Second Chances Part 23

'My grandson, William. This is Martha, Kit, Sacha, and these are . . .' Still talking, she steered him towards Finn and Charlie, who were ballooning up their shorts with water.

Finn was the first of the boys to speak. 'Wanna havva go?' he asked courteously, offering the sprinkler. 'It's great. You fill your shorts, see? It looks like your bottom's a 'normous melon.'

Pamela chuckled. 'William won't be shy for long. Come on in, the rest of you. Gla.s.s of wine?' She led us into the taupe gloom of the kitchen, where she had a bottle of white chilling in the fridge. 'William is home-schooled- poor Hannah's very protective, understandably-so I'm keen for him to have a bit of rough and tumble. Lemonade, Sacha?'

'Please!' Sacha looked around. 'Anything I can do to help?'

Pamela made a face that said bless. 'Well-could you take this out to the boys?' She watched as Sacha left, carrying lemonade. Home-made, inevitably. 'Credit to you, that girl. Is she still seeing a lot of Tabby Mills?'

'Not so much, actually,' said Kit. 'She's not, is she, Martha? That friends.h.i.+p seems to have fizzled out a bit.'

It was true. Sacha had talked about Tabby constantly for the first school term, but we'd not heard of her since Christmas. Bianka had the top spot nowadays.

'I'm glad, really,' I said. 'Lovely girl, but maybe a bit-I don't know-a bit too cool for Sacha.'

'Too skinny, she means.' Kit put an arm around my shoulders, smiling at Pamela with a suggestion of eye-rolling. 'Martha thinks Sacha's got anorexia, or maybe bulimia.'

I shrugged him off, feeling patronised. A minute or two later I left the two of them in the kitchen, heads bent over a book of sculptures by a very trendy Australian artist who left me stone cold, and followed delicious cooking smells out to a paved terrace where Jean greeted me with an exuberant wave of his barbecue fork. I was relieved to see he wasn't wearing a novelty ap.r.o.n or silly chef's hat.

'Brought you a present,' I said, handing him a gla.s.s. 'Your best year, apparently.'

The terrace was a pleasant spot, shaded and bathed in the scents of barbecue and wine, lavender and dry gra.s.s. Beneath us, vines ran down the hillside in parallel lines with rose bushes at the ends. I'd always thought these were to encourage bees, but Jean explained that they were a bit like the canary in a miner's cage-if there was disease around, the poor old roses would cop it first. Across the lawn I could see the three boys jumping together on the trampoline, talking urgently. They were best mates already.

Sacha came to join us, kissing Jean's cheek. 'William is so cute,' she said.

Jean glanced over at the boys. 'It would have been his father's birthday today.'

'Oh no!' Sacha-dear, warm-hearted Sacha-seemed ready to cry. 'Jean, I'm so sorry.'

'We like having William to stay with us at this time each year, and it gives his mother a few days to herself.'

'How are you?' I asked. 'How's Pamela?'

'So-so.' Jean lifted a shoulder. He couldn't meet my eye. 'Daniel would have been thirty-one today. He was just starting out . . . a brand-new father.' He smiled weakly, and patted Sacha's cheek. 'You would have liked him, Sacha. You know, I really think he might have saved the world . . . But I mustn't talk like that. Pamela says it isn't productive.'

'I read about your pet.i.tion,' I said.

'Do you know what happened to Daniel?'

I felt terribly ignorant. 'Just what it said in the paper.'

He glanced at Sacha. 'I'll tell you another time. I think perhaps this isn't a subject . . .'

'It's okay, I won't be upset,' insisted Sacha.

'You will.'

'Really, Jean,' I said. 'We've never sheltered her from life.' Privately, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear this story.

'Well.' My neighbour breathed deeply for a moment, frowning fiercely, steadying his voice. 'Daniel was out in Wellington, celebrating the happiest day of his life. He had a baby son! Was it a crime, to have a few drinks? I don't think so. He left his friends in a bar for a moment, nipped over to a cashpoint machine. And that's when his luck ran out.

