by Jess Ryder
‘Natasha?’
‘Hello, Jen. Can we talk?’
‘Yeah. Sure …’ I buzzed her in, draining my glass while I waited for her to reach my floor and putting it by the kitchen sink. I’d hardly stopped drinking since I’d left hospital. The alcohol dulled my thoughts and punished me at the same time. It was exactly what I thought I needed.
I opened the door, standing at the threshold as she came down the corridor. She looked very pale and had lost weight. There were grey shadows beneath her eyes.
‘Come in,’ I said. She followed me into the hallway, then into the sitting room. Her eyebrows rose beneath her fringe as she saw the chaos.
‘You’re moving out,’ she said.
‘Yup. Can’t afford the rent.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But I thought you owned it. I thought Nick bought it for you as part of the divorce.’
‘No such luck,’ I replied. ‘It’s just a rental. His account has run dry and the bank have stopped my payments. He gave up his job, remember, so no sick pay, no nothing. I’m completely broke.’
‘I know the feeling,’ she said. ‘I could have applied to be his deputy, according to Citizens Advice – that’s what happens when someone’s in a coma and there’s no power of attorney set up. But I couldn’t be bothered. His parents know we were estranged, they would have contested my rights. Let them sort out the mess, I don’t care. They can have Nick’s money and go to hell.’
‘I gather Hayley’s in charge of his affairs now,’ I said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve got a bottle of Sauvignon blanc on the go, if you’d prefer that. It would be quite good if I didn’t drink it all myself.’
‘Go on then.’ She shifted aside a pile of books and sat down on the sofa.
I dug into a box and fished out a glass, unwrapping it and rinsing it under the tap before pouring in a generous slosh of wine. Why was she here? She didn’t look like she was about to pull a knife on me; in fact, she seemed extraordinarily calm. But looks could be deceptive.
I picked up my own glass and refilled it to the top. ‘You weren’t at Emily’s inquest,’ I said.
She shuddered as she drank. ‘Couldn’t cope. Mum went for me.’
‘Yes, I thought I saw someone who looked like she could be your mum. Same blue eyes.’
Natasha nodded. ‘I’m glad there was nothing left of her to bury. I couldn’t have gone through a funeral, not with Nick’s family. We’d fought over her enough.’
‘You didn’t go to her memorial?’ I hadn’t gone myself, but I’d heard it had been a very showy, tearful affair.
She screwed her face up in disgust, just as Emily used to when I was trying to get her to eat something she didn’t like. ‘No, Mum and I did our own thing.’
I remembered those horrible days after the accident. There was footage all over the internet of vehicles exploding and infernos blazing, policemen shovelling ash into buckets. The emergency services had never seen anything like it. The only way they could prove Emily had been in the car was to trawl through CCTV footage from a service station further up the motorway. They found grainy shots of the three of us queuing at McDonald’s, and a few minutes later walking out of the foyer. Emily was holding Nicky’s hand and I was striding ahead clutching her Happy Meal. I was surprised that nobody questioned the nervous expression on my face.
‘Have you been to see Nick?’ Natasha asked.
I gasped out a laugh. ‘Me? No. Not even once. I never want to see him again. Hayley’s furious with me, of course. Says I’ve abandoned him in his hour of need. Abandoned the entire family, after all they did for me … I told her I was struggling, that I couldn’t cope with seeing him, but apparently I’m a selfish bitch. We’re not friends any more, which is fine. I don’t want anything more to do with the Warringtons.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’
I scoffed as I drank my wine. ‘What? That I was planning to betray her brother and smash his dreams to bits? No way.’
She nodded in understanding. ‘Thanks for not mentioning it to the police. Our plan to meet up, I mean.’ I thought briefly of her waiting in the hotel car park, watching the time of our rendezvous tick by, wondering what had happened. Did she turn on the car radio and hear the reports about the crash? At first she probably assumed we’d been caught in the traffic queues, which were stretching back for miles. It would have taken a few hours for her to fear the worst. How long did she wait, I wondered? At what point did she find out that we’d been at the very epicentre of the tragedy? I wanted to ask her, but it would only be prurient, I decided.
