For some reason, those words seemed to pop Sacha’s rage like a pin in a balloon. ‘This is awful,’ she whispered. ‘This is hell. I want to go home.’
‘It’s only a burglary,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not a disaster. In England I know people who’ve been burgled lots of times—the Caldwell family, remember? Three times in three years. We’ve got good insurance. At least you’ve still got your laptop—you took that to school today, didn’t you? And look, there’s your old iPod in your pocket.’
‘We’re all fine, that’s the important thing,’ said Kit, pulling a boy onto each knee. ‘Nobody’s hurt.’
‘Hurt?’ wailed Sacha. ‘We are! Of course we are. We’re all hurt.’
A police car pulled up an hour later, and the local bobby heaved himself out. I recognised him as one of the school parents: Robert Andrews. He had two rugby-playing children, a boy and a girl. I’d seen them on the field, menacingly shoving their mouthguards in and out of their mouths like hunting chimpanzees then passing and tackling with a deadly blend of skill and psychopathy. Robert was one of those slow-moving middle-aged men who have developed a permanent shelf sticking out in front, upon which to rest their beer bottles. He made me feel positively lithe and fit. There was something reassuring about his sheer solidity; he was like one of those toys that wobble but don’t fall down.
He gave me a laconic nod. It’s a special Kiwi rural male nod. It means ‘hello,’ and ‘please don’t display any emotion,’ and sometimes, ‘I can’t remember your name.’
‘Hello,’ I said, advancing on him. ‘Martha McNamara.’
He shook my hand with his hairy paw, glancing over my shoulder with a twitch of the facial muscles that I thought was probably his version of a smile. ‘G’day, mate,’ he said. ‘Been having a bit of drama, I hear.’
Kit had stepped out of the kitchen doorway. ‘Thanks for dropping by, Robbie.’
I was surprised by all this first-name matiness. Then I remembered that Kit did school trips and sausage sizzles and umpired cricket matches. He did McDonald’s. He was one of the in crowd, down at Torutaniwha Primary School.
‘You’ve been unlucky,’ said Robbie the bobby. ‘We don’t have many house burglaries around here. Once in a blue moon.’
He and Kit strolled off for a session of knowledgeable squinting at windows and checking of flowerbeds for footprints. Eventually they arrived in the kitchen. Robert was gloomily certain of the method. ‘Tidy job. In through the unlocked kitchen door, clean the place out, off in a vehicle.’ I had the impression his crime report would read pretty much like that. Economical.
‘More than one?’ I asked.
‘Hard to tell.’
‘They can get away by continuing along the track,’ said Kit. ‘It runs on through the bush, meets up with a forestry road and comes out three miles north of here.’
The policeman nodded. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘And so do all the other locals.’
‘How come?’ I asked.
‘The trail ride comes through this bit of land most years.’
‘Trail ride?’ I pictured romantic horsemen, men of Rohan, re-enacting some venture of yesteryear—perhaps with teams of packhorses and wagons, sleeping under the stars, eating around campfires and communing with the spirits of the land.
Robert stirred half a pound of sugar into his coffee. ‘The school holds a ninety-kilometre trail ride as a fundraiser.’
‘Lovely. Horses?’
He chortled into his mug. ‘Motorbikes. Trail bikes, off road. We ride along the beach, up the riverbed, through the bush here and then into the forestry. You want to come next year, Kit? You’ve got a four wheeler, haven’t you? Bring your lads.’
‘I might,’ said Kit. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, me too,’ I huffed, as the feminist in me buzzed militantly to the surface. How dare the man assume that it would be Kit who would want to take part in this festival of daredevil, petrol-headed machismo? On the other hand, it sounded very long, boring and environmentally deeply dodgy. And after all, what was the point?
‘My kids go every year,’ said Robert, with fatherly pride. ‘They’ve had their own bikes since they were five.’
I was impressed. The Andrews children weren’t much bigger than mine—seven and nine, maybe—yet they happily rode their trail bikes for ninety kilometres on riverbeds and steep hills. Try doing that in Bedfordshire. You’d be deafened by the storm of tut-tutting. Child protection agencies would go into hyperdrive.
