After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  ‘So are you one of these funeral junkies? Did you come for the free booze?’

  ‘You’re a funny kind of waitress,’ he said mildly. ‘No, not a funeral junkie. I’m flying the flag. My uncle is great mates with Vinnie, but he’s in Madeira.’

  ‘Well. You’re the only one who’s bothered to get drunk for her.’

  He smiled. ‘You know, I saw you and your little girl in church. You were following the coffin with your sister. The three of you look very alike, but none of you resemble Mrs Vale very much at all.’ His eyes were alight with humour, and I found myself smiling back.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said fervently. ‘That’s the most comforting thing anyone’s said to me all day. Where are you from?’

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘No you’re not. Sorry, but you just aren’t.’

  ‘Okay, Sherlock. County Kerry.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I sat down on the floor beside my tray, stretching my legs across the corridor. ‘So what brought you to Shepherd’s Bush?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Go on. I’ve got oodles of time. I’m never going back into that bar.’

  He glanced at his watch, then slid off the chair and leaned his back against the opposite wall to mine. We pressed our four feet companionably together, like a pair of schoolkids at break time. He was wearing a dark suit and a sober silk tie, slightly loosened. His shoes were posh, black and polished; mine were cheap, grey and scuffed.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Since you’ve asked.’ His family had existed on the west coast of Ireland forever, it seemed, farming in the ancient hills. He was eighteen when his father died of a heart attack during a bracing dip in the Atlantic. As he was the only son, his mother and five sisters—he called them ‘the coven’—expected him to run the farm and save the family fortunes. But my new friend didn’t want to be a farmer. He dreaded living and dying in that community, the latest in a perennial stream, known only as his father’s son. So he ran away to art college in Dublin—where he picked up a wife— and then to London, where she promptly left him.

  ‘And in London I stayed,’ he finished. ‘And here I am.’

  ‘What happened to the farm?’

  ‘Coven made a go of it. They keep goats. They make cheese.’

  ‘Cheese?’

  ‘Organic goats’ cheese. Wins awards, you can buy it in Harrods. So there you go—diversify to survive. I’ve been gone nearly half my life, but whenever I visit they blather on at me. They can’t believe I’ll not come home in the end.’

  I felt his shoes pressing against mine; I was intensely aware of the contact, as though my whole nervous system was centred in the soles of my feet.

  ‘I’m off in five minutes,’ he said, and I felt a tug of regret.

  ‘Not driving, I hope?’

  ‘No. I left my phone somewhere, so I called a taxi on this old-fashioned tellingbone. They’ll be here at half past.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He didn’t move. ‘Coming with me?’

  I felt my eyes prickling. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to stay here and do this . . . do this . . . all this funeral thing.’

  With surprising swiftness, he was at my side. ‘But will you be all right?’

  There was more caring in those six words than all the tragic clawing and don’t-know-what-to-say and your-mother-was-a-wonderful-woman-who-frigging-well-lives-in-you. I was so grateful. It tipped me over the edge.

  ‘I’ve got no mother,’ I sobbed in panic. ‘She was a bitch. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe I am. Not sure.’

  ‘I expect you both were.’

  I pressed my nose into a tissue, gulping, dimly aware that my cheeks must be traffic-light red. ‘We started fighting when I was about . . . I dunno, a day old? She said she couldn’t believe I was hers. I disappointed her every step of the way. Everything was a battlefield. Piano—I didn’t practise; friends—she banned them; meals—I wouldn’t eat them. But none of it was for me. It was all about her status as an icon of bloody womanhood. I ditched my law degree and she didn’t speak to me for a year. When I was twenty-one I got pregnant.’

  ‘Did you marry the father?’

  ‘What father?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I went to the hospital on her birthday last week. Couldn’t even get that right, could I? My daughter made a beautiful card, I baked a cake, thought she’d approve of that—kissed her and I had a strep throat. It finished her off.’

  He drew my hair from my face, and I felt his fingers brush my ear. Vincent Vale chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He spent most of his life prowling around on soft-soled shoes, trying to catch people out. His gaze fell on me, the murdering baggage, sobbing all over a dark stranger.

