Blink of an Eye

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Carmel

One afternoon when I visited, I could see something was up. Naomi’s eyes were pink. She had been crying. I was allowed to wheel her to the canteen. She was desperate for a change of scene, a few minutes away from the ward. She said she wanted to go home, when could she go home? I promised to ask and add my voice to hers. In the canteen she stirred sugar into her tea, round and round, as though she was trying to drill through the bottom of the cup. I reached out my hand to rest on hers. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders, put the spoon on the saucer by the used tea bag.

‘I’ve broken up with Alex.’ She blurted it out.

‘No!’ My heart kicked with the shock. ‘But why? What-’

‘It won’t work, Mum. Not after all this.’

‘You still love him?’ I tried to grasp where this had come from, what her reasons were.

‘Of course.’ She fought tears, concentrating on the spoon, mashing it into the tea bag, dark orange liquid seeping out and circling the saucer. ‘But I can’t face him. This is so awful. It’s spoiled everything.’

‘But if you love him…’ I said lamely. ‘If he loves you… I know it’s hard, but together…’

She shook her head, her nose reddening and a tear falling on to the table. She wiped her eyes with her fingers.

‘Have you told him? What did he say?’

‘He was really upset,’ she said. ‘He was gutted.’ She looked at me, her face crumpling.

‘Oh darling,’ I moved to sit closer and held her. She was stiff, even with the release of tears, her back and shoulders tense. After a few moments, I let her go, found some tissues in my pocket.

‘I can see why you might feel like ending it with him, but you’ve been through a terrible thing, it’s not a good time to be making big decisions. Not when you’re at your lowest. And if you still love each other…’

‘That’s not enough, though,’ she cried. ‘I look at him and see his arm and leg in plaster, and then there’s the little girl. That’s all I think about when I see him – nothing else…’ She broke off.

I was so saddened at her decision. She was cutting off one of the few people she loved who could have supported her through the days to come. They had been such a perfect fit.

‘I hope you’ll change your mind,’ I said eventually.

‘I won’t,’ she said.

‘I think you’re wrong, I think you’re making a mistake.’

‘Another one?’ she said harshly.

‘Just don’t write it off, the relationship; you might feel very different in six months’ time.’

‘I could be in prison,’ she said.

‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Don will do everything he can to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘Alex should just get on with his life.’ Her breathing was fractured, the words coming out one at a time.

I felt she was being destructive, punishing herself, but she was in no mood to listen to me.

The news troubled me for the rest of the day. Phil too was disappointed to hear it. ‘You’re joking!’ he said. ‘I thought they’d make a go of it.’

‘He saved her life,’ I said. ‘How’s he going to feel now?’

‘I guess something like this – it changes things,’ Phil said.

‘Yes, but it’s too soon to really see how. Okay, in a year’s time it might be clearer: are they still in love, are they still happy, has it driven a wedge between them? But she’s not even giving it a chance.’

‘If she thinks it’s the right thing to do…’

‘She’s not thinking straight,’ I told him.

‘It’s her life, you have to let her get on with it. You can’t interfere,’ he said.

‘I know.’

But I did.

Monica answered the door. ‘Hello,’ she said coolly, no smile. Probably as upset as I was that Naomi was ditching Alex.

‘I’ve got some of Alex’s things, clothes and trainers. And I was hoping to have a word with him.’

‘He’s not here,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ I hovered on the doorstep. There was a soft grey rain falling, which brought out the scent of the roses in her front garden and the tarmac on the path.

‘When will he be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Right.’ I handed her the bag. She took it and clutched it to her chest defensively. She didn’t invite me in.

She’s a striking-looking woman: the green eyes that Alex has inherited, a deep golden tan, sun-streaked hair. She was wearing make-up, carefully done, but still she looked tired.

‘Did he tell you Naomi had broken up with him?’

‘Yes,’ she said. That was it. Yes. No elaboration.

She wasn’t making it easy for me, but I ploughed on. ‘That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell Alex that I think she’s making a mistake. With everything that’s happened, the state she’s in, she can’t see sense. She still loves him, she’s told me that.’

