‘Well, good news,’ Kura announces. Her tone reminds me of the examiner telling me I’d passed my driving test. ‘The investigation is concluded. A multi-disciplinary meeting was held yesterday. Both CYF and the police are satisfied that Finn’s accident was just that—an accident. There was extensive discussion, but the team concluded that no child protection issue has been identified, and no further investigation is indicated. So we’re out of your hair.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ I breathe. The blood seems to rush into my head. I sit down, literally dizzy with relief.
‘An apology would be nice,’ says Kit icily. I try to shush him, and he lays his hand on my shoulder.
‘Kit.’ Kura blinks at him. ‘I hope you can understand why we had concerns?’
‘Not really.’ Kit’s charm has been switched off. ‘In heaven’s name, woman! Can you not say sorry? This has been a nightmare for our family. As though it wasn’t enough to have our boy critically injured, we’ve been persecuted. Do you have the smallest idea how it feels to be called an abuser, Kura? Or don’t you even care?’
‘Of course I care.’
‘She was doing her job, Kit,’ I whisper, in the guilty knowledge that Kura was right to suspect something was amiss, right to investigate our family.
But Kit’s in full flood, releasing all the nervous tension of the past fortnight. ‘We’ve been spied on by everyone in this hospital—I reckon even the bloody cleaners were taking notes. Our neighbours and our doctor and our boys’ teachers have been questioned, our name’s been dragged right through the piggery. We’ve been living in terror that you might take our kids away! And now you have the brass neck to breeze in, all sweetness and light, and tell us we’re in the clear. We’ve been innocent all along. Well, how about some acknowledgement that you made a disastrous error of judgement?’
‘It wasn’t personal,’ insists Kura. ‘If we don’t act when there are indicators of abuse, we’re vilified. And there were concerns. A child critically injured in the middle of the night, apparent finger bruises, a healed fracture that was never presented, parents who had a fight and then covered it up.’
‘Only if you’ve a suspicious mind. I think maybe some of you people have been in this job too long. You see nastiness in every corner. You can’t see the good any more.’
I’m ill at ease, but Kura isn’t. She’s heard it all before. She gives him a leaflet explaining the process we’ve just been through and what to do if we want to make a complaint. ‘It’s been a privilege to meet such a lovely family,’ she says.
‘You mean it’s been a privilege to harass such a lovely family,’ retorts Kit.
Kura merely smiles. ‘How much longer can your father stay, Martha?’
‘Only another week,’ I say glumly.
‘Grandpa will leave a hole in your life, won’t he? But I know you’ve already made some good friends in the district. Really loyal friends, like Mr and Mrs Colbert and Finn’s young teacher. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me at this stage? Now’s your chance.’
We shake our heads. We want rid of her.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
At the door, she has a parting shot. ‘You do need to get on with altering that balcony. And next time a child takes a nasty tumble off his bike, for goodness’ sake get him to a doctor!’
Kit rolls his eyes at her departing back. ‘If I ever see that woman again, it’ll be too soon.’
I have to agree with him. The social worker hasn’t made a disastrous error of judgement at all; quite the opposite. I genuinely like her as a person. I admire her acuity. No doubt colleagues respect, and grandchildren adore her. She’s on the side of the angels, but all the same I never, ever want to see Kura Pohatu again.
We bring Finn home. I present the nurses in child health and ICU with boxes of locally made chocolates, and Charlie hands out some crumpled thank-you cards he’s been working on for days. Finn’s favourite nurse is on duty and she sees us to the door with smiles and hugs and admonitions not to fall off any more balconies. His plaster—actually dark green fibreglass— is smothered in graffiti. We pass the cafeteria and the chapel, and then Finn is out at last, free in the open air under a windblown sky.
Someone has written in the chapel book:
On the assumption that you
made him well, THANK YOU! But tell me—what now?
We drive up to Patupaiarehe in triumph. Dad comes trotting out of the kitchen door followed by Bianka, who’s staying for the weekend.
‘Here we are!’ chants Kit, driving a little victory circuit under the walnut. ‘The warrior returns.’
Finn talked all the way, but now he’s looking pale and shaky. He fumbles to open the car door with his good hand. I think he’s become institutionalised. Actually, we all have. Dad helps him out.
‘Lucky you didn’t break the ear-stroking arm,’ says Charlie, who’s been high as a kite since six this morning. He’s on fire with happiness at his twin’s return. ‘Hey, come and see Bleater Brown! She’s
this
big, now!’
