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  ‘I certainly do,’ she agreed forcefully, turning on Katie. ‘Anyway, it will do you good to move into the centre townhouse. You’ll be closer to the kitchen.’

  The look on Katie’s face showed this final dig didn’t help.

  The next day, Jane and her children moved to the seaward house, accompanied by their cat Misty and the little West Highland white terrier, Snowy. It was Christopher’s other daughter, Sarah, and her two daughters Holly and Zoë who moved into the centre house. In removing them from the communal spaces, Jane had given herself and her family space. As time went by, they spent more and more time away from their relatives.

  Christopher struggled to hold the community together. He liked his niece and felt sorry for her. He was aware that she felt very alone now that her father and brother had sailed off to the other side of the world. He knew she was still affected by the trauma of having been raped by a visiting sailor following the pandemic, a rape that had resulted in the birth of Audrey. He also recognised Katie’s shortcomings and tried to chivvy her into doing more.

  Although Steven had left the complex in good order, it was not long before problems occurred. The first was the failure of one of the wind-driven power generators, following a severe storm. Despite their best endeavours, the members of the community were unable to fix it.

  ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ Christopher announced one day. ‘We’re going to have to reduce our power usage, particularly on cloudy days. I’ve been monitoring the batteries and they’re down to eighty per cent. We can’t afford to let them go any lower or they’ll be damaged.’

  ‘You could stop sending messages to your father on that radio,’ Katie said to Jane. ‘You’ve heard nothing for weeks now.’

  Sensing trouble brewing, Christopher quickly intervened. ‘No — it was agreed that the transmission would be made every day.’

  ‘There’s no point if they can’t hear us. For all we know…’ Katie began, petering off as she realised she had started saying something no one wanted to hear.

  ‘We have to keep transmitting,’ Christopher said again. ‘It’s always possible a message will get through.’

  ‘Ditching your hairdryer would make more sense,’ Jane said, staring angrily at her cousin.

  ‘What about the dogs, Dad?’ Sarah asked, keen to change the subject. ‘They’re becoming a real nuisance. I found another dead sheep up on the golf course today. And one of the horses is lame. I think it might have been bitten by a dog.’

  The large pack of fierce dogs roaming the Whangaparaoa Peninsula around the Gulf Harbour community had become an increasing problem.

  ‘I think I’ll camp out up on the golf course with a shotgun for a couple of nights and see if I can warn them off,’ Christopher said.

  ‘If it gets much worse, we’ll have to keep the children with us at all times,’ Jane said solemnly.

  ‘I can look after the other children,’ Zach boasted. ‘Granddad taught me how to shoot.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, I don’t want you using guns,’ his mother remonstrated.

  ‘Might not be such a bad idea,’ Christopher said softly. ‘In fact, I think it would be a good idea if we all carried a firearm when we leave the safety of the houses from now on.’

  16

  As the May anniversary of Mark and Steven’s departure from Gulf Harbour approached, Jane’s concerns for her father and brother’s safety intensified. She had expected them home weeks earlier. Winter grew closer, the days became shorter and her depression increased.

  ‘I’m sure they’re fine,’ Christopher assured her. ‘They’re bound to have had problems along the way. But you know them — they’re both resourceful. Kiwi ingenuity will see them through.’ But despite his assurances, he too was deeply concerned.

  ‘The dogs have been back,’ Sarah announced as she returned from the farm late one afternoon. ‘I found the remains of two dead sheep. The rest of the flock and all the cattle had scattered. It took me all day to round them up. We can’t afford these losses.’

  ‘Maybe we need to think about moving the flock up to Shakespear Park,’ Jane suggested. ‘It might be easier to keep the dogs away from there.’

  Shakespear Regional Park, once a favourite picnic destination for Aucklanders, had been a working farm at the time of the pandemic. While the animals had all been slaughtered as the population on the Whangaparaoa Peninsula fought to survive, the fences remained. Christopher was reluctant. The farm was five kilometres away and the animals the Chatfield family had rounded up when they came to Gulf Harbour were a lot easier to manage on what had been the golf course on the hill above them. ‘Fences will prevent the flock scattering but they won’t prevent the attacks. If the animals are fenced, they’ll be unable to escape. Some of these dogs are killing just for fun. Trapped in a field, the flock could be wiped out. They stand a better chance where they are.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to do something,’ Katie said, supporting her sister. ‘The dogs are getting so brazen that it’s no longer safe for us to be up there when they’re on the prowl.’

  ‘We’ll build a raised platform near the lake,’ Christopher said after a minute’s thought. ‘That’s where the grass is best and the stock tends to congregate. When the dogs are around, I’ll sleep up there and mount guard.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ Zach volunteered.

  Lacking Steven’s woodworking skills, Christopher planned to erect a simple platform on piles, and place a prefabricated aluminium garden shed on top for shelter.

  The key to the project was the piles: Christopher wanted the platform as high as possible for the best view and firing position. In the marina’s maintenance yard he found a stock of berthing piles. With the aid of the tractor, and using precious supplies of diesel, he dragged the four longest piles the kilometre and a half to the golf course.

