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  The bank manager's shark suit no longer surprised Michael. What did surprise him was how real it looked. Fish eyes no longer fake observed him. Even the dingy on the poster seemed to roll and pitch. 'I need . . .' He averted his gaze; his stomach felt queasy. 'Julie says we need another car. A big one so she can take the kids. The boys are starting school next year, you know . . .' He sighed. A bigger car, more money, a bigger loan to be paid back.

  The shark-manager nodded, as far as one can nod inside a shark suit. 'I understand. You want to add to your loan?'

  Michael cringed. 'Yes.' However he was going to pay it back he didn't know. Julie couldn't work when the kids were this small--he didn't expect her to. Hell--they'd spend more in childcare than she'd make. But somehow, they had to find the money.

  The shark-manager used triangular fore-fins to bring Michael's details up on the screen. Secretly, in the back of his mind, Michael hoped he would shake his shark-head and tell him that with his current liabilities, a further loan was impossible, but the voice inside the mouth rumbled, 'A decent car--say 70K?'

  Grinding his teeth, Michael nodded. He'd have to take a second job.

  * * *

  It was long after dark on a cold winter night that Michael trudged into the bank foyer. They had recently started late night trading, which was just as well, because how else could he still visit the branch?

  Only that morning, he had risen at five, clambered his way over Lego blocks and dolls strewn over the floor, into the kitchen to make his lunch, left the house while Julie was still asleep. He had worked filling shelves at a supermarket until nine, rushed to his desk job and back to the supermarket when he finished.

  He slouched into the bank, straight to the office, didn't knock at the manager's door and sank into the far-too-familiar chair. That damn poster was still on the wall. The angler looked positively ugly. The goldfish in his hand had shrivelled into a sickly wreck and the ocean surrounding the boat teemed with fish with big teeth.

  There are bigger fish in the ocean. Let us help you catch them.

  Michael let out a sarcastic chuckle.

  He was not surprised when the manager entered the office in a whale suit. Really! How could they maintain a silly advertising campaign for over ten years? He crossed his arms over his chest. He was tired and not in the mood for childish stuff.

  'How is the family, Mr. Cleveland?' The voice inside the whale suite was ever friendly, but Michael longed to rip it off, to see who hid in this ridiculous thing.

  But he only sighed and said, 'The kids are growing up fast. They need more space. Julie says we cannot have the four of them in one room. I suppose she's right. We really need to extend the house, and--'

  'And you want to add to your loan?'

  Michael clenched his jaws, staring up at the tiny black eyes of the whale suit, and into the mouth where the real person would be hiding, wherever, to meet the bank manager's eyes. He clenched his hands in his lap. No, please say no. But the whale-manager reached for the computer keyboard, typed and turned the screen towards Michael. 'That's how much a decent renovation would add to your monthly repayments.'

  Michael sat.

  And stared at the screen.

  And had no idea what he would do first: run out, or faint.

  In the corner of the room, the printer hummed out a few sheets of paper.

  The whale-manager collected them and placed them on the desk before Michael. While the fin pointed at the dotted line at the bottom of the last page, the voice inside the whale suit rumbled, 'Just sign here. You are doing the right thing and looking after your family--'

  Michael took the pen. Along its length in white letters was the now-familiar slogan. There are bigger fish in the ocean. Let us help you catch them.

  He chewed the end of the pen. Looked at the figures on the page.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  No.

  He slumped on the table and burst into tears. 'I'm sorry, I can't. There is no way I can afford that much. I'm already working two jobs. And then there's their private schooling, and sport, and music tuition, and overseas trips, and University, and . . .' Imagined Julie's face when he had come home from his lawn-mowing jobs, to find the contents of the toy box all over the floor. Him yelling for the kids to play somewhere else, and Julie yelling back But they have nowhere else to play.

  A rubbery flipper patted his shoulder. 'There, there. Don't worry. We will help you.'

  Michael lifted his head. 'You just don't get it, do you? I don't want your help. The only thing you do is put me further into debt. I'd need to be a bank manager to meet this sort of payment.'

