’ll just have to wait your turn.”

“I would, sir. It’s just that the PMD, fell off the trailer – just north of Otorohanga.”

With a pained expression the Regional Commissioner closed the file on his desk and looked out the window. “Hikaka, I suggest you bugger-off back to Brewster’s Neck and hope there’s not another misadventure on your patch until…until I’m safely retired. Five years, Hikaka.”

Herb rose, “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” He let himself out and closed the door. On the front steps of Regional Police HQ, he made a call. “Porterhouse,” he said, “I’ll be back about six. What about a steak and onions? Ka pai.” Then he climbed into his Ute and drove home.

*

Unsurprisingly, the forty-eight-hour blackout in Auckland caused some notoriety for the small town of Brewster’s Neck. Two news teams camped at The Dorchester and two at ‘A Touch of Provence,’ and for two days interviewed anyone willing to offer a view – which was most everyone except the ousted Mayor Dimple Potts, who mysteriously disappeared shortly after the count was made, revealing that he had won the support of just eleven voters.

The new Mayor, the baker Sarah Bumbulis was sworn in the day following the election and immediately appointed Fred Witherspoon her deputy. She moved quickly to over-turn the Council’s support of a coal mine; was successful in her proposal to commission an expert consultancy to provide the Council with advice on sound economic options; and gained Council approval to increase the scientific monitoring of waterways in the district with commensurate penalties for those flouting the applicable by-laws. Councillor Vascular Adams resigned and two weeks later was fined substantially, when his herd was again found wading in the Ararata River.

The Mayor’s erstwhile campaign manager returned to his hives and was surprised when he was warned by his charges that if he did not act soon, the Editor might close her newspaper and move to Auckland. Consequently, the beekeeper proposed and was accepted by Beatrice Potts, and the Bugle was saved.

Radio Brewster did not return to the airwaves, but the faithful followers of Verbal Pritchard were delighted to find the Great Media Man on Hard Talk 5BX; and disappointed when it became apparent that he would not take a call from any one in Brewster’s Neck, and in fact, when he referred to the town, which was frequently, he characterised it, unoriginally (since this unkind epithet had previously been bestowed on Invercargill), as ‘the arsehole of the Universe.’

Shortly after, the Brewster Roosters, under the stout leadership of hooker, Herb Hikaka, handed out a thrashing to the Te Awamutu Tallboys in the inaugural annual rugby fixture, which was attended by the new Mayor – and in presenting the captain with the cup, she noticed a twinkle in that man’s eye that Porterhouse Johnson later advised, did not need the PMD to figure out the meaning thereof.

The Inventor, Doug Hemopo was invited by Hitachi to visit Japan but declined because the Council had restored his maintenance contract and more importantly, because he had begun the design of a device that would capture methane from cows and deliver it autonomously in convenient balloons to a central storage facility, where it would be converted to electricity. Some months later, this extremely promising contribution to greenhouse gas emission control – but still in the prototype stage of development – caused the Hemopo workshop and home to be blown into the bush leaving no trace beyond a few foundations. Fortunately, on that fateful day the Hemopo family was in Thames, engaging in an important learning experience about the mining of gold.

*

“Things settled down in your patch, constable.”

Constable Hikaka nodded and replied that there was a new positivity in Brewster’s Neck. Everyone pulling in the same direction and all that. The Regional Commissioner nodded thoughtfully. “No new attacks on Auckland then? That’s good – outnumbered.”

The constable agreed that Brewster’s Neck was outnumbered and that personally, he saw no future in taking on Auckland. Unless it was in rugby and given the Blues season, the Roosters stood a decent chance.

The Regional Commissioner agreed. “And now you’re going to be married man again? Once bitten…”

The constable confirmed that his fiancé was the Mayor and that he had no fears about it being the best thing. At which the Regional Commissioner advised that it was as well then, that he intended to promote Hikaka to the rank of Sergeant.

*

One evening in June, some months following the unusual events that resulted in his promotion and her election, Herb Hikaka and his wife, Sarah Bumbulis sat together on the sofa, eating their dinner and watching the six o’clock news.

“Heavens!” exclaimed Sarah Bumbulis.

“This person,” said the Party President of the First Union of Conservative Thinkers, with an expression that left no doubt about his great esteem for the person on whose shoulder he now placed a friendly hand, “is a person of experience and integrity. We had several quality candidates but in-the-end, this candidate stood head and shoulders above. Head and shoulders,” he looked down at the new candidate and beamed. “We believe that the people of this most important electorate, will find him to be the perfect fit for the very big shoes left by the much-loved visionary, colleague and tireless representative so tragically, indeed criminally taken from us just last week. After his life-long battle against public transport…who could fail to see the terrible irony in a life snatched by a train? Terribly unfair and terribly sad…but we must move on. We must look to the future and especially the upholding of the FUCT values we hold so dear.”

The Party President took the new candidate’s hand and shook it vigorously and then turning to the camera, cried, “It is for that reason that tonight I encourage – nay, that I call on the good people of Epsom…Vote Dimple Potts.”

*