Second Chances (30 page)

‘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.’

At that moment a figure hurtled up the street, a crumpled slapper with grubby hair. She looked terrifyingly like a girl who’d just climbed out of somebody’s bed.

I grabbed her arm. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

Heads turned; a long row of parents, bored in their cars, all entertained by the family drama. Bianka slipped away. Sacha pulled free of my hand, dragged the passenger door almost off its hinges and threw herself in.

‘
Where?
’ I screamed.

She shrugged, jamming headphones into her ears. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

‘Take those frigging things out of your ears!’ I was shrieking. ‘I thought you might be dead in a ditch! Were you with Jani? You answer me, or I’ll—’

I was furious. So furious, that now I had her sitting beside me—alive, not skinned—I burst into tears.

‘She won’t tell me anything.’ I was unburdening myself on the phone to Dad the same evening, sitting on the verandah steps in the dark. ‘She was scruffy. She
smells
, Dad! She’s avoiding school, but she won’t say why. If someone’s bullying her, she won’t say who. I drove straight into the staff car park and marched her up to the dean’s office. Sacha had to admit she’s missed loads of school—a week with flu, admittedly, and two other Mondays she was genuinely ill.’

‘Always Mondays? Mondayitis?’

‘Mm. I hadn’t thought of that . . . And all those times she said she was going to orchestra, and wasn’t.’

‘Fibbing on the absence line,’ murmured Dad. His voice was immensely calm. ‘Devious. Not like our Sacha at all.’

‘Kit spent an hour talking to her this evening. He’s been really good, but he got nowhere. She’ll get herself suspended if she carries on like this.’

‘Has she promised to stop truanting?’

‘Oh yes. Solemnly. But since none of us know what’s going on, how can we protect her?’

‘What about the other girl? The friend?’

‘Bianka knows something, for sure; but nobody’s prepared to pile on the pressure because her mother’s in hospital again. She may or may not pull through the latest crisis.’

‘Could Bianka herself be the bully?’

‘Family of beautiful vampires,’ I mused. ‘No. I don’t think she’s the problem, but she knows who is. And then there’s her brother . . . everything started to go wrong when he arrived on the scene.’

‘Hm.’ Dad paused for thought; I imagined him stroking Bernard’s black fur. ‘Have you looked at Sacha’s phone?’

‘She’s wiped all her messages.’

‘Laptop?’

‘She gave Kit her password, but there’s nothing. She’s got hundreds of Facebook friends. Even Lou’s on the list.’

‘Any nastiness at all?’

‘No, just complete drivel. Can’t believe they waste their lives writing that stuff. Lol and rofl and wtf, streams of consciousness. Oh, and an absolutely priceless four-second clip of Belinda Rothman falling off the stage after the Christmas show, kitten heels and all. You’ve
got
to see it.’

Dad was silent.

‘I’ve been so busy,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been on the ball. She’s been off key since . . . I dunno. Off and on for months. So edgy, so volatile. There’s no fun in her any more.’

The possum chose that moment to run along the bough above me. I jumped, but I was growing used to its midnight dancing. I took a breath. ‘It’s as though she’s . . . well. Never mind.’

‘Go on,’ prompted Dad. ‘I
do
mind.’

‘As though she’s possessed. Some devil has taken my Sacha.’

After talking to Dad, I walked along to the studio. ‘What a day,’ I groaned, collapsing into a chair.

Kit regarded me bleakly. It made me think of the day the squall caught us, and sea and sky became one bruised shadow.

‘Kit?’ I sat bolt upright.

‘They’ve been back.’

‘Who’s been . . .?’ My hands flew to my cheeks. ‘God, no. Not the thieves? In here?’

‘Yep.’ He turned a full circle, looking around the studio.

‘But there’s nothing worth taking . . . There can’t be an illicit trade in art materials, surely?’

The light was gone from Kit’s eyes. His face looked heavy. ‘Visa card,’ he said. ‘A new one came in the post. It was still in the envelope.’

‘Bollocks. We’ll have to put a stop on it.’

‘I don’t care about the fucking visa card.’

Following his gaze, I looked up at the wall. Great-Aunt Sibella was gone. Her absence left a square, dusty ghost.

‘Jesus Christ, Martha,’ breathed Kit. ‘Is nothing sacred?’

Twenty-seven

Kit was drinking. I could no longer ignore the signs. When I caught him heading for the studio with a bottle in his hand, I lost my rag.

