The Lost Tohunga by David Hair Page A

up to the cottage. One was a teenage girl she mentally christened ‘Freakshow’: a geeky creature with a mop of ginger dreads and a skeletal body clad in garish and unflattering clothes. Her face was all braces and glasses.
    But the other one … was Matiu Douglas. He had a blue-black swelling about his eye and his hand was clutching his ribcage as he breathed awkwardly. She remembered that he knew Godfrey. They both stared at each other and blushed. Freakshow peered at her, looking put out.
    â€˜I believe you know each other,’ said Jones, with a dry chuckle.

Jones’s guest
    Monday
    M at woke stiff and sore, but he was in one piece, and over breakfast he reassured his mum that it was just one of those things. The doctor had told him his ribs were ‘probably just cracked or bruised’, and sent him away. They didn’t strap ribs any more, just prescribed rest. Three months and they’ll be fine, the nurse had said, as if this was good news. Three months! That was halfway to forever! And the really annoying thing was that if it hadn’t been so public he could have taken down those goons in seconds, but, with so many people watching, using magic was out. ‘Some idiot thought I was chatting up his girl.’
    â€˜Were you?’ Mum responded, as though this was more important than his ribcage.
    â€˜No, Mum, I wasn’t! I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. He was a skinhead arsehole, with mates who looked like Uruks from Lord of the Rings . They beat up some German guys who tried to help me, too. Poor fellas; they kept saying they didn’t think this sort of thing happened here!’
    He managed to convince Mum that gangland thugs weren’t lurking outside waiting to get him — something he was by nomeans sure of — and then told her he had to go tell Jones that he couldn’t train. He called Cassandra along the way and met her by the kauri tree. He had texted her from the hospital and said he couldn’t go swimming, but hadn’t said why, so his beat-up look was something of a shock to her. He was telling her what had happened as they walked, but seeing Hine on Jones’s veranda stole his breath away.
    She was in a colonial dress, and she looked … breathtaking. She was a vision, out-of-time, luminously beautiful. He wanted to take her hand and kiss it and tell her exactly how lovely she seemed to him. Unfortunately, before he could get that elegant thought processed, another less cultured part of him gasped, ‘What the hell are you doing here? Uh — I mean: “Hi”.’
    She suppressed a laugh. ‘Jones found me, and brought me here. And Godfrey, of course.’
    Cassandra looked at Jones. ‘Really?’
    â€˜Yes, really,’ said Hine loftily. ‘What are you two doing here, anyway? Do you know Jones?’ she demanded, as though Jones was her friend alone.
    Jones came to the rescue. ‘Mat, Cassandra: Hine is my guest. She needed rescuing from her former boyfriend, and Godfrey suggested we do the rescuing. Hine, Mat is my pupil.’
    She looked at Mat with renewed interest. ‘Your pupil? What do you mean?’
    Mat went to answer, but Jones interrupted. ‘Just a few skills I happen to know and he has an affinity for, lass.’
    Hine looked at Cassandra. ‘And you, too?’ she asked, still struggling to take the girl seriously. Her eyes flicked to Mat. Surely they’re not dating?
    Cassandra shrugged a bony shoulder. ‘Just a friend,’ she said coolly. She patted a satchel overflowing with wires and cabling, and looked at Jones. ‘I’ll get busy then,’ she told Jones, pushing past.
    Jones peered at Mat. ‘Let me take a look at your ribs, lad. You look like you need a poultice and some strapping.’ He took him back to the kitchen and made Mat strip off to the waist so he could examine his ribs.
    Mat was burningly conscious of both girls’ eyes on