Speaker by Various Artists


Unknown Places: The Bach (Awhitu Peninsula)

by Anna Matheson

There’s an old yellow bach at Hudson’s beach with a rusty green roof and blue window frames. Aloe vera, flax, and pink flowers grow under the deck. There are feijoas, mandarins, and lemons growing in the  backyard and two Norfolk pines tower over the roof. A bookcase is full of picture books like Peter Pan and Robert the Rose Horse. Guess Who, Monopoly, and five decks of cards sit in a pile. Splotches of blue paint stain the golden carpet, names in pencil mark the wooden door frame by the kitchen and mismatched crockery fills the kitchen cupboards.

If you look past the rusty roof and chipping paint, you might see fairies dancing under flower beds, and treasure glistening in the sand. 

You might see a girl with knotty, blond hair and missing front teeth, singing in the shade of the Norfolk pines. You could let her make you lemonade with oranges and grapefruit. Then she’d teach you how to ride down the hill on a rusty bike without fear, carry towels down the hill just as high tide says goodbye, and to swim in that tide like a mermaid.

She’d teach you to smile in your muddy t-shirt, faded blue shorts and matted hair, tangled with leaves. How to crash her brother’s four-wheeler into the side of the bach, to camp in the backyard telling ghost stories with cousins, and climb to the top of Crab Rock, without wondering how to get down. 

She’d take you by the hand and teach you to swim in the middle of winter without feeling the cold. How to catch fish and hold them up by their wet, slimy lips; how to jump off rocks without looking down. She’d show you how to find crabs under rocks at low tide, and climb the tree in her neighbour’s  backyard; how to toast marshmallows on the bonfire, draw pictures with sparklers and play spotlight late into the night.

As summer passes her hair would grow longer, her skirts would get shorter and her two front teeth would appear. She’d teach you to cry over boys who don’t love you, and to speak with a voice so soft it floats away with the waves. She’d teach you to swim again, only this time, conscious of your body in your bikini; how to apply black mascara, and straighten your wild, curly hair. She’d teach you to roll your eyes at your mother, waste hours at the beach scrolling through your phone, and to gaze in the mirror, noticing every imperfection. She’d teach you to lie to yourself, to sneak gin from your parents’ liquor cabinet and to complain that the bach is too far away from the city’s bright lights.




Today, the pale yellow bach doesn’t feel magical. Maybe everything looks magical when seen through a child’s eyes. Or maybe love mutes our senses, making us blind to the cracks on the walls and the sand in the sheets, and deaf to the airplanes which fly overhead in the night.

The new owners have taken the garden out, pulled off the railing around the deck, and painted the window frames white. Other than that, it’s still the same sixties bach with a rusty green roof and a light blue door.

The bach made time stand still, but my childhood years have passed and I’m not the same girl I was then. All of that time washed away the second the new owners held the keys. And with it, the girl who found fairies in flower beds, believed her legs were a tail and ran around with twigs in her hair, she washed away too. I’m no longer the girl that ran barefoot on the prickly grass, saw pictures in clouds, and wrote songs in the shade of the Norfolk pines.

But if you look hard enough, you can still find traces of her. She’s hiding in the hole in the side of the bach. Her name still marks the wooden door frame, and the back of a crumpled Monopoly dollar. You might even find her hiding in my eyes, when I make a sarcastic remark, or see her hanging from a curl in my hair.

I miss this place, it’s true. And I miss that little girl I left behind.

This is a chapter from Unknown Places, a collection of short stories about Auckland by undergraduate creative writing students at Manukau Institute of Technology published here this week. The published stories are:

The Crescent (Otara)

Unknown Places: Queens of K Road (Central)

Gravel Lot (Mangere)

Names in Stone (Waiuku)

The Bach (Awhitu Peninsula)

 Armageddon (Greenlane)


Heroes of the Recovery

by Greg Jackson

They can be heroes, day after day …

There’s another story in the ruins and rebirth of post-quakes Christchurch for me at seven years on from February 22, 2011.


The villains have had a good workout. We all have our own list. The crooks, the cons, the shysters high and low – all in their own slimy way “here to help with the rebuild”.

