Blink of an Eye

CHAPTER TEN

Carmel

Naomi looked desolate, haunted, her face drawn, a sheen of fear in her eyes. This was something she needed to confront, to wrestle with and absorb. But how much harder it must be when the facts come from other people. When they arrive in a vacuum, robbed of context or sense-memory or reference points. No way to knit it together with your own impressions and sensations. A truth that you learn but do not know.

She cried, not making much noise. I stroked her back, my own face wet, aching for her. Eventually I broke the rhythm. ‘Come on, have a drink and blow your nose.’

She did as I said, numbly, her face muddy with misery.

There was little more conversation.

Naomi was lost in her thoughts, trying to disentangle what we’d said.

‘Suzanne’s coming later,’ I said eventually.

‘I don’t want her to.’ Naomi’s face crumpled. ‘I don’t want to see her today, Mum.’

‘Okay, I’ll tell her you’re not feeling up to it.’

She cried again as we hugged goodbye. ‘I can’t believe it, it’s unreal.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. There was only one crumb of comfort I could offer her, a tiny thing to help her feel less terrible. ‘It was an accident,’ I said, ‘an awful accident.’

‘But it was my fault,’ she said, distraught.

All I could say was, ‘We don’t know all the ins and outs yet.’

And she wiped her eyes and slowly shook her head in defeat.

As I waited at traffic lights on my way to work one day, two and a half weeks after the accident, a funeral party drove past; it wasn’t far to Southern Cemetery. I saw the flowers in the hearse first, spelling out the name LILY, then took in the white coffin. My stomach fell. A long, slow procession of cars followed. When the lights changed, I stalled the car, broke into a sweat, cursing as the driver behind impatiently blared his horn at me.

My heart went out to them, her poor, poor parents. I pictured their devastation. The empty bedroom, the absence of Lily that must feel like the withdrawal of air or the loss of light. Aching arms where she should be, missing her laughter and her foibles and the sight of her entering a room. The loss that would last for ever. The wound in their hearts that would never heal over. A yoke of grief. Not to be overcome but simply to be borne. And I was bitterly ashamed that there was no word or deed I could gift to lighten the burden of sorrow. It was not fair. It was so very cruel.

LITTLE LILY LAID TO REST. The front page of the local free paper. I felt the slap of recognition when I saw the photograph. A picture of her grieving family in their black clothes. The parents were the couple I had noticed with the policeman outside the A&E department on the evening of the accident: he’d had his arm around her; her head was buried in his chest.

The article included a statement from the police: The investigation into the accident is ongoing and our sympathy is with the family at this difficult time. The piece concluded with a quote from her father, Simon Vasey: Lily was the light of our lives, a friendly, cheeky, loving little girl who completed our family. It is beyond devastating to lose her like this, but we hope that one day we will see justice done.

I took a breath. Felt a wellspring of grief for them, sick and sorry.

Friendly, cheeky, loving. That could have been Naomi. Naomi as she was. I wasn’t sure she was still that girl. This had changed her. There’s often some depression after major surgery, but I didn’t think she’d smiled since it happened. Only the occasional wry half-smile, an expression of resignation or deprecation, not humour, certainly not pleasure or joy.

Naomi

It’s hard to take it in. The terrible thing I’ve done. I feel filthy. Disgusted at myself, and still incredulous. The ugly truth is lodged in my head like a dense, dark lump. A clot or a tumour, heavy as lead. I keep repeating it like a chant. I crashed into a little girl and killed her. I crashed into a little girl and killed her. It sets off a current of panic that swirls and surges through me. If only I could run away, run from it all, outpace it until I was on safe ground and free of the sin, free of the deed. How can I ever make this right? Why was I so stupid? Why was I driving too fast? Why?

