I open my eyes. Ouch. The light hurts. Where am I? Lying on something hard and uncomfortable — the stone chair. I must have fallen asleep. I wriggle into a less painful position. My body aches as if I’ve been beaten with a stick. My head is pounding.

Lizzie. Where is she? The beach is empty except for a flock of seagulls resting on the sand with beaks towards the sea.

Was I really asleep? Did I dream her? Did I dream her voice inside my head, telling me a story so vividly that I could see everything through her eyes, just as it happened? No way. I couldn’t possibly have dreamed it. She told me things I’ve never ever read about in books. Things my brain could never make up.

I stand and stretch my arms to the sky. My bones still ache and my head feels as thick as mud. Maybe a swim will help wash out the sludge. I clamber back over the rocks and stumble into the sea, shuddering as I remember the polluted water of the bay in Lizzie’s time. Decomposing whale flesh … yuck. The coldness of the water makes my skin tingle. After a minute I begin to feel better, but still very tired. I could sleep for a week.

Tired or not, my brain keeps on asking questions. What just happened to me?

I definitely didn’t dream it. So I must have seen a ghost. And heard her voice. But only crazy people see ghosts and hear voices. Am I crazy? No! So what really happened to me? There is no answer. It just happened, something totally inexplicable.

Somehow, a person from the past has found a way to tell a story inside my head. Even now, I can still hear a faint echo of her voice. Precise and measured, as if she’s spoken the words a hundred times to herself — and she’s determined not to falter. As if she knows this is her one and only chance.

I wade out of the water and sit on the beach for a few minutes to dry off and warm up. Groan, now I’ve got to walk all the way back to the farmhouse. A vision of Glynn’s kayak flashes into my head. Maybe it’s time to take him up on his offer to teach me how to paddle. It looked so easy and effortless when he came gliding round the point that other day.

To make the trip back to the farmhouse even worse, I meet Lenny and Ripper on the path. They’re coming towards me out of the patch of bush where I met him last time. I look round at the spindly manuka bushes, hoping I can hide before they see me, but it’s too late. We walk towards each other along the narrow track. ‘Hi,’ I say brightly when we’re a couple of metres apart.

‘Huh,’ Lenny grunts. He stands in the middle of the path and stares at me. Ripper sits down and stares at me too, tongue hanging out and saliva dripping from his teeth.

‘I’ve been for a swim at Dawson’s Beach,’ I gabble. ‘The water’s lovely.’

Lenny grunts again.

‘D’you do a lot of walking round the farm?’ I ask. ‘I always seem to be bumping into you.’

‘Yup,’ Lenny says. ‘Part of the job.’ His eyes glisten in his doughy face. I look down into Ripper’s wet black eyes. They’re just as scary. ‘He’s a very big dog, isn’t he?’ I squeak.

‘Yup. Well trained, though. Understands every word I say.’

‘Really smart, then?’

‘Smarter than a lot of people I know,’ Lenny says darkly.

I make a noise that’s meant to be a laugh. What’s the matter with me? I can cope with a ghost, for heaven’s sake, but Lenny makes my knees go weak and my throat close up. It’s that face, a cross between Potato Man and a Cabbage Patch doll. ‘Well, excuse me, I’d better get going, the others are expecting me back.’ I move to go past him and he shuffles to one side of the track. I feel his hot breath on my cheek as I squeeze past, and I smell a stale yeasty odour. Beer. So he is drinking beer on the island. I bet Uncle Steve doesn’t know. Shall I tell him? No, mind your own business, Bel.

When I’ve walked a few metres I risk a look back. Both Lenny and Ripper have turned round. Their eyes are like laser beams on my back. I long to take to my heels and run, but I stop myself. I walk slowly and steadily into the bush. Rack off, creepface.

Dinner that night is satay beef and vegetables, served with brown rice. All I can think about is Lizzie, but suddenly I realise I’m actually enjoying the vegetables, all spicy and crunchy. Everyone pretends not to notice me eating them by the forkful. To distract them, I ask Glynn if he’ll teach me how to handle a kayak. ‘Okay,’ he says, swallowing his mouthful hastily. ‘But not tomorrow. Dad wants me to give him a hand shifting stock.’

