Chapter 9

The End of a Dream

 

"This where you found him?" The policeman looked directly at David.

    "He's not been moved; I called you as soon as I found him."

    Inspector Brindell looked around, nodding as he did so at things in and about the room.  "Who lives here; it's a big place?"

    "My father ... " David stopped almost as soon as he started, pointing to the body on the floor," then continued, "myself - now and again - and Mrs Simpson."

    "Mrs Simpson?"

    "Yes, she's been with the family since my brother and I were babies."

    "What does she do then; cook, maid, housekeeper?"

    "All of those things, and lots besides." David stopped to think; "I don't really know what you would call her, she was always there... just... Mrs Simpson."

    "That it then?"

    David waited a moment wondering how best to announce the last of the current residents. "My brother is a regular visitor, and then we have a house guest, a young lady called Rebecca Carr.  She doesn’t live here, but she does spend a lot of time here."

    "Rebecca Carr?" The detective paused and gave David a long look.  "Seems we've been hearing quite a lot about her recently, haven't we?"

    David did not want to be drawn.  "Its been very difficult." was all he said.

    "Where is she then, your er;"  another long pause,  "house guest; Rebecca Carr.  Do you think we should be checking the bedrooms?"

    The little smile which crossed his lips was very fleeting, as he looked directly at David waiting for an answer.

    Ignoring the jibe he replies evenly and quietly, "I don't know where they are.  I came home expecting them to be here and found ... this."  Again he pointed to his fathers body, now being examined by a man from forensic.

    "Them? ... you said them>"

    "I was expecting my brother to be here as well ... Richard."

    "They're both missing then?"

    "Well, they are not here, but that doesn’t mean they are missing; does it? And before you ask I have no Idea where they might be, or even if they are together."

    "Where were you then?"

    "We have a business to run you know, and my father has had something of a struggle facing up to things." David looked at the detective, hoping he might see some sign of understanding, but he was disappointed for the face staring at him revealed nothing.  He continued.  "So I have been spending a lot of time at the office."

    "I expect they've given you a rough time, what with all the revelations and things?" The smile almost broke this time, nearly bringing some humanity into the detectives long thin face.  But not quite.

    David kept control of his growing annoyance.  He had learnt from bitter experience since Becky had become hot news, how to hold on, and when to let go.

    "Not at all, my staff are very loyal." was all he said.

    "He definitely been stabbed sir." the voice coming from the man near the body.  "Can't say much more though until we get him into the labs"

    "Thank you Mr Bomally ... you won't be going anywhere will you?"  It was not so much a question as a command. The inspector tried to smile again, but it seemed that he just could not make it,  "and when your brother comes home ... tell him I want to see him."

    "My brother lives in London Inspector; that's his home.  Shall I tell him you'll call round sometime?"

    Brindell didn't rise to the bait, but the beginnings of another smile appeared.  "Yes Mr Bomally, you do that, and oh',  Miss Carr; I’ll be wanting to have a look at her as well."  This time the smile did break through, though David felt that there was no good will in it.

    Brindell and his team spent the rest of the day at the house.  Every room was checked, and was the garden.  Some time in the afternoon one of the outside squad, dressed in his plastic protective clothing came in carrying a knife, safely deposited in a little plastic bag.

    "This might be it," he said to Brindell "shall I send it down to the lab?"

    Brindell responded in his usual laconic manner, "Put it with the others; that's three we've found in the garden, wonder they've got any left in the house. Find any bodies out there?"  

    Sometimes he was amusing but usually he was brief and pithy,  seldom given to out and out humour. He was capable of a suitably cutting remark, and occasionally, admittedly very occasionally, a stunning 'bon mot', when miraculously, usually to his own surprise, he manages to find just the right response to a comment or situation.

    Well at least he thought that they were little gems, and that it was little more than sour grapes that his colleagues failed to appreciate them. Or, he quietly conceded, if they did, they never laughed.

    More often than not however his comments were neither funny or incisive, and generally somehow he managed to just miss the point.   Although he did have moments of lightness, it seemed that because joy and humour were not ‘up front’ in his life, he found it difficult to concede that it may be so in others.  It wasn’t so much that he was a sad man, rather that he was cold. Cold at home and cold at work.

     There had in fact been only one other find of any significance; the paper knife.  The two other knives found during the search looked to have been dropped by a careless gardeners and had lain undiscovered twenty years or more.