‘Careful,’ I warn. ‘Finn’s got to take it very slowly. He can’t rush around.’
‘Okay.’ In extravagant slow motion, Charlie leads his other half over to the lamb’s pen. They lean on the fence like two old farmers, tickling Bleater’s head and discussing the progress of their stock.
Bianka comes close to me. ‘Martha, um—’
‘Just a sec.’ I’m distracted, lifting bags out of the car. ‘Can you grab this for me, Bianka?’
At that moment, Finn looks around. ‘Where’s Sacha?’
‘She’ll be here in a minute,’ says Dad quickly, with a glance at me. ‘Shall we go and make Bleater a bottle?’
Something is very wrong. I stand bewildered, holding Finn’s little backpack. Bianka takes my arm and leads me out of Kit’s earshot. ‘She’s in the hut,’ she whispers tersely.
I stare. ‘Tell me she hasn’t got hold of anything.’
‘I’m so sorry! Look, I shadowed her all day, every day, until she was ready to punch me. But yesterday lunchtime I had to go and help a group of Year Nines with their history project . . . I got volunteered.’ Bianka’s mouth twists in regret.
‘Yes?’ I’m impatient. ‘Go on.’
‘She must’ve borrowed a phone, texted a dealer and met him outside school. That’s all I can think of. I noticed her coming back, and she said she’d just nipped out to the dairy for a chocolate bar. But I could tell from the way she looked at me . . . you know?’
‘Oh, yes. I know.’ I can easily picture the new, deceitful Sacha. I know that creature all too well.
‘She took some last night. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but she was manic, up and down all night. I didn’t want to spoil Finn’s homecoming so I thought I’d just keep an eye on her, which was a stupid mistake because as soon as you’d gone this morning, she disappeared. It took me a while to find her in the smoko hut.’
‘Okay.’ Rage and sorrow and fear have been seething in me for months, and now they overflow. I know what I’m going to do. I begin to back away, ready to run. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
Bianka shakes her head miserably. ‘She wouldn’t even open the door to your gorgeous dad. She went psycho. She—’
I don’t need to hear any more. I sprint past the kitchen door and along the path to the hut. Its windows have been covered again, and the door is locked. I hammer on the flaky wood. Shards of paint fall away. ‘Sacha!’ I bellow.
There’s clumsy movement inside, and the sound of something clattering; then a muttered ‘get fucked’. It isn’t a girl speaking. It’s the voice of that horrible Sacha beast.
Resolve settles in me like icy water. It weighs me down and makes me cold. ‘I won’t get fucked,’ I say, very clearly. ‘It’s time for you to listen. So listen carefully. Are you listening?’
A snarled obscenity.
‘Do you know what really happened to Finn?’
Silence.
I lean my face close to the door, my lips almost touching it. ‘I’ll tell you. You thought creatures were coming to get you. Remember that, Sacha? They were creeping along the balcony and into your bedroom. You were scared out of your wits.’
‘Shut up!’ The voice is coarse. Ugly. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘All night long they were whispering. You saw their gleaming eyes, a face at the window, crawling things. And in the morning you weren’t in bed, were you? No. You were sitting in your cupboard. How do you think you got there?’
I feel a powerful thud just in front of my face, followed by the smashing of glass. A bottle, I’m sure, hurled at the door. Then another. The old timber shivers at each impact.
I raise my voice. ‘During the night, you heard something on the balcony. You ran out there. Remember, Sacha? Remember unlocking your door and running outside? Yes. I think you do.’
Another smash. The door buckles slightly.
‘You caught a creature prowling around behind your door. You actually caught one! So what did you do? You hurled it over the rail.’ I’m choking on my rage. It fills my chest. I have to breathe hard before my next words. ‘That was Finn.’
I want her to taste my horror. I feel as though I’m slicing into this imposter with a sharp knife; I have to cut the real Sacha out of her. She must have run out of bottles to throw, because this time it sounds more like a kick. ‘He’s got no spleen,’ I shriek, twisting the knife. ‘He’s got a broken arm and they had to dig two pieces of skull out of his brain. God knows what the future holds for him. And
you
did this to him!’
Volcanic pressure is building behind my forehead. I boot the door myself, kick it with all my fury. I kick five, ten times until it splinters and caves, and my foot goes through.