I wish I could freeze everything and turn back time and change something so I’d never got in the car and put my foot on the pedal. Change the past so we’d missed the barbecue. Or even that Alex didn’t get the job so we weren’t feeling up to going. Or go further back so I’d never met Alex, never been to uni, never got my A levels. I’d give all that up to save the little girl. I know I’m howling for the moon. What can I do? What can I possibly do?

Carmel

‘I think we should talk to a solicitor,’ I said to Phil.

‘What?’ He set down his fork.

‘Get some advice for Naomi. They’re likely to charge her, the police,’ I said. ‘It’d be better to talk to someone now rather than wait. She could go to prison.’ I’d lost my appetite, stared at the slivers of vegetables on my plate, the grains of rice stained by curry sauce. ‘I could ask at work,’ I said. Plenty of our clients needed legal representation. ‘Evie might know someone.’

‘What about Hugh’s bloke?’ he said. ‘Don, he does criminal law.’ Hugh was the saxophone player in Phil’s band. We’d met Don a few times, but like me, he didn’t go to their gigs very often any more.

‘Try him,’ I said, ‘and if it’s not his sort of thing, I’ll call Evie.’

Phil got Don’s number from Hugh and managed to get through to him on his first go. I found it hard to sit still as I listened to him sum up the situation, so I ended up pacing round the room, stopping each time Phil spoke to hear what he said.

‘Still in hospital… Yes, for some time, they say. Next Monday? Yes… If they move her to another ward I can drop you a text… Thanks, that’s great.’

‘Well?’

‘He wants to see her. He does deal with driving offences and he wants to find out what her instructions are. And he says if the police show up before then she’s not to talk to them without him there.’

‘Okay.’

Phil started clearing up and I turned on my laptop. There were dozens of emails in my inbox but I hadn’t the will to open any. Instead I googled death and driving, the page of links loaded and I went to the criminal justice website.

My eyes flew over the definitions, and the table of sentencing guidelines. Death by dangerous driving, twelve months where there are no aggravating circumstances. Seven to fourteen years for the most serious culpability. Further down the page a list of aggravating factors, among them alcohol and excessive speed.

Phil came and looked over my shoulder. I heard him sigh as he saw what I was reading. ‘Up to fourteen years,’ I said.

He put his arm round my shoulders. ‘Worst-case scenario,’ he said, ‘if she gets convicted. She might get off. We’ve no idea. Don’t think the worst.’

‘I know.’ I closed the laptop. ‘You’re right. And if her driving was fine when Monica passed them, then perhaps there was a problem with the car, with the accelerator or the brakes.’

‘Go down to the river?’ he suggested. ‘It’s lovely out there.’

There’s a short cut behind the school playing fields and then it’s a fifteen-minute walk to the Swan, a little riverside pub that has a large beer garden facing the water. The place itself was surprisingly quiet, although there were joggers and dog-walkers and people strolling and cyclists passing in a steady stream.

We stopped for a drink, had two. Hoppy beers brewed on the premises. The midges were out and I felt a nip or two on my neck. Phil never suffered. The surface of the river looked serene, silky, a shining ribbon of brown rippling between the banks. But this whole stretch had been used as a dumping ground for years. Building waste, litter, chemicals and rubbish chucked into it. Even after three decades of sustained clean-up, there would be all sorts lurking down there: old mattresses and paint tins, slabs of concrete, car wheels, shopping trolleys and bread trays.

Phil stroked my arm and I smiled at him. My back was aching from the tension of the last few days and fatigue rinsed through me. The beer was making me feel sleepy. ‘I love you,’ I told him.

He gripped my hand, kissed my knuckles. I rubbed at my neck; another prick from one of the gnats.

We walked back in the twilight, holding hands all the way. I caught the scent of barbecued meat at one point, plunging me back to that Sunday and the sweet happiness of the party. And on one of the cul-de-sacs near our house, two kids played out on their bikes. Just the sight of them was like a cold shower, extinguishing the tiny glow of peace I’d had in the simple pleasure of the walk and the quiet waterside drinks in Phil’s company.

