Pan’s Whisper Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Logo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Books by Sue Lawson

  Pan Harper is brash, loud and damaged.

  Ordered into foster care, Pan is full of anger at her mother and older sister and is certain that she knows the reality of her past — until she meets Hunter, the boy who understands her story better than anyone else, and who just may be the key to unlocking the truth of Pan’s memories.

  But are some memories best left forgotten?

  And is Hunter worth Pan breaking her most important rule?

  Never. Trust. Anyone.

  One

  Music thumps against my skin.

  Singing and laughter.

  Shadows. Bright lights.

  Spinning. Screaming. Shattering glass.

  Darkness.

  Music thumping.

  Screaming. My own.

  Sunshine flickers between the trees and soundproof fence that line the freeway, stabbing my eyes. I squeeze them shut to block it out, but the flashes of red remind me of that judge in her crimson suit and glasses, staring down at me. Her voice booms through my head, in time with the flashes.

  “Pandora, a foster home is your best option at the present.”

  I open my eyes, the stabbing light less painful than the memory.

  Beside me in the driver’s seat, Gemma clears her throat. “The McMinns have two other foster children, Pan.” She twitters like a budgie. “Livia’s a couple of years older than you. She’s been there for two years, and Nate … gee, he was five when he arrived, so he must be about ten now.”

  Aren’t social workers supposed to be sensitive to people’s feelings? Obviously not, because if Gemma had a single sensitive cell in her body, she’d pick up the vibes I’m sending and shut the hell up. Hearing that these kids are just about permanent fixtures is making me feel even worse, if that’s possible.

  Gemma takes the freeway exit and continues through the suburbs along a winding road, past houses with trimmed lawns and nature strips dotted with piles of junk. Must be council pick-up week. Most of the “rubbish” is in better shape than the furniture at our place.

  We leave the highway and drive down wide streets filled with brick homes that all look alike. There’s nothing familiar about this place. Where are the wire fences and battered cars on the nature strip?

  Gemma parks in front of a house with a bay window. A balding man wearing a grey jumper and faded jeans sweeps the front verandah. He rests the broom against the brick wall and strolls towards us.

  “Great, a welcoming party,” I mutter. “If he’s wearing a crucifix, I’m out of here.”

  Gemma taps the steering wheel and glares at me before opening her door. “You’ll love Rose and Ian, Pandora,” she says, breaking her silence. “They are fantastic people.”

  From the passenger seat I watch Gemma and the faded-jeans guy hug. They glance in my direction, their smiles fake.

  Gemma clicks a button on the car key and the boot pops open. They walk across the lawn, chatting like old buddies.

  “Livia must be thrilled to have that role,” says Gemma.

  “She’s rapt, Gemma. Honestly, who’d have thought she’d be so involved?” Ian’s voice is thick and slow.

  A scraping sound fills the car.

  “Doesn’t have much stuff,” he says, his voice softer.

  There are several reasons for that, faded-jeans man.

  A. I don’t own much stuff, and B. I have no intentions of staying long.

  A thick silence fills the air. They’re whispering about me, I know it. I fling open the car door and climb out, dragging my backpack behind me.

  Gemma scurries around from the boot. She stretches one hand towards me and the other to Ian. “Pandora Harper, this is Ian McMinn.”

  Ian holds out his hand. “Hello, Pandora.”

  I hug my backpack to my chest. “Pan will do.”

  Gemma’s nostrils flare as she breathes in.

  Ian nods. “Right, Pan it is. Well, come inside.” My duffel bag swinging by his knees, he leads the way, pointing and chatting. “These two rooms are mine and Rosie’s, our bedroom and retreat, over there, the office. Lounge.” Light streams through a wall of windows, making the whole room glow. The heavy curtains are held open by green ties, an ordered stack of magazines sits on the coffee table, a TV guide and remote lie beside the flat screen TV.

  “You’ve painted in here, Ian,” chirps Gemma.

  Ian nods. “After Christmas. Family room, kitchen and dining through here,” he continues.

  We enter another light-filled room with furniture made from golden wood. I try not to look impressed.

  He reaches for my backpack with his empty hand. “I’ll take your bags to your room.”

  A small woman with cropped, blond hair pops out of what I figure is the pantry. Her face lights up when she sees me. “You’re early.” She dumps a plastic container on the bench and rushes forwards. The beads around her neck, the same colour as the dining room table, swing back and forth against her black jumper. Something about her enthusiasm is unsettling. I step back, straight into a dining chair, trapped with a grinning lunatic bearing down on me.

  “You must be Pan.” She places her hands on my shoulders and looks up at my face. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m Rose. Welcome to our home.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rose’s smile wavers. She releases my shoulders. “You must be tired. Sit down. Tea? Coffee? Juice?”

  “Actually, could I just see my room?”

  Rose glances behind me at Gemma. “Sure. This way.”

