skirts and black mesh vests). Coolest bands. Possible careers. “Reasons to hate my mother.” “Why little sisters should be boiled in oil.” Occasionally I laugh out loud at some of her observations-a bad haircut makes her look like “a startled hamster,” while some boy she met at junior athletics has “an IQ two points lower than a rock.”
Wedged in the pages of one journal I find a strip of passport-sized photographs. Piper and Tash are sitting on each other’s laps in a photo booth, pulling faces at the camera, laughing behind smears of crimson lipstick.
It’s the only photograph that I’ve seen of Piper in which she doesn’t look self-conscious. Instead, she’s relaxed and reveling in the moment, completely happy.
Glancing at the pile of journals, I’m still no closer to uncovering her secret life. Condoms were found in Tash’s room, along with two cannabis cigarettes. She had older boyfriends and was sexually active. She went to parties and dabbled in drugs. Piper knew these things, but didn’t write about them.
Villages like Bingham are often deceptive. Viewed as rural idylls and perfect places to raise families. People get nostalgic about them, harking back to bygone days, imagining a world of picket fences, corner pubs and village bobbies.
The reality is sometimes very different. Bigger towns expand, swallowing up villages, turning them into satellite suburbs or commuter belts. Areas become run down. Pockets of poverty emerge. Unemployment. Domestic violence. Boredom.
Teenagers feel it most. Too young to drink or to drive, without cinemas, shops or youth centers, they find other amusements, crashing parties and experimenting with sex, soft drugs and alcohol. Young girls like Natasha are drawn to older men. Boys their own age are slower, shyer, less worldly, whereas older men have cars and money to splash around on restaurants and nice clothes. The girls are excited by the fact that a grown man might be interested in them, but are too young to understand the danger of stoking a man’s desire.
At some point I fall asleep fully clothed, a journal open on my chest. A phone enters my dreams. My mobile. Buzzing. A name on the screen: Victoria Naparstek.
She speaks before I can utter a word, yelling down the line.
“Please, please help me! They’re outside!”
I can hear shouting in the background.
“Where are you?”
“At Augie’s house… there are people outside… they want to kill him. They’re saying they’re going to burn him out.”
“Where are the police?”
“I called them.”
“What about Augie?”
“He’s here… with his mother. They’re scared. I’m scared.”
“Are the doors and windows locked?”
“Yes.”
“OK, stay away from them. I’m coming.”
Ruiz isn’t answering his phone. I leave a voicemail and juggle my shoes and socks as I run for the lift, taking it downstairs. The streets are deserted. Christmas lights twinkle and blink from shop windows and behind net curtains.
Jumping red lights at empty intersections and swerving around trucks gritting the roads, I reach the house in less than fifteen minutes. There must be fifty people outside, spilling across the footpath and grass verge onto the normally quiet street. More cars are arriving.
A dozen police officers are lined up in front of the two-story house. Outnumbered. Nervous. They’re yelling at people to go home but the protest has already gained too much momentum. Hayden McBain is at the center of the crowd. His uncle is at his shoulder.
“He’s a child-killer,” yells Vic McBain. “And we don’t want him here! There are kiddies in this street. We don’t want that evil pervert touching them. This is our town. These are our kids.”
The crowd punctuate each statement with a cheer and then begin to chant.
“Scum! Scum! Scum! SCUM!”
Fighting my way to the front, I recognize one of the constables. Yelling above the noise.
“Where are the rest of the police?”
“They’re coming.”
“Can I go inside?”
He nods and opens the gate. Victoria answers the door and closes it quickly. Relief in her hug. Fear. I glance along the hallway and see Augie, peering from the kitchen, half hidden behind the door frame. His mother is next to him, wearing her dressing gown, her hair unbrushed and skin looking almost jaundiced.
“Is everyone OK?”
They nod.
Augie has his mother’s dark solemn eyes but his gaze, even at its steadiest, keeps pulling distractedly to one side. His hands are no longer bandaged, but the skin looks pink and painful, smothered in cream.
From outside the chants are growing louder. Going to the front room, I open the curtain a crack. More police have arrived, linking arms to form a human chain, but they’re easily outnumbered. A bottle explodes on the tarmac, scattering diamonds of green glass.
Joining the others in the kitchen, I try to calm their nerves. “How about a cup of tea.”
Victoria fills the kettle.
“Why can’t they just leave us alone?” asks Mrs. Shaw.
“They’re angry at me,” says Augie.
Victoria shakes her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“Whose fault is it?”
“You should never have gone to that farmhouse,” says his mother. “You should have stayed away from those people.”
Tightening her robe, she looks through the pantry, trying to find a packet of biscuits. “I know I had some,” she says. And then to Augie, “Did you eat the biscuits?”
He lowers his head.
More police have arrived, but so have more protesters. Bottles and bricks are being thrown. Bodies forced back. Regrouping. Coming again. Each chant of “scum” makes Augie flinch. He presses his hands to his ears, trying to block the sound. He whispers in a little boy voice, “It’s my fault. I couldn’t save them.”
“Who couldn’t you save?” I ask.
“All of them.” He puts his finger to his forehead, corkscrewing it as if drilling into his skull. “I couldn’t save Mrs. Heyman from the fire. I couldn’t save my brother. I couldn’t save the girl.”
“Natasha?”
“The snowman took her.”
“Why do you call him the snowman?”
“He was made of snow.”
A window smashes in the front room. Mrs. Shaw screams. Almost simultaneously, glass shatters upstairs. Bricks and bottles are landing against the house.
“Everyone stay here,” I say.
Crouching, I run along the hallway to the front room. The curtains are billowing. Broken glass glitters on the carpet. I move to the window and glance outside. The police have surrendered ground under a hail of missiles.
Bottles and bricks are bouncing off parked cars, occasionally finding windows. A police van made it halfway down the street before being abandoned. Rioters are rocking it from side to side, creating momentum. It topples. Metal on tarmac. The mob cheers.
A rock cannons against the window frame above my head. Another shatters a picture in a frame on the mantelpiece.
Crawling to the entrance hall, I press my ear against the front door. I can hear a policeman outside, radioing for help, sounding desperate. I open the door a crack. Blood streams from a split on the bridge of his nose, running across his lips.
“Stay in the house, sir,” he orders.
I see his head snap back as a half-brick hits him flush in the face. He goes down, his helmet rolling across the
