'People are depending on you. Your husband. The ... nation. You can't let them down. I've told you what you need to do. Leave the car here. I'll walk back to mine. Go home, rest, then head straight to a meeting.'

She laughed. 'The nation,' she repeated. 'The nation.'

She looked at him and he had the sudden sense that he could see the self disappearing in her eyes, falling back and away, into black. A whole universe in there. His nerves p.r.i.c.kled; he got a cold feeling. He put out his hand instinctively, wanting to catch her. The thought came to him: she is falling out of her own mind.

'You said you wanted a friend,' he said. 'Roza. You can think of me as your friend. ' He touched her arm. She was very still. 'You've got to keep going,' he said. He squeezed her elbow then released her, adding, 'You've got to keep up your front, because ...' he tried to think of a way to put it, 'if you're down, people will go for you. People can be cruel.'

She stared out into the sepia world beyond the gla.s.s.

He added, 'You've got to bear in mind, though, I'm not the kind of friend you're supposed to have. Not someone in your position.'

'That's a pity, though, isn't it.' Her voice was infinitely sad.

'That's life ... Mrs Hallwright.'

'You're right.'

'Okay,' he said. 'Okay.'

'Thank you, Ray.'

She nodded to him, and they got out of the car. As he watched her walk away, the knowledge that he mustn't see her settled on him like a weight; he knew he would always be watching her now, following her progress, wondering. He started humming that old Police song - every move you make, I'll be ...

A car drove slowly by, shadows sliding over the gla.s.s, and now Ray was backing away, scowling into the sun, an odd, incongruous figure in his shades, the cap pulled down low over his face. He tucked the folder under his arm and started his trek back towards the Domain.

eighteen.

Election day was wild and warm and steamy, with low black rain clouds storming in from the west and purple sheet lightning glaring fitfully over the city. Simon got up and stood at the window: more strange weather; the storms, the unseasonal warmth. The light was dim and soft. Outside the garden glowed with an unnatural, metallic sheen.

They ate breakfast in silence. Up in their rooms, the girls slept on. Simon and Karen dragged Marcus out of bed, stuffed some toast into him and walked to the local primary school. People were already queuing at the hall, clutching their windblown umbrellas. It was a blue ribbon suburb; there was an atmosphere of excitement, antic.i.p.ated triumph. Exit polls had David Hallwright winning by a landslide.

They voted side by side. Simon glanced at Karen, with the guilty feeling that he was possibly about to cheat her, and the uneasy sense that she knew him too well and would guess, even if he lied. Marcus, fortunately, had gone to Karen's booth to watch her vote, and now she was explaining loudly to the boy why she had ticked each box and what it would mean. She was talking as if he were much younger than he was; really she was just enjoying telling those around her how she'd voted.

'I know what MMP is,' Marcus said scornfully, and drifted away.

The sky had partly cleared and a beam of light came in through the high windows and shone on the wooden floor. His pen hovered over the paper. In this electorate, if you were a National supporter, you were supposed to give your party vote to National and your candidate vote to the far right ACT Party contender, who would prop up a National coalition government.

Karen finished and stepped out of her booth, turning towards him with a slight frown. Why was he taking so long?

He ticked the box for Labour, and the box for the National MP. He paused, unnerved by what he'd done, and by Karen's penetrating stare. He felt a twitch of nausea and self-disgust. If this was what he was voting, then what had he been doing until now? He heard himself saying, about his donation to Hallwright's party, 'I've given all this money to the p.r.i.c.k.'

He folded up the paper and stepped out of the booth.

'Done,' he said breezily, and marched to the box, stuffing in the folded sheet before Karen could grab it from him and look at it. It was a meaningless vote in this safe seat. It wouldn't change a thing. And yet it meant something to him; he felt cracked, flawed, all wrong, as though he had weakened himself, threatened his own solidity. But perhaps he wanted to threaten it? He had a comical thought: Mother would be pleased. She'd been a loyal Labour Party member, had believed in social welfare, state schools, a fair distribution of wealth. Simon smiled crookedly to himself. A sudden pain started above his eye.