Then there are the people who have inspired and sustained us through to the other side where you are settled in insurance terms and deeply, profoundly unsettled in yourself.

I’ll kick off with on the day in our fourth floor central city office, where when the Feb 22 biggie rocked us metres out of plumb some of the staff’s first thought was to open a window to let in the poor bastards outside on the scaffolding.

Scaffolding from the repairs post the September quake that had just been signed off by a man and a woman. They looked white even for Christchurch when we let them in. Never saw them again.

Then my colleague Nick Clarke, who had been trained in disaster response, motored off down the stairs and across the road to start pulling out the maimed and others from collapsed buildings across the road.

Within days, he and I set up shop co-ordinating the international aid groups who flew in under the media radar. We set up a collective NGO shop to help our shattered city. I’d had a crash course in disaster communication the year before in Haiti, running media and political advice for the boss of one of the world’s largest aid and development groups.

I kept the day job too: running on so much adrenalin it took months to work out one knee was badly buggered getting out of town after the quake.

It’s easy now to forget that the ground just kept shaking all the time. Pretty much hourly.

Soon after the phones got reliable again, I heard from Christchurch’s supreme networker and facilitator, Garry Moore, who now suffers under the ex-Mayor title for the rest of his mortal days. His house was stuffed and his business interests in inner city bars were the same. But being Garry he had a few side projects on the go.

“You really need to talk to Gerard Smyth the movie guy, he‘s got some amazing film coming in right from the day on and he needs a hand to put the story together,” was the gist of it.

Indeed he had – and being Gerard, he too just kept going from his creative base inside what had then become the red zone.

I helped out with the development for what became the best quake film that ever will be, When A City Falls.

Some days we would be bouncing around the floor of my cottage less than 1km from the Port Hills fault, clutching our laptops through the aftershocks, spurred on to the tight, tight launch deadline by the Irish incentive, a chorus of it “can’t be done” from others.

He made it. At the premiere every time the sound of a big quake coming in boomed out you could feel all the locals hunching up. Sharon was holding hands with a senior Civil Defence guy to help them both keep it together.

If you ever want to see what it was like here, buy the movie.  It’s truthful.

Some of the film in it was taken right after the quake hit and Gerard hit the inner city streets, using a camera whose half-broke lens had to be held on by hand.

There was an urgency to telling that story, but at that time the day to day storytelling was being done locally superbly by the Press newspaper under then-editor Andrew Holden.

They lost their building and several staff. They took hits physical and mental, but just kept going.

So there’s another hero shout-out.

Nationally, the truth tellers of the Christchurch quakes were what Campbell Live was then. Even after the murky demise of that superb show on TV3, John Campbell and producer Pip Keane stayed right on the case for Christchurch, through quakes, floods and fire. They still are. Even the latest case of flood danger this week.

As the quake aftermath kept unfolding we tried to keep it together for our family, ranging in age from still-young sons through to my parents in the throes of early dementia.

I found out my knee had torn cartilage but it took a year to navigate through the maze of ACC and Southern Cross. It was Southern Cross who finally broke the Catch 22 standoff between private insurance and ACC and got me the op.

The day I got the first diagnosis I stopped off in my old Brighton hood to get some anti-inflammatory stuff from the chemist. They told us about their February quake experience. “And then the stock just flew off the shelves,” the receptionist said, just as a magnitude 6 hit and it all happened again. The shop is closed now and the South Brighton block of shops it was in is gone.

We worked in a holiday a year or so later with damaged immune systems, which was not so good an idea. We got a virus and all got sick. It has never totally gone away.

One of the few really good ideas the then-government had in early 2011 was to provide a wage and salary subsidy for Christchurch businesses affected by the quake. It helped keep the NGO I had taken an income cut to work with afloat, so there, grudgingly I must hand out a salute to something good National did. When I got really sick with the virus I had to stop full time work.

The repair estimate offer by EQC for our battered house was so low  we just disengaged from the process on the legitimate grounds we were ill. The final settlement was vastly more than they claimed it would be.

