Falling Off Air (35 page)

In my head I can see how it happens. Suzette is concerned that her documentary is turning into fluff. So far it is all nice
volunteers and helpful institutions, lots of pats on the back for Paula Carmichael, who she feels is too good to be true.
Suzette wants substance, she needs an illustration of a grimmer reality.

“Paula,” I see her saying, “they'll listen to you. You're the one with the clout here. I need more than this. I need something
so visually shocking that our viewers really sit up and take notice and say ‘God, this is so awful, I need to do something.
I need to get involved.’”

And Paula wanted the documentary, of course, because it would mean so much to the cause. She had moved mountains, but she
needed publicity. She'd already invested weeks of her time in the project. She might not feel comfortable about it, but Suzette
was the professional. If Suzette said it was necessary, then it was necessary.

Then the picture grew cloudier. Amey says he will not be involved. My guess is that Sennet—Dan—steps in with an offer of help.
I know a guy who knows a guy who knows … He needs some cash to do the persuading. Suzette is unhappy, but if it's the only
way to get the footage … just don't ever tell the Corporation, Ned. Perhaps he needs cash for the drug too … Suzette doesn't
want to know where the heroin comes from. Probably she doesn't even want to be present when they film the boy. Perhaps Sennet
does the whole thing on his own. He knows the boy is just a baby, knows the boy's been drinking, that he's sick, knows he
needs the cash and is desperate for the drug. Suzette at least thinks she's buying a pro, some hardened addict. If she had
been there, if she had seen him, then surely she would put a stop to what happens next—but then why didn't Paula put a stop
to it? And what did Adam know of what took place? Four people, bonded together by guilt. Two of them dead, one missing.

Deep in my thoughts, I lose all sense of time. There is no one else on the beach, no one in sight. The sky is getting darker,
but the wind is losing none of its power, and I am beginning to be more aware of the cold and the wet, the beach and the railway
tracks. Then, out of nowhere, comes a voice from behind me.

“Small world.”

I start, turn, knowing already who I will find.

Dan Stein—Ned Sennet—is walking just behind me.

For an instant I try to formulate words—I will challenge him, demand the truth—but he is in no mood to talk. He takes advantage
of my hesitation by walking straight toward me so that I have no alternative but to step backward, off the path.

He smiles at me, licks the rain off his lips. He is wearing jogging pants and a black waterproof jacket, its hood over his
crew-cut head. Until now I have seen him in the chinos and button-down collars that make every man look the same size. Now,
for the first time, I realize that he is large and athletic. We are both wet through.

“Funny running into you here,” he says, shouting over the storm. He is still coming toward me, and when I step backward once
more I feel the low chicken-wire fence behind me. For a moment I lose my footing, and the chicken wire gives way. Behind me
is a steep embankment, and below that the railway line.

“Are you sure you don't want to go out with me?” he yells, still grinning. I realize that on top of the noise of the storm
there is now another sound, an approaching train. Dan leans over me, making me bend even farther back to avoid the touch of
his body, puckering his lips, laughing when I turn my face away. As the train approaches, I raise my knee into his groin,
but he jumps backward before it makes contact and my sudden movement makes me lose my balance. I am slipping. The train roars
toward us, and I see the driver's face, frozen in alarm as he catches sight of us. I fall forward, pulling myself away from
the embankment. Then the train is gone.

“I know what happened to the boy,” I yell at Dan through the rain, fury overwhelming fear.

He turns his face away for an instant, then turns back to me.

“The boy was a mistake, forget about him,” he yells back. “Remember what happened to Paula.” He comes closer again and this
time I stand my ground. He leans in close and still I don't move. My jaw is set. I don't even want to run, I want to fight.

“You'll never find me,” he says, his mouth so close to my ear that he doesn't have to shout, “but I can always find you.”

I feel his tongue on my ear and slap him hard across the face. He laughs, steps away from me.

“Why are you here?” I shout.

“Remember Paula,” he mouths at me. He blows me a kiss and, grinning, turns and walks away. I start to walk after him, and
when he starts to jog, I break into a run too. We are heading toward the Mount but the rain is getting heavier, the sky is
black, and Dan pulls away from me into the downpour. Then, all at once, as the path divides, I have lost sight of him. I bend
over, hands on knees, panting. My legs are shaking, and my heart is pounding, and I am soaked to the skin.

Up in the town, away from the shore, I found a coffee shop open. I was the only customer, and the tables were all set with
white lace tablecloths. The waitress, a young woman with blond streaks in her hair and a tight pink T-shirt that rode up over
her stomach, looked at me in horror as I dripped through the door.

“Did you get caught in the rain?” she asked, full of sympathy.

I nodded. I'd got caught and nearly killed in the rain, but I wasn't ready to share that.

“Isn't it awful. I'll get you a towel,” she said, and I stood and waited, not daring to plant my soaking self on one of her
white chairs. I dug my mobile phone out of my pocket, but then realized it had run out of power.

