Thud.
No one knows we were at Wildhaven. No one. Sam from the plane. No – he only had a road sign to go by, and no reason to ever think of us again. Iona organized this so that what she has done will never be discovered.
The fire. It was the camp. Deliberate.
But she’s Mum’s sister.
Poppy’s fists drop. I grab her by the shoulders as her mouth opens and our eyes search each other’s, frantic, as if the answer can be found in the space connected by our gaze.
Poppy sensed something was wrong here, why didn’t I listen?
My sister slumps forward into my arms and I collapse to my knees with the weight of her. Dead weight. No. I’ll resuscitate her, we’ll get free, jump overboard . . .
Sparks of light flicker across my vision. She’s slipping from my grip, too heavy.
Poppy!
My chest burns with desperation and I gasp.
Cold in my mouth.
A sour plastic tang on my tongue.
Wetness in my lungs.
It doesn’t hurt. Poppy wasn’t in pain. The fog penetrates my mind, lifting me free from myself. I can’t feel my body at all.
Everything is bleached whiter and whiter. Images flash by, Poppy on a swing, Mum at the side of the pool.
Reach.
Kick.
Breathe.
Mum with Iona, spilling red wine on the carpet. Laughing. The name on the side of the boat.
Deep. Retreat.
I lose sense of where I am. What I am. There is only . . . nothing.
Shiny. A cloud. Way way up.
It can’t hold us. We’ll fall.
White.
Grey.
Black.
Safe.
Perfectly . . . safe.
Sam wakes to the chug and hiss of the coffee machine downstairs, swings into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, and rubs his face. It’s his first day off from his holiday job since he got back from Auckland, and he’s planning to ride out to have a look for the ecovillage the girls on the plane talked about. No one he’s asked seemed to know anything about it and the photo Poppy sent made him curious. He starts to thump down the stairs two at a time then stops himself, padding the remaining steps on the balls of his feet as he remembers Granda might still be asleep if he’s feeling poorly.
Mum is an architect and often works from home. She’s already hunched at her desk in the corner; drawing lines on her sloped Trackpad, which then appear across one of the two huge monitors in front of her.
‘Hey, you’re up early,’ she says, only turning briefly to shoot Sam a distracted smile.
‘You too,’ says Sam.
‘I’m on a deadline. I’ll be done in a couple of hours then I’m taking Granda to the clinic,’ says Mum.
‘For the treatment trial?’ says Sam.
‘No – a scan.’ Mum nods but he can see the worry around her eyes. ‘His oncologist has seen real shrinkage in the tumour, if it continues it might become operable. Granda says it’s due to this trial; I’d like a few more details about it, but he’s signed some disclaimer.’
Sam’s relief makes him feel lighter. He didn’t dare ask how it was going when he arrived back from Auckland a week ago. But Granda is getting better, of course he is, he’s strong. Mum turns back to her work.
‘Granda’s in the kitchen now, so breakfast is probably the full works. Please eat my share and his if you can manage it, he’s driving me mad.’
Sam grins as his tummy rumbles.
Granda kicks open the kitchen door, a wooden tray in one hand, coffee pot in the other, accompanied by the smell of sausages. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man, young for a granddad, fifty-nine last birthday. His springy curls are growing back, and look like a fluffy grey halo. Sam feels a surge of affection accompanied by that hollow feeling in his stomach. He remembers the girls on the plane and can’t imagine not having Granda any more.
‘Made your favourite today, chook,’ Granda booms at Sam’s mum, treating Sam to one of his stage winks. She tuts.
‘I hope you’re not eating all this, Dad? Remember your cholesterol, the doctors say light foods—’
‘If cancer can’t finish me, I’m hardly going to be knocked off by a snag or three,’ Granda catches the expression on Mum’s face and sets the tray on the table. ‘Don’t you fret, I’ve had rabbit food and juice, like an angel. Sam will have no trouble putting this lot away, will you, Sammy?’
‘Thanks Granda. I’m going out on the bike today.’ Sam pauses. ‘Over the trails by Mount Hikurangi. See if I can find out what this ecovillage place is about.’
