“I’m Constable Richards from the New Zealand Police, Wellington Maritime Unit. We’ve received a call that you are on this vessel against your will. Is that the case?”
Is this man for real? I’m inclined to tell him that my favorite flavor of kink is taking vacations on a stinking fishing boat, handcuffed and locked up in a cabin. But if he’s the real deal, I’d rather not alienate a potential rescuer.
“It is. I don’t know how much longer I could function. The kids are frightened too. Someone has told them they are going back to their parents, but I overhead Helen Reid saying we are about to rendezvous with a seaplane. You arrived just in time.”
“Worry no longer. You’re safe now.” Constable Richards turns to the open cabin door and calls out, “Kay, could you please come, we have young children here too.”
The Constable has good bedside manners for a police officer. He’s smiling and speaking with a warm, soft voice to the children, who huddle frightened at the back wall of the small cabin.
“You must be frightened being locked up in this tiny cabin. We’ll give you life vests and then you get to ride with us on the water police boat. Would you like that?”
The children are not responding other than pushing further to the back of the cabin. I can only imagine what threats and what treatment they had to endure before they came onto this boat.
“They need more time before you get much out of them. I believe they may have drugged them. They drugged me before they got me on board.”
He squeezes against the cabin wall to let a female officer enter the cabin. I’m sure we’ve just about reached the maximum capacity of what this cabin can hold.
“Oh, hello, who have we here? I’m Officer Morris, but you can call me Kay. Who wants to come with me so that we can find your parents? They must be worried where you are.” She sticks her hand out for a greeting.
The friendly officer lady is an instant success. The two older boys are the first shaking her hand and the girls follow, shyly at first, but with visible relief. Even the Tribe is calmer now.
From then on everything happens in a whirlwind fashion. An officer puts life vests on us, and they take us over to the police boat. I would have thought that’d be a difficult maneuver, but it wasn’t. The sea is calm today, Constable Richards insisted, even though my stomach has a totally different opinion. It makes a difference, though, to be on deck and not locked inside a cabin.
The officers show us around the police boat and even invite us up to the bridge where the captain explains all the bits and pieces. I watch two other officers interrogating Captain Haddock and his crew. There is a lot of gesticulating and finger pointing going on.
I wish I could listen to what they say when they talk to Helen. I’m convinced she dishes out as many lies as she can squeeze in. Some must be about me because she motions over to me. In my mind, I hear her talking about my mental health records and the murder accusation from the Port Somers police. She wouldn’t keep any of that to herself.
Not long after they bring Helen, two men I don’t know, and… oh good heavens, it’s Heather, Patrick’s receptionist over to the police boat. I’m glad she’s alive. But I feel smug seeing the woman I’m accused of murdering and disposing of, sitting in handcuffs opposite a police officer.
The net of deception people have spun to get rid of me is mind-boggling. I’m sure I’m not the only fish caught in their vicious net as the presence of the children indicates. It’s for them that I’m worried. Will they be okay? Were they rescued early enough out of the pedophile swamp called Gateway? I have no doubt that the children’s and my destination was some horrendous place far, far away.
“I’d like to talk to you,” says Constable Richards and leads me to a comfortable cabin. “Can I get you something? To eat or drink?”
“Perhaps a cup of black tea. My stomach is not built for life at sea. Going by my experiences on the Southern Belle, I might have to run out on you before long.”
“You can use the bathroom at the back. I’d rather not have you hanging over the railing and risk you falling overboard.”
“Thank you, it sounds much more dignified than what was on offer on the Southern Belle. What did you want to talk about?” I keep my voice steady to not give away the tension we feel.
“I’d like to know your side of the story. What were the events that led up to us finding you locked up on the fishing boat?”
“Where do I start? I’m not sure what is even significant.”
“Just go ahead. If you don’t mind, I’ll record our conversation.”
“I don’t mind. I have nothing to hide.”
Then the whole story pours out of me like a geyser that ejects tons of water and steam. From Horace’s death, overhearing plans to send us to a hospital, our flight to the South Island, Patrick’s findings, the planted gun, the murder accusation, the flight into the mountains, to our capture, Helen’s part in it and the Southern Belle. I’m glad he didn’t interrupt because I don’t know if I could have continued if he had. In the end, he raises his eyebrows.
“You climbed up the tree behind your house?”
Of all the drama I talked about that was the one he had to check on? I’m not sure whether that’s a good or a bad sign.
“We’ve climbed up that tree since childhood, every time we visited our aunt. I’m sure I could do it eyes closed if I had to.”
“So, what’s that with the attempt to section you to a mental facility? How crazy are you?”
“Interesting question. On an average day, as much
