Settlers' Creek by Carl Nixon

close my eyes and I can’t help myself seeing him there. It was a shock. His clothes were in a pile, just there.’
    Box went over and squatted down and put his hand where the man had indicated, against the dry pine needles between the raised roots of the tree.
    ‘His phone went off. Almost gave me a heart attack.’
    ‘His mother, Liz, was trying to call him.’
    Up in the pines the magpie Box had seen earlier took off and flew a short distance before coming to a hopping standstill in the long grass. It turned its head towards them. The old man watched it. Box saw the way he shuffled from side to side, shifting his weight as though his feet were uncomfortable.
    ‘This is none of my business but I’ve been thinking about it all the time, I mean, do you know why? Why he did it, is what I’m asking.’
    ‘I’ve got no idea.’
    ‘Sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business.’
    ‘No, I’d tell you if I knew. He broke up with a girl a few months ago. She was nice enough, but we didn’t think it was that serious. He finished school at the end of last year and didn’t know what he wanted to do, was having some time off, that’s what he said, while he decided. I think he was drinking too much.’
    The old man shook his head gravely. ‘I’ve got two sons of my own. They’re older now, of course, but when they were that age I remember there were girl problems and drinking. I think it’s pretty normal.’
    ‘I’m grateful to you for finding him.’
    The man shook his head. ‘I live down the road. I was just collecting pine cones.’
    Box looked towards the caves below them on the far wall of the valley. There were two main ones almost at the level of the valley floor. The old man followed the line of Box’s gaze.
    ‘I heard that the Maoris who lived over in the harbour on the other side of the hills, before the whites came, they used to walk through here on their way to trade with other tribes. People reckon they used to stay overnight in those caves. There’s nothing to see though, I’ve looked, no drawings or anything.’
    Box felt suddenly tired. ‘I don’t want to be rude but I’d like a bit of time here by myself.’
    ‘Of course. Right.’ Suddenly formal. ‘Well, I’m glad I met you, Box. I’m sorry for your loss.’ They shook hands againand then the man turned away and started slowly up the slope.
    Just before Charlie reached the track, Box raised his voice after him. ‘The funeral is Wednesday morning. We’d be happy for you to come.’
    The man turned back. He stood with one knot-fingered hand against the trunk of a tree and looked back and down at Box. ‘Yes. Thank you. I think I’d like to.’
    ‘It’s at the old church over in Regent’s Bay.’
    ‘I know where that is. Nice place.’
    Box nodded. ‘It starts at eleven.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    He turned and walked slowly through the trees and up to the track and Box watched him go.
    When he was alone again he went over to the fencepost that Charlie had shown him. Box climbed up onto it. He stood, balancing, facing north-west so that he was looking over the city. Box tried to imagine what this same view had been like two nights ago. It made sense that Mark had probably come up here when it was still light enough to see. No one had said anything about finding a torch. Maybe it had been early evening — semi-darkness then. Perhaps. He was only guessing. It was possible that his son had stood right here and watched the lights of the city flickering on. The house lights would come on one by one but the street lights would jump into existence at the pull of a lever; whole streets lit up together, suddenly making luminous noughts and crosses out of the scene below him.
    Box shook his head. He was fooling himself, romantising things. The truth was he had absolutely no idea what Mark had seen as he stood here. Or, more importantly, what the hell his son had been thinking.

Seven
    The Toyota, temperamental rattletrap dinosaur, doesn’t