Mum turns, leaning on the back of her desk chair, and does the face where her nostrils flare and her eyebrows fly upwards. ‘You still rattling on about the mysterious British girls from the plane?’
Granda wiggles his eyebrows.
Sam is irritated to feel his cheeks flush. The younger sister Poppy was funny, he enjoyed chatting with her. And yeah – OK, the older girl was cute with her corkscrew curly hair the same colour as the scrubbed oak floorboards beneath Sam’s bare feet, and freckles scattering her skin. Her eyes had danced with fun for a moment as she glared at her sister, but mainly she’d looked a bit – lost.
‘Take the spares kit and a pump, food and water, waterproofs. Keep to the tracks,’ says Mum, turning back to her desk.
Granda is uncharacteristically quiet. He and Sam used to ride a lot together, but Granda’s not ready for even a gentle ride, not yet.
Sam bolts some cereal while Granda packs the sausages and hash browns into a plastic box. Sam throws the extra supplies into his bike bag. He’s itching to get on his bike but something makes him grab a quick shower first, even though the odds are he won’t find the girls anyhow. He probably won’t see anyone at all, not out there.
Sam rides the bus to the sign for Tokomaru Bay and then gets off to follow the trail just before it. After three hours hard riding, rain clouds are building, the air humid. There’s been no sign of any ecovillage or camp. The forest is dense here, mostly untouched. If the camp is small he hasn’t a hope of finding it, but he’s intrigued and decides to aim for a view over the treetops, so he slogs uphill and stops at a break in the trees to swig some water. High enough. From here he has a clear view to the coast.
Something catches his eye. A fug of smoke hanging above the trees. It’s a strangely still day, with barely a breath of breeze. Forest fires are not common around here and it rained yesterday. He narrows his eyes, wishing he had binoculars. The fire seems to be out, just the smoke cloud remains, trapped in the valley. He springs back on his bike and pedals in top gear downhill, then careers along a narrow forest track in the direction of the smoke.
Sam walks his bike through the trees and stops as the sharp scent of woodsmoke fills his nostrils. His heart is steady but seems louder than normal. The ground is black and bald, thick with ash. He whistles through his teeth. That was some fire. It has gouged out a huge circle in this dense forest.
He props his bike against a tree. The scorched ground is covered in a thick layer of charred wood, and he roots through the charcoal with the toes of his shoes as he crunches his way across the circle, looking for anything that hasn’t burnt, any sign there was anything here but forest. Something glints and he crouches to pick it up. A piece of broken glass in a bowl shape, around the size a of ten cent coin. He searches around for other fragments but can’t find any. He slips the glass in his jacket pocket and zips it up.
Could this have been the site of the camp the girl was talking about?
Goosebumps rise along his arms. People were definitely here. And something went seriously wrong.
A movement at the other side of the burnt area. A man appears from the trees. He’s wearing dark jeans, hiking boots and a faded cap pulled low, and carries a backpack on one shoulder and a black plastic bag in his hand. He’s raking through the ashes just like Sam had been a few moments ago. With his eyes intent on the ground, he doesn’t see Sam.
Sam
calls out, ‘Hey there, do you know what happened here?’
The man’s expression of concentration freezes for a second then breaks into a smile. ‘Hello!’ he calls cheerily. His accent is clipped; European but not British.
Sam scans the man up and down. ‘Are you with the police?’
The man shakes his head. ‘No. I saw the smoke. The police were just leaving when I arrived.’
‘I was out riding,’ says Sam, ‘I was looking for an ecovillage.’
‘An ecovillage? Here?’ says the man, titling his head to one side. His eyes are light blue-green and his eyebrows tilt up in the centre, giving him an open expression. He seems friendly enough.
‘Maybe there wasn’t,’ says Sam, ‘just I heard there might be.’
‘Oh – where did you hear that?’ The man waits until Sam feels it would be rude not to answer.
‘Just these two British girls I got chatting to, they were on their way to it.’