In the hard winters that followed we kept warm by hunting down farm trees that had fallen in a gale through the contacts of my mate Lou and chopping them up and drying them out.

The hell floods of 2014, a trifecta of once-in-100-years rains, came closest of anything to breaking me in a life that has not been without challenges. It also turned into the start of the pathway to resolution for us.

Once again, supreme networker Garry Moore popped up. With his own immersive flood experience he tipped us off to the work of the wonderful Jo Byrne and now MP but then law ace Duncan Webb.

Jo and her family sank several times below the Plimsoll line of her home in Flockton, the floodiest part of town. When she entered the fray of insurance and seeking solutions from local and central government she pretty much decided it was not good enough and emerged as a natural leader.

You will have seen her on TV and heard her on the radio. She has become a good mate to Sharon and me. Amid this week's flood risk she offered us a bolthole at her new home.

Jo helped put together information sharing meetings for flooding victims and quake casualties trying to find their way through the maze of bullshit from EQC and insurers.

At one of these Duncan Webb – who offered tons of free legal advice and took part in High Court judgement trial to get clarity – summed it up when he said New Zealand “has a legal system, not a justice system”. He also explained that it was up to us, the policy owners, to prove our damage. These two simple ideas set us on the road to resolution, proving our damage and finding the people to do it.

We have a 1920s cottage with a rubble foundation that broke apart in the February quake. The network we were now in pointed us to Bevan Craig of Auckland based Underfoot Services. Much disliked by EQC, he quickly established our foundations were indeed shot. It was a sharp contrast to EQC’s estimated $591 worth of damage.

The proving business can be costly. One of the best supports we got was from our bank ASB, which helped bankroll much of the next stage of proof and presentation of our evidence. Shout-out ASB, you saved our butts!

The whole proof process involves a plethora of skills – engineers, structural engineers, quantity surveyors, lawyers, geotech testing – and is another article in itself.

We found our lawyer in a bar at a talk he gave at what was effectively Christchurch Resistance HQ, Garry Moore’s kid’s bar Smash Palace.

Ex-detective and class action expert Grant Cameron told us how he had come to in the early stages of the truckload of legal work flowing from the quakes and thought to himself “Hang on I’m just a boy from Bexley when it gets down to it.”

Grant and his firm, GCA Lawyers, have helped so many people lost in the legal maze of quake resolution get through. With us as fellow pros with prole backgrounds, he put together a multi-point list of what needed to be done to get settled.

He assigned the sharpest lawyer we have ever come across.

Laura Bain was a killer in high heels. Elegant, polished and so specific that as she herded first the hapless EQC out the door, put us over cap and then started on the insurer’s hired guns we nicknamed her the “clipboard of fear”.

Now, we believe, conquering the UK, Laura was that rarest of professionals – one who could interpret and decode complex law to levels ex-journos could understand.

In a mega shout-out to Laura, who helped set us free, I think of the old song “Tell Laura I Love Her”, in the most prim and fiscally relieved way of course.

One of the things about the quake recovery resolution process in Christchurch that has not been covered much was the insane levels of sexism in what was a male-run and testosterone-ruled world.

Sharon studied geography at university and  knows building inside out, so she understood what was going on seismically and structurally. When we were negotiating with engineers and quantity surveyors they would give her the flick if they could.

So she would have to brief me (I was once told by a management guru I had the body language of a Glasgow street thug) to front them. It really does need sorting, I’m sure many women have been screwed over in the resolution process by this.

Woven into this 18 month long process, we kept an eye on the efforts of our local MPs, many of whom are now in the new Government.

Ruth Dyson, Megan Woods and Poto Williams all worked their guts out. So did Nicky Wagner from the other team.

In August last year we finally settled with our insurers. I can’t tell you how we did because of confidentiality.

Who was worse to deal with: EQC or the insurer? EQC by a long shot. IAG were business-like and no pushover, but they got on with it. 

Now we have a freehold house of battered structural integrity and some freedom from constant worry.

Could we, for all our skills and life experience, have done this without the many wonderful people we either met or re-connected with?

No, not a chance.

I feel shifty at how much altruistic public-spirited heroism we have met along the way.