  ‘Not here,’ he muttered, and disappeared the way he’d come.

  ‘Ambiguous,’ said Drunk Man. ‘Ambiguous, I call that. What’s not here? Who’s not here? He’s not, you’re not, I’m not?’ He lifted one of my curls and held it against his cheek. I could smell the starch in his shirt. A button had come adrift. I glimpsed pale skin beneath the cotton, and felt a strong urge to slide my fingers inside. I didn’t think he’d mind.

  Shameless hussy! Mum was enraged. I’m not cold in my grave, and you’re fantasising about— From the street outside, a car horn.

  ‘Your taxi,’ I said reluctantly.

  He rolled easily to his feet and reached down a hand to pull me up. His grip felt more powerful than I expected. For a flickering moment, I was afraid of him.

  ‘C’mon. They don’t need you at this funeral thing, Martha Norris. Got the name right?’

  ‘I can’t possibly come with you,’ I said, as we made our way outside and up to the waiting car. ‘This is my mother’s funeral. I’ve got to behave decently.’

  He smiled confidently down at me, shrugging into his overcoat, and I felt my insides lurch. ‘Come with me,’ he said quietly.

  The meter was ticking, the driver bored. ‘Going to the station, mate?’

  ‘Focus, will you?’ I insisted. ‘Where to?’

  He dropped his forehead to touch mine. ‘You tell me. I love a magical mystery tour.’ Then he disappeared into the dark interior of the taxi.

  Don’t even think about it, howled Mum. This is my funeral!

  I hesitated, turning back to Vincent’s pub. People were leaving in little groups; they chatted and rummaged for keys, and cars were queuing to get out of the car park. I wasn’t needed. If I let this man go, I might never see him again.

  That’s when I made the decision that changed my life. I gave the driver a local address. My own address. Then I ran around to the other side, threw myself onto the seat beside a perfect stranger, and slammed the door.

  ‘Will you get drunk for me, at my funeral?’ I asked, as the white car pulled away from the kerb.

  I woke to the peaceful pitter-patter of rain on the window, and an odd relief that I’d buried my mother and could get on with my life. Ivory light was seeping around the curtains, and there was a wild-haired, unshaven stranger sprawled under my duvet. He lay on his front, one arm flung around my waist, a muscle twitching in the sandpaper cheek.

  Carefully, I extricated myself and grabbed my kimono. Then I tiptoed across our scattered clothes—they were strewn all the way down the stairs— and into the kitchen. My visitor’s jacket was lying by the door; I remembered tugging it off as soon as we crossed the threshold. Shameless hussy. Muffin hopped out of her bed, padded over to collect her quota of adoration and asked to be let into the garden. While the kettle boiled, I phoned Dad.

  ‘Sacha’s still in bed.’ He sounded dazed. ‘Fast asleep, like a little princess.’

  ‘How are you doing, Dad?’

  ‘Awful,’ he said. ‘I feel awful.’

  It was his honesty that would save him, I thought. His willingness to admit weakness was his greatest strength. That was more than control or courage or stiff upper lips. ‘How about you?’ he asked.

  ‘Um . . .’ I recalled the lust and laughter
of last night, and felt my cheeks flame. ‘Not bad. Shall I come over?’

  ‘No rush, love. Flora’s here already. A kitten pitched up on my doorstep in the night; a black, bedraggled scrap of a thing.’

  ‘Cute! You’re keeping him, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. Flora’s named him Bernard. I’m going to plonk him on Sacha’s pillow in a minute and see the look on her face!’

  I hung up the phone, made a plunger of coffee and took it upstairs. As I sat near the man in my bed, he nuzzled his jaw into the pillow with a flutter of outrageous eyelashes. I trailed my fingertips across the muscles of his back. Last night he’d carried me up the last few stairs, both of us laughing, and his strength had come as a surprise because I’d had him down as the arty, elegant type—slightly dissolute, perhaps. I couldn’t imagine him setting foot in a gym.

  ‘You’re still here,’ I said. ‘Why are you still here?’

  The cobalt eyes opened. Then he smiled as though he’d known me forever, and I was bowled over by a wave of desire. It left me short of breath.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be here?’ he asked, rolling onto an elbow and resting his cheek on one hand.

