They come from Ngongotahā and Lynmore, from Western Heights and Tarawera, from Koutu, Springfield, Glenholme and Ōwhata. In ones and twos they come to the corner where Tūtānekai Street crosses Arawa, where the white building with its coat of arms and tinted windows sits in a courtyard bordered by kōwhaiwhai-patterned benches.

Some are dropped off. Some catch the bus. A few, like the elderly man in the checked shirt and beige trousers, walk. A tall man with wavy hair leaves his car in the free sixty-minute parking, assuming that will be long enough.

Others pass the pale unblinking gaze of the pou and drive under the Prince’s Gate to the free parking in the Government Gardens, or they choose the patch of dirt where the hospice used to be, where the sulphur smell is strong. An eighteen-year-old walking that way from his Mazda, looking out for the carved warrior with the bowler hat, notices that the mere pounamu another holds is actually a lizard. He pauses, breathes.

Past the brick pub on the corner they come, under the huge sycamore tree that is lit at night by fairy lights. Or they cross the road by the after-hours medical centre, or from the Fat Dog cafe. People mill around in the courtyard, smoking, waiting, hugging; listening to lawyers with oversized briefcases who talk in authoritative, urgent tones. Some walk fast, head down, past these people.

A few recognise familiar faces. One pauses, a hand on an arm: ‘You okay, whaea? What’s the story?’

Others catch up with the person ahead: ‘Do you know where we go?’

‘Have you done this before?’

A blonde woman in heels and a linen jacket glances nervously at the waiting people, avoiding their eyes, checking the colours of their clothes, their tattoos.

One or two mutter swearwords. Many worry about their arrange ments, sending last-minute texts, while a handful, bolstered by experience, stride towards the door; it is a mere inconvenience to them.

A thin man with scraggly facial hair skulks by the planter, flicking ash on the azalea.

Someone talks about duty, another about community service. One has dressed in a suit in the hope of being challenged; others have dressed down in the same hope. A few, like the young woman in the mint green dungarees and the man from the bank, are content— a day away from work. But if it carries on, if they are chosen . . .

‘What’s the pay, anyway?’

‘And what about petrol?’

‘Bus fare?’

‘Lunch?’

‘Child care?’

The self-employed, imagining aggrieved clients and directionless apprentices, consider how to persuade whoever needs persuading of the untenability of their predicament. A few have already tried this on the form; none here succeeded.

A woman in a loose flapping cardigan hovers by the rubbish bin, holding a takeaway coffee.

Another pauses by her. ‘I didn’t think they’d summon me at my age.’

The younger woman twitches a brief smile.

‘Come on, we’ll be in it together,’ says the older woman…

Continue reading the extract here…

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