Second Chances (40 page)

‘You have.’

He snuggled a little closer, gossamer hair tickling my neck. Once they’d dropped off, I eased myself out and transferred Finn to his own bed. He muttered something as I covered him up, and flung out a small arm.

Sacha too seemed to be asleep, swaddled in her duvet; but as I was turning off the bedside lamp, I heard her voice. ‘Shut up.’

I looked round. She was sitting up. ‘What? I never said anything.’

‘Shut
up.
You’re doing my head in.’ She was staring fixedly over my shoulder. Spooked, I glanced behind me. A draught stirred the open curtains. The next moment she was screaming in terror, backing away up the bed.

‘What is it?’ I gasped. Her mouth was wide open, like a skull’s. ‘Sacha— what’s happened?’

‘D’you see it? D’you
see
it?’ She pointed at the window. ‘Oh my God, there’s something looking in! Oh my God, see the face?’

I looked, but could see only our two reflections in the black glass. It took all my courage to walk across and open the door. I searched up and down the balcony. There was no sign of life, though leaves rustled in the magnolia tree.

‘Nothing there,’ I said shakily, shutting and bolting the door behind me.

The next moment she was beside me, digging her fingers into my arm. ‘We’ve got to get out,’ she hissed. ‘They’re here.’

I’ll admit it: I sank half a bottle of pinot while I waited for Kit.

I phoned the Vargas. They were my staunch allies, a teenage girl and a dying woman. I needed allies. The father answered. Anita and Bianka were out for a walk, he said chattily. Seemed a funny thing to do on a winter’s night, but they’d rugged up warm. Was I Sacha’s mum? What a lovely girl. Shame they hadn’t seen much of her lately.

Then I wandered around the house, closing curtains and feeling lost. I decided to put off telling Kit about Sacha’s relapse. I wouldn’t talk about going back to England, either. Not tonight, when he was coming home so happy.

At five past ten, a car crossed the cattle grid.

Now, here’s a tip: reunions never live up to one’s expectations; it’s just a sad fact of life. This one was disastrous. I blame jetlag. I blame the awful secrets I was keeping. I blame stress and lack of sleep. I blame my half bottle of wine, and Kit’s temper. Whatever the culprit, the effect was catastrophic.

Kit was climbing stiffly out of the car when I hurled myself across the yard. He held out his arms and I pressed my face to his, luxuriating in his closeness.

‘Hey hey,’ he said, nudging my ear. ‘You’re not blubbing, are you?’

Bleater Brown spotted us, and began to bawl as we walked inside, arms around one another.

‘Tea, coffee, food?’ I asked. ‘Or just sleep?’

Kit was spaced out. His eyes looked bloodshot, his hair tousled. He dropped his car keys by the phone, yawning. ‘Um . . . how about one of your special frothy coffees? I’ll just nip upstairs, take a pee and kiss the children. Promise I won’t wake them.’

‘I wouldn’t go into Sacha’s room. She’s . . . best not to disturb her.’

While he padded upstairs I switched on the espresso machine. Bleater was still making her feelings plain, so I made up a bottle. I heard the phone as I was climbing into her pen, but it was cut off after four rings so I knew Kit had answered it. Probably his mother. Bleater gulped down her milk in record time, but I lingered to put more straw in her bed.

Kit’s call was over by the time I returned. He’d changed into a clean sweater.

‘I’ll froth your milk,’ I chirruped. ‘This is going to be the best Martha frothy-coffee special in the universe. Who was on the phone?’

‘Bianka.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh.’ Kit looked immensely sad, his eyes turned down at the corners. ‘Bianka. Wanting news. She and Anita have been out looking all evening. They were wondering whether we’d heard from Sacha yet.’

‘Kit . . .’

‘She was very relieved when I told her I’d just seen Sacha upstairs, asleep. Says she and her mum were really scared. I asked why scared? She said well, you hear of people being murdered for supplying P on some other dealer’s patch. Those were her actual words, Martha.
Supplying P on some other
dealer’s patch.
What the fuck’s going on?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘I’ll bet it is. You thought I didn’t need to know my stepdaughter’s a drug dealer?’

‘Courier.’

He exploded, kicking a chair across the room. ‘Jesus Christ! Are you going to quibble about the job title?’

‘No, but—’

‘A dealer under my roof, living with
my
sons! Finn and Charlie could find that shit lying around and wonder what it tastes like.’

