Trish said, 'Knock knock.'

Karen blushed and said tensely, 'You only just caught us. We were about to go.'

Trish bent over the bed. 'How are you, poor darling?' She said to Karen, 'They'll be here in a minute.'

The two women stood over Simon, seeing him as Hallwright would. It was the same frowning show they put on when they were critiquing a new set of curtains. He sat there while they sized up what to do with him, and he noted, sourly, how Karen imitated Trish's mannerisms.

Trish said, 'He's bringing her with him,' and rolled her eyes.

They fluffed up his pillows. Karen made him put his legs back up on the bed, pushed him into the pillows and draped a hospital blanket over him. They were enjoying themselves now, and Simon, at the mention of Roza, had become distracted, allowing himself to be arranged like a mannequin. Trish turned a vase of flowers to a satisfactory angle.

The weather had changed; it was raining, and the world was shrouded in misty grey. Out in the harbour a ship made its way slowly from the container port. Drops of rain zigzagged down the windows. There was a slow squeak squeak as a trolley was wheeled past the door.

Simon remembered the concrete stairwell. In the moment before he fainted he'd been dazzled by the flashes in his reeling brain; he remembered staring at a throbbing border between the brightest silver and the deepest black. And how was Roza Hallwright connected to the weird, floating euphoria of that moment? He remembered being impressed by her at the dinner, and that there was some striking quality about her that he couldn't fix in his mind. He thought she might once have been a patient - he would look at his files, if Karen would let him out of here.

Trish opened the door a crack and peered out while Karen arranged her hair and make-up. Trish said, 'Let's just pull back that curtain, and do you think we should wheel him nearer the window.'

Simon came alive and said, 'He's not bringing b.l.o.o.d.y cameras in here.'

They heard voices in the corridor.

'He's coming.' Both women laughed. It sounded as if a crowd was coming along the hall. Shoes squeaked on the shiny floor and someone said, 'Oh yeah, look, no problem, yeah.' Simon leaned back with a groan and put his arm over his face.

Trish threw open the door. 'Hi, David. h.e.l.lo Roza. Welcome. It's so good of you to come.'

Simon heard David Hallwright say, 'Can we have a bit of privacy just at this stage? Thanks.' There was a low murmur.

Hallwright limped in, followed by Roza, a woman in a suit, and Trish. He came to the bedside, his hand outstretched, and when Simon took it he cupped his other hand over Simon's.

'Dr Lampton. Simon. I hope we're not intruding. Roza and I obviously were shocked to hear what happened, and obviously wanted to share our deepest sympathies. We hear the news is good, though, no lasting damage.' He turned to Karen. 'Roza and I have been thinking of you obviously, and we just thought we'd quickly pop in, to show how, how ... tremendously shocked we are at the events that happened - really right after we spoke to you at the gala dinner.'

Karen gulped, 'Thank you for coming.' She'd gone very flushed under her make-up. 'Simon's doing very well,' she added. 'He'll be up and about in no time, won't you, Simon.'

'Oh look, yes, in no time. In fact I was just about to ...'

Trish lowered her voice. 'Simon could have permanent damage. We're all hoping for the best.'

'Look, we're wishing you all the very best. Roza and I ...'

Roza came forward and shook Simon's hand. She looked different in the harsh neon light, and for a moment he was disappointed. He remembered a face made mysterious by shadows, a slim figure emphasised by the elegant evening dress; now she was dressed in trousers and a shirt and she looked younger, rounder in the face, more competent and ordinary than she had been at the dinner. That evening he'd felt there was something wild about her, mad energy just contained, something other-worldly. Exotic.

He thought he must have imagined it, but then she spoke, and at the sound of her voice his sense of her came back. Her eyes were large and grey and full of light, and her voice was alive with nuance. When she spoke it was such a contrast to her husband's stumbling delivery that it seemed as if everyone should be embarra.s.sed. But no, Karen and Trish were gazing at Hallwright as if he were the Second Coming.

Roza said, 'I was shocked when I found out it was you who'd been hurt.'

I was shocked. You. He said, 'It's nothing.'

She smiled. 'A mere scratch I suppose.'

'Yeah. Mere scratch.' He fought down a grin, still holding her hand.

A cellphone rang. Hallwright said to the woman in the suit, 'You're meant to turn that off in here, Dianne.'

The woman called Dianne said, 'Have we given some thought to a picture?'

Hallwright looked innocent. He pursed his lips and gazed out the window and Trish said warmly, 'Good idea.'

Simon said, 'I don't think ...'

'We won't let the TV in, but how about one for the Herald?'

Hallwright said, 'Sure. Why not? That's a great idea.'

'I don't want ...' Simon said.

