At Second Chance Adoption Agency Garth Gleeson was facing his worst ever moral dilemma.

Seemingly Mr Walters was not married to Mrs Walters; this meant not only had Mrs Walters, if that was her real name – which he now realised it almost certainly wasn’t – wilfully signed her name to an improperly filled out a legal document, thereby committing unequivocal fraud, which meant she had illegally obtained the child which was currently residing in her care. Mr Gleeson wasn’t an unreasonable man but nor did he choose to partake in unlawful practises. He understood how much the child meant to Mrs Walters so on that side of the conundrum it would be extremely hurtful to her if he were removed; weighing in on the other side of the argument was the undeniable reality that she lied on a Government document, which, in his opinion, was rather damning stuff.

Garth decided to consider his options over lunch, in the hope his vexation might subside.

 

It wasn’t often that she had the power to leave him genuinely confounded but after that last statement, to her immense delight, he was totally befuddled.

“His real name, hun,” repeated Beth, further smudging her makeup with the back of her hand.

Hearing it a second time did little to shed light on the black patch so Dave did what he did best – “As the no circulars mailbox said to the mailman, ‘I don’t get it’” – and made a joke.

She was enjoying for once having answers that somebody else didn’t: “I’ve discovered our son’s real name, hun,” she struggled to keep from boiling over, “his real name!”

“Yeah, I got that part,” he smiled a confused half grin, “I’m just a little stuck on the … ‘How’ part?”

“Oh my God, you’ll never guess…”

“Clearly.”

“Oh Dave, it was the most amazing thing…”

“Clearly,” he said reversing the intonation this time.

“Oh Dave,” she fell into him, tears of joy cascading from her eyes, her right hand pressing her smiling son against her thigh.

Dave’s smile couldn’t grow any larger than it already was; his cheeks were actually hurting from the strain. “God, I love you, baby girl – and baby boy,” he quickly added, “but Beth, you have to tell me how this happened.”

“OK,” she stepped back and sunk into the couch, pulling their son down with her. “It started at the hair salon just down the road -”

“You mean, Ol’ Smokey’s?” Dave had quickly ducked in behind the breakfast bar to grab a snack, so was out of view of those on the couch.

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Should be – have you smelt that woman’s breath?”

“Right, yes, I did, thank you, Dave, very clever, now, would you like me to continue?”

“Please.”

“So that old battle axe is cutting our son’s hair – this is after insulting both him and I with -”

“Him and me.”

“- After insulting him and me with her bloody bigotry, accusing our sweet boy of having some brain disease like Down’s Syndrome or something -”

“Sorry, when were we gonna hear that story?”

“Oh, yeah, but that bloody swamp-hag, God, she annoyed me … Anyway,” just like that the smile, along with her ebullience, returned, “she’s shaving up the sides, cutting the top, trimming around the ears and that, and you’ll never guess what I found..?”

“We’ve established that already,” came the voice from the behind her, between munches of a stale biscuit.

Beth carefully brought their son up squarely against her stomach while tilting his head over to the right: “Here,” she pointed to an area on the side of his neck.

“Really, Beth?” Dave queried, leaning forward over the bar, “it sounds like you were observing this hair cut from much too close a vantage point – were you complying with OSH regulations, do you think?”

“Yeah, probably not hun, sorry,” said Beth, releasing the boy’s head, “I had to sit there under him while the swamp-hag cut his hair, that’s why I’m all covered in hair.”

“Thought you were just naturally hirsute,” he muttered.

“You’re lucky I don’t know what that means,” she retorted, again tilting their son’s head, “but take a look at this,” she exclaimed.

“What?” Dave was stretched right over the breakfast bar but still couldn’t make out what his girlfriend was showing him.

“For Christ’s sake, Dave,” she scorned playfully, “pull your bloody head in and come around.”

“What is it?” he said as he wandered from the kitchen area to the lounge, “What did you find that was so amazing that it could cause you to cry your cute little eyes out – in happiness?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

“Yeah, but what about the kid?”

“Don’t be a dick Dave, look!” she pointed furiously to a spot just behind the child’s left earlobe.

“What’s that, the mark of the lion – you calling him Leon, or Lionheart or something?”