Okay, tomorrow I can walk back to Dawson’s Beach. ‘The day after then?’

Glynn looks across at his father who shrugs and nods. ‘You’re on,’ Glynn says to me. He flicks his hair back and grins. ‘Hope you don’t mind getting wet. Very wet.’

‘I’m not as fragile as I look,’ I say loftily.

Aunt Lorna splutters. ‘Fragile? Bel, you’re tough as old boots.’

So Lorna thinks she has me sorted, does she? ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I ask casually.

‘Course not,’ Tracey hoots.

I gaze solemnly at her. ‘I do. I keep on seeing one at Dawson’s Beach.’

They gape at me. As usual Tracey’s the first one to bite. ‘What did it look like?’ she breathes.

‘A drowned man,’ I say in a hollow voice. ‘He’s all white and oozy because his skin is melting. He’s got small crabs and strands of seaweed in his hair, and his clothes are in rags. He’s got a huge spear in his hand with a big barb on the end. He keeps on waving it at me and moaning something that sounds like, “Thar she blows”.’

‘He must be the ghost of a drowned whaler,’ Glynn says thoughtfully. ‘Quite a few of them drowned, you know. Maybe his boat got dragged under by a whale during the chase.’

Tracey looks from me to Glynn with her mouth open. ‘A drowned whaler? Really? Glynn, have you seen him too?’

‘Nah,’ Glynn says. ‘The one I keep on seeing is the Maori warrior with his head cut off. He runs along the beach stark naked waving his club in the air.’

Tracey scowls. ‘Hey, what d’you think I am? What a load of bullshit!’

Glynn winks at me. Lorna says briskly, ‘Watch your mouth, young lady. No swearing at the table, please. Now let’s move on to topics more suitable for dinnertime. I’m sure you don’t need reminding that the day after tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We’ve got the usual mob coming for a barbecue lunch on Christmas Day. So I’m going to need help decorating the tree and preparing food and cleaning the house and …’

‘Okay, okay,’ Glynn groans. ‘When we’ve done the chores, I’ll give Bel a lesson in the kayak.’

‘We’ll see.’ But Lorna doesn’t say it the way my father says it and I know everything will be okay.

Why do I keep forgetting it’s nearly Christmas? I won’t be able to sneak off to Dawson’s Beach to see Lizzie while everyone’s being all festive. Unless they’re the kind of people who gorge themselves on barbecued sausages and pavlova and then lie down for a wee nap in the afternoon and I can say I’m going for a nice healthy walk instead…

My thoughts are still on Lizzie when Mum phones in the evening — and dumps all the crappy divorce stuff on me again. She tells me that everything’s happening very quickly. Our house sold to the second lot of people who came to look at it. They want to move in as soon as possible so the paperwork’s being rushed through before Christmas. She and Reuben have found a cottage in Titirangi that is absolutely fantastic. Mum’s words. ‘You’ll love it, Bel,’ she gushes. ‘There’s a little bedroom for you at the back with a window that looks out over a lovely cottage garden full of daisies and pansies and lavender. There’s even a herb garden and a sundial. And fantails and tuis and wood pigeons everywhere. We’re going to put in an offer for it tomorrow.’

I don’t say anything. I think of my bedroom, the room I’ve lived in all my life. With my things exactly the way I want them. My Lord of the Rings posters stuck on the walls in just the right design, and the wallpaper that took me five days to choose, and the curtains I helped Mum make when I was 11 because I’d just learned how to sew at school. I won’t ever see that room again.

‘Are you there, Bel?’

I grunt.

‘Bel, your father’s flying out to London tomorrow.’

Silence at both ends. Then I ask, ‘Is he at home now?’

She sighs. ‘No, sorry. He’s gone out for a run.’

‘Tell him to send me a postcard of the Tower of London.’ And I hang up.

I go into the bedroom and lie on my bed, in the dark, so I don’t have to see the horses. I think of my possessions, my clothes and my old dolls and my scrapbooks and my chocolate boxes of shells and pebbles and feathers, all swept up and jammed into a pokey little bedroom in some dingy, damp cottage.

