After the Fall (24 page)

‘Hot chocolate?’ suggested Charlie hopefully.

‘And pancakes?’ added Finn.

‘And coffee,’ said Kit, as he flicked on the wipers.

That first squall was swiftly followed by another. I made pancakes with Finn’s help while Charlie spun plastic plates across the table like frisbees, howling the theme tune to
Dam Busters
. Sacha was up, dressed and trying to work the espresso machine. Meanwhile Kit hunted through the dresser drawers.

‘Where’s my camera? I want a photo of that massive cloud with the rainbow.’

‘Um . . . is it plugged into the computer?’

‘Hang on, I’ll check . . . Nope. Guys, anyone seen my camera?’

The rest of us looked blank. The twins had begun squirting syrup over their pancakes, over the table, over the floor.

‘Coffee, Kit?’ asked Sacha, handing him a cup. ‘I think I got it right.’

‘Looks perfect!’ Kit took an appreciative sip, then went to fetch his older camera from our bedroom. He spent the next half hour striding around in the garden, taking photographs of the strange storm light.

‘So weird,’ said Sacha, looking out of the window. ‘It’s not our garden any more. It’s kind of alien.’

I stood at her shoulder. ‘Spooky, isn’t it? Like a solar eclipse.’

‘Do you ever feel a bit . . . you know, funny about this house?’

I pantomimed quivering horror, but she didn’t smile. ‘Do you?’ I asked.

She nodded. She looked quite strained, with bluish shadows along her eye sockets. ‘Sometimes I feel as though we’re being watched.’

‘You mean by people?’

‘It freaks me out the way it’s so totally
dark
at night. It sort of presses on your eyeballs. Don’t you feel as though the bush is . . . I don’t know, alive? Like there’s something out there?’

‘You’ve been listening to Ira’s scary stories,’ I said lightly. ‘Now—to more pressing matters. Where’s my coffee?’

The weather moved on during the evening, leaving a sulky night. At nine o’clock I poured myself a glass of merlot and sat on the porch steps. Sacha had turned in early, complaining of a headache. Kit was working. The light from his window spread a ghostly eiderdown on the dark lawn.

There were no stars. No moon. No other dwellings. Just the blackness. I was wondering uneasily about the silver cow jug and Kit’s camera, Sacha’s precious locket and my missing cash. I remembered the patupaiarehe who crept down from the hills in the night, their sharp fingers reaching through the windows. They stole things, even people. I imagined a pale being tiptoeing up behind me with a leer of cunning. The hair rose on the back of my neck.

Suddenly, I stopped breathing.

There was something in the magnolia, right above my head. Something quite big, and very furtive. Rustle, rustle. I stared wildly up into the shadows.

A long silence. The calm deepened, and slowly I relaxed. Must have been a bird. I heard a lamb bleat, and its mother answered. I picked up my glass.

Then my heart burst right through my chest as an unearthly din tore the silence: a rasping, demonic hiss. It was like nothing I’d ever heard in my life before. I was on my feet and halfway across the porch before I’d had time to make a conscious decision.

Yelling for Kit, I grabbed a torch from the table and swung the beam into the upper branches of the tree. A pair of eyes gleamed, and that terrible hiss broke off as a lithe shadow ran along the branch and onto our roof. I heard footsteps skittering on the tiles.

‘Possum,’ said Kit’s voice. ‘Cute.’

‘Possum?’ My heart was still beating wildly. I was covered in spilled wine. The glass lay on the lawn where I’d dropped it. ‘How d’you know it was a frigging possum? It sounded like the devil himself.’

Kit walked down the verandah. ‘Jean showed me one the other night. The bush is overrun with them, and they’re death to the native trees. They’re vermin— that’s what all those plastic bait stations are about. The Colbert boys used to earn pocket money by shooting possums. They’d head out at night with torches, shine light into their eyes and—
bang!
They skinned’em. Got paid ten bucks for every pelt.’

