‘Let me guess—I “contributed to the delinquency of a minor”,’ Anya quoted with crisp sarcasm.
‘What? No, there was no mention of that—besides, Sean’s seventeen, isn’t he?’ puzzled Liz. ‘I think it was more of a general concern about the goings-on and what you were doing there. Unfortunately Mark says he can’t not officially act on information like that once it’s brought to his attention—even though it was done outside official channels. You know how stuffy he can be about rules and regs…’
‘It’s all rubbish, Liz—’ said Anya, and poured out the farcical chain of events into her friendly ear.
‘I’m sure you’ll get it all sorted out,’ Liz chuckled, reacting to the story with a reassuring hilarity.
Why couldn’t Scott Tyler have seen the funny side of it instead of going off the deep end? Maybe farces were no more to his taste than classical music.
‘What I really rang to tell you was that Mark was all het up about it when he came in this morning—’ The school office was kept open during the holiday break to carry on the administrative tasks. ‘—he said he was coming over to talk to you about it before deciding what action to take. He was going to ring, but then he thought it was better to raise the matter face-to-face—you know, to try and keep it informal—so he cancelled his appointments—and I can just see him leaving now from the car park.’ Her voice rose and Anya could picture her going on tiptoe in her office to improve her sight line to the school gates.
‘Oh, God…’ Interview by ambush. Anya could think of nothing worse—except perhaps sitting passively around while waiting for the axe to fall.
‘I offered to call to check if you were in, but Mark said he knew you’d be home because you were planning on working on your university assignment today. He obviously wants to keep this quiet for now, but he didn’t specifically tell me not to call you, so please act surprised when he knocks on your door…’
‘Thanks, Liz, but I may not be here.’ Anya scooped her car keys off the hook by the phone.
‘Why? What are you going to do?’
‘Get Scott Tyler to retract!’
As soon as she disconnected the call she flipped through the telephone book and found the number for S.J. Tyler at The Pines which she had dialled from the camp. A brief talk with the housekeeper ascertained that Mr Tyler was working from home today, rather than at his office, and Anya silently punched the air. She hadn’t looked forward to driving all the way to the Manukau City Centre in central South Auckland, where he based his large practice, and then having to run the gauntlet of curious and obstructive staff to get to the Big Man himself without an appointment.
The flat battery temporarily checked Anya’s momentum, but not for long. She had already changed out of her jeans and T-shirt into a morale-boosting suit, but she quickly swapped it for a cotton-knit top and beige riding pants tucked into supple calf-length leather boots that weren’t afraid of meeting a few cow-pats.
In one way the strenuous walk was doing her good, she thought breathlessly now, as she ploughed doggedly through the lush emerald-green grass, ignoring the bovine curiosity of the herd of black and white Friesians that grazed across some of the fields, occasionally ambling across her path. It was taking the edge off her temper as well as giving her time to rehearse her opening speech out loud.
It was a pity she didn’t get the chance to deliver it.
The short-cut brought her out at the back of The Pines and she climbed through the last wire fence into the huge yard dotted with citrus and fruit trees, wincing when her shoulder brushed the top strand of barbed wire and a tiny loop of woven cotton sprouted beside the seam. Weaving her way through the low-hanging trees, Anya was trying to push the stubborn loop back to the underside of the loose weave with her fingernail as she skirted the side of the house and didn’t at first notice the black-clad figure clinging to the lacy creeper just beneath the top floor dormer window.
When the dry crack of a breaking twig made her look up, Anya’s first foolish thought was that someone else was trying to sneak a peek into Scott Tyler’s house and had elected to take the direct route. She felt a split-second of envy for their boldness before her social conscience reasserted itself, along with her common sense. A cat-burglar in broad daylight? Then she realised that the figure was moving away from the open window, not towards it, down rather than up, trying to crab over towards the narrow drainpipe that ran the down the side of the house. She also saw that the figure was too small to be that of an adul
t, but unfortunately the sparse upper tendrils of the creeper weren’t strong enough to support even the slight weight that was being tested upon them and were sagging dangerously away from the white-painted wall.
Anya’s heart leapt into her throat and she opened her mouth to cry out a warning but then realised that a shout might be counter-productive. She saw that the climber had already realised what was happening and was frantically trying to scrabble within reach of the downpipe before the fragile framework collapsed completely.
Anya began running towards the place on the paved pathway that she judged was directly beneath the dangling figure and as she did so there was the flash of a pale face and she recognised the rude young girl with the nosering whom she had encountered on Saturday night. She was looking down over her straining shoulder at the six-metre drop, her mouth and eyes wide with fright.
Anya produced a final burst of speed just as there was a tearing, hissing sound and flimsy creeper gave way at both hand and foot. The girl made a final wild swipe at the drainpipe, her fingernails screeching uselessly across the painted copper, and then she was falling backwards, arms flailing, legs bicycling as she tried to twist her body round and grab at handfuls of the vine to slow herself down. But her momentum was too great and the leaves shredded between her fingers.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch you!’ cried Anya, her voice dry with fear as she bent her knees and arched her spine, throwing her head back and flinging her arms wide to try and turn herself into a human safety net.
In the last split-second everything seemed to be happening in ultra-slow motion and Anya thought she might actually be able to live up to her words, so it was a brutal shock when the moment of impact exploded on her with stunning force, a sharp knee cannoning into her chest and driving her flat to the ground, and the whole world turning to suffocating black velvet.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘OH, HELL, are you all right?’
Anya stirred, realising that the smothering blackness which had enveloped her wasn’t unconsciousness, but the black-clad chest of the girl who had landed squarely on top of her and smashed her backwards onto the unyielding ground. Anya spat out a mouthful of acrylic cardigan as the girl scrambled off her in a flurry of curses and knelt anxiously at her heaving sides. ‘God, I’m sorry—are you badly hurt?’ she asked, her voice thin with fear.
The overhead sun dazzled Anya’s eyes, white spots dancing mockingly in her vision as she tried to suck in the breath to answer, but there seemed to be no power in her deflated lungs and she took great, dry, whistling gulps to try and equalise the pressure in her burning chest. Her neck was cricked sideways under the overhanging corner of a low step, the back of her ringing head resting on the damp grass beside the path. As she lay there staring up at the jutting brick she was lucid enough to be thankful that her head had not cracked down on that sharp edge as she fell. It would have been lights out permanently!
‘Oh, no—do you think you’ve broken something?’ The girl sprang to her feet, shaken but clearly unhurt, her bright, kohl-lined blue eyes looking huge in her ashen face, and Anya finally managed to pump some air into her abused lungs.
‘No—I—don’t—think—so,’ she managed to croak, mentally blessing the fact that the lawn hadn’t been recently mown and the grass beneath her head was thick and springy. She started to squirm away from that threatening overhang. ‘I just—ouch!’
As she moved her arm she felt a fierce jab from her funny bone and the hot sting of scraped skin on her forearm. She flexed cautiously, finding no screaming pain from any of her other limbs, no sickening grate of broken bone, although the ringing in her head made it difficult to concentrate on the messages coming in from the rest of her body. ‘I think—I’m OK…just—bit stunned…’ she advised threadily.