“Oh, be serious, Dave! This is big! Our son has a name and I found it.”

“Forgive me for not understanding how a simple mark on the side of the kid’s head can reveal half a family tree…”

“But that’s exactly what it reveals!”

 

He had eaten his lunch while pondering the most ethical solution to his dilemma. He didn’t particularly want to devastate such a fine woman as Beth Walters, but nor did he condone illicit practises of any kind. He knew what he had to do.

Garth Gleeson picked up the phone and dialled a number he knew off by heart.

 

It wasn’t that he was disbelieving of her, he just had difficulty understanding how this pigmentation smudge told any kind of story: “How?” Dave queried.

“Look,” Beth’s eyes went to the ceiling as she recollected, “I started working for NZ Airlines in October ninety-two, right, long before you were there…”

“Right.”

“Right … Now, on my very first day, they put me on a long haul from Christchurch to Pyongyang, via Darwin, right?”

“Right.”

“Right … Well there was this guy on the plane, tall guy, dark hair, pretty good looking – nothing like you – and he had a baby…” Beth started to tremble with excitement.

“Right.”

“Right … and this baby was crying, like, it was real young, too young to be on a plane, I think, and it would just not stop crying, and like, the father was hopeless, right, and he was pleading me for help, and you know how much I love babies,” her excitement, her exuberance; her outright glee was palpable as she continued, “so I helped, right?”

“Right.”

“Right … and this baby was Asian, right, like, the father wasn’t but apparently the mother was, and he was so cute, the baby I mean, like, and I just adored this little Asian baby and it was that baby, on that plane, that made me fall in love with cute little Asian babies…”

“I think we’ve gone off track,” despite the comment, Dave was beginning to connect the storyline and had to admit, he was feeling the excitement.

“No, we haven’t, you see, because that Asian baby on the plane, he had a birthmark, right behind his left ear, just like this Asian baby-boy, and that Asian baby’s name…” She trailed off, suddenly experiencing doubt over what she knew to be true.

“Coincidence..?

“No, it can’t be, Dave, it’s fate … Fate has brought me the baby that I fell in love with on that plane over ten years ago … It has to be, Dave, I swear it…” Beth dissolved into a mess off streaky makeup and dribbling tears, nuzzling her face into the neck of innocent little baby Kahn.

The phone started to ring.

 

 

Despite how it might look I’m sure not all of the United States Police Department are bigoted rednecks.

Around once a week now for a number of months the rest of the world has been alerted to another ‘White cop shoots dead Black man’ scenario – but surely there’s more to the story than just what the US media are allowing us to see..?

According to the media each of the fallen men was unarmed; yet the shooting has usually involved some sort of prior physical altercation.

According to the media each of the fallen men posed no threat to the apprehending officer; yet each man had a, in many cases sizable, criminal record, often for violence, and in fact the majority of these victims had had warrants issued for their arrest.

According to the media if these men had not been shot by the police they would have been at home that night with their families; curious that most US news reports at the time seemed to breeze over the fact that the victims of these recent shootings, as well as many already being on the run from the law, had all been in the process of committing a crime.

Therefore the question must be asked: is shooting someone dead in the street a reasonable reaction to the committing of a crime?

Certainly not, but to all the wives of all the victims of apparent brutality, or even death, at the hands of police, claiming that you are now the victim of race-crime is similarly unreasonable.

Best way I can see to stop Black men dying at the hands of White cops, they need to stop committing crimes.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Reed Nick Coop-Pier

Photography by O Fen Dyre

New Zealand Police are once again fielding complaints of inspiring riots.

The same kind of accusation seems to be taking place almost every time the poor buggers intervene anywhere nowadays – the people who the police are there to bring under control invariably maintain that there was no issue until the authorities showed up; these youthful idiots will always claim that their party was under control and would never have become out of control, had the boys in blue just left them be…

From my perspective, it’s clear to see that once police or other authority figures encroach on an otherwise uncontrolled youth binge-drinking session partakers of said event are inclined to become deliberately stupid, intentionally difficult; pointlessly recalcitrant and senselessly truculent.

