but it can never be over for us.
‘Until then, I belong to you as totally as I say you belong to me, as finally as though the words had been said before an altar. Nothing could make me more yours than I am at this moment.’
He moved his fingers gently, so that they were beneath hers.
‘They say that hearing outlasts the other senses. Is that true? Can you hear me? If only you could let me know! Can’t you squeeze my hand, even slightly?’
But she never moved. It was as though she was dead already.
The door opened and a man in a white coat looked in, surprised at the sight of him.
‘The nurse was called away,’ Carlo said.
‘But I haven’t seen you here before. Who are you?’
Carlo rose to his feet.
‘I am her husband,’ he said.
The darkness was everywhere, but it changed quality all the time: sometimes thick and impenetrable, sometimes shot through with coloured flashes. Mixed with the darkness was the hideous noise.
There had been a blow on her head as the plane smashed into the runway. When she’d become half conscious again she’d found that opening her eyes was searingly painful, and given up the attempt. Dazed, she’d lain, listening to the screams around her, shouts, cries for help.
Someone yelled, ‘Get that ambulance here quickly.’
Then another voice said, more quietly, ‘This one’s dead. Who’s next?’
A violent jolt sent pain shrieking through her body, and the sounds vanished. Then there was only blackness, hot and swirling about her head.
She recovered consciousness, lost it, regained it, lost it again, until she could no longer tell one state from another. The air grew cooler, voices changed, pain faded, everything became blessedly peaceful. But it was the peace of nothing.
The world grew dim, leaving her in isolation through which presences came and went. Ghosts danced around her-Carlo as he’d been in their happy days, reaching out to take her in his arms and lead her to the new life that had beckoned for them, which she had rejected.
She could see Sol-and somehow Gina was there, but she faded, then Sol faded. Only Carlo was left, and he was running away from her. He knew that she’d come to Naples to find him and he didn’t want her any more.
She was tired now. All she had to do was walk on, to a place where she could sleep, but suddenly he was there behind her, calling, pleading, demanding that she turn back because he was her husband.
She tried to think how that had happened, but everything was confusion and at last she knew that it did not matter. He had claimed her, and she was safe.
Sol returned two hours later, looking sheepish.
‘I fell asleep in the cafe,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Carlo said. He was feeling in charity with Sol for leaving him alone for so long, even by accident.
‘Has there been any change?’
Before Carlo could answer a doctor and nurse came in. After studying the machines the doctor said, ‘It’s strange how sometimes that happens, very suddenly.’
‘What happens?’ Carlo asked sharply.
‘The vital signs simply start to improve for no apparent reason. It’s happening here. Heart-rate, breathing, blood pressure-all better. Good. Let’s try disconnecting the breathing machine. If your wife can breathe on her own, that’ll be a big step forward.’
Sol looked puzzled at the word ‘wife’, but after a glance at Carlo’s face he said nothing, and both of them stood back while the machine was disconnected.
The tense silence that followed seemed to go on for ever. Then Della’s chest heaved, and she was breathing. The nurse smiled, the doctor hissed a soft ‘Yes!’ and Sol and Carlo thumped each other on the shoulder.
Carlo was the first to stop, turning away and hurrying out of the room, so that nobody should see him weep. He stayed a long time at the window in the corridor, convulsed with silent sobs, trying to bring himself under control.
‘Carlo!’
He turned to see his mother, advancing from the far end of the corridor. She opened her arms to him and he went into them willingly.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked huskily.
‘Signor Forest called the villa, asking about you. When he told us what had happened I knew everything. How is she?’
‘She’s very, very ill, Mamma. She’s just started to breathe unaided, but it’s only the start. She’s still unconscious, and she may be blind. I’ve tried talking to her, telling her that I’m here for her. I hoped it might help her fight.’
‘You must be patient, my son. This will take time, so I brought you a bag with some clean clothes and shaving things. I expect you’ll be here for a while.’ She gave him the bag, adding, ‘Call home as often as you can. I want to be kept up to date.’
When she had left he called Alan Forest to explain, apologise, and thank him for talking to Hope.
‘No need to say more,’ Alan told him kindly. ‘I got the picture as soon as you dashed off. Good luck. Maybe we’ll work together one day.’
He returned to Della’s room find the doctor talking,
‘It’s looking better, but it’s too soon to uncross our fingers. As I expect you know, she’s already had a heart attack.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ Carlo said sharply.
‘It happened on the first day. It was mild, but in her condition everything is serious.’
It took two more days for Della to be declared out of danger. The staff were still unwilling to let them both be in the room together, so he and Sol reached a working arrangement under which they took it in turns.
As hour followed hour the machines showed that she was growing stronger, and he tried to think ahead. But he hit a brick wall, unable to imagine what the future held.
It seemed to him the most brutal ill luck that he wasn’t there when she finally came round. He came in to find Sol rejoicing, while Della had relapsed into unconsciousness.
‘What did she say?’ Carlo demanded.
‘Not much,’ Sol told him. ‘I held her hand and told her who I was, and she knew me. Her mind’s clear.’
‘Did you tell her I was here?’
‘No. I’m not sure how much she can take in yet. The doctor said not to put pressure on her.’
It was reasonable, but Carlo’s disappointment was bitter.
Sol watched Carlo struggling to come to terms with it, and saw what the effort at self-control did to him. A grudging respect tinged his hostility and he said, ‘OK, there’s something you’d better see. I had to go through her stuff, and I found this in the hand luggage.’ He handed Carlo a thick envelope. ‘I guess it tells its own story.’
He left the room quickly, giving Carlo no chance to reply.
The envelope contained photographs. Letting them spill onto the bed, Carlo saw his own face a hundred times, either alone or with her. They had all been taken during their first glorious week together, and she had brought them with her, in her hand luggage. Perhaps she had even looked at them during the flight.
She had been coming back to him. Nothing else could account for this.
But his first leap of delight was overtaken by another feeling as he studied the pictures. They showed him to himself in a new light. Here was a man clearly in love, but equally clearly driven by possessiveness. He’d made jokes about being her slave, but his hands had always been holding her tightly, as though fearing to free her to make her own decisions.
How often had he pressed her to do what he wanted? How often had she begged for more time? In the end he’d suffocated her, driving her to flee. It was his fault that she was lying here.
He sat beside her, watching her face, silently pleading with her to wake up and speak to him. Because more than anything in the world he wanted to tell her that he was sorry.
He stayed with Della for the next few hours, talking, praying that she could hear him, but when his stint was
