‘I sometimes wish it was me.’
It takes a second for me to realise that I’m the one who’s spoken; my lips spewing my thoughts without any filtering process. It’s something I’ve rarely admitted – even to myself – but there have definitely been times when it’s true. It was what I thought twenty-three years ago. Before Olivia. Before she saved me.
I frequently wished it were true before I had my daughter; now it’s only a fleeting consideration in the darkest moments of the night.
‘What do you mean?’ Jason asks.
‘I sometimes wish Wayne had survived the crash,’ I say. ‘That I’d been the one who died.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
23 Years Ago
The man’s eyes are wide as he stares down at me. He’s scared, possibly in shock, but then it occurs that the same is true of me. He reaches out a hand, touching my own.
‘Can you speak?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘We need to get you out of here.’
He stretches across me, muttering apologies as his head nudges into my chest. He grunts and then reels back, tugging the seat belt out from the clasp and helping me release my arm from underneath the loop.
‘This probably saved you,’ he says.
I mumble something back but even I’m not sure if it’s a word. Everything feels blurry and uneven.
‘I’m David,’ the man says. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Rose.’
‘Can you lift yourself out of the seat, Rose?’
‘I think so.’
He offers me his hand and I take it, even though I know I’d be all right by myself. David grips my wrist tightly and then tugs as I heave myself up and out of the passenger side of the car. He continues holding my arm, asking if I’m okay, and then supporting my lower back with an arm around my waist. I can see him sweating in the gloom and it occurs to me that he’s more scared than I am. He’s only a few years older than me, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. I wonder if we were at the same school at the same time – me in a lower year, him at the top.
‘Are you sure you can breathe all right, Rose?’
His question sounds silly until I realise I can hear myself wheezing. Now he’s mentioned it, I can feel it, too. Every time I breathe in, there’s a grating in my chest. Somehow, I’d not noticed it in the minutes that have passed.
‘I… I don’t know.’
The words are raspy and sore. I have a headache as well and, when I reach up to touch my temple, there’s blood. I can see it in David’s face now. His eyes dart away, looking through me, not at me.
‘You shouldn’t speak,’ he says. ‘You might have broken your ribs or punctured a lung. I don’t know enough, I’m afraid.’
He spins back towards the scene behind us and there’s panic in his whites of his eyes. In a flash, he tugs off his hoody, pressing the material to the side of my head.
‘Hold it there,’ he says. ‘Push it against the spot near your ear.’
I do as I’m told and there’s a flash of pain that sears stars into my vision.
David helps lower me to the ground and I don’t protest. The grass is dewy and soft underneath. He glances at his watch and then turns in a full circle. He’s lost, unsure what to do – and it’s hard to blame him for that. He offers me a smile that’s far from reassuring and then stumbles off towards the carnage.
I’m on one side of the road and, on the other, there’s a low stone wall. It’s perhaps waist-high if I was standing – but there’s not much of it left. The rocks have crumbled into dust, scattering a thin veil of ash across the verge.
That’s far from the worst of it.
Wayne’s car is a mangled mash of metal. The front has compacted into itself, the bonnet crumpling like a crushed, empty can. From what I can tell, the car hit the wall and bounced backwards, spinning so that the front is now facing me. The light of the moon glitters from the shards of glass that litter the road and verge; a shimmering crystal carpet tinged with crisp curls of metal.
There’s a steady crunch as David carefully treads across the glass. We must have walked over it together but I didn’t notice at the time.
More light comes from the headlights of David’s car beaming across the road. It’s parked askew on the side of the road, his driver’s door open.
David pokes his head into Wayne’s car and then reels back, both hands on his head at the sight of whatever’s inside. I can see his cold breath disappearing into the night and then he turns and scrunches his way back to me. His hands are in his pockets and he’s shivering without his hoody. His smile is narrow and forced.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks.
I try to shrug – but it hurts. All of a sudden, everything hurts.
‘You’re really lucky.’
I don’t feel it.
‘I’m going to go and find a phone,’ David says. ‘I think there’s a pay phone about a mile down. I don’t know if I should move you, or leave you.’ He tugs at his hair. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
David steps towards his car and then back to me, torn between us. I don’t know what to do either. He glances back at Wayne’s car.
‘Your friend must have been going really fast,’ he says. It’s a statement of fact, not a question, but I nod anyway. Not much, because of the pain, but enough.
‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘Fast.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jason steps towards me, his boots crunching on the stones of the cemetery path. For a moment, I’m back on the side of the road with David treading over the splintered windscreen. I still think of David sometimes, wondering what happened to him. The papers called him a hero and he was to me. I wrote him a letter, thanking him for saving me. I’m not sure if he ever got it because I never had his actual address. I gave it to the police officer who’d taken all my statements and she said she’d make sure he got it. If she did get it to him, then he never wrote back. He wasn’t someone who’d gone to my school, not even a local resident. He’d been visiting a penpal girlfriend he’d met through a letter-writing club at his university. He was driving home when he’d stumbled across the horror movie at the side of the road. It’s no wonder he was scared. I used to think about whether he carried on the next day as if all was normal, or if he had similar nightmares to me. They offered me therapy and perhaps he had the same suggestion. He might have taken them up on the offer.
I wish I had.
I said no at the time because asking for help would have admitted there was a problem. Sometimes, in the darkest moments, I see David’s wide eyes staring across me. His eyelashes are long, his pupils expanding and contracting in the gloom of those early hours. He’s an angel I’d never met before and haven’t seen since.
Something touches my lower back and I wince away. Jason withdraws his hand and apologises but I say it’s not him.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Jason says. ‘You weren’t the one driving too fast.’
I stare down at Wayne Ringo Leveson and shrug. Twenty-three years and there are times I can remember it like it was a moment ago. The memory is as sharp as the shards of glass that littered the road.
‘Watching someone do something bad or reckless isn’t the same as doing it yourself,’ Jason says.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I know a bit about this.’
‘So do I.’
‘Not like me.’
Jason touches my lower back again and I don’t stop him this time. It’s comforting. Ellie stands unmovingly, staring at her twin’s headstone.
‘Culpability,’ I say. ‘That’s what they call it. There’s a degree of culpability to everything. The law says that there are some crimes where bystanders are as culpable as the individual who actually commits the act.’
‘Not with this. You didn’t know what would happen because he was driving too fast. People break speed limits all the time. It wasn’t a premeditated thing.’
He sounds so unlike himself, or unlike the Jason I
knew. The Jason of before would’ve never known the phrase ‘premeditated’, let alone used it.
‘It was his pride and joy,’ Jason says.
‘What was?’
‘His car. You remember? He spent all his money on it. Begged, borrowed, probably stole. We’d go bin-dipping at the back of the MOT garage in case they chucked anything out that was useful. That’s why I reckon he’d have had his own garage now. He’d still have a side project; probably restoring some old sports car, something like that. He’d have bought the chassis and then rebuilt the rest himself.’
It’s an awkward silence now. I don’t know what to say and Ellie clearly doesn’t want to hear this type of thing. Her shoulders have slumped as she stares down at the grave. Jason finally seems to realise he’s at risk of upsetting his sister as he takes a small step away and stops talking.
The situation is starting to feel uncomfortable. Ellie and I only usually spend a couple of minutes here and then walk away. She’s laid flowers in the past but I think it was more that she felt that’s what she should do, rather than anything Wayne might have wanted. The matchbox car Jason has left is something far more apt than either of us have ever managed – and we’ve been doing this for more than twenty years.
Ellie turns and fixes me in her gaze. Her eyes are grey but bright. ‘Do you remember it?’ she asks.
‘The funeral?’
A shake of the head. ‘The crash.’
I blink, not sure she’s ever asked me this. Nobody’s asked me this in a long time. I start to say something and then stop myself, stumbling over nonsensical syllables. ‘Not really,’ I manage.
‘You must remember something?’
‘Only flashes. Like photographs but not the full set of moving images.’
‘Do you remember David?’
The mention of the name is so surprising that I actually stagger. It’s the gentlest of wobbles, a flinch in my knees, barely noticeable. It’s partly because I was thinking of him moments ago and it’s as if Ellie has read my mind – but it’s also because I’m stunned she remembers his name.
‘David…?’
I say it like a question, mainly because of the shock.
‘The man who pulled you out of the car.’
‘I know… I just… I’m surprised you remember his name.’
Ellie shrugs. ‘You talked about him enough.’
That’s true. I’d elevated him to this mythical figure as if he actually was an angel, instead of someone in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘Of course I remember him,’ I reply. ‘I wrote to him but he never wrote back.’
Ellie nods slowly, as if it’s her memory too. She stares off into the distance, lost among row after row of this morbidness.
‘I remember the hospital,’ I add. ‘Mum was at my bedside saying she’d never let me get in another car.’
‘You were eighteen.’
‘I know. I don’t think anyone was thinking straight. They didn’t want to let me out for the funeral.’
‘But you came…’
A nod. ‘My mum was carrying around this airbag thing in case I hyperventilated.’
