‘And Alex?’ says Mum.
‘Up to the CPS. But there will be further investigation and I’d say there’s a good chance of him standing trial himself. Same charges, plus attempting to pervert the course of justice. Which his mother may also face.’
It’s all I can do to nod that I understand.
‘The bastard!’ Dad thumps the table and we all jump. ‘He’d have watched you go to prison in his place. The little shit! And that fucking woman!’
Mum shakes her head, her hand pressed to her mouth.
‘Everything you’ve been through,’ Dad says, and he pulls me to him and hugs me.
‘Oh thank God,’ Mum says. ‘Oh Don, thank you so much.’
‘And you,’ Dad says, waving his hand at Mum, ‘like a bloody terrier.’
Mum pinches the top of her nose and says, ‘Don’t, you’ll make me cry.’
It’s weird, this atmosphere of relief, of celebration. But it’s not that simple. How will they feel? The Vaseys? One minute they’ve got their villain and a day in court, a chance for justice to be done, and the next it’s ripped away.
Once Don has left, we finally eat and then Dad puts Bob Marley’s Catch a Fire on and strums along to it. It’s been played forever in this house. Mum rings Evie and Suzanne and texts some other people.
‘Why don’t you call Becky?’ she says.
But I’m not ready for it yet. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I say.
I think of how right they are together, Mum and Dad – how I can’t ever imagine them splitting up. And how Suzanne has Jonty, who adores her. And Alex? Oh Alex. I thought he was the one. The love of my life. How wrong can you be?
* * *
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, coffee and oranges and toast. My stomach turns over.
‘How are you feeling?’ Mum’s up already. Dad’s gone to work.
‘I’m going to see Alex.’
Her eyes flare with alarm. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I can come if—’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should wait,’ she doesn’t give up, ‘until we know what’s happening with the new investigation.’
‘No!’
She gives a little sigh and starts clearing the table.
I make a cup of tea and take it upstairs to drink.
The photos that used to be up on the wall are in the bottom drawer of my desk. There are tons more on my laptop, but I’ve not looked at any of them in months. This handful were my favourites.
One of Alex, close up; he’d just turned to the camera and I snapped him. He’s laughing, his eyes bright, and he’s beautiful. I trace his face with my finger.
There’s one of us on the flume at Alton Towers, screaming our heads off, drenched. And one in a group, on our birthday, his and mine, at a club in Newcastle. He bought me the turquoise dress – I dragged him round all afternoon trying things on – and I got him a watch.
And the picture of him at the beach. His hair was longer then, and it was a grey day, windy. He’s not smiling; he looks thoughtful, his eyes wrinkled a bit because of the wind and his mouth open just a little and the sands and pine trees behind him.
Finally the blurry shot of us kissing, one that Becky took at a party.
Are they all lies, too?
* * *
It’s cold outside, and bright. The glare burns my eyes. I should have worn my shades. I can feel the bite in the air with each breath. Maybe I’m more sensitive to it since my lung collapsed.
Under the blanket of the medicine my nerves are shredded. There’s a hum at the back of my skull like a fly’s trapped in there, a bluebottle, and the dizziness forces me to walk close to the walls and hedges and take extra care stepping off the kerbs.
There’s a walk to the bus stop and then a walk at the other end.
It should be summer, but the wind is from Siberia or somewhere.
My mouth goes dry as I turn down his street. There are loads of flowers in pots and baskets outside the house, just like before. I used to think his mum was a really good gardener, but Alex said she got everything already planted up from the supermarket or the garden centre and just chucked the lot when they faded.
The car’s not there, the Honda; he must be out. Then I kick myself. The car was totalled. Idiot!
I ring the bell and fight the urge to run away. I have to see him. I need to know.
He opens the door and my chest hurts. He startles like I’ve slapped him or something and his face goes white, really white, like he’s seen a ghost. I am the ghost. The girlfriend that was.
‘Hey,’ he says. He is so tense I can feel it coming off him like a smell.
‘Can I come in?’ I say, like a vampire asking permission.
