After the Fall (46 page)

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

someones coming after me

??? whaaa

im freaking

u better go home

cant

why cant

ripped off my family

where r u

theyre coming for me fk

where r u!!!!!!!!!!

theyre coming

have you got your fone

yea

fn yr mum

think I wl die

fn ur mum plz !!!!!!!!

Sacha is offline.

‘Dear Lord,’ I breathe.

‘As you can imagine, Ivan didn’t like the sound of it. He tried ringing your place. No answer. So he got in his car and drove straight around to me—he’d been before, with Sacha. I didn’t like the sound of it either. I am aware that teenagers can be a little hysterical, but all the same . . . So I called you. No answer. Why don’t you have an answer machine?’

‘Never got round to it after we moved here. Kit reckons if it’s important the person will call back.’

‘Hmm. Well, I found Capeview’s website and rang them, to be told that you were on leave. They wouldn’t give me your mobile number. Actually, they weren’t helpful at all.’

‘Hang on. This would have been when?’

‘About midnight on Sunday in the UK, so . . . um, Monday lunchtime here.’

Monday. I was driving around Napier on my own, searching.

Dad looks sheepish. ‘Call me a busybody but I couldn’t just do nothing! Anyway, I was bored, felt like an escapade. I’ve been looking for an excuse to come and see you. So I packed a bag, nipped down to Heathrow and grabbed the first flight I could. Via Kuala Lumpur. By crikey—it’s a long way, isn’t it?’

‘Dad, you’re crazy.’

‘I know. By the time I’d got myself out of Auckland airport, it was too late to ring you people. I was feeling pretty good; had this idea I might surprise you. So I hired a car and drove to Napier—actually, that was gruelling. It took hours longer than I’d thought from the map. My car’s a hairdryer on wheels, needed cardiac massage to get across the hills, but there were no hotels open so I just kept going. I phoned your place when I reached Napier. About six.’

‘Six? You must have just missed me.’

‘I had,’ he agrees. ‘A girl answered. The friend.’

‘Bianka?’

‘That’s the one. Nice girl. I asked straightaway if Sacha was all right, and she said yes, she’s asleep upstairs. So I felt like a silly old fool! Then she told me about Finn. So—’ he spreads his arms—‘here I am.’

I shake my head in admiration. ‘You’ve been travelling for two days! You must feel like death.’

‘Not too bad. I slept on the flights, and I’ve been taking some remedies.’

I hand back the bit of paper. ‘She took his advice,’ I say. ‘She phoned me.’

‘You see? Gnomes have their uses, after all.’ Dad shoves the paper back in his bag and clasps my hands in his. ‘Now. What on earth is all this about?’

I tell him everything. Well. Actually, no. Not quite everything. On the subject of Sacha’s addiction, stealing and paranoia, I’m completely candid. It takes a lot to rattle my dad, but he’s rattled.

Yet when it comes to a starry night on a balcony, I tell my kind, wise father a pack of lies. I’m all too good at it by now.

He sits for a long time with his hand on Finn’s chest. Then he says something quite extraordinary. ‘I know who Sacha’s father is, of course.’

‘You don’t.’ I’m sure of it. He can’t possibly know—couldn’t have known, all these years, and kept the secret. ‘You certainly don’t.’

‘You had to balance the needs of an unborn person—Sacha—against that of others. At the time I’m sure it seemed the honourable course to take.’

I gape at him, feeling the telltale flush spread up my neck.

‘I’ve pondered on it many times over the years,’ he says. ‘I’ve watched that little curly-haired delight of yours grow up into someone very special, and I’ve thought how proud he would be. Sometimes I’ve thought he has a right to know.’

‘I’d rather not discuss this,’ I say stiffly.

‘But of course it’s become more and more impossible—so many people’s happiness at stake. Six people, since Theo was born.’

‘I said I’d rather not—’

‘It was a choice of evils. An unenviable choice. In the end, you chose to leave Sacha permanently fatherless. So she lost out. Have you lost out too, Martha, or did you prefer having that treasure all to yourself?’

I lean forward to stroke Finn’s arm. Shame burns my face.

We were close friends, Philip and I, when we were young; the sort of mates who go out drinking and cry on one another’s shoulders. One weekend Lou came to stay and I introduced them. She raved for days about his roguish smile, and he cornered me to talk about her lovely legs. It was a wild romance, and I wasn’t jealous; well, not very. That summer Lou booked a holiday in Ibiza with a couple of girlfriends. Philip didn’t want her to go, and they had a bust-up. She told him if he wasn’t going to trust her, he could take a hike. So he took a hike, then came round to moan about it to me. He was petulant and lost, which is a pretty irresistible combination. We downed a bottle of scrumpy cider and one thing led to another.

