Naya
© 2000 Batian
Please don't modify or put the story on a site without my permission. Thanks.
CHAPTER ONEWell, it was one of those days anyway. You know, the sort where the boss tells you you're a stupid arsehole and you ex-girlfriend rings you to say how much she's enjoying her new life, the landlord is in a shit mood and talking of putting up the rent again and BayCorp want to send you a letter telling you to pay or they'll repo the TV, but they can't 'cause someone's been stealing your mail, and then you get into your car and start the engine and it makes an expensive clunk-clunk-clunk noise all the way home.
That was me. I clunk-clunk-clunked all the way home through the freezing late autumn of a miserable-looking night-time Wellington, noticed the lock had been screwdrivered off the letterbox again, swore, and got out of the car. I was almost disgusted that the door did not fall off, as I'd secretly hoped, when I banged it shut. Instead I hugged my coat against the chilly winds that seemed to blow straight down from the icy frigid stars above, scuffed my shoe through what appeared to be a pawprint left by a simply enormous dog, and shuffled my way to the front door, thinking of what I'd say to the damn neighbours if they now had a dog that barked all night.
And stopped dead.
The drunk had sprawled himself along the darkness of my doorstep. "Oh, fuhcrissakes," I mumbled. That was all I needed. Admittedly I couldn't see him too well, because it was so dark and the outside security light had blown up years ago, but I could have sworn he was nude. Remembering how aggressive some winos can be when they're pissed, I cautiously approached him.
Her.
Bloody hell, I thought. It's a woman.
And a young one at that. Stretched out naked with her back to me, I guessed she couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and when I gently rolled her over so her sleeping face came into view, I reckoned my guess was pretty well right.
Sleeping. There was no smell of booze, and the slow rise and fall of her chest showed she wasn't the victim of some vile homicide. Intrigued, my woes of the day forgotten, I slapped her cheek, trying to rouse her. There was no response. I brushed the tangles of dark hair from her face and gently shook her.
"Hey! Lady! Wake up!"
I thought I heard a sort of "Wrrmmggghhh . . . "
"Come one, this isn't the place to take a nap! Wake up!"
She moved, just a little, and very stiffly. I sighed and fished the keys out of my pocket, unlocked the front door, picked the girl into my arms - she wasn't all that heavy, and I've lifted heavier weights during my training as a paramedic - and booted the door open.
She was hypothermic. My training included that, and I knew what to do. Ignoring the dishes piled in the sink I carried her straight to my bathroom, ran a tub of warm water, and gently lowered the sleeping girl into it, checking that her airway was clear.
Hypothermia. Starkers on a cold autumn night. No wonder she'd passed out! But, as I went back to the kitchen and rattled a few plates around in a futile attempt at starting the washing-up, I had to wonder just what the hell such a pretty woman was doing running around Wellington with no clothes on.
I gave up on the dishes and went back to the bathroom. She was moaning softly now, moving her head at random, her eyes still closed.
I knelt on the floor beside the bath and spoke to her. "Hey, how are you? My name's Joe."
She coughed quietly. I poured more hot water into the bath and splashed it over her body. She was beginning to rouse, slowly.
When her eyelids flickered and opened, showing a pair of clear, pale brown eyes, I smiled and she tried to smile in reply.
"It's okay," I told her. "You're safe now. You nearly died out there, you know."
This time she did smile, rather tensely, and fell asleep in my bath. For some reason, I tiptoed when I went back out to the kitchen.
Later that night, after cooking up some baked beans and mousetraps in the old stove, I piled through my wardrobe, finding, amongst other things, the wallet I thought those kids had stolen six months ago - still with $40 in cash - then went back to the bathroom and slowly lifted her out of the tub. She did not resist when I towelled her dry, and while she mumbled incoherently I got her dressed in my painter's jeans and an old bush jacket that was too big for her. The sleeping-bag I'd found right at the back of the wardrobe, wedged between a busted cassette player and a cat carry-cage, was spread out on my lounge floor and I wrapped her up in it, snug and warm. She came to, properly, exactly an hour later, just as the baked beans were sizzling happily on the stove, and I set down a bowl and spoon for my strange guest.
