Hit and Run

by Maria Frankland

  “How are you doing? Sorry, silly question, I know.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t think it’s really hit me yet.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Where’s Jack?”

  “He’s staying at his friend’s tonight – that one whose mum picked him up. I’m going to be rattling around in there.” I nod towards the house, “It’s probably for the best though. I don’t think I’d have the energy to cope with Jack tonight.”

  “Shall I come in with you? I can stay overnight.” She means well, though her expression doesn’t carry the same conviction as her words. “You shouldn’t be on your own,” she adds, as though convincing herself.

  “No.” I’m surprised at how quickly I reply. “I honestly need to be on my own tonight. Just to get my head around it all.”

  “I understand.” She rises back to her full height. “If you change your mind, just drop me a text. And make sure you get something to eat and get some sleep.”

  “Yes Mum,” I say, wishing I could say that to the person who should really be here for me. Some kids in the street are out on their scooters. Jack would normally be with them. Life continues.

  “I’ve made you a salad.” She steps back as I open the door and rise from the car. “It should be fairly light for you to eat.” She holds the plate towards me.

  “Thanks.” I take it from her. “I’ll do my best with it.”

  “You know where I am if you change your mind about having some company.”

  I let myself in, the slap of silence hitting me as I step into the hallway and kick my sandals off. The tiled floor is cool and comforting against my bare feet. This is normally a noisy house, even just with three of us. Rob listens to the TV at a hundred decibels, and Jack’s normally tearing around like a wild thing. None of us ever remember to turn the kitchen radio off and the cat, Milly, trails after whichever of us is closest to the utility room. It’s where her feeding bowls are, and she meows night and day for food, whether or not she is hungry. Rob has always said that she’s more like a dog than a cat.

  She’s waiting for me now. “At least I’m not totally on my own tonight.” I pick her up and nuzzle my face into the warmth of her fur. Not an affectionate animal in the slightest, she wriggles to be free, and meows. She’ll come to us but doesn’t like to be approached.

  “Come on then.” I open a tin of tuna, which is a real treat for her. I watch her elegantly eating for a few minutes. All is normal in her world. I head back out of the utility room into the kitchen, where Rob’s phone is flashing on the side again. Bryony. I grab it this time before I can change my mind. “Hello?”

  She hangs up immediately. I’m so frustrated that I can’t ring her back. I don’t know the password for his phone. I look again at the lock screen. Two more missed calls from her since this morning. I wonder why she hasn’t tried to text him. I can see the beginning of another text from his ex-wife. If you want to see Simone again, you’d better… Ten hours ago. It looks as though it was sent hot on the heels of her first one.

  I jump as the doorbell sounds. I can see the formidable shapes of police hats through the stained glass in the door as I walk towards it. As if I haven’t seen enough of police for one day. I fling the door open and nearly say, so are you going to share the joke you were laughing at, after I’d identified my husband in the mortuary? But, seeing their serious faces, I refrain.

  “Sorry to bother you again.” DI Green takes a step across the threshold into the porch. “Can we come in?”

  I hold the door wider, inviting their entry. She walks past me, followed by PC Robinson, who sweeps a cursory glance over the hallway. He even walks like Rob. We stand facing each other in the sun dappled hallway.

  “We’re here to collect a couple of things,” she says.

  “Things. Like what?”

  “Now we know we’re looking at a hit and run, rather than an accident. We need to have a good look at your husband’s recent communications. You said earlier that he’d left his phone here this morning?”

  “Yes.” I think of the missed calls from Bryony. Maybe they’ll go after her. Then there’re the messages from his ex-wife. At least they’ll get access to read the messages in their entirety. Not like me.

  “We need to take his phone, and his computer. I’m assuming he’s got one?”

  “He’s got a laptop. It’s in the dining room.” I’m talking about him in present tense, as though he’s still here. I can’t believe he’s not coming home. It’s the most eerie feeling. I’m used to him working away from home now and then, therefore it will take a few days before this becomes reality.

  PC Robinson holds his hands out to take the computer and phone from me. “We’ll have them back to you as soon as we can.”

  “They’re Rob’s, so they’re of no use to me. I won’t miss them. Keep them for as long as you need to. Although I could do with knowing why Bryony has been trying to get hold of him.”

  “Bryony?”

  “His ex from when he was younger. It’s bugging me.”

  “Which brings me onto another question. We should have asked you this afternoon,” DI Green begins, “do you know of anyone who might have done this to him? Did Robert have any enemies?”

  “Not really. No one who would want to mow him down.” The coloured glass of the window in the front door casts colours over us all. I think of his ex-wife. She’s the only person who seems to bear a grudge against him, as far as I know, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary for ex-spouses not to be on the best of terms. Rob has a grievance against my mother, though she’s totally unaware of it. But I want to know why Bryony has been ringing. And I will find out.

  “Are you sure?” DI Green is staring at me. “No matter how insignificant you think it is, every bit of information might help catch whoever has done this. We don’t have a lot to go on. We’ll certainly look into this Bryony.”

  I tell her about the missed calls and messages from Denise as well.

