The Killing Hour

I’m not a big fan of New Brighton. It has a great beach, but the air tastes of salt and boredom. The houses are mainly bungalows and cottages that are stained with sea salt. Anything made from metal is either rusting or in danger of rusting. The gardens that make Christchurch famous don’t extend their roots out here. What little greenery there was has dried up and turned to brown weed that crackles underfoot, each piece a potential matchstick. The mall has more empty shops than sales assistants.

A few years ago they built a three-hundred-metre concrete pier out here, as though that would bring people back to a dying suburb but so far the only thing it has attracted are fishermen. They renovated the surrounding blocks, threw up palm trees and slapped paint on the storefronts and footpaths. The pier stands two storeys high with flights of concrete stairs leading up from the footpath. A library and cafés are built onto the base of it. I climb the stairs and the warm breeze from below disappears, replaced by air currents that are several degrees cooler. With the library behind me, its thousands of books offering no solution to what I have to do tonight, I head out over the incoming tide, passing people who have their lines over the side to catch whatever fish are dumb enough to still be hanging around. There are lampposts every twenty metres: their lights will help me out tonight. Up here the smell of seaweed is gone, replaced by the smell of blood, fish guts, rotting skin and cigarette smoke. People gut their fish directly onto the asphalt. Teenagers throw fish heads at their friends.



I walk out to the end, past wooden seats with peeling paint and rusting rubbish bins. I walk to a small non-fishing zone where people are fishing, lean against the railing and look out over the water. I watch the waves crashing into the concrete foundations below and feel them shake through the pillars. The shattering rollers spray plumes of water into the air like dust. The wind, colder out here, is coming from the east, and it reaches me without picking up the scent of dead fish on the way. The water near the shore is grey, but blue beyond the breakers. I look for shapes moving beneath the surface but see nothing. The cool breeze snaps my clothes back and forth.

I savour the moment, though I keep it short. It’s immoral to enjoy anything at all while Jo could be dead or about to die. I turn around and look at the unemployed punks. Cigarettes dripping from their mouths, stolen fishing lines hanging into the water. A sign next to them says no overhead casting. But signs are like rules for these guys; there to be ignored, and they take pleasure in the knowledge they can do something illegal even in the simple act of fishing. A guy wearing a T-shirt that says Tonight I’m going to party like you’re nine stares at me as if deciding whether or not I’d make good bait. Head down, eyes down, unmolested I reach the library. I head back to the sand and head north.

Swimmers and sunbathers and kids throwing around a ratty old football make this just another trip to the seaside. A guy throwing a red Frisbee high into the breeze and catching it as it flies back gets in the way of people trying to relax. On the weekend this place will be packed. I walk a hundred metres, then turn around and study the pier. I study the foundations below, the angle where the beach hits the base of the pier where a concrete wall climbs between the two. This is where I’m going to be tonight. I want to know my ground. I need to know my escape routes.

I drive around the surrounding warren of streets to become familiar with them. When I’ve absorbed all I can I head home. I make sure my house is secure, then attach pieces of string to the doors and windows, tying the other ends to an assortment of pots and pans. It’s a cheap alarm system, but effective.

I bring down the gun. I grab a handful of ammunition and load it into the magazine, slap the magazine into the gun, then sit it next to my bed. The day isn’t as young any more but it still has a long way to go. Knowing I’ll need all the energy I can get I lie on top of my bed and set my alarm clock for seven. The sun streams through the window directly on top of me. I put on a pair of sunglasses, prop a pillow beneath my head and close my eyes.

The sun feels great. Relaxing. It seems easy to forget that another killing hour is on the way. It will be the last.





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