After the Fall (44 page)

I grabbed his car keys and threw them at him. I could barely speak. ‘Get out.’

The next moment, he was reversing in a wild arc. He’d crossed the cattle grid and torn down the drive before I could draw a breath.

‘He’ll be back,’ I said to Muffin, who was looking very worried. ‘He always comes back.’

Thirty-five

My phone has finally died.

It’s seven o’clock on Tuesday evening. Finn fell at midnight, less than a day ago. One day. One lifetime.

It must be completely dark outside by now. There are people on the ward, visiting other patients. They avoid my eye as they slide past, though their gaze flickers over Finn. They have their own horrors. A bewildered father and three very scared teenagers sit tearfully, trying to field telephone calls. Their mum went to bed with a headache last night, and when she wouldn’t wake this morning they called an ambulance. The doctors say it is meningitis.

Hurried footsteps in the corridor. A familiar voice, fast and fearful, asking for his son. I’m on my feet and calling to Kit as he strides down the unit. He grabs my hand, his eyes fixed upon the little figure on the bed beside me.

‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘Finn.’ He drops onto one knee beside his son.

I begin to tell him what the doctors have said: how Finn’s in an induced coma, and they hope to wake him when the time is right. Out of the corner of my eye I see the nurse, watching. I slide to the ground next to Kit.

‘What have we done to deserve this?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I came home.’ Shock is distorting Kit’s voice. ‘I came home. I brought you flowers.’

‘Where did you go last night? Where on earth
were
you?’

‘Driving around Napier in a hell of a stew. I was so tired, couldn’t think straight at all, finally spotted a motel with its lights still on. I don’t even remember getting into bed . . . slept fourteen, fifteen hours, God knows how long. Once I woke up and had a meal and a shower, I realised what a total arse I’d been. So I jumped in the car and drove home at ninety miles an hour . . . Ira came out to meet me.’ Kit looks bleak. ‘I was holding your flowers, like a total idiot. I clapped him on the back, asked if he was stealing my wife. He didn’t smile at all, he said there’s been an accident. I said what kind of accident? Then Charlie ran out in floods of tears, and he told me . . .’ Kit’s voice gives way. He pulls me close. ‘My poor girl, you’ve been alone.’

‘I called you a million times!’

‘I don’t have my phone.’

‘Yes, you do. You took it to Ireland.’

‘I did,’ he agrees helplessly. ‘But I dumped my jacket in our room last night. Remember, I got changed? Bloody thing was in the pocket.’

‘All those calls, all those texts.’ I imagine the phone bleating away in our room, forlorn and unheeded. ‘It’s almost funny.’

Kit doesn’t answer. His eyes are tightly shut, his forehead resting on clasped hands. I think he’s praying. It’s a long, long time before he asks the question. I knew it had to come, but still I am not ready.

‘What happened?’ he breathes, his eyes still closed.

There is only one person in the world who knows how Finn came to fall.

That person is me.

Thirty-six

A starry winter’s night, and the hills were gentle swells against a singing sky.

I sat in the kitchen and waited for Kit to come back. I waited for an hour, ears pricked hopefully for the sound of an engine. From time to time I checked my phone for messages. I was darned if I was going to text him a cringing apology. I fed Muffin, stoked up the fire and thought of all the things I’d say when he came back. Oh, I had plenty to say.

But he didn’t come back.

Finally, I ditched my pride and sent a text.
For godsake come home you
prick the twins missed you and so did I. Just come home now.

Before heading upstairs, I let Muffin out for a final pee. Bleater Brown fussed when she heard us. Switching off my torch, I lingered by the woolshed and peered into the billowing depths of the bush. The darkness in there was like a solid mass; it seemed to press into my eyeballs. In the inky shadows, something was on the move. A tree fern shivered from root to tip as though it had been shaken by the trunk. I stood still, watching, listening. Muffin got bored and shuffled back inside, and eventually I followed her.

I checked my phone, but there was no reply from Kit. I sent one more, while making a mug of tea.
Please come home.