  She makes a note, promising to investigate it all once they come back on shift in the morning. “By then, Robert’s name will be out in the media, so we might have one or two witnesses come forward. Don’t you worry. We will catch whoever is responsible for this.”

  “Have you considered that it could be a case of failed brakes on the car, or something? Not a hit and run?”

  She shakes her head. “If your brakes failed, and you sent a cyclist catapulting over a wall, would you just drive away and carry on with your day?”

  “Perhaps they were going so fast that they didn’t realise?”

  She half laughs. “Believe me, when you hit fifteen stone of person, and a push bike, you know about it. I expect their car is damaged too.”

  I step towards the front door to let them out. My head is buzzing. There is no way I will get any sleep tonight.

  “We’re going off shift soon.” She turns back to me. “But we’re passing these items on before we finish.” She nods towards the items PC Robinson is holding. “To the officers taking over the night shift. And they’ll also be studying nearby CCTV.”

  “It sounds as though you’re doing all you can.”

  “Oh yes. Tomorrow, we should know who killed your husband.”

  * * *

  Throughout the night,

  whenever I have closed my eyes,

  I have seen his body fly through the air.

  Parted from the bike at the point of impact,

  like one of those Evel Knievel motorbikes from the eighties.

  Chapter 10

  I wander around the house, picking things up and putting them in different places. Rob has always said that tidying this house comprises moving each pile of crap to a different place. It’s true. It’s always a clean house, but we have accumulated a lot of stuff between us.

  I need to keep busy. I can’t shake Bryony out of my head. Why has she been repeatedly ringing my husband today? I wonder if she knows he is dead yet.

  Eventually, the angu
ish drives me to grab my mobile and open Facebook. I’m not a big Facebook user. I follow Otley Chat, and an earlier post shows at the top of my newsfeed, asking why Denton Road is closed. I scroll down the thread, noticing several people have grumbled about the inconvenience and how it has made them late. Selfish sods.

  Someone has then posted - have a heart you lot. A man has died there this morning. Then there’s an outpouring of do-gooder wishes and speculation who it might be and what has happened. I feel sick. Here’s our situation, out in the public domain, for people to pass the time of day with. They will then forget about it and it will become tomorrow’s chip paper as Grandma would say.

  I don’t know Bryony’s surname. I type Bryony into the search bar and a whole list of them come up. I’ve seen her in passing a couple of times, so can quickly rule out the women listed. I click through to Rob’s profile page. His cover photo is one of the golf course, and his profile picture is one of Jack. Rob wasn’t a big Facebook user either. In fact, the last post from him was two months ago and was something crass about how Leeds United have done.

  I scroll down his friends list and there she is, larger than life – Bryony Rose. Why does she have to have such a nice name? She’s one of these wholesome yoga and meditation types. I’ve always felt resentful of her. She smiles up from her profile picture and is so pretty that I hate her.

  When Rob and I first got together, he carried on meeting Bryony for coffee for months. They even had yoga sessions together. I had to put my foot down. Who wants to get into a relationship with someone meeting their ex? I had offered to step back whilst he decided who it was that he wanted to spend his time with. I clarified that he couldn’t have both.

  I had more kick-ass about me in those days. Rob promised he would stop seeing her, but now, it appears it was all rekindled. For a moment, anger absorbs my reality and I have to remind myself that he’s dead. Gone. I will never see him. Ever. Again.

  I couldn’t understand why they’d split in the first place if they couldn’t bear to stay apart, but it was apparently all to do with finances. Rob told me Bryony was a liability and squandered everything they had. He had described her as ‘a non-conformist.’

  When it came to money, Rob was as tight as a duck’s arse, so I imagine he would not have coped well with that. Since I’ve known him, he has been governed by money. As a paid-up member of the rat race, he made enough to cover bills and his lifestyle, but could never progress from that. He wanted financial freedom, but few ever achieve such a thing, working for an employer. So whilst he’d tell anyone who’d listen about his ambition and drive, the fifteen-year commitment he had shown Bracken Furniture told a different story.

  In opposition to Bryony, who could never rub two pennies together, I had received nearly everything from my grandmother’s estate. Mum once told me that this is all Rob ever saw in me. Perhaps she was right. Maybe that is why Rob decided between Bryony and me so easily when I gave him an ultimatum.

  I can’t believe Bryony and Rob are even Facebook friends. It is so blatant and out there, seeing it in black and white. Until recently, I’ve had no reason to check. I scroll down her page, hoping I don’t see any evidence of get-togethers between them, relaxing slightly when I see a photograph of her with a young girl. Then with a man. However, the caption reveals him to be her brother, and the girl appears to be her niece. I click onto her about information. Because she offers yoga and meditation sessions, her number is publicly available. I copy and paste it into my contacts, listing her as Ex. Then I press call. Just when I think it’s going to voicemail, a syrupy-sweet voice says hello. I hate her voice too.

  “Is that Bryony?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I want to know why you’ve been trying to ring my husband today.”

  There’s a click as the line goes dead. I try again. Six rings later, voice mail kicks in. This is Bryony Rose. Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave a message after the beep.

  “This is Fiona Matherson. You know, Rob’s wife. He’s had several missed calls from you today, and I need to know why you’ve been contacting him. Please call me back. It’s urgent.”