Ellie stands, listening for a moment, but then she loops her arm into mine and starts to walk back towards the arch at the front of the church. Jason trails a few steps behind.
When we get to the exit, I stop, asking Ellie if I can have a minute alone with her brother. She looks between us but doesn’t ask why, turning and walking off towards the car park.
I leave it a moment, taking a step until we’re completely out of the graveyard. ‘Was everything all right this morning?’ I ask.
Jason’s hands are in his pockets, his shoulders arched forward and angular, like a bird on a perch. ‘Aye.’
‘Thank you for helping.’
‘No problem.’
I should ask him if he’s been walking past the house regularly; probably ask him to stop – but it’s not the time.
He motions towards the car park. ‘I’ve gotta meet my probation officer,’ he says. ‘Can’t be late.’ He steps away and then turns back. ‘You shouldn’t say you’d rather it was you who died. It’s a sort of karma, isn’t it? I believe that. I saw it in prison. People get what they deserve.’
Jason pierces me with his stare and I’m frozen to the spot. It’s only for a moment but, for the first time in a very long time, I remember that I was once scared of him. Scared of what he could do and the way he looked at me.
As quickly as it started, it’s over. He puts his hands back into his pockets, turns, and walks away.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tom Leonard has been found.
That little voice has been niggling at me for days, saying the only place he’d be discovered was in a ditch because I’d killed him. But that’s not true. He wasn’t found in a ditch and he’s not dead. The police force for the area has posted a short article saying that he is ‘safe and well’ and ‘reunited with his family’.
At least it wasn’t his blood that was on my bonnet. I keep searching for his name and find that a few news sites have covered the update, more or less verbatim from the police release.
The replies are predictably vicious.
‘Wot a waste of taxpayer money.’
‘If the tossers gonna kill himself why dont he just do it?’
And so on.
There are a couple of replies along the lines of, ‘So glad he’s safe’ – but they’re the minority.
I’m on the work computer, shielded from view because of the dividers between the desks. I check over my shoulder anyway and then log in to Facebook. There was a time when it had been blocked from our network – but the lads on the other side of the office complained that some of the companies with whom they were dealing had Facebook pages they needed to access. It sounded suspiciously like nonsense – but Graham went for it and unblocked all social media.
I find Olivia’s page and scroll through her recent posts. It’s only recently that she accepted my friend request, for which I don’t really blame her. When I was her age, the last thing I’d have wanted was my mother checking up on me.
She has more than five hundred friends, which always surprises me because it’s rare she mentions anyone other than Tyler. I keep scrolling and clicking until I find the page she’s set up for Find Tyler.
The truth is, I rarely post on Facebook and predominantly use it to spy on other people. I feel a bit better about myself when I can see that someone down the road, or an old school acquaintance, is in the middle of self-inflicted drama. There’s someone named Julie who lives a couple of streets over. We met at the swimming pool one time and had a coffee. That’s enough to become friends online. Her daughter was only fifteen when she got pregnant and I couldn’t help but think that at least things weren’t that bad with Olivia. It’s reassuring that there is always someone in a shoddier situation than me; that I’m not the worst parent out there.
I’d never admit to that, of course.
There is a downside of living vicariously through others, though – and that’s when somebody’s clearly having a better time. Of course, some are smart enough to make it look as if every day is better than the last. It’s the game Natasha plays with the endless selfies and pictures of nights out and celebrations. From the outside, her life is never-ending joy but even I’ve heard her arguing with people on the phone. Nobody’s life is that perfect. I know that – but I still feel that twinge of envy when I see photos of some friend who’s off in the south of France, or living it up in some American diner. I’d love to see the emerald lakes of Canada, or spend weeks drinking by a pool in the Med. Dan and I have had holidays, of course, but, because of his teaching job, everything is planned with meticulous monotony. Never anything during term time; never anywhere he might run into a student. He prefers quiet, modest affairs. Perhaps I did, too, at one point. I suppose that if a life is spent comparing it to others’, there will only ever be one winner.
I scroll to the comments and immediately wish I hadn’t. The very first one reads, ‘I hope he’s dead’. The name is ‘John Smith’, but when I click his profile, there are no other details. I assume he’s one of the trolls who leave offensive remarks on memorial pages for dead kids or fundraising pages for someone with cancer. There’s always someone who can’t help themselves – and I know Olivia will see it sooner or later.
After hunting through the page for a couple of minutes, it’s clear that nobody’s admitting to knowing very much and all the work has been done by Olivia.
There isn’t much else to see so, through habit, I have a quick look at Natasha’s page. She went for a jog this morning. #winning #crushedit
Last Night Page 14
