Description: Chapter 1 Mark The wine''s gone to my head, I realize, as I sway into the kitchen to get another bottle. I''m at that perfect stage of tipsy when I feel padded and warm, forgetful. Carla''s belting out her trademark laugh--that Wiccan cackle that''s hearty enough to scare ghosts into corners. And somewhere, softly, tentatively, under Carla''s vital bray, Steph is laughing too, a sound I haven''t heard for weeks. Since. Trying to ignore the clot of history under the bottom shelf of the narrow pantry, I grab another bag of chips and reverse out into the kitchen again. Carla''s date brought an expensive red wine tonight, telling me as he pressed it into my hand that we shouldn''t drink it this evening, that we should save it for an occasion, but I''m sure it will go down just fine now. I open the chips and cram a handful into my mouth, then reach for the bottle on the overloaded counter, just as the new motion-activated floodlight in the backyard flicks on. Glancing up, I misjudge my grasp, and the bottle skittles down, smashing into a clutter of dirty glasses and sending a shatter of knives and forks wheeling off the plate on top of the pile. For just a second the racket is too much; as it crescendoes and settles, the shards and cutlery landing on my feet and the floor around me, I''m unable to move my eyes from the window, staring into the light, as if a floodlight will keep the monsters away. But it''s more than a second, really, a lot more, because when the floodlight finally flicks off after revealing nothing, there''s silence around me until I hear someone shifting in the kitchen doorway behind me. "Mark?" Steph''s voice. "You okay, honey?" I shake myself out of it. "Yes. Sorry, I just . . . dropped something." Steph approaches me, treading with her bare feet across the hazardous floor. "Don''t," I say. "You''ll cut yourself." She ignores me, tiptoes to my side, and looks out at the nothing in the dark yard. "Did you see something?" she asks softly. "Someone?" "It must have been a cat." "You sure you''re okay?" she says, squeezing my arm. "I''m fine," I say. But I''m embarrassed by my reaction, so I grab the wine and guide Steph between the shards back through to the dining room, as if she needs my guidance. But the truth is, right now, next to this firm, strong young woman, I feel blind and vulnerable. "Let''s drink this while we still can." Steph glances at me. "Sounds rather ominous." "I meant--while we can still appreciate it." "Yes, you should really leave it for a better time." I''ve forgotten the name of Carla''s latest "friend," who''s standing at the music dock, putting in his phone and choosing some smooth, cynical track. "You''ll miss that famous chocolate on the palate." "Famous chocolate?" Carla says from her place at the table, artfully pretending that she hasn''t heard the disaster in the kitchen. "You mean notorious? That Duiwelsfontein is a tricksy wine for hipster dilettantes. No offense, Damon darling." "None taken, Carla pumpkin." I sit down and watch Damon as he sidles back to the table, wondering what''s between him and Carla. Does he know he''s the latest in Carla''s long series of toy boys? What does she get from him? What does he get from her? He must be twenty-five years younger than she is, but then--I pull myself up and remember--I''m twenty-three years older than Steph. I forget that every day. I don''t feel forty-seven; I don''t feel middle-aged. I can''t allow myself to imagine how she sees me--paunchy, floppy, pathetic, damaged, failed, washed-up, some sort of freakish fetish. Steph''s standing behind me, rubbing my shoulders, and now she leans over, and her hair, fragrant from some herbal shampoo and the spice of the supper, falls across my face and saves me from that line of inquiry. "Just going to run upstairs and check on Hayden," she says. "I''m sure she''s fine. The monitor''s right here. We would have heard." "Just checking." "Sure. Okay. Thanks." "If Carla laughing hasn''t woken her, nothing will," Damon chips in at Steph''s back, as if he''s ever seen our daughter, as if he knows her. Carla smiles and rolls her eyes. I still don''t get it. I take a gulp of the wine--it doesn''t taste anything like chocolate--and listen to the lazy drawl of the singer as I concentrate on getting that soft buzz back. "How''re you doing?" Carla asks me. "I mean, really." I shrug and sigh, then glance at Damon. "Don''t worry, I know," he says. "And I''m really sorry. Same thing happened to my brother." Steph comes back in, tips me a look saying that Hayden''s fine. "Stop it, Damon," Carla says as Steph sits back down, but