Falling Off Air (38 page)

Sean injects the drug, and Paula watches as he dies, and records and replays the scene in her mind for the months of her life
that remain. With every replay her conscience condemns her. Yet Paula remains silent. She listens, blankly, to Suzette's logic.
If Paula reveals what has happened, all that she has worked for will be destroyed, the good work will stop, the volunteers
will return to cynicism. The boy was a drug addict, Suzette says, he would have died anyway. They were unfortunate bystanders,
in the wrong place at the wrong time, that is all. Paula, stunned by what has happened, knows something Suzette does not.
Paula is already covering up the theft of Carmichaelite funds. One scandal might be weathered, but two will bring the whole
thing tumbling down around her ears. If she makes a public mea culpa for her involvement in the boy's death, the press will
take the Carmichaelite organization to pieces. The theft of funds will be discovered, and then the cover-up. The organization
will not survive. Paula hears what Suzette says, stays silent for a day, then for a week, and Ned, like a vulture, knows his
prey. “You've stayed silent,” he says to her, “that's enough to condemn you. Now I want money.” So, from simple silence she
progresses to the payoff. It starts at five hundred pounds a month and goes up to a thousand. Paula has already forked out
thousands to cover up the theft. Now the drain on their finances is enough to make even Richard Carmichael take notice that
something is wrong.

Here then, among the papers Richard Carmichael has hidden, is the true suicide note.

I have tried to go on knowing that I am flawed, and recognizing that we are all flawed. I've even tried to convince myself
that this makes me a better and more tolerant person. But Ned has moved in a few doors down, like the devil himself, and he
comes by and knocks on the door once in a while, when he thinks no one else is in, and I put cash in his hand. I am incapable
now even of believing words like “better,” “more tolerant.” I of all people. I of ALL people. I OF ALL PEOPLE. I am a shoddy
thing. I have sold my soul. I can no longer contemplate my own reflection. Tonight he came here. I told him there would be
no more. I refused to give him anything and he became angry. For a full hour, with Kyle in the other room, Ned berated me.
If I cut off the payments, he'll expose me. I was shaking. I was crying, but I will not be spineless again. I stuck to my
vow. I will not pay you, I told him. I would rather die. He left, and I realized that in fact now I have no option but to
die. He will expose me. My children will hate me, I have no choice.

Finney knows what he has found. He scratches his head, scribbles notes on a pad, frowning. The phone rings, and it is a call
from D.C. Mann. Is he okay? Of course, he snaps, he's fine. She is used to him snapping and talks over him. She thinks he
might be interested to know that the Penzance police rang earlier to say, just for your information, that Ballantyne is there,
staying at a B and B. Finney grunts, hangs up, scratches his head again. He wonders where Sennet is, and who he is, and whether
the police have ever questioned Suzette Milner in connection with anything at all. He shakes his head and consults his map.
He does not like the thought of me alone at the end of the earth.

It is Finney who finds me, not long after the attack they think. Early enough, they hope, to save me. He drives southwest
through the night, disturbs Betty from her bed, pesters her for directions until she rolls her eyes and decides to accompany
him because he's so dense, and heaves her flowery nightgown into the passenger seat. Without Betty he would have driven past
the track that led to Suzette's cottage, foot hard down on the accelerator until he reached Land's End. They find an abandoned
cottage, my abandoned car, a garage, doors left wide open, my body all but lifeless, bloodied, beaten around the head, dragged
to the sea, and left for dead at the water's edge, my feet already floating, lifted by the tide.

D.C. Mann arrives hours later, dispatched by an embarrassed superior. Chief suspect beaten nearly to death, and by whom? Another
suspect, until now unsuspected. The humbled and humiliated suspect-lover, Finney, is quietly reinstated, but D.C. Mann is
sent to save the day. She can speak to the press. She looks a treat on camera, and she at least will not break down if the
former chief suspect dies, as is half expected. The same cannot be said of Finney.