When the waitress got back I dried myself as best I could and thanked her profusely. Then I asked for a coffee and the use
of her telephone.

I rang my home number and Carol answered. She reported that the children were fine, although by the time she had arrived the
day before Jane had put Hannah's nappy on back to front and had the contents of the old nappy smeared down her skirt. Between
them Jane, Carol, and my mother seem to have a schedule worked out. Carol will do the daytime shift while my mother is at
work. My mother will do the night shift and stay until Carol returns in the morning. Jane has been demoted to logistical support
in the form of grocery shopping. “She needs to feel useful,” Carol confided. The children are cheerful without me, and when
I speak to them briefly, they do not break down in floods of tears. Before I hang up I remind Carol that she must not open
the door to strangers.

Relieved and reinvigorated by the knowledge that all was well at home, I rang Amey to tell him that he was right, that the
boy on the video was the boy he remembered from the newspaper, but he had already taken that for granted.

“You need to come over here now,” he told me, his voice tight. “There's someone you need to talk to.”

Amey was waiting for me in his office, and with him was a young woman, slim and attractive, her dark hair gathered in a ponytail
on top of her head, her ears and fingers heavy with silver jewelry. She was seated at Amey's desk, and she looked apprehensive.
Amey was standing, stone-faced.

“Becky is my assistant here,” he said, his voice clipped. I nodded at her, and she dipped her head at me, but Amey was not
in a mood for social niceties. “I asked her days ago whether she'd seen Ned, and she said no. Now she tells me she's been
talking to him on a daily …”

“Mike, you told me someone was looking for him, and you asked if I'd seen him,” Becky interrupted, defiant. “I told you I
hadn't seen him because I
hadn't
seen him. I'd just talked to him on the phone. I didn't know where he was.”

“Why on earth didn't you give me his phone number?”

“I don't know, I just didn't think … It was only today, when you said a boy died, that I realized it was important. I thought
you were just mad at him for walking out on us.”

At which Amey's face turned purple. He was appalled at her idiocy, but I wasn't convinced by her story. He was about to harangue
her, but I gestured at him that I wanted to speak, and he shut up, shaking his head in frustration.

“Becky, Ned told you not to give anyone his phone number, didn't he?”

Becky fixed me with a speculative eye. She didn't reply.

“Were the two of you seeing each other?” I asked her.

She nodded minutely, a single jerk of the head.

“And he told you he wanted to continue his relationship with you?”

Another nod of assent.

“But he didn't want everyone calling him, he just wanted you.”

“He felt put upon here.” Becky glared at Amey. “They'd been asking too much of him because he was so good at things. He wanted
to break off contact with them, but not with me.”

“So when Mike told you someone wanted to get in touch with Ned, you lied.”

“I told Mike I didn't know where he was,” Becky said, “which was true, but I passed the message on to Ned. I told him exactly
what Mike said to me, that a journalist from the
West Penwith Herald
was trying to track him down to ask him some questions about some boy. Ned said he didn't want anything to do with any journalist,
so I wasn't to let on how to contact him.”

I turned to Amey.

“That's who wanted to contact him?” I demanded. “A journalist from the
West Penwith Herald?
”

“Neil Bovin. I thought nothing of it,” Amey said defensively.

“Did he say why he wanted to speak to Ned?”

Amey sighed. He looked a good ten years older than he had that morning.

“All right. Look, when I told him Ned didn't work for us anymore he wanted to know whether there had been any problem with
him. I asked what sort of problem, and he asked whether Ned had dealt drugs. Well, there had never been the slightest suggestion
of anything like that, so I'm afraid I gave him short shrift. I did try ringing the producer woman, Milner, because I thought
she might have a contact number for him. I think I may even have told her what the journalist had said about Ned, I'd found
the allegation so disturbing, but she didn't know where he was either, and I decided there was nothing more I could be expected
to do.”

Amey was red in the face, as though he felt he should have done more to trace Ned Sennet, or as though he should have admitted
that he'd been warned about Ned, but it would have made no difference to the substance of what had happened. Sean Morris was
already dead.

“The journalist rang me too,” Becky said quietly. “I told him I didn't know where Ned was, but he didn't ask me about the
dealing, or I'd have said something.”

“For Christ's sake,” Amey exclaimed, “is there anyone else we should know about?”

“The woman from the TV crew,” Becky said, “the blond one, she rang me too, looking for Ned. I told her I didn't know where
he was.”

“But you passed the message on,” I prompted her.

“I told Ned,” she agreed. “He said he'd deal with it.”

Amey drove me to a pub in Newlyn, where the journalist from the
West Penwith Herald
had agreed to meet us. I was still wet from the rain. My feet were particularly uncomfortable, soggy in my boots. I could
feel angry vibrations coming from Amey.