Damon blunders on. "This country''s fucked, I''m telling you. It''s different in other places, you know. People want to steal something, they don''t feel the need to torture and--" "Look," I say, "I don''t want to talk about it." "But you don''t have to shush him on my account, Carla," Steph adds. "I''m a big girl." "Yes," I tell Carla. "In fact, Steph''s handling it brilliantly." Better than I am, I don''t admit as I put my hand on Steph''s thigh under the table and she grips my fingers. "Ag, I''m sorry," Damon says huffily. "It''s none of my business." "It''s okay. It''s just that, you know . . ." "I''m just trying to say that I understand," he says. "This sort of shit happens to so many people here. It''s just wrong." "Yes. Yes, it is." "Now, Damon darling, if you could kindly shut your empathetic trap for a moment while my friend speaks." "I''ll go outside for a smoke. Help me keep my mouth closed." He stands up and heads to the front door while I repress the urge to tell him not to go out, to leave us all safely locked inside. From her place at the head of the table, Carla nudges her bare toes into my shin, then runs them down to my ankle. I''m not sure what it means. I have to presume it''s in lieu of a small hug or a pat on the shoulder that she doesn''t feel like getting up for. I have to presume that, because Carla and I haven''t been physical since forever. At my side, Steph''s noticed nothing. "Does he mind you talking to him like that?" I ask Carla. She shrugs. "He''ll survive. He should learn some manners." "I don''t get you," I say. She ignores this. "Are you seeing a therapist at least?" "Me?" I say. "Both of you. All of you. This sort of trauma lodges in little ones too. You could send Hayden for art therapy." "We couldn''t afford it," Steph says, "even if we thought it would help." "But the police offered some trauma counseling, didn''t they?" "Yes," I say. Yes, they did. The day after the attack we dutifully showered and got into the cheap new clothes I''d bought for us at the supermarket and headed to the Woodstock police station. The cops were surprisingly polite and sympathetic, despite the fact that we stood out like aliens in the middle of that miserable mass of broken-headed men and ripped women who cluttered the reception area waiting for attention. We were shown through to a small office down a long corridor. Out of the window and across a courtyard I could see the holding cells, the slatted windows draped with fragments of torn cloth, the walls peeling and cracking like the very building was boiling with spite, being reduced to toxic sludge from the inside. The station''s trauma counselor was lovely and warm and enthusiastic, one of those people who just won''t be worn down by the onslaught of horrible reality, giving us all the time we wanted. While Hayden piled blocks on the carpet, I wished I''d brought hand sanitizer, and while the counselor talked Steph through a meditative energy-clearing visualization technique, I stared into the dingy little shower cubicle and at the plastic caddy of toys and dolls ready for the next case. I couldn''t pull my eyes away, despite how the image sent a cold sweat prickling over my forehead. "I got the feeling they had worse traumas to worry about than some middle-class family being burgled." "Jesus, Mark. You need to value yourself more." "Value myself? Why?" Steph says nothing, turning the stem of her wineglass with those restless fingers. Now Carla leans across me, jangling showily, and places her hand on Steph''s arm. "You two should get away. Go somewhere for a break. It will make things better--I know it will." "Where to?" Steph says. "Somewhere exotic. Bali. Thailand. Or romantic. Barcelona, the Greek islands . . . Paris." "Ooh, Paris!" Steph just about squeals. "God, Mark, wouldn''t that be brilliant?" "With a two-year-old? Super-romantic." Carla looks down at the table. "I could offer to . . . Nah, I couldn''t. I wouldn''t want to inflict my nonexistent maternal instincts on the child." "We couldn''t afford it anyway. Christ, we can''t even afford to repair Steph''s car." Steph sighs and nods. "I suppose," she says, and that momentary flicker of light going out in her eyes kills a little bit of me. She deserves what she wants. She deserves better . . . than me, than what I can provide. Which is basically nothing. Everything I briefly had is spent. "We''ll come up with a plan," Carla says. "It has to happen. You two need--" When the screaming starts, I''m up and halfway across the room before I even register what it is I''m he

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