…From the partygoer’s perspective, the fact that their once intimate gathering now has over two hundred guests, of whom the identities of most are unknown, is incidental; the fact that the majority of those guests have spilled out of the property and are now filling the surrounding street is just what happens – it’s how it goes…

I can fully understand the youthful position on the matter: ‘It’s our party, we’re not hurting anybody, so why don’t you just leave us alone?’

…Ideally a party is restricted to a house or, in many cases, that house’s backyard. It’s when a private party starts taking up public space that the issues begin; it’s when that private party starts interfering with the lives of public citizens that the issues become compounded; it’s when public areas are left awash with litter and debris, when property is desecrated and vandalised that the issues require some level of legal intervention.

In a recent occurrence of the aforementioned, uncontrolled, revelry I chuckled at the ringleader’s hackneyed and oh-so-predictable comments: “We were havin’ a great time, there was no problem ‘til the cops showed up…”. I then watched as the television camera flicked through the rest of the rental property. Every window was smashed, most every wall had holes kicked in it, with every remaining portion of intact wall now covered in graffiti.

As the story ended and the face of the aggrieved teen drifted away, I recall thought/mumbling: “Interesting … If that pack of reprobates weren’t out of control until the cops turned up, they sure as hell did a lot of damage after the cops turned up.”

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Col Pa Bull

Photography by Dick Eade

Following a practically worldwide prohibition of synthetic cannabis and other varieties of ‘legal high’, a number of New Zealand youth are now coming forward claiming to have become ‘hooked on the stuff’.

Since the advent of legal highs in the early 2000s – a supposedly innocuous cannabis substitute to an already largely innocuous drug, where instead of growing a plant naturally scientists would concoct the product in a laboratory to then be sold and smoked, pushing the theory that the synthetic version contained none of the active ingredient found in genuine cannabis and with no THC, was therefore not addictive – these products quickly became a favourite among New Zealand’s younger population.

Here’s where it becomes confusing. Try measuring ‘a favourite pastime’ against ‘a vital requirement’.

The question needs to be posed to these so called addicts: “For what reason do you maintain you are addicted to synthetic cannabis?”

The answer would likely be something along the lines of: “Well shit, because I want it real bad, like, I can’t do without the stuff.”

“And what do you mean exactly when you say, ‘I can’t do without the stuff’?”

“Well, like, I crave it real bad and like, it’s all I can think of and that, it’s like, I can’t get away from it…”

“Right, and what do you think would happen if your supply was cut off completely, that is, if synthetic cannabis was no longer available to you?”

“Oh, reckon I’d go insane, eh.”

“You think the cravings would be that bad..?”

“Oh for sure, like, I need the stuff, eh, calms me down and that – start shaking real bad if I don’t get my fix, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Have you tried occupying your mind with something else?”

“What? Nah, I can’t eh, like, herbals are all I can think about.”

“Because you afford yourself the time to think about it..?”

“Yeah, well nah, because like, I need it, you know?”

“No, I don’t. You cannot resist thinking about it because you want it so badly, yes?”

“For sure.”

“You want it so badly because you love doing it so much, yes?”

“Oh, for sure man.”

“So if you couldn’t do it anymore, given how much you enjoy it, you would miss it terribly, yes?”

“Yeah man, that’s what I’m saying.”

“What I’m saying then, is grow up. You are not a child. Accept that some pleasures cannot last. Your addiction is a joke. You want it so badly that you are unwilling to accept its departure. Move on. Find something else. A productive way of occupying your time. Something fun, something good. That’s what us humans do – we compensate.”

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Buddy

Photography by C A Buff

 

The word ‘parity’ has been bandied about a lot of late; seemingly the majority of New Zealand have become enamoured with the idea of our dollar’s value being matched with Australia’s, but do we really understand what this would mean?

For as long as I can recall the New Zealand/Australia rivalry has been intensely battled; as a Kiwi I am aware of the ridiculous desire to match our Aussie counterparts in practically every facet of life, while perhaps ironically, maintaining our total independence from them at all costs.

Admittedly on the surface parity between the NZ and Australian dollars does sound pretty awesome: Australian products effectively become cheaper and a quick trip across the Tasman becomes that much more affordable; but what about those people trying to make a living, what about fiscally – what about reality? Realistically, the higher the NZ dollar goes against the Australian, or in fact the rest of the world, the more our exporters suffer…

That’s business and who really cares about that, right?

