Girl From the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  Elise stares after him. The poor thing doesn’t know what hit her.

  One thing is sure; we have a lot of writing to do in the black book.

  Lilly: 1 December 2015, Morning, Wright’s Homestead

  We’ve all been waiting for Scottie this morning. Toby has a few questions for him about mothers and Scottie’s mother in particular. The poor peanut had only an hour sleep last night. That not all mothers are bad has turned his world upside down. Nervousness had me pacing the ground floor for the last hour. I even took the broom and swept the floor. Me. Lilly. Unheard of.

  Sky says it’s a blessing we don’t have a mirror downstairs, because I would fiddle with my hair forever. As if I would. I’m not one of these girly girls with nothing but boys and fashion in their heads. Till now. I talked to Sky about having a boyfriend and she said it’s okay to ask Scottie.

  I’m not sure what that means. Boyfriend. On TV I’ve seen boyfriend and girlfriend kissing and having sleepovers that end up in terribly crumpled up sheets. I don’t understand that. When we go to sleep, we lay pretty much still and don’t climb on top of each other and get up to shenanigans like that. But then, that’s probably make-believe on TV and not what happens in real life. I guess it’s like the Ironman movie. I haven’t seen one of those whooshing across the sky.

  Yesterday he gave me a hug and said we’re friends. Today I’ll ask him. And if it’s only to shut up Lizette, who says I’m hilarious and know nothing. She laughs and laughs and slaps her thigh and almost topples over.

  She says, “You’re a silly little baby who doesn’t know how the world of adults works. It’s all about sex.”

  I’d rather die than admit I don’t know what sex is. Every time I’m at the computer I forget to Google it. She could be right. At least I’m not too stupid to learn and try out new things. If she’s so clever, how come she never comes out anymore since we left school? Scaredy-cat!

  I hear his truck approaching even before I see it. My heart goes all boom, boom, boom when he pulls up at the gate. We don’t really have a gate; it would be silly to put up a gate in the middle of a clearing in the bush. But Luke put two fern trees at each side of the path from the road to our house. I call that a gate. I walk up to the truck and he rolls down the window.

  “Hello, good morning,” he’s squinting at me and his greeting is hanging in the air like a forgotten sheet on the washing line.

  Can’t he see it’s me? Miss Marple said outside people only see a person looking like Elise. How can they only see the body of a forty-two-year-old woman with shoulder-long brown hair, dark brown eyes and some odd scars down both of her forearms? I stopped arguing with her about it long ago because she’s wrong. I look in the mirror and I look nothing like Elise.

  For starters, I don’t have long, brown hair. It’s short, curly and it’s blond. My eyes are blue. And Maddie is only forty inches tall! How can people not see the difference? Sometimes I have my doubts about Miss Marple.

  “Lilly,” I coach him. His eyes light up just as quickly as my heart sinks. If Miss Marple is right and he doesn’t see me, but the body of Elise, I can forget all my hopes of becoming his girlfriend. Elise is a museum piece, an old woman with nothing much going for her. Who would want to have a girlfriend like that when you are such a fine-looking man like Scottie?

  “Is everything okay? No disturbances at night?”

  “Nothing unusual. Do you want to come in?”

  “No, I’m on my way into town. I had an idea for some surveillance stuff for your place and want to check it out. I’ll drop in around midday on my way home.”

  “You don’t have to go out of your way for us.”

  “No big deal. I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and do nothing when a bloody group of child abusers is messing about in my territory.”

  Oh, we are his territory now? I’m not sure how I feel about that and I won’t find out soon because he waves and turns his truck around. I feel sorry for the Tribe. All morning they’ve been building up expectations and courage to talk to him. Now that bubble bursts into nothingness like one of those water foam bubbles you blow through a tiny ring.

  Puff. Gone.

