Part 28 (1/2)

'She's wiped all her messages.'

'Laptop?'

'She gave Kit her pa.s.sword, 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. 'G.o.d, 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.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. We'll have to put a stop on it.'

'I don't care about the f.u.c.king 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 b.i.t.c.h. Can you blame me if I want to relax on a Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.sessments. 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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.

'h.e.l.lo, 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.