Read Online Opportunity by Charlotte Grimshaw - Free Book Online

out light office duties. I tried to impress on
them how stupid I was. I acted hurt and pompous, as though
I thought the menial tasks I performed were vitally important
to the running of John John G. Shipping. None of them
mentioned my father — I suppose he'd disguised his
connection to the place. And I hoped nice Mr Ling wouldn't
divulge the staggering sum I was being paid for doing
practically nothing. 'What's this all about?' I kept asking. They
let me out eventually, with threats, and warnings of a bruising
rerun. 'We'll be in touch,' they said.
    By the time I got out the day had gone. The day had
disappeared while I was sweating it out at Central Police. The
town hall clock told me it was 4 a.m. I had no money and no
coat. It was freezing, and, unusually, there was thick mist
hanging in the streets. It took me a long time to walk home,
and then I remembered I'd thrown away my keys. That was a
stupid thing to have done. I couldn't get into the building.
    Workmen had been reshaping the path, and there was a
patch of broken stones and concrete. I was looking around in
it for something to throw up onto the balcony, when a man
walked out of the fog. I straightened up, a bit of concrete in
my hand. I remember thinking how extremely pale he was. I
waited for him to pass but he stopped. He was about thirty,
with a round face and curly hair. He was wearing a suit. He
said something about himself. He clutched his arms to his
stomach. I told him to go away. And he attacked me. Just like
that. Or was something else said? Perhaps I swore at him and
he . . . Anyway he attacked me. He stumbled forward and
took hold of my shoulders. I hit him with the stone I had in
my hand. It wasn't very heavy — maybe as big as half a brick.
He clawed my face. I hit him in the head. He bent over,
staggering. And then I ran away.
    When the sun came up I was walking along Tamaki Drive.
I had a scratched eye, laddered stockings, and half the buttons
wrenched from my shirt. One of my shoes flip-flopped against
my foot, the heel left somewhere on Quay Street.
    It was high tide. On the harbour side the water glimmered
all silvery and cold, the sky was high and pale and tinged with
rose. Over in Judges Bay the water was deep green and still
under the pohutukawas. I looked at the water and thought
how beautiful it was — the rippled silver, the slow green.
When the dawn came an idea had got into my head. There
was something missing. The man at the waterfront — I
couldn't remember what he'd said. Something about himself.
Or about his body. Had he told me he was hurt? Out in the
harbour a current — smooth water crossing ripples — formed
a snaky question mark. Was it possible he had asked for my
help? I laughed. You came to the wrong place, mister. Sorry
about that. I turned into Ngapipi Road. Still about a mile to
go. Where was I heading? Back to the big house I'd left a year
before. I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.
    I knocked on the door. Piles of leaves lay along the path.
The lawn had been mown, the hedges trimmed, the summerhouse
freshly painted. Looking around, I was having to re-work
the picture I'd built up in my mind over the year, a scenario
I'd relished during my quiet hours at John John G. Shipping:
that of Rania, now abandoned, gone speechlessly to rack and
ruin. Instead, when she wrenched open the door and stood
staring down her nose with the highest, snootiest Arabian
disgust, she looked more burnished and coppery than ever.
She looked like an ad.
    'Pooh,' she kept saying after I'd persuaded her to let me in.
'What please is that horrible smell?'
    'Police stations.'
    'Pooh!'
    I waited, patiently. 'Can I have a shower?'
    'Pooh!'
    Eventually I was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in one
of her old robes, while she pretended to look through the
fridge. 'Nothing much here,' she said with sprightly malice.
'But you're not exactly fading away!'
    I settled for one of her powerful coffees, and an International
Gold. 'How are things