‘I think it’s for the best,’ Monica said quickly, a flare of red blotching her neck. Had I misheard? ‘She could have killed him, killed them all, not just…’ Her eyes were simmering with heat. She was furious.

‘It was an accident,’ I said, trembling. ‘She’s never done anything like this before.’

She stepped back, shaking her head, her lips clenched in a bitter line. Preparing to close the door.

‘She didn’t do it on purpose,’ I said. ‘Please tell Alex-’

‘Alex told me she was thrown out of sixth-form college for drinking. If she was drunk, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?’ She shut the door.

A flash of temper forked through me, sharp as lightning. I wanted to kick the door down. Shake her till she understood.

I wrote a note to Alex while I was at work that evening. Explaining my fears and asking him not to assume that there was no chance for reconciliation. Telling him that Naomi still loved him and that perhaps in time, if he felt the same, they could try again. I didn’t talk about the accident or blame or the police or any of that. But I said I was really sorry about all that had happened and thanked him again for saving her life. I posted it first class so he would get it the following day.

I never told Naomi or Phil that I’d sent it, but I did tell Evie, who said she’d probably have done the same.

Naomi

As Mum talks, I imagine it as a movie. Me in my blue dress and spotted shoes in the garden. Some of the background I can fill in from the photos she’s printed out – like where they’d put the buffet in the shade under the canopy and where the chairs were, the faces of the people I talked to.

‘Straight after you arrived, Alex opened the champagne,’ she says. ‘You made a toast. After that you cuddled Ollie.’ She hands me the picture of us together. ‘Then you had something to eat. Francine, this woman with Suzanne,’ another photo, ‘had just bought a flat in town, so you discussed the pros and cons of being in the middle of things. There was a girl there called Stella, she had a poncho on, one of those floaty ones, and she asked you about clubs in Manchester…’

As she talks, I wait for a prick of familiarity, for some word or phrase or image to puncture a way through to my memories. To tear through the screen and let them all come spilling out.

‘… You had a tuna kebab. That was just after we left, and you talked to Gordy about Newcastle,’ she says. ‘His daughter’s thinking of applying to uni there. There was a little boy, a toddler in dungarees called Adam; you read him a book on the swing seat. And you helped get the Chinese lanterns ready; that was just before seven. Pip, she’s the one from London who works with Jonty, discussed phone apps, and when you put the music on, she danced with you.’

I wait and listen, but the words have no resonance; there’s no echo in my head, no spark or tingle.

‘Pip said you drank some wine around then.’

I swallow. Mum’s told me that Suzanne reckons I was drinking a lot, but Alex says different. It’s something else I can’t recall. But I can’t imagine getting drunk and driving the Honda. I never drive when I’ve been on the booze.

‘I’ve not been able to find anyone who saw you leaving,’ Mum says, ‘but you waved goodbye to Suzanne at about eight. She was inside then; only a handful of people were left.’

Mum stops and looks at me. When I shake my head, I see her shoulders dip in disappointment. But she rallies and touches my arm. ‘Give it time, darling. After all, you’ve had a little bit come back; maybe it’ll be a gradual thing. You can always try listening to the playlist.’

‘Yes.’ I try to sound positive.

When she’s gone, I go through the photographs again, try and knit the pictures to the stories Mum has brought. Perhaps if I keep looking, keep trying, something will happen.

The brain can repair itself, I’ve read that; pathways are made in other areas when there is damage. I just have to keep trying. Find something more than that kiss and the buffet and Lily’s red dress and the sound of the collision.

Carmel

Six weeks after the accident, Naomi was discharged from hospital. She was still convalescing, with a range of outpatient appointments to attend in the future. She was not supposed to lift anything heavy, no manual labour, no driving. She slid her eyes sideways and gave a sad little snort when the nurse said that.

I was on tenterhooks as I drove her home, anticipating that the experience of being in a car again, the motion, the noise, the smell of the interior might be the key that would unlock her memory. But she sat passive and silent all the way home. She looked washed out, her hair greasy, the layers grown out, her dark blue eyes ringed with deep shadows, the scar on her cheekbone a patch of puckered, shiny red skin.

I had cleaned her room up, asking her what she wanted to do with the photographs on her wall – mostly of herself and Alex. She asked me to take them down. Any attempt I made to talk about him, she stopped me dead.

