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— which Tracey tells no one — is that she’s in hiding from her own parents. When Tracey — her name back then was Marion but she has ditched that along with the rest of her past — when she was ten, her father started coming into her bed maybe two or three times a week. At first he just touched her casually between her legs while he sat on the bed reading her the goodnight story. He would stop reading for a bit at some stage in the touching, breathe hard, then go on reading. After a while, the reading was abandoned. The Rev — her father was a Presbyterian minister always referred to as ‘The Rev’ by her mother — climbed in with her, rubbed up against her until he made a mess. Tracey — the old Marion — hated this and told her mother. The mother, a quiet, sad woman who always wore a faded apron and spent most of her day sitting reading magazines, told her not to make up wicked stories. When Tracey was fourteen, she began to fight back. She would kick her father and struggle. Once, when she was really ripping in to him, he put a hand over her mouth, held her down and entered her. This hurt and shocked her terribly. She told her father he was wicked, and threatened to tell her teacher. Her father smiled and said no one would believe such a silly little liar. It was true that she had a reputation at school for making up stories against other children who annoyed her. Marion understood that her father might be right, especially as he came to school to conduct Bible lessons and was popular. After that time, she found it easier not to struggle. It hurt less and was over more quickly.
    At fifteen she ran away from home, changed her name and found work at Hoppy’s Takeaways in Ohakune. She knewher parents were looking for her because there was a piece in the paper showing her mother and father looking sad, the hypocrites. Or maybe they were sad for all the wrong reasons. Tracey disguised her face with heavy mascara and black lipstick, had her long hair cut short and dyed blonde. She was five months’ pregnant before she realised what was happening to her body. Her boss had to suggest it, and even then Tracey vehemently denied the possibility. But when the baby was born, the Virgin Tracey found that she loved the little thing, despite that hateful past. The baby, Sky, had no father, that was the end of it. Or so she hoped.
    Still she took no chances. She worked up until a fortnight before the baby was due, saving almost all of the money she earned, keeping it locked in an ammunition box she’d found in one of the derelict houses. At the hospital she gave her place of residence as an empty house in Ohakune. She used a fictitious surname and lied about her age. Lied also about there being someone to take care of her at home in the first months. Fortunately, the birth had been easy; the Virgin walked out of the hospital, caught the bus to Ohakune, then trudged the five kilometres to Manawa, Sky tied against her breast with an old piece of sheet. The Virgin knew that sooner or later she’d have to go back to work, but meantime she ‘lived off the land’, occasionally hitch-hiking into Ohakune for any bare essentials which the townie houses could not supply.

    Tracey lays the bundle that is little Sky on the tattered old couch by the stove. She stuffs a pillowcase with what she needs for her evening foray. Tonight she has targeted the nice old villa down Rimu Street. It belongs to townies who have not visited for several months. If they’re coming up over Easter they won’t arrive this late — or so the Virgin hopes. Long ago she found where they hide their key. She keeps one of the villa’s back windows — easy to climb through and hidden by a large japonica bush — permanently unlocked. If someone should arrive unexpectedly, she can make a quick and silent exit. Earlier she has slipped in and turned on the hot water. Now she picks up Sky and her pillowcase, and walks, easy and quiet as a passing cat, into the