‘Anyway,’ I persisted. ‘This burglar. Or burglars. D’you think they knew the other way out, then?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Robert. ‘They like an escape route in case someone comes home and they have to leg it. They don’t want to be trapped—that’s their nightmare. I’ll go out and look for vehicle tracks in a minute.’
‘But doesn’t that imply they were locals?’
‘Or forestry workers. As I say, we don’t get many burglaries.’
‘I don’t understand why they picked on us,’ said Kit. ‘This house isn’t visible from the road. And how did they know we were all out? It was only by chance that I was on a school trip.’
‘Maybe they’ve been watching us,’ I said uneasily, glancing out of the window. ‘From the trees. Sacha sometimes feels we’re being watched.’
‘I have the impression they knew what they were looking for,’ added Kit.
Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘Who was your removal firm?’ I told him, and he looked interested. ‘D’you remember which lads?’
‘Frank, er . . . a man called John, wasn’t it, Kit? And Ira Taulafo—well, you know Ira from school. He was just casual, in between jobs.’
The policeman downed the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘Better go. Wife’s expecting me half an hour ago. There’ll be trouble in the camp.’
‘Do you know something about those men?’ I asked, opening the door for him.
‘Can’t comment at this stage, but working for a removal company is a pretty neat way to check out who’s got what.’
We walked him outside. Robert took a swift look along the track that ran on past the smoko hut, but found no sign of recent vehicles. When he ambled across to his car the twins were loitering, awed and whispering.
‘I’ll turn the lights on, shall I?’ asked the policeman. When his weight hit the seat, the whole vehicle sagged. Blue lights began to flash as he stuck his head out of the window. ‘D’you two lads want a ride? Hop in, then.’
They tumbled into the back seat. Robert circled the yard three times, throwing up dust, and dropped them a hundred yards along the drive. I heard a burst of farewell sirens before the twins came pelting back across the cattle stop, their upset at the burglary momentarily forgotten.
‘That was cool!’ yelled Finn, high-fiving with Kit.
I watched as the police car disappeared behind the willows. ‘You don’t think it was anything to do with those removal men, do you?’
Kit didn’t answer. He was peering into the bush. ‘You could hide an army of burglars in there.’
‘Or worse things,’ said Sacha, from behind us.
Robert hadn’t seemed interested in fingerprints, and it didn’t look as though he was going to send a forensic team in white bunny suits, so we cleaned the house with obsessive care and a lot of disinfectant, trying to remove the grubby feeling left by the burglary. The place needed a spring clean, to be honest.
‘They’re still there,’ said Sacha. It was Sunday morning and we were tired of scrubbing. ‘I can feel their eyes.’
‘No you can’t,’ I retorted, mopping a squashed mosquito off the wall. ‘Look. We are not the first people in the world to be burgled, and we sure as hell won’t be the last. No way is it going to spoil our lives.’
‘It is,’ said Sacha, scrabbling at her wrist. ‘It’s not just the burglary. It’s something evil that creeps out of the bush.’ Her phone made a noise like a bleating goat. She glanced at the screen. ‘Bianka. Wants to go to a film this aftern
oon. Her dad got some free vouchers. Can I stay with her? I’m completely spooked here.’
As she spoke I was absently looking at her phone. She held it to her chest. ‘Hey! Don’t read my texts.’
‘Keep your hair on.’ I dug in a plastic shopping bag. ‘I’ve got this spray for your hut, look . . . in case it’s infested with something that’s biting you. What film?’
She named some romantic comedy, unmemorable but harmless enough.
‘What about school tomorrow?’
‘I’ll take my uniform.’
‘Have a lovely time, doll.’ I sighed. ‘A night away, and you’ll be right as rain. Thanks for all your help.’
That evening, Kit and I sat in low deckchairs beneath Hinemoana’s hill, sipping Jean’s wine. Kit was sketching. Despite the chilly evening air we’d all taken a dip, washing off defilement in the freezing salt water. Now the twins were building an ambitious ball run.
