Sal apologised for allowing the visit. Tish wouldn’t usually let anyone see her without her ‘full face’ on, her hair fixed and something stylish ‘just thrown on’. She would hate people seeing her like this, so stripped of her identity and her defences – but these were special circumstances. As a token gesture on the appearance front, Sal fetched her hairbrush from her bag and very gently began brushing the edges of Tish’s hair, taking infinite care not to go anywhere near any of the dressings that were obscuring her daughter’s once-beautiful face. When Tish opened her eyes and blinked a few times, before closing them again, Sal chose to interpret it as permission for the visit.
She had agreed to Jake’s visit, for a number of reasons.
The first was the sliver of hope that Jake’s presence – his voice, his touch – might somehow help to coax Tish back permanently from the tumultuous twilight world of pain where she currently seemed to be trapped. Sal had seen and read enough woken from a coma by a favourite song or saved by the kiss of a lover stories to be prepared to give it a try. She suspected that Jake wasn’t the love of her daughter’s life, but it had to be worth a shot. Didn’t it?
Secondly, Sal was honest enough with herself to admit that she just wanted to see Jake. She needed all the moral support she could get, even if it came in the shape of her daughter’s boyfriend.
And lastly, as Fran had pointed out, Jake was the only person – other than Harry – who could tell them what had caused the crash. They had heard little more from the police; the online speculation was upsetting and wild, and the press coverage lacking in detail. Jake would know. He was there. It was important that they found out what he could tell them.
Sal dabbed Tish’s dry lips gently with a damp sponge and told her that she looked as beautiful as ever. Well-meaning lies were all that she could give her daughter in advance of Jake’s visit.
Fran watched Sal chattering away to her daughter. It made her feel inadequate. Sal knew that Tish was unable to respond, other than with cries and moans or silence, and yet she carried on talking to her, all day and long into the night. Somehow she managed to keep up a steady stream of cheerful reassurances and anecdotes; and, when those dried up, Sal read celebrity gossip aloud from the dog-eared glossies left behind on the ward by previous patients’ families. Fran and Marcus had been given the same advice: to talk as normally as possible to Jess, tell her anything and everything about what was going on in their lives, keep her connected with the real world beyond the confines of the hospital. But the sad truth was there was nothing in their lives, other than the stark white walls of the ICU and the never-ending medical procedures, which resulted in no change whatsoever.
So it was no surprise that Fran was finding it nigh on impossible to chat to her daughter. Anything she did manage to say sounded false or utterly irrelevant. Life went on for others, but not for them, or for Jess. Her own and Marcus’s self-consciousness was acute in the face of Jess’s silent inertia. Yet try she must. It was part of Jess’s ‘pathway to recovery’. Fran turned her attention away from Sal and back to her own daughter. Conscious of the shake in her voice, she began telling Jess about Jake’s impending visit.
Jake was Jess’s friend by default; he ‘came with’ Harry, like a free gift stuck to the front of a magazine. He and Jess had never had much in common but, regardless, Jake had become a permanent fixture in their tight little group. From what Fran and Marcus had seen of Jake over the years, he was the least mature of the group, not the brightest tool in the box and – if the truth be told – a bit wayward. Not Jess’s usual type of friend at all.
But there had undoubtedly been a friendship there. Fran had heard the affection in Jess’s voice when she’d talked about Jake; the mix of exasperation and amusement. Fran suddenly remembered the time Jake climbed the drainpipe on the side of the house and succeeded in ripping off a whole section of guttering, in a foolhardy attempt to deliver a Valentine’s card to Jess. Not a serious one – a joke. He said he’d heard that Jess hadn’t got a card, and he thought that was a shabby reflection on the whole of mankind. Fran reminded Jess of the escapade now, injecting some warmth into her voice. Jess lay still – listening or not, Fran couldn’t tell, but at least it was something to ‘talk’ about.
In fact as they waited, they all found themselves pinning their fragile hopes on Jake’s arrival. In the midst of so much sorrow and seriousness, they craved his lightness and energy.