I hear the bolt drawing back. Sacha is standing in the doorway, her eyes black, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
‘It’s not true,’ she wails. ‘It’s not true.’
‘Oh yes, it is. I saw you do it. Shall I go and tell him? Shall I tell Finn how much his sister loves him?’
I see it in her eyes. The knowledge. The shock. Then she staggers back into the hut, pressing both arms over her face.
‘Where is it?’ I tear down the curtains and begin to ransack the room. I’m seriously considering whether to scatter petrol and set a match to this lair. I gather up a home-made pipe and lighters and tape and all the other bits of paraphernalia, and throw everything into her bin. ‘I said, where is it?’
‘I got it on credit. Just a point. It’s all gone.’
‘
Where is it?
’
She pulls one of the tiny bags from inside her bra. A few crystals; innocent, like rock salt. ‘I shouldn’t be on this earth,’ she weeps, as I wash them down the plughole.
‘No,’ I say bitterly. ‘You probably shouldn’t.’
I hear footsteps outside. Dad stops at the door of the hut, taking in the scene in an instant. ‘Finn’s flaked out. He’s asking for you, Martha.’ He jerks his head back towards the house. ‘Go on. Go and make him comfy, poor little man. Maybe I can help here.’
When I leave them, my father is sitting on the floor beside Sacha. He’s doing what I haven’t been able to do; what I think I may never again be able to do. He’s put his arms around his granddaughter, and is telling her she is still loved.
*
When I look out of the kitchen window ten minutes later, Dad’s car has gone. At lunchtime Finn asks for him and Sacha. I say they’ve gone for a walk, and Kit stares at me. After all, this is Finn’s big homecoming day. Charlie and Dad spent yesterday evening making a cake and banners; the idea of anyone swanning off for a stroll is bound to raise an eyebrow.
After lunch, Finn falls asleep on the sofa. Charlie glues himself to his twin, warm and contented, squashed up close. Bianka sits nearby, reading a book. I know my time is running out. Well, let Kit tackle me. I’ve come to a decision.
He’s loading the dishwasher when he finally asks the dreaded question. ‘She’s relapsed again, hasn’t she?’ he says quietly. When I nod, he slams the dishwasher door shut with his foot. ‘
Fuck.
’
‘Kit.’
‘
Stupid
girl,’ he growls. ‘Okay, okay. We’ve got to get help.’
‘Kit.’ I feel a cold sweat on my forehead, as though I’m about to be sick. I’m quivering at the top of a high diving board, gazing down, down, knowing I have to jump. This could be the end of everything.
‘Get on to a counsellor,’ he’s saying. ‘Tell them all about—’
I have to shout over him. ‘Kit! Please listen.’
He stops talking. I shut my eyes for a second, and then I hurl myself off the board.
‘She was paranoid,’ I say. ‘She thought there were evil beings stalking her. I think maybe it started months ago, the paranoia, but it got worse and worse. Sometimes she heard them whispering, even caught glimpses of them. They terrified her. Then one night, the night you came home from Dublin, she actually
caught
one lurking outside her bedroom door.’
Kit has turned to stone, the colour rapidly leaving his face.
‘She knew it was one of her tormentors. She picked it up and she . . . she . . .’
‘No. Jesus, Martha.
No
.’
I’m struggling to utter the terrible words. ‘She threw him. She threw him off the balcony.’ I bury my eyes in the palm of one hand, feeling tears run through my fingers. ‘I wasn’t quick enough.’
‘You saw this happen?’
I step close to him, supplicating, trying to put my arms around his neck. ‘I thought if I could only keep it to myself—’
‘You thought you’d feed me a pack of lies! You thought you and I could live together for the next fifty years, whatever, and you’d be lying every second of it.’
‘I didn’t know whether you could forgive her.’
‘Didn’t you? No.’ He throws my arms away from his neck and strides out of the room. A minute later, I hear a distant thud as the studio door slams.
I spend the next hour in a blank daze, lying on the floor by the stove with my hand on Muffin’s warm back. Kit doesn’t reappear. I imagine him hunched over a bottle, raging to himself. I don’t blame him. His world has finally collapsed. His stepdaughter tried to kill his son, and his wife covered up for her. He must be wondering if there is anyone he can trust. I fear for us all.
The shadows are long on our lawn when I get a call from Dad. The line is faint.
‘She’s told me,’ he says simply.