  The whale-manager leaned back into his seat, fins folded over his white belly of squishy foam. 'Really? You think so? Would you like to be a bank manager?'

  Michael stared for a moment; sensed that this was not a joke. 'You mean, you can give me a job that pays enough to . . .' He gestured at the document before him.

  The manager's voice was soft. 'That--and more.'

  Michael stammered, 'But . . .'

  The manager rose, pushing to un-jam the awkward whale suit from between the armrests of the chair. He shuffled around the desk, to sit on the edge facing Michael. 'Would you be interested in my job?'

  Michael shrunk back, unsure what to say. He didn't have diplomas or anything that would entitle him to a job like that. For just a moment, though, it was nice to pretend that he did. He replied a hesitant, 'Yes . . .'

  At that, the whale-manager fell forward off the desk, drowning Michael in folds of squishy Styrofoam. His chair toppled backwards, and his head hit the wall.

  All went black.

  * * *

  When Michael came to, he sat in a chair. He was hot and sweaty and his field of vision was restricted to a smallish oval which showed the open door to the office. A middle-aged man ran from the building yelling, 'I'm free, I'm free.'

  The man bore an uncanny resemblance to the photo displayed on the computer. Underneath it was a name, Michael Cleveland.

  But that's me!

  'Hey, wait!' Michael tried to get up, but folds of Styrofoam held him firmly jammed in his chair. His arm came into his vision, clad in orange. He turned around to the wall behind him. The poster of the angler had gone back to its initial bright colours.

  There was a knock on the door. The young receptionist gestured inside. 'The manager will see you now, Mr. Wood.'

  A young man entered the office, giggled at Michael's outfit and sat down on the other side of the desk.

  Michael understood. He heaved a sigh inside his goldfish suit and said, 'How can we help you, Mr. Wood?'

  The young man wrung his hands. 'Well--it is like this. I sorta accidentally got my girlfriend up the duff--y'know, and uhm--to cut a long story short--we're living in a share house and I want to borrow some money to buy a small unit.'

  About this story:

  This story is one of a couple of twisted fairytales I have written, inspired by The Fisherman and his Wife, and a couple of insane advertisements at a local branch of a large bank.

  Black Dragon

  Originally published in The Edge of Propinquity issue 54

  Her skin pale in death, Nan's face resembled a statue's.

  After three days of standing next to it, I knew all its wrinkles. The way the flickering candle light would make her look alive, the way she seemed to flinch when someone she hadn't liked entered her house.

  Such as Aunt Mary.

  The sound of her voice preceded her heavy footsteps in the hall. A rough, smoke-edged drawl, bellyaching about the weather. The door clanged open and brought a whiff of cigarette smoke.

  I straightened my back, pretending not to be there. My cousin Tamati, standing on the opposite side of Nan's head, did the same.

  Aunt Mary, all hundred and twenty-odd kilograms of her, wobbled to a stop at the foot of the coffin. She gave me the evil watchya-think-yer-doing eye.

  I held my silence.

  As kirimate, Nan's cl
osest relatives, neither I nor my cousin would object to Aunt Mary's final dealings with her sister.

  Aunt Mary fumbled in her handbag and drew out a piece of paper.

  'Ngaio, since you were always so keen on reading and poetry and all them things, I've written you a poem.' She cleared her throat self-importantly and gave me another glance.

  'So it ends, sister dear,

  With you lying there and me standing here

  You always thought you were right

  That we were stupid and you were bright

  Always doing what we weren't allowed

  And running with the weirdo crowd

  Did you really think you made your mark

  Kissing Pakeha boys in the park

  What was the point of all them books

  Except chase off your man for someone with better looks

  If you had a chance to tell me thus,

  Do you still think you're so much better than us?'

  She scrunched up the paper in the silence that cloaked the room like a stifling blanket.

  That was Aunt Mary: full of petty grievances. She had even objected to Tamati's presence here, because he was a man, even though the funeral arrangements were my business. Tamati had asked me if he could stand at the wake instead of his sisters, who thought Nan was weird. I didn't always understand Tamati, but I appreciated his gesture.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, but a hot tear ran over my cheek.

