Falling (24 page)

Tom gave a final tug, yanking Jim’s lifeless body through the remains of the shattered door.

Blissfully cold snow, air rushing into his lungs and he turned, vomiting. Hands wrapping themselves around his shoulders. A voice that comes from a long way away.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Chapter 40

Freya – Sunday, 25th March – 11.03pm

Freya stared at the leaping flames. A blue-checked blanket was pulled across her legs. She still cradled the phone. Had dialled the number, five times, six. She would be breaking a man’s heart, she knew that. And he would hate her for it. But it would be better, in the end. Not questioning for whom. Had punched the numbers in, wondering just how many times her father had done the same thing, calling this man’s wife. The phone had rung and rung.

She should probably go to bed. Her grandparents had gone up hours ago, her mother earlier still. But still she sat there, the television flashing a cacophony of colours in the darkened room, volume low. Some 80s comedy, a late-night special.

She had come in from the car, could hear her grandparent’s voices in the kitchen. Richard was out, had left earlier that afternoon, had said that he was going to get together with some friends, and Freya had been relieved, hoping that her brother’s friends could help him with his grief where she could not. Freya had paused in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her grandparents argue about something and nothing. Then, slowly, she had taken the stairs.

The light was off in the spare room. Freya had hung on the landing, almost turning around. But then, she knew that was never really an option. Slowly, she had twisted the handle, hearing it scree loudly in the darkness.

“Mum?”

“What is it, Freya?”

The curtains were open. Her mother was lying in the bed, head tilted on stacked up pillows, staring out of the window at the stars.

“Are you okay?” Freya asked.

Her mother didn’t answer for the longest time, then sighed heavily. “I guess.”

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“I…I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Dad…was he…” How the hell did you say it, how did you even form the words?

“Was he what, Freya?” Her mother’s voice had taken on a glassy edge.

Freya hung in the doorway. It wasn’t too late. She could say, nothing, turn and leave. Her mother wouldn’t bring it up again, because that was just the way they were. “Mum, I found the bag. In the car.”

“What bag?”

“I…the bag. With the…I found the picture, too. The one in his bedside cabinet.”

Her mother didn’t answer, just let the room fill with a soupy silence. “I asked you not to go in there.”

“I know.” Freya said. “Mum? You knew, didn’t you?”

A heavy sigh. “Freya…”

The word hung there for so long that Freya didn’t think she would say any more.

“Freya, please just let it go.”

Freya stood, absorbed the implication. “You knew?”

“It’s done, Freya. It’s over. It’s been…it’s over. Your father…he loved me, Freya. Me. Just let it go now.” Her mother had turned then, had pulled the quilt up over her head.

Freya had wanted to cry.

The fire in the grate crackled and bounced. Freya shivered. Seemed like she just couldn’t get rid of the chill. Looked down at the phone, pressing the numbers again. She knew it by heart now. Couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers were right there, at the end of the line. What would make her father do something so horrific? What had happened to him, on that last day? She couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t shake this fear that had begun to build in her. It had burrowed under her skin like an addiction, nerve endings craving the truth. Nothing, still hopeless ringing.

Then there was a sound, the creaking of floorboards. Didn’t know how she knew it was Richard, but she knew it anyway. Just a little boy driven from sleep by the death of his father. There was a feeling in her stomach when she thought of him, something that felt suspiciously like guilt. She should have taken better care of him.

“Hey, Frey.”

Richard’s hands were tucked into his pockets, eyes brighter than she had expected.

“Hi.” Freya smiled. Seeing him hidden in the shadow of the trees. The woman with the chestnut hair, cradling her injured arm. Recognising that look, had spent her life seeing it in him every time their father was near. A poisonous mixture of adoration and fear. “You okay?”

“Yeah” He said. “Thanks.” He sank to the couch. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing much. Just waiting for the news. So, you’re okay?”

“Yeah. It’s cold out there.”

Freya watched her brother. His hands folded in his lap, leaning forward, all awkward angles, and for the most fleeting of moments she wanted to ask him why he has done what he has done. Then the light changed and she remembered, the son rather than the father. She looked back at the television.

“It was cold at the memorial this morning.” Her voice came out light, airy almost.

“Mmmm.” He rubbed his eyes, his smile fleeting. “It’s stopped snowing, anyway.”