Phil put some music on when we got home, an old blues compilation that seemed to suit our mood, Billie Holiday and Muddy Waters making magic out of misery. I concentrated on writing a list of all the things that needed sorting out while Naomi was in hospital: everything from notifying the Jobcentre that she was incapacitated to checking that her bank account wasn’t going to go over her overdraft limit and land her with mounting debts. I’d check her appointments diary, in case there were arrangements to cancel, and work out what to do about her phone contract, given that the phone had been destroyed when the car caught fire.

I assumed Alex would be dealing with the car insurance and so on, as he was the registered owner, though Naomi was a named driver. Their premium was astronomical, as they were young drivers. It made some sort of sick sense now, though, Naomi one of the faces behind the statistics about risks and demographics.

I went up to her room and gathered together Alex’s clothes so I could return them. Would he be fit enough to start his new job? If he was, would there be any problem with the job offer given that he had been in the accident? I drew the curtains, thinking about it. They couldn’t penalize him for being a passenger, surely. I remembered reading about one case where a passenger had been prosecuted because he had known the driver was over the limit and failed to stop him.

But Alex was adamant that Naomi was sober; he’d never have got into the car if he’d thought she was pissed.

I woke at three in the morning, slathered in sweat, my pyjamas twisted into tourniquets round my legs, my heart pounding. The tatters of the dream fading like smoke. An ancient prison cell, underground, dank, dark, a stone slab. The walls wet with seepage, the smell of earth and decay. Naomi there, her pale fingers clenched round the bars at the front, her face contorted and wild. Screaming ‘Let me out, let me out!’ On the slab behind her a child, still and waxen, lips and eyelids deepest blue, limbs mottled. A doll child. Head turning, eyes opening, empty sockets, savage black holes staring at me, swallowing me.

Naomi

He’s here! Alex. He’s here. There are bruises on his face and a cut over his eye and he comes on a crutch, with one arm and one foot in plaster, and sick gathers at the back of my throat.

He says my name, like he still loves me, but all I can say is sorry, sorry, sorry. ‘Sorry, I never meant for this to happen.’

‘I know that,’ he says. ‘Don’t be daft.’

‘The little girl,’ I say, because it seems important to be honest and say it out loud.

‘I know.’ He looks so sad, his mouth turning down at the corners. He manages to sit down, and the crutch crashes to the floor with a clatter and the woman in the far bed makes a huffing noise, complaining.

I wish the curtains were drawn round the bed and we could have some privacy, but I can’t do it. I can’t even stand up yet, and I can’t ask Alex to hop about. He can barely walk.

‘You pulled me clear.’ My voice breaks on the last word and I rub at my eyes. There’s no point in bawling. I need to talk to him, to apologize.

‘You remember?’ he says. He picks up my hand, traces the line of my thumb. There are flecks and marks on his hand, cuts healing.

‘No, none of it really. I’m so glad you’re okay… well…’ Okay doesn’t quite cover it. He’s all bandaged and broken.

‘Me too – you,’ he says. ‘They’re discharging me, so I must be doing all right.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘for… you know – and I’m so sorry. I’d do anything…’ I run out of words, my throat too tight, and I can’t stop the tears. I reach for the tissues. Then I have a drink. ‘Sorry,’ I say again.

He nods, his eyes shining. I’ve never seen him cry and he doesn’t now. This is probably as close as it gets. Some people are like that, not just men either. Suzanne doesn’t cry, not really, not that big, messy sobbing and letting go and her nose going all red and snotty. Sometimes she’ll get like maybe three tears and they sort of squirt out; more like tears of fury when she’s spitting mad, and that’s your lot. Mum cries like a tap. But she must be able to turn it off for work. Lots of the situations she deals with are really sad and she’d be no use to anyone if she went to pieces all the time. Dad rarely cries, but when he does, his eyes go pink and he makes a strange noise in his throat.

