Just Watch Me (Escape to New Zealand #16)

Chapter 1

A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

Somebody was breathing in Zane Mahuta’s ear and stroking his face. That was nice. He was with a woman, apparently, in this dream. He rolled to his side and reached out a hand for her. Just in case she was real.

And got a hard poke in the shoulder. “Dad,” a trembling, anxious voice said. “Dad.”

He sat up with a start. “What? What’s happened?” Groping for the T-shirt he’d pulled off in the night, because he always slept extra-hot after a match. “Georgia?” He was coming out of it now, and looked at his watch. “It’s six in the morning. Is it an emergency?”

“Yes.” Her lower lip was trembling, her chin wobbling. “Gladys won’t wake up.”

He blinked. “Gladys? Who’s Gladys? Do you have a … a friend over?” When had he got in this morning? After two? It felt like he’d barely dropped off to sleep.

Wait. The friend was unconscious? Dead? He was out of bed fast.

“Daddy.” The chin-trembling had been replaced by outrage. “I told you. Gladys is one of the rats!”

“One of the …” He sank back onto the bed again. “Oh. Did you tell Nan?”

“She isn’t awake yet.”

He looked at her sternly, or he tried to. Of all his kids, Georgia was the one he had the hardest time saying no to, possibly because she was the youngest and also the sweetest. Yes, he was a cliché. “What day is today?”

“Sunday.” Her eyes lowered, abashed, but she was still peeking at him through her lashes. He wished she wouldn’t do that.

“And what’s the rule on Sunday?”

“Not to disturb you, because you need to sleep after the match. Unless it’s an emergency, but it is an emergency.

” She blinked her enormous brown eyes at him and wormed her hand into his.

“And I got scared about the emergency, and you say that you will always help if something is too scary or if we’re in trouble. ”

His body ached in a way that said, “Massage and the pool.” It also said, “Sleep.”

He ignored his body. Not the best decision for a rugby forward in his too-close-to-mid-thirties, but a man had to do what a man had to do. He threw the duvet back and surrendered to fate. “OK. Let’s go take a look.”

Well, yes. That was a very dead rat. A dead almost-white rat, to be precise, its body stretched rigid. A dead beige rat.

Well, not quite a beige rat, because the other rats were …

Georgia gasped. “They’re biting her! Daddy! They’re biting her! Make them stop! They’re hurting her! Daddyyyyy!!!!” All of it wailed at the top of her lungs.

Running feet, and two figures in PJs burst into the room. Scarlett said, “What’s wrong? Georgia? What’s happened?” Taking charge, as Scarlett generally did, while eight-year-old Duncan took one look and grabbed Georgia, blocking her view.

Zane said, going for “calm-but-still-loud,” “Everything’s fine. Duncan, get Georgia out of here. I’ll take care of this.”

Scarlett said, “Holy Christ, Dad. Cannibalism. Gross.”

Zane said, “Yeh, thanks for that. And don’t swear. Duncan. Out.”

“It’s not—” Scarlett started to say, but Zane wasn’t listening.

Duncan aimed for the door, but the way was blocked by a silver-haired figure, looking regal as always in her red dressing gown. “Zane? What’s happening?” Now she woke up.

“I’m handling it,” he said. “Shut the door when you leave, would you? I’ll come talk to you in a minute, Georgia. Scarlett, go get a plastic bag.”

“There aren’t any plastic bags,” Scarlett said. “They don’t give them to you anymore at the supermarket. Didn’t you read about it? It’s because of the earth.”

“Fine,” Zane said. “Bring me some paper towels, then.”

“You’re also not supposed to use those,” Scarlett said. “They’re not recyclable. You’re meant to use cloths and tea towels instead. I told Nan, and she didn’t buy them last time. We’re trying it for an experiment. It’s more sustainable.”

Was he caught in some sort of nightmare? “Fine. Bring me a tea towel.”

“Nan’s going to say, not one of the good ones,” Scarlett said.

“Oh, for—” Zane opened the door of the cage, reached in, and grabbed the dead rat.

Was it the most pleasant thing he’d ever done?

No. On the other hand, being in the middle of a rugby scrum wasn’t for the squeamish, either.

“Shut the cage door again,” he instructed Scarlett.

“And go get me a tea towel. I don’t care what kind it is.

If it’s Nan’s favorite embroidered whatever-it-is, I’ll make it up to her. ”

“You’re not supposed to handle dead animals,” Scarlett said. “They can have rabies. And Georgia’s probably going to get in trouble for killing one of the class rats.”

“First,” Zane said, “there’s no rabies in En Zed. Second, it’s not like she threw the rat out the window. It died. Animals die. Third, how would a rat in a cage get rabies?”

