Hit and Run

Chapter Twenty-One

Pete didn’t say a word when she walked in. Just hugged her, held her close. Even that hurt, made her bloody eyes water. Thoughts of how many years that hug had been hers alone, well – hers and the kids. Pre-Tina. His body so familiar. She knew him so well but then maybe she hadn’t known him at all. Certainly not well enough to realise he was being unfaithful. She pulled away.

Pete poured her a generous brandy, handed it to her.

She took a mouthful, the taste reminding her of Christmas. She savoured the warmth in her mouth before letting it slide down her throat.

‘The kids?’

‘Just think you’re working late.’

She nodded, relieved that she wouldn’t have to reassure them. Deal with their own fear as well as her own.

‘How did he get in the car?’ Pete asked.

She exhaled. ‘He’s a professional car thief, among other things. He could get into anything.’

Pete shook his head, his tongue balled into the corner of his mouth. ‘Pete, I’m all right.’

He nodded ruefully. ‘I want to know what happened, all of it.’

She told him. It helped to recount it, to go over each memory: the moment in the car park when she’d felt the chill of metal on her neck, the visceral threat of Stone’s violence, the horrendously loud retort of the gun going off and a split-second when she thought he had shot her; that she’d die in the car, on wasteland; that she wouldn’t hold Charlotte again or see Michael or the others, that they’d have to grow up without her; the panic of the posse arriving, just as she thought she had defused the situation; Stone’s explosion of rage and her frantic attempts to stop Richard and the others, to save herself. Then the worst part really, when she knew that she had survived it, when she was no longer acting purely on instinct and the need to hold it all together, when she could finally let go and release all the emotions, the bright anger that made her teeth ache, the bowel-churning terror that scuttled across her skin and through her veins, the sorrow at what she had endured and the huge need to be comforted, to be loved and cherished. To be safe and to celebrate life in all its precious fragility.

Now and again Pete interrupted but only to clarify events for himself. Mostly he just listened, nodding when she sought reassurance, echoing her sense of shock when things had been most critical. When she had finished he hugged her again. ‘I’ve never been so scared,’ he admitted.

‘Well, I’m here now.’ She drew back. ‘In one piece, more or less. He was wound up that tight, Pete, I should have taken more time to calm him down.’

‘Christ, Janine, you’re not blaming yourself?’

‘No, just figuring out what I’d do different.’

‘Next time?’ His face grew pale, a sign of anger.

‘No! Possibly! But he wasn’t there trying to hurt me – he was giving himself up.’

‘I don’t want there to be a next time,’ Pete said. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’ He squeezed her hand.

‘Me neither,’ she tried to smile. It was late, she was spent. Battered physically and emotionally. Janine took another swig. ‘You’d better go.’

‘Yeah?’ His voice suddenly softer. His eyes were burning into hers. He wasn’t just asking about this evening.

There was a pause. Janine’s stomach flipped over. It would be so easy to just give in, to feel his arms around her. The familiar smell of him, the feel of his lips, the shorthand of communication that they’d built over all the years. But when she tried to imagine Pete actually coming back, back in the house, back in her bed, she couldn’t. He’d hurt her, so very deeply, the last year had been the hardest in her life. Any love she had for him now was tainted by that.

‘I can’t… we can’t go back. I couldn’t…’ What? She thought. Do it, trust you, face it going wrong again – all of the above? ‘… after everything… it’s too late…’

‘The kids…’

‘We’ve still got the kids, Pete. We’re lucky.’

His face fell, he twisted away, then back. For a moment she thought he might argue with her but instead he just said, ‘I’m sorry. Oh, Janine, I’m sorry.’ She could hear the passion in his apology, his voice cracking. She believed him. He really was sorry. So was she. But sorry didn’t make it all better.

Then he held her again and she squeezed her eyes tight to contain the tears and wished for the thousandth time that they could turn the clock back. That things could be as they were, that he’d never cheated on her, left her, ruined it all.

When he had gone she ran a shower, washing her hair and her body, turning the water very hot until she was breathless, then a shot of cold. She pulled on comfortable clothes, towelled her hair dry Then, with exquisite bad timing, Charlotte woke up.

The dog nudged at Chris’s leg, after food. He pulled himself up and found a tin in the cupboard, spooned out the meat and put it down. The dog got stuck in.

It was Debbie who had pushed to get a dog. Ann-Marie had been five at the time. Debbie had developed fibroids and the pain and bleeding had become so severe that the consultant recommended a hysterectomy. No more children.

Debbie fretted about Ann-Marie being an only child. ‘I don’t want her spoilt,’ she had said, ‘thinking she’s the be-all and end-all.’