  I follow Rose through a door and down another hallway. “Livia and Nate’s rooms. Bathroom is here,” she says as we pass door after door. “Spare room and yours.” At the last door, she steps aside so I can enter.

  My duffel bag and tattered backpack lie on the double bed. There’s a bedside table, a chair and a desk in front of ceiling-to-floor windows. Outside there’s a silver-ball fountain thing, surrounded by pebbles and succulent plants.

  Rose opens the wardrobe’s sliding doors to reveal empty hanging space and shelves. “Would you like to unpack?”

  “My stuff will be right in my bag.”

  Rose still smiles, but her eyes have a steely glint. “Well, if you need anything, just ask. I’ll leave you to settle in.” She steps towards the door. “Oh, Pan, we have
an appointment at Cranbrooke College this afternoon – with the principal, Mr Shipard. Then a uniform fitting.”

  The judge told me I had to go to school while I was here, so that part isn’t a surprise. But wearing a uniform? I didn’t know that was part of the deal.

  “Okay.”

  She leaves, closing the door behind her.

  I slump on the bed and stare out the window at the water bubbling over the silver ball. Welcome to Legoland.

  Two

  Rose eases the car to a complete stop before the traffic light has changed from orange to red. I press my head against the passenger window and watch two old ladies shuffle in front of Rose’s Mazda and onto the footpath. Rose is looking at me; I can feel it.

  “Pan, did you notice the posters in the office? Cranbrooke College has a Caring and Sharing program you might be interested in,” she says. “The students visit old people, help disadvantaged kids, organise fundraisers, that sort of thing.”

  “That figures.”

  “Yes, they do terrific work.”

  An hour at Cranbrooke College was all it took to work out it was a community-minded, do-gooder, fake school that runs stupid love, care, share programs, anti-bullying sessions and empowerment lectures. Bet it has a million sponsor kids in Africa too.

  And as for the principal. He has his name – Curtis Shipard – on a brass plaque on his door and on his desk. Framed photos of him shaking hands with that hairy-eyebrowed prime minister and another of a guy I recognise as the Australian cricket captain are propped up on his bulging bookshelf.

  As he greeted us, he announced his name like it was a major award.

  Curtis Shipard equals egotistical loser.

  The other person I met was the welfare officer, a reject from the sixties with long, dry hair and a mouth full of hippy babble clichés.

  Ego man and hippy woman eyed me as though I was about to become their latest success story, like the other foster, Livia, who they raved about. Well, they can shove their success story, their school and their caring whatever-it-is program. I’m only here until I can work out how to get home.

  “Pan? Did you hear me?”

  I sit straighter. “What?”

  “Didn’t think you were listening,” says Rose. The lights change to green and Rose drives forwards. “I said Nate and Livia are looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Great.”

  “You and Nate have a lot in common. Your family situations are–”

  “You know nothing about my family situation.” I glare at Rose.

  She presses the car radio button.

  Slumped in my seat, I watch the shops and houses whizz by, the drone of talkback radio matching the buzz in my head.

  Three

  When we walk into the McMinn’s kitchen the other foster kids are sitting at the table talking and eating muffins. There is no sign of Gemma, who I figured has bailed. Half her luck. Rose’s keys clatter as she drops them and the bags containing my new uniform on the kitchen bench.

  Hair falling over my eyes, I check out the other foster kids. The boy watches me as he takes a bite of his muffin. The girl, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail behind her left ear, slouches in her seat.

  “Hello.” She looks straight at me, as though working out what size jumper I wear. At least she doesn’t try to pretend she isn’t staring at me.

  The girl clears her throat. “Hello, I’m Livia.”

  The boy glances at her, then back at me. “And my name’s Nate.” His voice is fast like his movements.

  I do this half nod, half shrug thing.

  Ian McMinn, who has his back to me, rummaging through the freezer, spins around. “Ah, you’re back.” He closes the freezer door. “All enrolled and ready to go, Pan?”

  “Yeah.” I weave around the table, intending to escape to the room where I’m sleeping.

  Rose clears her throat. “Pan, before you go …”

  I stop, hands on my hips. “What?”

  Ian walks around the island bench to stand between the boy and girl. “We’d like to introduce you to our family, Pan. This is Livia.” He winks and nods at the boy. “And this curly-haired ruffian is Nate.”

  Nate sits up straight. His face is open and his eyes twinkle. “So what did you think of the school? I’m going there in two years. I can’t wait.”

  Good for him. “Yeah?” The empty room down the hall tugs me with all the force of an enormous magnet.

  Ian pulls out a chair, and motions for me to sit. “The muffins are warm.”

  “I’ll be right.”

  “They’re good, even if I say so myself.” Ian smiles at me as though I’m retarded.

  “Muffins are all he can cook,” says Livia.

  I stand rooted to the spot, transfixed by the happy family scene. With a shake of my head, I scuttle down the hall.