  ‘Who are you, really?’

  ‘Christopher McNamara,’ he said, holding out his free hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Yes, I know your name. I may be a slapper, but I don’t sleep with men whose names I don’t know.’

  ‘Non-smoker, thirty, good sense of humour.’

  ‘Single?’

  ‘Divorced. Told you that last night. Married two years—we were insanely young—divorced for seven. No kids. No baggage . . . and since then, just Lucinda and Zara and Bella and—’

  ‘Shut up. Solvent?’

  ‘Excessively.’

  ‘Sane?’

  ‘You tell me, Ms Bossy Occupational Therapist. Hey, d’you wear a uniform? Apron, cap, little stripy skirt?’

  I leaned closer to slap his arm, and he caught my hand. ‘Single, solvent and sane,’ he murmured, pulling me closer. ‘And stunning.’

  ‘Hmm.’ That was true enough. ‘So what’s the catch?’

  He never told me. I found out for myself.

  Ten

  At first I think I’m becoming paranoid. There’s a subtle shift in the way the nurses behave, a vagueness in the smiles of the orderlies. Suddenly, no one wants to know. They hurry past, terribly busy, heads turned the other way. Cups of tea stop arriving.

  The night grinds on, and my mind is suspended in this scruffy-clean world with the blue lino floor and reek of cleaning fluids and sickness. Through the graveyard hours, patients limp in and others leave: a blond boy who’s treated for asthma; an elderly man with palpitations. At about six someone, somewhere nearby, begins to make toast. The comforting warmth of it floats down the corridor, masking the disinfectant. It’s a homely, happy smell. It’s Sunday mornings, tea and marmalade, watching films under a duvet. Aristocats and Ice Age.

  The night shift leave. Staff become ordinary people again, heading for home and families. The hospital shakes itself into the routines of daytime.

  It’s after seven when a surgeon appears—a Roman general, wearing scrubs instead of a metal skirt. I have an impression of corrugated-iron hair and battle weariness. He’s flanked by two captains.

  ‘Mrs McNamara?’

  I am ushered dumbly into another little room. Terror sucks at my lungs. There is no air. No air in the world. They are the news breakers, this grim-faced posse. They’ve come to tell me I’ve lost my Finn.

  They motion me to a chair and lean around the walls.

  ‘Neil Sutherland, general surgeon.’ The General has baggy eyes and powerful hands. He swiftly introduces his colleagues. There’s a woman from the trauma team, and a paediatrician—a long thin giraffe, who says he has a special interest in child protection.

  ‘Finn?’ I ask faintly.

  ‘He’s been very sick,’ says the General. ‘We’ve done all we can for now, and he’s stabilised. That’s the important point.’

  I look around at the three, trying to read their expressions. ‘But what . . . he is going to . . . he is all right?’

  ‘Well. We’ve established that there is no spinal injury, which is good news.’ Neil Sutherland looks gloomy. ‘The CT scan showed a ruptured spleen. It’s been removed and we’ve stopped the bleeding there. He’s fractured his right forearm—the orthopaedic team have dealt with that. The most pressing concern at the moment is a head injury.’

  These are words I dread. I’ve seen enough of such injuries to loathe them. ‘How severe?’

  ‘Finn was extremely lucky.’ Sutherland is avoiding the question. ‘We don’t actually have a resident neurosurgeon, but one was visiting Hawke’s Bay this week to take a clinic. She’s based at Starship Children’s Hospital in Auckland, and she was right on the spot. She’s done a superb job.’

  I persist. ‘How severe is this head injury? I’m an occupational therapist. I know what they mean.’

  ‘All right.’ Sutherland pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘The scan showed some bleeding, and there were two unstable bone fragments which the neurosurgeon removed. She’s inserted a small plate. We’ve induced a coma to reduce stress and swelling on Finn’s brain.’

  I shut my eyes.

  ‘His condition is critical,’ says the woman. ‘He’s in the intensive care unit.’

  ‘He’s in ICU? Can I see him?’

