The Unexplained
For several years, thirty-year-old Denis Cooper has lived by himself in a unit of a four-storey apartment building in the Wellington suburb of Seatoun. After making sure he had a clean handkerchief in his pocket, he left for work at the usual time that Thursday, with his customary cut lunch in his everyday satchel.
As he closed the door to his apartment, he saw two ambulance officers pulling a gurney out of another doorway down the hall. There was a woman on it, a white cover pulled up to her chin. Her head was turned partly his way. He recognised her by sight as a fellow resident but did not know her name. He nodded at her but got no response.
Processing ahead of the gurney, he reached the street outside. An ambulance stood at the kerb. He watched the woman being loaded then turned left and walked to the nearest bus stop.
It was the sort of day where you wanted to be outside but he did not have time to walk to his destination.
Cooper caught the No.2 Bus at Ludlum Street. However, rather than going all the way into the CBD, as he usually would, he alighted at the Dixon Street bus stop and strolled down to the waterfront at the Clyde Quay Boat Harbour on Oriental Bay, the base for the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club.
There, after checking his watch, and pleasantly warmed by the sunshine, he paused for a few moments leaning on a fence and viewing the boats. People strolled by him on the footpath, most at that time of the day being commuters on their way to work. One stood out; a soldier in fatigues carrying a brown mug and sipping from it as she went along. Perhaps, Cooper speculated, she was heading for her place of work, probably the Ministry of Defence headquarters.
After again checking his watch, he went down to the jetties and located a yacht which, that Thursday, was his intended endpoint. He boarded it.
Cooper was never heard of again. To this day, his disappearance is unexplained.
As he closed the door to his apartment, he saw two ambulance officers pulling a gurney out of another doorway down the hall. There was a woman on it, a white cover pulled up to her chin. Her head was turned partly his way. He recognised her by sight as a fellow resident but did not know her name. He nodded at her but got no response.
Processing ahead of the gurney, he reached the street outside. An ambulance stood at the kerb. He watched the woman being loaded then turned left and walked to the nearest bus stop.
It was the sort of day where you wanted to be outside but he did not have time to walk to his destination.
Cooper caught the No.2 Bus at Ludlum Street. However, rather than going all the way into the CBD, as he usually would, he alighted at the Dixon Street bus stop and strolled down to the waterfront at the Clyde Quay Boat Harbour on Oriental Bay, the base for the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club.
There, after checking his watch, and pleasantly warmed by the sunshine, he paused for a few moments leaning on a fence and viewing the boats. People strolled by him on the footpath, most at that time of the day being commuters on their way to work. One stood out; a soldier in fatigues carrying a brown mug and sipping from it as she went along. Perhaps, Cooper speculated, she was heading for her place of work, probably the Ministry of Defence headquarters.
After again checking his watch, he went down to the jetties and located a yacht which, that Thursday, was his intended endpoint. He boarded it.
Cooper was never heard of again. To this day, his disappearance is unexplained.
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