Liquid gold rolled down the hills and flowed in long fingers across the beach to meet the water. The boys circled their mound with a natural, artless grace. Kit’s sketchpad was soon covered in images so vivid that they seemed to dance on the page. As the sun sank lower, he got up to collect driftwood.
Finn came to stand beside me. He was stroking his left ear with one hand but the other arm he laid gently around my neck. His woolly pullover felt warm and sandy.
‘What’s up, bud? I asked, kissing his cheek.
‘Who d’you think they were, the men who came to our house?’
‘Oh, Finn. I don’t know. Sad, silly people, I expect. Not scary men.’
‘Will their children be watching our DVDs?’
Charlie had stopped building, too. He sat up on his heels and looked across at us. ‘Will they come back?’
Two anxious faces were turned to mine. ‘I don’t think they’ll be back. We don’t need to be scared of them.’
‘I’d hide in the attic,’ said Charlie.
Finn marched to our pile of firewood and picked up what was—in his hands—a hefty stick. ‘I would wallop them with this!’
I thought about my little boy trying to tackle a marauding adult; a thug, tearing the puny stick from his hands. A sense of mourning draped itself over me. Meanness had intruded on their world, and spoiled it. I dropped down in the sand beside their run. ‘This ready? Where’s the ball?’
‘Let it rip!’ they screamed, as Kit returned with more firewood.
Later we sat around the fire, digging our teeth into blackened marshmallows.
‘Poor Sacha,’ said Charlie. ‘She’s missing this fun time.’
Finn lay on his back, turning his face up to the moon. ‘One day please can we sleep here, on the beach?’
Kit sloshed more wine into his plastic glass, emptying the bottle, and a dark goblin of anxiety came sneaking into my mind. ‘’Course we can,’ he promised. ‘In the holidays. Just you and me, boys. Okay? We’ll leave these bally women behind, and we’ll come down here and sit around the fire and tell swashbuckling tales.’
Finn made angel shapes in the sand. ‘Better not leave any bally women alone in the house,’ he said. ‘Those bloody burgerers might come back.’
Beneath the prone body of Hinemoana’s hill a clump of seaweed lay half-submerged in the surf. The waves tugged and pushed, making the dark fronds sway fretfully, like long hair. My eyes were drawn to it, though I tried to look away. It looked so terribly like the corpse of a young woman.
Twenty-six
At first, I thought the call was benign.
I was in my pokey office at Capeview and had spent lunchtime talking to a patronising idiot at the insurance company who wanted valuations of everything stolen. A migraine was mustering forces behind my eyes, and I wondered about taking a couple of ibuprofen. Which was when my phone rang.
‘Martha McNamara?’ It was a pleasant voice. Female. ‘Lyndsay Carpenter, Sacha’s dean. Is this a good moment?’
‘Yes! Hello,’ I said brightly. ‘Is it about the Performance Diploma?’
‘Not directly.’ The dean sounded taken aback. ‘I’m calling about Sacha’s attendance record.’
‘Her what?’
‘Her name came up at today’s staff meeting. It’s a problem. She has missed a number of internal assessments.’
‘She’s missed what?’
‘Internal assessments. They are essential if she’s to gain enough credits to pass—’
‘Yes, I know what internal assessments are. But isn’t this an overreaction? She’s had a week off with a cold, maybe a couple of other days. I don’t think she’s missed anything important.’
‘Sacha’s attendance was less than sixty per cent last term, and the pattern is continuing.’
I was flabbergasted. ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same girl?’
‘Well, take today as an example, Martha.’ New Zealanders rarely do the surname thing. ‘You are aware that she’s absent from school?’
‘No, she . . . Are you sure?’
Lyndsay was inexorable. ‘A message was left on our absence line at . . . let me check . . . nine fifteen this morning, ostensibly from you. It said that Sacha was unable to attend school today due to a dental appointment.’
‘No. I think there must be a mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake. I checked the records myself after the staff meeting. The head of music raised the issue. She’s suspended Sacha from the orchestra for non-attendance.’
The little room spun. It wasn’t possible.
‘She’s one of our most talented musicians, but she appears to have given up,’ said Lyndsay. ‘Her flute teacher hasn’t seen her for weeks.’
