CRAIC
Published by Marmac Media
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Maureen Crisp
ISBN 978-0-473-20029-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
www.craicthebook.com
www.maureencrisp.com
www.marmacmedia.com
For all the 3am Friends
Note: CRAIC is an Irish Gaelic word and is pronounced 'CRACK'
(It means the best of times among friends.)
Chapter One
Tressa crumpled up the shrink’s latest letter of positivity. La. La. Heard it all before...tried it all before...got the tee shirt...
Yeah, shrieked her inner voice, it has trouble magnet, coward, printed all over it.
Tressa pushed down the voice and counted to ten...and then twenty, slowly, while thinking about books (not hard), favourite colours (shades of red and yellow), yummy food (peanut butter and cheese on toast).
When she got to thirty she turned on the computer and checked her in-box.
School. School. Sonnie. She opened that one first. Her online fantasy life was so much better than school.
Sonnie had sent a joke through and a link for an article on their favourite book characters.
How about writing a joint post for the webzine on the best book in the universe? We can do it. Let’s link it to our lives...small families, working parents, going to school, little houses, annoying brothers etc. We’re normal, let’s contrast it with the weird lives of the characters and why we like them so much.
Tears welled up in Tressa’s eyes. They rolled down her face and dripped off the end of her nose splattering the keyboard. She brushed her hand across the keys, the screen blurred. She blinked hard, scrubbing her face with her hand and then with her tee shirt while trying to ignore the ache in her throat. Normal.
‘We’re normal,’ Sonnie had written.
Little did she know, the voice revved up its ugly chant.
‘Stop it. Stop it,’ shrieked Tressa, jumping from the chair and throwing herself on the bed. She pounded the pillows, drowning out the voice with the sound of the thumps, until she could hear it no longer.
‘Come on honey,’ said her father, coming into the room and wrapping his arms around her. ‘Ride it out, honey. It will get better.’
Tressa looked into her mirror to see her father’s face. The tears in her eyes were making his face wobbly. She blinked. His face still looked wobbly, the mouth was twisted and his eyes looked sad. ‘What did the shrink say?’
She sniffed, counted to ten slowly, breathed in and out... ‘Well, he said I can set myself goals to get used to new places and people...’ Tressa sighed, ‘and I have to learn to trust myself.’ Trust myself...yeah sure, said the voice, faintly, trust yourself to screw up.
‘Well, we can set goals, that’s easy,’ said her father, in his oh goody, let’s be positive voice. ‘We do it in the band all the time. Top of the charts,’ he chuckled. ‘What’s the ultimate goal and how will we get there?’ He squeezed her tight.
‘I want to be a normal kid in a cottage with a dog, in a normal family and go to school.’
‘Oh,’ said Paul Morrison, lead singer of one of the most popular bands on the planet. ‘One of the tough goals huh?’
Sonnie’s eyes hurt as she went past her brother’s door.
There was a new poster of his favourite band, The Craic, on it. Craig must have scored it from a music shop. The riot of colours clashed horribly. The five band members, in strange hats, were posed, staring in different directions on a purple splotch background.
She stopped and squinted at the logo again. Would it look nicer with a red background instead of that yucky purple?
The door flew open and her brother came thundering out. ‘Ah, nice to see you appreciating art!’ he said, sounding like her principal, as he shoved past her in the narrow hallway.
‘Art?’ queried Sonnie. ‘That logo looks like something a baby puked up.’
Craig started to turn round. Sonnie slipped into her own room, slammed the door in his face and leaned against it. Her brother started shoving on the other side. Sonnie leaned harder. She heard several kicks hit the door.
Mr Blair yelled out, ‘Craig, are you doing that?’
Craig muttered something rude and stopped kicking. ‘Art! You moron,’ he hissed through the door.
‘Puke logo,’ Sonnie hissed back, quietly having the last word.
The puke logo was everywhere: plastered on fuse boxes, shop windows, her brother’s room. The band would be touring New Zealand in three months and radio stations were starting to do teaser promotions. Competitions to meet band members and for concert tickets were all Sonnie’s brother Craig could think about. Tickets were going on sale in a week’s time. Craig had saved up with his friends, pleaded with Mum and Dad and generally raved on and on about the concert.
When Sonnie came into the kitchen she heard Craig droning on to her father about the band. Would they play their old hits or would it be only music from the new album which he didn’t think was as good as the last one and they really should go back to their roots?
‘Roots,’ her father scoffed. ‘What roots? Fly by night, one hit wonders.’