‘For God’s sake. This country is barbaric.’ Tonight, I agreed with Sacha. I wished we could see other lights, hear some man-made sound. A road, a pub, a party: anything but this endless blinding blackness. There was nothing; just an alien canopy of sky and the gloomy mass of the bush. Waiting. Watching.

I shone my torch along the roof. ‘If that thing can climb the tree and get onto the house, then so can any other creature.’

‘Yes, indeed. And New Zealand is swarming with man-eating sheep.’

‘
People
, Kit. People can be man-eaters.’

He put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Martha, when did we last even lock the front door? There are no villains here.’

‘I miss Milton Keynes,’ I whispered. ‘I miss the M1 and that twenty-four-hour Tesco and the horrid orange streetlights that shone right into our bedroom. I miss the juggernauts rattling our house.’

‘Careful,’ warned Kit. ‘No sane woman would talk like that.’

‘I keep thinking about things . . . the silver jug, your camera. Sacha’s locket.’

‘They’ll all turn up. We’re not even unpacked yet.’

‘I’m starting to think we have a poltergeist.’

He waved his arms. ‘Woooh!’ Then he leaned against me, resting his chin on top of my head, and I could feel him shaking with laughter.

I looked up onto the roof. I swear those eyes were glinting, in the dark.

Nineteen

Christmas. Barbecues and cold beer, mosquitoes in the airless nights. It wasn’t right; it was cock-eyed. The Colberts threw a party and we met more neighbours. We cut down a small cypress from beside our track and stuck it in a pot as a gawky Christmas tree. Cards poured in from England— snowy scenes and red-breasted robins perched on the handles of spades. My father sent an e-card with a bunch of fabulously camp reindeer, all singing an inane but cheery little song. I watched it about a thousand times, but I only cried twice.

Sacha’s solid-gold school report arrived in the post and my chest stuck out for a week.
Exemplary student . . . talented musician . . . delight to
teach . . . asset to the school.
I never once had a report like that. Perhaps if I had, my mother would have liked me.

The primary school put on a nativity play set in Rarotonga, followed by their end-of-year barbecue, a laid-back shindig on the beach. Kit drank a little too much, along with half the other parents. People were friendly but they weren’t my own. I’d have given up ten such events for a single hour with Lou and Dad.

By Christmas Eve, Kit and I were sickened by the way we’d been seduced—yet again—by the glittering insanity of the season. We vowed to have a present-free Christmas the following year. We promised this every year and never even got close, although as a sop to my middle-class conscience I always put a goat or duck for Somalia in each stocking. The twins were overexcited and I had a splitting headache. Sacha took pity on me, offering to do bedtime and bribing the boys with extra stories.

‘Sit down,’ ordered Kit, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Take five minutes.’

He opened a bottle of sauvignon and poured us both a glass. I was watching from under my eyelashes—despising my mistrust—and leafing through
Hawke’s Bay Today
. There was news about a fatal shooting in Auckland.
Gang-related killing
, said the report, as though that explained everything. Kit draped himself around my neck, reading over my shoulder. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked, nuzzling my cheek sideways onto his.

‘Not at all.’

I turned the page. ‘Well, I do. It’s really annoying having you breathing all over me like that.’

‘Just pretend you’re on the Tube. People always read your paper on the Tube. Hey, look!’ Kit pointed at a photograph on the third page. ‘There’s Jean.’

‘It is?’ I leaned closer. It wasn’t a very clear photo, but I could see two men shaking hands. ‘Good Lord, you’re right.
Jean Colbert presents his petition
to the MP for Napier, Robin Smythe.
’

‘Presents his what?’

I looked again. ‘Petition. I didn’t know Jean was an activist. Can’t imagine him having the motivation to do anything except bumble bow-legged around the vineyard with his trousers rolled up.’

‘Unless he’s lobbying for the wine trade?’

‘Just a sec . . .’ I was reading. ‘No. No, it’s political. Blow me down, how eccentric! He’s one of these hangers and floggers on sentencing.’

Kit laughed incredulously. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Strange, but true. His petition’s demanding longer sentences for drug dealers.’