Freya nodded. “Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you come with us?”

He wasn’t looking at her, had sunk back into the sofa, staring at the television. “I don’t know. Just…” A shrug. “…couldn’t face it, I guess.”

“But you came on your own.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Oh.”

They sat there, for long moments. Richard not looking at her, staring at the TV. Something had filled the room, the sense of words waiting to be said. Freya watched her brother. Waiting.

“Frey?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss him.” That was it, the bursting of the dam. He looked back at her, eyes swimming, looking so much younger now, and she wanted to cry herself with pain, frustration.

“I know, honey.” Freya pulled her brother to her, his words dissolving into little boy sobs, his tears trickling warm along her collar bone.

“Why…why did it have to happen?”

Freya bit her lip, could feel heat stinging the back of her eyes. “I don’t know, Rich. I really don’t know.”

“I didn’t…I…Dad…he…” Then there were no more words, or none that she could make out at least. Just wrenching, tearing sobs.

Freya cradled her brother. Wanted to tell him it was all going to be all right. But now she was thinking about that family holiday they took in Florida, the one where they got stuck in the hotel by a looming hurricane, trying to entertain themselves with jigsaw puzzles and re-runs of kid’s shows that they didn’t really get. And her father. Telling them it was an adventure. Saying it would be a great story to tell when they got home. Making them cry laughing with his efforts at charades, and, when the wind picked up and the sky darkened and they had become scared, pulling them all under the duvet on the kingsize bed – Freya, Richard, her mother and him – telling them stories by torchlight. Being the father that she had always wanted.

Tears built up behind her eyes, rolled down her cheeks and she kissed the top of her brother’s head. “I miss him too, kiddo.” And it didn’t feel like a lie.

It took long minutes for the sobs to subside. Finally, Richard pushed himself up, scrubbing at his eyes with the balled up sleeve of his jumper.

Freya watched him. Didn’t bother to wipe away her own tears. Felt good to have them there. “Rich. You can’t keep all this stuff to yourself. You keep locking yourself in your room. You need to be able to talk to someone.”

He didn’t answer, then glanced sideways at her. “I am talking to someone. There’s a lady. She’s been nice to me. She…” Richard looked down. “She was on Dad’s plane.”

Then Freya remembered the churchyard and the yew tree. “You’re talking about the woman at the memorial?”

He was looking at her now, startled. “How did you…?”

“I saw you. Saw you looking at her.”

He nodded. “Do you think it’s weird? I…I can’t talk to Mum, because, well…you know. But this woman, I can tell her stuff and she gets it because she was there.”

Another spasm of guilt, because that should have been her role, the big sister. But she’d been distracted, hadn’t she? Had been chasing ghosts while her brother struggled. “Of course it’s not weird.” She could ask him now, the lid was so tentatively closed, that was all it would take would be a little nudge, a gentle poke, and it would spill out of him. And that was her job. She was his sister. But on the television beyond him, the credits were rolling. Any second now the news would start. She didn’t want him to see it. Didn’t want him to get hurt again.

“Rich, you’re shattered.” She kissed his forehead again. “Why don’t you pop off to bed?”

He sat there for a moment, then pushed himself up. “Yeah. I think I will go to bed. You going too?”

“In a few minutes. You go on. I’ll see you in the morning. And Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“You can always talk to me, too.”

He stood for a moment, considering. “I know. Who do you talk to, Frey?”

Freya shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, feeling like she missed it. “I’m tough. I can handle myself.”

Richard smiled. “You need a boyfriend, sis.” Then he leaned over, kissed her cheek and trudged slowly up the stairs.

Freya stared into space for a moment. Thinking about her brother’s words. But then a flash from the TV caught her and she was trapped in a moment of dislocation. Seeing herself, standing with her arm around her mother, in their dark suits, their tight faces, standing in the snow like a bleak Christmas card. The camera zooming in on her mother, looking like death. She reached for the remote control, turning up the volume.

“…families mourning the victims of downed flight 2940. Investigations into the cause of the crash are still ongoing.”

Then the image changed and now there is a house ablaze – one of those box houses, starter homes, on a cardboard cut-out estate. Another everyday disaster.

“…former police superintendent Jim Hanover is in serious condition in Morriston hospital after being trapped in a fire at his daughter’s home. Officers are still investigating the murder of the Mr Hanover’s daughter, Police Community Support Officer Libby Hanover.”