  There was joy about expecting to see Scottie again. More than anything, there was a new sense of pride and realness because he now sees us. Being recognized and acknowledged in our own right, as the people we are, was an amazing step of growth. At least that’s what Miss Marple always said. I don’t understand what she meant by it, because when she talked about it, I didn’t pay attention. Growth? What does it even mean?

  This psycho stuff is not my scene. But watching Toby I see how he’s getting more color, becoming more defined, like a photo in the developing tray of a darkroom. I’m not sure if that is a good thing, but Toby likes it. I have to ask Sky what Miss Marple meant with this recognition business.

  Back in the house, I slump on the couch feeling deflated. I had it all mapped out in my mind, how to approach the question of boyfriend and girlfriend. How we would fall into each other’s arms and remain in an everlasting embrace. We would kiss and rejoice in each other’s presence. I’ve seen it often enough in the movies. Often enough. This is not going how I pictured it in my mind. And it’s not fair.

  I take a seat at the table and pull the black book closer. Nobody has written anything since last night. That’s typical. As always, I have to do all the work.

  To All!

  I don’t ask for much and I’m always happy to help. So now I have a request for the Tribe. I want to ask Scottie to be my boyfriend and I would appreciate if everybody helps. Some might not like the idea. I don’t know if I like it. I want the chance to find out, rather than being told it’s rubbish.

  Thanks, Lilly

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Elise: 1 December 2015, Late Morning, Wright’s Homestead

  I can’t run much farther. They are still after me. The barking is coming closer and closer. I’ve reached the part where the forest is dark and impenetrable. The light is falling through the dense canopy just enough to show me where the narrow path is. It’s overgrown with ferns and littered with rotting branches and roots. My feet are bleeding. I lost my shoes miles back. My clothes are torn to rags by thorny bushes that snatched at me like hungry wolves.

  I’ve lost the fight. The dogs are catching up to me. A loud bang puts an end to it.

  I cry out. It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m sitting at my dining table. I must have dozed off and dreamed. Still, the barking continues. Outside, Prince is creating a racket loud enough to wake the dead, if there were any. Fear grows in the pit of my stomach and for a moment I wish I could curl into a tiny ball of fluff and hide in a corner, unseen by the entire world. But that would be childish.

  I brace myself, get up, and walk to the door, nervous of what’s awaiting me on the other side. I hear steps of more than one person. A harsh knock at the door drives the remnants of my dream away. The first I see when I open the door is an ocean of dark blue in front of me. It takes a few seconds until the sea crystallizes into the uniforms of four police officers.

  “Mrs. Reid?”

  I don’t know what to say. Patrick told me I’m not Mrs. Reid but the world doesn’t know it yet.

  “I guess. What can I do for you?”

  “May we come in? We’d like to talk to you about Patrick Armstrong.”

  Holy smoke. My insides are shouting at me in panic mode. “Let them show you their identification. Don’t let them in. Anybody can rent a uniform and pretend to be a police officer.”

  Did I ever say I want my parts to go away? I lied. There are times when they come in handy.

  “May I see your ID’s please?”

  They show me their badges. Not that I have the foggiest clue how a real badge is different from a fake one. I let them in and show them to the table.

  “I’ve only got two chairs.”

  “We won’t take long. Can you tell us where you were yesterday evening around seven?”


  What a stupid question. “Here, of course.”

  “Can someone confirm that?”

  “I’m living alone, so no. Why are you asking?”

  “There was an incident at Patrick Armstrong’s place last night. According to his diary, you were the last person he saw yesterday.”

  “Yes, I had an appointment late morning. I’d be surprised if I was the last person he saw. He’s completing a land transfer for me and some other private matters. What incident? Is he okay?”

  “Sadly no. Someone shot Mr. Armstrong last night and ransacked his office. Do you know anything about it?”

  “How would I know anything about that? He was in high spirits when I left him.” I’m shaking and feel the blood draining out of my face. Cornered like a fox surrounded by bloodthirsty hunting dogs, I don’t know what to say. Suddenly the full meaning dawns on me.

