She kept on running as she reached the main road, and there were footsteps behind her, pounding, and they spurred Kate on, more and more. The lights were green, she could see them, but the lights were green for the traffic, not for her, and she couldn’t see it.
There was a loud chorus of horns, people jamming their hands onto their horns to stop her, and there was the screeching of brakes, and Kate came to and slowed down in panic, just as someone started shouting.
‘Kate! Kate, get out of the –’
As she turned she could see a great big bus approaching, and someone pushed her with all their force, so that she flew across the road and fell to the ground, on her back, and from there she saw what happened next. She saw the bus driver’s look of horror, heard the desperate braking of the bus right next to her, as Steve, who had pushed her out of the way and saved her life, was hit.
Kate’s leg and arm were covered in blood, where she had fallen to the ground and skidded. She rose to her feet and ran back to him, as people starting piling out of cars, rushing over to the man lying in front of the bus, his neck at an unnatural, strange angle, his body sprawled out in the middle of the crossroads. They watched her, almost not daring to come too close.
‘Steve?’ she croaked, in a hollow voice. ‘Steve? No. No. Steve?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Should Harry come to the funeral, was the question everyone asked. He was fifteen months old. He wouldn’t really understand what was going on, he was simply too little. Would Steve have wanted him there? It was the question everyone asked because it was an issue about practicality and, in those black, horrifying days before the funeral, when there was nothing to do and everything to do, and there were no answers to why this had happened, practicalities were what kept everyone in some kind of sanity.
Zoe didn’t know. She said she wasn’t sure. When Kate asked her, looking into her face for some kind of direction, some sign that she was absorbing this, what had happened to her family, she saw nothing, only a sort of blankness, as Zoe rubbed her pregnant tummy, and shook her head.
‘I don’t know. You decide.’
Kate couldn’t decide that, though. She turned to Steve’s mother Mary, who had arrived that morning. ‘What do you –’
‘I think we’ll think about it later, dear,’ said Mary, in her Edinburgh-accented voice. ‘Zoe, why don’t you go and have a lie-down? You must be tired, what with all the arrangements this morning.’
Zoe hadn’t slept since Steve had died three days ago. Because even saying Steve had died, it was so horrible, so totally alien, it was words that didn’t go together. But she was docile, easily led now. She raised her hands in silent protest, as if to say, This is pointless, and got up heavily from her chair in the kitchen. Kate followed her through to the sitting room.
‘Do you want some water, a cup of tea?’ she said, looking around the room as Zoe sat down on the sofa. There were photos of them together everywhere, photos of Steve and Zoe on their wedding day, Steve and Mac laughing, their arms round each other. One of his ties was hanging off the bannisters. Kate wanted to make Zoe go outside, stand on the front doorstep for five minutes so she could tidy all of it up, remove every trace of him from the house, so Zoe wouldn’t have to see his presence everywhere, how recently he’d been with them. An ice-cream van trundled slowly by out on the street and Harry, out in the garden, called out in pleasure at the noise. Kate rubbed her eyes, wondering again how things could be so prosaic, how life could be carrying on in its normal way when this had happened. Things kept striking her; like how Steve would never see his new baby. She would never know her dad. Harry would forget things about his father that he knew now, because he was too little to carry them with him. A trail of sweat trickled down Kate’s back. It was so hot, disgustingly hot, it shouldn’t be like this, now. It should be snowing, or raining, winds should be howling. They shouldn’t be wearing vest tops and flip-flops while they discussed what kind of coffin Steve should be buried in. Everything was the wrong way round now, everything, Kate didn’t know where to even begin, and that’s why they focussed on the practicalities. Who was going to make the sandwiches for afterwards. Should Harry come to the funeral.
Interrupting Kate’s thoughts, Zoe said quietly, ‘Actually, can I have a glass of water?’
‘Of course,’ said Kate hurriedly. ‘I’ll get it, now. Do you want some food? You should –’
‘No,’ Zoe said.