Somehow these folk often facing their own personal dramas can be heroes. Day after day.

Thanks to you all from us and the one/s I have doubtless missed out.

In fact, I nearly missed out Sharon’s aunt and uncle, Mike and Madeleine who when she took them some peaches a few years ago asked if we wanted a glasshouse.

A big, solid old-school glasshouse on a rental they were selling.

We did and moved it in two sections on a yuge trailer hustled by my mate Lou.

It is my happy place. Sharon gets to visit and eat the produce but all my life it turns out what I wanted most was to be a dear old man tending his tomato plants in his glasshouse.

Helped by the heroes of the recovery to get there.


Unknown Places: Names in Stone (Waiuku)

by Mark Joblin

It’s not steep but it’s still uphill. There’s a gentle sloping footpath leading through the memorial garden, up to the central cenotaph. Park the wheelchair. Get up. One step at a time. A wobble, hold it, a few more steps, lean on the stick, pause. Stare up at the marble spire, polished and reflective, permanent and sorrowful. Glance down, it’s blurry, look up again, it clears. Left hand outstretched to the raised base, lower until the hand finds the sun-warmed stone, gently sit. Rest. Rummage in the left coat pocket, bring out the flask, just a splash, lid on, back in the pocket. Ponder.

‘Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!’

 A jolt. Look over to the right. He’s moving, he’s fast, standing upright, looking here, wind in his springy black hair. He’s on a scooter. It’s downhill, George Street is. Check the flask is secure in the left pocket, feel the safety of the stick. Wait.

 ‘Uncle Joe.’

Don’t answer.

He glides to the end of the street on the footpath, takes the hard left turn into Queen Street, passes the empty wheelchair and enters the small memorial grounds. Moving up the footpath, he kicks twice, enough to carry him to where he stops with a skid.

‘Sup.’ Voice of a new teenager.


‘You’re pissed again.’ A mix of snigger and sneer on the handsome bronze face. A wisp of facial hair, medal to his recent arrival at manhood.

‘Fallen asleep in anybody else’s garden? Pissed on the street again? Nanna says you should take a bath, nah — the whole town says that.’

His words find a nerve. Blink. The boy grins, full lips, perfect white teeth.

‘You know we got lunch today, why you always wandering off, making Nanna angry? You’re the pain in the arse great-uncle that I’m always lookin’ for, always wheeling around town, just a lost old fart hanging round waiting to die. You make everyone cringe.’

Somewhere deep down, that hurts.

The boy’s expression is blank. 

The smile is gone. He sees no point.

‘I’m going back, I’ll tell Nanna you aren’t coming.’

Watch him turn, a kick and he’s leaving, tall and upright, at attention. Down the path and he’s off. More kicks as he easily takes the George Street gradient. His face is set, his face is familiar, his face … it’s now, have to say something now, it has to be said. Stand. It’s quick, the back, the knees, hips, everything feels the urgency, the stick is helping, the wobble has gone. A determined breath.

‘Mohi Maxwell, come here.’

He stops. Quickly. The voice, deep, powerful, in control. Mohi’s expression is one of uncertainty. He turns, rolling down the hill, round and back into the memorial. Off the scooter, he lays it down beside the wheelchair and walks the few paces and stands. In a hushed voice:


‘Help me sit down son. I will tell you a story.’

He nods apprehensively. Stare towards the footpath.

‘Your great grandfather and I were very good friends. He was one of the last full blood Maoris I knew, dark skin, handsome, cheeky. I had a Jewish father so wasn’t liked that much by the other white kids. We grew up very close to here. We left school soon after the war started—’

‘What war?’

‘World war two.’

‘Were you in it?’

‘I was fourteen when it started. We cut flax, it was sent overseas to make webbing.’

‘What’s webbing?’

‘Canvas belts and straps that hold equipment on a soldier’s back. We did that for a year or two. Then, just like everybody else, we joined the Army. We had to be 18 but got in at 17. We did our training and were lucky enough to get sent to the same unit. For months we worked up—’

‘Worked up, did you go to the gym?’