'Two men were walking up the street. They'd been bingeing on pure meth-P-and they'd fried their tiny brains. They hadn't slept for a fortnight and they were in a state they call tweaking. These people were already a waste of s.p.a.ce, but this night they were psychopaths. One of them pretended to make a grab for Daniel's money, just to distract him. The other one struck a ma.s.sive blow to the back of his head. Daniel fell to the ground. Then they began to kick him as he tried to crawl away. It was a feeding frenzy . . . they were laughing out loud as they booted my son. They screamed like karate fighters, exhorting one another to greater savagery. They took run-ups and kicked his head as though it was a football. This carried on long after he'd stopped moving. Finally they walked away, laughing fit to burst. How do I know all this? Because it was caught on the CCTV cameras.'

'Oh my G.o.d.' Sacha's hand was pressed across her mouth, her eyes bright with horror. 'Oh, Jean.'

'I've watched every second of it many times. I've even seen it in slow motion. I know every blow by heart.'

'Didn't anyone try to stop them?' I asked.

'A group of girls ran up, shouting-not much older than you, Sacha- and pulled out their cell phones to call the police. That was when the morons finally walked off. They didn't even run! They just swaggered away, jeering and pulling fingers at Daniel's body. I admire those girls. I don't believe they were the only people who saw, but they were the only ones to take action. A crowd began to gather, and Daniel's friends came to find out what the commotion was about. But he was already beyond help. The doctors kept him artificially alive on a machine until Pamela and I could get there to be with him. Hannah had come from the maternity ward with the baby, and spent some hours with him. We were holding Daniel's hands when they switched him off.'

Sacha stared into the vineyard, blinking desperately, a tear spilling down her cheek. I sat silent. These parents had witnessed the end of their son's life. I couldn't imagine it.

Eventually, I found my voice. 'They caught the attackers?'

'Of course.' Jean shrugged contemptuously. 'Easily. The whole thing was on film. And you know what one of these sc.u.m said when they arrested him? He said it was "hug a ginga" day. It was, too. That's an idea invented by some genius at a radio station.'

'Ginga?'

'Redhead. Daniel had auburn hair. So this monster said he and his mate decided it was "pulp a ginga" day. They went out looking for a redhead. He was still giggling about it when they put him in the back of the police van.'

'I don't believe I'm hearing this.'

'One pleaded guilty to murder. The other said he didn't intend to injure Daniel.'

Sacha's mouth fell open. 'What?'

'He'd been playing a violent computer game for seventy hours straight. Claimed he had some temporary psychosis and believed Daniel would "resp.a.w.n" somewhere, get up and walk away. Pamela and I were there for every single second of the trial. We watched that video again and again. You can imagine how we felt. That was our son on the ground.'

'But surely the guy didn't get off?' I asked.

'No, he didn't get off. There were hours of legal argument, three psychiatrists gave evidence, and on the third day he pleaded guilty. So the pair of them got life imprisonment, which doesn't mean life at all. They'll be out quite soon. Those worthless imbeciles took Daniel's future, yet they still have a future. They can even become fathers. One of their mothers dared to appear on the television and complain that her son was a victim!'

'How could she possibly say that?'

Jean folded his hands and mimicked the whine of a spoiled child: ' "It was the P that did it, the P changed her son, he was such a lovely gentle boy, always helping old ladies across roads. Poor me!" ' Jean snorted. 'I felt sick to hear her.'

'Stupid woman!' Sacha looked disgusted. 'Her son wasn't good enough to tie Daniel's shoelaces.'

'She never said sorry?' I asked.

'Sorry?' Jean held up despairing hands. 'Not in her vocabulary! It was all about how she'd lost a son, too. Well, boohoo. I hope he hangs himself in jail. The world would be a better place.' He shook himself. 'You must excuse me. I shouldn't say these things. Pamela says it's my obsession.'

Sacha put her arm around his shoulders. 'Those monsters ruined your life.'

