After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

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.’

  Sutherland’s pager begins to bleep. ‘It really would be best if you discussed this with Mrs Pohatu. Make contact with her tomorrow. Excuse me—I’m being paged.’ And he is gone, marching through the swing doors with his squad.

  ‘Why us?’ Kit looks bewildered. ‘What about all the truly abused kids who fall through the net? They get hurt time after time, live in abject misery, but nobody sounds the alarm and the poor little blighters wind up dead.’

  We sit with Finn all evening. This is a ward on a knife edge, continually battling with death. Nobody relaxes, ever. And our Finn is here. Kit wants to hear every detail, yet again: the fall, the helicopter, my long vigil. He needs to understand exactly what each specialist has said. We talk around and around, promising one another with brittle airiness that Finn will be fine.

  Finn doesn’t look fine. There’s no flicker, no sign that he is still inside the battered mannequin. He lies inert, plugged into his bank of machines.

  Eventually, Kit asks about Sacha. I give him the barest facts: she’s relapsed, given away her car, come home in a dreadful state.

  He’s holding Finn’s hand between his own. ‘Let’s focus on this little guy. I can’t think about anything else. Jesus, what else matters? Once this is all over we can worry about Sacha. We’ll ask for professional help, do whatever it takes.’

  I am only too happy to go along with his plan. I’m not capable of making life-changing decisions, either. My care, my will, my every thought and instinct is centred in Finn’s survival. Nothing else exists.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ says Kit, as though to reassure himself. ‘He’s a fighter.’

  I close my eyes. A demon snatches up Finn’s puny body—got you!—and hurls him out into the darkness. I’ll never forgive her.

  It’s after ten when the senior nurse approaches us. ‘I’d suggest you both go home and get some sleep,’ she says firmly. ‘Finn is stable. I promise we’ll phone if there’s any change at all.’

  I’m aghast. ‘Can’t at least one of us stay?’

  ‘Yes, you can. We won’t throw you out. But look, you really should rest because you both look terrible. I know you were up all last night, Martha, and you—’ she raises her eyebrows at Kit—‘have only just flown in from Europe! You two have to look after yourselves. This little boy’s recovery is going to be a long haul.’

  Reluctantly, we obey. As we kiss Finn goodnight, Kit pulls something out of his pocket and lays it on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Charlie sent your Game Boy, friend.’

  Thirty-seven

  We leave Kit’s car at the hospital and drive home together. Sacha runs out to meet us, tearing my door open.

  ‘How is he?’ She’s breathing fast. I can hear the terror and love in her voice, but I can’t bring myself to look into her eyes. I turn away, pretending to search for something on the back seat.

  ‘He’s all right,’ I say shortly. ‘Actually, no, he’s not all right. He has a plate in his skull, no spleen and a broken arm. He could still die.’ I want to shake her. I want to thrust my face close to hers and scream blue murder. You did this. You did this.

  She bursts into stormy tears. Kit looks at me in astonishment. ‘Mum’s pretty stressed,’ he soothes, walking around the car to comfort his stepdaughter. ‘Finny’s doing well. He’ll be playing football again before you know it.’

  Tama and Bianka stand waiting for us at the kitchen door. ‘Mum says she’s thinking of you.’ Bianka hugs me. ‘If you want to stay at our place, save you driving so far . . . she says just to turn up.’

  I’m touched by this message from one mother to another. We sit around the kitchen table, nursing mugs of tea. Charlie has fallen asleep in front of Mary Poppins and been carried up to bed. They tell me Ira was here earlier, but he’s gone home.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Sacha keeps muttering. ‘Right outside my door.’ She doesn’t seem to be able to move on from this idea. She repeats it over and over, no matter what conversation the rest of us are having.

  ‘Hey.’ Kit taps her forearm, making her look at him. ‘Listen, young lady. It wasn’t your fault. Just get that into your head. Isn’t that right, Martha?’

  When Tama leaves, the rest of us begin to turn in. Bianka has already made up a mattress in Sacha’s room, though I feel my daughter doesn’t deserve such devotion. As I pass their door, Sacha calls out to me. My mind is fouled by an image of a fiend with devil’s eyes, reaching for a tiny boy. It’s like a film clip in my mind. It keeps replaying, over and over again.

  ‘Where’s Bianka?’ I ask, looking around. The room has that familiar, ugly smell.

  ‘Getting stuff from her car.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ I say, massaging my face. ‘Haven’t had any proper sleep for days, and I want to be up and off early tomorrow.’

  She’s sitting on the bed, picking at her arm. Her pillows have no covers, and the sheet lies in a heap on the floor. ‘Last night was like a horror film.’ ‘You’re right there.’