Right. So what about your blessed independence then? If the Kiwi dollar does reach parity with the Aussie, implying that our economy is equally as robust as that of our comrades across the ditch, and the currencies are amalgamated, as has been widely discussed with a great deal of (ignorant) excitement, the question remains, do we actually understand what that would mean?

Sure, wages would have to be adjusted – in some cases up – but then so would taxes – in most cases up – so would commodity prices along with the cost of living; so would benefits along with every other financial aspect this new joint currency would encounter. Millions of dollars would likely be spent on printing a different range of Kiwi/Aussie banknotes; travel between the two nations would become tantamount to a commute then suddenly, why even bother having two separate nations – why not build a bridge and just make them the same land? Honestly, who needs independence anyway? Let’s just call it ‘New Trailia’ and be done with it…

Is that what all you parity-lovers really want?

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ozzy Ocher

Photography by Dingo Stahlma Bebe

Mother and son were out for a stroll one cool, clear winter’s afternoon when they wandered by a hair salon. At the time of the North Korean Horror Story captives’ liberation, every child involved had worn the same, hair shaven to the scalp, hairstyle. At the time that Unspeak had joined the Walters family it had grown out by a few millimetres but was still basically an unstylish crew-cut. Now, as Beth gazed upon the beautiful black pate of her only child and back up to the hairdressers’ window, she knew what had to be done. They strode inside and up to the counter. A middle aged woman who was not willing to let her youth slip by without a fierce battle took a break from washing a customer’s hair and slid in behind the desk, smiling at Beth, who without hesitation, asked: “Hi, can my boy have a haircut today without an appointment?”

The stylist performed a cursory assessment of the woman standing before her: tight body, natural blonde, good makeup, hair done nice; very attractive. Her son: stupid little Asian kid whose father is clearly punching above his weight. “Yeah, I could do him,” the woman said in a tone devoid of emotion, while puffing thick smokers’ breath all over Beth’s face, “if you don’t mind waitin’ for a bit.”

“That’ll be fine, thank you,” said Beth, “although, ah, how long is ‘a bit’ in this case?”

“Well I gotta do this chick here first, that’s all, so what’s that, ‘bout, half an hour?”

“That’s fine thanks, we’ll wait.”

“OK, just take a seat and I’ll be right wif ya,” she said before ducking back behind her bedraggled customer.

Beth and her son sat on a sofa and, to Unspeak’s unspeaking delight, started a game of ‘touches’. The boy’s smile, his giggles, and soon his sweet laughter, were a greater reward for the job of simply being a mum than she could ever have imagined. She loved the boy more than life itself and was eternally grateful for the opportunity she had been given.

The next thing, the hairdresser was summoning Unspeak to the chair. Beth stood and led the way. When they reached the chair she gestured for the boy to climb atop the swivelling leather behemoth. Unspeak was unsure. Beth apologised to the impatiently waiting woman and demonstrated to her son how it should be done. Unspeak was still unsure. Beth tried physical encouragement, actually pushing the lad towards the chair; this only made him defiant. Finally the hairdresser proposed that Beth take a seat on the chair, cradling the boy between her legs. In truth she had already considered this option but had really wanted Unspeak to do it alone. Nevertheless, with her arms around her son, shepherding him as she moved, Beth slowly stepped into the big chair, pulling Unspeak up onto her lap.

“What’s he got?” whispered the middle-aged woman once the two were in position.

“I beg your pardon,” Beth answered, genuinely shocked.

“I mean, is he, Down’s Syndrome, Cerebral Palsy, or what?”

“Excuse me,” Beth clenched her teeth, “my son is none of the above, thank you very much.” She took a moment to compose herself before asking, “Have you ever heard of the North Korean Horror Story?”

“Oh yeah,” said the woman in a conspiratorial tone, “bloody awful that was, those poor little Asian bas…” she trailed off as realisation struck her.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Beth said with conviction. “Today, we would like a number two around the sides and back, blended in with just a little off the top – just a nice trim, that’s all.”

“Lovely…” was all Beth heard as the clippers started up only centimetres from her face.