"Hi. I'm Joe."
"I know. I heard you."
"What's your name?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Where are you from."
"Piss off."
"Where are your clothes? And what were you doing?"
"I don't have to tell you."
I frowned in puzzlement, and, I confess, a bit of pique. "I think you should. I rescued you, after all."
"Piss off. It's none of your business."
"It was my bloody doorstep you were camped out on!"
"So?"
"Have you been raped or something?"
"No!" She almost spat the word, and her accent strengthened, a strange accent I couldn't place. "It is none of your business!
Leave me alone!" Then, as if realising how she was appearing, she softened a little. "I am sorry - Joe. But there are things you do not understand. I am grateful that you helped me so selflessly, but it is important you understand, there are things about me you should not know."
"Are you in trouble with the law?"
She shook her head so defiantly I instantly believed her. "No. No, not at all." A pause. Then, "Something much more than that.You would not understand."
I shrugged. "Okay. Try me."
For a delightful moment I thought she was going to come out with it. But the momentary expression faded quickly and she clamped down again. "No. You would not understand. Please - you have been so kind to me, Joe - but you must let me go."
I sighed. "Okay. But first you'll need to eat something. And will you stay the night until you're fully recovered? My flat ain't much to look at, but it's home."
To my relief she nodded. "Yes." And then pointed a finger. "And no funny business. Okay?"
I laughed at that. "Look, I've had a gutsful of serious relationships ever since my ex dumped me two months ago. I'll even leave the door open if you like."
"The window. Please."
She wasn't joking. The grin on my face faded slightly. "Okay, the window."
She helped herself to the baked beans, and managed a better smile. "Again I am sorry. And thank-you."
Suddenly I twigged. "Your accent - you're Middle Eastern?"
"Yes. Iranian. I come here for - well, a work permit. And peace. Some people in Iran, they do not understand me. They think I am . . . " She paused, and redirected her speech. "Not crazy, but different. Look, do not worry, you are not harbouring a fugitive. I will leave, and you will not hear about me again."
"Okay. But one thing I really, really want to know about you."
She stiffened slightly. "Yes?"
"Your name."
"Oh - that! I am Naya."
"Naya?"
"Naya."
In the middle of the night I woke, rolling over to look at the clock-radio. 2:37 am.
It was a noise that had woken me - a clambering rattle, then a thud. It sounded like someone climbing out the lounge window. I was too dopey to do anything about it, but when I got up next morning I found she had gone - with my clothes, dammit - and that dog had left its pawprints on the open windowsill.
I looked closely. And frowned.
That was no dog. I thought about it, and had to come to the conclusion eventually. I like to think I know one animal from another - after all, I owned a cat, once, and I knew what her pawprints looked like. And so all day next day I wondered, not about where Naya had gone, but what on Earth a full-grown leopard was doing roaming the streets of Wellington.
Despite BayCorp's vulturine eagerness I still had the TV. As usual I dumped my weary carcase on the sofa after work, pushed the power button with the toe of my shoe (neat trick when you've lost the remote), and began to enjoy one of my few secret pleasures - "The Simpson's". Homer puts
together a bowling team which starts winning - until his boss decides to add his inept technique to the team . . .
Exactly on the second ad break something went bump behind me. Damn neighbours, I thought. They had kids that liked to play football up and down their hall, sounding, through my wall, like elephants doing an advanced tapdance routine. One of these days I'd have to get those kids and
talk to them about . . .
Bump!
My senses became more alert. This wasn't the wall diving the two flats. This was the outside wall, the one with the window. Grunting, I stretched out a leg, booted the TV sound off, and got up.
With a caution that seemed slightly out of place I drew the curtain aside and peered out into the night. Muted by nearby streetlights, bright pinpoint stars peered back from a darkness that seemed sultry rather than enigmatic; across the street a lone silver birch swayed gently in the breeze, strobing the stars with its skeletal branches.
