‘My neighbour is from Ireland, don’t ask me where. She talks like you.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Do you live around here now or are you on holiday?’
‘No, we’re not on holiday, we live in Rotorua.’
‘You don’t go to my school?’
‘No, I don’t go to any school. I’m homeschooled but I think I’m nearly finished. I’ve done all the schoolbooks up to Form Seven in every subject, but Dad lets me study what I want now.’
‘You study when you don’t have to?’
‘He sure does,’ said Dad, dropping back to join us. ‘He’s studying botany now and market gardening, aren’t you, son?’
‘Yes, I want to grow vegetables and sell them. The soil on our land is good.’
‘Probably because of the rain here,’ she said. ‘It rains all the time.’
‘It rains a lot in Ireland too,’ said Dad.
‘Have you got brothers and sisters? I got two brothers, they’re always fighting. They’re seventeen and eighteen.’
‘No, I’m an only child. What age are you?’ I asked.
‘Fourteen.’
‘Are you really?’ asked Dad, and I saw a shadow cross his face. ‘I thought you were younger.’
‘Nope, fourteen. What age are you?’ she asked me.
‘Fifteen,’ I said and she looked at me.
‘I like your hair. My mum doesn’t let my brothers grow their hair long.’
I felt myself blushing.
‘Poor Steve has a rare medical condition,’ Dad interrupted. ‘He can’t touch other humans, unless they’re blood relatives.’
I knew straight away that Dad was warning Lindy not to attempt to touch me. It didn’t occur to me until he said it. She inclined her head towards Dad as if he had a screw loose.
‘Really? I never heard of that.’ She turned back to face me. ‘What about if you wanted a girlfriend?’
‘I guess I can’t have one.’
‘Seriously? Ever?’
‘No, he can’t,’ said Dad firmly.
‘That’s freaky. I never heard of such a thing.’
‘Most people haven’t. It’s rare.’
‘What’s it called, this disease? I’m going to ask my dad, he’s a doctor.’
‘Necrotic hominoid contagion,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure your dad will know plenty about it, but I’ll bet he’s never seen a case. Only one in six million people get it. I was only able to get some info about it from German medical journals and translate it.’
‘Wow, that’s grim. And yet, you can walk around, looking totally normal. What about pets? Can you have a dog or a cat?’
‘I wouldn’t like to take the risk with Stevie. He’s a precious boy.’
‘That’s the saddest thing I ever heard.’
Hearing that from this strange girl made me feel sad too. I had never thought of what other people might think of me. Maybe Rangi had felt sorry for me too?
We had walked deep into the forest now, following Dad’s trail map.
‘Gosh, I better get back to the olds, I’m going to be late.’ She checked her watch.
‘Well, this trail leads us right back to where we’ve parked the car – we can give you a lift to the other side of the lake if you like? It’s around this corner.’
‘That would be great, thanks so much, Mr Armst– James. You know, my mum doesn’t like it when I call adults by their first names. Why do you think that is?’
‘Maybe she’s a bit old-fashioned?’
‘I’m going to tell her you said that.’
We all laughed. Lindy was a breath of fresh air.
When we got back to the car, Dad moved his seat forward so Lindy could sit in the back. We drove off and Lindy chatted amiably to both of us. She sat carefully behind Dad in case she touched me by accident. I appreciated her thoughtfulness. Then we came out on to the main road.
Lindy said, ‘I’m sure we’re going the wrong way, James. You should have taken a left back there. Want me to jump out here?’
‘I think you should come back and have dinner with us. What do you think, Stevie?’ said Dad, picking up speed.
‘I’d love to, but I better tell Mum and Dad first? They’ll be raging if I go off with two strange fellas without telling them.’
Dad said nothing. He took a swerve off the main road and we began to drive over the back roads towards our house.
‘James, Mr Armstrong, what are you doing?’
‘Don’t worry, Lindy, we’ll drop you back in an hour, okay?’
Lindy went silent. I turned around to look at her and smiled. ‘It’ll be fun,’ I said, though I was thinking that Dad would be furious if I kept him waiting somewhere for an hour – not that I ever went anywhere without him.
But when we got to the house, instead of heading towards the porch, Dad put his hands on Lindy’s shoulders and steered her towards the barn. She flinched away from his touch. ‘I don’t like this. I want to go home. I want my mum.’ She began to cry.
‘Dad, perhaps we should take her back. She’s upset. It’s not fair on her.’
He pushed her towards the barn door, opened it and shoved her inside, then he pulled the door closed again and turned a key in a padlock I hadn’t seen before.
‘You wanted a friend. I got you one. Now quit whining!’
I could hear her but only faintly, hammering on the door. The last thing we had done was seal the egg-box lining with another layer of sheetrock, even on the door. If she was screaming, I couldn’t hear her at all.
37
Sally
A week after my house was sold, I heard from a lawyer that Conor Geary’s sister, Margaret, had died two months previously. Margaret seemed to have managed to keep a low profile all those years. There was no publicity surrounding her death or her relationship to Conor Geary. Her solicitor had contacted me to say that Margaret Geary had willed her house to me. A large detached house in a salubrious part of Dublin. The house where I had been held captive with my mother. It was my natural inheritance.
The paperwork was handled quickly, and I put the house up for sale immediately. Nobody knew I was the vendor. Geoff Barrington dealt with the legal end of things. I didn’t mention it to anyone, except Tina. This time, I didn’t give a damn about the ethics of who bought it, I wanted that house to be demolished. I took the first offer. It was a very significant amount of money. What would I do with it all?
When news got out that I had sold my own house in Carricksheedy, I decided that I would have a party after all. All of my friends encouraged me. Who would have thought that I would have so many friends this time last year? Tina convinced me that it was a good idea too. I could ask everyone to bring a dish of food for sharing and, in return, I could offer them any of the furniture or household items I would no longer need. The only pieces I wanted to keep were my piano, my bed and perhaps my dad’s office desk.
The party was planned for the afternoon of Saturday 14th September. The guest list was long: Angela and Nadine, Aunt Christine （who would stay the night）， Mark, Stella and her husband, Kieran, Kenneth and Sue, Anubha, Martha and Udo, Laura from the Gala supermarket, Fernanda and Rodriguo, Valerie from the cafe and Ger McCarthy, as well as all of their kids. Sixteen adults and seven children altogether.