by Abi Silver
Martine raced a few steps ahead. She flung her jumper out to the side of her body, jerking it up and down. Juan charged and she swept it away at the last moment, giggling uncontrollably. Juan stumbled, almost fell but righted himself. He straightened up and snorted. Martine sprinted on a few metres more and they repeated their comic performance.
When they finally tired of their adventure, Martine directed Juan to stand next to her, while she took a quick selfie with the lake in the background. Then Juan removed something, possibly grass or dirt, from Martine’s hair and their faces almost touched. Toby wasn’t certain if Martine whispered something to Juan or not, her mouth was obscured by Juan’s arm, but he sensed some kind of communication between the two of them. Then Juan set off, alone, in the direction of the technician’s pod, waving goodbye over his shoulder and Martine continued strolling back towards the main building.
As Toby watched, his mouth dry, his pulse racing, Martine dropped her jumper onto the lawn, sat down on top of it and began to swipe wildly at the screen of her phone. At one point, gesturing excitedly with her free hand, she put it to her ear and spoke. When she had finished, she tucked her knees up tight and sat, motionless, staring out over the lake.
Toby thought about going to her, but he had no idea what he would say. He could just say hello, ask her how she was, test the water. He still hadn’t spoken to her since their dinner together. She had clearly wanted to play things down, but now her open flirting with Juan confused him. What had Martine said to him? I can’t talk to you privately at work. That was the reason she had invited him over in the first place. But it didn’t seem to have put her off cavorting openly with Juan.
His phone buzzed for an incoming call and his father’s name flashed up, but Toby suddenly had no appetite to speak to his father after all. He checked the time and then buried the phone in his pocket. He had places to go, people to see. As he marched smartly out of the front of the building, Martine suddenly turned in his direction. She smiled and waved. He pretended not to see her at first. Then he feigned surprise at encountering her, waved in return, got into his car and drove away.
25
JAMES GLANCED up at the road. The navigation system said twenty-one minutes now until his destination, but the traffic was building up on the other carriageway. ‘Going against the flow’. That was a useful analogy for his life as a whole. James had never done things the conventional way, trusting his own judgment from an early age, and sticking his neck out to prove many points over the intervening years. He knew this trait sometimes made him unpopular, but that was the price to pay if you were a man of vision and principles.
And he had never been good at delegation. He knew that. ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing yourself.’ That had been his father’s mantra and had served him well. But now was definitely the right time to reach out, just a little, to the younger members of his team. It wasn’t delegation as such, more collaboration, making the best use of the skills others could bring to the table. He would take Toby along to the Cinderella session and perhaps he would even ask Juan to accompany him on the next overseas meeting, as long as he wouldn’t have to engage in too much inane conversation on the journey. He would assess Juan when he gave his presentation, see what kind of travelling companion he might make, before any final decision.
A roadside sign, to his left, advertised pizza. He did a double-take before grabbing his iPad and scrolling through a few screens. When he located the one he wanted, he stared at it hard for a few seconds, before laughing to himself and picking up his phone.
Just thought I saw you on a ten-foot billboard, he wrote. Had to check. She is your double. Take a look. She could be your…sister. He had eschewed ‘daughter’, his first choice and had then written ‘doppelganger’ before erasing it in favour of ‘sister’, to keep things uncomplicated. He copied the link to the ad, hit ‘send’, sat back and opened up some emails.
Halfway through reading his second one, he received a message back.
Not sure I’m pleased you’re looking at pictures of other women! Where r u?
On the road. Might be back late. Don’t wait for me to eat. You know I only have eyes for you. He sought out an emoji of a heart; it was the kind of thing he saw others attach to their messages. Martine sent them in droves to their son Zac when he was feeling lonely. His fingers hovered over it but, in the end, he sent the message without it. Martine didn’t need him to send sentimental pictures to know how much he appreciated her.
As he rounded a corner on the residential street where Haringey shifted seamlessly into Tottenham, he held up his phone in front of his face. Searching intently for some new communication, he failed to notice the road signs, warning him of work up ahead.
Twenty metres on, James glanced up and, instead of the expected grey, tarmac street scene, he was suddenly confronted with an obstacle in his lane and, behind it, a flash of colour; the pale pink hood of Ruby’s pram looming loud in his sights, the canary yellow of Bertie’s backpack streaking across his peripheral vision. The car shifted to the right and the colours disappeared, then it swung to the left and, this time, Therese Layton’s illuminated face was before him, horror etched across it, her body bending forwards but simultaneously poised to lurch backwards. He had a split second to gasp and then the world exploded around him.
26
CHIEF INSPECTOR Dawson peered through the curtains at the man lying in the hospital bed. He was propped up on three pillows and his head was turned in Dawson’s direction, revealing a full shock of greying hair, a crooked, aquiline nose and a cheek sporting a large, purple swelling. Eyes closed, his breathing appeared regular but shallow.
‘That’s him?’ he asked the nurse at his side.