I start another letter to Rae, telling her about the cottage in Titirangi. Then I read what I’ve written and rip it into little pieces. I can’t keep loading everything on to Rae. Even with best friends there are limits. Yesterday I got a long letter from her, delivered to the jetty by the red mail boat full of gawking tourists that travels round the Sounds. I take the letter out of the envelope and read it over and over again till I know every word. All about the heat and the dust and the red desert and the roads that go in totally straight lines till they disappear over the horizon. I even memorise the bit about the dozens of dead kangaroos lying beside the highways. It’s not as good as talking to her, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

The next day is fine and hot again. It’s hard to stay depressed when the air tastes of sunshine and the sea glitters like diamonds at the bottom of the garden. I’m absolutely dying to rush off to Dawson’s Beach, but Tracey is still nagging me to go and watch her take Apple over the jumps. ‘I don’t know anything about horses,’ I protest. ‘They all look the same to me. Four legs and big teeth.’

‘But you promised,’ she grumbles. ‘I’ve been practising with this new jump — it’s a barrel and a pole. It took days for Apple to get used to it but now he flies over like a champion.’

‘I don’t even like horses,’ I say cruelly.

Her eyes film with tears. ‘I’ve been waiting ages and ages for you to come! I suppose you just want to go over to boring old Dawson’s Beach and sit on your own again.’

Aunt Lorna is listening. ‘Tracey,’ she warns. ‘Cut it out. I told you not to pester Bel. She’s allowed to choose how she spends her day.’

‘But she promised,’ Tracey whines, sticking the end of her pony tail into her mouth.

‘Oh, all right, I’ll come.’ I can see I won’t get any peace. ‘For a little while. I’ll go for a walk later.’

Tracey throws her arms round me. ‘Choice! It’ll be fun, you’ll see!’ I go stiff, not used to having people hug me without warning. But it actually feels quite nice. Tracey is soft and warm and smells of sunshine and grass.

Watching Tracey and the roly-poly Apple go over jump after jump is as excruciatingly boring as I thought it would be. I keep on waiting for something exciting to happen, like Tracey falling off or Apple baulking at a jump, but it never does. Every now and then I clap and shout out, ‘Good one!’ It’s enough to keep Tracey happy. Her face is one big smile under the riding helmet.

After half an hour of baking in the heat and being bored out of my brain, I simply can’t stand any more. ‘Hey, I’m going to melt into a puddle of butter soon,’ I call out to Tracey. ‘I need to go for a swim.’

‘Where?’ she calls, trotting Apple towards me. ‘How about off the jetty?’

I step backwards as Apple thrusts his steaming nose at me and snorts. ‘No, I don’t like diving. I think I’ll go over to Dawson’s Beach again.’ I hold my breath, suddenly overtaken with horror that she might decide to come with me.

‘But it’s so hot,’ she says, wiping the sweat off her forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Why don’t you just swim off the jetty?’

‘I need the exercise,’ I gabble. ‘And the walk helps fill in the day. Gives me something to do, you know, takes my mind off things.’ I stare pointedly at her.

She shrugs, obviously peeved. ‘Oh, okay, suit yourself. See ya.’ She and Apple canter away, their tails swishing indignantly.

Free at last! I grab my sun-hat and swimming gear, shout goodbye to Aunt Lorna, who’s picking a huge pile of beans in the vegetable garden, and set off on the long path over the hill. Fate is kind to me this time and I don’t see Lenny on the way, just the usual hordes of dumb sheep, and two pukeko pecking at a marshy bit of grass. I cluck at them but they pretend not to see me and stalk disdainfully into the bushes.

When I get to the brow of the hill overlooking Dawson’s Beach, I suddenly feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach by a big heavy boot. All I can do is stand and stare. There are people there! On my beach. On Lizzie’s beach. I can’t believe it.

A small motorboat is anchored just offshore and a tent sits on the grass at the far end near the mouth of the stream. Several people are carrying cardboard cartons into the tent while others struggle to erect some kind of banner strung up on poles. I can’t see what’s written on the banner.

I’m furious. I want to scream and shout and hit people. I’m not angry for myself, I’m angry for Lizzie. How can she come to me when other people are around? How can she tell me the rest of her story? I must get rid of them.