‘Dad! The Craic have been together forever. You can’t call them one hit wonders. They’ve had five platinum albums!’
Craig, who last year had tried to get his family to call him Craic, finally realised that his father was joking. He stormed off to his room to play The Craic very loudly until dinner.
Mr Blair rolled his eyes. Sonnie laughed as she dumped the junk mail from the letterbox on the table.
‘How was your day?’ asked Mr Blair, as he grated cheese. ‘Did you get all your homework done at the library?’
‘Good, and yes I got my homework done. Was there any real mail?’
‘Not that I saw.’ Her father started slicing bread. ‘I think Mum may have come home for lunch tho’ because there were dishes in the sink when I got up.’
Tressa’s parcel should be here soon, thought Sonnie. She hadn’t missed Sonnie’s birthday in the three years they’d been pen friends. Tressa had promised her another strange Irish tee shirt to go in her collection. She had been teasing Sonnie in all her emails for the last three weeks, with a different description each day.
It’s black and has a picture of trolls.
It’s pink and sparkly and has fairies on it.
It’s tie-dyed.
It’s holy; my little sister cut it with scissors.
It’s purple with a picture of my Dad on it.
Sonnie couldn’t wait to see what her pen friend had sent. It was two months until Tressa’s birthday and Sonnie already knew what she was going to get her. A new print shop had opened up in town that did special printing onto tee shirts. Sonnie was going to get a tee shirt with ‘Tressahead’ on it just like the Irish band, The Craic’s. Fans of the band were called Craicheads. Tee shirts with that name and the band’s logo were only sold at band concerts.
Craig was desperate for one.
‘Hi kids,’ called Mrs Blair as she came through the back door into the kitchen. In her arms was an overflowing laundry basket; piled on top, her coat and her big workbag. Mrs Blair heaved the basket into the laundry and came back into the kitchen. ‘What’s for dinner love?’ She gave Sonnie’s father a peck on the cheek.
‘Spaghetti on toast.’
‘Oh really? Great!’ said Mrs Blair, sitting down with a flop at the table. ‘What are you calling it at the restaurant?’
‘Spaghetti bathed in a spicy tomato sauce, served with melt in your mouth slices of brioche. Topped with fresh Parmesan and garnished with a swirl of delicious ricotta cheese,’ Sonnie’s father intoned solemnly.
‘I’d like to see you swirl ricotta,’ laughed her mother. ‘It just blobs.’
Mr Blair grinned. ‘Ah, chef’s secret. How were the little horrors?’
‘Horrible! I confiscated two cell phones today. We spend all this time teaching them the school rules about no cell phones and then they moan when we enforce them.’
Mr Blair handed his wife a glass of wine and went back to stirring the sauce.
‘You’ve got five minutes to drink that before I serve. I’ve got to get to work.’ He glanced at Sonnie. ‘Sonia set the table.’
Her mother made a face. ‘I hardly see you!’
‘Yes, I know. But when you do, it’s so worth it!’
‘Yup,’ said Mrs Blair, blowing him a kiss.
Sonnie gagged, as usual, and her parents laughed. They were always like this, so predictable, so boring.
‘Mum, was there any mail?’ asked Sonnie, setting out the plates.
‘What?’ her mother said, absently, flicking through the junk mail.
‘Mail!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Blair, stacking the junk mail together. ‘A parcel. It’s in my bag. I was backing out when the courier stopped outside.’
Sonnie’s heart leapt. Had it come?
‘A courier?’ said Mr Blair. ‘My new chef’s knife, probably. About time.’
‘I can’t remember whose name was on it,’ said her mother. ‘I was in a hurry to get back.’
Sonnie rushed through the table-setting and bounded to the laundry. She found her mother’s big workbag propped up next to the washing machine and fished in it. The parcel wasn’t very big so it wasn’t a chef’s knife. It had Irish stamps on it.
Yes! It had come! She raced back into the kitchen.
‘Oi! Steady on! You know the rule!’ her Father growled. ‘Don’t…’
‘...run in the kitchen,’ finished Sonnie as she slowed down, barely.
‘Well, is it addressed to you?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Sonnie glanced at it. She hadn’t really looked at the address, so certain that it was for her:
Sonia Blair
239 Taupo Avenue
Wellington
New Zealand.
‘It’s from Tressa!’
‘Imagine that,’ said her father mildly. ‘You weren’t expecting anything were you?’ He sniggered as he poured the sauce over the pasta.
Sonnie struggled with the parcel tape.
‘Here.’ Her mother handed her a pair of scissors.