Karen had met some friends who'd given her a big blue rosette. It was pinned on her breast like a flattened cabbage, frilly edged, synthetic blue. Simon looked away. He said, 'Shall we go then?'

'No no. We'll wait for the Hallwrights.'

They stood about. Simon, moody and uncomfortable, disliking the triumphal atmosphere, shied away from Karen's glaring blue ribbon and the noisy women who bobbed about the hall, marshalling the voters. Karen sensed his unwillingness and frowned, warning him to behave. He wandered outside and sat on a wall under a canvas awning, where the school PTA had set up a barbecue and were selling sausages. Everywhere there was clubby good cheer, banter, a sense of collective virtue. He waited in the sun.

A crowd gathered at the edge of the school playground. He recognised journalists. TV crews had been setting up; now they moved towards the gate. Karen rushed out, her face flushed. 'They're coming.'

He sat on the wall with his arms folded and watched the Hallwrights walking slowly towards him, surrounded by cameras and microphones. Their arms were linked. Roza wore a long coat and boots. Hallwright was in jeans, a denim shirt and a casual jacket. Roza's face was frozen in a dreamy smile. Hallwright put a protective arm across her, warning the journalists back. They were flanked by two large men with wires in their ears and their arms out, creating s.p.a.ce. They pa.s.sed and Roza noticed Simon. For a moment, seeing him there, her expression took on the charged solemnity of someone suppressing laughter. She waved, looking like a prisoner being carried through the streets, the hungry mob around her. They swept inside.

'Come on,' Karen said, grabbing Simon's arm and dragging him back in. They squeezed into the crowded hall, watching the Hallwrights enter their cardboard booths and bend to the task. Roza caught Simon's eye over the top of the booth; again there was a hint of laughter, apologetic laughter perhaps, just contained. David signalled to her, and they walked to the ballot box. Gallantly, he motioned to Roza to go first and she slid her vote in. Then David held up his paper and stuffed it in, to the click and flash of cameras. The crowd clapped.

The Hallwrights moved out slowly, to a burst of cheers and applause. A gust of rain blew across the asphalt, and someone held an umbrella over Roza's head. Simon looked up and saw a rain cloud edged with burning silver. Auckland weather: rainshine, stormlight. The drops whirled in the air, and the canvas awnings heaved in the wind. The sun, when it broke through, was hot, and steam came up off the asphalt, blowing quickly this way and that. David Hallwright shook hands, moving along the crowd; Simon saw Marcus laughing and pumping David's hand in the front row while a journalist angled round for the photo, and then the couple was ushered back towards the school gates.

Karen stood excitedly beside Simon, clapping. Blue-ribboned, shining-eyed.

An hour later, Trish and Roza stood in the Lamptons' sitting room.

'Roza's been sick,' Trish was saying. 'Three days off work. I've been popping in as often as I can. I've been going between patients actually - Graeme's just getting better too.'

Karen was wearing a dress like a frock coat, with an arrangement of buckles. She had taken Roza's jacket from her and folded it over her arm. Standing beside Roza, who was at least a head taller, she looked like a little footman. She blushed furiously and said, 'Sit down, I'll get you a coffee.'

'Could I just have water?' Roza smiled.

Simon said, 'I'll make the coffee.' He took the coats and ushered the women towards seats with a show of courteousness and care, pierced by the sight of Karen bobbing around Roza, so eager and vulnerable. He couldn't bring himself to look at Roza. Unease, anger even, made him turn away. How could she come here? Was she playing games?

Trish said, in her uncanny way, as if she could hear Simon's thoughts, 'I persuaded Roza to come out for an airing. Her place is a madhouse this morning with all the party people. She's much better, and I thought it would do her good. A nice, easy little do before the main event.'

'Ye-es,' Karen said on an indrawn breath, an exact imitation of Trish.