I stalk down the hill to the beach and march along the sand towards the tent. As I get closer I realise that most of the people are Maori. And I’ve seen them before. It’s Mere Ihaka and her family. She’s sitting on a canvas chair in front of the tent, giving instructions to someone inside. Suddenly I understand what’s happening. I don’t even need to see the words on the banner to know. They’re setting up a land protesters’ camp! It makes me even madder. What a bloody cheek!

I stride up the foreshore until I’m standing directly in front of the tent. By this time they’ve seen me coming and most of them stop whatever they’re doing to watch me, winking and chuckling to each other. I barely look at the men. I know they don’t count. I glare up at Mere on her chair and snap, ‘You can’t camp on this beach! It belongs to my uncle.’

Mere slowly levers herself out of the canvas chair and walks to the edge of the bank. Her eyes are like spears, pricking me. Her face is thin and grey, covered with a spider’s web of wrinkles. Her hair straggles down from the loose knot on her head. ‘You can read,’ she says, waving a bony hand at the lopsided banner next to the tent. ‘This is our land. We’ll camp on it whenever we like.’

I glance at the banner. It says, ‘We Claim Our Land and Foreshore’. I snort loudly. ‘That’s what you say! Wait till I tell my uncle — he’ll get the police on to you.’

Mere glares down at me, somehow making herself taller. ‘We’re not on your uncle’s land. And we have more right to stand here than you do, girl. This place belonged to the Ngati Whetu for centuries. It was taken from us by betrayal and murder. Now it’s ours again. You’re the one who has no right to be here. Go home, trespasser!’

I’m beginning to feel a bit panicky. ‘If it’s Crown land it belongs to the Government. Not to you.’

Mere raises a clenched fist into the air, the tendons in her skinny arm coiling like string. I step back but then I see she’s addressing the circle of men rather than me. ‘Pah! The Government is nothing to us. A pack of liars and cheats. The last in a long line of thieves who stole our land. And now we take it back!’ She punches her fist into the air. All around me the men mutter and frown and nod in agreement. Mere looks down her nose at me. ‘Your uncle can’t do a thing to us, little girl. We’re not on his land. So run away and tell him that! Go on! I’m sick of hearing your whining voice.’

I stand staring up at her. I try to reply but my tongue won’t work. Mere watches me for a few seconds with glittering eyes. There’s a small smile on her lips. I can’t move. Eventually she clicks her fingers at me and turns away into the shadowy interior of the tent.

I can move again. I look around and realise I’m the focus of several pairs of angry male eyes. The smiles and chuckles have vanished. ‘Piss off,’ one of the men mutters, gesturing rudely at me.

‘Cheeky bitch,’ another growls.

‘Go on! Run back to your uncle and tell him to keep his nose out of our business,’ the one with the most tattoos says, taking a step towards me.

I turn and walk down the beach towards the sea. I remember what Lizzie said about Atutahi’s eyes, glaring hatefully at her as she walked past his hut. These men were looking at me the same way. I feel sick.

I sense a movement behind me. Someone has emerged from the tent and jumped over the edge of the grassy bank. Now he’s running down the beach. My breath catches. Maybe … I stop walking and turn to face him. It’s Daniel Kelly, Mere’s grandson.

His eyes are dark and watchful under the black band tied round his forehead but his mouth is smiling. ‘Hey there,’ he says cheerfully. ‘If it’s not a rude question — who are you?’

‘Bel,’ I mutter. ‘Bel Carlson. I’m staying at the farm in Karaka Bay.’

‘Bel,’ he repeats, and I enjoy the sound of my name on his lips. ‘Hi, Bel, I’m Daniel.’ He holds out his hand to me. For a second all I’m aware of is the strong, warm feel of his hand clasping mine. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened just then. It was a bit over the top.’

‘It’s okay,’ I mumble stupidly.

‘No, it’s not okay.’ He moved closer to me. ‘They frightened you. I can see it in your face.’

I try to deny it but end up nodding instead. What else can he see in my face?

He goes on, ‘My old nan is full of strong words but she’s right about one thing. Your uncle can’t do anything to us as long as we don’t go on his land.’ His voice is friendly but very confident.

I scowl down at my feet. ‘Okay. But what if the police come and force you to move?’

He shakes his head, his shiny black hair brushing across his shoulders. ‘The police won’t do anything to us. The more fuss they make, the more publicity we get. And that’s not what they want.’