Our bedroom was a chiller, the empty bed supremely uninviting. Grabbing the duvet, I stepped out onto the balcony. The wooden boards shuddered under my feet. I paused at the handrail, feeling the moulded wood under my fingers and wishing we didn’t have to leave. The night was a giant black-and-white photograph, growing sharper and more distinct as my eyes adjusted. I could smell sheep and forest and salt air, and I loved it; I loved it all. We’d lived in Patupaiarehe a year, and we’d made it our home. This life, this house, these people were a part of us. I wanted it to be our future. I longed for the twins to grow up in this magical valley, and be free. I longed for Kit to be an artist in his studio, happy and fulfilled.

I can’t say how long I stood there, grieving. From across the fields tore the screech of a plover; the mother-in-law bird, bossy and reassuring. My own mother-in-law was twelve thousand miles away. Poor lady, she missed her only son.

Finally I sat down on the old sofa and pulled the duvet up to my chin. Still no engine on the drive, not even a distant whine from the road. The magnolia stretched its fingers onto the balcony. There was nothing to set its branches shivering; not a possum, not a stirring bird. The silence was a presence in itself.

Time passed.

And then a small movement. A handle twisting, further down the balcony. A door swinging open. Furtive and cunning, like the creeping patupaiarehe.

They’re here.

‘Who’s that?’ My voice was high with fright.

A slow shadow appeared, silent and indistinct. I could feel my heartbeat, fast and shallow, tickticktick like an overwound carriage clock. Then a small creature was standing in the gloom, facing me.

‘Finn?’ I touched my chest with a rush of pent-up breath. ‘Good Lord! I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

He wasn’t awake. He turned in a full circle, eyes blank, moving without purpose. His bed hair stood up straight, just like his father’s. I laid my empty mug quietly onto the table, careful to make no sudden movements. I’d done this a hundred times before. The young sleepwalker turned and pottered barefoot away from me, past Sacha’s door, all the way to the other end of the balcony. He was wearing his Mr Men pyjamas, and his tufty head was level with the balustrade. There was a pile of leaves at the far end. His feet dragged through them with a long, swishing sound.

I sighed as I shook off the duvet, stretching my limbs. No rest for the wicked, indeed. I’d better take the little chap back to bed before the cold woke him. Kit might think I was a rotten mother, but I could at least manage a sleepwalking five-year-old.

I was edging around the table when I felt the reverberation of rapid steps. I heard the grinding of a bolt before the furthest door burst open with a harsh judder of twisted wood. An agitated figure thudded out and stood in the middle of the balcony, rocking. It had unnaturally black eyes, like pools of oil in a white face. Devil’s eyes.

‘Sacha,’ I whispered, and laid a finger on my lips. ‘Shh. Don’t wake him up.’

She looked at me, then right through me. She was wearing a t-shirt and knickers. ‘I know you’re out here,’ she yelled, shockingly loud. ‘I hear you.’

I pride myself on being able to deal with difficult, angry clients; can’t remember a time when calm handling and a cool head didn’t defuse a situation. ‘Sacha. Look at me,’ I said clearly. ‘I’m here.’

‘I know you’re there,’ she snarled. As I took a step closer I realised that she was glaring into the distance, listening to a voice that wasn’t mine. Her gaze was flickering fast from one side to the other, her head darting like a snake about to strike. ‘Where are you? Come on! Show yourself.’

Close behind her, Finn moved among the leaves. Instantly, Sacha’s eyes narrowed. She whirled around.

‘Got you!’ she hissed, and reached out for him.

I ran.

Oh, I ran. Time froze, as though the moment was crystallised, as though it would last forever. And it
will
last forever. I shall be running down that balcony for the rest of my life, and Sacha will be gripping her brother by his arms; she will be lifting him easily and holding him high in the air. She has the strength of ten men—how can she be so strong? I shall hear the pounding of my feet on the boards. I’ll stretch out my hands, and scream.

But I’ll always be too late. Finn will fall. He’ll plunge headlong, tiny hands clutching at nothing.

So here’s the question: what if your own daughter is a monster? Do you point and shout? She’s an addict, a dealer, a thief. She’s the devil who attacked your little son. I feel as though I’m cradling a ticking bomb.

