The Fire Baby

deathbed, and lost a father he’d loved as a hero, but had never touched.

Dryden thought about Maggie’s confession. She said she’d given Matty away to give him a new life. Could that really be all that had driven her; driven a new mother to give away her only child? What was so terrible about the life he would have had? From what did Maggie want to save her son?

Maggie struggled to say more. She turned to Estelle and offered a hand. Dryden watched her daughter’s arm rise up, as if from under water, to clasp the fingers. And Dryden saw fear for the second time in Maggie’s eyes. But this time the fear was specific and had an edge. The whites of her eyes were oddly vibrant in a dying face as she scanned their circled faces, pleading, searching. She had more to say, more she had to say, but she couldn’t say it. Like a scream for help in a nightmare, the sound wouldn’t come. Estelle kissed her mother’s head and held her tight. But still there were no words.

Lyndon went for the doctor and a nurse gave Maggie more morphine, despite her feeble struggles.

‘She’ll sleep now,’ said the nurse, so they went outside to take in lungfuls of cool air. Then Lyndon and Estelle went back and sat by the bedside again. But when Maggie spoke it was only with the echo of a whisper, so they didn’t hear. There were just two words, spoken as she died that morning at 3.30am.

‘The tapes,’ she said.

Saturday, 7 June

12

The cathedral clock tolled four, a cold light tore the black edge of the horizon, and rooks rose in a cloud over the town. But it was the nightmare which woke Dryden. Always the same, and always in red. The gurgling blood, slipping past, with Laura clutching for his hand. He stretched out but never reached her, screaming silently for her to reach out to him. But she never did. Her eyes just asked a question: ‘Why did you leave me to die?’

He jolted awake, his heart racing, and the fear so vivid that his hand still stretched out for Laura’s.

Dawn greyed the hospital’s Gothic tower as two orderlies carried Maggie Beck’s body out of the foyer on a sealed stretcher. The silence and the lack of urgency told Dryden all he needed to know. He got out of the cab and stood, shivering, as the ambulance crept past.

Lyndon Koskinski walked behind it to the gates and then stood, watching until the curve in the road must have taken it finally out of sight. They were twenty feet apart but in the stillness of dawn they could almost whisper.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dryden.

Koskinski’s shoulders sloped, and his hands fluttered to his face, pushing back hair, and rubbing eyes.

‘She should have told us. Before. She should have told us,’ he said, walking closer.

‘It was her secret.’

‘It was my secret,’ said Koskinski, his voice suddenly angry. ‘She should have told me. At least. What can I do now?’ he asked, wanting an answer.

‘Look after Estelle,’ said Dryden.

He laughed then, the sound of a cynical lover rather than a grieving son, and Dryden’s skin crept.

‘Estelle,’ said Koskinski, pulling out a letter from his pocket. He stood holding it, uncertain what to do. ‘Maggie left this for you. I must go back,’ he added, looking up at Laura’s room with dread.

Dryden took the letter. ‘Can I do anything?’ he said.

Koskinski laughed again. ‘No one can do anything. Believe me. No one.’

Dryden sat on the iron bench and opened the letter. It was in Maggie’s elegant copperplate.

My Dear Philip,

When you read this I shall be dead, a thought which I’m forced to admit is not entirely repugnant to me. I have felt that my life is at its natural end for some time. I have made a dreadful mess of things, Philip, as you must now know. My illness has shortened what could have been a joyless old age. I have made my peace with God. As your mother knew, that is the most important thing.

There were many things I wanted to say in person before I died to the people whose lives I have disfigured. That is the word I have decided on, Philip – and it is the right one. I am conscious that I have done many wrongs, to many people. I have tried to deal with each. I have discharged my two secrets. They have weighed me down, Philip, and I shall be glad to be free of them.

There is one further matter left. What I have to say to you is best written. It is, after all, your medium. I want you to do something for me. Yes. Something more, I’m afraid, than the many things you have done already.

This letter concerns Lyndon’s father. For the sake of absolute clarity, and I am aware this is a legal document, I am talking about his natural father. I know that this man, whom I once loved, has never been far away. I have not seen him since 1976. Indeed, I have made sure of that. But I have watched his life, at first with some satisfaction, later with misgivings and a growing sense of my own guilt.

At first his identity was well known, at least within the family, although I doubt if they ever uttered his name after Matty was born. I certainly never did. We expunged him from history. I will not name him here, but for more complex reasons than shame and anger. I feel now that he deserves his anonymity if he wishes to keep it. He is a victim too. The only person who can rightly name him is himself. I tried to keep his name from Estelle, with success I think, and he deserves his obscurity still, if he wishes to keep it.

Whatever his faults, and believe me they were grievous, I have robbed this man of his son. I want to give him a chance to recover some of the life he could have known had I not done what I did. I admit, freely, that I do this more for Lyndon than for his father. But never mind. Both will benefit and it is time for charity and forgiveness. If you meet him, Philip, tell him I am sorry. Ask him to forgive me if he can.