‘Yes. That’s Mr Salisbury.’
‘He doesn’t look very good.’
‘It’s just cuts and bruises on his face, all superficial, and some broken ribs but he is quite confused. Dr Price said you could speak to him for five minutes, but if he gets upset you’ll have to leave.’
‘Does he know what happened?’
‘He knows he was in a car accident.’
‘Has anyone told him about…about the family?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Has he had any visitors?’
‘Yes. His wife came in, yesterday, not long after he arrived. She said she’d be back this morning. And a man came from his work, young he was, just before I finished my shift, but he was asleep.’
Dawson slipped through the curtains and sat down next to the patient. He honed in on the rhythmic whack of the pump sending a clear, saline solution into James’ left arm, the same arm which, only yesterday afternoon, had been gripping the steering wheel of the car which had ploughed into a young family. ‘Absolute carnage. He might as well have taken a loaded gun and fired it at them.’ That was what Dawson had overheard an old man say, as the bodies were removed by emergency services.
Dawson leaned forward and coughed into his hand twice. James’ eyelids flickered.
‘Mr Salisbury. I’m Chief Inspector Dawson. Can you hear me?’
James opened his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘In hospital.’
‘Yes. We’re in Dalston hospital. You had an accident, a car accident. Do you remember anything about it?’
James lifted his cheek off the pillow, groaned and then allowed it to fall back again.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘You were in your car.’
‘Vera,’ he muttered, then more alarmed, ‘is Vera all right?’
Dawson frowned.
‘You were alone in the car. Is Vera your wife?’
‘She’s…’ James opened his mouth and closed it, then clenched and unclenched his fist. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally.
‘Do y
ou remember being in your car?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the last thing you do remember?’
James stared above Dawson to the screen monitoring his blood pressure and pulse. It showed 119 over 58, pretty normal, and his heart rate at a regular 62 beats per minute. He followed the tube snaking its way from his arm, up to the bag suspended above his bed, before returning his gaze to the screen.
‘I was working at home,’ he said, ‘I had a meeting in London. That’s it.’
‘Do you know what day of the week it is?’
Dawson watched James try to moisten his lips, but he didn’t want to offer him any relief from his discomfort. He satisfied himself with the conclusion that he may not be allowed any fluids in any event.
‘You’re the police?’ James spoke slowly, shifting around so he could catch a glimpse of the ward through the narrow gap in the curtains. Then he stared at Dawson. He noticed the policeman’s hands clasped together, hanging between his legs; large, fleshy hands with wide wrists.
‘Yes.’
‘You asked about my car. Has it been stolen?’
Dawson had known, before he sat down, that he would not sugar-coat the pill he was about to prescribe. But James was an imposing presence, even when horizontal and in a hospital gown, his resonant voice, angular frame and restless eyes unsettled the policeman.
‘A woman was badly injured. Shattered pelvis. They’re not sure if she’ll walk again.’
‘Oh God.’
‘And two of her three children died when you hit them. The baby in the pram survived.’
‘But who took my car?’
‘No one took your car. You were driving it. You hit them with your car.’
James’ eyes grew wide, he forced himself into a sitting position and gripped the sides of the bed so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
‘I hit them in my car and now they’re dead?’ he said, the words spilling out of his mouth unchecked.
‘Yes.’ Dawson was impassive.
‘That’s impossible.’
‘’Fraid not. Dead at the scene.’
‘You don’t understand. My car can’t have hit anyone, let alone killed them. Are you sure it was my car?’
‘It was the car you were driving, sir. A blue car, SEDA make, registration number SAL1 2016. With extra…equipment on the roof.’
James gasped, released his hold on the side of the bed and slumped back against his pillows. Then he lurched forwards suddenly and grabbed Dawson’s wrist.
‘I have to get out of here,’ he shouted. ‘There’s been a huge mistake. If I can get out of here I’m sure I can sort it all out. I must call Toby. Where’s my phone?’
The nurse drew back the curtains on Dawson’s side, frowned at him, released him from James’ grip and eased James back to a prone position.
‘Where are my clothes?’ James asked her. ’Where’s my phone? I want to go. Can you call Toby for me? They’re probably all waiting for me in the meeting.’
‘You’ve had a nasty bump on the head. The doctor will see you later,’ the nurse said to James. ‘You can’t go home before then.’ She turned to Dawson. ‘I think you should probably leave now.’
***
Dawson stood in the lift, chastising himself for not asking James more about the car, about its special functions, before focusing on the dead children. Maybe that would have elicited a more engaged response. Too late now. While there would be plenty of time to talk once James was out of hospital, he would almost certainly have appointed a lawyer by then and might choose not to cooperate. Perhaps Dawson had missed his chance.