‘We had a deal,’ I said. ‘
We
come out here.
You
control the booze.’

He swung around to face me, his movements grandiose, holding out his arms. ‘Martha, we’ve been burgled. Sibella’s been stolen. My stepdaughter’s behaving like a little bitch. Can you blame me if I want to relax on a Saturday afternoon?’

‘We’ve nowhere left to run,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t do it. Just don’t.’

I saw his point, though; our New Zealand honeymoon was certainly over. Sacha had been grounded for the first time in her life. Every day for a week I had escorted her to Lyndsay Carpenter’s office, and collected her in the afternoons. It was like having a cloud in the car. She spent her evenings barricaded in her bedroom, complaining bitterly because all her teachers were demanding she catch up on missed assessments. She’d only herself to blame, of course.

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ snapped Kit, nodding towards the driveway as a vehicle rolled across the cattle stop. Then he barged past me into the studio and locked the door.

It was Ira, returning our quad bike. He’d borrowed it for a fishing expedition further down the coast. The young teacher looked steadfast and sane as he climbed out of Tama’s truck. ‘Hi, Martha,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Thanks for this.’

‘Ira! Stay for coffee. Please. I need your advice.’

He looked surprised; but he sat on the verandah steps, cradling his mug and listening gravely while I told him about Sacha. The boys were closeted upstairs with a story tape and a bag of chocolate fish, which would probably make them sick.

‘Were you bullied at school?’ I asked.

‘Well . . .’ A rueful smile. ‘I got into a lot of fights.’

‘Do you think Jani’s manipulating her? It’s as though she’s had a personality transplant. She’s all over the place.’

He thought for a moment. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘I’m not sure. It crept up on us.’

‘I don’t know much about girls, Martha, but I don’t reckon you should worry too much. I’ve got a cousin who was a horror as a kid—used to scream the place down! She even ended up in the police cells for a night. Now she’s twenty-five and a solid citizen. Takes some people a bit longer to grow up.’

We heard another car, and voices. Pamela and Jean appeared around the side of the house, carrying several small pumpkins. I was getting used to the Kiwi habit of arriving unannounced.

‘Hello, my friend!’ Jean shook Ira’s hand. ‘These are from our garden, Martha. Marvellous for soup. Are we interrupting?’

‘Not at all. I’ve got coffee here with your name on it.’

‘And I’ve got ginger crunch with yours,’ said Pamela, holding up a tin. ‘Kit’s favourite.’

‘He’s in his studio. Er . . . working. I daren’t disturb him.’

‘I’m not afraid of your husband,’ she retorted, and stalked off down the verandah.

‘We wondered if we could borrow your boys tomorrow?’ asked Jean, rubbing his hands. ‘William’s coming to stay.’

‘Wonderful! Wait here—I’ll refill the coffee.’

You had to hand it to Pamela: she had force of personality. I’d just emerged with a refilled plunger when she arrived on the verandah with Kit in tow. He pulled out a chair for her before sprawling in one himself.

‘I wonder what it’s like out there,’ pondered Jean, who was watching the white sails of a yacht inching along the horizon. ‘How does it feel to be those sailors on that great ocean, looking back at us landlubbers?’

‘Lonely?’ suggested Pamela.

‘Safe,’ said Kit, with a little too much emphasis. He was in control, but he wasn’t sober. I’m sure our visitors knew it, too. They’d smell the alcohol. ‘No bastards can nick your stuff when your back’s turned.’

Pamela slapped her hands onto her knees. ‘Time for a post-mortem. Is the insurance company going to replace everything?’

‘They’ve finally agreed,’ I said, putting up two thumbs. ‘So no harm done, really. Not financially. But some of the things aren’t replaceable.’

‘Ah! Wait a minute.’ Jean looked pleased with himself. He bumbled off in the direction of their pick-up, reappearing a minute later with something in his hand. ‘For the boys.’

I took the proffered gift. It was a DVD—
Mary Poppins.
‘They love this!’ I exclaimed.

‘Pamela bought it on the internet,’ said Jean, smiling at his wife. ‘Poor little Charlie said losing that video was the worst thing about the burglary. Or buggery, as he called it.’

Pamela waved my thanks away. ‘You’re more than welcome. Now, have the police made any progress?’

‘Well . . .’ I looked from her to Kit. ‘You know, if I were the superstitious type I’d think we have little thieving beings living in our forest.’

‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ muttered Kit.