  Erecting the piles proved far more difficult. The ground was hard and compacted. Many hours were spent digging the holes by hand.

  Eventually all was ready for the tricky task of erecting the piles. The whole family, including the children, assembled at the site and, to the accompaniment of a great deal of shouting and laughter and the straining of the tractor engine, the process commenced. As each pile was lifted into place with ropes, one end deep in a hole, several members of the community held it vertical while rocks and soil were tamped around the base to secure it in place.

  They were all tired and sweating by the time the fourth pile was ready to be raised. It was also beginning to get dark.

  ‘Let’s leave this one until tomorrow,’ Katie suggested.

  ‘I want to keep going, so I can start on the platform first thing in the morning,’ Christopher said.

  ‘But I’m tired,’ Katie said, pouting.

  ‘We’re all tired,’ Jane snapped. ‘Let’s get the job done and out of the way.’

  Christopher could see Katie was exhausted. ‘You drive the tractor,’ he said. ‘I’ll help on the ropes.’ Katie hurried off to the tractor while Christopher secured one end of a line to the top of the remaining pile and the other to the hook on the tractor. When all was ready, he gave the order to commence the lift.

  As Katie edged the tractor forward, the remainder of the family struggled to keep the pole lined up with other ropes. The laughter had long ceased — they were all too tired.

  ‘Hold it!’ Christopher shouted to Katie as the pile jammed in the top of the hole. He let go the rope he was holding and went to investigate the problem. Katie, unable to see what was happening in the gathering gloom, jumped off the tractor and came back to inspect the problem herself.

  ‘Pull on the ropes, take up the slack on the tractor,’ Christopher called, unaware that Katie had left her station. The rest of the family wearily tugged at their ropes. But as Katie ran back towards the tractor, the pile broke free from the hole, skidded on the loose earth and fell across Christopher’s chest before rolling and pinning his legs to the ground.

  Try as they might, the women and ch
ildren could not lift the heavy pile. Katie crouched beside her father. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she kept repeating.

  Christopher did not answer. He was breathing but unconscious.

  It was over an hour before they were able to lever the pile off him using fence posts and get him back to the settlement on the tractor trailer. Still he had not come around. Jane felt particularly helpless. As the medical specialist for the community, she knew from the blood trickling from his nose and mouth that he had suffered internal injuries. She also suspected both his legs were broken.

  For the rest of that night, the whole family sat at Christopher’s bedside, each secretly expecting and dreading his final breaths. Even Snowy and Misty seemed to sense the gravity of the situation and held their own vigil in the corner of the room.

  Miraculously, Christopher regained consciousness the following morning. Over the next few weeks he seemed to recover, but his laboured breathing suggested his lungs had been damaged. He was in constant pain, and he couldn’t walk. Unable to manage the stairs, the family set up his bed on the ground floor of Katie’s house.

  Jane had increasingly become the de facto leader of the community, but she now took charge more directly. Each morning Christopher would be lifted into a wheelchair, from which he would direct Sarah’s children, seven-year-old Zoë and five-year-old Gina, who were now doing the majority of the work around the house while Zach, Nicole and Holly worked on the farm and gardens. He did whatever he could to help them, and he also took over responsibility for supervising the children’s lessons.

  The children enjoyed being taught by Christopher. They quickly learned that if they were bored by the lesson set by their mothers, they only had to ask him a question about the days before the pandemic and he would soon be reminiscing. Christopher had strong opinions on most subjects and was keen to express them, even if it was only to a group of children. The youngsters would sit back and listen as he become excited and agitated, struggling to get his thoughts out between painful breaths.

  Zach was the master of diverting Christopher’s attention. One day, he was supposed to be doing research using the newspapers from the days immediately before the pandemic that his mother had carefully collected and stored in the school library. Nicole and Zach knew from the conversation at breakfast that their mother was working in the gardens further along the canal and would not be back until it was time for her midday radio call. Holly, Zoë and Gina had watched their mothers motor down the canal at daybreak aboard the yacht Raconteur, off to hook as many fish as possible. They would not be back until late afternoon at the earliest.

  ‘What I don’t understand, Uncle Christopher, is why the fact that some film star’s having a baby is such a big deal?’ Zach said, looking up from the newspaper.

  ‘You’re bang on there,’ agreed Christopher, manoeuvring his wheelchair to a better position. The rest of the children put down their pencils and settled in for the performance. They had been bored at their lessons too. The clock above Christopher’s desk indicated it was ten-thirty — still another half hour before the morning break. The children rested their chins on their cupped hands and listened to Christopher’s musings on celebrity culture.

  Misty wandered into the room and began crying. They all looked at him, startled by the noise. He was a friendly cat and often meowed, especially if he was talked to, but this was different. He was making a din they’d never heard before.

  ‘What’s wrong, old fella?’ Christopher asked, shifting baby Audrey to his other knee. The cat continued to call.

  ‘He must have caught a bird or a rat,’ Zach said. He got up from his seat and followed Misty as the cat hurried from the room. The other children started to follow him, but Christopher called them back, aware that he was losing control. Reluctantly the younger children returned.

