The gate

They leave the cemetery gate open on the island, not to entice visitors in but to let the inhabitants out. This is Rotoroa, once a place where Auckland’s drunk and disorderly dried out. Many never left of course, these few graves a reminder of where their long journey ended. But they say the dead are never still, they wander like us, up and down the paths to their favourite haunts. One is Lady’s Bay, but the manager of the island shivers slightly when he remembers something, about a late night swimmer that was there one minute then gone the next.

‘Naked as a newborn she was, but that’s how they went for a dip in the old days.’

The manager doesn’t like the idea of lost souls wandering about the place, the idea makes him nervy, which is why he leaves the gate open so they can find their way home.