Settlers' Creek by Carl Nixon Read Free Book Online

glass, driven by the rushing air. He had no memory of the plane taxiing down the runway or even of the thrusting shove in the chest that was taking off. Still feeling nauseous, Box stared out through the window, watching the jet engine and the way the rain-visible air rolled up and over the curve of the wing. The plane shuddered and dropped slightly in a patch of turbulence.
    Box apologised and got quickly up. He had to bend his head to fit under the overhead locker. The woman managed to half turn in her seat as Box flattened himself and pushed past her. He almost ran up the aisle. Rows of faces swivelled towards him. At the back of the plane the flight attendant was still seated. She frowned as Box slipped into the only toilet and folded the door closed. The bright light snapped on at roughly the same time as Box pulled off his cap and was violently sick into the shallow plastic sink. He threw up again and the stench of bile, cheese, ham and yeasty beer filled the plastic coffin. His vomit sat in the sink in a chunky lake the colour of rust. He retched up a watery soup until there was nothing left inside him.
    When he was sure that he was finished, Box lifted his head and looked at his face. He was pressed up close to the mirror. The bright fluorescent light showed every clammypore, stunted stubble hair and sunspot, and every faded ginga freckle. There was beaded sweat on his forehead. He ran the tap, and using one finger and paper towels cleaned up the sink the best he could. He cupped water in his hand and drank, sloshing it around in his acid mouth before spitting into the sink, avoiding his own gaze.
    When, finally, he was ready, Box took a deep breath and folded back the door. He didn’t know how long he’d been in there but two people were waiting. Box imagined that they’d heard most of his little performance, as had the flight attendant. He walked back down the aisle. The woman in the red jeans had shifted to a vacant seat halfway down the plane. She didn’t look at Box as he passed.
    When he had sat down again and buckled himself in, the attendant who’d been stationed by the door as he boarded came over. She leaned across the now empty seat. She didn’t smile. ‘Excuse me, sir, I need you to please remain seated until we land.’
    Box nodded. ‘Yeah, that would be fine.’
    For the rest of the flight he was aware that all the attendants were watching him carefully.
    He sat almost perfectly still, feeling nauseous and hollow bellied, and stared out of the window into the nothingness of cloud and rain until the wheels jarred down against the tarmac and the pilot announced that they’d arrived.

Three
    Before.
    Before the international recession that took Saxton Construction’s legs out from under it like a blind cripple being tackled by an All Black.
    Before.
    Before the property boom really took off and made him a rich man.
    Before all of that, hadn’t he been happy? Happy enough.
    Box sat in the back of the taxi with his forehead pressed against the cold glass. His eyes were open but he didn’t register the passing suburbs. The plane had chased the storm as it travelled north. He had arrived back in the city to pissy rain and a sky as grey and low as the one he’d left behind. Box tried not to think, to make his mind as endlessly blank as the hiss of the taxi’s tyres on the wet road.
    When he’d got into the taxi at the airport the driver had swivelled in his seat. He’d taken in the new clothes and the plastic bag full of wet gear.
    ‘I see you like to travel light.’ A big grin.
    Box grunted. He gave his address, his voice as flat and cold as the day outside. The driver had read the writing on the wall and hadn’t said a word since.
    Before. As little as eighteen months ago money wasn’t an issue. Box’s business was doing well — better than well, brilliantly. He had four houses on the go. When they were finished, all of them would be worth over a million. Two were for clients, the other