Of course, the two of them made it up on the phone. By the time Louisa flew home, Philip and I were stretched on a rack of guilt. We had a pact: there would be (a) no repetition—ever; and (b) no confession—ever, under any circumstances. The event was expunged from history. Poor Philip was so overcome with remorse that he bought a whopping antique ring and proposed to Louisa in the Gatwick arrivals hall, to the cheers of about three hundred people all holding up signs saying things like
AQUILA TOURS
and
HERTZ
. She was in heaven. The two of them toured their families, showing off the ring and booking the church. Even Mum approved of Philip. When Lou asked me to be her bridesmaid she thanked me—
thanked
me!—for bringing him into her life. She said she’d never been so happy.

One morning as I lay in bed looking up at a crack in the ceiling, it hit me. Don’t ask me how. I just knew, with a sick certainty, that I wasn’t alone. It took me a fortnight to take the test, and another month to decide what to do about it. I fibbed about the due date, invented a one-night stand and fronted up at Lou’s wedding in a maternity smock. I was my sister’s bridesmaid, and pregnant with the groom’s child. Not my most glorious moment.

Just once, very early on, Philip asked if the baby could possibly be his. I slapped his shoulder and told him not to be so bloody arrogant—how fertile did he think he was? I spun a complicated story about a tall chap called Simon who’d swung in and out of my life without leaving a forwarding address.

‘Well,’ said Philip, relieved. ‘You know Louisa and I love you. If there’s ever anything we can do . . .’

By the time my perfect daughter was born, people had stopped mentioning the father. He’d become a mythical creature. They wrote
Unknown
on the birth certificate. Sacha was mine. All mine.

‘I know you very well, Martha,’ says Dad. ‘I was in the maternity unit when Lou and Philip came to visit. Everyone else was fixated on the new baby, but I was watching you. And I admired you, because I knew you were doing it for your sister.’

‘
I
didn’t admire me.’

‘It also occurs to me that this might be one of the reasons you decided to emigrate. At any rate, a significant factor? Sacha was becoming more and more persistent. She’d started asking everyone, making wild guesses and stirring up old memories. I might not be the only person to have suspicions.’

‘Dad,’ I say faintly. ‘Is there anything you
don’t
know about me?’

‘Twelve thousand miles is a long way to run.’

I sigh, looking at Finn. ‘Not far enough.’

We’re in the cafeteria when Kura Pohatu finds us. The white tresses are swirled into a regal bun today. I’m pretty offhand, but she seems thick-skinned. Has to be, I imagine.

When I introduce her to Dad, the social worker looks genuinely delighted. ‘Will you stay in New Zealand for long, Mr Norris?’

‘That depends,’ he counters, pulling out a chair for her. ‘Martha’s told me all about your concerns. I think they’re misplaced, but I applaud you for doing your job so thoroughly.’

She sits graciously, and turns to me. ‘I hear Kit is home, Martha, and visited Finn last night.’

Her spies have told her, of course. Every nurse is an undercover agent. ‘Yes, he did. He’s planning to bring the other children in this morning.’

‘Okay. Well, I have to tell you where we go from here.’ She holds up two hands, palms towards me. ‘Please. I want you to remember that I’m not here to make life difficult for you.’

‘Go on.’ I’m in that swing boat again.

She looks at Dad. ‘The team has identified concerns and decided there should be further investigation. We need to be sure that Finn and the other children are not at risk of further harm.’

‘What a waste of public money,’ says Dad placidly.

‘I’m actually employed by CYF,’ continues Kura. ‘That’s Child, Youth and Family. I’m based at the hospital for half my working hours. Since I’ve already spent some time on this, I’ve been appointed lead social worker.’

‘Is that good news or bad?’ asks Dad.

‘Good, I hope. I’ll be working with a colleague. He’ll talk again to the school, to the family doctor and maybe others. I’d like to meet the rest of the family. Finn obviously can’t speak for himself just yet.’

‘Just a minute.’ I stare incredulously as what she’s said sinks in. ‘You want to talk to
Finn
?’

‘If our initial screening doesn’t eliminate this as accidental, he may be interviewed. Don’t worry. It would be done very sensitively.’

‘That’s ludicrous, Kura! If he recovers—and I’d remind you that at the moment it’s
if
—he won’t remember a bloody thing.’ I’m confident on this point. People with severe head injuries have amnesia about their accident, in my experience. ‘Anyway, I’ve told you fifty times that he was
asleep
—he never woke up.’

‘These incidents are not generally isolated. Any interview with Finn wouldn’t focus only on the fall itself, but on the bigger picture. Look, I can see the idea distresses you. Shall we cross the bridge when we come to it?’

‘I wish you’d leave us alone.’ I reach for Dad’s hand. ‘There’s a tiny scrap of a boy up there, hanging onto life by a thread. All we can think about right now—’

An incoherent cry of joy rings across the cafeteria. Dad leaps to his feet and turns to face a slender young woman as she hurls herself between the tables, knocking over a chair. Before we can blink, Sacha has careered into him, flinging her arms around his neck. ‘Grandpa,’ she sobs. ‘Grandpa.’