Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  The previous week, a pop star, with a string of hits over the preceding years, had died of a brain haemorrhage which had come out of the blue, and her songs were being played everywhere, with broadcasters competing to pay their respects. The chorus of her most famous song ‘Roam’ had been spinning in Hannah’s head all day and still tormented her now:

  “In the mountains she’s absent

  And she’s not out at sea,

  She’s not lost in a forest,

  Nor in the city,

  And you know that you may as well roam,

  ’cos she’s not coming home.”

  Hannah was shocked to hear the young singer had died but, although she liked the song, it wasn’t exactly poetry and she had been amazed over recent days at the crowds weeping out from her TV set, as various tribute programmes had been squeezed into the schedule. Thank goodness, no sign of any tonight as Hannah zapped between the channels looking for something to watch. Finally, she settled on a documentary about the dangers of cycling in London, which she knew to be a hazardous pursuit from her own days riding to work, something she had abandoned upon realising her children were going to lose their father: they didn’t need their mother taking undue risks too.

  She sat there, internally nodding at the tales of how cyclists were obliged to take their lives in their hands and how London’s politicians needed to do much more to make the capital a bike-friendly city. Towards the end of the programme, however, there was a twist, as the focus turned to the duty cyclists also had to ride their bikes responsibly:

  “On this very day, four years ago, at half past eight in the morning, twenty-four year old pedestrian Justine Fredricks was hit here, as she turned a corner into the Marylebone Road, by a cyclist riding fast along the pavement. The cyclist – also a woman – didn’t stop and was never caught to take responsibility for the death of this young woman and for the shattered lives of those left behind.”

  The picture switched, initially to the same female police officer who, earlier in the programme, had highlighted some of the poor driving she had witnessed in her career. She was now standing on the corner between Great Central Street and the Marylebone Road, explaining how cyclists too could cause mayhem and tragedy on the streets by ignoring the rules. Then the image switched again, this time to the young woman’s parents, sitting in a beautiful garden somewhere outside London, speaking with love and pride about their only child. Hannah could clearly hear song birds excitedly chirping in the background and, every now and then, one would swoop into shot collecting seed from a feeder placed on a lawn, which stretched away to a purple blooming rhododendron bush in the distance, just visible at the top of the screen, apparently at the start of a wood. She briefly wondered where this demi-paradise might be, but the scene changed again, this time back to one of bikes weaving precariously through city traffic, as the narrator wound up the programme with a summary of the issues affecting cyclists in London, finishing with a sentence inspired by a conversation with Katie:

  “Ultimately, what drivers and cyclists have in common, far more than anything that separates them, is that they are people. Of course most are considerate, but every day we see how others cause havoc on our roads, however they are travelling, and it’s usually innocent people, in the wrong place at the wrong time, that pay the price. Perhaps road users of all descriptions should be arguing less between themselves and instead fighting together for the Mayor to do much more to ensure our streets are safer for all, including those who, like Justine Fredricks, are neither on two nor four wheels, but on foot.”

  Something made Hannah rewind:

  “On this very day, four years ago, at half past eight in the morning, twenty-four year old pedestrian Justine Fredricks was hit here, as she turned a corner into the Marylebone Road, by a cyclist riding fast along the pavement. The cyclist – also a woman – didn’t stop and was never caught…”

  Distant memories of just avoiding a woman at that very junction slowly began to surface. No, surely it couldn’t have been her? She racked her brains, eventually remembering that her near-miss had been on the date of her presentation to ‘Coding Tigers’, a software company in need of marketing. Theirs had been an important account and it had been crucial to win it, in fact they had turned out to be her first big client. She had been running late that morning, she remembered it clearly now, and she had cycled on the pavement, just along the Marylebone Road and only that once, though she felt certain that she had not been riding fast. Despite her caution, however, she did recall that she had undoubtedly brushed against a woman pedestrian emerging from that corner: it had given her a real shock. She hadn’t, though, believed that she had actually hurt her… although it’s true she hadn’t stopped to check for sure. She should have done so, in hindsight she realised that, only it had all happened so quickly. But what date had it been?

  Hannah put her tray down and walked to her desk the far side of the room. She knew all her old diaries were there and it did not take her long to find the one for 2006. She quickly flicked through to June 23rd and there in her own big, black letters was written “9.30 Coding Tigers Presentation.” She didn’t move as her brain made the creeping but inevitable connections between what she had seen on the television, what she had read in her diary and the logical conclusion:

  “I killed someone!”

  She couldn’t believe it. She had thought she was a morally good person, a woman who had come through a difficult start in life to raise a decent family and to hold down a respectable job. She was someone who cared, not someone who killed! She had nursed her husband through illness and been resilient after his death, for the sake of her children. She had survived all that, finally everything was going well and now this! All the while the police had been searching for her – a fugitive, a wanted person who hadn’t even known she was on the run – and a family had been grieving for a daughter whose life she unknowingly had taken.