Jean closed his eyes for a moment. 'The worst thing is that my grandson will never know his father. William's birthday is the anniversary of Daniel's death. Every year his mother tries to make it a happy day, and every year she fails.' He turned a k.n.o.b on the barbecue and lifted a tray of steak from underneath. 'One of our own beasts.' He sounded choked. 'You won't find a cut like this in the supermarket.'

'What was Daniel like, Jean?' asked Sacha. I was surprised by her courage; at her age, I think I would have wanted to change the subject.

Jean thought for a second. 'Look through the French doors, there- you'll see him above the fireplace.'

We leaned to peer into the Colberts' sitting room. Family photographs lined the mantelpiece, and above them hung a painting of four boys. The scene was redolent of Hawke's Bay in the summer, blue and brown and ochre. Three were freckled, rangy lads-teenagers, I'd guess-sitting on a hillside with their arms around one another's shoulders. One had striking auburn hair. A much smaller boy sat on his lap, laughing. The four looked like a team, like comrades. You could sense the brotherliness.

'Our boys,' said Jean warmly. 'See, Daniel is holding Philippe? Poor little fellow, he thought the world of Daniel. Pamela's mother commissioned that painting for a Christmas present when they were all quite young. It's a local artist.'

'What a wonderful idea,' I said.

'But you ask what was Daniel like?' Jean rocked back on his heels. 'There's a big question! Our third child, the peacemaker of the family. Where Michel and Jules fought like cat and dog, Daniel would defuse the situation with his wit. He was very funny. Wit was his skeleton key, opening all doors . . . And what else? A dedicated scientist, a conservationist. As a schoolboy he gave his holidays to the kiwi breeding project up here. Just before he died he'd begun a doctorate, working to save a little bird called the fairy tern from extinction.'

'The fairy tern?' I said blankly. 'Sorry, I haven't come across it.'

'Most people haven't. To Maori, it's the tara-iti. A truly delightful creature, but mankind has destroyed its habitat and it has the doubtful distinction of being New Zealand's rarest breeding bird-there are just a few pairs left. Daniel was pa.s.sionate about its conservation. He felt that focusing on the exquisite details of nature was as vital as big, sweeping projects. He and his team were relocating four breeding pairs from Northland to an estuary on the East Cape. Not easy.'

Jean turned the meat competently, with a flick of his wrist. 'What else? Well . . . he was the light of our life. It's true. The world changed forever at the moment when we heard the news. It became a darker place, not only for Pamela and myself but for everyone who knew Daniel. It is still a darker place.'

'His young brother?' I asked.

Jean nodded sadly. 'Philippe was just ten. He's constantly striving to find meaning in his life and Daniel's death. So you see, when those two imbeciles butchered my boy for fun, they destroyed more than one life.'

'But you have William,' whispered Sacha. Her eyes were still glimmering.

Jean managed a smile. 'Will! He is hilarious.'

'That kid's a dag,' said Pamela, who'd arrived with Kit in tow. She was holding a beeswax candle. 'They're up to something, Martha. William swiped a roll of cling wrap off my kitchen bench, and now they're all three giggling in the bathroom.'

'Oh no,' I groaned. 'That's the twins' new prank. They'll be stretching it across the loo.'

A minute later the boys sidled out of the house and up to Jean, smirking. Finn and William nudged Charlie. Go on, go on.

'Excuse me, Jean,' wheedled Charlie, opening his eyes wide. 'Would you like to go to the toilet?'

'Definitely,' replied the Frenchman genially, with a wink at Sacha. She smothered a smile and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

'Now?'

'After lunch, I shall be busting. I a.s.sure you of that. First, let's eat.'

It took a minute to get the boys around the table. Once they'd stopped giggling, Pamela raised her gla.s.s. 'Here's to our new friends, the McNamara family, who have joined us from across the world!'

'It's an honour to be here with you,' said Kit, and we did that absurd clinking thing with our gla.s.ses. Finn and Charlie stood on their chairs to reach.

'And happy birthday to Daniel,' added Pamela, striking a match and lighting her candle. 'Wherever you are, my darling.'

Twenty-three.

March. The first breath of autumn.

