Part 39 (1/2)

She looked at me, then right through me. She was wearing a t-s.h.i.+rt and knickers. 'I know you're out here,' she yelled, shockingly loud. 'I hear you.'

I pride myself on being able to deal with difficult, angry clients; can't remember a time when calm handling and a cool head didn't defuse a situation. 'Sacha. Look at me,' I said clearly. 'I'm here.'

'I know you're there,' she snarled. As I took a step closer I realised that she was glaring into the distance, listening to a voice that wasn't mine. Her gaze was flickering fast from one side to the other, her head darting like a snake about to strike. 'Where are you? Come on! Show yourself.'

Close behind her, Finn moved among the leaves. Instantly, Sacha's eyes narrowed. She whirled around.

'Got you!' she hissed, and reached out for him.

I ran.

Oh, I ran. Time froze, as though the moment was crystallised, as though it would last forever. And it will last forever. I shall be running down that balcony for the rest of my life, and Sacha will be gripping her brother by his arms; she will be lifting him easily and holding him high in the air. She has the strength of ten men-how can she be so strong? I shall hear the pounding of my feet on the boards. I'll stretch out my hands, and scream.

But I'll always be too late. Finn will fall. He'll plunge headlong, tiny hands clutching at nothing.

So here's the question: what if your own daughter is a monster? Do you point and shout? She's an addict, a dealer, a thief. She's the devil who attacked your little son. I feel as though I'm cradling a ticking bomb.

Honesty isn't always the best policy, never mind what my mother says. Kit has a right to know what really happened to Finn, but I can't tell him. I really, truly can't. I feel as though I'll never love Sacha again or even look her in the eye. How can I expect him to? No, he'll leave me. He'll leave, and take the twins with him because they aren't safe near Sacha. The idea terrifies me because I can't bear to imagine life without Kit and my little boys. It would hardly be worth living.

What's more, if I blow the whistle those nice policemen will go straight out and arrest Sacha. They'll take her away. What will they charge her with-grievous bodily harm, attempted murder? Oh, and dealing in drugs, for good measure. Her life will be over, and so will Finn's and Charlie's. The boys are the real victims in all of this; the only ones who are completely innocent.

I'm alone, clutching that ticking bomb, and I mustn't drop it. If I drop it my family will be blown apart. If I can hold on, we all have the chance of a normal life.

So I tell Kit my story: how I sat on the sofa in the dark, waiting for him to come home. I describe how Finn wandered out of his door and climbed onto the rail as quick as a monkey.

'I ran,' I whisper. 'I ran, and I screamed at him. But he wouldn't wake up, it was like a nightmare. He just . . . toppled over the edge.' I can see it all, feel it all; I shudder at the monstrous thud. 'It's my fault. I wasn't quick enough.'

Kit covers my hand with his. 'It's not your fault.'

I hear voices, and glimpse Neil Sutherland's corrugated-iron hair. He's brought some sidekicks. They're in a huddle with a senior nurse.

I move closer to Kit. 'They think one of us did it on purpose.'

'They think what?'

'I've had a social worker trying to get a confession out of me. D'you remember when Finn came off his bike on New Year's Day?'

'Did he?' Kit's brow furrows. 'So he did.'

'It turns out his wrist was broken. It's healed now, but it showed up on an X-ray. And there are some bruises on his arm . . . they look like finger marks. So they've been getting their knickers in a twist. I mean, for G.o.d's sake, Kit! He's covered in bruises.'

'They think we've been abusing Finny?' Kit looks incredulous.

'They know you flew in yesterday, but I fibbed about it at first. I didn't want any awkward questions about why you came home and left again.'

He's on his feet, shock channelled into anger. 'Who do I speak to? Bring it on!'

'Calm down. You're being watched.'

'I don't give a f.u.c.k if I'm being watched.'

I put my arms around him, murmuring into his ear, 'They think one of us lost our rag and hurt Finn. So settle down, and stop behaving like a man who loses his rag easily.'

When Sutherland and his wing-men arrive, Kit collars them. 'Can you tell me what's going on here?'

'You're Dad, are you?' Sutherland is obviously used to agitated parents. He introduces himself, leans on the edge of a little basin and explains everything again. 'Finn arrived early this morning in a life-threatening condition-the helicopter team did a great job in keeping him stable until he got to us. He had a head injury and a ruptured spleen, both of which needed urgent surgical intervention. From an orthopaedic point of view, he got away with a fractured radius and ulna-least of his problems. We've just been discussing his progress and we're pleased, but he's still a very poorly boy.'

Kit has simmered down. After all, these people undoubtedly saved Finn's life. 'Thank you,' he says fervently. 'Thank you for what you did. Will he live normally without his spleen?'

'I'd say so. At the moment, I'm more concerned about the head injury.'

'And what's this about it not being an accident?'

Sutherland is unruffled. 'Whenever a child is injured we have to consider whether parenting fell short in some way. And there are features about Finn's presentation that raised concerns, so we consulted with the paediatric social worker.'

Kit points at me. 'Martha's never laid a finger on any of our kids, and she never would! Or am I chief suspect? If so, I checked into a motel in Westsh.o.r.e at about midnight last night. The bloke will remember me all right because he was in his dressing-gown.'

Sutherland's pager begins to bleep. 'It really would be best if you discussed this with Mrs Pohatu. Make contact with her tomorrow. Excuse me-I'm being paged.' And he is gone, marching through the swing doors with his squad.

'Why us?' Kit looks bewildered. 'What about all the truly abused kids who fall through the net? They get hurt time after time, live in abject misery, but n.o.body sounds the alarm and the poor little blighters wind up dead.'

We sit with Finn all evening. This is a ward on a knife edge, continually battling with death. n.o.body relaxes, ever. And our Finn is here. Kit wants to hear every detail, yet again: the fall, the helicopter, my long vigil. He needs to understand exactly what each specialist has said. We talk around and around, promising one another with brittle airiness that Finn will be fine.

Finn doesn't look fine. There's no flicker, no sign that he is still inside the battered mannequin. He lies inert, plugged into his bank of machines.

Eventually, Kit asks about Sacha. I give him the barest facts: she's relapsed, given away her car, come home in a dreadful state.

He's holding Finn's hand between his own. 'Let's focus on this little guy. I can't think about anything else. Jesus, what else matters? Once this is all over we can worry about Sacha. We'll ask for professional help, do whatever it takes.'

I am only too happy to go along with his plan. I'm not capable of making life-changing decisions, either. My care, my will, my every thought and instinct is centred in Finn's survival. Nothing else exists.

'It's going to be all right,' says Kit, as though to rea.s.sure himself. 'He's a fighter.'

I close my eyes. A demon s.n.a.t.c.hes up Finn's puny body-got you!-and hurls him out into the darkness. I'll never forgive her.

It's after ten when the senior nurse approaches us. 'I'd suggest you both go home and get some sleep,' she says firmly. 'Finn is stable. I promise we'll phone if there's any change at all.'

I'm aghast. 'Can't at least one of us stay?'

'Yes, you can. We won't throw you out. But look, you really should rest because you both look terrible. I know you were up all last night, Martha, and you-' she raises her eyebrows at Kit-'have only just flown in from Europe! You two have to look after yourselves. This little boy's recovery is going to be a long haul.'

Reluctantly, we obey. As we kiss Finn goodnight, Kit pulls something out of his pocket and lays it on the bedside cabinet.

'Charlie sent your Game Boy, friend.'

Thirty-seven.