How Far We Fall

by Jane Shemilt

  ‘Free?’ He twists away, staring at her as if he hardly knows her. ‘I’m not free, I’m trapped in that moment. I can’t get it out of my head. Ted didn’t believe it was happening even when he began to fall—’

  ‘Don’t think about it. Block it out. It’s a relief …’ She glances away from his furious stare. ‘It’s a relief you are safe, sweetheart. That’s all. I was so scared when you went after him; now you are safely back, I hardly know what I’m saying.’ She gets up and touches him on the shoulder. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll bring you a cup of tea then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  The map is still on the kitchen table. When she traced the path for Ted, his face was bent near hers, his eyes were focused. Those eyes will be vacant now, the skin of the cheeks scraped to muscle. Her mouth tightens as she folds the map. She makes a cup of tea and fills a hot water bottle. In the bedroom, Albie has pulled the duvet around him, his blank gaze follows her as she puts the cup on the bedside table and slips the warm bottle next to him. She retrieves his mud-caked clothes and boots, turns off the light and closes the door quietly. She puts the clothes in buckets in the pantry, hiding them under a towel, but there could be other evidence: traces on the cliffs, a dropped glove or a boot dislodged by the struggle. Harris positions himself at the door as she laces her boots. Outside, the metallic gleam of puddles outlines the path to the cliff; she follows it to the end, passing between high outcrops of rock where the sound of the sea and the birds comes at her in a screaming roar. The grass and heather on the clifftop look empty; she searches but nothing has been left behind, not even footprints. She daren’t look over the edge but turns and jogs home as the sky lightens.

  The house looks asleep, the curtains still tightly drawn, but in the garden the shadows fall differently. Something has changed. She takes in ragged stumps and branches scattered across the grass and then she understands: the storm has snapped her silver birches in the night. Albie’s wedding gift, smashed to pieces. Tears press behind her eyes as she hurries into the house, Harris at her heels. In the kitchen she puts her clothes with Albie’s, wipes her anorak and rinses the cloth she used to wipe it with. All traces of the morning’s effort gone, she climbs the stairs one by one. She won’t tell Albie about the trees just yet.

  He wakes at her touch. ‘Is he back?’

  ‘Who, Albie?’ But she knows who he means and she feels frightened.

  ‘Ted.’

  She shakes her head slowly.

  ‘Oh God.’ He turns his head away.

  ‘You’ll need to get up soon.’

  Downstairs Harris begins to bark.

  ‘Jesus. Someone’s coming, They’ve found him.’ Albie’s face loosens with fear.

  ‘You must pull yourself together. I’ll go down.’ She puts on a jersey and dry trousers then turns at the door, making an effort to speak gently as to a child. ‘Wash your hands and face, sweetheart. It will make you feel better.’

  Harris runs up to her in the kitchen barking, unusually disturbed. She opens the door but there is no one waiting outside. He settles in front of the stove, whining softly. She lays the table for breakfast but her hands shake, spilling cereal. In the sitting room the drawn-back curtains reveal the wet fields, the shadow-shrouded trees, the puddled path, the normal island landscape at dawn. No one could guess a man was tracked up that path in the dark. She glances swiftly up the hill, as if half expecting to see Ted’s tall figure stumble into view. She turns to shake out cushions, replace books on the shelves, straighten the rug. If she tidies and clears and cleans maybe the night will fade, maybe she won’t have to think. Picking up a mug she turns to go into the kitchen then jolts violently, the mug tumbles from her grasp to shatter on the hearth. Jake is sitting silently in the chair by the fireplace watching her every move.

  ‘Jake.’ Her mouth is so dry it’s difficult to speak. ‘You gave me a shock.’

  ‘Apparently.’ He smiles; one leg is crossed over the other, foot swinging. He seems to be enjoying her discomfort. She picks up the pieces of china and walks into the kitchen, her heart thumping. That was why Harris was barking, Jake must have frightened him too.

  ‘Coffee?’ she calls.

  Jake follows her.

  ‘Have you been down here all night?’ She tips away the broken mug and turns on the kettle. What might he have seen or heard?

  ‘Just long enough to hear your voices in the bedroom just now.’ He smiles his mocking smile again.