‘Shh, Kit! Keep your voice down. The children—’

He didn’t keep his voice down. ‘Drug squad might smash the doors in any moment. A gang could come out here and torch our house. And you didn’t feel like telling me?’

‘You weren’t here to tell.’

He turned away, shaking his head. ‘This can’t go on, Martha.’

I felt cold. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean it can’t go on. I’ll never trust Sacha again. Now I find I can’t trust you either. One way or another, this must stop.’

One way or another . . .
It was fear inside me, undulating sinuously like an eel. But I hid it with a good old-fashioned cavalry charge. ‘You can piss off, if you’re going to be so sodding sanctimonious.’

‘Maybe I should piss off then.’

I poked my knuckles into his chest. ‘You’ve been home five minutes and already you’re throwing your weight around. I’ve carried this family single-handed through a horrific crisis. I think I deserve a medal, but no, apparently I deserve to be yelled at. You’ve had your head so far up your own backside this past year—you know nothing about how this whole immigration thing has been for the rest of us.’

‘This whole immigration thing was dandy until that girl—’

I screamed over him, ‘We came out here for you! We lost our home and our family and our country, for you! All because
your
career blew up and
you
couldn’t handle it.’ I punched him in the shoulder. ‘How dare you come in here and start preaching to me?’

‘I dare, because Finn and Charlie are my sons. I dare, because you haven’t kept them safe. And if I have to leave you and take them with me, then—so help me—I will.’

I grabbed his car keys and threw them at him. I could barely speak. ‘Get out.’

The next moment, he was reversing in a wild arc. He’d crossed the cattle grid and torn down the drive before I could draw a breath.

‘He’ll be back,’ I said to Muffin, who was looking very worried. ‘He always comes back.’

Thirty-five

My phone has finally died.

It’s seven o’clock on Tuesday evening. Finn fell at midnight, less than a day ago. One day. One lifetime.

It must be completely dark outside by now. There are people on the ward, visiting other patients. They avoid my eye as they slide past, though their gaze flickers over Finn. They have their own horrors. A bewildered father and three very scared teenagers sit tearfully, trying to field telephone calls. Their mum went to bed with a headache last night, and when she wouldn’t wake this morning they called an ambulance. The doctors say it is meningitis.

Hurried footsteps in the corridor. A familiar voice, fast and fearful, asking for his son. I’m on my feet and calling to Kit as he strides down the unit. He grabs my hand, his eyes fixed upon the little figure on the bed beside me.

‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘Finn.’ He drops onto one knee beside his son.

I begin to tell him what the doctors have said: how Finn’s in an induced coma, and they hope to wake him when the time is right. Out of the corner of my eye I see the nurse, watching. I slide to the ground next to Kit.

‘What have we done to deserve this?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I came home.’ Shock is distorting Kit’s voice. ‘I came home. I brought you flowers.’

‘Where did you go last night? Where on earth
were
you?’

‘Driving around Napier in a hell of a stew. I was so tired, couldn’t think straight at all, finally spotted a motel with its lights still on. I don’t even remember getting into bed . . . slept fourteen, fifteen hours, God knows how long. Once I woke up and had a meal and a shower, I realised what a total arse I’d been. So I jumped in the car and drove home at ninety miles an hour . . . Ira came out to meet me.’ Kit looks bleak. ‘I was holding your flowers, like a total idiot. I clapped him on the back, asked if he was stealing my wife. He didn’t smile at all, he said there’s been an accident. I said what kind of accident? Then Charlie ran out in floods of tears, and he told me . . .’ Kit’s voice gives way. He pulls me close. ‘My poor girl, you’ve been alone.’

‘I called you a million times!’

‘I don’t have my phone.’

‘Yes, you do. You took it to Ireland.’

‘I did,’ he agrees helplessly. ‘But I dumped my jacket in our room last night. Remember, I got changed? Bloody thing was in the pocket.’

‘All those calls, all those texts.’ I imagine the phone bleating away in our room, forlorn and unheeded. ‘It’s almost funny.’

Kit doesn’t answer. His eyes are tightly shut, his forehead resting on clasped hands. I think he’s praying. It’s a long, long time before he asks the question. I knew it had to come, but still I am not ready.

‘What happened?’ he breathes, his eyes still closed.

There is only one person in the world who knows how Finn came to fall.

That person is me.

Thirty-six

A starry winter’s night, and the hills were gentle swells against a singing sky.