The parcel was small and flat. It can’t be a tee shirt, thought Sonnie, slightly disappointed. She reached in and pulled out some soft fabric.
It was a thin silk scarf in rainbow colours. Sonnie gazed at it. It was beautiful, but did it really go with jeans and tee shirts, which were all she had in her drawers?
‘A letter fell out of it,’ said her mother. ‘It’s on the floor.’
Sonnie put the scarf on the table and ducked under the table. Snatching up the letter she read aloud:
‘Dear Sonnie, Here is your tee shirt...Yes I know, it’s not a tee shirt but when I saw this I thought of you.’
‘How sweet,’ commented Mrs Blair.
‘You were saying you needed a belt for your jeans and all the girls are wearing scarves as belts here.’
‘Oh, you’ll be ahead of fashion,’ said Mrs Blair. ‘New Zealand is always about six months behind.’
Fashion? As if Sonnie cared about that. She hadn’t thought that Tressa cared all that much either.
Sonnie glanced back down at the letter. The words seemed to run together.
Mum! Tressa’s coming to New Zealand!
‘Really! When?’
‘Here,’ said Sonnie, ‘It says …
‘Dad’s got a bonus and he’s been asked to do some work in New Zealand so we’re coming. Well me and Paddy are coming with Dad. Mum is staying home with the twins. She thinks New Zealand is too far away from Dublin. I’ll bring your tee shirt with me. Dad will be travelling with a work group. I think they’re having a conference there or something.
‘Anyway we’ll be in New Zealand for ten days in November and we hope to get down to Wellington to see you.
‘E me when you get this.
‘Tressa.’
Sonnie started to get up from the table, to race to the computer.
‘No!’ Her father’s voice stopped her. ‘I’m serving. Call Craig!’
‘Oi! Craig!’ Sonnie yelled. Her mother winced.
‘Ok! Ok!’ Sonnie trotted to the hallway. ‘Oi Craig!’ She hammered on the door. ‘Tea!’
‘You moron,’ she said quietly.
She hammered again and the music was turned down a fraction. ‘Tea,’ she yelled.
Sonnie went back along the hallway to the kitchen, humming to herself. Tressa’s coming, da da de da!
She was walking into the living room when she heard her mother mention her name. She slowed down to eavesdrop.
‘Do you think it could be an internet stalker?’
Sonnie strained to hear her father’s reply.
‘...not like other girls. She is sensible.’
Go Dad, thought Sonnie.
‘Yes, but she’s spending a lot of time gossiping on that computer. How do we know?’
‘She’s writing stories too.’
‘I just hope this is going to turn out ok. She doesn’t need another crack-pot friend. We should get rid of that computer.’
Craig’s door opened. Sonnie moved her feet forward towards the conversation. The computer was her lifeline away from Craig! How could they?
She opened her mouth to protest then shut it as she heard the next words.
‘Get rid of it if this friendship doesn’t work out. We don’t need the drama.’
Think before opening mouth, she reminded herself. This friendship will work out. I need that computer.
When she walked into the kitchen, her father was placing full plates on the table. The food looked interesting. ‘How did you do this?’ asked her mother.
‘Un po’di olio uno spicchi di aglio,’ chanted her father solemnly in Spanish.
‘A little bit of oil and a clove of garlic,’ Mrs Blair and Sonnie chorused.
Craig rolled his eyes.
‘Tuck in.’ Her father only stayed for the first few mouthfuls then dashed out the door. As head chef in a hotel restaurant, Mr Blair had unusual hours. It was a weeknight, so work wasn’t too heavy and he could make an early dinner for them before he left to supervise the evening shift.
Sonnie twirled spaghetti around on her fork and thought about finally meeting Tressa in person. The few photos she had were wacky ones. One was of Tressa, aged eight. Her hair stuck straight up in spikes for a school play in which she played a punk rocker. The most recent was a blurry picture of her in the garden of her house, which was a real old-fashioned cottage.
It looked really small for two adults, four children and a dog, thought Sonnie to herself.
Tressa wandered into the kitchen.
‘Hi Manny. What are we having tonight? Need any help?’
‘You are having meatballs, unless you want to try Sancia’s latest diet sensation.’ The chef shrugged dramatically. ‘Madonna swears by it.’
Tressa sniggered. Her stepmother was as thin as a twig already. Taking the weight off after having twins was an obsession with her. Tressa thought she had looked much nicer when she was pregnant, but if you said anything you would be treated to the latest version of her ‘my body is my canvas’ speech.