‘But you haven’t –’
‘I don’t want food,’ Zoe repeated, with that edge of steel that Kate had seen in her these last few days. ‘I’ll eat later. Not now. OK? Can you make sure Harry’s OK, Kate?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Kate, going into the kitchen. ‘Just stay there.’
Mary was staring out of the window, into the garden, watching her grandson, playing with his grandfather and uncle on the lawn. She turned as Kate came in.
‘Does she want some food?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Kate. ‘She says she’ll eat later.’
‘Right,’ said Mary. ‘Right then.’ She turned back to the window, her fingers stroking the glass. Kate poured the water.
‘What are we going to do?’ Mary said quietly, almost to herself. Her eyes were hollows, sunken into her face, her skin a pale, papery colour. She looked old, all of a sudden. ‘Tomorrow. After it’s over. What are we going to do?’
Kate nodded, because she didn’t know what to say.
‘Perhaps we should stay down here.’ Mary nodded to herself. ‘Move down and help Zoe. Oh my god. What will she do?’
Kate came over and stood by her side at the window. She touched her arm, gently. ‘Her mum’s here, and I’m here, Mary, I know it’s –’
But Mary wasn’t listening to her. ‘Mac’s saying he should have taken that job. He says he should move back here now, get a place nearby,’ she said, almost conversationally. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’
Kate watched Mac, out on the lawn, and he looked up as if he could hear them, and stared straight at them. He pointed at them to Harry, who was only just walking, unsteady on his feet. Mac clutched his nephew’s arm and they both looked at Kate and Mary. They were, in that moment, so like Steve, the same quick glance, the same hair colour, shape, that it struck Kate like a blow and she steadied herself, holding onto the kitchen surface. She thought she was going to be sick. A mug rolled over, into the sink, with a clatter.
‘Are you OK, dear?’ Mary said briefly, flicking a glance at her before staring out at the window again.
‘Fine, sorry,’ said Kate. ‘Just – yup.’ Her arm was hurting, the injuries down one side of her swollen, bruised body throbbing with pain.
They were silent again, and then Mary said, ‘I need to talk to Jim. I just don’t know what we should do.’
Kate carried on looking out of the window, swallowing, breathing slowly. She looked down at the sink, full of mugs, and ran some water, as the kitchen door opened.
‘Hi,’ said Mac.
‘Hi!’ said Harry, who was holding onto Mac’s hand. ‘Mum!’ he said, pointing into the sitting room, and he ran off towards her.
‘Hello baby!’ came Zoe’s voice from the other room. She sounded so tired, her voice was cracking. Kate turned the tap on full blast. The hot water hurt her hands.
‘How are you?’ said Mac, turning the kettle on. ‘Need a hand with the drying?’
‘Thanks,’ said Kate, handing him the tea towel. He stood next to her, and picked up a glass, glancing at her as he dried it.
‘You alright?’ he said, nudging her. ‘You’re very pale.’
Kate swallowed again. ‘I feel a bit sick, that’s all. It’s nothing.’
He looked her over, appraisingly. ‘You should take it easy, Kate. Your body’s had a shock. Those are nasty,’ and he gently touched her arm, which was scribbled over with deep, brown-red grazes, bruises, half-bandaged up. ‘Don’t try and do too much.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, gritting her teeth. She didn’t want any
sympathy.
Mac watched her. ‘So, is Sean moving out today then?’ he said, in a low, easy tone.
He uses this tone with his patients, Kate thought to herself. Make them feel secure. Gently, quietly, kindly, make them feel better, even when it’ll never be better. He had arrived early on Saturday morning and she had not seen him cry, had not seen him anything other than composed, organized. He had taken charge of the funeral arrangements, he sat by Zoe and stroked her hair as she tried to sleep, he held his father when yesterday he’d broken down. She didn’t know how he could do it. How can he be asking me things, when his world has fallen apart, completely collapsed. She stared at him.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You probably don’t want to talk about it.’
‘It’s not that,’ Kate said, shaking her head. She moved towards him. ‘Mac, how can you be so –’
Mac looked down at the surface. ‘Don’t ask me about that,’ he said. She bent her head, trying to see his face. ‘I mean it, Kate. Please.’