‘Things were bad enough,’ I said. ‘There was no point complicating them. But mostly I didn’t want Nick’s family to know. They’d have blamed us. You.’
‘Yes, well, thanks for keeping it quiet,’ she said, sipping the wine and flinching at its coldness.
‘Don’t thank me. You’ve nothing at all to thank me for. I’m surprised you haven’t come to throw acid in my face.’
‘Well, I haven’t.’
I knelt on the rug and picked up a blue glass water jug. It had been a wedding present – I couldn’t remember who from. There were tall tumblers to match, but over the years, they’d broken, one by one. I liked the deep colour of the glass, its smooth opaqueness. I tore off a strip of bubble wrap and stuffed it inside the jug.
‘Why are you here, Natasha?’
She swallowed her mouthful. Her lips were glossy with wine. ‘I’m going away. Starting a whole new life. My mother’s coming with me. She thinks I need looking after and she’s probably right. I don’t want Nick’s family to know where I am. For as long as he’s in that coma, I’m safe, but if he wakes up …’
‘What? What more can he do to you? Why are you so frightened of him?’ She was hiding something from me, but I couldn’t work out what it was.
‘Believe me, Jen,’ she said, ‘we should both be in fear of our lives. If I were you, I’d go somewhere the family can’t find you.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t want to say any more – you’ll just have to take my word.’ She took a piece of folded paper out of her bag. ‘Now, I’ve thought long and hard about this. I hope I’m doing the right thing. My mum thinks I’m mad, but I think I can trust you … I can, can’t I?’ Her eyes, blue and round, peered into my soul.
‘Completely,’ I said, feeling very small and humble. But it was true. She could trust me with her life.
She handed over the paper. ‘This is my new address. Please don’t show it to anyone, and keep it safe. When you find somewhere new, write and let me know. I’ll do the same. That way we can look out for each other. If either of us hears that Nick has recovered, we must raise the alarm. But otherwise, I don’t want to be in touch or ever meet up, is that okay? I don’t want to see you again.’
I felt myself reddening. ‘I understand, I don’t blame you. I’ll … I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘And look out for yourself, Jen. If Nick ever wakes up, you’re in just as much danger as I am. Remember that.’
‘It’ll only be what I deserve,’ I said, looking down. The blue jug felt heavy in my lap. I wouldn’t keep a thing from my old life, I decided. I’d send the boxes to the charity shop.
Natasha slid off the sofa and joined me on the rug. ‘No, no, that’s not true. You realised you were doing wrong. You saw the light and you tried to do something about it. That’s important.’
‘But it was too late. I should never have gone along with it in the first place. It was a wicked, evil thing to do. I don’t know why I never saw him for what he was.’
‘You wanted a baby, I understand that.’ She rested her arm on my knee. ‘That terrible longing sends some women mad, makes them steal newborns from hospitals, or take babies from their prams. You did do an awful thing, but I forgive you.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ I said sharply. ‘I won’t let you.’
Natasha smiled. ‘Forgiveness is mine to give; you can’t decide wh
ether to receive it or not.’
‘But I don’t want it,’ I said. ‘Any more than I want any of this stuff. Any more than I want to live.’
* * *
I open my eyes and reach for my phone. It’s a quarter to three. Shit. I’m going to be late. I get off the bed and run into the bathroom, splashing cold water over my face and dragging a comb through my hair. There’s a vile taste in my mouth; I can smell the gin on my breath. I quickly brush my teeth and sluice out with the tepid tap water. I look terrible, but there’s no time to put on fresh make-up. What does it matter how I look, anyway?
It’s a steep walk down the chine – a path cut into the side of the cliff, stony underfoot and edged with tall trees. When I reach the promenade, I turn left towards the café. If anything, the beach is even quieter than this morning. The sun is warm on my back as I walk, and my head aches with hunger. Not wanting Natasha to think I’ve broken my promise, I pick up the pace, passing the long rows of wooden beach huts, each painted a different jolly colour.