Tressa’s brother, Padraig, privately called their stepmother Picasso. Her face was thin and her arms and legs were really bony. She looked like one of Picasso’s weird paintings side-on.
‘You can make a salad, ma petit, while I puree the twins’ food. Don’t forget to wash the lettuces carefully,’ he said with a grin.
‘Oui Manny.’ Tressa stuck her tongue out at him. He had never let her forget her first salad, with the interesting wildlife crawling out of it. It was Sancia’s fault for only allowing organic food. Her father had roared with laughter, but Manny had been in trouble with Sancia for letting Tressa in the kitchen.
That had started a row between Sancia and her father: Paul Morrison insisting that Tressa learn to cook, and who better than a French chef to teach her; and Sancia saying that Tressa didn’t need to cook and having her in the kitchen would probably distract Manfred.
Tressa had ducked out of the dining room as fast as she could, but Paddy had pulled out his small video camera and recorded the whole thing until Sancia caught sight of him and demanded the camera. Her father had backed Sancia up. He didn’t want any pictures or film taken that he wasn’t personally in control of.
The salad incident had had such an impact on the family that it was a wonder Manny had ever let her do another.
As she washed lettuce leaves, she thought about Sonnie. It would be early morning in New Zealand. How long did it take to get a parcel from Ireland to New Zealand?
Manfred served the twins pureed organic salmon in their matching bowls and left them to cool on their tray. Their nanny would be down soon to pick it up.
‘Manny! When am I going to be able to cook any food?’ sighed Tressa.
‘Well, at the moment not soon, until Madam has finished her diet obsession,’ he smiled. ‘The kitchen in here isn’t all that great, and one chef making four different menus to cater for everybody doesn’t leave me much time for teaching.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ sighed Tressa. She thought she knew the real reason though.
The kitchen was the only place not under Sancia’s eagle eye, and the staff valued it as a refuge. If Tressa spent too much time in there, so would Sancia. It was a difficult balancing act, learning to cook without Sancia’s interference.
Manfred had threatened to resign if Sancia came into the kitchen, saying he didn’t tell her how to model so she shouldn’t tell him how to cook, and as he had previously worked for Posh, Sancia didn’t want to let him go. But it didn’t stop her from coming to the kitchen door periodically to check that Tressa wasn’t in Manfred’s way.
Tressa finished the salad. As she placed it on the bench for Manny, Mrs Collins, the housekeeper, came bustling in. ‘Hello dear. How was your day?’
‘Same old, same old,’ said Tressa. ‘How’s Jenny?’
‘Well, she has a new pet rabbit called Mr Macgregor,’ said Mrs Collins fondly. ‘So she’s pretty busy settling him in with the others.’
‘Really?’ said Tressa, unenthusiastically. Jenny still hadn’t got over her Peter Rabbit obsession. Surely a twelve-year-old girl would have better things to do than keep rabbits.
Tressa had once hoped that Jenny could be a friend as they lived on the same estate: Jenny in the gardener’s cottage with her family, Tressa at the big house, but they just had nothing in common. Jenny didn’t get any of Tressa’s jokes, didn’t read much and spent too much time with rabbits. As well as being obsessed with Sancia and Sancia’s friends who all appeared in the only magazines that Jenny read.
Sancia was all right in little doses. ‘Like an old magazine at the dentist’s. Something to look at while you wait for the pain,’ said Paddy. ‘You know she’s there but you wouldn’t choose to spend time with her.’
Tressa wondered why her father did.
‘Image,’ said Paddy, dismissively. ‘Do you remember when Mum left? She said that it was the band or her.’
‘Yeah, vaguely,’ said Tressa. ‘I was only four or five.’
‘Well, they were just starting to break into the pop charts. Dad needed to get the band noticed more and he started going to awards with models. Mum didn’t want any part of the marketing of the band you see, so she left. Pity really. If she’d stayed she probably wouldn’t have died.’
‘Um, yeah,’ Tressa didn’t really know. There was still a little ache inside when she heard her mother mentioned. She found herself rubbing her scar and jerked her hand away.
Sancia had arrived when Tressa was nine. Until then her father had been living a bit of a wild life with models coming and going and being on tour all the time. Paddy and Tressa had lived with their grandparents most of the time and went to the local school until the kids found out who their father was.
Her grandparents shifted them to different schools a couple of times but it never worked. First the kids got friendly, then they started asking for things like, ‘Can you get autographs?’ Then, ‘Can you get concert tickets?’ After the kidnapping, her grandparents had told their son-in-law to take back his children. Their lives had been too disrupted and they wanted to settle down without the stress of his life.
