by Clare Boyd
She drove on, leaving what had once been the Stoke Cannon Inn behind her. Its decrepit state was a bad omen. The fun was long forgotten. Her past had been boarded up, spoilt and left to ruin.
That pivotal night was blooming in her mind.
She retrieved snippets of how rubbed-raw and laden-down she had felt as she had driven along this very road, in the rain, at fifty miles per hour, all those years ago. Only a few weeks previously, Deda had been diagnosed with stage three pancreatic cancer. The possibility of his death had made her angry. She had wished that Suzanne could die instead. She had wished that Naomi would not fly to Bangkok. Both potential losses had raged through her that night. The prospect of being abandoned and alone had been pent-up inside, making her ill. If she had been sharper, less fixated on Deda’s and Naomi’s departures, perhaps the accident would never have happened.
Then she thought about Jason Parker’s eyes, and of Naomi’s drunkenness: singing and dancing, vomiting and kicking. Naomi’s messy state of mind had cancelled out her own. Any driver would have struggled to remain focused.
A car’s headlights flew by, bringing Sophie back to the present. The arch of trees above her formed a tunnel into hell. She recognised the bend to the left up ahead, roughly ten minutes along from the pub. The lay-by was approaching on the left. On the right was the River Exe. The footpath that veered off from the road and down to the river was signposted. This was the marker she had been looking for. It was directly opposite where Jason Parker’s body had landed.
She screeched to a stop, blasted by a vivid memory: the thud of his body, the smell of the wet road, the wail from Naomi.
Holding back a scream, she restarted the car and parked up in the lay-by. As she got out of her car, she clicked on her torch, holding it with two hands to steady the shake of her muscles. Its beam jittered across the uninviting surroundings.
The walk to the forked tree in the dip was fraught with brambles and tangled undergrowth. A broken branch tripped her up. As she recovered herself and brushed herself down, another car’s headlights illuminated the tree that she was heading towards, highlighting a small flash of bright colour sticking out of the ivy that smothered its trunk.
She could hear her own shallow breaths as she clambered over to take a closer look.
Her stomach swelled when she saw what was pinned to the tree.
There was a handwritten note, brand new behind a clear plastic cover, nailed to the tree, with a fresh bunch of flowers tucked into a ribbon that was tied around the trunk.
She read the note:
March 22nd, 2019
* * *
In remembrance of my beloved son, Jason, I write this plea, on this day, twenty years after his death, to the person who killed him.
Today would have been his 42nd birthday. Instead of celebrating with him, I am in as much pain as I was on the day I found out he had been taken from us.
This letter is to you, the guilty one, who took my boy from me, to tell you that I am unable to rest, that I am unable to live on until I can see the regret and remorse in your eyes, to know that you will be punished for walking away and leaving my son to die by this roadside. You are living your life with no thought of us, with a future – possibly looking at your own children’s future with hope – but you took that future away from Jason and you have taken hope away from our family.
See this photograph of him, look into his eyes, remember that he was loved and know that, every minute of every day, I wonder how you can live with yourself for leaving us in limbo for so long, for letting our grief fester with unfinished business. Your dishonesty continues to ruin more lives than you can imagine.
Please, if you have a heart, be brave enough to step forward, face the consequences of your actions and end our suffering.
* * *
Ilene Parker
Sophie’s diaphragm jerked, forcing a dry retch. She pressed her hand to her closed mouth, swallowing repeatedly, but her insides fought to expel her horror.
The letter made Sophie confront the misery she had inflicted on Ilene Parker, whose grief had been sustained and heightened by her cowardice.
She scrambled back to her car, bent double with the cramping in her guts, tasting salt in her mouth from escaped tears.
As she started the car, she could barely see, and the irony of her decision to drive while distressed was not lost on her. But she had to get away. If Ilene Parker had been here so recently, if she still lived nearby, if she had seen a car parked up here, she might guess it was the perpetrator, that the car belonged to the ‘guilty one’.
As she drove, the blisters on her right palm burst under the pressure of her grip. She edited the letter, in her mind, to include two guilty parties. There was Naomi, whose life was how Ilene Parker described, with a future and a clear conscience, and then there was Sophie’s, whose future had not been depicted in the letter with any accuracy. In truth, Sophie’s future had been snatched from her the moment Jason’s body had hit her windscreen. She had not got away with it. All of her dreams for her future had been warped and curtailed, dwarfed further as time went on by the magnitude of her secret. The effects of keeping it hidden had been insidious, allowing the contrast between her life and Naomi’s to grow more pronounced by the day.
By protecting Naomi from the truth, Sophie had settled for vicarious happiness while Naomi’s dreams had been realised in full colour. Through Naomi, she had a view from the sidelines of how life might have been. But Sophie could not continue to bear the brunt of the blame any longer. Unconsciously, she had carried it like a burden for two decades, and it had finally made itself felt. And she was angry. Angry with Naomi in a way she had never been before. The accident had been Naomi’s fault, but Sophie was the one whose life was in tatters. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
Chapter Eleven
Harley’s wagging tail flicked my face as I poured his food into his bowl. I crouched down to his level and asked him, straight up, ‘Can you take the girls to school for me today, Harley?’
