“Oi! Is that Jake bloody Graves-Holland, or what?”
Jake laughs. “My biggest fans. Still following my every move, ay?”
“Course we do. Can’t miss you knocking on in front of the whole country,” one yells, and the pair of them cackle.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jake chortles. “Must’ve been hard to see with all that dust in your eyes from not making the team, Hallsy. How come you’re not at the cocktail party thing?”
Hallsy grins. “Time and a half for a Friday night shift, bro. Be at the big show tomorrow, though. See you there?”
“Thought we already established you can’t see shit, mate.”
Mrs. Muldoon shakes her head as they keep moving. The camera tilts as they’re intercepted by a man in a blue uniform, who’s got all the hallmarks of a security guard. He plants himself in their path, arms crossed.
“Where are you lot heading?” he says, gaze flicking from Jake to Colin to Mrs Muldoon.
“Just here to see Thrasher,” Jake says breezily. “Thompson Farms is putting up a ten-grand scholarship, and I’m s’posed to present it at the reunion tomorrow night.”
The guard’s eyes narrow. “Thrasher’s not here.”
“I know,” Jake says without missing a beat. “But he needs me to bring this back, signed tonight.”
He holds up the fake contract Betty printed off, and the guard’s face relaxes.
“Alright,” he says, looking from Colin to Betty’s mum. “But we don’t need both of you with him, do we?”
“Thrasher said I could show him around,” Colin says with convincing whininess. “I haven’t seen JGH in ages.”
“And I want to keep them in line,” Mrs. Muldoon says with admirable exasperation. “Besides, I’ve got pay sheets to process.”
The security guard doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe you should all come back tomorrow morning, ay?”
My heart bangs against my ribs, but Colin jumps in again. “Ah, it’s fine, Marty. We’ll only be five. Anyway, you should see the kid they wanna give the farm money to. He’s from my old club. Everyone reckons he’s the next Ardie Savea. Best shot we’ve got at the All Blacks since Jakey, here.”
The guard studies the point just above the camera, then his face breaks into a full-on smile. “It is you then, ay? Graves-Holland?”
“That’s me,” Jake says. “Follow the sport?”
“Fuck yeah. Just re-watched you lot smashing South Africa. Good on you, boys.”
“Thanks, bro.”
The security guard waves them forward. “Go on then. Just be quick about it.”
“Cheers,” Video Jake says as the man beside me cackles.
“Holy fuck,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s it? No ID check? No further questions? Just one of the lads on a casual late-night visit to a farm for extremely vague reasons?”
Jake smirks. “No one ever suspects the lads.”
Onscreen, Mrs. Muldoon leads them through a small maze of white walls and fluorescent strip lights. It looks like every boring office that’s ever existed. I can practically smell the coffee-abused microwave smell seeping from the white-yellow walls. Video Jake turns, and the camerashows a wall covered in photos of Thrasher next to men in suits, shaking their hands or offering them baskets of kiwifruit. The images are all united under giant gold lettering bearing the legend:
THOMPSON FARMS: THE PRIDE OF PUKEKOHE.
“My hole it is,” I mutter as the on-camera crew reaches the end of the hall where a polished wooden door is covered in more brassy bold letters.
DANIEL THOMPSON. CEO AND MANAGER.
“What is it with needle-dick dweebs and gold?” I ask everyone and no one.