Betty has been a good listener. She is able to tell D.C. Mann who I've spoken to and what I've said. D.C. Mann is quite capable
of putting two and two together. She murmurs these pieces of information to Finney in the waiting room, but he is not interested,
so Mann leaves the hospital and goes to find Amey. Amey is not sleeping, has not slept since I knocked on his door the day
before. He knows he must tell the truth—even if his project dies, and with it the people he tries to save. He tells Mann what
she needs to know, he leads her to Bovin and to Kenny. She contacts her superiors in London, who contact Maeve, whose heart
almost stops. The police search my house and take away the tapes. Copies are made.

Suzette is running. She is falling apart. She was never cut out for this. Ever since Sean Morris's death she has barely been
holding herself together. When Paula died she thought she would expire from fear. When she killed Adam, she thought she would
disintegrate. Now, with her murderous attack on me, there is no more of herself to keep together. Everywhere she tries to
run, people look at her. They can see on her face what she has done. Everywhere she runs, she sees Ned. He never did steal
her car, she hid it in the garage herself, but she is truly frightened of him because she believes he killed Paula. She abandons
her car. She heads for a train station and stands for an age in front of the departure board. There is nowhere she can go
and not be found. She catches a train, and then another, until she arrives at Heathrow. She stands and stares at another departure
board. She is shaking and crying, and everyone is staring.

Ned Sennet hears what has happened on the radio news while he is driving. His mouth forms a silent “Oh,” and then an admonitory,
“Suzette.” He drives on to Plymouth, parks his hired car, retrieves his luggage, and walks away. He will keep on the move,
and he will invent another new identity. He hasn't killed anyone, and he has little in the way of a conscience, but he knows
that people will come looking for him now.

My mother clasps my children to her breast and sobs, relieved only that she does not have to find words to tell them what
has happened. They are so young. They will forget me. She stays in London, huddled tight with my sisters and my children until
the surgery is over and word comes that I am at least still breathing. Then, in the middle of the night, Tanya piles them
all into her car and drives them southwest, to join the party in the waiting room. Lorna sits in her chair staring out of
the window. She has been told. She is with me. I can feel her.

M
ONTHS have passed, months of recuperation first in the hospital and then at home, months of letting go of my children so that
others can look after them while I am bedbound. My mother is still busy at work, so she has organized a corps of helpers.
Even Lorna has been drafted in to sit with me.

“This is a change,” I said to her the first time she appeared in my sickroom.

“As if I've got nothing better to do,” she said good-naturedly.

She stroked my shaved head for a moment, then settled down in the armchair next to my bed. We talked a little, laughed a little,
and after a while we both closed our eyes for a rest.

Father Joe Riberra came to visit, all eaten up with guilt.

“I should have just gone to the police,” he berated himself, “but Adam had entrusted me with those tapes, and it seemed like
it would be some kind of a betrayal just to run to the police. I don't know what I was thinking of.”

Lorna was there at the time. She told him I had only myself to blame.

“You're only human,” she said in her beautiful voice, “we all do the best we can.”

Riberra looked properly at Lorna then, and I could see that he noticed for the first time the halo of golden red ringlets
and the luminous porcelain skin. They have spoken since on the telephone, and I suspect they may have met, but that's another
story.

David, Adam's brother, brought the children more academic journals to tear up and showed them how to make paper airplanes.
My mother had a talk with Norma and Harold Wills too. Several talks, I suspect. Then one day they arrived at my bedside, contrite.
After an awkward minute or so of groveling apologies, Harold elbowed his wife in her ribs, and she embarked on a little speech.

“I'll understand entirely if you say no,” Norma said, “but we would love to be able to help with the children. I mean we'd
love to see them, but we'd love to help you out too. We've been thinking about it, and we'll understand absolutely if you
don't want to see us, although perhaps we could just come and collect them sometimes and deliver them back, and you really
wouldn't have to see us at all …”

My mother and I both gazed at Norma in amazement. She was practically on her knees in this orgy of self-flagellation. I looked
to my mother for help, but she was leaving this one up to me.