‘Is Bianka at school? Her friend, Bianka?’
‘Bianka Varga . . .’ there was a pause, just long enough for the teacher to check her computer files, ‘. . . is at school today. Yes. And her attendance record is excellent.’
‘Oh.’ I was deflated. ‘So Sacha isn’t with her?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
I was thinking frantically. There had to be an explanation. My daughter was not a truant; she was good and honest and biddable. Then I remembered how jealously Sacha guarded her texts from prying eyes. Modern tormentors used technology to harass and torture their victims, even after the school bell had rung. ‘Perhaps she’s being bullied,’ I suggested. ‘I think she might be getting abusive texts. She never lets me see them.’
‘Okay. Well, that’s a thought. We have a zero tolerance policy on bullying, and text messaging is a live issue . . . I think the best thing is for us all to meet as soon as possible.’
‘But where is she now?’ I asked helplessly. ‘Do I call the police?’
‘That’s up to you, but I’d expect her to turn up,’ Lyndsay predicted briskly. ‘She’ll come home in the usual way, which is presumably what she’s done on all those other occasions. We have a lot of truants, Martha. You’re not alone.’
As soon as the teacher rang off, I called Sacha’s mobile.
Hi, this is Sacha. Don’t bother to leave a message.
I felt so powerless. She’d been attacked, abducted, raped in the cellar of some sordid house, waiting to be skinned like the girl in The Silence of the Lambs.
Redial. Same result.
And again.
And again.
And— ‘That you, bro?’ It was a breathless, garbled voice. Male.
‘S-sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong number,’ I stuttered. ‘Is this Sacha’s phone?’ Muffled voices. Howls of laughter. ‘Is that you, Jani?’ I asked sharply. ‘Jani?’
Then Sacha’s voice, spiky and long-suffering. ‘Yeah?’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘At a friend’s.’
‘Why aren’t you at school?’
‘I felt really, really ill.’ Another burst of hilarity from the background.
‘I’m coming to get you.’
‘You’re not,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ll be home on the school bus, and there’s fuck all you can do
about it.’
The line went dead. I stared at the phone in my hand. There was indeed fuck all I could do.
Kit was painting at an orchard near Hastings, and greeted the news with maddening calm. ‘She hasn’t really gone missing, has she?’ he reasoned. ‘I’d call it AWOL.’
‘Kit, a man answered her phone! Bet it was Jani. I’m going to have him arrested.’
‘Sacha’s a young adult.’
‘She’s not,’ I protested. ‘She’s a child.’
‘She can leave school any time she likes, legally. This is going to get blown out of all proportion if you make a ginormous fuss.’
I could have throttled him. ‘What a stupid thing to say. I’m fussing, Kit, because she’s left fake messages on the absence line and I’ve absolutely no idea where she is right now, and actually it’s time you fucking grew up.’
Slamming down the phone, I reached for the ibuprofen.
Adolescents surged out of the school gates like a flood from a washing machine. Some of the boys needed to be shaving, and a few of the girls wouldn’t have looked out of place in a singles bar. You could smell the hormones. I’d parked the car and was leaning against it.
My phone rang. I grabbed it, but it wasn’t Sacha. It was Kit.
‘Have you heard anything?’
‘No,’ I said tersely. I was still smarting. ‘I’m waiting outside the school.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. I huffed. ‘Really, Martha. I’m sorry. It’s time I fucking grew up.’
I couldn’t help but smile. The best thing about Kit McNamara is his voice; it melts me still.
He seemed to sense a thawing. ‘I’ve got the boys,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you at home. Stay in touch.’
A school bus started its engine and pulled away, followed by a second. There were only two left when someone spoke behind me, and I spun around. It was Bianka: a Hollywood waif in a gingham miniskirt.
‘Sacha sick today, Martha?’
I folded my arms. ‘Don’t play games with me. Sacha isn’t at school and she isn’t at home, as I’m sure you know. So where is she? And where’s Jani?’
‘Oh my God.’ I caught the fear in her voice. ‘Martha . . .’ She took a step closer to me, glancing over her shoulder. ‘I’m so scared.’
After the Fall Page 23