But when Jake was finally pushed around the corner by a porter, the sight of him quickly dispelled any naïve hopes of an upbeat, uplifting visit. It wasn’t so much his physical state – they had been told about the damage to his leg – it was the change in him. Joker Jake had left the building.
While Fran and Marcus held back, Sal went over to greet him. She stooped down, kissed Jake’s forehead awkwardly, and started chatting away. As she talked, Fran could see Jake’s eyes scanning the ward, orientating himself, but – though he was obviously taking in his surroundings – his eyes studiously avoided stopping at either Tish’s or Jess’s bed. He looked scared. Who could blame him?
Sal’s voice was painfully, falsely bright. ‘It’s lovely to see you. Not lovely, of course. But good. Good to see you up and about. Well, nearly. Have they been looking after you?’ At last – a good, direct, simple question.
‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay.’ Jake said.
‘Pain under control?’
‘Yeah. I’m on some super-strong stuff.’
‘Good.’
The conversation dried and Jake’s eyes raked the room again, snagging on Fran and Marcus, then bouncing off.
‘Do you want to come and see her?’ Sal prompted. That was the purpose of the visit, after all.
Fran heard Jake swallow from way across the other side of the room. ‘Yeah. If that’s okay.’
‘Of course it is. It’s good of you to come.’ Sal took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. ‘She’s still very poorly, Jake. She’s a bit in and out, in terms of knowing where she is. And you mustn’t be too upset by the way she looks. Every day she’s getting a little bit better.’ As she pushed him carefully towards Tish’s bed, Fran saw his face freeze. Sal kept talking, as if words could help to soften the blow. ‘You know Tish. Tough as nails.’
She positioned Jake’s wheelchair alongside the bed, which was awkward, because of his raised leg.
Her voice dropped a level, grew softer and yet somehow more insistent. ‘Tish, honey, look who’s come to see you. It’s Jake.’ The room quietened. ‘He’s doing fine, aren’t you, Jake? On the mend. Just like you.’
Even the staff at the central desk seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see what he’d say. The silence went on. At the point where it became painful, Tish made a guttural noise.
Jake started talking, in a rush. ‘Hiya, Tish. It’s just me. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I wanted to. Kept on nagging about it to the nurses. The docs wanted to keep me away, but your mum said it was okay.’ He looked at his hands, as if they held the key. He swallowed and dug deep. ‘Your mum says you’re doing well. It’s good to see you. I’ve been so worried about you. But I needn’t have, need I? I should’ve known better. Your mum says you’re doing well. Real well. Sorry, I’m talking shit.’
Then, as if the effort had been too much, his shoulders slumped and his words stuttered to a stop. Despite their own sorrows, everyone felt for him. Aware that he had nothing more to say, Sal sat between her daughter and Jake, holding both of their hands, trying to absorb their pain, and picked up the burden of the ‘conversation’.
From her prime position across the ward, Fran watched the awful awkwardness of it all. Jake’s distress was obviously genuine, and the sight of a broken young man was upsetting; but more than anything else – more than her sympathy with Jake and her empathy with Sal – what Fran felt was frustration. Jake was a witness, after all, and Sal seemed to have forgotten that she was supposed to be asking about what had caused the crash. So when the nurses came to change Tish’s cathe
ter, and Jake had said his goodbyes and had been wheeled into the hallway to wait for a porter to take him back to his own ward, Fran followed him.
‘Hey there, Jake.’
He smiled. ‘Hey, Mrs Beaumont. I’m sorry I didn’t come over to say “hello”. I didn’t know whether I should or not. I didn’t want to intrude.’
‘It’s okay. You were here to see Tish.’
‘How’s Jess doing?’
Fran felt torn between the truth and protecting his feelings. She chose the truth. ‘There’s no change – which isn’t a good sign.’ Jake looked uncomfortable, but she ploughed on. ‘Jake. I want you to tell me what happened? We can’t get a clear answer from the police, and obviously neither Tish nor Jess is able to tell us anything – at the moment.’ That was harsh, but she had to know – something, anything, that might help to explain why her daughter was lying in a bed, a few metres away, being monitored for signs of brain activity, instead at college living a normal, happy life.