  “Oh my God. What are we going to do? Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I a suspect?” I already know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from the police officer.

  “We have to question everyone who had contact with Mr. Armstrong. We couldn’t locate his secretary Miss Heather Millhouse, but we found blood all over her workstation and fear the worst for her. Have you seen her since you left Mr. Armstrong’s office?”

  “I left his office at about midday. He was… I can’t believe he’s dead. Why? He… His secretary? How…?”

  “Do you mind if we search your house and your car?”

  “Search my house? I guess. Have a look around.”

  They divide into two teams, two are searching the house, and the other two are roaming around the garden. I must have sensed they were coming for me. My dream wasn’t an accident.

  “Do you own a firearm?” I startle when a policewoman appears behind me.

  “A gun? No! What would I do with a gun? Those things scare the living daylight out of me.”

  I feel naked seeing the officers searching through my house, pulling out books, looking into every tin in my pantry, even looking through my balls of wool next to the loom. They poke through my few possessions and glare at the scarce, run-down furniture with judgment in their eyes that puts me into the same society-dropout-category as compulsive hoarders and cat ladies.

  Only when they move upstairs, do I hear a whimper. First, I thought a child is hiding somewhere then I realize it’s one of the Tribe, sobbing in fear of the police finding the entrance to our tree house. I take a deep breath. There is no chance of them finding even a hint of the tree house. Even I, knowing it exists, haven’t found it yet.

  The police take almost an hour to search through every nook and cranny of my place. It feels excessive but I don’t dare to complain.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reid, it was very kind of you to allow us to search. We didn’t find anything. Do you have any travel plans for the coming weeks?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good, we might have more questions for you.” The policewoman took off her sunglasses and squinted at me. “Before we leave, we have received a missing person notice for Elizabeth Reid reported by Miss Helen Reid, Waitakere Flats. That’s you, aren’t you?”

  “Technically.”

  “Technically?”

  “My real name is not Reid and Helen Reid is not my sister-in-law. That’s what Mr. Armstrong was working on. He found out that Horace was already married to Helen Reid when he married me. I didn’t know about any of this until Mr. Armstrong told me yesterday. He assumed my late ‘husband’ had reasons to trick me and staged a fake wedding ceremony. Patrick was looking into what those reasons could have been. Thus, it’s probably more accurate to call me by my maiden name Seagar. Elizabeth Seagar.”

  “Do you have any documents that prove that?”

  “Patrick promised to write a report and send everything, including the documents. But it shouldn’t be any problem for the police to follow that up. He reported the marriage fraud and the involvement of Helen Reid to the police.”

  The female officer wrote something in her notebook and put it away. “I will follow that up, thank you.”

  I watched them leave and only went inside when the two police cars disappeared among the trees.

  Patrick dead.

  Shot.

  This kind man, who showed so much joy having found something other to deal with than the usual land transfer, shot dead. And it’s our fault!

  The pressure inside my head is getting unbearable. If I had to describe what’s going on inside, I would talk about a village reduced to ruins after an earthquake and everyone either stunned or running around, aimless, in panic and terror, trying to find a safe spot.

  They are hunting us.

  Again.

  There is no doubt Patrick’s murder has to do with us. Every cell in my body, every part—even the tiniest—is convinced it has to do with us. For the first time, I wish I too could go to the tree house and hide.

  Sky: 1 December 2015, Midday, Wright’s Homestead

  I wish we wouldn’t have as many crisis alerts as we do. I don’t know how other people manage life. For us, crisis mode is a familiar state. Either imposed on us from outside, like now with the police, or through past trauma being triggered. It’s exhausting.

  My gaze swings around the common room. Everyone huddles around Ama. Except for Elise, of course. She’s never been here. We are just getting used to her, and she to us. Not that she’s trying hard. She spends half of her time wishing we were just a nightmare she could wake up from sooner or later. Well, I have news for her. Sorry, babe, we are here to stay. Although, I have to admit it surprised me when she wished she could find refuge in the tree house. Does that mean we’re making progress?

