I see Jane’s black 4x4 pull into the car park after almost fifty minutes. She parks and ducks momentarily out of sight to grab her phone, but by then I’m already halfway across the car park. She waves when she spots me and I clamber up into the back, behind the passenger seat, as if she’s a chauffeur.
Norah is strapped into the carrier that’s belted into the passenger seat and Jane reaches across to wipe something from her daughter’s face.
‘Traffic’s a nightmare,’ Jane says as she turns to me. ‘There was some sort of hit-and-run in Gradingham this morning. They’ve shut down the road for investigation work. It’s total chaos.’
‘That’s sort of why I’m here,’ I reply. ‘It was my car.’
Jane has turned back to the windscreen, but she stops and our eyes meet in the mirror. Her brows have dipped inwards.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone stole my car overnight.’
‘From the hotel…?’
‘I drove back not long after getting your text. I couldn’t sleep.’
Jane has her hands at a textbook two and ten on the wheel. Someone who’s used to driving carefully with her young daughter at her side. She’s started to reach for the handbrake but stops in mid-air as it sinks in. She doesn’t turn as she speaks.
‘The police think you did it…?’ There’s a glimmer of doubt in her voice, as if she’s really saying: ‘Tell me you didn’t do it…?’
Norah is babbling to herself in the front seat and then, from the stream of infant consciousness, produces the word ‘tree’. It breaks the impasse as Jane twists against her seat belt to look at her daughter and then me.
‘She likes the word “tree”,’ Jane says. ‘I think she’s going to be a botanist.’
‘Or a lumberjack.’
That gets a smile. ‘Not a lumberjack.’
‘I got home and went to sleep,’ I say. ‘When I woke up, my car was gone. I called in to report it and then the police turned up and breathalysed me.’
Her eyes go wide: ‘Really?’
‘I passed. I only had that one glass early on last night. They might contact you at some point. I had to tell them who I was with at the awards dinner.’
She pouts a lip and the momentary glimpse to Norah tells me that she doesn’t particularly want to get involved in whatever I’ve caught myself up in. I don’t think I blame her.
‘Is the road still closed?’ I ask.
‘There was a load of signs up when I was trying to get here, so I think so. I had to take that back road that goes past the rugby club, near Little Bush Woods.’
‘Can you take me to the crash?’
There’s a momentary hesitation, but then Jane reaches for the handbrake. ‘Sure.’
* * *
The scene of the crash is simultaneously better and worse than I imagined. There’s almost a comedy to it in that whoever was driving my car smashed it into the lamp post adjacent to the ‘Welcome To Gradingham’ sign. Underneath, it still reads ‘Thank you for driving carefully’, which now comes across as somewhat sarcastic.
The lamp post has doubled in half and there’s a small white tent on the grass verge, where, presumably, the poor pedestrian ended up. There are no pavements out here, yet locals are used to walking the country lanes to get to some of the houses that sit a little outside the village boundaries. I’ve done it myself – more or less everyone who lives in the area will have done the same at some point.
My car is also in the verge, though it is almost entirely shielded from view by a series of screens. There are three police cars parked opposite the crash scene, with barriers across the road. A uniformed officer is standing to the side, whirring his finger in a circle to encourage us to turn around. Instead, Jane parks on the side of the road, where there are already a couple of other vehicles. In a village where very little happens, this is up there with a new Nintendo console for entertainment. The officer is trying to convince people there’s nothing to see, while kids who have dumped their bikes on the ground are taking photos on their phones. The ‘Thank you for driving carefully’ juxtaposition will be a meme within the hour – if it isn’t already. It might be funny if it wasn’t my car and I wasn’t the person accused of a hit and run. Not to mention the victim…
‘I’ll wait,’ Jane says, seemingly reading my mind once more.
I let myself out of the car and approach the makeshift barrier. The crash scene has suddenly become Gradingham’s top tourist attraction. When the only competition is the duck pond, it’s not much of a surprise.
As well as the officer at the barrier, who has seemingly given up on trying to turn people away, there are more watching on as three people in white paper suits disappear behind the sheet that’s covering half of my car. There are skid marks on the road, with rubber marks from where the car veered off to the side.
There’s blood, too.
A splash of deep crimson has stained the grass at the top of the verge, before disappearing down the slope, out of sight.
The number plate at the back is covered by the sheet, but the purple heart that hangs from the mirror is clear enough. There’s no question it’s my car.
‘You have to move back.’
I look up – and the officer who was guarding the barrier has been joined by a second. The newcomer has his arms spread wide in front of the kids and is beckoning them away.
‘Why?’ one of the kids ask. I’d guess he’s about thirteen or fourteen.
‘Because I said so.’
‘So?’
‘This is a crime scene. Can’t have anyone interfering with the investigation.’
‘You’re on the other side. How do we know you’re not interfering?’
The officer rolls his eyes as if he’s heard all this backtalk before. I can imagine my mother saying that it wasn’t like this in her day. Kids would get a clip round the ear, and all that. ‘Never did me any harm,’ she’d say.