  Sutherland sounds unhappy. ‘Very soon. First, we need to ask you about something.’ He hands me a sheet of thin paper. ‘This is an image of Finn’s upper arm.’

  I feel bewildered by the irrelevance. It’s grotesque to have taken a picture of Finn’s tiny arm, while he lies in mortal danger. I won’t even look at the flimsy thing. ‘His arm? His arm? For God’s sake! He’s got a plate in his head and a ruptured spleen and you’re telling me about his arm? Is this the one that’s broken?’

  ‘No.’ Sutherland points with a blunt, well-manicured forefinger. ‘See these marks around here?’

  I look at the photograph, and then I understand. Completely. Until now, I didn’t imagine things could get any worse.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I sound drunk. My tongue seems to be swelling.

  The neon light’s too white. It isn’t kind. It glowers and hums and accuses me of trying to kill my son. The image is a close-up of a child’s arm. Around it are four small discs of a deep, livid blue.

  Behind me, the giraffe moves in for the attack. He’s an angrier man than Sutherland, overflowing with energy. ‘It’s bruising,’ he says curtly. ‘Finger marks, see? They’re very obvious.’

  ‘He fell,’ I insist. ‘He fell about fifteen feet. I imagine there is bruising all over his poor little body. Now, can I please see my son?’

  I sense the three exchanging glances. Sutherland sighs. He wants to go home to bed but he can’t, because there is this child. This injured child.

  Giraffe jabs at the picture. ‘There are four finger marks there, Mrs McNamara. See? And a fifth around the back of the arm, which we are agreed is consistent with a thumb. These suggest an adult hand, gripping the child’s arm very forcibly.’ He demonstrates a grabbing motion with his own long fingers. ‘Like this, see? It’s a classic presentation. Whose fingers, Mrs McNamara?’

  ‘He’s always squabbling with his twin brother,’ I protest.

  ‘An adult hand.’

  ‘He goes to school. Maybe the teacher . . .’

  They stare as I meander to a standstill. Then Giraffe says, ‘From the colour, I’d suggest they could be contemporaneous with his fall. And they were made with considerable force. Whose fingers?’

  I feel the heat spread up my neck, across my face. I try to swat it away like a fly, but I am pinned down by terror. For Finn. For all of us.

  ‘Are you suggesting . . . what are you suggesting?’ I stare at the image of Finn’s vulnerability. ‘He fell,’ I repeat, stupidly. ‘The flowerbed’s edged with stones. That’ll be what did it.’

  ‘He w
as lying on his right side when the team arrived,’ says Sutherland wearily. ‘He’s broken his right forearm. These marks are on the left, and they’re the only visible injuries on that arm.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ I whisper.

  ‘Why is it your fault?’

  ‘Because I should have locked his door. Because I couldn’t run fast enough. Because I brought him here in the first place.’

  ‘Where’s Finn’s father?’ asks the woman suddenly.

  ‘Kit’s on his way back from Dublin.’

  ‘When do you expect him home?’

  I only hesitate for an instant, but her gaze sharpens. ‘I’m not sure exactly when. There was some complication. He changed his flight.’

  ‘Have you been able to contact him?’

  I shrug helplessly. ‘No answer from his mobile, but then he’ll have turned it off if he’s on a plane. I’ve left messages.’

  ‘Life must have been stressful for you recently,’ she says.

  ‘Stressful?’

  ‘With your husband away, and two small boys, in that isolated area.’

  ‘Well, fairly. But—’ ‘I gather you’ve only lived here a year. Perhaps you haven’t any close friends yet? No one to call on when things get on top of you.’

  ‘He fell,’ I say dully.

  They let the silence lengthen. Eventually Sutherland pushes himself upright. He doesn’t look angry. He looks depressed. I really think he and I might have got on, if we’d met at a dinner party.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs McNamara,’ he says heavily. ‘This issue has been raised now, and there are procedures that we have to follow. We must inform the paediatric social worker that there is a child injured and indications that it may be non-accidental. We’ll liaise with her to decide whether there needs to be a formal referral to Child, Youth and Family. And possibly the police.’

  ‘There’s no need for that! The police have already been here. They were perfectly satisfied.’