Part 31 (1/2)

Kit was clicking and typing. 'Bingo,' he said quietly. 'We'll have to give it a few minutes to download.'

Highly educational, is YouTube: a grainy, sordid little home video, showing us exactly how to make a meth pipe out of a light bulb, then heat crystals over a flame and inhale the vapours. Things I'd seen in the smoko hut- apparently innocent-became horribly significant. The bulb was the star of the show, but also in the cast were the pliers, the duct tape, the empty biro tube, the lighter and the top part of a plastic drink bottle like the ones in the bin. There was even salt, to sandblast the frosting off the bulb. It was all done in a lonely, G.o.dforsaken silence. You never saw more than the addict's mouth, but you could hear his heavy breathing. It was an intensely sleazy experience. I felt dirty just watching. It was repulsive, yet at the same time almost erotic, like a peepshow in the back streets of Amsterdam.

'For crying out loud.' Kit sounded shaken. 'Let's go to the police. Right now. Tonight.'

'We can't.'

'This is poison, Martha! They'll give Sacha a warning and put the fear of G.o.d into her.'

I reached for his hand, lifted it off the mouse and traced my finger down the familiar lines on his palm. 'If Sacha's in trouble, we're all in trouble. We have to be of good character. Remember all those police checks before we got our visas? I don't know, but using a Cla.s.s A drug doesn't sound like good character to me.'

Kit understood immediately, and banged his other hand onto the desk. 'h.e.l.l.'

The video started itself up again. We watched the process with fascinated revulsion. The bulb filled with white vapour, swirling and thickening. It was all obscenely matter-of-fact, as though this degradation was normal and everyday; a Blue Peter presenter showing how to make a pencil case out of a s...o...b..x and sticky-backed plastic . . . And here's one I've made already! The anonymous lips closed caressingly around the tube, and the addict inhaled deeply. Then he murmured something. His tone was that of a lover, whispering in his beloved's ear.

'I've seen enough,' said Kit abruptly.

We climbed the stairs together. Sacha's door was locked.

'Sacha.' Kit gave the panels a hefty kick. 'Let us in or-so help me-I'll walk down these stairs and phone the police. You can take your chances.'

The door swung open and she stood with her hand on the handle, mocking. 'You wouldn't dare.'

It struck me-with sickening force-how my dazzling girl had changed. How could such horrors have slipped beneath my radar? This creature was thin, sallow, sad, with sores on her face and arms. Her hair was dirty, her eyes deadened. The signs had been there to see.

She was in trouble, sneered Mum. But you were too busy with your work and your twins and your lovely new life.

The room was a bombsite, with the rancid smell I'd noticed the night before. Sacha used to be organised, tidy, fussy about hygiene. She threw herself full-length on the bed. 'Okay, okay. I tried it. I'll never touch it again. Happy?'

'For Christ's sake.' Kit rammed his fist into his palm.

'What did you expect? You pack me up and drag me halfway around the world as though I was a piano. What did you expect?'

'Not this,' I said.

When she saw that Kit was prowling, opening drawers and cupboards, she jumped to her feet. 'Get out! You're not my father. How dare you invade my privacy?'

Kit stood looking around, brows drawn. 'What am I going to find, Sacha Norris?'

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Kit. There's nothing in here. I've just had some filthy burglar going through my stuff, and now you . . . Put that down!'

Kit had hold of her backpack. He took one last look at his stepdaughter- who was making a wild lunge towards him-and shook the pack upside down. Clothes fell out: a t-s.h.i.+rt; a manky towel, wrapped around Sacha's bikini; and finally a pair of socks rolled into a ball, which hit the floor with a hideous clunk.

We all looked down at those socks. Kit picked them up. As he unrolled them, something fell into the palm of his hand. It was the video camera I'd been given as a leaving present. My decadent toy, stolen in the burglary.

'Jesus Christ.' Kit stared in sickened fascination at the thing in his hand. His voice was ominously gentle. 'It's true. You had us burgled.'

Sacha crumpled onto the bed, her arms wrapped around her head. I felt as though she was a stranger.

'No choice.' Her breath was coming in fractured gasps. 'I didn't have any choice.'

Kit crossed the floor in one stride, took hold of an arm and pulled her half off the bed. It was as though he'd attacked a rag doll.

'No choice?' he spat, his face distorted with rage. 'No choice? You little b.i.t.c.h. You told them when to come. Told them where to look. Maybe you even drew a helpful map. Did you have a good laugh about Mary b.l.o.o.d.y Poppins? What have Finn and Charlie ever done to you?'

I stepped closer. 'Kit . . .'

'They love you.' Kit's whole body seemed electrified with fury. He lifted a fist. 'Those poor little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! They wors.h.i.+p you. Was that their crime? Wors.h.i.+pping you?'

'I needed to pay someone,' she wailed. 'I owed someone.'

'Who did you owe?' I asked.

'Can't tell you.'

'Oh yes, you can.' Kit pushed her away. 'Who is this person you love so much that you will betray your family for them? Is it that slimeball Jani?'

'We have to call the police,' I said.

'No!' Sacha began to rock back and forth on the bed, her arms locked behind her head. 'I'm so scared . . . They'll come after me.'

Kit sighed. 'Where's Sibella's portrait? I want it back.'

'Shh! Did you hear that?' Sacha looked terrified. 'There's someone on the balcony.'

I opened her door and looked out. The night was still. Not a sound, not a movement; not even the lights of a s.h.i.+p out in the bay. 'Must have been a possum,' I said, stepping back inside.

'Oh, I wish it was.' Sacha's mouth stretched wide. 'I'm sorry, Mum. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm in so much trouble.' Her bare feet were stuck out in front of her, the toes splayed. I thought of a film I once saw about cholera victims, their dead feet laid out in rows.

'You've got to talk to us,' I said tiredly. 'No more lies, Sacha. Please. I can't take any more lies.'

Kit glanced at his watch. 's.h.i.+t. We were supposed to collect the boys an hour ago.'

'You go,' I said.

He hesitated. 'Will you be okay?'

'Yes. I'll talk to her. Don't hurry back-we don't want the boys upset.'

As he was leaving, a horrible thought struck me. 'The Colberts! This is what killed their son. They mustn't know, Kit. n.o.body must know.'

Twenty-nine.

What do you do when your daughter smuggles a snake into Eden? It isn't in the manual.

I hoped I was dreaming, because this was a terrifying nightmare. I wasn't reading a book about some naive and witless mother whose child had gone off the rails. This wasn't Hollywood. This was me. Perhaps human beings need-for their very survival-a fundamental belief in their own invulnerability. It won't be my family killed on the roads. It won't be my husband in love with another woman. It will be someone else, and I'll feel very sorry for them while secretly suspecting that they brought it on themselves. It definitely won't be my child who takes drugs. That's for other, more careless families.