    Brindell had been wandering about the house for some hours now, and the only person he had seen, apart from his own men was David. The body had now been removed, the knife sent to forensic, and he felt, at least for now, that there was little more to be done.

    Looking for David, he found himself entering the kitchen, the inner sanctuary of Mrs Simpson's domain.  There he found the very tearful lady being comforted David; by her youngest and favourite  charge.

    Before making his presence known he witnessed a tender moment.  David was clearly very fond of this lady, who, he had said earlier, had always been part of his life.

    "I can manage very easily you know," he was saying, "why don't you go upstairs and lie down."

    "An what's the point of that." she answered  "I might just as well stay down here where I can keep busy."

    A little cough into the back of his hand, brought the attention the policeman was seeking.

    "I'm sorry to interrupt Mr Bomally.” And then addressing the lady,  “Mrs Simpson, I do need to speak to you."

    She looked at David for support, and he, knowing how upset she was stood up. "Can't it wait until tomorrow Inspector, she's really not up to it just now."

     "It can wait no longer I'm afraid, but I will make it as brief as possible.”

    Brindell looked at David in a certain way.  Nothing was said but the message was clear.

    "I'll see you very soon Mrs Simpson." David said as he left the kitchen.

    Brindell was as good as his word, asking only essential questions.  Then, as he prepared to take his leave he looked down on her.  She was looking very strained, and the policeman was not at all sure if she really knew what was going on.  

    "I'll come in the morning to talk to you again OK?   In the morning Mrs Simpson, about half past nine; alright?"

    He left it at that, trusting, but by no means certain, that she had got the message.  There were times like this when he was glad that none of his team were around.  It wouldn't do any good at all, for them to find out that he did have a heart after all.

    As he drove back to his headquarters he talked to himself.  In the privacy of his car he always talked to himself.  Even when he was not alone he would sometimes do it, and if it prompted any comments he would say “It's better than thinking. You get a much clearer picture.”  

    He was thinking about Gerald Bomally.  Of course he knew of him; a well known wealthy business man, often featured on the local TV, and in magazines.  “Why,” he asked his reflection in the side window, beyond which other traffic and trees and buildings whizzed by, “would a self made billionaire at the peak of his life and power, allow himself to be involved in a sordid sex scandal; not only with a prominent film actress, but also his two sons. Then to cap it all manage to get himself killed?”

    That elusive smile tried once more to make an appearance, but as usual it failed.  But this time it was replaced with a curious expression. “Ha ha,” he laughed out loud, “This could be one for Columbo instead of me.  I wonder what he would make of it?”

    In fact he often thought he was a bit like the fictional detective.  Not in appearance of course - chalk and cheese there.  Brindell was tall and thin; some might say skinny. But he did sometimes wear an old raincoat.  No, the similarity was in his manner,  so often apparently lost and confused by the intricacies of the crime; bumbling along in what seemed like a  hap-hazard kind of way, but then just when all seems lost, the final piece of the puzzle would fit into place, and 'bingo'; another crime solved.

    But he was intrigued about this case.  “Son missing! lover missing!  Sounds like a stitch up to me, and if they are in it together, they would be the ones to benefit.” His reflection nodded back.  “Ah. But only if they get away with it!” it seemed to  counter, almost as an afterthought.

    “But that Rebecca car.” He looked again at his reflection. “My word, she really is a beauty. Why would she get involved in something like this when it was all happening for her as an actress, and when, by all accounts, she had the world at her feet?”

    The downside of talking to oneself is of course, that seldom do you get any answers to your questions.  And one of the questions was  “Where are Rebecca Carr, and Richard Bomally?”

    Brindell leaned forward and switched the car radio on.  He searched the stations until a familiar voice tempted him to choose a classical one.

     “This’ll do.” he thought as he settled down to Pavarotti singing what he remembered as the ‘world cup’ song, but  before it had finished his thoughts had drifted back to more pressing things. The aria, ending as usual with its famous last notes was lost to Brindell, and Nessun dorma faded away, forgotten. He didn’t even notice the change to the quiet soothing music that had taken it’s place.  The case was still in his mind but unintentionally he had started to think about his own life.  Cases where family breakdown was a key factor always did this to him.  He had stopped talking to himself now.  The pictures in his mind were vivid enough without the need of vocal amplification.