‘Sure.’ She nodded, and touched his arm, fleetingly. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head back at her. ‘No, I’m sorry. I want to do it this way.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She took her cue from him. ‘Sean, yes. He packed up yesterday. I’m not sure how he’s getting his stuff out.’
It was as if they were talking about getting a wardrobe through a door, down the stairs. ‘You haven’t seen him?’
‘No,’ Kate said. ‘I didn’t want to –’ She trailed off. Sean had called, four, five messages on her phone each time she checked, alongside all the others from everyone else, each one sadder than the last. She had to listen to her messages, it might be friends calling about the funeral, about Zoe. But mostly they were from Sean, imploring her to listen, begging her to see him, crying about what had happened. But what could she say to him? She couldn’t even cling to him, comfort him. He was the one person she blamed more than herself: she couldn’t see him. She shook her head. ‘He’s ringing all the time, he wants to know what’s going on. It’s pathetic of me but –’
‘Hey,’ said Mac softly. ‘It’s OK.’
‘No, you don’t understand –’ Kate began. Tears welled up in her eyes, she could feel something in her chest, a physical pain that hurt her when she thought about why this had happened, how it had happened, and why she was still here when Steve was dead. Steve’s hands, pushing her out of the way, pushing her over hard onto the ground, so that she was alive now, standing here, now.
Why was she alive, why was Sean? Why was he allowed to live, when Steve was dead, his body cold, lying in the morgue in the hospital down the road? She didn’t know. She didn’t know where Sean would go now, where he was. Zoe needed her here – to field the phone calls, make the sandwiches, play with Harry, run to the shops. So that was where she’d be. Kate didn’t need to be at home. After all, it didn’t matter what happened to her now. She shook her head, willing the tears away.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you,’ said Mac.
He was so kind. She wished she could put her head on his shoulder, give in to it, but she couldn’t. ‘It’s my fault,’ said Kate. She cleared her throat and gritted her teeth, before she spoke. ‘Sean’s been in the flat today and yesterday. I think he’s moving in with – with her. He doesn’t have much stuff. He’s cancelling everything, too.’
‘Your wedding.’
‘Yes,’ said Kate. The idea of a wedding now, her wedding, seemed farcical. She turned towards Mac. He was holding a mug in his hands, twisting the towel around it, over and over, looking down at her. ‘Can we not –’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I understand. When are you going back there? Later tonight?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘Zoe’s giving Harry his bath in a bit, I’ll go then. We should get an early night, all of us.’
‘Yep,’ Mac nodded. His mouth was set. ‘It’s going to be a long day.’ He shook his head, smiling at the mundanity of his words. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He put the towel down with the mug.
‘Oh Mac,’ she said.
He gazed at her, his eyes glazed, drunk with pain.
‘I can’t stand it,’ he whispered suddenly, closing his eyes, and he bent over, as if grief was crippling him. She put her arm around him, in the sunny, bright kitchen. He put his hands on his knees, and made a low, choking sound, his body shaking. Kate rubbed his back, not wanting to break the comfort of physical contact, not knowing what else they could do, any of them, now, other than hold each other and try to make it through the next hour, and the hour after that. Then the next day, then the day after.
It was Zoe, calling from the sitting room, who broke the moment. ‘Hey, can you come through? I mean Mac, can you come through?’
‘Sure,’ Mac said, clearing his throat. He stood up, his tall, broad frame blocking out the sun from the garden, and wiped his eyes with the balls of his palms. Kate went ahead of him, to give him a little time to gather himself.
‘Hi darling,’ she said. Zoe was on the sofa, with Harry lying next to her, his eyes wide open.
‘Where’s Mac?’ said Zoe.
‘Just coming. Do you need anything?’
‘I wanted to ask him something,’ said Zoe.
‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘Are you hungry yet –’
‘For god’s sake, Kate, stop asking me if I’m hungry all the time, OK?’ Zoe ran a hand through her lank, lifeless hair. ‘I’ll eat when I want to.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said, stepping forward. ‘Zo, sorry, I just want to make sure you’re –’
Zoe said blankly, ‘Look, Kate. It’s great you’re here, and everything, but you can’t make it better, OK?’ She nodded. ‘So don’t try.’