Apart from that, the night appeared empty.
Behind me, the Simpsons resumed on the TV, yellow cartoon reflections in the window glass. I sighed, and with reluctant slowness let the curtain fall back, then sat down and kicked the sound back up.
The sudden flood of light from the window terrified me! I jumped up and spun round, snatching the curtain aside. A man with a torch lurked outside, another man nearby. I fumbled the lock up and slammed the window open into the chilly night. "Hey! What the hell are you doing?"
In answer the torchlight swept down and a police card glowed in its strong beam. "You live here?"
"What do you think?"
"We're looking for an escaped leopard. Have you seen anything suspicious around here - um, you know . . . "
"Leopardy?"
"Yes. Anything leopardy?"
"There's a shitload of humungous dogs up the street, mate. If you want to find them, just hang around until two in the morning and you'll hear them have barking competitions. That's the nearest I can do for you."
The cop rubbed his nose with a finger. "What's your name, sir?"
"Joe."
"Okay, Joe. Don't joke about this. We've had reports of a leopard or something looking like a leopard around here last couple of nights. If you see the animal, do NOT approach it and DON'T run. Call us immediately. Stay indoors at night. Keep your doors locked and windows closed. If you have to go out at night carry a torch and keep a good eye out. Okay?"
I nodded and shrugged. "Okay. I'm cool."
"Don't make light of this, Joe. This is a serious situation - the leopard will be hungry, frightened, and extremely dangerous. You see anything, you call us." With that the cop turned and prowled his way through the overgrown lawn of next door's flat, torch at the ready like some sort of weapon - as though shining it at an escaped leopard would make any difference. I shrugged again and swung the window shut. And just as I did the thrum of distant blades beat through the air.
Well, the helicopter wandered around the skies for perhaps an hour, occasionally sweeping the intense blue-white beam of its Nightsun light across lonely outcrops of bushes, shrubs, and the silver birch across the road. It flew away eventually, and I got up, shivered some life back into my tired muscles, and went to pour myself a bath.
Naya. What a strange woman. So pretty, yet seemingly with a screw or two loose, plus perhaps a bolt as well. I kept thinking of how I warmed her frigid body in the bath, how helpless she looked lying there on my doorstep, utterly vulnerable, but also with a quiet strength evident by her aloofness in spite of terror. Somehow, I saw in my mind's eye that this girl had been through a hell she was loathe to speak of . . .
Wrong tense. She was still going through it, whatever it was. She still carried the terror, whatever it was. She still needed help, of some kind: and I couldn't let go of the fact it was MY doorstep she'd lain down on.
Lying in the warming bathwater I laughed, sending ripples spreading out from my body. Was it me that Fate had chosen to help her?
When the water cooled I got out, dried myself, wrapped a towel around my waist, and looked in the fridge for a beer. One can of draught left, and almost the instant my hand touched it somebody knocked on my front door.
For some reason I opened it without any further thought.
"Oh!" Her hand flew up to her mouth, partly hiding a self-conscious grin. I looked down at the towel around my nether area, widened the door, and beckoned her into the flat with a wordless gesture.
"Have they gone?" Her voice was a near-whisper, light, tense.
"Who?"
"The police!"
"I think so. Come in, Naya, you'll freeze out there. Again."
"Sorry I catch you at a wrong time."
"Don't worry about it. I'd just got out of the bath
anyway. Beer?"
She came in, put a hand to my face, and smiled. "I hoped you would be home. I need your car. And shut the door."
"What?"
She reached behind with a motion so incredibly fast I never actually caught it. The door banged shut. "I need your car. Now."
I blinked. "You sure don't waste time with pleasantries, Naya. What do you want with my car? Besides, it's stuffed. The engine mounting's gone."
"Joe, do you understand 'Now'?"
"Naya, do you understand 'Clunk-Clunk-Clunk'?"
"Joe, I have to get away from here!" She swallowed.
The smile was gone as she looked up into my eyes. "You cannot understand why, but I MUST go! Now! Far away!"