I could live here, I think. It feels so safe, so lacking in curiosity. But I couldn’t possibly settle down somewhere so close to Natasha; she would hate that. Somewhere further along the coast, maybe? Devon, even Cornwall. There’s been so much ugliness in my life; I need some natural beauty. But there’s no work to be had in the West Country. I’d be better off going back up north, to a city. Manchester, perhaps. It’s easier to hide among the crowds.
The sea is on my right. It’s low tide and the wet sand is glistening in the afternoon sun. To my left, the cliff soars above me. I can see a few bobbing heads walking the top path, but apart from that, I’m alone. The café is ahead.
Suddenly I feel desperate to see Natasha. I want to tell her that I’m going to be all right. That I accept that staying alive is my punishment; that every day I have to look at myself in the mirror and remember what I did. I may be conscious, I may be able to move all my limbs and talk, but in every other respect I’m as confined as Nick. And that’s how it should be. But the difference between me and Nick is that I can do good in the future. I’ll never tip the moral balance back, but it’ll be better than nothing. I don’t really know what doing good means, but I’ll work it out.
I reach the café and stand on the sandy concrete steps leading down to the beach. It’s ten past three and Natasha’s not here. I hope she hasn’t given up on me. I look back at the café, but it’s hard to see inside from this distance. Should I go and ask? No, I’ll just wait. She’s probably clearing up, putting on her jacket …
Turning back towards the sea, I take in the idyllic scene. Way out ahead, a small family, two adults and a child, are paddling at the water’s edge. Trousers tucked into their rubber boots, waterproof jackets flapping open. The child is running between the grown-ups’ legs and the sound of tinkling laughter carries towards me on the breeze. They look very happy playing together. Enjoying simple pleasures. Picking up stones and throwing them in the drizzle of the waves.
Tears prick behind my eyes. That was all I ever wanted. A child with my husband. Why was it so difficult? Why, when there was nothing medically wrong with me, couldn’t I make it happen? Maybe it was karma, punishment for some atrocity I committed in a past life. Maybe it was just bad luck.
One of the adults, a woman, turns her head and starts waving in my direction. I look behind me, expecting the wave to be for someone else, but I’m the only one here. Is she just being friendly? Should I wave back?
The woman picks the child up, and carrying her in her arms, starts to walk towards me. She’s talking and pointing at me as she approaches. The little girl wriggles in her mother’s grasp and one of her boots falls off.
It’s Natasha. And – oh my God. It’s Emily.
43
Then
Natasha
* * *
I came to a stop a few feet before the back of the truck in front. It had stopped, but other vehicles were still moving; a flash of red whizzed past me in the fast lane, heading for the side of the jackknifed lorry. I closed my eyes, waiting for whatever was behind me to crash into me. Horns were blaring, brakes were screeching; the Fiesta wobbled as a car whipped past, swerving towards the hard shoulder.
All I could think about was Emily. Had Jen’s car escaped, driven on, oblivious? Or was it lying beyond the barrier of metal and canvas that was blocking my vision? The traffic behind me was still coming to a halt, and I could hear grinding and crashing. It wasn’t safe to get out of the car, but I didn’t care. I had to find out if she was okay.
I ran towards the jackknifed lorry, picking my way around the side by the central barrier. It was like stepping into hell. Cars, vans and trucks were strewn across the carriageway, clustered together, twisted and mangled. Compacted vehicles – maybe nine or ten in total – formed a giant jointed metal serpent. It was hard to see where one car ended and the next began. There was no hope for any human life in there.
People were screaming for help, banging on their doors, trying to get out of their vehicles. Others were dragging bodies out of windows and onto the tarmac. I ran between lumps of metal, bits of shattered windscreen and what looked like piles of rags. I ran past staggering people, clothes and faces covered in blood, and others just sitting on the ground amid the broken glass, heads in hands. I remembered them afterwards but at the time I didn’t see them – if that makes sense. It’s impossible to describe the chaos of those first moments, the sights so horrible that I couldn’t take them all in at once. Now I can’t stop seeing them.
