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-shirt; 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 worship you. Was that their crime? Worshipping 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 ship 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.

Parking Sacha in front of the sitting-room fire, I staggered into the kitchen and grabbed the hot chocolate. It seemed an absurdly homely and jolly thing to be doing, but it gave me time to think. As I slid a saucepan of milk across the hob, my eye fell on the phone.

Just dialling his number made me feel closer to my father. It was early morning in Bedfordshire, but he'd be up. The telephone would be calling out to him now, in that softly coloured kitchen. I saw him with the cat on his knee, stretching out his hand to answer me. I had never needed him more than I did at that moment.

Click. Dad's resonant greeting. 'h.e.l.lo there. This is Hereward Norris.'

Dad, please be in. I don't know what to do.

'I'm sorry. You've missed me this time, but leave me a message and I promise to call you back.'

I stood mute as the seconds pa.s.sed. Milk rose mutinously in a white froth, seething over the edge of the saucepan. Then I quietly replaced the receiver. How could I confess catastrophe to a tape recorder?

Tama answered at the second ring. I think he was waiting.

'You were right,' I said. 'Thank you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Kit's furious.'

'Yes.' A moment's quiet. 'If I can ever help, Martha . . . you know where to find me.'

Sacha sat hunched on the end of the sofa, a blanket over her shoulders like a pantomime crone, worrying at her arm.

'Feeling better?' I asked, setting down our mugs. 'Start at the beginning.'

Scrabble, scratch. 'You won't listen you won't listen.' She spoke too fast, no pauses at all, blinking rapidly. 'You'll shout at me.'

'I promise I won't shout. Are you on something right now?'

'What? Oh . . . yes. Coming down actually, crashing, I really needed another burn when you found me in the hut and right now I'm starting to feel pretty s.h.i.t. It's going to get worse, oh G.o.d oh G.o.d a lot worse, it's really going to hurt.' She stared into her mug, shivering. A minute pa.s.sed.

I shook her by the shoulder. 'Sacha!'

'Sorry.' Tears slid from the corners of her eyes. 'I was so lonely.'

Guilt was banging on my door, leading a lynch mob complete with pitchforks and flaming torches. Guilt is female, and she always has the moral high ground in a peculiarly irritating way. Like my mother, come to think of it. The best way to fight her off is by a volley of defensive mortar, which is what I fired now. 'Don't try to shift the blame. This is all your own doing.'

The next moment she'd slowed down, right down, like a train with the brakes on. 'We got here, nice place and all that, tennis court, river, all lovely for the twins and you and Kit. But so far away . . . I got this ache inside me and it wouldn't stop.'

'I had that ache, too. You were homesick.'

'I kept thinking how if I found my real father he'd send for me. I imagined flying back to England and this tall, kind man called Simon waiting at the airport, and both of us crying with joy. I just kept obsessing. I couldn't sleep sometimes because this picture was going around in my head.' Sacha looked as though she'd lived a thousand years and hated every second of it.

See? Mum's voice was accusing. You sow the wind, you reap the whirlwind.

'I tried to be jolly, tried to fit in. I made friends with Tabby and the cool crowd.'

'I know you tried.'

'The Ivan thing, it was just too much. Somebody else was making him happy. He didn't need me, Lydia didn't, even you didn't. I was kind of . . . unnecessary. I ran out of the library and I was having a meltdown at the bottom of the playing field. Bianka found me there. She looked after me.'

'You mean Bianka got you onto this stuff?'

'No! I mean she listened, understood, made me feel I wasn't an alien. Mind you, she did . . .'

'Did what?'

'She gave me a spliff.'

I was about to explode when I remembered two things: first, that I had promised not to shout; and second, that it was at precisely Sacha's age that I first tried the same thing.

'Didn't do a lot for me though,' continued Sacha. 'Just made me feel s.h.i.t. We met up with a crowd at that fireworks party-remember? Jani, some cousins and-dunno who. We were all on top of the woodpile. Bianka and these other guys were pa.s.sing their spliff and having this weird conversation, laughing about the most random things.' Sacha looked bewildered at the memory. 'I didn't see what was funny but they were just about wetting themselves. I was an outsider again. I just wanted to crawl away and hide in a hole. Which was when these people started talking to me.'

'Who?'

The shutters came down. 'Just people.'

'Jani?'

'We went and sat in a car.'

So. While I'd thought she was sipping fruit punch at a wholesome party in the country, my daughter was huddled in a shadowy car with complete strangers.

'That was stupid,' I said. 'Anything could have happened.'

'Anything did happen. There was this gla.s.s pipe. They were pa.s.sing it around. I hadn't a clue what it was, probably just some kind of cannabis, but they said I'd love it. I thought I'd give it a go. What did I have to lose? So I-'

'I've warned you a zillion times,' I moaned.

'And where were you while I was sitting in that freakin' car? You knew nothing about my life. You were too busy being everyone's ray of sunshine. I thought, what the h.e.l.l. And when the pipe came to me, I tried it.' Incongruously, her mouth curled up into a glorious smile: the old Sacha smile, wide and brilliant. 'My life turned to gold . . . like my head was full of fireworks and music. A brand-new world was just beginning. I could do anything I wanted. Anything.'

'The elixir of happiness,' I said quietly, and she nodded, twitching and blinking. Just talking about the stuff seemed to disturb her.

'Oh, yes! Spot on. The elixir of happiness. Maybe it was all worth it, just for that moment. I don't think most people ever in their lives get to feel such fantastic . . . what's the word?'

'Euphoria.'

'Euphoria. It was a million times better than anything I'd ever felt before. Think of something that gives you a buzz . . . driving fast with the music on, or . . . I dunno, riding a horse. Anyway, imagine that and then times it by a million, all tinged with sunlight. I had so much energy and power . . . I was a fantastic dancer, I was beautiful and popular . . . I felt like a film star and a superhero all rolled into one.'

She'd danced all night under the lanterns, on a farm by the Tukituki River. I'd been so happy for her. Now I saw a different scene: Sacha in a shadowy car, her lovely face wreathed in a noxious vapour, like the addict on the video; Sacha's mind, clouded and distorted; and Sacha's body . . . I couldn't bear it.

'Did you . . .' I hesitated. 'In the car. With this unnamed person. Or people. Did, um, anything else happen?'