  Aunt Mary hesitated, as if disappointed that neither me nor Tamati moved to strangle her.

  Then she harrumphed, dug once more in her bag and produced a box which required both her meaty hands to set on the table reserved for offerings. Made of wood, it gave no indication of its contents, but it definitely wasn't food--a customary contribution to the funeral gathering. Something about the strange polished surface and the pattern on the lid, a creature with its mouth wide open, made me shiver.

  It was almost as if it hissed smoke--or was it a trick of the candle light?

  The room faded, and there was darkness, and pain, and the feeling of my soul contracting into nothingness, being sucked up into . . . I don't know. I rubbed my temples, too tired from standing here for so long.

  Aunt Mary pushed the box across the table. 'And you can have this blasted thing back, too, seeing as it's brought us none but bad luck. I looked after it all right, but what do I get in return? Your dead body.'

  She spat on the floor, and as far as a woman of her size could whirl, she whirled around and stomped out of the room.

  * * *

  Tamati returned from the station after having dropped off the last of the aunts while I put the dishes away.

  He drove the car into the carport--the plates rattled when he revved that ridiculous thing in the confined space between the houses. The car door creaked open, and thudded shut. He clomped up the veranda, let the screen door clang behind him and made straight for the fridge. 'Beer,' he muttered in a kind of primal way. He clicked the can open.

  Tamati's drinking reminded me of Mother, of my father, of the hopelessness and apathy that held so many of my old school friends in its grip. Drinking and smoking and fucking.

  Tamati sank down at the table. 'That lawyer called again this morning.'

  I whirled to face him. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

  That lawyer dealt with Nan's money, her house, her meagre possessions. He must have come while I was out shopping.

  'I don't like him.'

  'What's there not to like? He does his job. That's all he's paid to do.'

  'Kiri, you flirt with him.'

  'Fuck you, I don't!' I'd seen the red-headed lawyer only once. He spoke with an accent, Irish or something.

  Tamati snorted into his beer. 'That's just like Nan: getting a Pakeha to look after her will.'

  'I don't care, Tamati. He's doing his job.'

  'I'm proud to be Maori.' He thunked the beer can onto the table.

  I met his piercing stare. 'So am I.'

  I threw down the dish towel and went to the veranda, escaping the familiar scents of Nan's house. I shouldn't be angry with Tamati. His mother had raised him to protect the women of his whanau, the extended family.

  I didn't need protecting and Nan had taught me to treat all people equally, unless they proved they deserved otherwise. Then again, Nan had always been treated differently. You'll understand, she used to say. Well, now she was dead and I still didn't understand.

  That wasn't even what angered me so much. It was the car, that hideous black thing parked in the driveway. Tamati owed too much money on it. He would inherit half of Nan's house.

  Through the sale of Nan's house, I would lose my home.

  I had no money to buy the house where I'd lived as a child. The driveway where I'd learned to ride a bike, the chair where I had cried after I'd found Mum slumped on the couch, hearing doctors say she would be all right, but knowing she wouldn't. She might live, but all right, she wasn't.

  The screen door clanged behind me. 'Kiri?'

  Tamati came onto the veranda. 'I'm sorry.'

  I shrugged and stared out over the street. He was on Aunt Mary's side of the family, and I on Nan's.

  He held out the box Aunt Mary had left. 'Do you know what this is?'

  I shook my head. She had mentioned bad luck. Most of my life I had spent ducking conflict--between my parents, between Nan and my father, between my father and his brothers--and I had no interest in this supposed thing of bad luck. If there was any bad luck to be had, it would find me regardless.

  Tamati set the box on the table and prised open the lid.

  Amongst yellowed and scrunched newspapers lay a statue. Made from dark stone, it was a square, rather ugly animal, rearing on its hind legs, opening its mouth to spew fire. A dragon. I lifted it, spilling newspapers on the table. The Dominion, 27 April 1952. 'Boy, it's heavy.'