  She felt sick. She didn’t know what to do. Should she call the police immediately? Should she keep it to herself? Should she talk to Nu? She didn’t know whether to sit down, stand up, walk around, stay in, go out. Her head was spinning and she couldn’t think as the panic set in. Eventually, she rushed upstairs, grateful that Nicole was out and that Dylan’s music was playing too loudly for him to be aware of anything beyond his closed bedroom door. She shut herself in her own room, falling onto the bed she had once shared with her husband, and uncontrollably sobbed.

  She emerged ninety minutes later, having composed herself and ensured there were no visible signs of her breakdown. She was now resolved what to do, she just didn’t know when she was going to do it. She tidied up her dinner things, throwing away the congealed remains of her half eaten meal and washing up her plate and cutlery, before bracing herself to say goodnight to Dylan. When, a little later, she heard Nicole come in, she resisted the urge to go back downstairs and give her the hug she desperately needed – it might reveal something was wrong – instead, she called down to her, asking if she had had a good evening, and then explaining that she was having an early night. Shortly afterwards, though, she crept halfway back down the stairs, peering through the banisters and into the living room at her daughter sitting on the sofa, on the phone to the same friend she had only minutes before left, entirely unaware that her life had just changed.

  Hannah watched sadly for a few moments and then tiptoed back up to bed. Amazingly perhaps, she slept.

  The next morning she woke up and for a few seconds everything was normal, but then the awful truth seeped back into her consciousness and again she wept. Pulling herself together once more, she put on a brave face for Nicole and Dylan and then found an excuse to leave early for work… except she wasn’t going to the office at all, but to the person she trusted most in the whole world, and for that she needed to take the Northern Line down to Clapham.

  Hannah was relieved to find Nu in. He opened the door and she instantly threw h
erself into his arms.

  “Oh Nu, something terrible has happened!”

  “Come in, come in,” he said, ushering her into his living room and beginning an alarmed guessing game, “Is it Nicole? Dylan?”

  “No, no, they’re fine,” she replied, “but, oh Nu, I think I’ve killed someone!” Nu was a poet, a nature lover, one of the world’s carers, but he had the capacity for a very level head too. He sat down next to her on the sofa, took her hands in his, waited a moment for her to compose herself and then asked her to start from the beginning. It all came pouring out, unstoppable as the sobbing returned, but this time with the comfort of knowing someone who loved her unconditionally was there with her. After she finished, he put his arms around her and gave her the hug she had been unable to ask from Nicole the previous night. Neither spoke for a couple of minutes and then Nu became businesslike.

  “You have definitely done the right thing coming to see me,” he said, both strongly and reassuringly, “we can talk it through, take our time and be sure you are happy with whatever decisions you are going to make next.”

  “I know what I’m going to do,” she answered, “I’m handing myself in, I’ve got to, I just don’t know when. They’ll send me to prison, maybe for a very long time, but for the moment Dylan needs me. Nicole is leaving for university in a few weeks, but I’m still her mother, she depends on me as well…” Hannah started crying again. “Perhaps I could wait until she’s graduated, or even until Dylan has too… but that could be seven years from now, more maybe… even then, he may not be able to afford somewhere to live on his own… how am I going to…”

  “Slow down, slow down,” Nu said, breaking his sister’s stream of panic, “first of all, we don’t know for sure that it was you, going to the police now might clear this all up…”

  “But it’s the right day, the right time and the right place that I remember hitting a woman, and we know the pedestrian was a woman and that the person who hit her was too.” Nu had to agree that it was pretty damning. His sister continued “… how can I leave those poor parents without at least the small satisfaction of knowing who was responsible?”

  This was a problem that needed some thought and they agreed that, with Nicole able to babysit for her younger brother, Hannah would stay the night with Nu, giving them the rest of the day and then the whole evening to talk it through calmly together, coming up for air from time to time. In this secure environment, a way forward was found and the next morning, while her brother went to buy some envelopes and paper, Hannah wrote a letter on his computer:

  “Dear Detective Sergeant Brady,

  I saw you on television on Wednesday night when you marked the exact 4th anniversary of the death of a young woman who was knocked over by a female cyclist near Marylebone Station. Until seeing the programme, I had no idea I had hurt anyone, but I now feel sure that I am the cyclist you described. I remember being late for a meeting and riding on the pavement along the Marylebone Road on the 23rd June 2006. I distinctly recall brushing against a woman who suddenly appeared in front of me from Great Central Street. I was not, however, riding fast (as claimed in the programme) and I didn’t think she had fallen over, though I admit I did see her spin round and I should have stopped to check she was unhurt. I know it was the 23rd June because I still have my 2006 diary and my meeting is shown on that day.

  I want to do what is right, but I am a single parent and I have my children also to consider. I promise to hand myself in as soon as they no longer need me. I would like to tell you more, but I can’t for fear I will give you clues which will help you find me. I know this letter is a clue in itself and if it helps you identify me so be it, but I needed to tell you that I will come forward, that I hadn’t realised what I had done and that I am terribly, terribly sorry.