    He remembered the pain of trying to comfort his wife some  eight years earlier,  when their youngest daughter contracted meningitis.  It had been touch and go, and for a while his wife had been inconsolable.  He remembered the strain of carrying the burden for her, when he too was buckling. But despite his own  fear and worry, neither she, or anyone else was there to help him.

    It had coincided with a missing child investigation, a twelve year old girl; only a month or two older than own child; and every man in the force was called in.  Brindell had felt impossibly torn at that time. On the one hand needed by his wife, the life of their little girl in the balance; and on the other, wanted by the local community, who were baying for blood and expecting the police to find the man responsible for the little girls abduction. How could he choose. Impossible, and yet he felt duty bound to place his own daughter second.    

     His wife never forgave him, and he had never been able to rid himself of an enormous feeling of guilt. In the end his daughter recovered, and the missing girl was found safe and well. She had  gone away with her school friend and her parents. The uncaring girl had lied to them, saying her own parents had given permission to join her friends family on their caravan holiday. Subsequently, all the time they were away they never knew that their guest had been reported missing.

     The emotion strain had been almost more than he could bear, and he felt very cheated when the dust settled, and the missing girl, unfazed, uncaring of the damage she had caused, was reunited with her parents.

    His marriage was wrecked because a thoughtless girl tried to get even with her parents over some minor issue. His wife however saw it somewhat differently, always blamed him for getting his priorities wrong.  His station commander too had added to the problem; never once acknowledging that he knew of his officer's domestic drama, and worse still, never inquired as to the progress of his daughter.  

    Those eight years had seemed like an eternity, and though they still lived together, the marriage had been dead since that day.

    Not only was it over, but his wife barely tried to conceal the fact that she had enjoyed a succession of boy friends. He had often suspected that there had been lovemaking in his bed when he was on night duty, but he didn't care any more; couldn't even be bothered to try and catch them at it. Indeed, he felt sure it was only a matter of time before she left him, and was constantly surprised that she hadn’t gone much sooner.

    His daughter, now a happy and vivacious young lady, with little recollection of that time, would probably leave herself before too long, now that her education  was behind her, and she was starting a career in a bank.  No doubt she would soon be wanting her own place.  She had a steady boyfriend now, and he almost expected that one day she would come in and announce that she was pregnant. More than that, despite his surprise that his wife had not left him, he knew, almost for certain, that his she would be off as soon as his daughter was settled.  

     “She would not care about me.” Brindell muttered. “My daughter won’t care either. And neither will I.” he concluded, almost  shouting, and almost startling himself.

    He would smile ruefully to himself at the thought that some of his younger colleagues quite often told him that he was a bit of a pain, and would why ask why he was always so sardonic, if not plain miserable.

     If only they knew. And if they did, would they care either?

    Soon, he guessed - perhaps quite soon - he would be on his own, and he could not tell if he viewed that prospect with fortitude or foreboding.

     Perhaps the truth was a little of both, but he wished he could turn back the clock so that he and his wife could be again how they were before; a happy and contented family.  In spite of it all he still had a feeling of love her. Perhaps, he had told himself, “I still love her.”

     And there was his dilemma, for if those same circumstances were repeated, would he behave differently?  

    He shook his head and produced one of his rare laughs. It was a question he had asked himself a thousand times, and a thousand times he had come up with the same answer. "I don't know."

    A strident noise invaded his ears as the radio presenter, no doubt wishing to provide a balanced programme, had selected something from one of the modern composers, who didn’t seem to know the difference between harmony and cacophony.

    “Ah Pavarotti,” he spoke the words quietly, suddenly remembering the great tenor, and being slightly surprised that he was not still singing,  “if only they were all like you.”

 

Becky was apprehensive and mostly silent throughout the journey. Her worry was more to do with what she was leaving behind, than of the future.  In fact she did not know if she had a future.  At the moment at least she had nothing to look forward to; of that she was certain.

    But she was not frightened; something of a surprise to her knowing what a state Richard was in.  She had seen him kill Gerald, so she knew what he was capable of, and that might mean he was planning to kill her.

     “So what,” she whispered, “he has taken everything else from me, so what if he kills me?”