  In the bedroom, I try to shut out the image of the kitchen table at Shelton Grove – cigarette burns dotting the laminex, overflowing ashtrays, discarded mugs and empty and half-full stubbies.

  It feels like I’m slipping into a deep hole.

  I unzip my backpack and reach down to the bottom, feeling for soft fur. When I touch it, I pull him free and hug him to my chest.

  I’d found the toy in a basket at an op shop when Mum went to buy a kitchen table and chairs, right after we moved from Mildura to Bendigo. I was in year one I think.

  While Mum wandered through the furniture section out the back, I settled in the toy and book corner. I saw its tail poking out from under the pile of soft toys in a washing basket and pulled it out. The moment I set eyes on the cat’s flat body, grey fur and crooked whiskers I loved him. Toy cat under my arm, I raced down the back and begged, pleaded with Mum to buy him.

  “I can’t afford it,” she said. “And how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Mum. Call me Kylie.” She stalked to a wooden table by the wall, hair swishing against her shoulders.

  I trudged back to the basket where I’d found the cat, stroked his body and placed him on top of the pile of toys. That’s when I noticed the woman wearing brown boots and a brown skirt watching me. She picked up the cat, my cat, and carried him to the counter.

  My heart ached while I watched her buy my cat with three gold coins. Then she did something that still makes me feel weird. Instead of walking out the door with him, she turned to Mum, who stood at the counter, ready to pay for the wooden table.

  “Excuse me, may I give this to your little girl?” The lady’s voice was like music.

  I held my breath.

  Mum scowled, then looked me up and down. “Why?”

  “I’d just like to,” said the brown woman. “She loves him and he needs a home.”

  Mum screwed up her nose. “Whatever.”

  The woman squatted in front of me. “What are you going to call him?”

  “Smocker,” I said.

  “Smocker – that’s a good name.” She smiled. “He’s a pyjama case – see.” She turned Smocker over and unzipped his stomach, exposing the shiny pink material inside. “When you take off your pyjamas in the morning, put them in here and Smocker will keep them safe and warm until bedtime.” She closed the zip and handed him over.

  I held the cat away from my body, lost for words.

  “What do you say, Pan?” said Mum.

  “Thank you.”

  “Pleasure.” The lady stood, smiled again and walked to the door.

  It wasn’t enough. I ran after her and tugged her skirt. “Thanks. I love him very much.” I hugged her knees, holding the cat by his tail.

  Smocker is the only toy that hasn’t disappeared or been lost in all our moves, mainly because I kept him in my schoolbag. He slept with me every night, but instead of pyjamas, he held other important stuff. Still does.

  I press my face into his back. The feel and smell of his fur stop the sliding sensation in my belly.

  Four

  The smell of pancakes swirling around the room is almost unbearable. The aroma had
been taunting me since the whirring juicer woke me about an hour ago.

  There’s a rap on the closed door. I check the clock beside the bed – 10.02 – then shut my eyes.

  “Are you awake, Pan?” Rose walks into the room and throws open the curtains. Even though my eyes are closed, I can tell the sunshine is bright. I groan, push Smocker under the covers and pull the doona over my head.

  Rose sits on the edge of the bed. “Did you sleep okay?”

  I grunt. Her perfume, sweet like freesias, overpowers the pancake smell.

  “I’ve squeezed fresh juice and Ian has made blueberry pancakes. They’re in the oven to keep them warm.”

  “Not hungry.” My stomach rumbles, betraying me.

  Rose’s laugh is soft. “Want to talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Whatever is on your mind.”

  I pull the doona back from my face. “Sleep. That’s what’s on my mind.”

  “You’ve had enough sleep. Up and at ’em, Pan. It’s a gorgeous day. Minigolf or tenpin bowling?”

  Mum bursts into the room Morgan and I share in Mildura.

  “Up and at ’em, my lovelies.”

  She rips back Morgan’s sheets, and then mine. She scoops me up and twirls. “McDonald’s for breakfast, minigolf and then a movie.”

  Excitement tingles along my skin.

  “We can’t afford it, Kylie,” says Morgan.

  I sit up with a start and shake my head to dislodge the memory. “What did you say?”

  “I said, Sunday is our ‘together day’,” says Rose. “Today it’s either minigolf or tenpin bowling. Your choice.”

  The thought of either fills me with black despair. “I choose sleep.”

  Rose’s laugh is annoying. “Good try.” She rips back the doona. “Look at that sunshine. Minigolf it is. Come on.” Rose pats Smocker’s head and sails out the door.

  Minigolf. I grip the edge of the mattress.

  Five

  The morning sunshine has gone, replaced by dark clouds and a gusty wind. My leg aches. I’m huddled in my hoodie, leaning against the sombrero-shaped “Hole 9 – Mexico” sign, wondering who invented this ridiculous game and why they thought it was cute to have themed holes. It’s lame, but it’s easier to think about that than the memory pecking at the edges of my mind.