Eight-year-old Tressa had asked eleven-year-old Paddy what stress was?
‘Children,’ replied Paddy sourly.
Finding Sonnie in that chat room had been a real bonus. They had both been first-time posters on a book fan website and had struck up a friendship. They talked about book characters, wrote each other fan fiction based on their favourite characters, endlessly discussed plot development, waited desperately for the next book in the series and generally had a good time online together. But Tressa was very careful. She had never let Sonnie know that her carefully crafted family life was as fictional as the fantasy book they both loved. She had based it around Jenny’s life but without the rabbits.
If the Band didn’t go to Wellington, Sonnie would never know, she thought to herself.
Chapter Two
‘Can you believe there is no Wellington concert? How can they do this to me?’ Craig stomped down the hallway. ‘Don’t they know their biggest fan is here in Wellington?’
‘Yeah,’ grumbled Francis, his best friend, following him. Craig fell on a loaf of bread. He fired two slices into the toaster. Francis slumped into a seat at the kitchen table.
‘Hi Titch,’ he said to Sonnie. Francis was always the polite one. None of Craig’s other mates ever noticed she was there. Karl twanged Craig’s guitar leaning against the couch. Josh was busy setting out mugs for coffee, the afternoon ritual of Craig’s band. It consisted of eating lots of toast, drinking two cups of coffee each while discussing The Craic’s music, then going out to the empty garage, plugging in their guitars and murdering the songs they said they loved so well.
Sonnie hated Friday afternoons. Her mother usually came home late. Her father left early. So that left Craig in charge. Sonnie escaped to the computer.
There was an email from Tressa.
hi, glad you like the scarf. with all those colours it should go with anything. Have you read the latest essay on altworld? here’s the link..... i think they’ve got completely the wrong idea. that theory was destroyed in the fourth book. our dates for coming haven’t been tied down yet. sometime in november though. i’m getting three weeks off school!
the conference is in auckland but dad says we can come to wellington to visit you for a week. we’ll stay in a hotel and have you over for dinner, he’s got an expense account. paddy wants to meet peter jackson, he’s obsessed. do you know him?
got to go. mum needs help with the twins.
tress
p.s. your tee shirt has a sparkly rabbit on it.
Do I know Peter Jackson? I know Wellington is small but it’s not a little village like where you come from, replied Sonnie.
We don’t know him but we can show you Miramar where his studios are and some of the places he has filmed in. He uses all of Wellington for background scenery.
I read the essay. I agree with you. Googlehead over on Fan4orce has a better idea.
Have you finished the next chapter of your story?
I can’t wait to read it. I need something to take my mind of the pounding coming from the garage. Craig has just found out that The Craic are not coming to Wellington!
I think he’s taking it out on the walls. If their music only had some melody, I could understand him liking it.
sonnie
p.s. sparkly rabbits, my favourite animal…NOT!
Sonnie sent the email and decided to go onto her favourite fan fiction site. As she waited for their old computer to find it, she looked over the last sites her family had visited:
The Craic.com
Craicheadfan.org
YahooTheCraic
1000recipes.
cakes.com
Well she knew instantly who had been using the computer today.
As her fan site came up she wondered what her brother saw in The Craic. Five guys poncing about on stage banging drums and playing guitars, she thought. Ok, the beat was alright and when they turned the volume down the music was alright, but really, did they have to dress up in those strange hats? And the lead singer was old enough to be her dad. In fact they were all old. She thought of her dad jumping around on stage dressed in a funny hat. So embarrassing.
Finally, thought Sonnie, as the computer finished loading her fan site. As she settled in to read the latest posts, the noise from the garage got a little bit louder. Bloody Craic, she thought.
In Ireland, Tressa was thinking the same thing.
Why do they have to go on tour now!
Her father was leaving in a week to start the American leg of the tour and he was constantly on the phone. Now he was in London for last minute rehearsals at his studio. While he was on tour, Sancia was preparing to go back to work. Knowing Paul’s aversion to having his family involved in any publicity, Sancia had sneaked her publicist into the house to plan her comeback.
Of course, Georgie thought that a big exclusive photo shoot was the answer. It was Sancia’s first modelling contract since having the twins. Georgie and Sancia thought some happy family shots for a magazine was a good idea.
Bad idea, thought Tressa. Paddy agreed. After his frantic email from boarding school warning her that Sancia wouldn’t have a carefully controlled photo shoot, Tressa bribed the gardener to put locks on their bedroom doors.