I sat in the kitchen and waited for Kit to come back. I waited for an hour, ears pricked hopefully for the sound of an engine. From time to time I checked my phone for messages. I was darned if I was going to text him a cringing apology. I fed Muffin, stoked up the fire and thought of all the things I’d say when he came back. Oh, I had plenty to say.

But he didn’t come back.

Finally, I ditched my pride and sent a text.
For godsake come home you
prick the twins missed you and so did I. Just come home now.

Before heading upstairs, I let Muffin out for a final pee. Bleater Brown fussed when she heard us. Switching off my torch, I lingered by the woolshed and peered into the billowing depths of the bush. The darkness in there was like a solid mass; it seemed to press into my eyeballs. In the inky shadows, something was on the move. A tree fern shivered from root to tip as though it had been shaken by the trunk. I stood still, watching, listening. Muffin got bored and shuffled back inside, and eventually I followed her.

I checked my phone, but there was no reply from Kit. I sent one more, while making a mug of tea.
Please come home.

Our bedroom was a chiller, the empty bed supremely uninviting. Grabbing the duvet, I stepped out onto the balcony. The wooden boards shuddered under my feet. I paused at the handrail, feeling the moulded wood under my fingers and wishing we didn’t have to leave. The night was a giant black-and-white photograph, growing sharper and more distinct as my eyes adjusted. I could smell sheep and forest and salt air, and I loved it; I loved it all. We’d lived in Patupaiarehe a year, and we’d made it our home. This life, this house, these people were a part of us. I wanted it to be our future. I longed for the twins to grow up in this magical valley, and be free. I longed for Kit to be an artist in his studio, happy and fulfilled.

I can’t say how long I stood there, grieving. From across the fields tore the screech of a plover; the mother-in-law bird, bossy and reassuring. My own mother-in-law was twelve thousand miles away. Poor lady, she missed her only son.

Finally I sat down on the old sofa and pulled the duvet up to my chin. Still no engine on the drive, not even a distant whine from the road. The magnolia stretched its fingers onto the balcony. There was nothing to set its branches shivering; not a possum, not a stirring bird. The silence was a presence in itself.

Time passed.

And then a small movement. A handle twisting, further down the balcony. A door swinging open. Furtive and cunning, like the creeping patupaiarehe.

They’re here.

‘Who’s that?’ My voice was high with fright.

A slow shadow appeared, silent and indistinct. I could feel my heartbeat, fast and shallow, tickticktick like an overwound carriage clock. Then a small creature was standing in the gloom, facing me.

‘Finn?’ I touched my chest with a rush of pent-up breath. ‘Good Lord! I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

He wasn’t awake. He turned in a full circle, eyes blank, moving without purpose. His bed hair stood up straight, just like his father’s. I laid my empty mug quietly onto the table, careful to make no sudden movements. I’d done this a hundred times before. The young sleepwalker turned and pottered barefoot away from me, past Sacha’s door, all the way to the other end of the balcony. He was wearing his Mr Men pyjamas, and his tufty head was level with the balustrade. There was a pile of leaves at the far end. His feet dragged through them with a long, swishing sound.

I sighed as I shook off the duvet, stretching my limbs. No rest for the wicked, indeed. I’d better take the little chap back to bed before the cold woke him. Kit might think I was a rotten mother, but I could at least manage a sleepwalking five-year-old.

I was edging around the table when I felt the reverberation of rapid steps. I heard the grinding of a bolt before the furthest door burst open with a harsh judder of twisted wood. An agitated figure thudded out and stood in the middle of the balcony, rocking. It had unnaturally black eyes, like pools of oil in a white face. Devil’s eyes.

‘Sacha,’ I whispered, and laid a finger on my lips. ‘Shh. Don’t wake him up.’

She looked at me, then right through me. She was wearing a t-shirt and knickers. ‘I know you’re out here,’ she yelled, shockingly loud. ‘I hear you.’

I pride myself on being able to deal with difficult, angry clients; can’t remember a time when calm handling and a cool head didn’t defuse a situation. ‘Sacha. Look at me,’ I said clearly. ‘I’m here.’

‘I know you’re there,’ she snarled. As I took a step closer I realised that she was glaring into the distance, listening to a voice that wasn’t mine. Her gaze was flickering fast from one side to the other, her head darting like a snake about to strike. ‘Where are you? Come on! Show yourself.’