I was trembling, dry and sick with a hangover, and I worried about being pulled over on the school run for an alcohol breath test. If Charlie had been here, he would have dropped the girls off and picked them up, as he did every Friday.
After a couple of headache pills and a strong coffee, I turned on Radio 4, took out the chopping board and laid out four pieces of bread for Diana and Izzy’s packed lunch sandwiches. Before gathering the butter and ham and carrot batons from the fridge, I checked my phone, which I had left to charge overnight.
When I saw three missed calls from Adam, I instantly forgot about my hangover and the girls’ packed lunches and called him back.
He answered before the first ring. ‘Do you know where she is?’
I planted my bare feet squarely, feeling the need to ground myself.
‘Sophie, you mean?’ I asked inanely, my slow brain kicking into life. Harley looked up from his curled position on the rag rug under the breakfast table.
‘She never came to bed last night, and she’s taken the car and left her phone.’
My stance weakened and I rubbed my scratchy eyes.
‘Where do you think she’s gone?’
‘Who the hell knows? That woman is a live wire. But I’m working in London today and I’m already late. Is there any chance I can drop Dylan with you now?’
‘I’m here. I’ll take him to school.’
He let out a long breath. ‘Brilliant. You’re a star. Thank you.’
‘Do you want me to pick him up this afternoon, as well?’
‘I’m bloody well hoping that Sophie decides to show up at some point,’ he snapped, adding more gently, ‘but yeah, thanks, can I put you on standby?’
‘Sure.’
There was a pause while I waited for him to say goodbye.
‘Is there any chance I could swing by for a quick chat this evening?’
‘Charlie’s in Manchester, remember?’
‘I know. I wanted to
talk to you about Sophie.’
‘Yup. Okay.’
‘See you then.’
I hung up and glugged down a tall glass of water. My reluctance to get involved in their marriage problems was overridden by Sophie’s sudden disappearance and by the urgency of Adam’s request. It was impossible to dismiss. As was she. As ever.
The picture of her dead by the roadside floated through my mind.
As the morning wore on, my worry became a spinning wheel that I couldn’t slow down.
After the school run and Harley’s walk, I allowed myself a half-hour nap. It was blissful respite. When I woke, I tackled an article for my column, but my heart wasn’t in it. There were unopened cases of wine, delivered that morning, which needed tasting, but the thought of going anywhere near alcohol terrified me.
The fretting increased. I began checking my phone, thinking of places that Sophie might have disappeared to, returning again and again to the idea of Exeter as a destination.
She was eternally nostalgic about our years there, our friendship, our antics. I understood why. In those days, we had existed in an intense bubble, coming of age together, binding our souls, imagining that a life of such closeness could last forever.
A flash of being stuck in the Giulia came back to me. Recalling the fumes, I began coughing, and I abandoned my article, which involved too much thought. A selfie-shoot for Instagram would be a lightweight distraction.
I painted my nails burgundy and put on a burgundy jumper to match the Burgundy I was tasting. I framed it as a close-up of the glass – almost gagging at the smell – including only my lips, also Burgundy, and fingertips. The tight framing cut off my puffy eyes.
After I had messed around for an hour or so to get a decent photograph, Adam finally texted.
Hi Naomi – Sophie called. She’s home. Won’t tell me where she’s been. No need to pick up Dylan. Thanks for being on standby. Adam
Flooded with relief, I hoped that Adam would now not want to drop round to talk about Sophie. I texted back, without mentioning it, keeping my fingers crossed.
Phew! What a relief. Thanks for letting me know. Nx
* * *
Is it still okay if I pop over tonight? Adam
* * *
What will you tell Sophie? Nx
* * *
Working late ; )
I felt shifty, and I hesitated before replying, wondering if I should insist he tell her. But I didn’t.
See you then. Naomi x
Little would be gained by telling Sophie. It was a white lie that I could live with.
To Sophie, I texted:
Hi Sophie – where have you been? Call me. Nx
‘Glass of something?’ I asked Adam, shaking a bottle of Merlot at him, trying to be casual about the strange circumstances of our meeting. My hangover made his presence in my kitchen that much more surreal.
As I poured him a glass of wine and made myself a cup of herbal tea, the thought of his cheating set me on edge. Not because I worried he would make a pass at me, but because he was no longer in my camp as my best friend’s loving husband. Overnight, he had become a free agent, or a man whose boundaries had shifted. I wasn’t sure quite how to place him in the context of our friendship. Did I take a balanced view of their separation or a blinkered, moral stance on Sophie’s behalf? Guessing how difficult she had been to live with, it was going to be a real challenge to do the latter, but that was how it had to be, whether Adam liked it or not. My loyalties to Sophie were unconditional, sisterly, as though we were bound as friends for life.
