Ocd

It started to feel better. All the lines had come to a dead-end, falling in on themselves. Crushing, so they ended up as dead fragments of nothingness. It all combined in paralysis. So now, back out on the page, moving along at a quick pace, getting away from the town boundary, leaving behind the dairy with its milkshake machine and its packets of ten cigarettes.

It was funny how the bounteousness of it all translated to the person behind the counter actually enjoying what they were doing. Was there pleasure in taking the money? Certainly. When the tails were turned, getting a refund on the bottles spent all day collecting, there was a pleasure in that. Right down to realising the empty bottles were stored around the back of the building. Could they be collected from there and returned through the front door. Maybe. But for now, there was the single cigarette to smoke.

There was something there but it was too hard to really pin down. It existed for a fraction of time but when captured or contained, it evaporated like water in a hot frypan. It bubbled briefly and then it was gone. But even trying to channel it was worth it.

At a corner table a couple were quietly talking. Perhaps times had not changed. Passing through on their way up north. Not that feeling. Local. And it was true but no one really cared. Something existed for a moment and then was gone.

It’s cool to just motor along for a while on the slow drive to Hinemoa at the inland sea. To arrive at the carpark on the water’s edge and breathe the mountainous air. See the power up over the hill to the right, see the headland stretching out into the lake on the left. To write out that salty feeling. Where to belong.

On the way back down, at a small roadside stream, panning for gold. There was a little in the pan but it was not the most beautiful thing there. Up among the trees a black cat watched, then ran uphill. In the distance her sisters moved as one into the trees and were gone.

Come in, Mrs Bigwood. How’s Tony and the boys.

I need your advice. It’s confidential.

Always is.

He’s having an affair. I didn’t confront him. You know the history. The strangling. The other time, after drinking. You helped. For the boys.

I asked a friend to watch him. He spent the night at her place. Told me he was at night class.

Mr Dickenson said very little. He let her talk.

Late Thursday, driving back from the next town, the phone rang.

Langton, it’s Sergeant Lanesworth. Tony Bigwood’s been stabbed to death at home. Your client’s missing. So are the boys. The woman he was seeing hasn’t come home either. Can you help us locate Mrs Bigwood.

Anne, it’s Langton. Where are you.

Up north. With the boys. Visiting their grandmother. About an hour out.

Come to my office. We’ll talk before the police do.

At a corner table a couple were quietly talking. No one was listening. No one ever really does. It lasted only a moment.

That was what was required.

How to live life juicing it.