Knowing the price her family had paid to publicity, Tressa flatly refused to have any part of the photo shoot. She slouched around the manor house wearing dark glasses and ragged clothes.
Paul Morrison refused to have any photographers near his family. Sancia was going behind his back to restart her career and the publicity would be frenzied. The twins, aged one, were too young to know what was going on but they were playing up anyway.
Good one Bratties, thought Tressa, as Rosie puked up over her mother’s Armani dress and Sean made such a stink that everybody had to leave the room. Georgie fanned his face and moaned about air fresheners destroying the mood he was trying to create.
Tressa laughed. It was such an organic smell. She hadn’t thought that pureed cabbage would work so well.
Georgie was becoming frantic. No one seemed to be cooperating with him for the shots he needed. Sancia became shriller by the hour. Then came the phone call Tressa had been praying for.
‘Dad!’ Tressa exclaimed, ‘When are you coming home?’
Sancia wrenched the phone out of her hand before Tressa could say any more.
‘Darling! Yes, when? I can’t wait to see you. You will be gone so long on the tour....
‘Hmm… Yes… Wonderful! I’ll tell Manny… Yes, she’s busy doing schoolwork....
‘Oh she just came down for a drink but she’s disappeared again. You know how she is.’
Sancia made frantic waving motions with her hands at Tressa.
Tressa opened her mouth to yell that Georgie had been camped out with a photographer in the house for three days when her mouth was closed by Georgie’s hand. She grabbed his arms trying to make him let go. Sancia, seeing the struggle, hurriedly finished the phone call. ‘Byeee darling! See you soon!’
‘You! You monster!’ Sancia yelled.
‘Takes one to know one…’ chanted Tressa, once she had got Georgie’s hand away from her mouth. Georgie was shaking his hand and muttering about germs and the things he had to put up with.
Tressa looked at his frilly white shirt tucked into obscenely tight black jeans. ‘Next time I’ll bite!’ she said, as she fled, laughing, up to her room.
Behind her, Sancia was yelling. ‘The photo shoot has to be finished today! Paul is coming back on the morning flight.’
Sancia really was taking it to extremes, thought Tressa, watching her father’s car pull up. Who was going to believe that she cooked and cleaned and looked after the babies wearing Armani… well maybe Armani, she thought disgustedly, as she watched Sancia rush out and throw her arms around Paul.
Tressa opened her bedroom door to her father, for their ritual private chat, an hour after he came home. Two hours before, the photographer and Georgie had left with the shots they wanted. None of the shots featured Paddy or Tressa, their rooms or their possessions. This was due to the heroic efforts of the staff to completely cover up that anyone else lived in the house, besides one-year-old twins, a rock star and a model.
‘Good news, honey,’ her father swung her around. ‘Tickets sold out in ninety minutes in New Zealand. They want us to do another concert. What about Wellington? New Zealand is the last country we tour this time so we can fire one in.’
‘No Dad. I’ve told you. Not Wellington!’
‘But we’re going to be there and it’s a nice place, I think… Have I been there?’ He wondered to himself. ‘I think I have… Yes… Wait a minute. It’s got a harbour, lots of hills. I remember. There were complaints because the noise echoed back from the hills or something.’ Her father sat down on the bed.
‘No Dad. I don’t want her to know. I want to be normal.’ Tressa looked her father straight in the eye. Her father looked back, his eyebrows raised.
‘But that’s hardly a great way to be a friend…’
‘Well it’s my way. I just want to be liked for me.’
Paul Morrison sighed. ‘Ok,’ he said. ‘I have my friends around me all the time from school. I guess it’s harder for you. I never meant for it to get so crazy.’
He ran his hand through his long hair and sighed. ‘But you’ve been friends with this girl for three years – don’t you think you can trust her?’
‘Dad, I’ve never met Sonnie in person. What if she’s like the others? You know, only likes me because of the band.’
Her father looked at her helplessly, then rumpled her hair. ‘Yeah, it must be tough, kid. Ok. We’ll fit another concert in somewhere, not Wellington. I’ll tell Fenella.’
Fenella at least listened, thought Tressa. How can two publicists be so different.
‘We’ve got to see if Paddy can meet Peter Jackson too,’ reminded Tressa.
‘Yeah,’ mused her father. ‘He’s obsessive about privacy now, as I am...and you too by the looks of things. How come there’s a lock on your door?’
Chapter Three
Sonnie sighed. The Craic. The Craic. The Bloody Craic.
Her mother had found out that Craig had bid on tickets from a scalper on an internet trading site. Never mind that he didn’t have any money.
