Short Story
Laura had been worried all day about crashing the car – the last time she’d driven Monica, she’d overtaken a cyclist on a blind rise and Monica had flinched, anticipating the crunch of a head-on collision that would ricochet the oncoming car against the Frida Kahlo mural on the concrete retaining wall. The mural was primitive, done by a midnight gang with no council mandate. Ian Curtis’s death date was up there too, and either someone continued to touch up the paint, or it had everlasting properties. Why were people in Wellington so fixated on Ian Curtis’s death? Other people had suicided subsequently. Kurt Cobain, Robin Williams, Antony Bourdain. There were no retaining walls near where she lived and the hill crumbled, cascaded, little slumps of ochre rock strewing the road. There was also a sign, warning drivers about low-flying kereru, but the last time she’d biked up the hill, she saw a wood pigeon on the road, its wings iridescent green and blue, scarlet blood starbursting its head. It was the first time she’d seen one with its eyes shut....