  Zach raced back into the room, followed by Misty and the barking Snowy. ‘Uncle Christopher,’ he said excitedly. ‘The canal’s empty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The canal’s empty. All the boats are leaning over on their sides.’ The children scrambled out of their seats again and headed towards the patio.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled Christopher. The terror in his voice halted them in their tracks. ‘Take Audrey and the other children up the hill,’ he shouted at Zach, thrusting the little girl into his arms.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Up the hill, now!’ Christopher screamed.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Nicole asked.

  ‘It sounds like thunder,’ Holly said. The sound was reaching a crescendo.

  ‘Get up the hill, right now!’ Christopher shouted, his eyes wide with terror.

  Zach had never heard such a tone in his great-uncle’s voice. Frightened by the noise and his uncle’s voice, and struggling under Audrey’s weight, he turned and fled out the back door of the house towards higher ground, the smaller children, Snowy and Misty hard on his heels.

  Jane, preoccupied with her gardening, had not noticed the canal drying out, but when she heard the roar she saw a wall of water surging towards her. She turned and began to run towards Marina Hill, but as she crossed the road the water surged around her legs and knocked her off her feet. She was swept along the road and sucked into a whirlpool. As she was dragged down into the darkness, she thought she could hear Steven’s voice. She held out her hand and called his name.

  17

  Mark was dumbfounded by the scene of devastation that lay before them. Gulf Harbour Marina no longer existed. The breakwater had gone. The masts that had once pointed proudly to the sky had gone, and the two blocks of apartments closest to the marina had gone too.

  ‘Do you think it was a storm?’ Steven asked quietly.

  ‘The damage is far worse than any storm could do,’ Mark said, at last able to speak. ‘This has to be the work of a tsunami.’

  The rest of the crew looked on in horror. They had no idea what Gulf Harbour had once looked like, but they could see the huge jumble of timber, smashed fibreglass, tree branches and wreckage that lay on the spit between the island and the peninsula. None of them voiced the pressing question in their minds.

  Despite the fact it was high tide, the alarm on Archangel’s depth sounder suddenly went off and Mark threw the engine into reverse. ‘Either the sea bed’s lifted, or silt’s been laid down,’ he said to Steven.

  Mark reversed Archangel into deeper water and tried again. Eventually he found what he guessed was the old channel into the marina and carefully manoeuvred Archangel forward. Again the depth sounder let off a warning.

  They were now in what had been Hobbs Bay before the marina had been built, sheltered from the northerly wind. ‘That’ll have to do,’ Mark called out as Steven prepared the anchor. As the chain rattled through the anchor lead, Mark trained his binoculars on the head of the bay. Some of the pre-cast concrete buildings of the canal-side development were still standing but many seemed to have collapsed. The landscape was so different that Mark had difficulty establishing whether the block of townhouses his family had occupied was one of the buildings that remained.

  ‘Any signs of life?’ Steven asked.

  Mark shook his head. No words would come.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve moved to higher ground,’ Allison suggested softly. Looking at the jumble of debris, she knew she was grasping at straws.

  Steven prepared to lower the dinghy from the davits. ‘Would you like Fergus or me to come with you?’ Allison asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Best we check it out ourselves first,’ he said.

  She squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek. He could sense her feeling of helplessness.

  As Steven rowed towards the head of the bay, Mark struggled to gain his bearings. It reminded him of how once, when driving a car in fog, he had become totally disorientated, even though he knew the road well. Most of the shoreline had changed. He tried to guess where the marina worksheds and fuel jetty had once stood. Not a single mooring pile remained to identify where jetties had once str
etched out from the shore.

  At the head of the bay, they found what resembled a creek rather than the man-made canal it had once been. The pontoons, gangways and railings had all been swept away, as had the concrete block walls that had once lined the canal. All that remained was the rock face where the waterway had been blasted out.

  ‘Looks as if our block’s still standing,’ Mark said. ‘But the tower blocks have collapsed.’

  Steven glanced over his shoulder as he rowed. The loss of the towers was a major blow. Six floors of one of the towers had been crammed with important items he had helped collect in the months following the pandemic. It was unlikely they could assemble such a collection again.

  Directly outside the block of three townhouses that had once been their home, they clambered over the edge of the creek and tied the dinghy’s painter to a partly buried paving slab. They were both silent as they made their way into the building. The gardens and patio that had once fronted the canal had disappeared. Water had scoured the soil from the building’s foundations. Some of the pre-cast concrete slabs that formed the houses had moved, no doubt forced apart by swirling water. They walked through the hole where the patio doors had once stood, both thinking the same thoughts, but neither voicing them. Surely no one could have survived the forces evident from the destruction they were witnessing.

  At a sudden sound they both swung round. Standing behind them, tail in the air, stood Misty. He slowly sauntered past them and meowed in greeting, as if they had just returned from a day on the farm. He wandered nonchalantly through the gap where the back door had once been.

  ‘Perhaps they’re still alive,’ Mark said, filled with sudden hope.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Steven said solemnly. ‘He wouldn’t still be lying there if they were.’ He was peering over what had once been the half-wall separating the lounge from the kitchen area. A wheelchair lying on its side was pinned up against the wall, the remains of a corpse tangled in the frame.