‘Then what’s the point of it? Why are you here at all?’

Daniel turns round and waves at two large launches full of holidaymakers veering close to the beach so the occupants can read the banner. ‘To make people sit up and take notice. To make them think about our claims.’

‘But how can you suddenly say it’s your land? It belongs to the Government. To the country.’ I feel like crying. I hate arguing with him but I keep on thinking of Lizzie. What will happen if she can’t come and tell me the rest of her story?

He laughs. ‘Hey, some time when you’ve got a whole day to spare you’ll have to come and listen to my nan talk about our turangawaewae. Then you’ll understand.’

‘What about Jack Dawson?’ I ask. ‘The whaler who lived here in the nineteenth century?’

Daniel’s eyes glitter and he jams his fists into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Scum. Murderers and thieves. Dawson had no right to take over the land and kill all the whales. And the murdering Ngati Toa had no right to sell the land to him.’

At that moment Mere’s shrill voice calls from the tent. ‘Dan!’ This is followed by a long barrage of Maori. She doesn’t sound very pleased about something.

Daniel nods. ‘Come on, Bel, let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘Back to your end of the beach. It’s the safest place for you.’

I begin to protest, but he puts his hand on my arm and gently propels me forward. My skin tingles under his touch. I look down at his hand. Smooth golden skin, long fingers, nails cut short, very clean. ‘No worries, Bel,’ he says close to my ear. ‘This is a big beach. We don’t need to get in each other’s way. It’s a peaceful protest. Honestly. My tupuna is all puffed up with angry talk but in her heart she really doesn’t want any trouble.’

Before I know it we’re back at my end of the beach. I look over my shoulder and see the rest of the family gathering round a barbecue. I can faintly hear laughter and the sounds of a guitar. They’ve forgotten about me already. All that anger, floating away in the breeze. I glance sideways and find Daniel watching me with a knowing half-smile on his lips. He’s reading my thoughts. ‘Yeah, I know they’re a rough bunch. But believe me when I say we don’t want any trouble.’ His face grows thoughtful. ‘Bel, what d’you think your uncle will do?’

I shrug. ‘Probably nothing. He’ll be upset, but he won’t want any trouble either.’

‘Is there anyone else living on the farm who could cause problems?’

‘There’s Lenny.’

‘Who’s Lenny?’

‘The farm hand. Lenny Skinner. He lives on his own and he drinks a lot of beer and he’s got an enormous dog called Ripper.’

‘Sounds charming. Okay, we’ll keep an eye out for Lenny and Ripper.’ Daniel gives me another brilliant smile. ‘Thanks, Bel. Hey … look, maybe I’ll see you round? D’you come over to the beach very often?’

I can almost feel Lizzie standing behind me, listening hard, willing me to send him away and take my seat on the stone chair. But I ignore her. ‘Yes, quite a bit. I walk and swim and read and sit on the rocks. Stuff like that.’ I have a flash of brilliance. ‘I do a lot of thinking. You know, meditating.’

‘Uh huh. A person who likes her own company,’ he says. ‘That’s cool.’ He looks at me intently. He’s standing very close and I know it’s not by accident. ‘Look, Bel,’ he says with a warmth in his voice that brings pink to my cheeks, ‘you know where to find me if you ever feel like talking to someone. Don’t worry about my uncles. Their bark is fifty times worse than their bite.’ He smiles again and helplessly I smile back. ‘See you. Happy meditating.’

For a few seconds I watch him walking back along the beach. I’ve never met anyone like him before. Like he’s got everything sorted and he doesn’t give a stuff what other people think of him. All the other guys I know are morons compared to him. A hot excitement rushes through my blood as I imagine him kissing me. Wow!

Lizzie! The name hits me like a punch between the shoulder blades. Yes, I’m coming, Lizzie. I scramble over the rocks, all thoughts of Daniel shoved to the back of my mind. I settle myself in the stone chair, feeling the hard heat of the rock against my bare thighs. Sun and silence instantly take hold of me. The sky glazes over and the sea turns to burnished metal. And when I look round Lizzie is standing only a metre away, looking down at me. ‘Listen…’ says the urgent voice in my head. ‘Please listen.’