  While we have our meeting in the tree house, Elise is with the body, sitting at the table in the living space, staring into the woods, as if she could find answers among the trees. Prince is sitting at her side and she absentmindedly strokes his head. She draws comfort from his presence and that comfort ripples through to us. I’m proud of her. Even though she was anxious, she performed well when the police arrived.

  I’ll check on her later. At the moment, we have to put everything we know on the table. We are so used to putting information into different places that pulling it all together and forming a coherent story is hard. I imagine it’s like eels. You think you’ve caught one and next minute the slimy beast slips through your fingers.

  Lilly’s nod urges me to start the meeting. She hates waiting. Maddie sits on a cushion in the corner huddled up to Toby. Her lips are trembling in an attempt to suppress crying. She tries to be such a big girl.

  Lilly spots her distress and gives her voice a soothing tone. “Maddie, you are safe now. Tell us, what are you upset about?”

  “The polithe woman, ze one with ze glathes, I zee her in ze bad room where daddy takes us.” Maddie puts her thumb into her mouth and looks at me. Her words fall into the room like a bomb. Everyone is quiet. No more talking among us. Stunned the Tribe looks at me, and my brain races at a hundred miles an hour.

  “The black hatchback that followed us parked opposite the lawyer’s when we left. Elise almost nicked it.” Luke’s words splash into the silence like a rock plunging into a lake, making them ripple through the room and suddenly everyone talks at the same time.

  “Hang on. Stop. I have to think.” I know I’m missing something important. There is more to our dilemma than we ever imagined. How are we a threat to people here so that they follow us and kill Patrick?

  “Let me recap what we know. First, if they were waiting for us, they knew who we are and what Patrick had found out.”

  “And that it would be a threat to them.”

  “Yes, Lilly. Second, the police already had Helen’s missing person report. Third, there is the marriage to Horace, and fourth, Elizabeth’s parent’s estate.”

  “Why would they kill Patrick if he’d already informed the police about the fake marriage documents? Unless they were afraid about his plan to fo
llow the money trail of the parent’s estate. What do you think, Luke?”

  “I think everyone is making valid points. It’s not easy to put oneself into a criminal’s mind. I fail to see why all these issues you raised should result in murder. Horace is dead and Helen would be collateral damage. Why kill Patrick? Unless the Gateway people want to make sure that abuse allegations won’t see the light of day. Actually, they must have lots they don’t want to become known if they are resorting to killing. We might not know the half of it.”

  Lilly shakes her head. “We’re missing something. If the policewoman is connected to childhood abuse, then… doesn’t that imply they also fear we’ll expose the whole Gateways organization?”

  Amadeus laughs out loud and we all glare at him. “Do you think anybody gives a damn what we are saying? With no proof other than our word? The word of a certified lunatic with a mile-long record of mental illness? Whatever happened, and we don’t even recall it all, happened over thirty years ago. Please! Wake up, guys. We’re up against rich people with connections everywhere.”

  I’m annoyed with Amadeus. He may be right but painting a doom and gloom picture is not doing us any good. Haven’t we escaped our prison and isn’t freedom from the past in our grasp?

  “We can’t give up now. We need help, and I’m not sure how to go about it. To go to another lawyer means putting his or her safety at risk.”

  “Easy for you to say, Sky. You don’t have to fight in the trenches. Helen and Horace are connected to the Gateway people up north and they are connected to the Gateway people here. And this is where you bring us? How come you never thought about that connection?”

  Amadeus’ accusation is slicing through me, hurting just as much as if he’d used a sword. I thought I was clear about my choice of coming to the West Coast. “There is a lot we haven’t noticed, because… just because we are who we are. I brought us here because I don’t believe we will ever be safe, no matter where we go until we deal with the past. As it turns out, there is more to it than us processing trauma and working toward integration. Yet, I still believe we will find our answers here.”