  Please will you pass this message to the parents of the poor girl I killed. I can’t begin to imagine what they have gone through and I feel totally deserving to find myself in this nightmare. It will be a relief to come forward: I will do so in a few years, when I will accept full responsibility.”

  Wearing rubber gloves, Nu printed the letter on to a sheet of paper from the ream he had just bought. He folded it into an envelope he had unwrapped from the cellophane of a new pack and on to which he had printed the police station address. They did not know if these forensic precautions were necessary, but felt sure the paper and envelope would be scoured for any possible clues. Neither’s DNA or fingerprints were on file, but they wanted to avoid any possible future link. They were even wary of CCTV tracing them to a post box, and so Nu alone took the letter to the busiest one he could find in central London. Hoping if any cameras did trace this moment they would discount him as being a man, he discreetly emptied the letter from a plastic bag into the box and then slipped away back into the crowds.

  “All done,” Nu said to his sister back in Clapham. “Still OK with it?” It was a little late had she wanted to change her mind, but the one small mercy was that Hannah felt sure now that this was exactly the right way to deal with this nightmare situation, she just did not know how she was going to get through the next few years and the prison sentence which she assumed awaited her beyond that.

  “Remember,” said Nu, “it was an accident.”

  Hannah stepped out into the late Clapham afternoon. It was time to go home.

  19

  Eastern Atlantic – Thursday 1st December 2016

  The swell got up substantially on the second full day between Cape Verde and the Canaries and Fergus and Sylvie were both delighted – secretly they had been disappointed that there had been very little movement on board, today though promised to feel more stormy and, even as they made their way to breakfast, they could see fellow passengers stumbling around as if half drunk.

  Afterwards they headed to the laundry. You need to pack an awful lot of clothes to last three weeks and they had decided not to try, but instead to do some simple washing of socks, underwear and T-shirts about half way through the cruise. That day had come. First stop was Reception to buy a token and then they took the lift down to the only publicly accessible part of deck two, where the launderette and the medical centre were hidden away. Down here the passageways were uncarpeted, bare pipes ran up, down and along the walls, flashing lights with accompanying bells and sirens leaked through the half open door of a dingy games arcade and a slightly dank smell filled the air. Most corridors were cordoned off with a chain and presumably led to the mysterious parts of the ship which only the crew ever saw – an oily-overalled mechanic emerged from one as if to prove the point, stepping over the low-hanging barrier and smiling at a disoriented Fergus and Sylvie as he passed, before disappearing again behind an intimidating heavy metal door.

  As soon as they entered, the laundry room felt hellish, with around a dozen washing machines churning noisily and half as many tumble dryers also whirring away infernally. The sound wasn’t deafening but it was intense, and the heat coming from the machines, together with the lack of any windows, added to the feeling that the devil himself might enter the room at any moment, carrying his own laundry basket, along with a pitch fork with which further to torment his guests.

  They could see that one machine would finish its cycle in fifteen minutes and so they hung around ready to pounce on it as soon as it did, fretting whether the person using it would return to remove their items or whether anyone else might walk in at just the wrong moment, grabbing the empty washer before they had a chance to claim it. These tensions added to that infernal feeling, but fortunately the user was indeed there and she removed her damp clothes promptly when the cycle finished, while Sylvie stood her ground nearby, ready to throw her clothes in at the first opportunity. The triumph of getting the machine was short lived – how the hell (and the phrase felt appropriate) did the wretched thing work? They closed the door and inserted the token: nothing. They pushed every button they could find: nothing. They tried to open the do
or: it was locked, with their underwear and T-shirts stuck inside.

  The heat, the noise, the claustrophobic feel of this room deep in the bowels of the ship, together with the aggravation of not being able to work the machines, all added up to the antithesis of their experience watching whales and dolphins from the stern the previous evening. Both felt the frustration, but Sylvie was better at taking deep breaths and not letting it get to her, while her husband ever more frantically turned dials, randomly pushed buttons and pulled harder and harder at the locked washing machine door. After a while he gave up. Moments later, there was an audible click, Sylvie tried the latch and the door opened.

  “Well, at least we’ve got our clothes back!” she sighed. A nearby woman, who looked completely at home in the laundry and as if she would happily spend the entire cruise there, came up to her:

  “Did you close the door and then put the token in? Because you need to put the token in first and then close the door.” She pointed to some faded, peeling instructions pinned inconspicuously to the far wall.

  “Oh, thank you,” said Sylvie, again repressing her frustration, “Fergus, we are going to need another token.” He stomped off to Reception to obtain one, ready for a fight should anyone seek to charge him for it, but instead the young Thai lady behind the counter smiled sympathetically and said:

  “Oh, I’m so sorry sir,” and, handing him another one, added “don’t forget to put the token in first and then to close the door.”

  “Thank you, thank you… I won’t… forget I mean.”

  Fergus retreated back down to deck two, hurrying past the flickering lights and nightmarish noises emanating from the arcade, finally returning to the laundry room to find his wife valiantly fighting off a man who wanted to use their machine. They inserted the token, closed the door, watched the washer spring into life, then made their escapes.