A tunnel is the escape route north, steep hills to the south. Everything feels a long way away. We need a reason to leave town. My father thought anything south of the Bombay Hills was the South Island. His kāinga was Pakiri, north of Auckland, with its loose-metal roads and indolent river, its cowsheds and scorching beach. Now there are better roads but many more cars. I visit the cemetery at our marae just beyond Leigh: this is our ‘meeting-place past the end of the world’ where my father waits for me. I rarely make the drive over Pakiri Hill to the valley of ghosts and fragmented memories, of disappeared buildings, of unanswered questions. The beach and the steep island in the distance – Hauturu, or Little Barrier – are contested land.