‘No, really, Kit. You know very well what I’m talking about.’ I smiled apologetically at our visitors, all three of whom were looking politely embarrassed. ‘Things have been going missing for . . . well, for months. Long before the burglary.’

Jean looked curious. ‘What sort of things?’

‘Er . . . jewellery, silver. A camera. A very special watch. It’s as though there’s a team of goblins who sneak in at night.’

‘Never mind goblins. There was a team of filthy bastards snuck in during the day,’ growled Kit. There was no mistaking the slur in his voice. ‘And those same thieving scum came back to my studio last week and took a portrait that won’t have fetched more than fifty bucks.’

‘Not Great-Aunt Sibella?’ gasped Pamela.

‘Yep. A twentieth-century Irish painter nobody’s ever heard of.’

‘Oh,
no.
’

‘What do the police think?’ asked Jean.

Kit shrugged. ‘Someone with local knowledge. Someone who can watch the house . . . For God’s sake, we’re a mile up a bloody track, how can anyone watch our house?’

‘Bob Andrews asked about our removal firm.’ I put a hand to my mouth. ‘Sorry, Ira. Not you, obviously! We told them they were barking up the wrong tree . . . Ira?’

The young man was looking stunned, his dense brows lowered until they almost touched his nose. He fingered his mug, full lips pursed in thought.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, recovering himself. ‘They told me the boss had a visit from the cops, but he got it all straightened out. Um, I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee.’

I walked him to the truck. I could tell he had something on his mind. ‘I’ve never thought it was your workmates,’ I said. ‘Honestly.’

Ira swung into the driver’s seat. He couldn’t get away quick enough. ‘No worries. They’ve got broad shoulders. It goes with the job, being accused of breaking stuff or taking stuff. Occupational hazard.’

‘You’re not offended?’

He looked at me with kind brown eyes, and turned the key. ‘Got no reason to be offended. You take care of yourself, Martha, all right?’

I watched Ira Taulafo race down the hill in a tornado of dust. And I wondered.

At ten o’clock that night, the phone rang.

I’d last seen Kit sitting on a stool, staring at his latest work in progress and looking saturnine. He was nine-tenths of the way to a drunken stupor. There was no reasoning with him in such a state; he would only become more belligerent. I’d prescribed myself a bit of therapy, chopping pumpkins to make soup using—I’m embarrassed to admit this—a recipe Pamela had given me.

I turned down the radio and held the receiver under my chin, still chopping. I was thinking,
if this is telesales, you are dead.

‘Martha?’

I winced as the knife bit. ‘Tama!’ I searched for a tissue and pressed it against my lacerated finger. ‘Er . . . how are you?’

He ignored the small talk. ‘At Sacha’s party, you said you’d like to try riding again. How about tomorrow afternoon?’

Ooh, watch it!
counselled Mum.
Something fishy here. His intentions
cannot be honourable.

‘Did I?’ My mind was racing. ‘I don’t know if tomorrow . . .’

‘There’s no strings attached, Martha. You’ll be quite safe.’

‘Well, no. I never thought—’

Tama was quiet, but unrelenting. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘You
are
talking to me.’

‘Face to face. And alone.’

The answer is no. Do you hear me, Martha? No!

I watched my blood as it blossomed like a red rose across the tissue. ‘What time?’

‘So you’re going for a jaunt with Clint Eastwood?’ Kit hadn’t moved from his stool, though no progress had been made with the painting.

‘Mm-hm. We’re going to make passionate love before galloping into the sunset. You’ll never see us again.’

He sloshed more wine into his glass and caught me watching. ‘For Christ’s sake, get the scowl off your face.’

‘You’re going on a bender, Kit. You’re breaking your promise.’

His mouth was an inverted U, almost ugly. ‘What if I object to you gallivanting around with that fucking horse whisperer?’

‘Your problem.’

He lurched to his feet, face darkening. ‘I don’t like being made a fool of.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ I said coldly, ignoring the threat. I’d had enough of Kit for one day. ‘Don’t forget to lock up. I’ve checked the windows already.’

‘Fort Knox. This is our sanctuary, Martha. We shouldn’t be locking ourselves into our sanctuary.’ Suddenly he looked forlorn, swaying in his baggy sweater and polished brogues, a glass in one hand.

‘Come up with me,’ I said.

‘Soon.’

Sighing, I made my way through the house, turning off lights. I was halfway up the stairs before I looked up. And then I almost died.