Proof? Fuck no.
Betty’s torn Thrasher’s public records apart, but there’s no paper trail or shady payments we can dig into. The online stuff I was following, the gross party photos and the warnings written in Fijian on labour-hiring websites, are dead ends too.
I’ve messaged every fruit picker or farm employee with an active social media account, but no one’s messaged back, let alone agreed to talk. Who can blame them? Why would they risk deportation—or worse—over an amateur investigation going nowhere?
So that’s it. Betty and I collectively have about a thousand theories and zero evidence. Unless I want to drive to Thompson Farms, sprint through the front door and demand to know what the pickers are getting paid at knifepoint.
But Betty thinks that’s a bad idea.
“I asked Mum to come up with some reason to go into Thrasher’s office,” she said on the phone yesterday. “But right now, she’s almost as scared of Thrasher as the pickers. Supposedly, he’s in a cunt of a mood. Stomping around the farm, cracking heads and telling everyone they’d better shutup if they want to keep their jobs.”
I don’t think it’s self-flattery to say I might be responsible for a lot, if not all, of Thrasher’s bad mood. Which means I put him on red alert. Which means, I loaded a Remington, pointed it downward and shot myself in the foot. As per fucking usual.
Nothing short of a miracle is going to bring down Thompson Farms now.
I stare up at a crack in Cece’s ceiling as Arvo Pärt’s violin drifts above the piano, the melody barely holding itself together. Same, I think.
I hear Cece moving around the kitchen, probably making me another baked potato. Don’t get me wrong, I love baked potatoes. I could live on them. Iamliving on them because Cece’s healing philosophy appears to be ‘the carbs will continue until morale improves.’ But even the Autistic have their limits.
In the wake of what Jake did, she’s ramped up her mum behaviour to full Carol Brady. Last night she brought me a bottle of Tempranillo, and we got tipsy in front of the TV.
“Davis wrote me a business proposal,” she told me mid-Real Housewives.“For my urban hotel.”
I tried my best to look surprised. “Is it any good?”
“I haven’t opened it. It’s too scary. Did you tell him that was something I’m interested in?”
I winced. “Maybe in passing. Sorry, Cee.”
“That’s okay, it doesn’t matter. But it’s weird he’s so invested in me? Like, he’s overstepping, yeah?”
Maybe, but that’s not the real issue. The real issue is Will Sharpe. He’s texting her every day, he’s sent more flowers, and Cece’s wetting her pants about seeing him at the reunion. I’d imagine it’s hard to get excited about running an urban hotel when you’re secretly planning to move back to Pukekohe and ride Will Sharpe’s mediocre dick forever.
If I were at my full strength, I’d be coordinating a counterattack with Davis. But I’m not. I’m tired to my bones and barely able to drag myself out of bed to research Thompson Farm rabbit holes that go nowhere. I guess I’ll just wait until the reunion, lure Will Sharpe ontothe motorway and run him over. I don’t mind going to jail for the rest of my life. I’d get three square meals, a regular sleep schedule and plenty of alone time. I’d always thought I’d have kids one day, but I never want to look at, much less have sex with, another man ever again.
Pärt’s composition ends. Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 begins. I turn onto my side, curling into myself like a fetus. My phone buzzes against my shoulder. I flip it over, and my stomach drops.
Hey, Ada. I need my All Blacks jersey back. I’m happy to come to the bar, or we can meet for coffee? Let me know.
I stare at Jake’s words, waiting for them to turn into the usual apologies and excuses. They don’t. Just a cut-and-dry request for a return of property.
Craving fresh air, I rise from my crypt, move to the window and pull back the curtain. Everything’s too bright outside, as usual. But it’s also normal. Cars are humming past, people are walking dogs and, on the corner, a woman in activewear is yelling at her toddler. My heart stops as I watch her screaming in her kid’s face. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I can imagine.
“You never listen,” I recite. “You don’t think. You’re so selfish. You don’t care about anyone except yourself.”
I watch the toddler crying into her tiny fists, and a hole opens in my chest.
“Idocare,” I tell the activewear lady. “I care about everyone. I care about you. I just wish you cared about me. I don’t understand why everyone is someanall the time. I try so hard to be good, but it’s never enough.”
I look at the sobbing child and imagine a rainbow projecting from my heart to hers. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s not your fault. She hates herself, and she takes that out on you. And most people are just fucked up assholes. It feels personal, but it really isn’t. One day, I hope you understand that.”
Crying, I close the curtains andturn off my speakers. The silence that follows is absolute. The bell has rung. School’s been let out. The Queen of the Damned has risen. I unlock my phone and check the time. It’s half ten in the morning. I text Jake:
Café Ortolana. 12 pm?
A rapid buzz.
Great. See you there.