  I try once more, but this time it connects straight to voicemail. She’ll have turned her phone off. I send her a text. You’ll probably hear soon about Rob. I really need to talk to you. Fiona Matherson. Hopefully, that will intrigue her enough to ring me back.

  Next, I try Mum. Straight to voicemail as well. “Mum, I could do with talking to you when you get this. When the police rang you earlier, we didn’t know for definite if the body was Rob’s. I’ve been and identified him. I need to tell Jack tomorrow. If there’s any way you can get back up here. I’d really appreciate it.” My voice wobbles. “I haven’t let Dad know yet, but I’m going to have to soon. Please ring me back Mum. I’m in a bit of a state.”

  Tears drip from my chin. She will probably be able to hear the desperation in my voice. I can’t believe she hasn’t tried ringing me back since the earlier phone call. But I should try to give her the benefit of the doubt. She could be on her way back for all I know. That might be why she’s not answering her phone. Perhaps she’s doing eighty up the M1.

  I yank the cupboard door open in the kitchen. The bottle of brandy is sitting there, taunting me. Over the last year, there’s been barely any alcohol in the house, but Rob likes a nip when he has a bad throat, or a big presentation to give. I stare at the brown liquid, desperate to pour the lot down my neck, but slam the door shut and run upstairs to the bathroom.

  Warm water on my skin makes me feel slightly better, and the scent of the lavender bubble bath reminds me of my grandmother. It’s been an endless and stinking hot day. I’ve sweated more nervous energy than I did when I was coming off the drink. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this. Just like when I finally kicked alcohol, I’ll take it one hour at a time. If I try to look too far ahead, I’ll get overwhelmed. I just feel so alone. There’s no one I can talk to. Maybe I should have taken Christina up on her offer to stay with me. But I can be so stubborn.

  I locked the door after the police left, so do not need to go back downstairs. I can’t face the silence and the emptiness, anyway. Instead, I fill a glass with water, tie my dressing gown around me, and head across the landing to the bedroom. Our bedroom.

  The bed is unmade from this morning. I didn’t pull the blinds, so I crawl beneath the duvet. It makes a crinkling sound as I tug it over me. I slide it, so I don’t disturb Milly who is curled up on the edge of the bed. Her soft body is comforting. Tomorrow I will pour that brandy down the sink. I will also ring my AA sponsor. I have to stay off the drink. But tonight, I will try to pretend that Jack is peacefully sleeping in the next room and Rob is merely working away.

  I’m woken by the doorbell. At first, I think I’m dreaming the sound. It rings over and over, which annoys me. Who is it? I stare at the pattern on the ceiling. Leave me alone! For half the night, my thoughts have been escorting me to the darkest places. At around 5am, I had decided I would stay in bed this morning. I’m exhausted. And I feel ill. I’ve barely eaten for twenty-four hours. Christina’s salad is still sitting in the fridge.

  I keep turning over Rob’s final hours, days, weeks. We’d grown apart. Our marriage had become perfunctory. His face no longer lit up when he looked at me. And he was always attached to his phone.

  I think of Bryony again with a heavy heart. If she had nothing to hide, she would have spoken to me last night. Rob has gone, and perhaps it will not do me any good to have it confirmed whether anything was going on between them. Coming to terms with it all is going to be hard enough. I guess the police will uncover anything that I need to know once they go through Rob’s calls and messages.

  “Fiona? Are you there?” Christina calls through the letterbox. I’m grateful to her, but I can do without neighbours just now, no matter how well-meaning they are, braying on the door and shouting through the letter box at the crack of dawn. I sit up and take a large swig of water. Its chi
ll feels strange in my empty stomach. I reach for my phone to text her and am shocked to see it is after ten. Not exactly the crack of dawn.

  Sorry. Bad night so have only just woken up. I’ll text or ring later. X

  The icon for my Facebook app says that I have nine plus notifications. I’m lucky to receive one or two normally. I click through and realise that people are posting onto Rob’s wall, many tagging me in with their condolences and sending a big hug. Like that’s really going to help.

  One post says they hope that I’m getting well looked after. Yeah, right. There’s the expected shock, disbelief, and sorrow, and a ton of photos of him out on the golf course or posing with his bike. I can’t bear to look at them. Many of them were taken when things were still good between us, but obviously didn’t include me. We ran separate lives. Especially over the last few months. They must have released his name in the media. I click onto BBC Local News and there it is.

  Police are appealing for witnesses after a fatal accident occurred between a cyclist and a vehicle at approximately ten thirty am yesterday, Monday the eighth of June. It took place on the Denton Road, about three miles from Ilkley.

  The victim has been named as a thirty-eight-year-old local man, and father of one, Robert Matherson, who, it appears, was struck from behind as he cycled. There is no information on the vehicle involved, other than that it will have potentially sustained damage on its front left-hand side. In assessing the impact, it is evident that it was travelling at a significant speed.

  Investigations are being carried out on the damaged cycle to look for fragments of paint from the car. Local CCTV is being checked and nearby houses and farms are asked to come forward if they can contribute any private CCTV footage for inspection.