‘Er . . . yes.’ He lets me in and we go in the living room, all open-plan. No sign of his mum. His plaster casts have gone; he looks fine. Pale but fine.
‘You want a drink?’ he says, his voice sounding creaky, uneven.
‘No thanks.’ My nails are hurting my hands. I open my fingers, look at the new-moon marks.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘You were driving,’ I say, sounding more uncertain than I meant to.
He looks at me, gives a little fake laugh like I’ve said something not very funny. Then his eyes start to change, darken. ‘No,’ he smiles, putting me straight, ‘I don’t know what you’re—’
‘Someone saw you.’
‘I wasn’t driving, you were driving. What the fuck are you—’
‘You were driving and you said it was me.’
‘You’re off your head.’ He glares at me.
‘Why did you lie, Alex? About me?’ Stupid tears stop me going on.
‘I wasn’t driving!’ Outraged, like I am ridiculous.
‘They saw you!’ I yell.
A spasm tightens his face. ‘No!’ he says. ‘No,’ he repeats vehemently, shaking his head. ‘No fucking way!’
‘They saw you get in the car. You ran her over.’
He doesn’t speak. His breath is noisy and harsh. I gulp and swallow and try to work out what to say.
‘I loved you.’ I stand up. ‘I loved you so much and you, you bastard, you fucking bastard . . .’ I’m shaking so much it breaks the words up like a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat.
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ He says it in a pleading way, as if he’s begging me to believe him. But I don’t. Oh God, I don’t.
He’s on his feet too, his hands on his head, clutching at his temples.
‘You knocked her down,’ I shout. ‘You did it. How could you lie?’ I can’t breathe, all the snot in my nose, and I’m blubbing and snorting.
‘Naomi,’ he says, and he’s twisting and turning his body like I’m wringing it out of him. Except that’s all he says, just my name.
‘I could have been locked up for that.’
He’s frowning hard, his mouth shut tight. He flinches, rubs his nose with his hand, starts to talk, but I carry on. ‘I thought I had done it. I believed you, you and Monica. I tried to kill myself.’
His head jerks up and back, withdrawing. His expression changes, mouth open, derisive. He thinks I’m making it up.
‘Overdose,’ I say. ‘My mum found me. Been in a psychiatric unit too, after that. You prick.’ It comes out as a squeak between my teeth. My chin itches from the tears.
‘I thought you were dead!’ he explodes. ‘I thought you were dead. You weren’t breathing, you . . . I hadn’t any idea that . . . I never meant to . . .’
I wait for him to go on. The air electric, my wrists tingling, my spine on fire.
‘If you were dead, there didn’t seem any sense . . . My job!’ he cries.
I don’t know how long I stare at him. My mind numbly processing what he has just said.
‘You talk her into it?’ I finally say.
His mouth works, he blinks, then half a shrug. I get it. ‘The other way around. Because she’d do anything for you. For your fucking career. You
selfish, shitting bastard! And that little girl . . .’
I haven’t heard the car, but suddenly Monica’s in the room, eyes blazing. ‘Get out!’ she says.
‘Mum . . .’ Alex says.
‘You don’t say a word.’ She points at him, then looks back to me. ‘Get out or I’ll ring the police.’
‘And say what?’ I’m trembling. ‘That you lied for him so I’d pay the price. That I didn’t count?’
‘Get out!’
‘We know,’ I say. ‘There’s a witness, so your little plan isn’t going to work. You’re not going to get away with it.’
The tiniest flicker of her eyelids, a moment’s doubt.
‘You bitch,’ I say, amazing myself. I can barely breathe.
She moves as though she’d strike me, and he calls to her again. ‘Mum!’
‘Intimidating a witness,’ she shouts, ‘that’s what you’re doing. Once the police—’
‘He’s not a witness, he’s a liar – and so are you. I thought I’d killed her . . .’
I can’t go on. I run out. And out of the front door. I’m halfway to the gate, and all the disgust and the guilt that has been smothering me seems to catch light, making me burn with anger, a tide that overwhelms me, pouring over my shoulders, through my belly, filling me with a strength I didn’t know I still had.