 

The phone started ringing as he pulled into the driveway. He opened the car door, heard the shrill tone, thought, not this time, grabbed his work satchel; dashed to the front door. He was inside shortly thereafter. He had the button pressed and the phone to his ear just in time: “Yes! … Please.”

“Mr Walters,” said the oddly theatrical tone, “seven rings, good heavens, I was starting to worry.”

“No no, Mr, ah, Gleeson, just doing my bit for the nation.”

A facetious chuckle ensued: “And how, may I ask, are you, ‘doing your bit’, for the nation?”

“Well sir, you see, I fly the good buggers of New Zealand wherever they want to go.”

“At a price, I’m sure.”

“At a very reasonable price, I’m sure.”

“Mr Walters, how glad I am that you are not making your living in marketing.”

“Yeah, that’d be a push wouldn’t it – what was the reason for your call today, Garth?”

“Oh, first name basis, are we now, Dave?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, Dave, I was, in fact, calling to check how your relationship was progressing with our boy – what’d you finally call him?”

“Oh, shit, actually, we called him, ‘Unspeak’, you know, short for, The Unspeaking child, you know, because we thought that one was a bit long – but that’s just until we come up with a real name … You see, Garth, my girlfriend’s got this phobia of calling a kid a name, then having to change it, that’s all, so she wants to do it right the first time, you see?.”

“How admirable, for your, girlfriend, Mr Walters, and she is indeed right, it can prove very traumatic for a child to have to go through repeated name changes and such forth.”

“Yeah, well that was her thinking, anyway … I tell you what though, Garth, she and the little one, they are just inseparable, I mean, she truly loves him, just as if she was the real birth parent – you know, if I were an Asian dude, I would swear it was her child.”

“And what about you, Dave, how’s the relationship there – being that you’re not ‘an Asian dude’?”

“Yeah, honestly, Garth, we’re not that tight – but only because I’m so seldom home when the kids awake – but that Beth, I tell you what, she is truly amazing with him.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Dave, so tell me, what are you doing about the boy’s education?”

“Ah, no problem there either, Beth has become Unspeak’s personal tutor and -”

“Yes, that name does have a certain ring to it, you were right – just be sure to amend it before too long … Sorry, what were you saying about your wife – your girlfriend’s tutelage?”

“Oh, she is devoting every waking minute to the lad, it’s amazing to see.”

“Even though you’re seldom around to see it..?”

“Oh … Well what I do see is fantastic and what I hear – from Beth I mean – is just … Transcendent.”

“’Transcendent’,” Garth appeared to be taking notes, “and what about the lad’s personal progress – how is he coming along?”

“Oh, Garth, you would be impressed – Beth’s taught him about all the hygiene stuff, how to take care of himself and that, she’s taught him how to eat properly, and she’s even working on teaching him table manners…”

“What about language, Dave, how’s he coming with that?”

“Well, Garth, I haven’t spoken to him personally, but Beth tells me he’s really coming along – making our temporary name just a little outdated.”

“Yes, a boy of his maturity, I would expect basic speech sounds in the first two or three weeks – do you read to him, Dave?”

“As I said, Garth, I’m not usually home when the kid’s up so I don’t, but I know Beth has come into a cache of kid’s books from somewhere, and I know she reads to him about six hours a day.”

“That’s very good to hear, reading to children is the most effective way to enhance speech patterns … It sounds like you and your, girlfriend, are doing very well then.”

“Yes, thank you, we are.”

“Finances, child supplies, additional support, is anything like that you need help with?”

“No, actually, being in a working relationship with no kids for so long, we’re financially pretty right, thank you.”

“Well, Mr Walters, I am very glad to hear that and on that note, I shall bid you good day.”

“Nice one, Mr Gleeson.”

 

She and her son arrived home shortly before evening and the onset of a bitter south easterly chill. There was something remarkably different about them both. The child’s freshly cut hair made him look like a proper little gentleman but it was Beth, who was truly changed.

“Oh no, my little baby girl,” seeing the streaked mascara he knew something had happened. “What’s the matter?” he asked in his best consolatory tone.

As if that was her cue she hung her head and started crying again.

