Sole Survivor. Derek Hansen

single-handed, and chop through manuka scrub as well as any Maori work gang. He’d also put in a vegetable plot, carted buckets of topsoil over the hills from the floodplains, planted rose bushes and fruit trees. Rumor had it that there was nothing wrong with his back, either, when he’d gone down to Thames to visit one of his old girlfriends. But, in truth, Bernie looked as bad as Red had ever seen him and possibly even worse. The pink bubbles were not a good sign.

      “Want some poached smoked snapper?”

      “Nuh.”

      “You’re going to eat it anyway.” This was a conversation they had every day, and it always ended the same. Red took the mop and pail and put them outside the back door. He scrubbed his hands, as thoroughly as any doctor preparing for surgery, before putting the fish on to heat through and making tea.

      “You gunna let your mate in?”

      “Okay. Archie …”

      The dog needed no second invitation and galloped into the bedroom. By the time Red had poured the tea and stirred in Bernie’s two spoonfuls of sugar, the fish was ready. He flipped it onto a plate and took it in to the old man.

      “Don’t give any to Archie.” Red went back out to the kitchen for the two cups of tea. Archie was licking his lips when Red returned.

      Bernie ate without speaking but certainly not in silence. He’d lived alone so long virtually all of the social graces had slipped away. He chewed with his mouth open, smacked his lips and frequently stuck a finger in his maw to guide his food toward the few remaining teeth that were still operational. He also had the habit of scratching himself whenever parts needed scratching, in company or otherwise. Not surprisingly, he never thought Red’s nakedness worthy of mention. Bernie wasn’t too fussed about clothes himself. He’d eaten half of the fish before his cough started up again. Red took his plate.

      “Drink some tea.”

      The old man grabbed the cup and gulped a couple of mouthfuls. He handed the cup back to Red and sank back onto his pillows. He’d begun to sweat again.

      “Mate, I’m knackered.”

      “You’ll be all right.”

      “Nuh … not this time. Had enough anyway.”

      “You’ve been saying that for years.”

      “Yeah, but I mean it.”

      For once Red was inclined to believe him. Bernie did look knackered. “You’ll feel better after a wash.”

      “You can give me a wash, but I won’t feel no better.”

      “We’ll see. Give you a shave, too.”

      “No! Sit, mate. Got something I want to tell you.”

      Red sat back down on the edge of the bed.

      “Wrote a letter last night. Yeah, knew that would surprise you. You still going round to Fitzroy?”

      Red nodded.

      “Yeah, well, I want you to witness the letter and take it with you. It’s there on the tallboy.”

      Red reached over, picked it up and read it. It was Bernie’s will. The writing was hesitant and spidery, and the lines curved away to the right. For all that, it was clearly legible.

      “Dear Rosie, I’m dying,” it said, “and I thought I’d leave my bach and things to you. The bach isn’t much, just two bedrooms, living room, kitchen and bathroom, but it’s been a good home to me. It’s yours if you want it. Forget about it if you don’t, ’cause it isn’t worth much. Garden’s got some nice roses, though. Thanks for being my friend. Hope you grew up good-looking. Yours sincerely, Bernard Arbuthnot.” Rosie’s name and Green Lane Hospital were written at the top of the sheet of paper. Red stared at the letter, unable to come to terms with the contents.

      “Met her when I had TB and a bit of an alcohol problem. Her dad treated me for the booze. What a bugger he was, but she was nice. He wouldn’t know a cop was up him till he blew his whistle. She came with him sometimes, a bit of a tomboy. She used to sneak me in a bottle of beer. They never could work out where I got it from. What’s the matter with you?”

      “You’re leaving your place to a woman?”

      “Yeah. She was a good girl, that one. Real cheeky.”

      “A woman?”

      “Yeah!” Bernie cackled. “Thought that would get ya! Oh, she was a beauty, hair as black as any Maori’s, and wicked black eyes. Always up to mischief. Stole fags for me, too. One day I suggested to her that an occasional nip of scotch wouldn’t go astray, so she started filling up an old cordial bottle for me. Trouble was, she knew that if she filled the whole bottle with scotch her father would realize someone was nicking it, so she had this idea. She filled it with a drop from every bottle they had. Mate, I’d never had a cocktail like it. Had everything in it! Bloody Pimm’s and chartreuse, bloody crème de menthe, and that bloody eggnog stuff. Had whisky, rum, gin, vodka and I don’t know what. The only way I could drink it was in my coffee. They took it off me before I was halfway through. My singing gave me away.” He burst out laughing, stopped when he started to choke.

      “You reckon this will find her?”

      “Who knows? If it does, it does. Long time. I told her, though, told her every time she came in that I’d remember her in my will.”

      “Reckon she’ll come?”

      “If she does, she does.”

      “Wish you hadn’t done that, Bernie.”

      “Aw, ya never know. Ya might thank me one day, a pretty woman and a good-looking bloke like you.” He started laughing again. “Never know, do ya?”

      “I’ll get your things from the bathroom.”

      “Not yet.” Bernie coughed and gestured to Red to sit down. “Something else. I want to be cremated.”

      “Why?”

      “I want you to toss my ashes into the ocean, out past Aiguilles Island where I used to fish. Used to dive there a bit, too. My secret possie, my secret spot. On the rise where the shells are.”

      “What shells? Paper nautilus?”

      “Nuh. Army shells.” The old man was cut off by another bout of coughing. Red handed him the toilet paper just in time. “Where they dumped the old munitions after the war.” Bernie’s face had gone from wax to scarlet beneath a sickly sheen of sweat. All the talking was taking its toll. “Christ! I just might decide to kick the bucket today. Nobody’s supposed to know about dumping the shells, but they used to take me out with them when they wanted to do a spot of fishing on the sly.” He began to laugh, but his laughter quickly turned to a rattling cough that snapped his breath. Red rolled him over and stuffed some more toilet paper in his hand. Bernie coughed and hawked and sank back exhausted on his bed. The smell of his sweat rose bitter and pungent. That was what had stunk the room out. Still, Red had smelled worse, a lot worse.

      “Tell me later.”

      “Might not be a later.” Bernie slowly drew in deep breaths until his breathing was back to normal. Red noticed tears in Bernie’s eyes, but that could just have been from the effort of talking. “I’ll give you the markers. Line ’em up and you’re right over the rise.”

      “I didn’t know there was a rise.”

      “Neither did the army. It’s like a small island that never quite made it to the surface. I got them to drop the shells on it because I thought I might go back later and salvage some for scrap. Now listen carefully.”

      Red listened until Bernie had finished.

      “Now you can give me a wash, if it makes you happy. And Red, when you go to Fitzroy, do you think you could leave Archie here?”

      A normal man might have welcomed the prospect of an attractive young