  A piece of paper fluttered onto the table. There was a name on it, in Nan's handwriting, Dr Rob Mason, and a phone number in town. The Museum probably. Nan loved that kind of stuff.

  I turned the statue over in my hands, running the tips of my fingers along the delicately carved scales on the creature's back. 'It looks . . . Chinese.'

  Chinese restaurants had things like these in their windows. I'd even seen them cut from carrots. 'Why would Nan have this thing?'

  'Maybe someone gave it to her?' Tamati sat in the creaky chair, bringing the beer can to his lips.

  Nan worked in the council library and probably had more Pakeha friends than the rest of my family put together, but Chinese?

  As I stared into the statue's beady eyes, the world wavered. I was under a stark blue sky. Waves crashed against the bow of a ship. An ungainly red sail flapped above my head, square and thick. The wooden deck pitched and rolled.

  A man stood at the railing, looking out over the sea. He was dressed in a shimmering gown of black silk. He turned his head, his face in a wide grin. His eyes burned with green fire.

  Two other men came up onto the deck. One carried a long stick, the other a knife, both glowing with green fire. The magician didn't seem to hear them. I wanted to yell behind you, but I had no voice.

  The men sprang onto the magician's back, bathed him in green glow, which spread over him like water seeping into a sponge. He fought it with green fire of his own, but the two others soon had him flat on the deck. Black smoke billowed across my vision. A man sprinted past with a bucket, followed by a number of his mates. In the commotion, one of the attackers pushed the unconscious man into the sea.

  The ship lurched.

  I took a step sideways to balance myself and crashed into Nan's card table, my heart hammering in my chest. I flung the statue into the box. Bad luck indeed. Someone had been murdered over this thing.

  'Kiri? Anything wrong?'

  'I . . .' I licked my lips, meeting Tamati's eyes. 'No. Nothing.'

  * * *

  I got off the bus downtown, hitching my bag with the heavy box onto my shoulder. As I crossed the street,
I checked the address. When Mr Wong, the owner of the local Chinese restaurant, had said his brother owned an antiques shop in town, I had envisaged a cosy little place with quaint Victorian furniture, not a shabby shopfront with a dark maw for a window. But there it was, and yes, there was indeed some furniture in the window, and a porcelain set of Chinese bowls. All very dusty.

  I stopped and gazed at the darkness inside. I couldn't believe I was doing this.

  Then I recalled Mr Wong's wide-eyed look when I showed him the statue.

  My father ran off with another woman when I was eight. My mother took to the bottle, until one day, she decided she couldn't go on. Like the gutless person she was, didn't take enough pills. Maybe she hoped we would save her. I don't know what she thought. No one can ask her. She sits in her bed at the hospice. She can't speak, she can barely move her head, and every time I visit, she cries.

  I wanted to have a home where I can look after her, but the maximum amount of money I could borrow was twenty thousand short.

  When I entered the shop, an elderly Chinese man shuffled from the doorway.

  I plonked the box on the counter. 'Your brother said you might be interested in this.'

  Slowly, I took the lid off and reached into the crumpled newspaper.

  As I lifted the dragon out, the statue warmed in my hands. The shop vanished, and I stood on the stone steps of a palace, looking up at a man in a red and gold robe. Another man knelt at his feet, head bowed: the man who had been attacked on the boat. The man in the red robe--the emperor?--spoke. A servant held up a frame on which was mounted a fine cloth. A map?

  Soldiers lined up behind the emperor's chair, their eyes on the kneeling man and hands on their swords. In that row I recognised two others: the magicians who had pushed the kneeling man into the sea.

  The scene faded and I was in the shop again, staring into the owner's eyes. I don't know if he had seen the vision, but if money has an expression, I saw it in his face.

  * * *

  I didn't sell the statue, never mind that he offered me a thousand dollars for it. I guess I looked like the kind who could use a thousand dollars, but it was nowhere near enough. It didn't feel right. I thought the statue to be some sort of trinket, but it seemed to be important, and if I sold it, what part of Nan's history would I be selling?