by Eva Woods
Eva Woods grew up in a small Irish village and now lives in London, where she dodges urban foxes and tuts at tourists on escalators. She runs the UK’s first writing course for commercial novels and regularly teaches creative writing.
Also by Eva Woods
How to Be Happy
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-751-56856-1
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Claire McGowan
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Words from Back to the Future (p. 126) © Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale Words from Grease (p. 165) © Allan Carr and Bronte Woodward, based on the playbook by Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
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Contents
About the Author
Also by Eva Woods
Title Page
Copyright
Day One
17 October 2017 (One week ago)
6 May 1999 (Eighteen years ago)
11 July 2005 (Twelve years ago)
1 July 1991 (Twenty-six years ago)
1 December 2010 (Seven years ago)
18 April 2010 (Seven years ago)
Day Two
28 September 2017 (One month ago)
20 April 2006 (Eleven years ago)
26 December 1989 (Twenty-eight years ago)
5 September 1991 (Twenty-six years ago)
2 June 2012 (Five years ago)
21 May 2005 (Twelve years ago)
17 September 1999 (Eighteen years ago)
15 July 2005 (Twelve years ago)
1 August 2017 (Two months ago)
28 February 2015 (Two years ago)
Day Three
2 October 1999 (Eighteen years ago)
14 February 1998 (Nineteen years ago)
21 August 2005 (Twelve years ago)
5 February 2011 (Six years ago)
6 May 2011 (Six years ago)
10 October 2017 (Two weeks ago)
28 February 2015 (Two years ago)
3 April 1991 (Twenty-six years ago)
24 October 2017 (Two days ago)
Acknowledgements
Two hundred and fifty-three. That was how many people heard or saw Rosie Cooke step in front of the bus on a bright, cold morning in October, as it crossed a bridge spanning the grey, muddied waters of the Thames.
Another ten would have seen it, but they were so engrossed in their phones they didn’t know anything was wrong until the traffic stopped and, for a moment in the beating heart of London, everything was still and quiet and terrible.
An office worker on the twenty-seventh floor of a skyscraper heard it as he sat at his desk, thinking about leaving his job before it crushed him, but turning over and over in his head the size of his mortgage and the children’s school fees. He frowned at the sound of screeching brakes that carried all the way up to him, and then went back to his spreadsheets.
Three people on the bus that hit Rosie were late for work. Another missed an interview for a recruitment job she hadn’t really wanted anyway, and decided she was going to go travelling to Brazil instead. There on the beach, caipirinha in hand, she would meet her future husband, Cristiano.
A woman stuck on the bridge, which was closed off for hours, had to stay late in the office to make up the time, and cancel a first date with the man she would have married, who six months from that day would have slammed her head against a wall when she shrank a jumper of his in the wash. Twenty-three people missed their trains. Two got fired. One of the paramedics who answered the 999 call decided this was the final straw, and he was going to quit his job and retrain as an art therapist. In the crowd, a party of hens from Glasgow got entangled with a stag do from Cardiff, and went on a riotous night out in the West End, after which more than one monogrammed T-shirt ended up on the floor of a Premier Inn. A small child who saw the accident happen became so afraid of crossing the road that for the rest of his life he’d have to count to three before taking the plunge, and eventually move out of London to that Channel Island that has no cars on it. The driver of the bus would take early retirement, and move with his wife to the Costa del Sol, where he’d never get behind the wheel again. His wife, who had been thinking of leaving him, would decide to stay now that he seemed to need her more. She’d take her driving test and become very interested in vintage cars. Two young women on a different bus struck up a conversation after one burst into tears, and six months later would move in together. In two years’ time, they’d be happily married and adopting a child from Romania. More than one person went home to their partner that night and held them a bit tighter, spoke a little more kindly, overlooked the dirty socks on the floor. At least one child was conceived as a result. As many as fourteen people decided to abandon their diets and have a biscuit when they reached the office (for the shock). The street cleaner who had to mop up the blood had a flashback to the war-torn country he’d fled, but got on with it anyway, because what choice did he have? The doctor who met the ambulance, newly in post and on hour twenty of a shift, locked herself in the loos to cry afterwards. The ripples from the accident spread out, across London, across the country, across the world, far into the future.
And as for Rosie, she knew nothing about any of this, because for several minutes in the ambulance she was actually clinically dead.
But she came back. In a fashion, anyway.
DAY ONE
Rosie
‘… losing her. BP is falling …’
‘Stats are very worrying. Where the hell’s Andy?’
‘… buggered off again …’
‘… in front of a bus? Suicide watch?’
‘Get the crash cart and page him now!’
How strange, she thought. She’d fallen asleep in front of an old episode of ER. She hadn’t watched that since … she had no idea. What was stranger, though, was that hands were touching her. Gently, but in a professional, distant way. Someone held her wrist, and someone else kept pulling out bits of her hair. It hurt. Ow, she said. Ow. No words seemed to come out of her mouth. She tried to open her eyes but they felt stuck shut. Her face felt … gritty. That was strange. Had she blacked out? What’s happening?