‘Just move away,’ the officer repeats.
‘What happened?’ the boy asks.
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Is anyone dead?’
I look to the blood and the bent sign. If the pedestrian was hit in anything close to a direct way, then I can’t see how someone would survive. The speed limit going out of the village is fifty mph and this isn’t the type of road where people drive at twenty – let alone in a stolen car. I’m not sure why they didn’t before, but things suddenly feel very serious.
‘On your way,’ the officer says.
The kids finally get the message and head over to their bikes. A few seconds later and they’re cycling back towards the village.
The officer turns to me and sighs. There’s a freshness to his features and he doesn’t have any of the harshness of Sergeant Kidman from the interview room.
‘You’ve got to go, too,’ he says.
‘I am, it’s just…’
I think about telling him it’s my car but can’t see how any good will come of it. He’s not going to let me pass – and I’m sure it won’t look good that I’m here. Instead, I turn and head back to Jane’s car, before getting into the back.
‘Do you want to go?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it definitely your car?’
‘Yes.’
She starts the vehicle once more and swings around in a U-turn.
‘They say whoever was hit is in intensive care,’ she says, momentarily catching my eye in the mirror.
I have to look away: ‘Are there any other details?’
‘Someone in the Facebook comments said it’s a man from their road, but that’s about it.’
She drives in relative silence for a minute or two. It’s only Norah who doesn’t notice how awkward things have become. She babbles away happily to herself. There are a handful of words among the gibbering, which I suppose gives her a greater grasp of the English language than the forty-fifth President of the United States.
It’s another minute or so unt
il Jane breaks the impasse with a breezy-sounding: ‘Any news after winning the award?’
It feels like such a long time ago that I was on stage.
‘Like what?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t know if you might’ve had any job offers…?’
‘There might be an event in Edinburgh next year. I’ve got to email the guy back.’
‘That’s great news!’
‘Right…’
It’s hard to feel enthused with everything else going on. I wonder if I should bring up what I saw in the back of her photo – though it’s difficult to know how to broach it. Hey, you remember my ex-husband…? I want to ask her about it – but, at the same time, if she didn’t notice David, or the person who looks like David, I don’t particularly want to draw her attention to it.
There is another gap and then: ‘It’s been ages since you visited,’ Jane says. ‘I’ve not seen Andy in a while, either. Why don’t you come over this week…?’
I have the instant panic of trying to come up with an excuse for not going. My idea of a good evening has generally always involved having my feet up in front of a television. Ever since what happened with David, I’ve become even less likely to take people up on their offers to do things. The less I have to talk about him or myself, the smaller the chance of accidentally letting something slip. Jane is perhaps the only person with whom I’d be close enough that my guard could drop and the truth might pop out.
‘What nights are you working?’ she asks.
It’s only the question that jolts my memory. ‘Tonight,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got a spin class at six.’
‘Are you free Wednesday?’
‘I’m not sure. With us moving in together on Saturday, I’ve still got packing to do. I’ve hardly done anything yet.’
‘You must have one evening free, though…? You’ll be busier when you’re actually moving in.’
‘I’ll check with Andy and see what he says.’
I’m hoping he’ll be busy all week because I’m not sure I can risk simply not asking him. I have big lies to cover up and one thing I’ve learned is that there’s no point in piling smaller ones on top.
‘Do you want me to drop you off at home?’ Jane asks. ‘Or the studio?’
I don’t have a mode of transport for now, so tell her the studio. I’ve got the spinning class there in a few hours and can’t be bothered trying to figure out a way to get across the village in these temperatures.
It’s not a long drive, though the day is already starting to darken as we pull into the car park at the back. Natural light is at a premium at this time of year.
When we come to a stop, I thank Jane for picking me up and she turns in her seat, smiling awkwardly.
‘Can I ask a favour?’ she says.
It’s hard for me to begrudge that, especially as she’s just picked me up and driven me back to the village. I do know that, whatever she asks, I’m going to have to say ‘yes’.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘I’m getting that mole removed on Thursday afternoon,’ Jane says.
‘The one on your neck?’
‘Right. It was supposed to be a four-month waiting list, but they had a cancellation. The only thing is that Ben can’t get out of work and, um…’ She tails off but glances to Norah at her side.
I almost can’t believe the words as they come out of my mouth, though I suppose one good turn deserves another, far worse, favour.
‘I can take Norah,’ I say, regretting it before I’ve even finished. I’d rather spend time on the doorstep with a Jehovah’s Witness than have to babysit a sixteen-month-old. Ask to borrow someone’s brand-new car and they’ll look at you as if you want a kidney – but the same person will be delighted to thrust their actual offspring onto literally anyone else with barely a blink.
‘That’s fab of you,’ Jane replies. ‘We can talk details later in the week. Maybe Wednesday night…?’
‘I’ll let you know once I’ve talked to Andy.’
Jane blows me a kiss and then I get out of the car and head for the back door of the fitness studio.