    It was not perhaps an ideal time for rational thinking, but as the car sped through the night, making only brief  and  essential stops, she had little else to do. She knew that recent events had changed everything, and that the months ahead would be traumatic.  She also knew, though she could quite work out how, that she seemed to have eased herself a little from Richard's mental grip, though she was not entirely free.  Something still bound her, even though she couldn't quite see or feel what it was, but at least it was no longer  fear.

    Richard was morose and silent, a strange look on his face, an expression that Becky had not seen before. At  first she thought it was concentration, but then, inspirationally, she understood. It was Richard who was afraid, not she.

    "What are you afraid of?" she asked, almost casually.  

    They were the first words she had spoken in a couple of hours, and Richard was taken a little by surprise.

    "What do you mean?" he replied rather curtly.

    "You know damn well what I mean.”  It was a mild expletive, but it was enough. Becky was not normally given to using bad language; and even though she knew all the words she didn't much like using them.  'Damn' and ‘bloody’ was about as strong as she got. "You're scared aren’t you?"

     She threw her head back and laughed out loud. "I've never seen you scared before and it's quite a sight."

    "Shut your face woman or I'll shut it for you." was his response.

    Becky thought it wise not to provoke him just now; he was not in charge of his emotions and could be dangerous. But something had changed and she was smiling.  Behind the smile she was still laughing. For the first time since she had known him he was not in control, and it was clear that it bothered him.

    "Where are you taking me?" she asked, hoping to settle him down and also to slow him down, for in his agitated state he was driving too fast.

    "Wales."

    "Yes I know that; I can read the signposts; but where?"

    "You'll find out soon enough."

    "Oh don't be such a bloody fool; if I'm going to find out tomorrow what difference will it make if I find out tonight?"

     Becky had never spoken so forcefully to Richard as she was doing just now, and certainly it was the first time she had sworn at him, except, she remembered, at certain intimate moments, long ago when they first met.

    She waited for a rebuke, expecting some dire threat of punishment for her insolence, but he answered her in a quiet, almost mild manner.

     "I have a cottage in a little village a few miles from St. Ishmael’s; we are going there."

    Becky settled down to see if she could sleep. She did not want to talk to Richard more than she needed to, but she was bored just looking at the cone of light from the car headlights, as it sped along the busy roads of South Wales on this drizzly November evening.

    The constant rumble of rubber on tarmac, plus the purr of the engine did finally lull her into a subconscious state, and she awoke with a start, not knowing how long she had been asleep.  Inevitably she was feeling stiff and uncomfortable when the car came to a halt at the cottage. She watched as Richard got out, indicating with an impatient gesture that she should follow.  

    She managed to follow him into the cottage, even though her right leg had gone to sleep, and was refusing to wake up. Eventually she stood waiting in the hall. Richard lit the fire in the lounge, and then made a couple of trips to the car, returning with their cases. He carried what he could up the stairs urging Becky to do likewise, and there pointed to the doors in the large square landing.

    "Your room; my room; bathroom." he said, very curtly.  He was clearly in a bad mood and was not wanting to talk. Becky picked up one of the bags and went to her room. She was about to close the door when she turned. and spoke a few words.

     "I hope you can sleep tonight."

    Richard ignored the remark, turning his back on her without reply, and went back to the lounge to sit in front of the fire.  He tossed a couple of logs onto it which soon were soon burning fiercely, and sat staring, as if in a trance, into the flames.  He had a lot on his mind; much of it bad, but mostly astonishment that all his plans were going wrong.

    He had always been an unusual man; and had never doubted that inner certainty. He knew that he was talented and artistic; knew that he was able to persuade and cajole people both on and off the stage to do things his way, and he never doubted that his way was always the right way.  His self belief had been his strength; his success and reputation in the world of theatre proved that.  

    He leaned forward poking the logs to revive the dying flames.

    Moments like this were rare for Richard, self doubt had never been in his repertoire, but now in the dark, his face illuminated only by a few flickering flames, he wondered.

    Should he have been so hard and unforgiving?  Demanding and getting total obedience from those in his world had always been his way, from the humblest stage hand to the biggest stars; they were all the same.  If they would not do it Richard’s way they were out,  and as Richard’s way invariably lead from one success to another he had all the big names clamouring for his patronage.  All of them  happy to follow his lead.

     He shook his head. “How could I have done it differently?” he asked himself, trying to justify his behaviour, for when he had encountered opposition, he had been ruthless.  Inevitably there were others with the same kind of ambition, whose self belief and egotistical sense of superiority matched that of Richard's.  But most of these people, aware of Richards reputation, learnt either to stay clear of him, or bow to him.  