Naomi

‘I want you to take me to Suzanne’s, drive me home, past where we crashed.’

Mum looks alarmed. ‘Are you sure?’

I feel a bit wobbly about it, to be honest, but I won’t let that put me off. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got the dentist now…’ she begins.

‘Not now,’ I say, ‘later. After tea.’ A similar time of day to when it happened – part of me thinks that might increase the chances of it working. The weather’s different today, though, dull and overcast and warm. No sunshine.

I have to remember! Mum’s been bringing me morsels of information like a cat bringing dead birds into the house. I know she’s been trying her best, doing what she can, but it’s not enough.

Dad offers to come too, but I tell him it’s okay. The prospect of me freaking out is at the back of my mind, and they don’t both need to see that.

‘Don’t tell Suzanne,’ I say to Mum.

‘Okay, but if she sees us…?’

‘Only then.’ I can imagine her mocking me, and I don’t want to be distracted by that. Her default setting is finding fault; she always looks for the negative. It drives me mad. I don’t know how Jonty stands it.

When we set off, I think Mum’s as nervous as I am. She talks too much when she’s anxious. She’s going on about the dentist, how much the treatment costs, but eventually she shuts up.

Of course we have to drive past where it happened to reach Suzanne’s, so I try to recall Alex and me in the Honda on the way to the barbecue. I know we took champagne. Alex told me we bought it from Safeway. I know from what Mum’s said that we arrived at four. But nothing emerges. The only memories I have from immediately before we got there are Alex breaking the news when we were at home and me jumping at him, and then the kiss at the side of Suzanne’s house.

My stomach swoops when we get to Mottram Lane and drive past the school, but the images in my head are the second-hand ones I’ve been given. I try not to get too disappointed and tell myself it might be different coming in the other direction.

The sky is still clouded over and there’s a sewagey smell in the air. Lots of the houses have Union Jack flags flying high for the Queen’s Jubilee. Becky and Steve went to a street party; his mum’s a keen royalist, apparently. My folks are the opposite. When they were still at school, it was the Silver Jubilee, and the Sex Pistols were at number one with ‘God Save the Queen’ and it was banned from the airwaves.

At Suzanne’s street, Mum does a three-point turn and stops. ‘This is where you were parked,’ she says. ‘We saw your car when we were leaving.’

I nod. I close my eyes to see if that helps and run through the sequence Mum has discovered: handing out champagne, cuddling Ollie on the swing seat, eating, talking to Julia about festivals, taking photographs on Jonty’s camera, the conversation with Gordy, reading to Adam, the Chinese lanterns, dancing with Pip.

‘Okay.’ I clear my throat, nod to Mum that we should set off.

She drives to the dual carriageway and along to the junction with Mottram Lane. The lights are red. My knees are pressed tightly together, my hands between them. There’s a sickly taste in my mouth. A magpie pecks at something at the side of the road. I look away.

The lights change and Mum turns right. I try to relax, to let my body settle and my mind loosen so I’m more open to the chance of remembering. It’s not easy, though; my back is stiff and my guts are knotted up still.

Mum drives slowly to the bend; there are no cars behind us. ‘This is where you went too fast,’ she says, ‘and here,’ as we round the first curve of the bend, ‘is where you swerved back in.’

I imagine it. That’s all I do.

I see the railings by the river on the left and the bushes and trees there, the school over to the right. The glimpse of red, Lily’s dress, the thump and screech; they fit here but that is still all I have. Free-floating elements, isolated and incomplete.

‘Can you stop?’

‘Hang on.’ She drives a little further until we are on the straight stretch and parks at the side of the road.

‘I’m going to get out,’ I say.

She nods.

‘I won’t be long.’

A couple of cars drive past as I walk along the pavement back to where it joins the grass verge on the bend. I’m still using a stick to take the stress off my ankle. I walk across the grass to where the railings are broken. Alex said they smashed through the rear windscreen. The trees are blackened, fire-damaged. On the ground, new shoots of green have grown up through the scorched grass. This is where we ended up, hanging upside down, rammed against the railings. I look over towards the school. Lily’s body landed somewhere in the middle of the road. I try to picture her in different poses, on her back or curled in a ball. Here Alex pulled me out. Here he called the ambulance. Here Lily died and my heart stopped too. But I was lucky. Tears sting the back of my eyes. Why, why can’t I fucking remember?