Dianne signalled and a young man came in. There was a quick readjustment, Hallwright angling himself to the side of the bed so that he was frowning down at Simon, Simon saying no, the click of the camera, Hallwright changing positions and the click again. And behind it all Roza, standing coolly apart. He had a flash of resentment that she'd partic.i.p.ated in this - lulled and bewitched him and then left him to the idiots around the bed.

Hallwright stepped back and looked at his watch, he and Dianne exchanged a glance, and he said to Simon, 'Look, I really hope you'll be out of here soon, and up and about.'

'I've already been discharged actually.'

'Well. That's magnificent news. We'll obviously get out of your way, and let you recover in peace.'

Roza came forward and Simon looked coldly at her. What was she, the fixer for the bozo husband, the one who smoothed out the impression left by his mangled verbs and jangling adverbs? She registered his cold look but made no sign of apology or embarra.s.sment, just raised her chin, as though meeting a challenge. He suddenly remembered feeling almost antagonised by her at the dinner, and for a second he was close to realising what was significant about her. But the PA Dianne was ushering Hallwright to the door and Trish and Karen were lining up to shake hands. Simon subsided against the pillows, cursing his own cowardly politeness.

There had been three murders in South Auckland that week. The Sensible Sentencing Trust organised a march in protest at the violence, and people rallied outside Mt Eden Prison waving banners and calling for stiffer penalties. Police were quoted as saying they wanted armed patrols on the streets, and the government was forced to defend its policies on justice. David Hallwright was affected by crime himself, when his good friend, surgeon Mr Simon Lampton, was injured in a street mugging after a National Party fundraiser. Mr Lampton was in a stable condition, but his family was waiting to hear whether there would be permanent damage. Hallwright was photographed at his friend's bedside, and later made a statement to television reporters outside the hospital. He looked forward to tackling youth crime himself, when National became the government. He would be innovative and decisive; he would have a much firmer hand. This state of affairs had gone on for a long time, and obviously people were nervous and afraid. He had yet to release detailed policy, however. That would come, closer to election time.

Claire said, 'When's he going to tell us what his policies actually are?'

They were watching the six o'clock news. Simon, as the invalid, had the whole sofa to himself. The news switched to the American election and they watched the Democrat candidate speaking to a crowd.

Simon said, 'Do you think Hallwright hired those two muggers himself?'

Elke, twirling her hair and staring into s.p.a.ce, said dreamily, 'What muggers?'

'Definitely,' Claire said.

They watched the American president talking to reporters. Behind him, his wife fixed the reporters with a glazed smile. There was a local item, about tax cuts. If National won the election Simon would get a tax cut of fifty dollars a week.

Karen said, 'About time.'

Claire looked at Karen. There was a silence. They all waited.

'How much does Dad earn a year?' Claire asked.

'What's that got to do with it?' Karen said.

'Do we need an extra fifty dollars a week?'

'The point is ...' Karen began.

Simon said wickedly, 'Just say, theoretically, I earn more than eight hundred thousand a year.'

Karen glared. She didn't approve of telling anyone that kind of thing. She didn't see why he had to help Claire attack her. Her look said, You'll pay.

Claire was triumphant. 'So that fifty dollars will really be a G.o.dsend. At last we can eat. Don't let it be wasted on poor people. Just let them all rot out there in South Auckland and hope they don't come bothering us over here. Just get tighter security.'

Karen snapped, 'You don't know anything about money. Spoilt brat.'

Claire picked up her economics textbook, making a face at Simon. He grinned at her.

The next item came on: a senior policeman, Ray Marden, had been acquitted of an historic rape charge. There was a shot of him outside the High Court, furiously denouncing his accusers.

Karen turned on Simon. 'Why do you let Claire do that? She's got all these nave ideas. She knows nothing about money and you just let her attack me over and over again. You let her.'

He opened his eyes wide. 'Darling, you've got to defend your ideas. You're the one with the political mind in this house. I just focus on my patients.'

There was a silence. Karen flicked her hair. She said slowly, 'I suppose I am the political one.'

She looked pleased. 'Poor old Simon. Are you feeling sore?'

She adjusted the pillows for him.

A week later, Simon got up at dawn and drove to the airport. He felt all right, just a bit of stiffness in his shoulder and arm when he bent to pick up his bag. He left his car in the long-term park and flew down to Wellington for a conference.

All day people asked him about being mugged and he told them the same thing. By the end of it he felt like a drink, so he and Peter from the hospital went to the hotel bar and shared a bottle of wine. In the taxi on the way to the airport he was light-headed, stale and headachy with the wine. It was getting dark already and Wellington looked tiny, huddled against its hills. He had a sense of impermanence and alarm, as though he'd had news of some momentous, agitating change.