Dave moved closer, glancing over her shoulder at their son who seemed oblivious to this apparent devastation. He kissed Beth’s cheek and brought her in for a cuddle; it was then that he saw the grin. “Alright, what’s going on?” he asked with a smirk, leaning away from Beth and casting a sideways gaze at her, “Who’s havin’ a laugh – who’s pullin’ the piss on ol’ Davie?”

“No, no one’s pulling the piss, hun,” she whispered between residual sobs, “they’re good tears, not bad ones.”

“Oh,” said Dave, feeling a little silly, “forgive me for not being able to distinguish.”

“I’ll forgive you, honey bun, because, guess what, our son has a name.”

“You didn’t even give me time to guess,” he muttered, still mildly confused.

“Guess what it is then..?” she prompted.

“Shit, I dunno, what’d ya pick for ‘im – Bruce – no it was Robbie, wasn’t it?”

“Nope,” she said with a playful grin, “this is our son’s name … His real name.”

 

 

I killed one of them today. He got too close so I had to kill him. I killed the little yellow bastard. It was bad when he started chattering like a monkey, so I had no choice, I had to kill him. Then I realised how good it felt. Then I realised this is how it has to be. I have to kill all of them. I just need to work out where I’m gonna put them cos this ones already starting to stink up the joint.

 

Still keeping the pride, K.

Generally speaking, low income workers earn low incomes because their jobs require little or no prior training.

Conversely, high income workers earn high incomes because they have usually spent a number of years, along with tens of thousands of dollars, training to gain skills which qualify them to earn the higher incomes that go with their respective positions.

To hear idiots moaning about the so called ‘wage gap’ in the New Zealand employment market is nothing short of ignorant; of course there’s a wage gap, that’s because some people don’t deserve to be paid as much as others. To hear those same idiots complaining that the minimum wage is too low is similarly ignorant; it’s low because minimum wage workers don’t usually require skills or, more to the point, training, to do what they do.

Nevertheless, once more, John Key has succumbed. The minimum wage has again been raised. Hallelujah, some ignorant workers might say; about time, other dickheads might chime in…

I’ll keep it simple for the aforementioned ignoramuses. Listen up. The Government does not pay your wages. Really, the Government has no right to say how much employers should pay employees; it’s nothing to do with the Government. Look at it like this. If an employer has to pay a minimum wage increase of $10,000 annually, that’s $10,000 by which that company or small business must increase its profit margin each year. For bigger companies this is probably fine, they can likely absorb the shortfall, but for smaller businesses, just starting out and looking to employ unskilled labour on the cheap, a surplus of ten grand a year could well amount to an impossible task.

All that you complaining minimum wagers are effectively doing, as well as crushing the chances of small business in New Zealand, is increasing the overall unemployment rate as companies, at the new legally binding minimum wage, simply, cannot afford to employ as many staff as they once could.

Nice one guys.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Mini Hungary

Photography by Mel Ling-Gerr

Interesting that at a time where half the nation is busy deriding the New Zealand Government for not providing adequate job opportunities, a similar or perhaps the same group of querulous onlookers is doing what it can to stymie production of oil exploration off the coast of the aforementioned nation.

The fact is that if oil is discovered in any sort of quantity in or around New Zealand, the requirement for employment across all related fields – which are many – will become immediately abundant; yet it seems the nation’s unemployed would rather spend their valuable time on the streets protesting about all thing progress, despite the reality that these progressions could well be the solution to their vocational woes.

I don’t know who it was that ever maintained protesting was a viable form of employment but they ought to be shot. It seems that while the genuine workforce is busy being productive, the unemployed would rather take to the streets to voice their objections, grievances and respective hardships; irrespective of the glaringly counterproductive or contradictory nature of these complaints.

Go figure.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Con Trey-Dikshun

Photography by Black Gold Productions

He was even bigger up close; the small boy trailing him even smaller. Garth’s giant paw totally enveloped the boy’s hand as they stepped into the house. He looked into the eyes of each resident, smiled warmly, motioning for them to go further inside the house. Immediately understanding the need for silence, both Dave and Beth remained speechless. Garth confidently led the way and as though he knew the exact layout of the house, made his way through to the lounge and took a seat; indicating that the young child should do the same. Garth then returned slowly to his feet, signalling to the boy to remain seated. He moved slowly towards the couple who stood a few metres back. Garth Gleeson then spoke to them in such a low tone that the gravelly, raspy nature of his voice took on the quality of cool wind breezing over tussocks. “Mrs Walters,” he shifted his attention to Beth, “shall I assume you’ve had time to relay the information I gave you, to your husband,” his eyes flicking in Dave’s direction.