Simon found a bottle of sparkling water, and made a pot of coffee. Coming back in with his dutiful tray he was able, covertly, to examine Roza. She was pale, her face drawn and her skin slightly roughened, as though from strain or lack of sleep. Her hair was pulled back severely, emphasising her elegant neck and slender, nervous shoulders. There was something theatrical about her appearance: tragic heroine, penitent, sufferer. She was dressed in black, which was very elegant but seemed rather inappropriate for the day. Surely it should have been blue? When she looked up he quailed inwardly - her eyes were burning. Feeling her intensity, he glanced at Trish, at her flushed, plump face and tiny eyes, and marvelled at her serenity; she had a jewelled hand clamped on Roza's sleeve and was chatting non-stop. It was remarkable that old Trish could get about with this unpredictable powerhouse of a woman and remain so complacent and unmoved. But perhaps the hand on Roza's sleeve signified something: restraint, control. Had she been detailed to take Roza out, get her occupied, out of the way? Under her cosy manner, Trish was shrewd. She was hard as nails.

Karen was beside herself with nerves but this was only because of Roza's status. She was unimaginative, insensitive to Roza's peculiar strangeness and power. And Roza was turning on the charm, leaning close and appearing to be enchanted with every fawning plat.i.tude. Simon felt himself divided between fascination and a wrenching loyalty to his beloved, innocent Karen.

Karen said something pompous and patronising. Roza sat back and smiled - 'Ah. Yes.' Simon winced, bored and irritated by his wife's manner.

He couldn't take his eyes off Roza. The thought came to him: she has the power to hurt us, to do us harm. He remembered what Roza had said about Elke. She's mine.

'What've you got lined up this morning, Trish?' he asked, sloshing coffee into her cup.

Trish narrowed her eyes. 'Just the quickest little meeting, thanking some of my party women. Then Roza's got to rush back to David, of course. Why don't you come along?'

'I've got too much work.'

'Of course you have. You'll probably turn on the sports as soon as we leave. Simon's very naughty about my work,' she said to Roza. 'It's lucky I love him so.'

'We don't want him coming along. Complaining every minute,' Karen said.

Simon looked at her.

Trish said contentedly, 'It's funny to think, tonight Roza will be the prime minister's wife.' She squeezed Roza's arm.

'Touch wood,' Karen said.

'h.e.l.lo girls,' Trish said.

Claire walked in and dumped her bag on the floor. Elke stood leaning against the door. Both girls had been at the swimming pool. Elke's head was wrapped in a blue towel and her hair straggled down her temples in wet curls, the freckles standing out on her pale, sharp little face. She was in tight jeans that clung to her very slender legs, and a light blue jersey. She played with a chain around her neck and looked expressionlessly at the adults.

Claire, in wrecked denim skirt, deliberately holey stockings and trailing woollen scarf, clumped in her boots towards the kitchen.

Karen cleared her throat. 'Girls, say h.e.l.lo. This is Roza Hallwright.'

Roza got up out of her seat. Simon squeezed his temples with his fingers. He had the sudden, dangerous sense of tears.

Claire slouched forward. Karen gave her a warning look, but Claire surprised them all by being polite. No snarl or irony, no political statements; she only said, 'h.e.l.lo, I'm Claire,' and shook Roza's hand. She said sardonically, 'Hi Trish' and looked at Karen as if to say, Happy now? Watching his daughter as she hovered uncertainly in the doorway, her hands on her hips and even, wonder of wonders, attempting a shy smile, Simon thought, perhaps Roza has the power to tame wild animals.

Karen's voice lightened. 'And this is Elke.' Pride and warmth now, where there'd only been restraint, warning and irritation with Claire.

Elke elbowed herself off the door and stood up straight. Simon felt anger, fear, grief, the threat of tears again. He prayed Trish wasn't looking at him. Anger won out - how could Roza do this?

But there was none of the Fury in Roza's face now. Her expression was powerful but not harsh; the feeling swelled in her eyes, she put her hand to her mouth. All her love seemed to go towards the girl, and yet she managed to offer her hand and say, almost naturally, 'h.e.l.lo, I'm Roza. I ran into you once at your school.'

Elke stared. 'Oh. I remember.' She put a hand up to the turban wobbling on her head, unwrapped it and shook out her wet hair. Roza's eyes never left Elke. She said, 'What lovely girls.'