The man nods and lowers his shoulders a fraction, almost like he’s satisfied with that answer. ‘Well, it’s a probably a bit remote here for anything like that. Also easy to get lost, but if you follow the coastal path you’ll reach Tokomaru Bay.’
‘Thanks,’ says Sam, although he hadn’t said he was lost. ‘Hope no one was hurt in the fire?’
‘The police said nothing to suggest that, thank heavens,’ says the man.
They appraise each other for a few more seconds and the smile on the older guy’s face starts to seem a bit fixed.
‘Well, I’d better shoot. Looks like rain,’ says Sam.
The man tips his cap at Sam and walks back into the trees. Sam starts along the track to the beach but hears the faint sound of an engine and stops to listen, frowning. The guy must have come by motorbike or quad, but those aren’t allowed in the national park.
Sam turns and rides in what he thinks is the direction of the engine sound until he can no longer hear it. The trail he’s following is wider than the usual tracks through this part of the forest; fresh-cut branches showing it is maintained. It leads to a low, square concrete building, almost concealed by trees. He circles the outer fence noting the CCTV cameras mounted at regular intervals. The building is windowless and has the look of a bunker. Some sort of Ministry of Defence place maybe?
There’s not a lot more to see and Sam cycles back towards the coast. It’s a relief when he leaves the forest and stares out across the ocean. Still, grey, no surf today and not a boat in sight. The sky is low and the air thick, he’s going to get drenched. As he wheels along the path he scans the beaches below, hoping to spot a secret surf break he could come to with his mates another time, but all he sees are rocky coves, too dangerous and tricky to get down to. One looks promising, easy to scramble down the rocks to the sand. He brakes to take a closer look.
There’s something there, behind a rock. Clothing?
He checks there’s no one around and leaves his bike at the edge of the cliff, then skips down the boulders. The gravelly sand is disturbed, could be footprints, if so – lots of them. A group of people stood in one place then went down to the sea.
The first fat drop of rain lands on his arm. He grabs the clothing. It’s a hoody; small, purple, with a white zip. He stares.
The girl on the plane was wearing a hoody just like this.
Poppy.
Sam stares around as the rain patters down. A cold feeling creeps over him. She was definitely wearing one like it; he remembers her sister telling her to stop fiddling with the zip. It can’t be a coincidence. He feels the unusual weight of it and slips his hand in the front pocket. It’s her phone. Rainbow swirl on the cover, he recognizes it for sure. She was here and she left her phone, or her sister’s phone. He frowns at the black screen, not quite able to believe what he’s found. When he presses the button on the side a dot pattern passcode appears and the battery icon flashes only seven per cent charge. He turns it off again.
Sam zips the phone and the hoody into his bag and pulls on his waterproof jacket. He remembers the charred ground in the forest; silent, black, dead. Was the fire something to do with those girls, their camp? Back up on the coastal path he sees the rain is already clearing the smoke that hung above the fire site. He turns to look over the beach once more. Raindrops thud into the sand, obliterating the footprints.
Later in his room, Sam takes out the girl’s phone. It feels wrong to try and open it, but maybe it can tell him where they are and he can return it to them. He swipes the black screen, only six per cent battery now, but it takes the same charger as his and he plugs it in. Sam tries a few shapes on the passcode screen. P for Poppy. A for Aster. C, L, then a square. Nothing. Now he’s tried the wrong code too many times and text appears asking for an email address. He curses. He searches the internet for a way to unlock a phone of this make, and discovers he’s permanently locked it and a factory reset would wipe her photos, contacts, apps and any data.
Sam slips the phone into a padded envelope to mail to the police station with a note explaining where he found it and his address.
He takes out the glass fragment he found in the ashes and looks at it under his desk lamp. It’s familiar, somehow. It doesn’t look like part of a bottle, the glass is too thin. A smooth regular bowl shape; small, delicate. It’s blackened on the outside but inside it is dark brown and flaky. He stares at it for a little longer, suddenly reluctant to touch it, then wraps it in a tissue and puts it in the back of his desk drawer.
‘P oppy!’ My throat is raw, my voice hoarse. Eyes throbbing in the brightness, I shield my face as my mind judders, searching for memories.