‘No, serious soldier training, after basic training. Our unit was the 34th Battalion of the 3rd New Zealand division. In the spring of ‘42, we were sent to Tonga as Garrison—’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s like guarding, or defending a place.’


‘The Japs had taken Singapore, the Yanks and Aussies had slowed ‘em in the Coral sea and they gave the Jap Navy a thrashing at Midway. It was at Guadalcanal that they were stopped. Us and the Yanks started hitting back in the stinking jungle on that and surrounding islands. 

‘But not Mohi and I—’

‘He was Mohi?’

‘You’re named after him.’

Let it sink in. Keep moving.

‘We were sent to Tonga. We all dug trenches, stood guard and went on patrols, manned our Vickers guns and filled sandbags. Of course we met the locals. Mohi did. He met a girl named Makea. Our billet was outside her village. We all got on well, your great grandfather got on just a bit too well. We were there five months before being sent into action in the Treasury Islands.’


‘We were helping another unit flush out some left over Japs on Mono Island when your great grandad was killed by a landmine.’

Don’t look down, vision is blurring.

‘We came back after that and were disbanded to help the home labour shortage. Many of us went to Italy with the 2nd and shot up the krauts, I was one of them. A little payback for Mohi and my father.’

‘I didn’t get home until ‘46, married my wife then went back up to Tonga. There we found Mohi’s girlfriend, Makea, had died but not before having Mohi’s daughter. My wife and I took her in, naming her after her mother and raised her here in Waiuku. Help me up son.’

Slowly stand.

‘Help me round to the right, look at the side of the cenotaph.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s a memorial to people buried overseas.’

Stare at the eastern side, marble, gray. Names, lots of names, names in stone.

Point the stick at just one.

‘Read this out loud.’

‘Honetana M.’

‘Private Mohi Honetana, my best friend. Your Nanna is Makea Maxwell, her mother was Makea Ariki, Mohi’s girlfriend in Tonga. You are named in honour of my friend and carry my family name but you have another name too.’


‘Mohi Maxwell Ariki Honetana.’

Look at him. The blur, the tear. His voice is laboured.

‘Just one name has lots of stories.’

‘They all have stories son. We remember them, every ANZAC day. That’s just a few weeks away. I wonder if you could push my wheelchair up here then, you can wear your family medals.’

‘Family medals?’

‘Yes, your family. Your medals.’

‘Will you be pissed?’


‘I’ll bring Nanna.’

‘Then I’ll leave the flask at home.’

This is a chapter from Unknown Places, a collection of short stories about Auckland by undergraduate creative writing students at Manukau Institute of Technology published here this week. The published stories are:

The Crescent (Otara)

Unknown Places: Queens of K Road (Central)

Gravel Lot (Mangere)

Names in Stone (Waiuku)

The Bach (Awhitu Peninsula)

 Armageddon (Greenlane)


Unknown Places: Gravel Lot (Mangere)

by Damian Pereira

At eleven years old, not seeing my dad was a daily thing;  he left home for work at 6 am, returning around 8 pm, the day having long passed. He would lay down on the couch, unfazed by the world around him, flip through channels, settle on a WWE re-run, and just fall asleep. In the morning he would be gone, not really disturbing the house. My brothers and I grew up accustomed to this routine. But one night it just seemed to change, after an argument he had with Mum. He became more active in our lives. He woke me up late one night and I could barely open my eyes. He pulled clothes out of my drawer, laid them on my bed, and told me to head to the car once dressed. The stars were far more plentiful than normal, like a rural midnight. But the cold air cut through the beautiful scenery, making me hurry to the car.

Dad looked tired but had a smile on his face. The warmth of the car made the outside feel like a distant memory. My brother looked out of his bedroom window, waving at the car as we drove off. 

We drove to McDonald’s, the bright lights seemed to drown out the stars. He told me to order anything I wanted, which was a Big Mac combo. But Dad changed our drinks to strawberry milkshakes. After we left it was quiet, not like an awkward silence, just like nothing needed to be said. I put my window down. Braving the cold holding my hand outside. Catching the wind in my hand, it was like I was flying. Dad turned the radio on, playing songs I knew from parties at our house. He started to sing, not that he really could, sounding more like a mangled cat than anything else. But he was happy, smiling as his voice tried to hit the right note, but always getting it wrong.