‘Nah. Can’t be the same guy. He doesn’t strike me as a bigot. Must be the wrong caption.’

‘Hang on. I’m trying to read.’

‘Vengeful diatribe is not his style,’ insisted Kit. ‘Lovely fella.’

‘Shush . . . Gawd, that’s random. Jean collared the poor MP as he was doing some Christmas appearance down at the hospital.
“Life should mean
life for those who commit violent offences while under the influence of pure
methamphetamine, or P.”
’

‘Pee? I didn’t know urine was a narcotic.’

‘Shut
up
, Kit!
“The government of New Zealand must introduce a policy
of zero tolerance,” said Mr Colbert, as he presented his petition. “This
is an evil of epidemic proportions, a poison which is destroying our society.
Those who are involved in its supply, and those who offend while under
its influence, must be brought to justice and irrevocably removed from our
streets.”
’

‘Strong stuff,’ said Kit, who’d begun rootling in the larder. ‘Who’d have thought it? Old Jean turns out to be a redneck. Have we got any crisps?’

I was still bent over the paper, trying to reconcile the Jean I knew—the Gallic charmer who shambled dotingly after his wife and kissed me on both cheeks—with this obsessive who’d made the effort to track down an MP on a Christmas baby-kissing visit.

‘Oh no,’ I said suddenly. ‘I get it. Oh my God.’

‘Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘This is horrible.’ I smacked my head into my hands. ‘I told you Jean and Pamela lost their son?’

‘Yep. I remember that.’

‘He was murdered.’

Kit stopped smiling. He stepped closer, squinting at the newspaper. ‘What’s the story?’

‘
Mr Colbert has been a staunch campaigner since the death of his son
Daniel seven years ago. Daniel died after an unprovoked attack in Wellington
city centre. “My son had become a father that day,” said Mr Colbert. “He
was a sincere and brilliant young man, a committed conservationist who was
working to make a better world. And he died because someone did not like the
colour of his hair.”
’

‘Did they catch the bloke?’

‘Er . . . hang on. Two blokes. Pleaded guilty to murder and got life with a minimum non-parole period of ten years.’

‘Jesus.’ Kit sank down opposite me, running a hand down his face. ‘Is that all they’ll do?’

‘Ten years is a lifetime to a young man. Any longer and there would be no chance of rehabilitation.’

‘Martha, my darling, don’t give me that liberal hug-a-hoodie bunkum. They might still be in their prime when they come out. How would you feel if it was one of your boys murdered?’

From upstairs, elephants’ feet shook the floorboards. Finn and Charlie were serenading Sacha with their favourite naughty song. It was set to the tune—well, to call it a ‘tune’ might be disingenuous, as both boys appeared to be almost tone deaf—of ‘John Brown’s Body’.

‘
We’ve tortured all the teachers, we’ve broken all the rules,

We’ve fried the headmaster, we’ve set fire to the school . . .
’

‘Some parents forgive their children’s killers,’ I said. ‘There was one on
Oprah
a few years back.’

‘
Oh glory, glory allelu-iah, Teacher hit me with a ru-ler . . .

’ Kit’s eyes had darkened. Every trace of laughter had gone. ‘Forgive them? I’d kill’em,’ he said. ‘If someone hurt one of our three, they wouldn’t be doing a life sentence, they’d be dead. I would hunt them down and kill them.’

‘Not that you’re a redneck.’

‘No. I’m a father.’

‘
So I shot her in the butt,

With a cannonball coco-nu-u-ut.

’

The boys began Christmas Day at an ungodly hour. I could hear them jumping on Sacha before the three of them burst into our room, dragging their hauls. Kit groaned. We’d been up half the night, ramming water pistols and Mr Men pyjamas into stockings.

‘Cool,’ enthused Charlie. ‘Jarmies, with Mr Men on them. Have you got some too, Finny?
Finn!
Did you get some too?’

‘Look at this,’ snarled Finn, tearing at a package. ‘Electric toothbrush! Santa’s a cheeky old thing.’