‘I can’t remember anything,’ I say. ‘The last thing I remember was you telling me about the job.’ I have a clutch of anxiety then. ‘They’ll still take you, won’t they? Is there a physical or anything?’

‘Should be okay,’ he says, knitting his fingers through mine, ‘though I might need to negotiate a later start date, put it back a couple of weeks.’

At least that was going to be okay, then.

‘And you kissed me, I remember that – were we arriving or leaving? We were at the side of their house.’

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘we’d just got there.’

‘That’s all there is,’ I say. I take a breath, feel the stabbing pain in my side. ‘Was I going too fast – speeding?’ I wait for him to answer. He squeezes my hand.

‘Maybe a bit, yeah.’

The guy with the tea trolley pitches up and I feel like asking him to come back later. But we accept a cup each, and once he moves away, it feels safe to talk again. ‘I can’t have seen her, can I? Did I say anything?’

He shakes his head, frowning. I can tell how hard it is for him to talk about it; it’s not just me. ‘No, it happened so quickly. One minute we were coming out of the bend and sort of skidding, and then this massive bang. The bike ended up on the railings by the school.’

And the girl? Oh my God. The image of her impaled, like a rag doll. I have to know. ‘And her?’

‘She landed in the middle of the road. I didn’t really see her after.’ He swallows. ‘We hit the gatepost and flipped over on to the roof. It was so fast.’ He pauses.

‘Who called the ambulance?’

‘Me. There was no one else around. You weren’t breathing,’ he says.

It must have been so frightening for him.

I think about it after he has gone. The car on fire, roaring with flames, like a special-effects stunt, the little girl and me on the road. Alex all alone, no one driving up or walking past – like some apocalypse movie.

Carmel

Phil told Naomi we’d found a solicitor to come and talk to her.

‘What have the police said?’ she asked. ‘What’ll happen?’

‘Nothing yet. We don’t know exactly,’ Phil said. ‘That’s why we’ve asked Don to come and see you. He’s an expert, he deals with this sort of thing all the time; he’ll have an idea of what to expect and what to do about it.’

She put her hand to her head, her fingers knotted in her hair. The bandage was gone, the bruising round her eyes faded to mustard yellow. The big bruise on the left of her neck by the collarbone sling was more vivid. The graze on her cheek a large rust-coloured scab. ‘I keep thinking it can’t be true,’ she said. ‘I’ll wake up and it’ll all go away. But it won’t.’

I struggled for something to say, some comfort to give her. In the end I just agreed with her. ‘I know, darling, we just have to get on with it.’

She seemed angry at that, a hard glint in her eyes as she retorted, ‘You didn’t do it, you don’t have to…’ then broke off, too agitated to articulate.

Phil intervened. ‘Have you remembered anything else?’

She gave a shake of her head. Although she was frightened and furious and feeling guilty, there was a marked improvement in her physical state. The procedure to drain her lung had gone smoothly, and being able to breathe easily again meant she had greater energy and less pain. Apparently the scars from the operation were healing nicely, too. The staff had given her a shower and she now wore her own nightdress instead of a hospital gown.

‘I’ve bought you a phone,’ I said. ‘There’s credit on it.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, a little shamefacedly after her outburst.

I gave her my own phone so she could copy in numbers, and then talked to her about some of the practical things that might need sorting out. She found it hard to concentrate, I noticed, but was eventually able to remember that she’d only recently paid a credit-card bill and that the Jobcentre stuff was in a folder in her room. It did seem as though the memory loss was simply around the trauma.

We were going to be lucky. I hardly dared believe it, but any time I considered our situation, I was aware of the Vaseys. The accident bound us together, reverberated through our lives. If I could have, I’d have gone round there and sat with Tina and Simon and shared their grief, supported them as best I could. But I’d have been an intruder, the do-gooding ghoul. My place was with Naomi. But again and again my thoughts returned to Tina Vasey and the pain and wretched grief she must be feeling.