  ‘I saw . . . I’ve never been so scared. I saw people.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘Crawling along the floor, whispering, like sort of human snakes. They had these weird eyes that gleamed. It was the freakiest night of my life.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  ‘And this morning�
�I just about died when I heard about Finn! It’s like . . . nightmare meets reality. No more, Mum. No more. I never want to go through that again.’ Sacha looks sickened. ‘It was so dark.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  ‘I’m going to feel completely shit while I come off it. I feel completely shit right now. It’s calling me already. It’s calling me. Why can’t I block my ears?’

  ‘You tell me, Sacha. Why can’t you?’ I head for the door.

  ‘I’m coming to see Finn tomorrow,’ she says.

  I stop. Hatred rises in my throat. I’m about to tell her that she can’t see Finn ever again because she’s a devil in human form, but when I turn around she’s hunched on the edge of her bed, childishly round-eyed, squinting up at me with a mix of anxiety and trust. I know that look so very well, and I see no devil.

  I wake at four. My mind is flitting like a fantail, never stopping, never resting. Kit sleeps beside me. He believed my story without question. He believed my lies. I can’t bear it.

  By four fifteen I’ve made a decision, once and for all. I’m going to tell the truth. Kit, Sacha, Finn and Charlie all have to know—how could I even think of covering up? I’ll tell them, and they must deal with the appalling reality. Then, of course, we will go back to England.

  By four thirty I’ve changed my mind. No. No, there is only misery down that road. I must keep my secret. Sacha is dismayed by her psychosis; she’ll stay clean this time. If I can carry my bomb without dropping it, our family might—just might—be happy again. I even begin to hope we might stay here, in our own paradise.

  By five I’ve changed my mind twice more. I can’t think straight. I roll out of bed and pull on jeans, two sweaters and a pair of Kit’s socks before padding down to the kitchen. Muffin is in her basket. When I lean to pat her, she stretches luxuriously and her tail flaps on the floor.

  ‘Life’s a bitch, Muffin,’ I say. ‘No offence.’

  I try to phone Dad but he isn’t in. Maybe he’s away. I remember he said something about chairing a Rudolf Steiner conference sometime soon. In black loneliness, I try Lou’s number. I get her answer phone, and don’t leave a message.

  Finally I stoke the stove and pull up a chair. Then I sit fretting, letting the warmth sink into my bones while Muffin clambers stiffly out of her basket and rests her head on my knee, eyes hidden by her schoolgirl fringe. When I hear the kitchen door inch open, I almost jump out of my skin.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Bianka’s low, smooth voice. ‘Only me.’

  ‘Jeepers, Bianka! I don’t know how many more night-time horrors I can take.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The serene figure drags up a chair next to mine and sits down, wearing bed socks and a hoodie over her pyjamas. She’s striking even in grungy nightclothes and without the blackberry lipstick. Her cheekbones are fine beneath the pale skin, her hair a dark gold—though a little frizzy this morning.

  I squeeze her shoulder and get up to fill the kettle.

  ‘Sacha kept me awake,’ she says. ‘Muttering and grinding her teeth.’

  ‘Bless you for coming here yesterday. How did you know we were in trouble?’

  She strokes Muffin’s nose. ‘Sacha hadn’t spoken to me for weeks. Then yesterday morning—six o’clock?—I got this really weird call. She was in a state, going on about Finn and how these beings had come down from the hills to get her. It’s meth psychosis, you know? I read about a guy who looked at trees, familiar trees that he saw every day, and thought they were people.’ Bianka sits very still, her fingers resting on Muffin’s ears. ‘She said these creatures had come creeping along the balcony and into her room, whispering to her. She didn’t remember much, but she remembered the fear. She was kind of delirious. When she woke up she wasn’t in bed.’

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘Sitting in her cupboard! She’s no idea how she got there.’ Bianka gets up and stands with her back to the stove, watching me. ‘You know, it seems . . .’

  I’m looking for teabags. ‘Mm?’

  There’s a melancholy smile on the cupid’s-bow lips. ‘Well, you know, it just kind of strikes me as a bit of a coincidence. You’ve got Sacha, who’s freaking about things on the balcony, and in the very same night you’ve got poor little Finn tumbling off it.’ I freeze with my hand in the teabag jar. ‘And then I noticed . . . I’m sorry, Martha . . . I noticed that her balcony door wasn’t quite shut.’

  I close my eyes for several seconds. Finally I make tea in two mugs, add milk and give one to Bianka. ‘What would you do, if you were me?’

  ‘I’d tell her. I wouldn’t leave her with a hellish half-memory. She needs to face it head-on, or she’ll relapse again.’

  ‘She says she’s finished with it.’

  ‘Ever heard that before?’

  I’m silenced.