“I don’t know,” Scarlett said. “I’m just saying. Or another disease. Also, Georgia lets them out sometimes when you’re gone. If a bat flew in the window—”

“Tea towel,” Zane said. “Now.”

Two minutes later, he left the bedroom for the kitchen. Of course, everybody was in there, as his grandmother was fixing cocoa. He marched purposefully to the rubbish, dropped the tea towel into the plastic bin bag, tied the top, washed his hands, and took the bag out to the wheelie bin.

He wasn’t quite in time. Lester Brooks was out walking his Labradoodle, whose name, unfortunately, was Mr. Bojangles, and the dog practically pulled Lester’s arm out of its socket in its eagerness to get to Zane.

Worst-trained dog in Auckland. Zane fixed him with his best hard-man stare and said, “Down.”

Mr. Bojangles dropped to the ground. Briefly.

Then he jumped up again. Of course he did, since Lester wasn’t even holding the lead tightly, the silly git.

On the thought, Mr. Bojangles pulled free and came for Zane again—or possibly the rat—with Lester saying, “Here, boy. Here! Get back here, you. Right now. Bad dog!” Slow learner, Lester.

Zane handled the problem by kneeing the dog hard in the chest as he lunged for the rubbish bag. Definitely going for the rat, so Zane grabbed the dog’s lead and yanked it. Mr. Bojangles started to wheeze. Lester said, “Now, see here—”

Zane handed the lead back to him and said, “I’ve got a dead rat in the bag. Hold your dog.” He barked it out, possibly, because Lester’s mouth opened and closed. But he held the dog.

Rubbish bag disposed of, Zane headed for the house. Lester said, “Do we have rats now, then? You should tell the Council.”

“No,” Zane said. “Pet rat.”

“Oh,” Lester said. “Not sure why anybody would want rats.”

“I didn’t,” Zane said.

“Pity about last night,” Lester decided he should say.

“Yeh,” Zane said. He did not want to have this conversation.

“Kicking for territory,” Lester said. “Kicking the ball away so you don’t have it anymore, more like.”

“Yeh, cheers,” Zane said, and headed for the door.

A rugby player in New Zealand, especially an All Black, was meant to be a good citizen. Friendly. Tolerant of interruption. Kind to animals.

Oh, well.

Skylar Fairburn was making pancakes. It was the last day of the school holidays, and the kids loved them.

She’d only eat two. Or possibly three. Max.

She’d put oats and buttermilk in them, so that was healthy, surely.

Oats were a whole grain. And yes, she was also cooking crispy bacon, but you couldn’t really eat pancakes without bacon.

She’d meal prep today, anyway. Beans, greens, and grains, that was the idea.

Not a pie from the school canteen, no matter how much she’d feel like she deserved it by lunchtime tomorrow.

She’d begun a new strength training program at the first of the year and, improbably, kept at it over the ensuing months, and it seemed to be working, if by “working,” one meant, “I’m often sore all over.

” She was enjoying the soreness, in a masochistic sort of way.

Oh. Pancakes. She flipped them. Finlay said, “You’re meant to turn them before they get that brown.”

“Possibly,” she said. “Or you can crisp them up for better flavor. Lay the table, would you, please?” Snowball leaped up onto the benchtop, and she swatted him off again.

“Cats are on the floor,” she informed Snowball.

“You walk in the litter box with those paws. No, thank you.” Not that the cat would listen.

Snowball gave her an accusing look and meowed in protesting fashion, and Skylar said, “I may be harsh, but you’re the spawn of Satan. ”

“Granddad turns them faster than that,” Finlay said. “He’s probably been making pancakes heaps longer than you. I’m just saying, in case it’s helpful.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Table.”

George piped up from said table, “If you didn’t have to go back to work, Mum, you could make pancakes every day, and we could go to the beach after school and have ice cream after, and you could read to us instead of doing your planning, and play Sneaky Snacky Squirrel with me.

You wouldn’t be tired, either, so that would be better. ”

“How exactly would we live if Mum didn’t work?” Finlay asked. “We’d have to live at the beach, because we’d be homeless.”

“We could live in a tent,” Olive said. “Or I read a book about a boy who ran away from home and made a house for himself in a big hollow tree, and caught fish to eat and collected edible plants from the bush.”

Finlay smacked himself in the forehead with a palm, and Skylar had to laugh.

“I don’t think I have those kinds of survival skills, sorry.

” She slid a spatula under the pancakes and deposited them on a plate in the oven.

“And I reckon that wouldn’t be nearly as nice as it sounds.

Baths, for example.” She did not say that playing Sneaky Snacky Squirrel more than, say, once a month would make her want to stab out her eyeballs with a fork.

“We could swim for baths,” George said. “Swimming’s funner anyway.”