'They're mostly lovely,' Karen said. 'We have our moments, ha ha.' She picked a thread off her sleeve and sniffed complacently.

Roza glanced at Simon, her eyelids fluttering. She turned back to Elke.

Simon was aware of Claire standing awkwardly to the side, ignored. He saw her observing this strange woman's fascination with her pretty sister, saw her raise her chin, determined not to show she cared. She suffered for her clever, ungainly plainness; she burned at her mother's indifference, and the world's.

He said harshly, 'Who wants another coffee?'

Roza glanced at him, startled. Claire stumped off into the kitchen. Roza turned back to find that Elke had gone, vanishing silently around the door.

Simon sat rigid, tuning out of the conversation. He realised what Roza had done to him. She had forever divided him from Karen. What could he do, when the secret of Elke came out? He would have to pretend he hadn't known. If it hadn't been for Roza's forcefulness, he would have told Karen as soon as Roza had confessed, and he and Karen would have dealt with the problem together. Now, would he be able to pretend he hadn't known? Would Roza tell Karen that he'd known? He'd seen the way Roza looked at Elke. She wasn't going to go away. She would take Elke from them and break Karen's heart. And his. Because there was something ungovernable about Elke; it was one of the reasons he loved her - she was theirs and she wasn't. She was their little stranger; she had a secret, unknowable quality, as if she could suddenly fly away. And she might fly away if she discovered Roza, who was so much more like her than Karen and Simon.

But Roza's heart was broken too. She looked shattered, almost crazed. His sympathy switched to her, and he marvelled again at Karen and Trish - how could they not feel the air vibrating with pain?

He went out to the kitchen where Claire was making a sandwich. She whispered, 'What's wrong with Mrs Hallwright?'

'Nothing. What do you mean?'

'She looks weird.'

'I don't know. She's had the flu or something. Anyway, today's The Day. '

'Mum looks like she wants to kneel at her feet,' Claire said sourly.

He laughed and hugged her. 'You're such a sweetheart. You're such a clever girl. I love you to death.'

'Get off,' she whispered.

'Sorry.' He hugged her again.

'G.o.d, Dad. Pull yourself together.' She patted his shoulder. 'You're going mad,' she said fondly.

The women had stood up, and Karen was fetching the coats.

Trish ushered Roza forward, consulting her watch. 'We want to time this nicely. We want Roza to come in when everyone's already sitting, but not too late.'

'Good idea,' Karen said, so obviously relishing the idea of a grand entrance alongside the future prime minister's wife that Trish, catching Simon's eye, laughed indulgently. 'Yes, it's all good fun, politics. Come on, ladies. Simon, are you sure you won't come? No? Of course not. Well, goodbye darling. Mwah. Don't work too hard. Goodbye girls,' she called.

Claire stood at the kitchen door, malevolently eating. Roza said goodbye to her, looking around and beyond. But Elke had vanished upstairs.

Simon saw the women to the door.

Trish stepped out, pulling her scarf around her neck. 'Brr, it's cold. Do up your coat, Roza. You've got to keep warm when you've been ill. Ooh look, it's the police.'

A squad car had pulled into the drive and a uniformed cop got out, carrying a notebook. He came towards them.

Simon stood still. He thought, Mereana. He had a vision of her, slumped on her doorstep, the black field behind her.

Trish looked inquiringly at Simon and when he said nothing she turned to the policeman, asking, 'How can we help you?'

The cop said, 'You had some thefts and vandalism along your street last night. Probably local kids. You see or hear anything?'

The thought of Mereana had so unnerved Simon that he couldn't speak.

There was a strained pause.

Karen said, 'We didn't hear anything. Sorry. Simon, did you? Simon?'

'No. Nothing.'

'Check. No problem. Have a good day.' The cop walked away.

You three go ahead then,' Simon managed to say. Karen took Roza's arm and they set off down the drive.

Trish said, 'Simon?'

He turned his troubled eyes on her.

'You take care,' she said.

He looked into her shrewd, puffy face. Her eyes shone like little black stones.

'Take care, Simon,' she repeated.