If karma is a thing, then it has a strange way of manifesting itself. After what happened with David, life has delivered me everything I wanted. When we met, I told him that I wanted my own studio and here, three years on, I have precisely that. It’s barely a couple of miles from my flat and so successful that I have to turn down personal training clients as I can’t fit everyone in. I’ve gone from grotty sauna-like conditions at the back of decaying council-run leisure centres to a custom-built place of my own. Not only that but I’m part of the conference tour scene. I get invited to various events once or twice a month on average, where I either host mass fitness sessions or give talks about the industry. I suspect that anyone who ends up on a speaking circuit knows deep down that it’s money for old rope – telling people what they want to hear – but I’m not complaining. If someone wants to pay me to spout the same old drivel over and over, then I’m all for it.
My building has studios on two floors and I’ve taken to renting out the space to other trainers to use with their own clients. My office is on the top floor, hidden away in a corner, largely so I can avoid everyone else, under the pretence of having work to do. I breeze through the space and head up the stairs, before unlocking my office door and letting myself in. Once inside, I check my emails, wondering if Steven might have got back to me with any more photos. He hasn’t, so I trawl through the Facebook profiles of some of the people I know from last night. There are all sorts of pictures posted, though none I can see with the man in the blue suit.
In among that, I keep an eye on the local news feeds, looking for any update on the hit-and-run victim. The police seem to be coy on releasing the person’s identity and status, which I suspect is a bad sign. If it was something minor, the road wouldn’t still be closed. They will be collecting evidence in case the victim dies and the investigation becomes far more serious.
It feels like minutes since I arrived and yet, when I look to the clock, it’s already quarter to six. I lock my office door and change into my cycling gear, with the studio-branded orange top. I head down the stairs to the spin studio, though it’s hard to think of much other than the day’s events.
Cool air is blowing through the studio as I take a seat and start working the spin bike. Assuming there is no group before mine, I always start pedalling a good ten minutes before the class begins.
I keep the resistance low as my class files in, armed with towels and water. Almost everyone says ‘hi’ as they take their respective spots and get themselves ready. After everything that’s happened in the past day or so, it’s good to feel my legs turning once more. It’s a form of serendipity. Some people find exercise stressful, but it’s always been the opposite for me. I can switch off and let the world pass me by.
At a minute to six, the room is almost full, so I turn up the volume of the music and tell everyone the level at which to set their resistance dial. It’s going to be a fast one today: fewer hills but a quicker pace. It’s more for me than anyone else in the class. I feel like this needs to be one that hurts.
I am so focused on pedalling as quickly as I can that I almost don’t see the latecomer. I’ve not seen her in more than a year – and she’s never been to my studio – but she takes the spare bike on the front row off to the right. I look up and do a double take – but she’s ready for me anyway, staring defiantly across as she clips herself onto the pedals.
Yasmine.
Twelve
THE WHY
Three years, eight months ago
David continues to sit on the sofa while he scrolls through something on his phone.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?’ I say from the kitchen.
He doesn’t glance sideways as he keeps thumbing at the screen. ‘I thought I had,’ he says.
‘You don’t forget a sister,’ I say.
‘I suppose you never asked…’
The pan
of rice is bubbling away and I lean on the counter as I stare across to him, waiting for him to turn. I wonder if we’re going to argue for the first time. We’ve had something of a honeymoon period since he moved in and this is the closest we’ve come to falling out. He told me he’d explain all about Yasmine on his return and, now he’s here, he has barely got off his phone.
‘How could I ask about a sister I didn’t know existed?’ I say.
David sighs and turns to look across at me. ‘Yasmine’s my older sister,’ he says with a shrug. ‘She moved to Kingbridge with me when I came across to go to uni.’
‘I don’t understand how, if she’s your sister – and you lived with her – she never came up in conversation. She knew about me.’
‘Back then, she couldn’t afford a place of her own and was still living with our parents. When I went back to university as a mature student, she moved in for a while as she got herself together.’
In the couple of months we’ve known one another, David and I have talked about our pasts. I know he comes from a village on the Kent coast, although the name fell from my mind almost as soon as he told me. I try to remember the specific conversations. I definitely mentioned I was an only child and I suppose that, because he didn’t say much in response, I assumed he was, too. I guess it’s true what they say about what assuming does.
‘We don’t really get on,’ David continues. ‘When we were living together, it was too close. It pushed us apart. She didn’t want to go back to our parents, but couldn’t afford to get her own place. I didn’t want to kick her out, so we ended up living in this sort of mutual… well, “hatred” is a strong word, but “dislike”, I suppose. Even though it was years ago, we never really made up. I don’t talk about her because I don’t see her.’
‘But she knew who I was…’
David reaches for the remote control and flicks on the TV. He starts to switch between channels. He seems completely uninterested in the conversation.
‘I don’t know why it’s a big deal,’ he says.
‘It’s not a big deal – but a total stranger came up to me and knew who I was. It turns out she’s your sister, even though I’ve never heard of her.’
Close to You (ARC) Page 7