‘I’m not trying to make it better, I just want to look after you.’
Zoe gazed at her, biting her lip. ‘Especially you can’t make it better. Kate.’ She spoke slowly, like she did to Harry. ‘That’s all.’
When Kate walked to the bus stop later, and waited for the bus, as she had done every day since it had happened, she marvelled again at how unreal it was to be doing this, another day gone by like this, dealing with his death, the collapse of everything around them. The bus arrived five minutes later, and she got on and sank into a spare seat. The bus was always full of people at this time, coming back from work, children from school, people heading into town. She wanted to stand up and tell them all what had happened, what grief and pain she had left behind in the little house down the road. She wanted to ask the people on the bus if they could make sense of any of it, of how it could have happened. But she couldn’t. It was the same route that the bus that killed Steve had taken. On the first day she had walked for a while, she couldn’t bear the idea of getting on that bus. But she realized it just didn’t matter what she did or didn’t do, and no one was going to see or care about it anyway.
She felt as if she were becoming invisible, as if parts of her life were becoming invisible. When she got off at her bus stop, she looked around for a sign, terrified that she might see them again. The trees were still in the evening light. There was no other traffic on the road. She got back to the flat, and climbed the stairs, trying not to feel dread, but praying he wasn’t still there.
He wasn’t. His stuff had gone. Four years together gone in an afternoon. The flat was exactly as she’d left it, no tidier, no messier; it was just that half the things in it were missing. Half the clothes in the wardrobe, half the books and the DVDs and CDs. No toothbrush in the bathroom, no dressing gown on the back of the door. And it didn’t hurt, as Kate gazed round her flat, she tried to make it hurt but it didn’t, not compared to everything else now, in this strange new world they were all coming to terms with.
She almost didn’t see the note; it was on the mantelpiece, which was cluttered with invitations, photos of them all, before this happened. It was written on the back of a bill and this, somehow, made Kate angrier than any of the rest of it, that Sean would say goodbye to her like this, scribbling a few words
on an electricity bill.
Kate
Believe me I am so sorry for what has happened and the way it has happened. I never meant to hurt you. I still love you – but I don’t expect you’ll believe that.
Look, it’s been made clear to me that I shouldn’t come to the funeral so that’s why you won’t see me there. But I hope I see you soon, to explain some things. In the meantime, I’ll be thinking of you all tomorrow. You know, he was my best friend.
S x
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At nine o’clock the next day, Kate came out of the flat, blinking in the harsh light of yet another relentlessly sunny day. The funeral was at noon. Mac had said he would pick her up to take her to Zoe’s. He waved to her from the car as she stood on the doorstep checking for her keys and she waved back, as two figures appeared in front of her, their outlines almost black in the glare from the early morning sun. She was hot already, even though it was early. She was wearing long sleeves and a long skirt to hide the injuries. She didn’t want people to see them, the cuts on her legs, over her shoulders. Underneath the black cotton, her skin smarted with pain, and sweat.
‘Hello dear.’ It was Mrs Allan. ‘I’m glad we caught you.’
She took Kate’s hand.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Kate.
Mr Allan kissed her on the cheek.
‘Are you just off to Zoe’s, then?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘We spoke to Sue yesterday. It’s the funeral today, isn’t it.’
He had the Guardian and the Telegraph under his arm, and Mrs Allan was clutching a string bag, with some tomato juice and milk in it. The promise of a normal, ordinary day in their flat, reading papers, eating toast, being with each other, as they had been for decades and decades. Mrs Allan stroked Kate’s cheek, her silver bobbed hair rippling as she did, and she said softly,
‘We’re here all day today. Just so you know. Alright? You be off now, but we’ll be here later.’
‘That’s –’ Kate began.
‘I know you might not want to see anyone when you get back, or you might. All I’m saying is,’ she said firmly, ‘Graham and I are here all day.’
The Love of Her Life Page 24