  Their luck had hung by the slenderest of threads, then; if he had come down earlier he might have met Albie returning or seen her go out. She makes a jug of coffee and hands him a cup, hoping he doesn’t notice that the surface of the liquid trembles.

  ‘Thanks.’ He leans his back against the stove, still watching her. She turns away to open the window. Gulls are circling in the sky beyond the cliffs, their cries come into the room. She watches them float as if suspended in the air. Ted must have heard them as he fell. If time slowed for him as people say it does, he might have wondered why Albie had done this, before it came to him in the last half second of his life that it was her – of course, it was Beth. Did he have time to scream out her name?

  ‘Where’s Ted?’

  ‘Sleeping in. He’s tired out.’

  ‘I’ll take this to Ed, then.’ He fills a cup from the jug and disappears.

  She follows as far as their bedroom. Albie is sitting on the bed, half dressed. His shoulders are bowed, his face very pale.

  ‘Jake’s up already,’ she whispers as she sits next to him. She takes his hand; the skin is clammy. ‘You’ll have to come down in a minute.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘It’s easier than you think, sweetheart. Just be yourself.’

  He stares at her, bewildered, as if he has lost all sense of who that might be: friend, colleague, doctor, host, schemer, murderer? She reaches to touch his face but he recoils and she pushes herself to standing. ‘We have to get through this, Albie. There’s no turning back.’

  He puts his head in his hands and doesn’t reply.

  Jake is in the kitchen again making fresh coffee. ‘Ted will be hungover after last night. This is extra strong, specially for him.’

  ‘I think Ted needs rest more than he needs coffee,’ she says lightly.

  ‘Ed says we should get him up for a walk.’ Jake disappears up the stairs again but returns in moments. ‘He’s not there.’

  ‘He must be.’ Upstairs she opens the curtains in Ted’s room, bangs the bathroom door shut. By the time she re-enters the kitchen, Albie is sitting silently at the table. He looks haggard.

  ‘Jake’s right; Ted must have taken himself off somewhere.’ She drops a kiss on Albie’s head and sits next to him, smiling cheerfully.

  Ed enters, glancing round the room, followed by Theo, sleep-tousled and yawning.

  ‘Dad up yet?’ Ed asks.

  ‘He wasn’t in his room,’ Jake tells him. ‘And his bed’s not been slept in.’

  Ed’s dark brows draw together, Theo looks puzzled. Beth pours three fresh mugs of coffee and sets them on the table.

  ‘I expect he made his bed before he left, then. He’ll be down on the beach, looking at the sea,’ she tells them.

  ‘Dad hasn’t made a bed in his life.’ Ed’s eyes meet hers, a sharp-edged glance that takes her aback. Of all people, that look implies, his ex-mistress should have known that. ‘I’ve been doing it for him since we arrived,’ he continues. ‘Where the hell has he got to?’ He walks around the kitchen, into the sitting room and back again, studying his watch. Jake is frowning as he feeds bread into the toaster.

  ‘Dad’s always going off on a whim,’ Theo remarks peaceably, sipping his coffee. ‘He’d disappear for hours at a time when we were younger, remember? Mum tried to pretend she wasn’t worried; no one knew where he’d gone but he always came back.’ He smiles at Beth.

  Those were the times when he came to see me. She senses Jake’s quick glance but keeps her face steady. Theo’s expression is a
rtless; he has no idea that she and his father were once lovers. Ed protecting his brother from the truth; theirs is a family that is good at keeping secrets.

  ‘If he’s taken himself off like the old days, he has to be feeling better,’ Theo finishes.

  ‘Or worse.’ Ed sits down, tapping a number into his mobile.

  ‘Anyone seen those poor trees?’ Jake asks, nodding towards the window as he butters slices of toast and props them up on the table. ‘Broken in two by the storm. I shouldn’t say this but it would make a great photograph. You ought to shoot them in black and white, Theo.’

  Theo looks out of the window and whistles with surprise.

  ‘Send me the images,’ Jake continues. ‘I’m doing a piece on climate change and summer storms are part of the story. Damage is everywhere, no one seems to notice.’

  ‘Fuck. His phone is unavailable.’ The worry in Ed’s voice is palpable.

  Theo offers his brother a piece of toast. ‘It’ll be fine, Ed. It’s Dad after all. Try not to worry.’