I started to hear this rumbling sound, thinking it was just Dad’s voice, but I looked out the window and saw a plane passing over our heads. The airport was a stone’s throw away. The lights held back the darkness, welcoming all into its embrace. I asked Dad why we were here, but he just told me to wait and said that we would be there soon. Thoughts ran through my head, maybe we were picking someone up or going to play mini-golf, but none of that was the right answer. Instead we stopped at this dingy little carpark, facing the runway. It was a small lookout point. Only big enough to fit 10 or 11 cars at most, it looked like it was in the middle of nowhere, a quiet place even though planes flew overhead. He parked the car and we started to eat our burgers and drink our milkshakes. He told me stories that I had never heard before, about how he was a chef, about to leave the country for bigger and better things, about how that all changed when he fell in love with Mum. He told me stories of the path he chose in life and how he wouldn’t change a thing. Listening to him, I felt sad, thinking that he gave up so much for us and that the only reason we never saw him was that he was working hard to give us better lives. 

As he told stories it felt like he was unloading all the things he kept from us, as if he was trying to explain why he acted the way he did. Like he was the kid and I was his parent. It was nice, that he felt it necessary to explain this to a kid that should be thanking him. When we finished eating, we weren’t in any rush to go home, so we sat there. Watching as planes landed, and others took off. The roar of the planes didn’t even reach our ears, we just sat there listening to the radio play music from home.

In the car next to us was this old dude, sitting alone, watching the planes take off just like us. After a while he knocked on my window, had me thinking our music was too loud, but he just offered me a fizzy drink, telling us he was used to buying two of everything and just did it out of habit. Dad told me to take it and say thank you, so I did, and then Dad started talking with him. The old man told us how his wife loved to watch the planes take off, how he brought her here most nights so he could see her smile. He said that his wife had passed away and that this is the place where he felt closest to her.  When we listened to him not once did he look sad, even at the mention of her death, it was just the same smile on his face. Dad said thank you to the old man for sharing his story. I looked at the planes wondering why his wife loved it here, at this little gravel-filled lot, which seemingly no one even notices. I smiled thinking what a good husband he must have been, and just how much his wife must have loved him. 

The old man left, saying goodbye and that it was good to see other people using the lookout. After he was gone, I looked at Dad, asked him why he brought us here. He just said it was something he always wanted to do. That one night he wanted to come down to the lookout and watch planes take off, and wonder, where they were going and where they had come from. He smiled, telling me that we would come here again, drink strawberry milkshakes, talk about our day and just watch the planes come and go. I hope that one day I will drive down in my own car, with my own son, drinking strawberry milkshakes and tell him that because of this little lookout point, I knew my dad loved me.

This is a chapter from Unknown Places, a collection of short stories about Auckland by undergraduate creative writing students at Manukau Institute of Technology published here this week. The published stories are:

The Crescent (Otara)

Unknown Places: Queens of K Road (Central)

Gravel Lot (Mangere)

Names in Stone (Waiuku)

The Bach (Awhitu Peninsula)

 Armageddon (Greenlane)


Unknown Places: Queens of K Road (Central)

by Annette Morehu

Go up K Road after dark, stay on the south side, and head west. Here, in the shadows, you might meet a queen. Ask her the right questions and you could get to know her. Or she could get to know you, depending on your preference.

And how much you want to pay.

Everybody knows her as Beulah, but that wasn’t always her name. At twenty three, she changed her name by deed poll. Solicitation was illegal then, and if you were arrested and charged, it was printed in the newspaper. So, not wanting to bring any more shame to her family by having their name continuously splashed across the crime section of the local rag, and rather than change her profession, she changed her moniker. From the bland and boring ‘Brian Howard’, to the glamorous, exotic ‘Beulah de Reine’.