I grab the smallest pot with its pansies and ivy and God knows what, ignoring the stabbing pain as I lift it, and hurl it at the house. It shatters one of the sheets of glass in the bay window.
That’s good.
I don’t bother with the bus. I walk all the way home, sometimes crying. A little old lady asks me if I need help. Bless her. I thank her and tell her I’m fine.
I’m not fine. I don’t know if I’ll ever be fine.
But I’m alive.
Suzanne comes crawling out of the woodwork. I haven’t seen her for weeks. Not since I was charged. After I came out of the mental health unit, I told Mum I didn’t want to see her if she did come round. Suzanne isn’t healthy for me – like the news on television or lack of sleep. So I don’t exactly greet her with open arms.
‘Hi.’ A big bright smile. She’s let herself in, so I’m trapped in the living room with her. She’s dropped her Disgusted of Didsbury act and is talking all bright and quick. ‘Mum told me. It’s unbelievable! Alex lying like that – and Monica!’
I’m tensing up as she goes on about it, a knot in my stomach. I wonder if she feels awkward for disowning me. She never once says anything about that. I watch her mouth; she’s got bright red lipstick on and her teeth look white and even. She keeps talking but I see she’s avoiding my eyes. She glances in my general direction now and again, but never long enough to communicate. She doesn’t see my resentment building.
I interrupt her, hot and angry and unnerved. ‘You didn’t give a toss,’ I say. ‘You sacked me, wrote me off as a lost cause, and now I’m supposed to pretend it’s all okay? That it never happened?’
‘There’s no need to be childish.’
‘I’m not being childish. I’m sick of being criticized and slagged off and looked down on by you. I know I make mistakes. I’m not perfect. But you think you are. Well – newsflash, you’re not. Sometimes you’re just a right cow. You can be really toxic, you know. You’re only nice to people if they do things your way, if they agree with you.’
She gives a little snort and shakes her head, prancing a bit like a horse. ‘You might not have been driving, but you still got in that car. You were there.’
‘You think I don’t know that? I might not remember, but I go to sleep thinking about that, I wake up thinking about that. I dream about it. I can’t make it right, but I don’t need you or anyone else telling me how bad I should feel. Go on, fuck off home to your perfect house and your perfect man and your perfect Barbie and Ken fucking life. Just don’t pretend you give a shit,’ I say.
Her eyes flash and she swallows, and I wait for her to come back at me, my breath tight in my chest.
‘Obviously I was wrong,’ she says.
‘And if Mum hadn’t kept asking questions, hadn’t found Larry? Would you have written to me in prison? Or carried on acting like I didn’t exist?’ I’m shuddering and my voice is all over the place.
‘You’re upset,’ she says. As though this is an aberration. The cheek of it! I laugh aloud.
‘For fuck’s sake—’
‘Naomi, I’m sorry. Really, I am sorry.’ At last she looks in my eyes, but hers are guarded.
I don’t say anything else. It feels like too little, too late.
I get up and go upstairs, and soon afterwards I hear the door go as she leaves.
Carmel
Although there was a huge relief once the charges against Naomi were dropped, like someone cutting ropes that had bound us, allowing us to breathe again, there was still a massive question mark hanging over Alex. The police were continuing their investigation; both Naomi and I were interviewed, and Naomi was told she would likely be called as a witness if it went to court. Her amnesia persisted but she could still tell them about the conversation where Alex had all but admitted to the deception. All we could do was try and carry on while we waited for news.
Don rang Naomi one lunchtime as she was filling in a job application form.
I heard the anxiety in her voice as she answered the call, then she listened, looking at me now and again. The scar on her cheek was still vivid but a little less puckered. She was suffering from an ear infection and taking high-dose antibiotics to prevent any further infection.
‘Oh no!’ she said, then, ‘When?’ She listened. ‘Monica, really? What with? Right. Thanks for letting me know. Yes. Bye.’ She put her phone down. ‘Alex has been charged,’ she said. ‘He pleaded not guilty at the magistrates’ court. And they’ve charged Monica with attempting to pervert the course of justice.’ She raised her face to the ceiling, shook her head. ‘I just want it to be over.’