I see Mum coming.

‘Anything?’

Shake my head.

‘Lie down,’ she says, ‘if you can manage it.’

Oh God.

‘Try it. You never know.’

And I do, with her help. Because I’ll try anything that might work. I lie on the grass after checking it for dog dirt and shut my eyes. I can hear birds somewhere, chirping, and traffic, and an ice cream van’s chimes suddenly cut out. I hold the red in my mind for a few moments. Then I think about the thumps and the screech.

Another car goes past fast, rap music pulsing out for a couple of seconds.

I open my eyes and see the shattered branches of the burnt trees reaching towards the vast sky. The sky is grey, blank like my memory.

I lift my arm and she helps me up. I brush the bits of twigs and cinders off me. My throat aches, a tight ring of frustration.

I don’t want to cry, and try not to, but tears run down my face anyway.

I’m so sorry, I think; I wish I could just go and tell them. Over and over and over again. Find a way to show them how dreadfully, dreadfully sorry I am.

Mum hugs me and we walk back to the car.

I’m not going to give up, I’m not going to stop trying. I’ll try hypnosis -anything else I can find that might help.

I owe it to them, to Lily’s family. The loss of memory makes me feel like I’m hiding from what happened. I don’t want to do that. I want to take responsibility and remember every fucking second and every detail. I want to remember it every second of every day for the rest of my life. I want to be unable to forget it.

That’s what I deserve. I have to find a way to make it happen.

We’re finishing lunch the next day and Mum is asking me if there’s anything I want to do in the afternoon when the doorbell rings. It’s the police. Come to arrest me.

I freeze, outwardly numb but my mind shrieking with fear. I don’t want to go to the police station. Of course, I have no choice.

Mum’s saying how they’ll get Don, telling them I have a solicitor. And then we’re going. My legs tremble as we walk to their car and there’s a roaring sound in my head.

At the police station I’m taken to the custody suite and have to answer questions about who I am and my health; they take my fingerprints and a mouth swab. They ask me to hand over my phone and keys and everything in my pockets. They want my belt, and my necklace too.

They lock me up. A cell with a hard bench and nothing else. Graffiti scratched into the walls. With what? Fingernails? It smells like disinfectant and something else, something cheesy. I’m cold but I’m sweating too, I can smell it. I want to wee but I don’t know if I’m allowed to or how to ask someone. If I’m supposed to call out or what.

It’s hard to judge how much later a police officer unlocks the door and says, ‘Your solicitor’s here. Come this way.’ I do as I’m told.

I nearly cry when I see Don. He’s got me a drink of tea in a paper cup. He arranges for me to go to the ladies’ – a police officer waits for me in the corridor outside.

‘I’ve spoken with the police,’ Don says, ‘and they want to interview you on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving. You understand?’

I nod. My heart contracts.

‘They’ve got the blood alcohol results from when you were admitted to hospital.’

I can hear a rushing sound in my head, and from his expression I can see it’s bad news. Please, no!

‘You were almost one and a half times the legal limit for driving.’

It’s like the ground’s opened up beneath me and I’m plunging straight down. Oh God, no! How could I have done that? I can’t believe it. What the hell was I playing at?

I can’t talk; I’ll just blub if I try.

‘Still no recall?’ he checks.

I shake my head, my mouth all wobbly.

‘Right.’ He picks up his iPad. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by sticking you in an interview where all you can say is “I can’t remember”, so I’d advise you to offer a prepared statement. Yes?’

When I agree, he goes on, ‘All we need is to explain to them that you’ve no memory of the accident and the hours preceding it.’

He helps me word the statement, keeping it short and to the point.

Then I have to go back in the cell again.

Eventually they come for me, and they read the charge. I try not to cry. I will be released on bail, to appear at the magistrates’ court in a few days’ time. At the custody desk I get my things back and have to sign some forms, and then Don takes me home.

It’s official. It’s not going to go away or get forgotten about. I’m not going to wake up and laugh about it. I feel so dirty. So rotten. To the core.