Beth visibly froze. “Oh no,” she squeaked.

Mild frustration mingled with Garth’s ruddy features as he turned focus to Dave: “I’ll be brief” – Dave wondered if that would be true – “this boy may or may not have been one of North Korea’s many abducted babies of last century, he has no name, no history, we estimate his age anywhere from eight to thirteen years’ old, we don’t believe he has any education to speak of, he might as well be a newborn,” at this point Garth stopped to gaze lamentably at the child. The boy stared straight back. Garth continued: “He is a clean slate, having never experienced any of life’s comforts, everything he sees is a new experience, that said, he will be prone to overstimulation, his first sighting of the outside world was only days ago, while in the conditioning camp we imagine he was subject to terrible abuse, torture and likely many other forms of inflicting pain, so understandably, he is scared of everything … And I mean everything,” Garth paused to stare into the eyes of his audience as if conveying the remainder of his thoughts telepathically. “Be very careful,” he went on, “very careful indeed, we don’t know exactly what kind of person he has become, but if you still wish to rescue him, Mr and Mrs Walters, Second Chance Adoption will provide any extra assistance you might need – be it financial or otherwise – and are even willing to periodically check in on your progress, should you request this service,” once more Garth’s dark eyes bored into the souls of his onlookers, “otherwise, Mr and Mrs Walters, I would like to extend my own personal gratitude for what you are doing today, and please know that the Second Chance Adoption Agency could not be more grateful.” With that he cautiously spun back around to the small boy on the sofa, who had not taken his eyes of the two strangers throughout the giant’s entire speech, and extended his hand. The boy tentatively placed his smaller hand in it and allowed himself to be pulled up. “Mr and Mrs Walters, it took some time to earn this level of trust but just talk quietly to him, if he likes you, hell respond.”

Dave shuffled forward and extended his hand the way Garth had done. The boy shuffled in behind the giant legs, treating them as though they were his fortress; peering out from between the monstrous pillars. “Oh,” cooed Beth, “you gorgeous little boy, you’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

Still in hiding the child’s eyes nervously flicked from Beth to Dave and back again. “One of you, step back,” Garth suggested. Dave fell back.

“Who’s my little sweetheart,” whispered Beth, steadily moving closer and crouching down to the boy’s height. The child appeared to be fighting a battle of instincts: his immediate urges compelled him to touch, to caress and to breathe this beautiful creature; his primal urges, the urges developed through a lifetime of abject hardship, compelled him to stay away. “You’re my little sweetheart, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Beth said in a playful tone. The boy stared back from between the giant’s legs; then he slid across to peer around the side. Beth extended her right arm, revealing the backs of long, slender fingers on an immaculately manicured hand. The young child stared at the hand, transfixed. Beth slowly rotated it until it was palm up. She beckoned. The boy’s left hand ever so slowly appeared from behind him; his eyes met Beth’s. She smiled as the warmth of his fingers touched hers. She started to weep. The boy moved closer, his eyes on hers. Tears formed rivulets over her cheeks. The boy looked confused and began to raise his other arm. Beth smiled and felt moisture trickling over her upper lip. The small North Korean child touched her cheek with the fingers of his left hand. Beth sniffed the moisture back up just as the boy collapsed into her, his left hand still on her cheek, his right arm now around her neck; as he tightly clung to his new mother.

Standing in the background, even Dave felt a pang of poignancy.

Over an hour after pulling up in the driveway, having imparted to the new parents all the knowledge they would need to know about raising an orphan boy from the underbelly of North Korea, the yellow Commodore drove to the end of their street and indicated left. Dave watched Garth go, still in a state of disbelief at just how wrong his projected perception of the giant had been; never again would he allow a telephone conversation to influence his impression of a person.