And because the car was so ‘special’, he had been forced to make an appointment with the police lawyer to talk things over, something he avoided as much as possible, as it usually heralded some breach of protocol and was followed, at the very least, by a rap over the knuckles. But their session, first thing that morning, had only led to some tentative conclusions and lots more areas of uncertainty. Dawson also reflected, just for a moment, on how he had laid it on a bit thick about Therese Layton. He had made up the part about her not walking again; the doctors had said they couldn’t predict anything with certainty for a few days. So, it wasn’t a lie, just a worst-case scenario.
He exited the lift deep in thought and stopped to watch the passing traffic. What were the statistics now; fifty-nine car accidents per day in the UK, two thousand fatalities each year and the biggest killer of five- to nineteen-year-old males? People got all moralistic about guns and knives and drugs but never gave a thought to these killers, kitted out with reinforced bonnets, crumple zones, side bars, roof pillars and side intrusion beams.
‘We don’t even take car theft seriously,’ he thought. ‘Joy riders! That’s what we call people who steal cars, race them at high speed and then either kill themselves or some other poor innocent bugger. Well there was nothing joyful about this business.’
The police lawyer had also advised Dawson to obtain legal representation for James straightaway, had said he was ‘vulnerable’ in the eyes of the law, because of his head injury, that the police must not be accused of ‘taking advantage’ of him. That was a joke. James Salisbury had just driven a car straight into a woman and her kids in broad daylight and he was the one who, apparently, required protection. Dawson chewed this over. He would do as he was told this time, as he didn’t want to jeopardise the prosecution case, but he was fairly certain that few people would be on James’ side in all this.
27
MARTINE SAT in her kitchen, staring out through the window, a bottle of gin, a can of tonic and a glass lined up before her on the shiny, granite worktop. ‘Emerald Pearl’ – that was the colour she had chosen, after hours of agonising over whether the ‘glistening green-tinged flecks’ would complement the cream tiles she had selected, or whether ‘Absolute Black’ was a safer bet. In the end the ‘natural elegance and timeless beauty’ of the former won through, but as she sat this morning, her red gels tapping against the hard surface, she wondered if she had made the right choice after all.
Toby sat opposite her, fingering his car keys nervously, having politely declined the offer to join her in an early tipple. He shifted his position so as not to be directly facing the camera, which sat in the furthest corner of the room, shadowing his every move.
‘Did you see James last night?’ Martine asked.
Toby pushed his keys away and folded his hands together.
‘He was asleep. I didn’t want to wake him.’
‘They said he’d only bumped his head, but he was pretty out of the game. Called me Vera when he first saw me.’ She took a gulp of neat gin, then splashed in some tonic. ‘What will happen if he’s not OK, if there’s something wrong with him?’
‘Is that what they’ve said?’ Toby leaned forwards. ‘I thought it was just concussion. It’ll pass in a day or two.’
‘That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure. There was no one to ask. Like a ghost town it was.’
‘I can manage at work for the next few days, till he’s back.’
‘Is everyone talking about it?’
‘A bit.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Depends who you talk to.’
‘I bet Carol’s telling everyone. She loves to gossip.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s gossiping about it. They’re just upset.’
‘And the men in the factory. Are they pleased their workaholic boss is human after all?’
‘That’s not how it is. No one’s pleased.’
‘What about the technicians? What do they think? Do they know what happened? What does Juan think?’
Toby frowned. He wanted to ask why Juan’s view was important to her. A few weeks ago she hadn’t even known who Juan was. ‘I don’t know,’ he said instead. ‘It only happened yesterday. Everyone’s prett
y shocked.’
‘More likely worrying about their jobs. When things go wrong, that’s when you find out who your friends are. That’s what they say, don’t they? It’s in the newspapers.’
‘Is it?’
Martine handed her phone to Toby, who scanned the screen.
‘It doesn’t name James,’ he said. ‘That’s good. And we should be pleased they didn’t arrest him. They often do, you know.’
‘Arrest him? Why would they arrest him?’
‘Because of the children he hit. I’m sure they won’t, not James, but you must have read before. It says things like 21-year-old man was arrested at the scene on suspicion of driving under the influence. That kind of thing.’
James isn’t 21…’
‘I know that. I just meant…’
‘And he doesn’t drink.’
‘No.’
‘It’s been six years.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Although I bet he wants one now.’ Martine stared out of the window. ‘Newspapers are always so negative,’ she said. ‘They should focus on James being alive.’
‘Well. You can understand it.’
‘Can you?’
‘Because of…well…like I said, because of the children.’
‘That’s what they’re all doing, all of them. Smiling children, first birthday photos, “good times”. I suppose it helps them sell their papers.’ Her voice quivered and she finished her drink and poured another.
‘I’d better be going,’ Toby said. ‘Acting CEO and all that. I just wanted to check you were OK.’
‘Me? I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Are you visiting him today?’
‘Yes. I’m going now. Would you like to come?’
‘No thanks. I should get in and keep an eye on things, hold the fort, for James. I know he’d do the same for me. Send my best though. I’m surprised I haven’t heard from him already. “Where’s my boarding pass?” “Have you organised my transfer?”’
