Music from a Distant Room by Stephanie Johnson

Author:Stephanie Johnson [Stephanie Johnson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: music_from_a_distant_room
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

‘May as well be sitting here all by myself,’ Tamara says, scowling. ‘Tell me what happened next. When did you know you were going to have an expense?’

‘Not for ages. Months. I thought my periods had stopped because I was grieving. And anxious.’

‘About Bernie?’

‘About the Miss Auckland contest. And Bernie. Of course I was anxious about Bernie. I was in love with him.’

‘Did they catch Bernie? What happened to him?’

‘Patu got him to walk out with him after a couple of weeks. They could’ve stayed hidden for years. That part of Great Barrier is easy for a man to lose himself in — all heavy bush and steep hillsides. Kev died the day they walked out. He was in a coma, but it was as if he was waiting for Bernie to surface, to make sure he faced the music.’

‘Did he do time?’

‘Four years. Manslaughter.’

‘That’s not long for taking a man’s life.’

‘Manslaughter, not murder. But yeah, you’re right. He could’ve got more — six years, maybe. But the judge went easy on him: reckoned the fact his wife was carrying on with someone else was provocation. Also, Bernie pleaded guilty.’

‘Did they blame him for the boy’s death?’

‘No. Patu and I were both witnesses. It was an accident.’

‘It was your fault. The candle. Did you own up?’

I’m shaking my head, not that Tamara can see me. I never even told Bernie. I never told a soul except Tamara.

‘The boat was leaking fuel,’ I say, despising myself for it. Why would I plead innocent to her? ‘If Bernie and Patu had fixed the leak the fire would never have happened. It had been raining. And who’s to say Brett didn’t wake in the night and try to light the lamp? Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe he dropped the match and set the cabin alight.’

‘Maybe,’ says Tamara. ‘Maybe he did. More likely it was your fault.’

‘Let’s not begin apportioning blame here, Tamara,’ I begin, an icicle dangling from every word, and I’m about to go on when I notice a muscle in her forehead twitching, just above her left eyebrow.

More likely it’s Tamara’s fault we’ve lost Carl. More likely if she’d stuck around he’d still be with us today …

‘Could you … um …’ Her voice is thin, wavery. ‘… get me another coffee? And tell me … tell me about when you were a freshwater trout and went in the beauty show.’

‘That’s what you want next?’ I’m just as tentative, just as churned up. I can’t even laugh at ‘freshwater trout’, though it’s a good one.

‘Uh-huh,’ she confirms. ‘The beauty show now. Lightly and politely.’

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