    Some however had not, believing Richard’s relative youth to be his weakness, and had misjudged his unforgiving response. These people were no longer in the business.  They would have suffered unexpected set backs, or had been faced with unexplained absences; even injuries amongst their star players, until, for one reason or another, they just disappeared from the scene, broken and demoralised.  Some indeed had literally disappeared, but the outcome was the same as all opposition evaporated.

    Richard had reigned supreme, the King of his self built castle. Now, inexplicably, things were changing, and there had to be someone to blame.  Somehow it had gone wrong and his world was crumbling, and with it, his power. He looked no further than Becky to find the reason; she had been the catalyst, it was she who had caused it all these things to happen.  It must be she who was responsible for his fall from on high; the focus of his predicament.  Therefore in some way he would have to find the remedy in her. That she would die in the process would be unfortunate, but was probably  necessary.

     Ignoring the fact that he had given her the central role in the first place, he now saw her as responsible for all that was going wrong. Yet paradoxically he knew that somehow if he were to survive, she would have to emerge from this mess exonerated. Dead of course but absolved of blame. All the shit would have to fall on his father and brother.

     How? Of that Richard was uncertain, but having established his priorities, he felt a little more settled, and as the fire gradually dimmed and then went out, Richard fell into a fitful slumber, his mind as always, full of vengeance. Despite his world collapsing around him he seemed to have regained some of his lost assurance, and could not see that those dying embers might be prophetic of his  dying world.

     Richard awoke from his restless sleep, for a moment unaware of his surroundings.  It was dark, he was cold, and the only noise was that of the wind and rain beating on the window.  For a man who lived his life in the shadows, whose strength was his understanding of, and his allegiance to the darker forces of humanity, he should have felt at home, but he was frightened.  Something else was controlling him; something or someone, and he was not in control.

    He wondered if it might be his uncle.  But why?  Why would his uncle want to spoil his life after what he had told him.  He should be helping him.

    He had known that his father and uncle had fallen out many years before, and had always believed it was over some money his father had given to his young brother Frederick, to set up a business after the young and energetic Gerald had made such a good start. But Frederick had not made the most of it and had then asked Gerald for more money to bail him out.

    That was the story everyone knew and accepted. But Richard had discovered that it was much more than that.  Much more sinister.  He had learned from his Uncle Fred, during their few  conversations in the theatre or in the nearby pub, of a much darker side. For while Gerald had followed a Christian calling, Frederick had embraced the occult, and had worshipped Satan.  They had been a microcosm of Christ and the Devil, and from a very early age they  had trodden different paths.

    Nobody had ever known that this was the reason why Gerald left his home and abandoned his thriving little business.  Everyone thought it was pure ambition that drove him to Oxfordshire, but Frederick was quite open that it was to get away from what he saw to be the evil force that was within his brother.  Even his new wife Megan did not know, though she might have some doubts for she had suffered from Frederick’s damnable behaviour.

    Richard had found some old newspaper and kindling wood and had managed to get the fire going again, so in spite of the continuing sound of the wind, and rattling windows it was a little more cheerful.  But he made no attempt to sleep again.  

    He remembered again Fred’s visits, when, instead of using the theatre bar, they had gone to the pub just round the corner.

    There was a fire in one of the rooms, and soon they were comfortable and chatting.

    Richard had quickly been aware that Fred’s voice had those same qualities as his own, and in his manner the same authority that Richard had always regarded as his.  When he talked, others listened.  He could, when he wished, adopt a more accommodating mode which allowed those with him more freedom, but always it was at Fred’s discretion.

     “It never mattered that he was older than me,” uncle Fred had laughed, “I used to give my brother a hard time.”

     There were times when he wanted to talk, and wanted his ‘nephew’ to feel comfortable and free.

     “My father?” Richard remembered saying once “he always seemed in control.” and he remembered how his uncle had smiled.

    He had a good reason for this, for it was then that he casually dropped a bombshell. “You do know that Gerald is not you father, don’t you?”

    Richard had remained silent. This was something that had been in his mind since Fred’s first visit, but he had not expected the subject to come up.

    “Have you never suspected? ... Why do you think you are so different to your brother?”

    Richard still hadn’t responded.