Beth, meantime, was in a state of perpetual glee and could see no reason that she should ever be sad again. Gath had warned her that there was a possibility that the union would fail and for that reason, she should approach the relationship exhibiting emotional restraint; in other words, she wasn’t to name, or to allow herself to fall hopelessly in love with, the child. Alas, from the first time he had reached forward and touched her face she was besotted with the child; now, kneeling on the carpet playing a silly game of who can touch who in whatever place before the other touches back, with no objective, no rules and no way to win, Beth was experiencing a kind of glorious kinship that she had never before known.

She loved this unspeaking child without a name; Dave loved how happy that unspeaking child made his dearly beloved.

 

As promised, she became a full time, stay at home mum. He had expected there would be unwillingness to keep the promise but no, Beth intended to devote her complete self to providing a life for the unspeaking child.

With each passing day the chances of the ‘union failing’ became slimmer; as the pair had never truly had the ‘baby name’ discussion, they had no idea what this child should be called. Beth’s apparently ‘mortal fear’ of giving a child a name only to later discover they had named the child improperly or inappropriately, prompted them to hold off until they’d each had ample time to consider the task; having seen the child prior to the name being delivered, they could appreciate, put them in a peculiar position but they agreed, it could only be a good thing. Until then, “The unspeaking child’ was popular as the temporary fix, which was quickly abbreviated to just ‘Unspeak’.

Weeks passed with Beth growing ever more attached to Unspeak; the unspoken bond of understanding between the two was remarkable: it seemed that whatever thoughts she entertained or emotions she’d project the boy would, in his way, replicate, or reciprocate. She recalled Garth Gleeson’s words regarding the ‘permeable nature’ of a young child’s mind; moreover when the aforementioned youngster has spent life hitherto in captivity, and while she wasn’t certain about the word ‘permeable’, she did think that when it came to information, the boy was rather like a sponge. Beth took it upon herself to become Unspeak’s private tutor and soon found herself learning almost as much as the boy must have been. She procured picture books, toys and other child-orientated paraphernalia from women in her NZ Airlines clique, then spent almost every waking hour reading and talking about nothing in particular to the captivated child. She took him for long walks around their neighbourhood in an effort to inure him to the rudimentary sounds of life. It took a long time but eventually, Beth noted, Unspeak wasn’t so scared anymore. She had even shown him how to turn the handle to open the front door of the house, put on his footwear and walk down the garden path to collect the morning post. Beth was no expert on child intellect, but if an inquisitive nature and an unrelenting desire to learn were anything to go by, this young boy was going to grow up to be very clever indeed.

Dave had been putting forward his ideas for possible names for days now, insisting that in order to properly relate to a boy, a real name by which to address him is surely of importance. She did have to agree, although in fairness, she had grown fond of ‘Unspeak’ – the name even sounded Korean. No, in fairness to the boy it had to go – if they didn’t hand down a proper name soon the poor lad would never be able to comprehend his latest form of address; besides, he was now uttering the odd word, rendering ‘Unspeak’ a patent misnomer.

Bruce, Jack, and Robert were Dave’s first choice trio; Beth preferred Daniel, Samuel, or Robin. They were set to compromise with Robbie, and that would probably have been the end of it, if it hadn’t been for the haircutting episode.

 

Amazing how the world appears to slow down whenever a major event is upon us.

Think back to Kate and William’s recent visit, think how much there was going on in the world prior to that moment, think how much domestic controversy there was at the time; think how once they arrived everything just seemed to calm down. Suddenly when you turned on the evening News the world was devoid of conflict; the nation similarly bereft of any sort of discord.

Once the royals turn up they’re all a viewer sees or hears. Same can be said for the rugby union world cup, to a lesser extent the rugby league world cup and, most recently, the cricket world cup. While these events are in play, ostensibly, nothing else matters.

In a similar vein was the Ebola crisis: when this first hit the news one would have been forgiven for thinking it was a global pandemic; of course once that story had grown old, allowing something else to take priority, that same person might have imagined Ebola had been miraculously cured across West Africa and it was no longer a worldwide threat at all.

Makes me question the significance of the usual display of sensationalised and presumably hyperbolic content – if it can be pushed aside to make way for whatever’s fashionable at the time then I have to wonder how serious it was to begin with. Of course as a viewer the presenter will have you believe it’s all very important and should take utmost priority…

Providing nothing better is happening.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Thomas Mackey

Photography by Michael Robertson