A strange bright light was shining through her eyelids, as if someone was interrogating her. She tried to move away from it, cover her face, but her arms didn’t move. And breathing was so hard. As if someone was sitting on her chest, some small but very heavy person. Danny DeVito maybe. What the hell? For a moment, with great effort, she forced her eyes open a crack. This wasn’t her room. It was too bright, and there were plastic curtains, and on the other side of them another bed and something happening on it. It took her brain a while to figure out what it was. A man in motorbike leathers, but his chest was open and red. People in masks pulling on him, packing things into him, attaching tubes and wires. What’s going on? She thought for a second she could see his heart beating, right there open to the air, and a surge of panic went through her. Is he …? Am I watching someone die?
The man had longish fair hair, and just for a split second his eyes, bright gree
n, opened and he looked right at her. Her heart jumped in terror and her eyes fell shut of their own accord, like shutters slamming down.
‘… responsive. Call Dr Khan and have her transferred to the ICU.’
Now someone was tapping her eyelids. How very rude these people were. ‘Rosie? Rosie, can you hear me?’
Yes, Rosie, that was her name. Her name was Rosie and she was … how old? She couldn’t seem to remember any more. Where was she? Why did everything hurt? What the hell’s going on?
‘Rosie, you’re in the hospital. You’ve had an accident. A bus hit you but you’ve been very lucky, you’re still with us.’
A bus had hit her? It’s the drivers, she said. They drive like maniacs, have you seen them? But again the words had no sound. Her mouth was frozen. And how could she be lucky if a bus had hit her? What were these people on about? Who were they?
‘… said a name in the ambulance – Luke? Rosie, who’s Luke? Is he your husband?’
Husband. Did she have one? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know how old she was. Trying to remember hurt her head, and it was so comfortable in the bed she was lying on. Like a cloud. A cloud that was carrying her away from all this noise and brightness and pain and these strange people touching her. That was it, go to sleep and when she woke up again this would all be over. A cascade of untethered memories whirled through her mind as she sank, like watching a stranger’s home videos. A grassy meadow, running over it as fast as her legs would carry her, white Clark’s sandals flapping … a fair-haired man on a beach, turning to her and saying something … standing on a stage in blinding lights, an unseen audience furiously clapping for her …
‘Rosie? She’s going under! Damn it, page Andy again!’
Rosie, she told herself firmly, as she slipped under again. I am Rosie and I am … I don’t know who I am.
Daisy
Daisy had never quite come to terms with the fact she couldn’t speed up time. As a child, she’d lie awake impatiently every night once December came, counting down the days to Christmas. What kind of stupid world was it where time always moved at the same pace?
Now she was a grown-up, and she knew the sad truth. Nothing went faster or slower because you needed it to. The Tube still dawdled between stations. Train doors took an eternity to open. People milled about on escalators like lost sheep. She cannoned off them, fighting her way out of the Tube station and up into the light. ‘Excuse me … excuse me … SORRY, CAN I GET PAST!’ Offended looks. Mutterings. For once, she didn’t care. God, it had taken nearly an hour to get there. She’d run for the train on hearing the news, but was there a quicker route? No, a taxi would have sat in traffic for ages. There had been no way to get there faster, short of, say, a helicopter.
Had they taken Rosie in a helicopter? No, the hospital was so close to where it happened, the next street over. The best place to get hit by a bus, if there was such a thing.
Her feet felt weird. She looked down as she stumbled towards the signs for the hospital. Her shoes were on the wrong feet. She fought the urge to stop and change them round, dodging her way through the crowds. Everything was all wrong. She hadn’t done any of her leaving-the-house checks, hadn’t picked up any clean clothes in case she was stuck there overnight, didn’t have her make-up bag or water bottle or the work she had to do today. She tried to reset her brain, tell it she wasn’t going to get that report done. She wouldn’t be in the office today at all. Bollocks, she had to text Maura. Her boss would be livid – she hated last-minute absences, especially in a week with a big pitch looming. But who could argue with my sister just got hit by a bus?
A nasty ball formed in her throat and she tried to swallow it down. She’d asked her mother, on the phone, ‘But what do they mean, hit by a bus? Hit a little bit – like clipped by the wing mirror? Or hit a lot?’
‘I don’t know!’ Her mother’s voice had ricocheted around the line. ‘She’s out cold, they said. You have to go there now, Daisy. It’ll take me hours on the train. And I don’t have anyone to look after Mopsy and there’s nowhere to park at the station and … Oh God, what if she’s badly hurt?’
‘I’ll go,’ Daisy had said, already pulling on her coat. ‘I’ll go right now.’
She had now reached the hospital, all fifteen floors of it, full of illness and suffering and death. She found she’d ground to a halt, her mixed-up shoes rooted to the pavement. What would she find inside? It sounded pretty serious, being hit by a bus. What if Rosie was dying right now, while she stood on the street dithering?
