The Killing Hour

I’ve bound her hands in front of her. I grab her wrists and sit her upwards.

‘I thought you were going to help me.’

She doesn’t answer, just stares at me silently.



‘Please, Jo, let me prove to you I’m not lying.’ I figure it’s a reasonable request. I figure I’m allowed to be angry with her right now, and the fact that I’m not yelling at her goes a long way to prove just how sane I am.

She still doesn’t answer. I look outside to make sure nobody is around, then open the door and quickly load our suitcases into the car before pushing Jo into the passenger seat. She doesn’t struggle or complain. It’s as though she’s given up, but I don’t trust her. A minute later we’re pulling away from the motel.

The day has warmed up but the dream still has me chilled. There are no clouds in the sky and the earlier breeze has died away. You’d be crazy to think it had even rained. The headache has faded but only a little. I hang my arm out the window. At this rate it will be thirty-five degrees by nightfall, and I think about the old guy giving the weather report on the radio this morning.

We drive through town, and for the first time I’m able to see past the garden city postcard image and see Christchurch for what it really is. People are getting killed here every few weeks. It’s a building statistic that everybody seems to be keeping a secret. We even have serial killers here now – at the moment a man dubbed the Christchurch Carver is awaiting trial for God knows how many murders. His face and his story have been in the papers non-stop for the last few months. It’s becoming a part of modern-day life, like rising petrol prices, and we just sit back and accept it because nobody is showing us an alternative.

In the distance, on the Port Hills, the sun glints off house windows. It looks like a giant tub of glitter has been spilled over them. Teenagers go up there at night in their hotted-up cars and pour diesel over the roads so they can do burn-outs and impress their mates before killing and dying. Daytime and the hills are filled with mountain bikers and paragliders and the husks of incinerated stolen cars, patches of landscape cordoned off with yellow police tape where some poor kid is getting peeled off the asphalt.

We reach the motorway I was driving down when the Sunday night Old World collided with the Monday morning New World and created the Real World. Just after the turn-off I pull the car over by the paddock with the trees and the grass and the shallow graves that were meant to be. I kill the engine. The hot sun has burnt away most signs of the rain. We have enough light for maybe another hour.

‘What are we doing here?’ Jo asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken since she attacked me. She sounds pissed off.

I nod toward the trees in the distance. ‘This is where it all happened.’

‘So what? You going to kill me here too?’

‘The only thing I’m trying to kill is time. How about I show you where everything happened?’

‘How about you don’t?’

‘Come on, Jo, there’s no need to be like that.’

‘Really? I guess this is all my mistake.’

‘Jo …’

‘Shut up, Charlie. What the hell do you expect from me? Gratitude?’

‘Hey, you’re the one who was trying to knock me out.’

‘And you can’t figure out why?’

‘I can figure it out.’

‘Really? I’m not so sure.’

There are only a few cars on the motorway behind us. I could probably dig a grave a few metres from the road and nobody would notice. Or care. I wonder how much evidence has been washed away over the last few days. A strong heat wafts through the window and it smells like mown grass. My clothes are sticking to me. Out there is a patch of ground that may or may not be covered in blood. Pieces of clothing are out there too. I had come along the other night, I had been a saviour, a knight in shining Honda. Cyris had offered me to join in on the fun, but I wanted a different sort of fun. I start the car and pull away, heading for home. Jo starts back in on the silent treatment. When I pull her Mazda into my driveway I turn towards her.

‘I want you to come in with me.’

‘What for, Charlie? I thought we were going to sit outside and watch.’



‘I just want to check it out. I want to see if he’s been here.’

‘Have fun.’

‘You’re coming with me.’

‘Your neighbours will see me tied up, Charlie.’

‘I’ll risk it.’

I step outside and circle the car to open her door. She climbs out and I put my hand on her shoulder. I’m expecting her to start screaming but she doesn’t.

I open the gate and it turns out I don’t actually need any luck. Things have been taken care of for me. My back door is yawning wide open – splintered pieces of wood where the lock once was have twisted away. I think back to Kathy’s door, then to Luciana’s. Neither of theirs were forced or pried open.

‘Who did this?’ Jo asks.