  ‘She means it,’ says Bianka unhappily. ‘She really does. But she’s no longer in control. I’ve worked out her pattern: binge, crash, sleep, recover, binge. Every time she uses, she needs more and the crash is worse. All she can think about is that initial buzz, but all she’s achieving is a deeper and deeper hell when she’s coming down. I think they call it “chasing the dragon”.’

  ‘Chasing the dragon,’ I muse. ‘Chasing that beautiful moment.’

  ‘It sounds a lot more romantic than it is.’

  ‘Do you think you could forgive her, Bianka, if you were me?’

  ‘Forgive her?’ Bianka looks incredulous. ‘Of course! You know it wasn’t really Sacha on that balcony. She worships her little brothers. Her mind’s been hijacked. But when it comes to forgiving herself . . . ooh, that’s going to be harder. Much, much harder. I just hope she doesn’t try to harm herself.’

  It’s still dark outside, but I catch the sleepy trill of a stirring bird. Another dawn. Another day to be faced. I dump my mug in the sink. ‘I’ll head out to the hospital. Kit’s planning to bring Sacha and Charlie later. D’you think she’ll make it, or has she totally crashed?’

  ‘I’ll get her into the car somehow. She needs to see Finn. Martha, please forgive her.’

  I sigh. ‘If you’d been there, on the balcony . . .’

  ‘All the same, forgive her.’

  ‘And you, Bianka? She’s treated you so badly. Why are you here, sleeping on her floor?’

  Bianka looks into her mug, swirling the tea. ‘I was hiding in the instrument storeroom when Sacha auditioned for the orchestra. I couldn’t face life that day, so I’d gone to ground. Then suddenly there was this sound . . . this beautiful sound. I’d never heard anything like it before. It wasn’t just a schoolgirl playing. It was someone who knew and understood everything I’d ever felt. All the loneliness. All the grief. I sat on the floor, jammed between two cellos with tears pouring down my cheeks.’ They’re pouring down now, but Bianka lifts her head and smiles at me. ‘That’s the moment when I fell in love.’

  It’s after seven by the time I arrive at ICU. One of the nurses is just going off duty, and she lets me in.

  ‘You’re early,’ she remarks, with friendly disapproval.

  ‘How’s Finn?’

  ‘He’s a little trooper. Actually, you’re not his first visitor today. You’ve been pipped at the post.’

  Perplexed, I stop in my tracks. ‘But it’s family only. And there’s no other family who could visit.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Finn’s grandpa is here.’

  ‘He can’t be. It’s physically impossible.’

  ‘Well, he is.’

  ‘No, really. Finn only has one grandpa, and he lives in England, and I don’t think he even knows about the accident.’

  ‘Really? Well, you’d better go and see.’

  I sprint onto the ward. There’s someone in the chair, a compact figure with his back to me. Lined hands are cradling Finn’s. He must have heard my footsteps because he turns around.

  It’s like a miracle. I stop dead, staring into the face I k
now so well, the dark grey curls and keen eyes. Then he gets up and holds his arms out wide.

  Why do our hearts finally overflow when we see someone we love? What is that about? I throw myself against him, and howl.

  Thirty-eight

  We sit side by side, Dad’s arm around my shoulder. I feel dazed.

  ‘Lay your hands on his chest,’ says Dad. ‘You’ll feel your energy flow into him.’

  I do what he says, and he’s right: I have a sense that my life is somehow sustaining Finn. Wacky, my dad, but wise.

  ‘I don’t understand how you can be here,’ I say. ‘I think I must be dreaming, because this just isn’t possible. I mean, it’s only been thirty hours or so since the accident—that was midnight on Monday here, and it’s now Wednesday morning. I hadn’t even told you yet, and it takes thirty hours to get here from England. You are a witch doctor!’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of a long story. And a strange one.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  Dad sits back in the chair, stretching his legs. ‘Very late on Sunday night, I had a visit from someone you don’t much like. Someone you once said does not figure in Sacha’s future. Who d’you think?’

  ‘That leaves a pretty wide field. I’m narrow-minded and judgemental, according to Sacha.’

  ‘Well . . . maybe you’re not the most tolerant woman on the planet.’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘My visitor was Ivan Jones, also known as Ivan Gnome. He said he didn’t know where else to turn. He’d been on Facebook and Sacha was online. Hang on just a minute.’ Dad has an overnight bag beside the chair. He rummages in it and finds an A4 sheet. ‘This conversation starts with Ivan writing hiya hows nz. See? Ignore the grammar and spelling, it’s hair-raising. The next line is Sacha, and so on.’

  I read with growing nausea.

  hiya hows nz

  not gd

  nt gd ?????????

  na :/

  aw sorry . . . wts up

  in a house with ppl off their heads just lyng in sht think im going crzy

  why u goin crazy