Rosie never dithered. She just decided to do something, and then did it. You’re always so careful, Daisy, her mother had said, at the engagement party. That’s what I most admire about you, darling. But thinking of the party brought up jagged, uncomfortable feelings, and she pushed them down. Would that be Daisy’s last memory of Rosie, in her leather jacket and ripped jeans, red curls wild and untamed over her shoulders? What would she look like now after … after?
Daisy dragged her feet forward, as if detaching them from chewing gum stuck to the pavement. The hospital was bright and modern inside, with an M&S on the ground floor, not what she’d expected. She found the lift and got in beside two handsome young doctors in blue scrubs, talking loudly about nephritis, whatever that was. The doors opened and she rushed out into Intensive Care.
This place was more like she’d expected. Swift feet, beeping machines, a hot and oppressive atmosphere. Someone was crying in the waiting room, the jagged sobs like a bassline to the rest of the noise. She found the reception desk, which had a harried-looking young man behind it, with a tragus piercing and tattoos all up one arm.
‘Um, hi, I think my sister is here? Rosie Cooke?’ Is it a question or a statement, Daisy? she imagined Maura saying.
He consulted the computer and she saw him suddenly focus on her. Her stomach dropped away. Waiting for him to say, I’m very sorry but …
He called over a young woman in scrubs. Nurse, doctor? How did you tell who did what job? It was impossible. They all dressed the same. She heard him mutter the words, ‘… bus jumper …’ What did that mean? Jumper?
The woman’s face was calm and unreadable. ‘Will you come with me please, Miss Cooke?’
She went. A horrible thought was crystallising in her mind, as she realised she’d feared this all along. Even before her mum’s phone call. For years. Since Rosie was fifteen, really, and Daisy was only twelve, this precise worry had been at the back of her thoughts, every time the phone rang and an unexpected voice was on the other end.
Had Rosie done this to herself?
Rosie
Rosie opened her eyes. Except she didn’t, because her eyes, like her voice, apparently no longer worked on command. Come on, guys, open! After everything we’ve been through together! I’m sorry I forgot to wear sunglasses all those times and never take my mascara off. Please … move?
A tiny crack of light opened up. She found herself in a private room, and with her was a small woman she recognised as her grandmother, sitting in a plastic orange chair, knitting. Which was weird, because she was pretty sure her grandma didn’t know how to knit. God had invented M&S for a reason, she always said. See, that was a memory. ‘Grandma?’ she tried. It was so strange. She was sure she’d spoken the word, but the two doctors standing by her bed didn’t seem to notice, carrying on their mutterings about BP this and systolic that like people going ‘rhubarb, rhubarb’ in the back of a bad am-dram production. They seemed … muted, somehow. Not quite real.
Her grandma said, ‘Rosie, love. What have you done to yourself then?’
‘I … really don’t know.’
Her grandma got up, leaving the knitting on the chair. It was in some kind of lurid pink wool, and the shape of it was odd. Was it for a four-legged baby? Rosie’s head hurt. ‘Hmm, yes,’ said her grandma, peering knowledgably at the chart on the bottom of Rosie’s bed. The doctors did not turn around or even seem to notice the small woman in the navy drip-dry slacks. It was very
strange, like watching two videos superimposed on top of each other. ‘Massive head trauma. That explains it. You’ve got retrograde amnesia, I expect.’
‘What?’
‘I watched a lot of medical dramas after your granddad died, love.’
‘Why am I …? Why don’t I know who I am?’
‘You’re Rosie. Rosie Cooke.’
Rosie Cooke. Two names. That was twice the information she’d had before. Progress. ‘And you’re my grandma.’ She knew that, somehow, deep in herself.
‘Course I am, love.’
Was this her mum’s mother or her dad’s? Who were her mum and dad? Oh God. There was so much she couldn’t recall it was scary to think about it, like when you look under the sofa cushions and it’s so filthy the only thing to do is put them back and try to forget.
Was that a memory? Was she the kind of person who didn’t clean under their sofa cushions? ‘Do you know what happened to me? Does it say on that chart?’
‘Sorry, love. Just says some complicated stuff they never covered on Grey’s Anatomy. But it’s OK. They’re helping you. See, they’re giving you something, a nice drug. I tell you, I wish they’d had all this when I was your age. Two kiddies and only a slug of brandy to get me through!’
Rosie focused hard. OK. A hospital room, white, sterile-looking. Two doctors hanging over her, in white coats and scrubs. A young Asian guy and a blonde girl with fresh peach-like skin that looked good even paired with blue scrubs and no sleep. She tried hard to hear what they were saying. Ears! Guys, you need to come through for me too, OK? Sorry about that infected piercing. That was my bad.
She found she was able to make it out if she listened with all her might, like a station on a badly tuned radio. The girl was saying, ‘… should use the restraints really. It’s protocol.’
‘Come on, Zara. She’s hardly going anywhere. She can’t even open her eyes. I wonder what made her do it.’
Do what?
‘The family are on their way. And I guess the police will want to ask questions. Hey, maybe she was pushed.’