‘Did you get it out of her?’ he asked, taking a sip of wine, his eyes darting around the room as though Sophie might be lurking in the shadows.
‘She hasn’t called me back.’
He raised an eyebrow at me and batted his long eyelashes. ‘Really?’
There was no doubt about it, Adam used his good looks to get what he wanted. He would guess that I desired him, as so many other women might. His guess was wrong. I could appreciate his olive skin and white smile, but his vanity spoilt both. He had the habit of tucking his hair behind his ears, or tying it into a bun, repeatedly and self-consciously; and I would have wicked thoughts of him brushing it like a schoolgirl in front of the mirror.
‘Honestly, she hasn’t.’
‘That’s a first.’
Sophie had not called me back, which I had been both relieved about and perturbed by. I assumed it was because she was embarrassed or ashamed, perhaps expecting me to scold her about her sudden disappearance, which I had no intention of doing. She judged herself harshly enough – she did not need me to add to the flagellation. But there was a question lurking still: where had she been, and why had she taken off in the middle of the night?
‘She doesn’t always call me straight back, Adam,’ I said, dunking my teabag over and over, rooting through my mind for examples of when she hadn’t and drawing a blank.
He scratched at his overlong sideburns. ‘She’s not herself, Naomi.’
‘Do you blame her?’
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he lowered his long eyelashes. ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened between us.’
‘I’m not judging you.’
‘You have no idea what it’s been like. It’s been so bad, especially since her grandad died.’
‘She was bound to take it hard.’
‘Go ahead, get it out, call me a cheating wanker.’
I shrugged. ‘You’re a cheating wanker.’
We smiled at each other.
‘I’m worried about Dylan when I move out,’ he said, more seriously.
‘Oh, come on! There’s nothing to worry about there.’
‘That’s what I used to think.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Used to?’
‘She left him on his own in the cottage last week.’
I opened my mouth to speak, prepared to defend her parenting, but I was flummoxed. ‘For how long?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘Why?’
‘She wanted to go to a Pilates class before school.’
‘Was it last Thursday?’ I shot back.
‘How’d you know?’
‘I saw her there,’ I said, but I was not going to elaborate.
‘I wouldn’t have given a toss if she’d popped out for five minutes for a pint of milk or something, but a Pilates class? For over an hour? The whole thing was plain wrong. Dylan was disturbed after.’
‘Did she say why she left him at the cottage?’
‘She said the security was better,’ he scoffed.
‘I suppose that might be true,’ I said, knowing this was beside the point.
‘Dylan told me she’d said “Grandad will look after you”.’
I frowned. ‘I’m sure she meant that he was looking over them still.’
He shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t that. She told Dylan to be quiet so that he didn’t wake him up.’
‘Wake up her grandfather?’
He nodded, wincing. ‘Dylan thought he’d come alive again. He was bloody terrified.’
I bit my lip, remembering the dry-cleaned suits and the dust-free frames in his room. ‘Yes. I imagine he was.’
‘And before you guys cleared out the cottage, she went round there every single bloody day, just like she did when he was alive. God knows what she got up to in there. She’s gone sick in the head, I swear it.’
‘His ashes are there. Maybe it was like visiting his grave.’
‘She always smells of booze when she comes back.’
I blushed. ‘I know all about that.’
He grinned. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not great. But I didn’t want to say no to the idea of giving Evgeni a Russian-style send-off.’ I sounded prim, which was laughable considering.
‘Is that how Sophie justified it?’ he snorted.
‘The grieving process can last years. It’s probably why she’s drinking more. Especially if she hasn’t fully come to
terms with his death.’
Adam threw his head back. ‘Naomi, babe, stop defending her! She’s got a problem and you know it.’
I withdrew my hands from the table, where they had rested at the base of my mug.
He continued, ‘Sorry, but come on, you’re not helping her by sticking your head in the sand.’
‘I’m just trying to see it from her point of view.’
‘Think about it, she must have driven that car well over the limit last night. And where the hell did she go? She still hasn’t told me.’
In my head I counted out the shots I had witnessed her downing and I wondered how she could have seen straight, let alone driven. Even hours later, the alcohol would have been coursing through her bloodstream.
‘She hasn’t told me either,’ I said, tight-lipped, smarting from his outburst.
‘Is she seeing someone?’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘Another man?’
‘To get back at me, I mean.’
‘That’s not her style.’
‘So where was she, then?’
‘Maybe she just needed to get away for a bit. Clearing out the house would have been seriously traumatic for her.’
‘Yeah, right, clear her head and kill some poor innocent bugger on the road ’cos she can’t see straight.’
My stomach flipped.
‘It was bloody lucky she didn’t,’ I said, deciding to pour a tiny drop of wine into my drained tea mug.