Jake grimaced. ‘I would. If I could.’
‘Meaning?’ Fran’s slender hope thinned.
‘The crash. I really can’t…’ He tried to shift position in his wheelchair, but found that he couldn’t, because of his leg. ‘Mrs Beaumont, I’m sorry, but I really haven’t got much to tell you. I remember being at the party; we were all having a laugh – Jess and Tish as much as everyone else. It was a good party. I remember us leaving, then stopping at McDonald’s, and after that we got back into the car. But that’s it. The next thing I knew I was waking up in hospital. I don’t remember anything else. I’m sorry. I really am.’
Fran stared at him. ‘You must remember more than that. Anything at all.’
Jake looked genuinely distraught. ‘It was just a normal night out. We were all having a good time.’
‘So you’ve said. Were you drinking?’
‘Well, yes, I was. I don’t know what the others did or didn’t drink.’
‘But Harry…was he drinking?’
‘Look. Like I said to the police, I don’t know. We’re weren’t together at the party much. People were spread out in different rooms. I’m really sorry. I’m not covering anything up, I promise. I’m really not. I understand that it must be awful for you and Jess’s dad and Sal, but I don’t know what Harry drank at the party, and I honestly don’t know what caused the crash. I don’t know whose fault it was. What I mean is…whether it was anyone’s fault.’ His eyes kept flicking past her. He was looking at the ward doors, hoping that a porter would appear and take him away. But he was out of luck.
The next few minutes were painful for both of them, but no matter what Fran asked about that night, Jake was of little use. All he kept saying was that it had been such a good night, until it had all gone wrong – as if that made any difference.
Chapter 23
THE FOLLOWING day Adam, the ward manager, came to tell Fran and Marcus that there was policewoman waiting for them in the family suite. It was nice description for a nasty, faded box of a room down the corridor from the ICA unit, with a stained tea tray and two sofas that were just too short to sleep on. God only knew how many desperate conversations had been held inside it.
The police officer said nothing until they were seated. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I’m sorry to have to take you away from your daughter at this difficult time. I’ll keep this as brief as possible.’
Marcus and Fran simply sat and looked at her, waiting for information. They hadn’t the energy or the inclination for social niceties any more.
‘As you know, investigations are proceeding and a considerable number of interviews have been conducted about the events of the night of the accident.’
Fran wondered what they had got out of Harry, but wasn’t naïve enough to ask directly. Both she and Marcus were by now very aware of their irrelevance to the process. Their own repeated attempts to get any response from Harry or Dom had been consistently blocked.
The policewoman opened her notebook – such an old fashioned, low-tech approach. ‘I just have a few questions for you, if that’s okay?’
More questions, but no answers. Fran wanted to stand up and walk out, but the thought they might learn something about the results of the investigation stopped her.
‘Could Jess drive?’
It wasn’t what they were expecting. Can! a voice in Fran’s head screamed.
‘Well, yes she can, but she hasn’t passed her test yet,’ Marcus said. ‘She’s been learning for about six months.’
The officer blinked, point taken, but not fully grasped. ‘Whose car did she drive? I mean, before the accident.’
Marcus answered. ‘Mainly her instructor’s, but I’ve taken her out a few times.’
‘Might she have driven anyone else’s car ever?’
They both shook their heads, but they sensed there was something behind the question, because she kept pushing.
‘But among her friends, a number of them had access to cars, didn’t they?’
‘Only Harry and Jake have passed their tests, I think.’ Marcus looked at Fran, seeking confirmation. ‘But Jake doesn’t have a car. Well, not that we’re aware of.’
The police officer wrote something down. Fran watched, thinking how neat her handwriting was, how laborious. ‘Why do you need to know whether Jess can drive?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing, really. It’s just routine. Establishing the facts.’
‘Relating to what?’
She smiled. ‘It’s clarification really. Discounting alternative scenarios.’ They waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Her smile faded as she geared up for her next question. ‘Now, I wonder if you could help me by telling us a little bit more about Jess’s friendship group – specifically the people she was with on the night of the crash?’