Honesty isn’t always the best policy, never mind what my mother says. Kit has a right to know what really happened to Finn, but I can’t tell him. I really, truly can’t. I feel as though I’ll never love Sacha again or even look her in the eye. How can I expect him to? No, he’ll leave me. He’ll leave, and take the twins with him because they aren’t safe near Sacha. The idea terrifies me because I can’t bear to imagine life without Kit and my little boys. It would hardly be worth living.

What’s more, if I blow the whistle those nice policemen will go straight out and arrest Sacha. They’ll take her away. What will they charge her with—grievous bodily harm, attempted murder? Oh, and dealing in drugs, for good measure. Her life will be over, and so will Finn’s and Charlie’s. The boys are the real victims in all of this; the only ones who are completely innocent.

I’m alone, clutching that ticking bomb, and I mustn’t drop it. If I drop it my family will be blown apart. If I can hold on, we all have the chance of a normal life.

So I tell Kit my story: how I sat on the sofa in the dark, waiting for him to come home. I describe how Finn wandered out of his door and climbed onto the rail as quick as a monkey.

‘I ran,’ I whisper. ‘I ran, and I screamed at him. But he wouldn’t wake up, it was like a nightmare. He just . . . toppled over the edge.’ I can see it all, feel it all; I shudder at the monstrous thud. ‘It’s my fault. I wasn’t quick enough.’

Kit covers my hand with his. ‘It’s not your fault.’

I hear voices, and glimpse Neil Sutherland’s corrugated-iron hair. He’s brought some sidekicks. They’re in a huddle with a senior nurse.

I move closer to Kit. ‘They think one of us did it on purpose.’

‘They think
what
?’

‘I’ve had a social worker trying to get a confession out of me. D’you remember when Finn came off his bike on New Year’s Day?’

‘Did he?’ Kit’s brow furrows. ‘So he did.’

‘It turns out his wrist was broken. It’s healed now, but it showed up on an X-ray. And there are some bruises on his arm . . . they look like finger marks. So they’ve been getting their knickers in a twist. I mean, for God’s sake, Kit! He’s covered in bruises.’

‘They think we’ve been abusing Finny?’ Kit looks incredulous.

‘They know you flew in yesterday, but I fibbed about it at first. I didn’t want any awkward questions about why you came home and left again.’

He’s on his feet, shock channelled into anger. ‘Who do I speak to? Bring it on!’

‘Calm down. You’re being watched.’

‘I don’t give a fuck if I’m being watched.’

I put my arms around him, murmuring into his ear, ‘They think one of us lost our rag and hurt Finn. So settle down, and stop behaving like a man who loses his rag easily.’

When Sutherland and his wing-men arrive, Kit collars them. ‘Can you tell me what’s going on here?’

‘You’re Dad, are you?’ Sutherland is obviously used to agitated parents. He introduces himself, leans on the edge of a little basin and explains everything again. ‘Finn arrived early this morning in a life-threatening condition—the helicopter team did a great job in keeping him stable until he got to us. He had a head injury and a ruptured spleen, both of which needed urgent surgical intervention. From an orthopaedic point of view, he got away with a fractured radius and ulna—least of his problems. We’ve just been discussing his progress and we’re pleased, but he’s still a very poorly boy.’

Kit has simmered down. After all, these people undoubtedly saved Finn’s life. ‘Thank you,’ he says fervently. ‘Thank you for what you did. Will he live normally without his spleen?’

‘I’d say so. At the moment, I’m more concerned about the head injury.’

‘And what’s this about it not being an accident?’

Sutherland is unruffled. ‘Whenever a child is injured we have to consider whether parenting fell short in some way. And there are features about Finn’s presentation that raised concerns, so we consulted with the paediatric social worker.’

Kit points at me. ‘Martha’s never laid a finger on any of our kids, and she never would! Or am
I
chief suspect? If so, I checked into a motel in Westshore at about midnight last night. The bloke will remember me all right because he was in his dressing-gown.’