Falling Off Air

by Catherine Sampson

  William had fallen silent and was gazing at the ground as the drizzle became heavier, the raindrops fatter. They fell and burst against the concrete stage like ten thousand tiny explosions. Bentley glanced at his watch.

  “My men will be using this area for a training exercise in a few minutes. Let's go and get some lunch.”

  The dining room was almost empty, just a few tables occupied by people who looked like staff getting an early lunch. We took a table by the window and sat down. Bentley pointed out the adjoining bar, where Melanie had last been seen. She had been on the course for three days and was due to leave on the fourth. The bar had a separate exit into the grounds. It was through this exit that Melanie had left the bar at ten p.m.

  “Why go outside at all?” I asked. “Wouldn't it have been quicker to go through the dining room?”

  “It would have been quicker. Also it was dark outside, and cold. But there is another entrance by the bedroom wing, and people do take the overland route. Usually to have a cigarette or make a phone call. The entire building is a no-smoking zone, including the bar. And mobile phone reception is bad inside the building and marginally better outside. I seem to remember someone said they thought she was speaking spoking into her mobile just before she left.”

  “Her mobile …” Finney was thinking aloud. “I don't think it's been found, am I right?”

  “Right,” I agreed. My knowledge of the newspaper reporting on Melanie's disappearance was second to none. “The police checked her phone records, and there was an electronic signal logging off from the local transmitter shortly after ten that night.”

  “Which means either that the battery ran out or that someone switched the phone off,” Finney said, “but either way the phone was somewhere in this area at that point.”

  “The transmitter's footprint covers a much greater area than just HazPrep, of course,” Bentley said quickly. “And we shouldn't forget that she might have switched it off herself as she left the area, so she couldn't be tracked.”

  “She hasn't used it since,” I pointed out.

  “Anyone who's technologically literate would know not to use their mobile if they wanted to disappear,” Bentley responded. “From what I've seen of these guys, camera operators are using sat phones and videophones, and GPS units, and digital editing. If she's out there, Melanie Jacobs knows what she's doing.”

  As he spoke, I felt a warm, wet sensation spread over my lap. Hannah, more asleep than awake, had done the inevitable. I could feel the urine trickle down my legs and see it splashing into a little puddle on the floor.

  “Here—” I dumped William on Finney's lap and grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the table. “I'm sorry, we're going to need someone with a mop over here.”

  Andrew Bentley looked blankly at the pool, then waved a waitress over with some urgency. Hannah and I retreated to the ladies' to mop up in privacy, but she was embarrassed and would not stop howling. I picked her up and cuddled her and looked at the two of us in the mirror. You wouldn't have thought we were related. Hannah had her dead father's dark good looks. Huge tears were running from swollen eyes down her plump freckled cheeks, and her mouth was wobbling. In the mirror I was pale in comparison, my red blond hair cut in a short, messy bob. My eyes were huge with tiredness, and I was thin from running around chasing after the children and trying to work and having too little time to eat.

  When I returned to the table, I found William also melting down. He had slid off Finney's lap and was standing there screaming for me, arms stiff by his side, cheeks red, face awash with tears. Andrew Bentley was trying to jolly him along, but his initial child-friendliness was clearly being stretched to the limit, as indeed was mine.

  I gave William a hug—which outraged Hannah even more—and grabbed a plate from the table.

  “I'm going to take them outside. The lawn's not mined or anything, is it?”

  Andrew Bentley looked taken aback, said, “No, no, no,” and made a “very sorry to lose you” face that reached only as far as his lips.

  It was not a dignified retreat, Hannah and William competing for ugliest child and clinging to my urine-soaked skirt. Me balancing the plate of chips in one hand, clasping their two little hands in the other. The lawn was still wet from the rain, but I found a bench that was almost dry under the canopy of a large beech tree. Gradually the children's sobs subsided sufficiently for chips to be eaten.

  I contemplated the parkland that dropped away from me into the valley. I could hear a muffled explosion from the woods below, and then the rattle of automatic gunfire. I knew that I was not in danger, but that didn't stop my heart rate increasing. My senses were more alive to threats than they had been. Ever since Adam was murdered and I was attacked by his killer, I had not been able to regain my sense of safety. The moment I relaxed, my brain played tricks on me. I would go to sleep, then awaken well before dawn, my ears straining for the sound of movement, my eyes raking the darkness for intruders. I no longer trusted security or those who offered it to me.