    “Are you not curious; not even a little?” he had asked, wearing a curious expression. Half smiling; in no hurry; He was in control.

    At length Richard spoke, quiet and subdued, quite out of character. “Who then?”

    “Why, me of course, who do you think?”

    Richard recalled that moment when he had learnt of his true parentage.  The news had been no great disaster to him.  For years he had felt nothing but contempt for his ‘father’ and he was beginning to understand why.

    “Does he know?” Richard remembered asking.

    “Not him, he’s always been full of his own importance, and would never believe that I would have taken his darling Megan’s cherry before he did.  In fact but for me, he would have remained a virgin too until Megan became his bride, but I changed all that.”

    “How do you mean?”  Richard had recovered somewhat from the shock, and now he wanted to hear more from his 'uncle'.

    “Well now, we couldn’t have another immaculate conception, could we?” Then he had smiled, Richard recalled, “One of those was enough don’t you think?”  

    Fred, obviously pleased with himself had continued, So after I’d unlocked the door for him, I affected Megan's thinking on the subject.  She never knew of course but I was able to influence her subconscious.  Once she had tasted the forbidden fruit - and believe me she enjoyed the experience - she wanted more, and poor old righteous, moral, wholesome, God fearing Gerald didn’t know what hit him.”

    “But what did my mother say, didn’t she know that her baby was yours?” Richard had asked, incredulous that she could be tricked as well.

    “It’s all in the mind, and as soon as Megan and Gerald got over their inhibitions, I ‘persuaded’ her to forget our single coming together, and by the time you were born, she had forgotten about me; convinced that Gerald was the father.”

    There he had stopped, but still the smug smile was there. Richard could see it now as he looked into the flames

    “It’s all in the mind,” he had repeated “all in the mind.”

    Just one thing troubled Richard, and he had to ask.

    “But why did you do it.  I’m sure you could have had any woman you wanted.”

    “That’s it my boy,” he had said, and the words ‘my boy’ suddenly took on a different meaning. “Gerald was always so smug, so virtuous, so sure of himself, that it amused me to take from him the pleasure of being his wife’s first lover.  It didn’t bother me that he didn’t know, because I did.”

    Richard shivered, and  remembered how the fire had gone out in the pub that day, and realised that the fire in his cottage had nearly gone out again. Wearily he got up to get some more logs.  It was going to be a long night.

    Like the astronomer who discovers a new star Richard had basked in Becky's shining light.  She had become the one everyone wanted, and Richard, who had made her, enjoyed the added prestige her success brought to his status. But unlike the astronomer, who had discovered something that was always there, Becky was the product of his mind. He had taken her from obscurity, and had modelled her into something she had never been, but for his purpose, not hers.  Now the Super Nova had exploded, and the light which had brightened the heavens was extinguished, and with it, his own. In his twisted view of things, Becky had much to answer for.

 

Becky meanwhile had closed the door of her bedroom, and turned the key. She was very tired, and settled down as soon as she could, but sleep eluded her.  

    There were some dream laden periods of drowsiness, but she could not settle.  She knew that in some way Richard blamed her for all his troubles.  She knew too that he was not the kind of man who would give in.  He would fight to regain his control, and if anyone got hurt it the process he would not care.  And if she became troublesome, or in any way a threat, she knew that he would not hesitate to dispose of her. She felt sure that he would consider her to be  superfluous in whatever new order of things which might emerge. She had little doubt that she was, in a word, dispensable.

    Little wonder that she could not sleep, and in her long periods of wakefulness, her new found defiance was waning and she had started to worry. Not only for herself but for the new life within her.  That she was unsure which of the Bomally's was the father of her baby, was something she might come to regret, but it was a fact of life she would have to come to terms with.

    If it were Gerald, he was dead, and out of the picture.  If it were David, despite his earlier claims it was inconceivable that he would accept responsibility now. But of thing she felt certain; that it was not Richard’s child. Once his scheme to entrap Gerald and David had been set in motion, he stopped his ‘visits’ and at the time of conception was no longer a contender.

    Now she had a different future to face. If Richard did not kill her, he would almost certainly finish her acting career, if indeed it were not already finished.  

    If somehow she survived the present crisis she would have to face the future on her own until her baby was born. After that?  who knows.  She had been living a fantastic lie, but that was over now, her destiny shattered.  Somehow she had to find a way to bring herself back to reality.