If they’d pleaded guilty, it would have been. ‘It’ll be Monica,’ I said. ‘Bet you anything she’ll keep fighting till the bitter end.’
‘How can she keep lying like that?’ Naomi asked.
‘Probably convinced herself it’s true. Don said she did go to the gym, they’ve records that prove she was there – all she had to do was invent passing you, seeing you at the wheel. If she says it often enough, fervently enough, she’ll come to believe it.’
‘And him,’ Naomi said, her face furrowed with distress. ‘After all that happened, I thought he might have the guts . . .’ She broke off, shaking her fists by her head in frustration.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Naomi
I try not to think about Alex too much – it still takes my breath away, it hurts so deep. I talk about it with the therapist, going over and over it. I weep buckets for the little girl and for myself. For Alex even, and losing him. And sometimes the rage comes, clean and cold and sharp as ice. But I am not going to prison. I’m a little stronger every day.
It is another four months before we get to trial. Late January, eight months after the accident. I’m not allowed in court until I’ve given my evidence. I wait in a special room for witnesses with Alice and Larry from Birmingham. The solicitor for the prosecution says it’ll be towards the end of the prosecution case before I’m called. I will be talking about two things – the fact that we always decided who would drive and stuck to it, and what Alex said the last time I saw him at their house.
Mum and Dad and Suzanne will be there in the court, but they are not supposed to tell me anything about the case. A couple of weeks after her ‘apology’, Suzanne came round with Ollie on her way back from work. She was restless and went on about her trainee like he was a right dork, and she didn’t want any pasta, probably because it was dried not freshly made, for fuck’s sake, and might poison her.
Ollie was cranky and I didn’t know why she hadn’t gone straight home. I was the only one there.
She went to the loo and Ollie cried. Real te
ars, and his bottom lip was trembling like the world was ending, so I picked him up and sang to him, ‘Daisy, Daisy’, and he was quiet enough, then he grabbed my earring, which was agony, and I swore just as Suzanne came back in.
‘Naomi.’
‘Yes?’ I prepared for a lecture about bad language and setting examples. And she said, ‘How are you?’
Was it a trick question? ‘Not bad.’
Ollie gurgled and patted my nose. ‘Ow,’ I said, but it didn’t hurt.
She nodded. ‘Your hair’s nice,’ she said.
Good God, I thought, we’ll be talking about the weather next. ‘I’m going out soon,’ I said, dropping a big hint. I blew a raspberry on Ollie’s cheek and he chortled and patted me again. Suzanne hadn’t moved. ‘I need to go and get ready,’ I added.
‘Jonty’s left me,’ she said, quick and quiet, her chin wobbling.
‘What?’ She did not just say that!
‘He’s been sleeping with his production assistant. All the way through the pregnancy and since. Shrewsbury, Belfast, Aberdeen.’ Suzanne was shivering.
Fuck me! ‘Oh, Suzanne.’
‘I don’t know what we’ll do. Probably have to sell the house, and we’ll lose money on that. Won’t be able to afford the nursery.’
‘Oh God.’ I jiggled Ollie on to the other hip, and got Suzanne to sit down while I made her a cup of tea.
‘How did you find out?’ I sat down opposite her.
‘He told me – yesterday. Said he had something important to talk about. I thought it was going to be a new commission at work, maybe going abroad . . .’ She couldn’t continue. Her nose went red. She gave a big sigh.
Ollie had fallen asleep on my lap. He was amazingly heavy. I stroked his head. I didn’t know what to say.
‘If I can’t find child care, then my job . . .’ She shook her head.
‘People manage,’ I told her. ‘Childminders are cheaper, aren’t they, must be cheaper than where you’ve got him?’ He was at a really swanky nursery.
Ollie gave a little start in my arms and relaxed. Then it came to me. ‘I could look after him. Unless you’re worried I’ll be a bad influence.’ I couldn’t resist the dig.
Blink of an Eye (2013) Page 22