‘She is the be-all and end-all,’ he’d protested.

She dug him in the ribs. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘You don’t want her spoilt but you want to buy her a dog. What’s next, a pony?’

‘Chris!’

‘Debbie, she’s fine. She gets on all right at school, a lot better at sharing than some of them, by all accounts. She sees her cousins. A dog would want walking and vets’ bills and all sorts.’

She let it go then but not for long. Dropping canine hints into the conversation. How a dog would be great for exercise, how so-and-so down the road had got a lovely mongrel from the Dogs’ Home. He feigned disinterest, mentioned hairs everywhere and worming tablets. Meanwhile he’d called on a mate whose wife ran a kennels in Reddish. They knew someone who wanted a good home for a young dog. House trained but they’d discovered the grandson had a bad allergy.

He took Ann-Marie with him; told her they had to collect something for work.

She started at first when the dog came forward and sniffed her hand. She pursed her lips and blinked hard but stood her ground.

‘You can stroke him,’ the owner said. Ann-Marie put her hand on the dog’s neck and rubbed it gently.

‘He’s called Tiger.’

‘What sort is he?’ she asked.

‘He’s liquorice.’

Ann-Marie frowned.

‘All sorts,’ the man said.

Chris laughed but she didn’t get the reference.

She patted the dog’s back.

‘He likes that,’ Chris told her. ‘Shall we take him home?’

She glanced at him, her mind alert to adult teasing. But he nodded.

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘To keep?’

Delight bloomed on her face. ‘Yes!’ She clapped her hands and Tiger barked.

He couldn’t cry. There was sand behind his eyes, heavy, hot, dry sand. A desert.

‘Daddy,’ her voice jolted him. Shock sparking through his blood. He looked up sharply, his spine crawling. She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her tracksuit trousers on, the ones with the zips and her stripy pink and blue sweater. There was a smudge of biro on one cheek and an orange smear at the corner of her mouth. She must have had beans for lunch, or hoops. ‘It’s a bit messy.’ She frowned at the state of the kitchen.

He nodded. His heart blocked his throat, his vision tilted.

‘Tiger wants a walk,’ she said. He stared at her.

‘Come on, then,’ she said impatiently.

He stood clumsily, grabbed the lead from the hook, keeping his eyes locked on her. The dog, hearing the chink of chain, skittered round the kitchen, winding its body to and fro in anticipation.

Chris opened the back door and the dog darted through. Ann-Marie stepped out afterwards. Chris followed, bent to fit the lead on Tiger and, as he straightened, Ann-Marie slipped her hand into his.

When they got back, the dog shook itself, rain spangled everywhere. Chris hung up his jacket, regarded the clutter. He moved the pots to the dishwasher, opened the cupboard under the sink and got out the dustpan and brush. His face was wet, tears dripping steadily from his nose as he laboured, small huffs of breath shook his shoulders.

He heard Debbie coming downstairs and wiped one sleeve across his eyes, the other across his nose.

She stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped about her waist. ‘The police rang, they’ve arrested Lee Stone.’

He felt his shoulders drop, the crash of relief. Still kneeling, avoiding her gaze.

‘Chris, there are things we have to do. The registrars, for the death certificate, the funeral home…’ she spoke with effort and he could tell she was fighting emotion. Being practical. ‘I can’t do this on my own.’

He bobbed his head. ‘We’ll go first thing.’

He heard a little sharp exhalation – she’d been holding her breath, her turn now for relief.

‘Debbie,’ he halted, his tongue thick, the words like broken stones in his mouth. ‘I can’t… don’t, don’t want to talk,’ he managed.

‘OK.’

‘Just get through this.’ He meant the funeral.

He would come and sit at her side while they watched the registrar use a fountain pen to meticulously enter the facts of their daughter’s death. He would make sure he had cash from the ATM to pay for their copy of the certificate. He would drive with Debbie to the undertakers and choose a coffin and listen while she talked about what clothes they wanted her to be dressed in and when the viewing would be and special mementoes they wanted to put in the coffin. ‘We,’ she would say but in his silence Chris would leave it all up to her. Because none of it mattered. He would stand with her while the small coffin slid from view, shake hands with the rest of the family, the teachers, acknowledge the children’s flowers and poems. He would listen while she dictated the text for the memorial stone. Sit beside her as they were driven home. Walk the dog.

And after all that… he really didn’t know. Was there anything left between them but grief? Could he ever look her in the eye again? Forgive her as Ann-Marie had forgiven him? Forgive himself? He simply didn’t know.