Freya looked back at the television. There was a photograph on the screen. A young woman with a wide smile, dark hair. The woman in the picture.

Chapter 41

Tom – Monday, 26th March – 1.38pm

Tom’s footsteps echoed, rebounding from pastel hospital walls. A gentle skip, skip step, in harmony with his own. Ben’s head swivelling, left to right, running along walls, across chairs, a lean to glance out of the window into the courtyard below. Clinging to his father’s hand.

“You okay, bud?”

“Yes. Daddy?”

“Yeah, mate?”

“Is your friend sick?”

Turning the corner into the ward, doors flung wide open, the low beeping of machines, forgotten flowers.

“He is. He’ll be okay though.”

“Oh.” Ben skipped a little, dancing across zigzag cracks in the linoleum. “Does he have a cough like you?”

Tom’s throat throbbed, chest pulling at itself. It had been late when he had picked Ben up, a little after ten, even though the doctors had wanted to keep him in, because you can’t be too careful, your body has been through a lot, just to be on the safe side. Had smiled and nodded and then said no. I’m going home to my son. Had picked up Ben’s sleeping form, breathing him in, even though his insides felt scrubbed raw, his shoulder screaming where they had stitched it.

Cecilia had been asleep when they returned. He hadn’t bothered to wake her.

“You’ve got to be extra-quiet, okay bud?”

Ben’s shoes squealed across the floor. “’kay. Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“I love my Mickey.”

“I’m glad.”

It was Ben’s birthday. Today. The little boy had awoken, fizzing with an excitement that he was too young to identify. Had wandered around the pile of presents, looking up at his father, back down at the brightly wrapped gifts, bemused. Tom had bought Ben’s birthday presents weeks ago, seemed like the only lone father in the store. The assistant had offered him a sympathetic smile as he paid for the dancing Mickey Mouse, assuming that he was divorced, a weekend dad. He’d returned it tepidly.

The ward was quiet, nearly empty. Esther looked like she hadn’t slept. She balanced on the hard plastic chair, tilted forward so that her elbows pressed into the hospital bed, fingers steepled in supplication. Her forehead rested on her fingertips. Jim’s eyes were closed, breathing strained.

“Esther?”

She started, nerves frayed by too much pressure, spinning quickly in her chair. Looking at Tom, eyes fearful, wondering what fresh hell he is bringing her. Then her gaze dropped to his son, her expression softening. “Hi. Hi Tom.”

“How is he?” Tom nodded towards Jim’s sleeping form.

“He’s…okay. He’ll be in for a little while. Smoke inhalation.” Esther’s voice piano wire taut, trying not to cry. “And who is this handsome man?” A smile that she is trying very hard to mean.

“This is Ben. Ben, this is Esther.”

“Hi.” Ben was watching her, a glance up to his father, to the man sleeping in the bed.

“Buddy, could you do me a favour? Just pop yourself in that chair right over there for two minutes, okay? Right there by the TV. I just need a quick chat with Esther.”

“Kay.” His son nodded blithely, walked away in that meandering manner that toddlers have.

They didn’t speak for a moment, watched him pull himself up into the chair. Crossing his arms across his chest like he was seventy years old.

“He’s lovely, Tom.” Esther said.

“Thank you. Esther,” Tom pulled a chair forward, sitting down next to her. “there’s something I need to ask you about the night Libby was murdered.”

Saw her recoil, bitten by the words.

“Okay.”

“Do you know where your son was?”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed heavily. “You know about the argument.”

Tom watched her, feeling a pulse of something akin to anger. “I do. What I want to know is why I didn’t hear about it from you.”

Esther shook her head. “I should have told you. I know. But I knew what you would think. I know what he would have thought.” Nodding towards Jim, breathing still even. “You know, if he was in your position.” She looked down at her fingers. “You need to understand. Ethan’s been going through a really rough time. This job, it’s all he ever wanted. He’s been telling me that since he was five. He tried to be happy for Libby, when she got what he wanted, but you could tell that it really stung. Then when he realised he was never going to get it…I’ll be honest, he fell apart a bit. I know that he had a go at Libby. He told me. But I also know that he didn’t kill her.” Her voice cracked on the word.