They were late for the flight and had to hurry down the hall to where the staff were waiting to hurl their bags through the security screen and hustle them onto the plane. They took off in a sudden rainstorm, the plane arrowing up through the streaming air. Simon looked down at the heartbreaking twilight falling on the hills, the last sheen on the cold sea. The hills were riddled with black seams of shadow. It was desolate and beautiful.

Coming down into Auckland they pa.s.sed through a storm. As they b.u.mped and lurched through the mountainous clouds he thought of surfing, the plane skidding down the curling lip of the air. An air hostess was taking his used coffee cup when a flash lit up the wing, and a loud bang shook the plane. She clenched her fists and the cup crumpled in her hand; her eyes went fixed and intense and for a brief second he and she stared at each other. There was a stillness, a pause, and then, as nothing more happened, there was an outbreak of exclamations and questions; some people got out of their seats, appealing to the staff and someone said loudly, to nervous laughter, 'Jesus f.u.c.king Christ.'

The hostess firmed up her smile, said something vague about the storm and levered her way along the seats towards the front of the plane. The seatbelt sign pinged several times. There was noannouncement, only more silence as they flew and dropped, flew and dropped. Simon thought of his family, way down there in the wooden house. Each time the plane dropped the nerves flared in his injured side.

The landing was smooth and it was only when they were on the ground that the pilot came on the PA and confirmed the plane had been struck by lightning.

Simon and Peter waited for their bags. All around them there was talk about the lightning strike. Why hadn't the pilot said something? Made them suffer all the way down. There was an agreeable atmosphere of something shared and collectively endured, strangers saying goodbye to one another as they left. Peter was talking but Simon was imagining how he would tell his kids. Claire needed a story to be told properly, in linear fashion, with all detail intact. She would interrogate him, come back to it, offer theories. Elke would receive the story in silence, and you wouldn't know whether she'd even listened properly, until later, when she would let on that she'd heard every word.

They walked out of the airport. The rain was coming in sheets, the wind pushing them sideways as they crossed the road. They ran in under the roof of the car park and said goodbye. Peter drove off and Simon shook off the rain, fumbling for his keys.

A woman stood leaning against a pillar, talking into a cellphone. She was arguing, her voice getting louder. 'You were supposed to wait. That's not my fault. No. No. So I'll have to get the bus ...'

Her voice broke. She wiped her eyes and whispered some curse, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

Simon moved towards her. She had long black hair, tied back, her eyes were green, and she was wearing a black skirt, a sleeveless waistcoat and a white shirt. She turned away from him and rummaged in her bag and he hesitated, thinking he should leave her alone, but she fumbled with the cellphone, let out a despairing 'f.u.c.k', tried to catch it and missed. The phone hit the concrete and skittered along the ground.

He picked it up and handed it to her.

'Hi,' he said.

She jerked back, surprised.

'You all right?' he said.

She stared.

'I heard you arguing.'

'Do I know you?'

He said, 'We've met before. A long time ago. I mean, I fly a lot for my job, and I see you working in the airport cafe. I've sometimes wondered how you've got on.'

She gave him a sour, mocking smile. 'Mister, what are you talking about?'

'I've said h.e.l.lo to you quite a few times in the airport cafe, when you're serving. I wasn't sure if you recognised me. I thought maybe you ...'

'I say h.e.l.lo to everyone at the counter. It's my job.'

'Yes. Well.' He laughed. 'Of course. Anyway.' He hitched up his bag. 'Hope you're all right.'

'My ride went and f.u.c.ked ... went and left without me. We had a fight.' She looked at him closely. 'Do I know you?'

'No. It doesn't matter.'

She looked down at her bag. 'I've got to go and find a bus.'

They looked out at the sheeting rain. A piece of newspaper blew raggedly over and over in the wind, taxi drivers struggled with bags in the orange lights of the terminal and a plane roared in over the building, the sound echoing off the walls.

'It's a real storm. Can you not get a taxi?'

She scoffed. 'A taxi. Yeah right. There goes my pay.'

There was a silence.

'You could give me a lift,' she said. She smiled, showing a missing tooth.

'No. Really. I can't really. It wouldn't be ...' He thought of the word. Appropriate. He didn't say it. It wouldn't be appropriate. Or safe. For me.

Her smile died. The wind blew her hair over her face.

'Yeah. Ciao,' she said. She turned and walked away, leaving him twitching his briefcase in his hand. She bent to meet the wind and he saw the rain hit her.

He went back to his car, hesitated, then turned and hurried across the concrete into the road.

'Wait,' he called.

But when he got to her she was annoyed. 'How do you think you know me? Why don't you just say?'

'Let's go back under the roof.' They were getting drenched. He didn't want to touch her but he herded her with his arms outstretched, back under the roof. She stood wet and glaring.