  ‘His bed’s not been slept in; he’s not answering his mobile. He was drunk last night, and he’s been very depressed. How can I not worry?’ Ed replies angrily, ignoring the toast.

  She mustn’t add to anything that’s being said or thought, mustn’t suggest that suicide is a possibility or breathe a word about accidents. She stands by Albie’s side, waiting to see how things fall.

  ‘Did he say anything to you about going out last night?’ Jake puts a hand on Ed’s shoulder.

  ‘I left him in the kitchen with Albie and Beth.’

  ‘He told us he was turning in soon, he wanted to study the map,’ she says, following where Ed’s thoughts are already leading him. ‘We went to bed; we presumed he would follow.’

  Jake stares at her closely as if testing her words for the truth, but Ed has sprung to his feet. ‘Shit. Did anyone hear him leave?’

  ‘It was stormy,’ Albie says. ‘The wind was howling. You couldn’t hear yourself think.’

  ‘I’m going to look for him now.’ Ed pulls out his walking boots and laces them up. ‘At the very least he may have fallen and twisted his ankle.’

  ‘Or found a sheltered spot to sleep it off,’ Theo says hopefully. ‘I’m coming too. Jake?’

  Jake nods silently, winding a long scarf around his neck.

  ‘I’ll join you; I know every inch of this island,’ Albie says. He turns to Beth. ‘You’d better wait here. Phone immediately if he returns.’

  She nods without replying. It’s happening again, she could have been quite wrong after all. There might never be an escape from Ted; his hold on Albie might be stronger now he’s gone.

  ‘Anyone seen my jacket?’ Albie fumbles among the layers of coats by the back door.

  ‘Maybe Ted took it,’ Beth replies. ‘He wanted to borrow it the night before last, remember.’ It’s as if they have rehearsed their lines. It might be important later, proof perhaps that Albie didn’t leave the house – he wouldn’t have gone out without a coat in the storm.

  They walk off in a straggling group, heads lowered. No one talks. The day is warming up. She checks through Ted’s room once more, but in vain. In Theo and Ed’s room the beds are neatly made, the clothes hung tidily in the wardrobe, but she finds nothing. In Jake’s room, the clothes are strewn on the floor and on the unmade bed. It takes longer to search but the result is the same. No vials. Outside Ted’s Mercedes is unlocked. There are car documents in the glove compartment, CDs and phone chargers; her searching fingers touch something soft, buried deep. She draws out a fine red scarf, hers from long, long ago. She puts it to her face, the faintest smell of lavender still lingers in the silk. When she wore it he had called her his scarlet woman. She crushes it in her hand and opens the door of the stove to thrust it into the flames. Another hour passes in a fruitless search through cupboards and shelves; she is turning old wellington boots upside down when her mobile rings.

  ‘We haven’t found him.’ Albie’s voice is terse. ‘I’ve contacted Iona, she’s phoned the Search and Rescue Team on Islay. They’re sending a helicopter; the police may call at the house. We’re carrying on looking.’ He cuts the call before she can reply.

  She retreats to the garden and sits against the wall of the house. The vials have gone; they must have still been in his pocket when he fell and would be in slivers now. Harris puts his head on her legs and her eyes begin to close, but a roaring noise fills the garden, pulling her back from sleep. She cowers while above her the huge, glinting beetle shape of a helicopter passes low over the house. She glimpses the pilot in dark glasses. A violent trembling starts; she downs two glasses of whisky, then runs a bath and sits in water as hot as she can bear. Gradually the trembling stops. Dressed and downstairs again, she forces herself to think of food; they’ll be hungry when they return. Not meat, a quiche of some kind maybe. She is rubbing butter into flour when a man in uniform knocks and steps through the door.

  ‘Sergeant Carmichael.’ He removes his cap and bows formally. She stares, shocked to silence, her floury hands deep in the bowl, taking in bulk, badges, a wide nose growing hairs at its split tip.

  She rinses her hands, the wet flour clumping on her fingertips. ‘Have you any news?’

  ‘We’ve been called to assist in the search for a Professor Edward Malcolm,’ he replies stolidly. ‘We were given this address. You are a relative?’