Hand sliding on the door handle. The mist cold in my chest.
My arms were locked tight around her; I would never have let her go, so she must be here.
I pull myself into a kneeling position and ease my hand away from my eyes, narrowing them to slits.
This isn’t the same beach we set off from. The sand is softer, pristine, the colours too vivid. There’s a turquoise lagoon in front of me, empty. I remember now, we were on a boat, a snorkelling trip. It was dawn . . .
I blink in the dazzling sunlight, call out for Poppy again, and then break off into a coughing fit, rolling back on my side, cheek against the sand. Where is she?
The horizon tilts. Maybe I’m hurt, maybe the boat sunk and we’ve been washed ashore. I can’t focus my eyes at any distance and the air is pressing down on me.
Oh God. Poppy.
I need to calm down, make my mind work.
Black seeps into the edges of my vision. I focus on what floats to the top of my mind, ignoring the deeper layers still clouded. Finding Poppy is all that matters.
I push myself shakily into a sitting position. I’m wearing a grey suit and I remember Iona gave them to us before we left. I raise my hand to my face, turning it back and forth. Skin-tight gloves in the same material.
I pat up towards my head. The hood is up, clinging tight; I hook my fingers under an edge and pull it back.
Another figure in the same bodysuit staggers towards me.
Is it her?
I attempt to stand but my muscles turn to jelly, aching, and I crumple back to the sand. What is wrong with me? I grind my teeth together and crawl, arms and shoulders trembling, burning with the effort. So thirsty, my mouth sticky, my tongue thick and swollen.
Liquid dislodges from my ears and sounds boom, the sea swishing against the sand.
I’m too weak. Black blotches scud across my line of sight.
A thud of feet on the sand.
‘Hey, it’s OK, drink this,’ says a voice. I don’t dare to look up, I’m close to passing out.
I slurp from something held to my lips. The sweet liquid is like pure relief. Coconut.
‘Drink it all, you’ll feel better,’ says the voice. A boy or man, with a lilting accent.
I gulp down the last of it and the shakes subside. My mind sharpens.
The boy peers down at me through brown eyes. His red-brown hair is dam
p and curly, his white skin is scattered with gingery freckles and some acne pockmarks, and he is heavily muscled beneath his grey suit. He looks familiar from camp and I remember he was one of the students splashing around in the sea when we were fishing.
‘You hurt?’
I shake my head. Poppy.
I scan over the boy for signs of injury, signs that he’s been in an accident.
‘I don’t think so. My sister. Poppy. Has there . . .?’ I rasp, my voice gravelly. ‘Where’s the boat?’
The boy blinks at me and shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I thought I was alone, then you just washed up. I’m Callum.’
I survey the sea again, trying to force my muddled brain to make sense of this. I washed up.
‘I remember you. Iona’s niece.’
‘Yes. I need to find my sister. Where is . . . everybody? What do you mean washed up?’
‘I’m not sure. I was so shaky and close to blacking out. I opened a coconut, trying to do something, calm down, and then you were just there, on the shore.’
He can’t be right. None of this can be right. We were on the boat so where is it now? Callum shakes his head as if he can read my mind and agrees with me. Then he surveys his hands, peeling off the gloves and examining them in confusion. I look down at my own hands, and when I turn them over I find a bump in the material about an inch above the cuff of the suit. I draw back the clinging material of my sleeve and gasp. A black tube snakes out of the inside of my wrist, just below my hand. I follow the tube beneath the suit material, up my arm, across the inside of my elbow, past my armpit and over my shoulder. Callum’s mouth hangs open as he watches me, then does the same. I feel the tube exit through a hole in the back of the suit. I realize it’s connected to the black sleeveless jacket that snugly encases my torso.
I stare, horrified, at my wrist, where the tube disappears into me. The snorkelling trip was a trick. Iona wanted to get us on board the boat. The fire. She burnt the camp.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I say.
Something has been done to me. To us.
There was gas on the boat, coming from the black boxes. Iona gassed us.
Secret Deep Page 4