Craig had been banned from the computer. Which had been a good thing, thought Sonnie, only it had sent him to the garage to crank out Craic songs at full volume. Old Mr Gatley had complained to her father about the noise. ‘The racket,’ her father said, ‘must have been really loud as Mr Gatley is as deaf as a post.’
Craig then had his amp taken away from him. So he was in a foul mood and taking it out on everyone.
Sonnie was the easiest target as she couldn’t ban him from anything. Her clothes had been dropped in the garden, accidentally, when he had brought in the washing. He had sprayed her through the window when he was washing their mother’s car and soaked her book. Her sneaker laces had been glued together so she had to cut them out of her shoes. Every time he passed her door he kicked it.
Her parents seemed deaf to her complaints until her father had come out of his bedroom to find Craig on the floor of the hallway pushing big spiders, from the garden, under her door.
Sonnie had been sent to stay at her aunt’s for the weekend, while her parents had a serious talk to Craig. Since then he had been a lot quieter around the house and a lot nicer at the table.
He completely ignored her.
This wasn’t really a good thing as he had always helped her with her maths homework, and now he wasn’t, and Sonnie couldn’t make head or tail of decimal fractions.
Do you know anything about decimal fractions? Sonnie emailed to Tressa.
what are they? Tressa posted back.
Fiendish magic from the forces of evil, Sonnie replied.
you poor thing you’ll have to fight them on your own. thanks for giving us the name of your father’s hotel. it must be nice having your own chef in the family. I’ve told dad and when the dates are confirmed he’ll book it.
he’s away in America at the moment. his work wants him to travel more. but mum is against it. really with twins she thinks he should stay here more.
Paddy has got one of his videos in a competition. It’s called the scream and it’s all about people...screaming. Brilliant…not!
of course he had us all screaming so he could film us. we just mostly laughed.
at the moment he is making little models in his room for a stop-go action piece starring my old Barbie. I think he’s cracked! why can’t brothers be normal?
Yeah, thought Sonnie, as she read this.
At dinner that night, Craig handed his mother a letter from his form teacher.
Mrs Blair raised her eyebrows as she glanced through it.
‘Mr Herbert wants a meeting with me. What have you been doing now?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing doesn’t get your parents a letter unless it really is Nothing!’ Mrs Blair said sharply.
That weekend Sonnie was back at her aunt’s again.
When Sonnie arrived back home from school, on Monday afternoon, Craig was in a better mood.
‘Want some toast?’ he asked as she came in from netball practice.
‘Yeah.’
‘Help yourself, the toaster’s free.’
Sonnie made a face at him. ‘So how was your weekend,’ she said sweetly, knowing it would annoy him.
‘Not too bad. The Craic are doing another concert in Auckland and Dad says he will try to get a ticket for me. Only they won’t give it to me if my marks aren’t great.’
‘How did you get around them with everything you did?’
‘Well, Mr Herbert heard about the band, and the school want to enter a band in next year’s rock quest, so he and Mum came to an arrangement about marks and attitude. You know how teachers are.’
It was the most talk Sonnie had heard out of her brother’s mouth for months.
Maybe it would work.
‘I have to be helpful at home too, so, got any maths homework?’
Sonnie was impressed. No annoying comments, a helpful attitude – it can’t last, she thought, as she dug into her bag for her homework. Mum and Dad will get a bit of quiet and they won’t have to shell out for a ticket or an airfare to Auckland.
But as the weeks passed, Sonnie wasn’t so sure. Craig was a changed person. He went around to Mr Gatley’s and mowed his lawn for him.
Sonnie finally understood decimal fractions and received good marks in her maths test. The volume on the amp went down. Craig was working on some songs unplugged, so his friends were actually quiet. Sonnie kept waiting for him to crack but he didn’t. He did read everything to do with The Craic obsessively though, just to show his parents he really really wanted to get this ticket. He would say little things at the table, like ‘Did you know the rhythm guitarist’s wife has had twins too. She’s that actress Monique von Barle. It must run in the band or something because Paul has twins. John Abbot uses two drum sets on stage. And Paul Morrison’s wife has started modelling again. There are pictures of his house in Vanity this month. That’s the first time he’s let photographers near his house.’
The fallout over Sancia’s pictures was going to be of nuclear proportions, predicted Paddy. He’s not far wrong, thought Tressa to herself, as she punched in the access code her father had given her for the new electronic gates. She looked up at the camera and waited for the security guards to recognise her and her bodyguard, and open the gate. There were two, one-person wide gates in the perimeter fence with access codes and cameras. All vehicle access was through the front gates where the security was even tighter. A security firm in Dublin, directly reporting to Fenella, monitored the cameras.