  An ex-mistress doesn’t qualify, even if you knew your victim as well as any wife. She shakes her head as she dries her hands. ‘Friend. He is a colleague of my husband, staying with us.’

  ‘You may need to sit down.’

  She doesn’t move. ‘Tell me.’

  His wooden expression solidifies. ‘I regret to inform you that I was notified on my way over here that a body has been found on the shore towards the north of the island.’

  She has to sit down after all.

  ‘We have reason to believe it’s the missing individual, though the body had been in the sea for a while. It will need to be formally identified.’

  ‘Oh God …’ she whispers. Less time than she thought; the discovery should have been weeks hence, on another island or at the bottom of the sea. The policeman is watching her closely, as if braced for hysteria.

  ‘What exactly happened? I mean …’ She stops, uncertain of the difference between the kind of questions a friend might ask and the sort a murderer would need to know.

  ‘That is information I am not party to. There will be a post-mortem.’ The small eyes behind thick glasses are not unkind. ‘I understand his sons are staying with you.’

  ‘They are out looking for him now, with my husband.’ She doesn’t add that his wife Jenny is hundreds of miles away in a Dorset village. The woman she used to envy and pity would have had enough of police when her daughter disappeared, and enough of her husband’s former lover. The boys should break the news, not the police – certainly not her.

  The sergeant finds the kettle; he seems used to this, to bringing bad news to women in their kitchens, to making tea for them. He stands as he waits for it to boil, legs apart, firm as if planted, while her fingers shake as she scrolls down for Albie’s number. Her voice is hoarse. ‘They’ve found a body; they think it’s Ted.’

  ‘Ah.’ A sharp downward exhalation, as though he has finished a race but one he’s just lost; had he been hoping that Ted would survive against all odds?

  Sergeant Carmichael has made the tea, orange and over sweet. She tips hers down the sink while he walks around overhead in Ted’s room, his footsteps creaking loudly.

  Ed is first through the door, eyes screwed up and panting as though mastering great physical pain. Jake must have fallen; his glasses are spattered and his hair stiff with mud, there are tear marks on his cheeks. Theo is crying, leaning against Albie who looks at Beth, his face stripped of all expression. She moves towards him but he holds up his hand to ward her off; perhaps he’s afraid if she touches him he will break down, or worse, confess. Sergeant Carmichael
informs them that the body of a white-haired older male in a green jacket has been found on the shore further north. Approximately six foot four inches in height. Brown trousers, watch with black strap. No shoes. He doesn’t mention the contents of the pockets.

  ‘Did anyone try to resuscitate him?’ Ed asks. Jake stands near, gripping his arm.

  ‘It was clear he had been dead for a while, sir,’ the sergeant tells him. ‘He had been injured. The sea was rough, you understand, very cold.’

  ‘They should have tried anyway,’ Ed persists. ‘In the hospital we always—’

  ‘The injuries were severe.’ Sergeant Carmichael pauses as if deciding whether to continue and then he does. ‘Part of the skull and the underlying brain were missing.’

  Ed’s face pales. Theo turns and vomits into the sink. Jake wipes his mouth with a cloth and leads him back to the table, like a father; it’s easy to forget that Jake has a son. She watches him pull a pack of tobacco from his pocket and make a roll-up with trembling fingers.

  ‘We need to tell Mum,’ Theo says through his tears.

  ‘I’ve told her already,’ Ed says. ‘I rang her on the way back to the house.’

  Had Jenny been in her little studio or walking in the Dorset hills? Perhaps on the shingle by the sea, probably on her own. Beth pictures that lovely face crumpling, the tears beginning to fall.

  ‘Do you have any idea how he came to be in the water?’ Jake asks, his eyes narrowing as he blows out cigarette smoke.

  The policeman glances at him. ‘There is no way of telling at this stage, sir. We do know there was a bad storm last night. We also know that cliffs can be treacherous in the dark. Anything else would be speculation.’

  ‘Christ,’ mutters Jake.

  Sergeant Carmichael clears his throat ponderously. ‘We will need identification.’

  Theo looks up quickly. ‘So it might not be Dad?’

  ‘Identification is a necessary formality. The body has been taken to Bowmore police station on Islay.’

  ‘I’ll come.’ Theo gets to his feet, his face running with tears and mucus.

  ‘Me too.’ Ed stands, Jake with him.