Marcus cleared his throat as if searching for a start point, but Fran cut in. ‘Why are you asking this again? We’ve been through all this. You know who they are, and that they’ve been friends for years. You know who was in the car. You know who was driving. I can’t see what else you need to know.’
The officer answered her. ‘It helps to build up an accurate picture of the events leading up to the incident. I appreciate that it can seem tedious, but such information can be very useful, in terms of understanding the behaviour and motivations of everyone involved. For example,’ she glanced at her notes, ‘Mohir Akhtar. Was he a close friend?’
‘Why are you asking about Mo? You said he wasn’t even in the car.’ Fran could feel a small, tight kernel of anger forming inside her. This was all irrelevant. What they should be doing was establishing why the car crashed. ‘He’s just a friend. They’re at college together. In the same biology class. They got on.’ As she said it, she remembered the confusion on the night. The mistake that had landed Shazia and Nihal in that bloody awful holding room. The fact that Mo had been missing then had suddenly reappeared.
‘Was Mohir friends with everyone in the group?’ the officer asked.
‘Yes. Why is any of this relevant? Was Mo involved in the crash somehow, after all?’
The officer shook her head ever so slightly, dismissing the question, and moved on, working down her list. ‘We’re trying to work out the dynamic on the night. Were you aware of the actual relationships in the group? Boyfriend/girlfriend stuff, past or present? Any jealousies? Anything that could cause any tension?’
‘What’s been said?’
‘Mrs Beaumont, we’re just trying to clearly establish what happened, and why.’
But the niggle wouldn’t go away. The officer looked at them, still waiting for anything they could tell her. She was obviously fishing, but for what? Maybe there was something the police knew that they didn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t down to them to decide what was relevant or not. Fran spoke: the truth, as she knew it.
‘Tish and Jake are together. It’s on and off, from what we can tell, but they’re an item at the moment. Jake’s been in to see Tish…and Jess. The rest of them are just good friend
s. They’ve known each other since primary school. There weren’t any problems between any of them. We’ve known Harry since he was born. We’ve been close with the Westwood family for years. We used to spend a lot of time together when the kids were younger – holidays and stuff. He and Jess were like brother and sister.’
‘Right.’ She nodded.
Fran waited, her frustration growing. After a few more minutes of the painstaking note-taking, Fran had had enough. She stood up.
The officer took the heavy hint and closed her pad. ‘Well, thank you very much for your time. It is appreciated.’
She had one foot out of the room when Fran said, ‘Our daughter is still in a critical condition. On a ventilator. Unresponsive to stimuli. They can’t say with any certainty the extent of the brain damage.’
The officer looked ashamed.
Fran was glad. She swept past her. ‘Thank you for asking.’
Chapter 24
THE SOCIAL MEDIA activity around the crash was still frenzied. It was like people couldn’t get enough of it. The local neighbourhood Facebook page had got the most hits so far. Friends and neighbours and random strangers – they’d all piled in. Maybe it was a ‘parent’ thing, the fear and fascination with bad stuff happening to their kids. That generation didn’t seem able to accept that sometimes shit just happened; they had to blame someone or something.
Sitting with his leg resting on the pouf – glad to be out of hospital and back in the loving clutches of his mum – Jake scrolled through the posts. He recognised many of the names, but not all of them. There were some surprising standouts. Gayle Hessle, for example. It took him a second to work that one out; it was the first name that threw him, but his brain cogs finally clicked into place: their old headmistress at middle school. There was also a long post from Trevon, Jake’s football coach. A man who’d spent four years yelling at Jake, telling him, in no uncertain terms, what a lazy twat he was and how, if he didn’t get his arse to training on time, he would be on the bench for the whole match. Trevon had gone to the effort of putting up an old photo of Jake and Harry when they were playing in the under-thirteens, and he’d written – at length – about wasted talent and the lack of youth opportunities, as if the crash had been the symptom of some much bigger issue.
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 8