When she was just fourteen, and still a boy, Beulah heard whispers of a magical place, where standing out meant you fit in; where during the day, all of the ‘cool’ people would flock in their thousands, but at night, people like her were free to be themselves, and more importantly, where you could earn decent cash. This utopia was called Karangahape Road, but everyone just called it K Rd, and that was where Beulah wanted to be. So, one Friday morning she ditched school and hitched her way from her sleepy home-town (where the most exciting thing that ever happened was the annual kumara festival), to the big, bright lights of Auckland City. The first car that was generous enough, or curious enough, to pull over at the behest of her outstretched thumb, took her all the way to Grafton Bridge. She had heard stories about people jumping. Once, a politician’s son was found on the pavement below. Beulah peered around at the hustle and bustle and couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever want to leave.

She headed west along the southern ridge of the road; past the Jewish section of the Symonds Street cemetery, past high-end clothing stores, past the newly fashionable cafes, up and over the Queen Street intersection, past Pitt Street, then over Mercury Lane and across Hopetoun Street — to the end of K’ Road. Here, in the steady light of the streetlamps, Beulah saw for the first time what she had only ever heard of before. Real life, out and proud, fabulous queens. They were pretty, they were powerful, and they were getting paid. And Beulah wanted to be just like them. 

That night, the kingdom of K’ Road crowned a new queen.


Beulah’s flat: a government state house, Freemans Bay, Friday night — forty years after her induction to K Road. Sitting at her Formica dining table, relaxing before a night out on the road; sipping red wine from an odd wineglass, smoking a cigarette, a Buddha stick burning, Beulah speaks:

 ‘Clients? Well, they’re all the same, aren’t they? Men. This one guy paid a girl five hundred bucks and a big bag of crack to fist him up the you-know. I let her use one of my rooms for the job, so we shared the proceeds. We look after each other, ay. Most of us. Most of the time. New girls learn the rules quick, either that or someone will teach them the hard way. We don’t so much have our own corners, but we stay on our own sides of the road and it’s up to the client which side he wants to shop on.

‘Who gets the most jobs? The queens of course. You go see the other girls, you’ll see why. They’re up there in their pyjamas, wrapped in blankets, glaring at everybody. Queens, well most of us anyway, we just want to look pretty and make our money, and maybe have a bit of fun while we’re at it. Oh, we get all sorts of weirdos coming up there. All sorts I tell you. The worst are the cross dressers. They come out in a suit during the day, put on a dress in a half-shaved face at night. They can piss off.

‘Worst job I ever did? Well there was that time I left my teeth on the backseat of a client’s car, that one cost me much more than it was worth. Or there was the time I woke up in a strange house surrounded by all these strange utensils. Don’t know how I got there! So I knifed my way out. Spent three years in The Rock for that one. Why do I do this? Well...what else would I do? And the money’s good. And yeah, maybe if that bastard didn’t do what he did when I was a kid, I wouldn’t be here. But, life happens, and here I am. That bastard? Let’s not talk about that, ay. Everybody else wants to talk about their childhood all the time, but not me. What’s the point?

‘Talking doesn’t pay the bills. Or buy my wine. 

‘Or my drugs.’ 


She inserts the needle

Waits for the blood to flow

Applies pressure,

And pushes love through her veins.


A low-cut halter-neck reveals

Her surgically enhanced breasts

‘Sin City’ inked across her chest.

A denim miniskirt wraps thick around her thighs

Devilish red boots climb up to her knees

Blonde hair wisps beneath a brown beret,

Disguising a thinning crown.


When she walks, she stalks

Prowling along the pavement,

Surveying her territory.


She is a painting

A sculpture

A masterpiece,

Hanging in a streetside gallery.


The girls all know Beulah

The queens all know Beulah

The clients all know Beulah;


She’s been here longer than any of them

This is her kingdom,

And she’s the queen of K Road.


This is a chapter from Unknown Places, a collection of short stories about Auckland by undergraduate creative writing students at Manukau Institute of Technology published here this week. The published stories are:

The Crescent (Otara)

Unknown Places: Queens of K Road (Central)

Gravel Lot (Mangere)

Names in Stone (Waiuku)

The Bach (Awhitu Peninsula)

 Armageddon (Greenlane)