My brain was razor-sharp focused on finding Emily. I called out her name, but it fell into the din of traffic from the other side of the motorway, was swept aside by the cries and screams and shouts of people on their phones.
My heart stopped as I saw Jen’s car. It was at the front of the carnage, lying at an angle across the lanes, its left side rammed against a black 4x4, its right miraculously untouched but within a couple of feet of a fuel tanker. The tanker seemed to have fused itself to the central metal barrier; behind it was the jackknifed canvas-sided truck. My knees went to pulp and I couldn’t breathe. But somehow I managed to make it to the car and flung open the rear passenger door.
A rush of smoke hit me in the face and I recoiled. At first I could hardly make anything out. Jen was slumped into her airbag, which was soaked in blood. She wasn’t moving. Nick’s body was strangely contorted, like a broken doll, his face twisted to one side, eyes staring open. I thought he was dead, but then his eyes flickered. It was the very smallest of flickers, but I knew what it meant. He’d recognised me.
There was a terrible reek of petrol and it was growing stronger by the second. I climbed in through the smoke and tugged blindly at Emily’s car seat. She wasn’t making any noise, but as I fumbled with the buckle, she moaned quietly, and my heart leapt with hope. The smoke was thick and black. The petrol smell was filling my nostrils, making my head swim. I had to get her out before the whole car went up in flames.
I yanked the straps off her arms and grabbed her, pulling her out and holding her tightly to my chest. I didn’t want anyone to see I had her. Even at that extreme moment, I knew this was my chance to escape. I skirted round the back of the car, squeezing past the tanker, which felt hot, like a boiling kettle. People were shouting at each other to get away, dragging victims to the side of the lanes. I rushed past them, Emily’s face pressed against my bosom. My lungs were hurting so much I thought they would burst, but I ran back, past the jackknifed lorry, to Mum’s Fiesta. I threw Emily onto the back seat and lay on top of her. That was when she started to cry.
‘It’s all right, Mama’s here, Mama’s here.’ I stroked her forehead, the way I used to when she couldn’t get to sleep. Her hair was flecked with bits of black and tiny shards of broken mirror.
People had got out of their cars and were standing around, looking at the devastation. Behind me, the traffic stretched as far as it was possible to see, and the other side of the motorway had virtually slowed to a halt as ru
bberneckers peered out of their windows. I could hear the distant sound of sirens. How would they get to the scene? I wondered. Cars were stacked up on the hard shoulder; there was no way through the debris.
Something was happening. People were running away from the jackknifed lorry, shouting to each other and looking terrified. I stayed in the car, clutching Emily, watching in horror as a plume of flame shot up from the lorry’s rear and licked its way quickly along the canvas. Within seconds, the whole of the lorry’s side was engulfed in bright orange flames. A fireball hurled itself towards the fuel tanker. There was an almighty noise, like a bomb exploding, and the fire became an inferno. The smell was unbelievable. There were more explosions, and beyond the barrier of the lorry, a wall of thick black smoke shot into the sky.
I knew Jen’s car was close to the fuel tanker; there was no doubt that it would be on fire. I didn’t know if they’d been rescued; I was sure they must be dead. My stomach churned as I imagined their burning flesh, their bones reduced to ashes, their final screams rising through the black air.
Sirens were blaring from every direction. I saw fire engines, police cars and ambulances weaving through the stationary traffic behind me, blasting their klaxons at vehicles clogging up the hard shoulder to get out of the way. I stayed in the car with Emily as blue lights flashed around us and vehicles kept exploding and catching fire. It was like the aftermath of a terrorist attack, a scene out of Syria or Afghanistan. Something you only see on screens; that only happens in countries far, far away.
We stayed in the car for … I don’t know how long it was exactly – a couple of hours at least. The motorway on the other side was closed and the fire brigade opened the central reservation barrier in two places so that we could drive past the scene then re-enter our side half a mile later. As we passed at a shocked, respectful, ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ pace, I couldn’t help but stare at the devastation. The serpent of cars was now a black, smoking skeleton. Everything near the fuel tanker had burned to dust.
