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Back The Last Guests Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART ONE
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. DEADLY SAS RAID IN AFGHANISTAN UNDER SCRUTINY
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. PART TWO
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. DANIEL MOORE: ‘A SINGLE BLOKE, HAPPY-GO-LUCKY, A BIT OF A DUNCE BUT WITH A GOOD HEART,’ BEST FRIEND SAYS.
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. THIRTY-TWO
  41. THIRTY-THREE
  42. THIRTY-FOUR
  43. THIRTY-FIVE
  44. BREAKING: POLICE CONFIRM DANIEL MOORE ACTED ALONE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. SECOND ARREST MADE IN WESTAY HIDDEN CAMERAS CASE
  50. EPILOGUE
  51. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  52. Discover More
  53. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  54. Also by J. P. Pomare

‘Watch it!’ her husband says. Someone else is there, the bartender gets under Cain’s other arm and we carry him out into the rain all the way to the car.

‘Thanks,’ I mutter to the man’s back as he rushes towards the cover of the dining area. Then to Cain, ‘What’s the matter? How much did you drink?’ But I know how much he had. It was less than a bottle. I get him into the car; rain runs down the back of my blouse, it drips from my nose. By the time I am in the driver’s seat, he is blinking slowly, like a newborn.

He swallows. ‘I’m okay,’ he says. ‘Drank too quickly, that’s all.’

‘No, it can’t be that alone.’

I can look after him, I just need to get him home.

I reach across, buckle him in, then start the car.

SIXTEEN

AS I NAVIGATE through town towards the lake house, the rain thickens, drumming down hard on the roof and bonnet of the car. Blades of water keep passing before the headlights. Cain’s cheek is pressed against the passenger-seat window and his breath casts an amoeba of fog that grows and shrinks on the cool glass. I don’t want to go back to the house, I want to go home to Auckland. Why didn’t I listen to him earlier when he said he wanted to go? Reassured by the soft, rhythmic press of his exhale, I place my hand on his forehead. No temperature. I reach, peel his eyes open. Glance away from the road on a straight. No dilation. He keeps them open for a few seconds, blinking, before closing them again. I take the wheel in both hands. The wine, I realise, is the bottle we left out for the guests. The one they didn’t drink. Could the wine have been bad? Could the wine have been open? We simply handed it to the waiter at the restaurant to open and pour.

The storm is swelling, ratcheting up to a feverish lashing of the car. Whipping across the road. I notice headlights behind me as I begin the ascent over the hill towards the smaller lakes, with the redwood forest sprawling out on one side and farmland on the other. I shouldn’t go any faster in this weather but with the itch of fear, I urge the car on, pressing the accelerator. We reach the summit and descend now. The headlights behind are bright, then off, then bright again. A car flashing me. It gets close, so close I’m forced to flick the rear-view mirror away, to keep the light from blinding me. Still it’s so bright, so close. I squint, my heart pounding. Am I going too slow? Or is it something else? Is it him?