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Mark O'Leary Camper Van Kiwi Mark O'Leary Camper van Kiwi. Short Story (Fiction) So, he was a congenial fellow, albeit, rudderless. His wife had left him for a man he considered to be his friend, the children, one a drug dealer and the other, of idyll idle bent, and the wife, ironically, academic, a teacher, prim and proper, never a wrong move upon the chessboard, yet, she took off with the vice principal of the school where she taught and where her children had once attended, the man, an invalid from alcohol, she became his lover and his carer, she had family money, this man, a widower, childless and bible black, was of the same proclivity as her. The husband, needed to find himself. He reminisced upon Andy's tale of yore of New Zealand, the Tolkien topography, the verdant fastness, the quaint hamlets. I simply must have it. He had money from investments in whisky casks, his bank account was sufficiently fattened, he decided to appropriate the money from one of these accounts for his Antipodean expedition, now sooner had he emptied the bank account, the manager from the bank called him, is there a problem good Sir? No, not at all, to the contrary, the money you withdrew yesterday. Yes, my money, duly earned! The equivalent is now back in your vault, my friend, you are a rather shrewd and calculating investor. Now, thank you, for upon that note, I shall enjoy my travails even that much more. So flying to Wellington, his first port of call was to seek lodgings. Cheap, cheerful and parsimony, being the order of the day, he found a room on Cuba street for fifteen pounds a night. Then, travelling light, he liked to work with his American Express, had a back pack and nothing in the room, so off, a gallivanting, as he perambulated from Cuba street in the trajectory of the city centre he noticed a Yellow Volkswagen camper van in a parking lot in a used car garage. Sir, excuse me, are you the vendor of said vehicle? The man, named John, corpulent, donning a black beret, picking up the semblance of a feint french provincial dialect, Jean, ca va? Mon ami... John, is the van in good working order? Oui! John, how much for the van? What he was thinking was buy the van, drive the shit out of it and then sell it back to him at journeys end. Well, I have done a lot of work to it, perhaps if you gave me two thousand pounds, off you go. How about if I gave you seventeen hundred, would we be in business. You know, I'm sorry, I did not get your name, what is your name. Maximillian.. Maximillian, would seventeen fifty do it for you. Done.. Do you take American Express. Yes... Fait accompli... So, Maximillian, off he went, with some sleeping gear and some provisions. He decided to take the Cook strait ferry to the South Island, for the first port of call, Kaikoura. Now, a sanctuary of solace and solitude, albeit, for he was hungry, still suffering the side effects of jet lag he decided to turn in for the night, albeit first, a nascent appetite to be assuaged. He made a little campfire and then on a pan placed an amalgam of; beef, bread and beans, a little; garlic, tartar sauce, the rind of the zest of au gratin lemon and a bottle of Marlborough sauvignon. Sumptuous, then to sleep. So, staring at the astral expanse, no UFO's tonight sweet Jesus, drifting into sleep, then, it started in a camper van by the campfire in New Zealand. Hey, how are you? A voice. Hey, your losing your mind! Hey buddy, you gotta problem? The voices, where are these voices coming from... Is it here, is it there. Did Jean place some little treats in the van? Hey buddy, gotta dime? Where, what, what is it? It went on for an hour. Who are you, why are you doing this to me? Am I possessed, am I hearing things...This is Mad... But, then, Eureka, he remembered Evelyn. Did you mean Yvonne. No Evelyn, in the distant past he recalled Evelyn. Immediately, once Maximillian switched his sleeping draught, he was sagacious enough to have brought two, he switched and no sooner had he switched his sleeping draught, the voices left him |
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