  I knew I'd been giving Finney a hard time. Neither of us have what you would call a traditional family background. My family is almost completely female—it's a long story, and not one that inspires confidence in the reliability of men. Finney has nothing by way of family, male or female. Yet it was Finney who seemed to be thinking about permanence and togetherness, Finney who seemed to be offering me security, whereas I felt safer on my own. If I stayed separate, emotionally as well as practically, then I would never have to relearn independence when he left. That, at least, was my logic. But I knew that Finney could sense me keeping him at arm's length. Perhaps Finney's very lack of family also frightened me. It is one thing to be one of many relationships in someone's life, but it is quite another to be everything to that person. I looked back at the house and saw Finney talking with Bentley. He glanced toward me. I raised my hand in greeting, and he smiled briefly before turning back toward the conversation.

  People began to emerge from the woods, the group from the seminar room with their instructors. As they came nearer, I could see that there were men in full military kit walking slightly apart from the group, talking quietly among themselves. One had what appeared to be an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Another carried a mesh bag that seemed to be full of grenades. Soldiers and journalists, male to a man, they walked past us, their minds elsewhere. Only one of the group gave me a second look as he passed, then he turned to walk across the lawn toward me.

  “Hi, Max.” I stood and greeted him.

  “Robin”—his eyes went to the children—“this is an eccentric choice for a family outing.”

  “It's Saturday, I brought them along for the ride. How's it going?”

  “A laugh a minute.”

  “Any tips?”

  “Grenade shrapnel travels up to forty yards in an inverted cone. Hit the ground with your feet pointing toward the grenade, legs crossed, hands on your head.”

  “I'll remember that.”

  Max smiled slightly and nodded.

  “Melanie Jacobs' parents wanted me to ask a few questions on their behalf,” I told him. “They still have no idea why she would have gone missing.”

  Max had turned slightly away from me and was gazing out over the valley. “I don't know if it's relevant … I've been away, so I haven't followed the news … but has it been suggested that Melanie had met one of the instructors before she came here?”

  I shook my head, intrigued. “I don't think so.”

  Behind Max, I could see Finney and Bentley approaching, deep in conversation. I caught Finney's eye, and he must have got the message that I didn't want to be interrupted just then, because he stopped dead in his tracks and Bentley had no choice but to stop, too. Finney was doing most of the listening, nodding, interjecting the questions that kept Bentley talking.

  “I don't know whether it's important,” Max said carefully. “In the entrance hall there are pictures of all the staff, with their names written underneath. Whe
n I arrived here yesterday there was no one at reception, so I spent some time kicking my heels there. One of the staff members is called Mike Darling. This took me by surprise, because I have seen a photograph of Darling with Melanie.”

  I understood why Max seemed unhappy. He was not a journalist given to speculation. He would hate to be the one to give birth to a rumor.

  Bentley started walking toward us again. Max watched him approach.

  “Ask him,” he said, and set off after his colleagues, nodding to Bentley as he passed. I stared after him. Max Amsel didn't make mistakes.

  “Mike Darling was one of Melanie's instructors that day, wasn't he?” I asked Bentley as he reached me. Both men looked at me in surprise.

  Bentley frowned. “I would have to check.”

  “I'd have thought,” I said pleasantly, “you'd know every detail of that day off by heart by now.”

  “Why are you interested in Darling?” The words came like bullets.

  “Darling and Melanie had met before,” I said. “Darling did tell you, didn't he?”

  Bentley stared. I could see the headlines unfurling behind his eyes.

  “My wife is waiting for me. I'll take you to your car now.” The mask of charm was dislodged, the depth of his disquiet revealed, but he forced the words out nevertheless: “It's been a pleasure.” He turned to walk away.

  “I'd like to talk to Mike Darling,” I said.

  Bentley swung back round, his face tense. “No.”

  “No?” I was startled by the abruptness of the reply.

  “I'm afraid that won't be possible,” he said. “Mike's no longer with us.”