The air held a new crispness. Willows and beech began to flame along the river bank, and the sky was high and delicate as blue porcelain. We needed our duvets at night, and to our joy the mosquitoes began to disappear. On Sat.u.r.day morning walks the boys and I would stop to marvel at umbrella-sized spider webs hanging in the bushes, spangled with billions of dewy pearls. The new school year was well underway, with Kit umpiring cricket matches and running sausage sizzle fundraisers like an old hand. He was also putting in inhumanly long hours in the studio, muttering cheerfully about Dublin.

Sacha pa.s.sed her restricted test and was allowed to drive on her own. We bought her a cheap little diesel. I felt as though a last cord had been cut, but it made life a lot easier because she could get herself into and out of town. She was in Year Twelve now, and the pressure had come on with a vengeance. Every week there seemed to be some test or a.s.signment; her flute teacher wanted a pound of flesh, too.

'I can't concentrate with these little nutcases in the house,' she complained one Sunday morning, pretending to bang the boys' heads together. 'Can I light that stove out in the hut? So much work this weekend, it's a nightmare.' There were mauve crescents under her eyes, and she had a couple of spots around her mouth. She looked taut as a rubber band.

'Got a face like death warmed up,' remarked Kit. 'Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are pus.h.i.+ng you too hard.'

Sacha blinked at him. 'Put it this way, Kit. I worked all day yesterday, but I've still got an essay, five pages of physics and a debate to prepare. I'm totally screwed.'

'By when?' I asked, feeling sorry for her.

'By tomorrow! It's frickin' ridiculous.'

'There's no need to jump down my throat.'

She picked peevishly at a mosquito bite on her arm. 'Dammit Janet, I need to do well in that essay. It's an a.s.sessment.'

'I'll help you take some wood across,' said Kit. 'C'mon, let's get the wheelbarrow. And if you're very very nice to me, I'll cut you some kindling.'

Sacha slaved all day. I ferried sandwiches and biscuits across to the hut and hung around to make sure she actually ate them. When she came in for supper that evening she seemed much happier.

'I'm on track,' she announced. 'The essay is going to be awesome. I reckon I'll ace an Excellence.' She lifted a fist, miming a superhero's biceps. 'Brainygirl is rising to the challenge!'

That night, Finn walked in his sleep. I heard a bedroom door in the dark. It was enough to jerk me into consciousness. Hunched under the covers beside me, Kit's voice was slurred, his tongue paralysed by sleep. 'Yoo goan, Marfa, or me?'

'My turn.' I sat up, patted his shoulder and padded out onto the dimly lit landing. Finn was in his pyjamas, just standing, looking steadily at a fixed point in midair.

'D'you wanna come?' he asked some phantom companion. 'Be fun.'

'I'll come, Finny,' I said amicably, and took his hand. He let me lead him to the toilet-his aim was disastrous-and back to the delightful warmth of his bed where he snuggled down, stroking his ear. I was kissing his cheek when I heard a m.u.f.fled crash from downstairs. My heart leaped into my throat as I ran to the banister, straining my eyes and ears through the dark. There was a thin vertical gleam at the kitchen door, and a voice-a female voice. I listened for a full minute, until I was sure it was Sacha's. Then I trotted down the stairs and pushed at the door. A shriek of terror greeted me.

Sacha was fully dressed, whirling around with her hand to her chest. 'Oh my G.o.d, Mum! Just about wet myself.'

'Sacha!' I cried, with an incredulous glance at the kitchen clock. 'It's two fifteen! What the h.e.l.l are you doing?'

She was standing with one hand on the kettle, and she'd turned white. m.u.f.fin stirred in her basket, eyeing us dozily. 'Whew, that was freaky,' gasped Sacha. 'The way that door kind of swung open . . . I expected one of those spooky fairies to poke his head around.'

'Yes, but what's going on?'

'I've finished my work! Thought I'd have a Milo to help me sleep.' She held up a mug. 'Want one?'

'No thanks. Look-this isn't on, you can't work all night.' I watched her pour boiling water into the mug. 'I heard a crash.'