“Perhaps one day you can come around and spend some time with all of us, so the twins see us all together and know we're all…”
I nearly choked and had to try again, “know we're all … a family.” I got it out at last, and they were bowled over, thanking
me as they retreated out of the door, afraid to stay longer in case I changed my mind. Behind their backs, my mother rolled
her eyes.

Jane came one day and took Hannah and William to the playground and returned with them as victorious as if she had scaled
Everest. She came back a week later with Quentin in tow and did it again. When she brought them back the second time she came
in to see me and confided that she and Quentin were thinking of having a baby because Hannah and William were so sweet. Which
they were. Both on their feet, hurtling around, bottoms wiggling with the sheer joy of mobility.

“Actually we're doing more than think about it,” Jane said, and roared with laughter.

“Very wise,” I told her weakly.

Three times the front doorbell has rung, and that has been followed by a low conversation downstairs involving a male voice.
Each time, shortly afterward Carol has come up to my room with a bunch of lilies. The first time this happened I thought they
were from Finney and seized the card, only to drop it with alarm when I saw that it bore the words “With best wishes for your
rapid recovery, Gilbert.” I have not encouraged him, and nor have I told Carol to turn my father away. I accept his flowers.
I notice he has never come to the house when my mother is around and realize that one day when he comes to call it will be
me who opens the door to him. I will cross that bridge when I come to it.

Next week I'm going back to work. My head has healed and my hair has grown back, but it's still short, and a great white streak
has appeared. I've dyed the streak blond, because I'm not ready to go gray. My first outing has been to buy a new wardrobe
for my new life. When I look in the mirror I think I look strong. Ready for anything. There is no spare flesh on me, and when
I look into my eyes I see little in the way of frivolity there. I'll have to work on that.

The editorial pages did a 180-degree turn in the space of twenty-four hours when it became clear that I was not a murderess,
and the Corporation got a beating for not giving me their full support. As the story emerged, with the details of the death
of Sean Morris, Maeve clung to me for dear life. If she could show herself to be on the side of the wronged party, that is
me, her career would survive. I let her cling and exploited it ruthlessly. She agreed I could return to work on full pay,
first two days, rising slowly to three, four, perhaps five days a week if and when I felt able, and I had carte blanche to
make pretty much whatever documentary films I wanted.

“Perhaps you could do a series on miscarriages of justice,” said Maeve helpfully, her eye on the ratings.

“Ballantyne's World,” I suggested drily, and she muttered something under her breath and changed the subject.

Now, a week before I return to work, I am moving home, out of my little nest and into Adam's flat. The Carmichaels—those who
are left of them—have already sold up and moved to a house in the country. Richard has dropped by a few times over the last
few months, and so has Kyle, but always separately. Richard has brought books and magazines and Kyle has brought me chocolates.
I had one long talk with Richard. He is not a happy man, but he has become more settled, more tranquil, for the sake of Kyle.
He is sad that his wife's reputation has been so battered, but he is still proud of her. Kyle is having a tough time with
his mother's suicide. For a while there was talk of him moving back to live with his real father, but Richard seemed glad
when he decided in the end that he preferred to stay where he was. Richard wants him to move to a more supportive school and
to get him specialist help. George has been in trouble at school for drunkenness, but he is a kind older brother to Kyle.

With Dan gone too, the street is empty of my ghosts, but I've been having nightmares about that night, about the whispers
in the wind and Paula's fall. I have a private theory, that if I heard a voice that night just before she fell, it was the
voice of Paula herself shouting into the storm, declaring her guilt to the world. She needed to do it, and she did it standing
on the balcony before she threw herself off. It was, I like to think, her last confession. A confession not to God, but to
humanity.

I can't go on having nightmares. I know I need to go. I need to leave the security of my hibernation and reclaim my place
in the world. Adam's flat will be a new start. Carol will come with us. She's agreed to live in for the next year, to help
me with the children while I find my feet. Jane thinks it weird that I should go and live in Adam's home, and of course it
has occurred to me that one way or another he will still be there, but I trust he will be a friendly ghost, and we should
all probably get to know him. Adam was far from perfect, but he was, after all, Hannah and William's father.