"I won't have anything to do with a fugitive from the law!"
Naya turned back on me with an expression so savage that she actually hissed. "You cannot understand! I not run from police! I run to protect people! Your car! NOW!"
"No!"
Stars flashed around me. It was some time before the room stopped spinning - she'd slapped me so fast that I'd never seen it coming.
I realised my mouth was gawping at her like a gaffed fish. For exactly three seconds I stood there. Then I closed my mouth, went to the bedroom, and got my clothes and my car keys, in that order.
"I'll drive." She took the keys from my unprotesting fingers, turned on her heel, and led the way - to the lounge. With a simple push she shoved the window open, looked out into the darkness, and climbed through.
Mesmerised, I followed suit.
She went quickly to where my dented Sentra crouched, her movements fast and fluid, seeming to melt her way through the night rather than merely walk. She flung the door open and got in. I almost expected her to drive off without me, leaving me feeling foolish and rather pissed off with myself. But she got the passenger's door open and twisted the key even as I was climbing into the car.
Naya took off with a roar that nearly drowned the clunk-clunk-clunk and in seconds, so it seemed, was wending her fast and fluid way through the light suburban traffic. I blinked and reminded myself that I had begun tonight quite peacefully before being warned by a police officer
about an escaped leopard, and then being driven - at considerable speed - in my own car by a strange woman who was not on the run from the cops. Given that, I do not blame myself for not being at all surprised when only a few minutes into the drive a large car swung in behind us and began flashing imperious red-and-blue lights at us.
Neither was I terribly astonished when Naya said, "Hold on, Joe - hold tight - " and gunned my car forward.
The cop was good, and ordinarily the puny Sentra would have been no match for his 4.5 litre Commodore. But Naya seemed to have skills that defied the laws of physics: she spun the car and darted down a side street, shot between two piles of rubbish bags, and cannoned out into a
car park, taking the police car on a wild chase around other vehicles backing out of the local liquor store. With reflexes as fast as electricity Naya handled my Sentra between cars and people, flew over a speed ramp, and in seconds was belting down the foreshore that arched across the inlet to Evan's Bay. Rubbish flew as the Commodore wallowed on its suspension; its siren wailed and despite Naya's incredible driving it started to gain on us.
She spun the wheel over. The Sentra bounced over a footpath and belted off across the foreshore. "Joe!" she called over the racing engine. "Open your door and take your safety belt off!"
"What?"
"Do it!"
I did it. She accelerated towards the stony beach - there was a glimpse of city lights reflected on dark water, then she yelled "Jump!" and I jumped.
The car roared and ploughed into the water where it stalled. The police car came after it and sent up a huge shower of spray, but he braked in time. A hand shoved my head down. I realised I was lying in the dense bush that skirted the foreshore.
The cop got out of his car and went forward to investigate my ditched Sentra. Finding it empty he flashed his torch around. He began walking towards us, hiding in the bushes. And then Naya lifted her head into the darkness and opened her mouth.
The long, screaming growl shot across the glistening water, frightening birds that had roosted for the night in the nearby trees and raising the hairs aback my neck. A dozen distant yelps and barks replied from all around.
The policeman spun and darted back into his car. The big engine revved, the tyres spun and spewed water, then they grabbed purchase and off he went, backwards over the footpath. The gears ground as he found first, then with a hefty roar he took off. In seconds, he was gone.
I turned to Naya, and stared. Her lips were drawn right back over teeth that gleamed in the muted city lights, and she was staring into the night with the most ferocious, animal expression I'd ever seen. From her open throat came a soft, deadly hiss. Then, very slowly, the girl relaxed and turned her steady dark gaze on me.
"Joe. You are trapped in my world now. For that I am sorry. But if you follow me, and trust me, all will be set right. Come."
I stood up when she did. Naya moved out onto the footpath; I followed her, and as she walked I marvelled again at the way she melted through - no, into - the darkness that seemed to be her world, of which she'd spoken.
And what was her world?
And who - or what - was Naya?
And what had I gotten myself into with her?
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