Sancia had won a concession from Paul who had said yes, publicity would help her career and ok, it was good for the tour promotion; but he was adamant that if she ever had the twins photographed again without his permission as their father, then she could walk out the door.
Sancia was in tears for a week. Georgie had been banned from the house. The new gates had been installed the day Paul left for America. Fenella had left instructions for all the staff what their codes were. Everyone had had to sign more confidentiality agreements. Mrs Collins was to email a daily report to Fenella, on tour with the band, of who came and went to the house. Poor Mrs Collins, thought Tressa, she had to work in the house with an enraged Sancia who knew Mrs Collins’ job depended on her spying for Paul.
The week of drama was over. Sancia left for France and the modelling contract, taking Manfred to cook for her. The nanny had taken over cooking for the twins with Mrs Collins’ help. The staff left at the house breathed a sigh of relief. It was like a holiday. Mrs Collins allowed Tressa to cook in the kitchen. Mr Reilly, the gardener, whistled all day as he worked on clearing autumn leaves and got plants ready for the winter. Bobby, the resident bodyguard, took her to the local indoor swimming pool every day for swimming lessons to get her out of the house.
Tressa’s schoolwork had backed up. She was behind two weeks in every subject. Her online school had sent a reminder notice everyday. Every morning before logging on, she looked out the window and watched Jenny wave goodbye to her mother before heading off to the local school.
Tressa wished she could go too sometimes. If only she wasn’t such a coward. Calling panic attacks Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder didn’t change the fact that Tressa couldn’t cope with new situations. After her last brush with school children, the doctors had decided that she should stay at home instead. That was all well and good, thought Tressa, but it gets lonely. It’s no fun to sneak into the kitchen for a snack by yourself or go swimming by yourself or even just go for a walk in the grounds by yourself. Shopping was boring with a bodyguard. What did Bobby know about what twelve-year-old girls liked? He always wanted to go into the sports shops.
Daily emails from Paddy, at boarding school, and Dad, on tour, kept her sane. She had two other email pen friends both at the online school. So it was usually just chat about schoolwork. Sonnie was her best friend. They had found each other online and right away had got on well. Tressa felt a tightening in her stomach when she thought of going to New Zealand. I have to cope, she told herself severely. I just have to! I have to break myself out of this. A friend will help! Still, the old sick feeling would come welling up. What if Sonnie was like the other girls? Her thoughts nose-dived into the past. Faces – pleading, angry, cunning, sad – flitted like old film. Voices echoed, ‘I’ll be your friend forever, just get me the tickets... You’re stuck up... We all hate you... Everyone laughs at you, but if you let us come over to your house we’ll like you again... You’re weird... We want the tickets or your fingers get broken ‘accidentally’. Tressa wrenched her mind away from the scabby memories, rubbing her scar.
‘Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.’ She chanted to the tune of ‘Snoopy and the Red Baron’, her favourite song when she was five. ‘Bloody Red Baron. Bloody Red Baron, was flying once more...’
Tressa looked at Sonnie’s latest email. Please, please let her like me, just me.
I love your new story. Harry and Edward trapped in a castle surrounded by evil jedi who can’t break through the magic shield.. Is there a rescue any time soon? Let me guess. His friends are going to do a daring rescue and nearly fail but will be saved by the wonderful Mr McGregor, rabbit extraordinaire who transforms into a giant dog…
Things are quiet here too. Craig has been playing unplugged. Yippee!
Dad showed Craig THE TICKET last night. I wanted to know what I was going to get if I behaved badly. You don’t need a carrot, my dad said. It would be nice to get a carrot though. I work hard. I don’t get into any trouble at school. I don’t annoy the neighbours so I should get a carrot.
Sonnie.
Chapter Four
When Tressa’s next chapter came in, Sonnie laughed out loud. It was priceless. Who would have thought that a magic carrot could do so many things.
I can’t wait to meet you in person, I’ll have a carrot at the airport! she posted back. I was rolling around on the floor laughing when I read your story. I know we are going to have a great time together and guess what. Mum has got me a week off school! So we can spend the whole week together. Only three weeks to go. Our weather is pretty dodgy at the moment. Mum says that what you are wearing at the moment should be ok – jeans, tee shirts. We’re pretty casual here. Bring a good coat. We’ll meet you at the airport in Wellington. Dad wants to know what flight you’re coming in on?