‘I know that, Dad.’
‘Good. Because I was beginning to think you hadn’t grasped how serious this is.’
Harry stared at his father. Dom really was clueless sometimes. ‘I know how bad it is, Dad. I was there. Those “people” are my best friends.’
‘Exactly. So sticking your head in the sand and hoping it will all go away isn’t going to work, is it? Harry, look at me.’
Harry did and saw a familiar sight. His dad, impressive, implacable, intimidating.
Dom went on, ‘I have to know what happened last night if I’m going to be able to protect you. You have to tell the truth – to me and to the solicitor.’
‘What solicitor?’
‘The solicitor I’ve spent the last hour sorting out. The solicitor who’s coming to the house first thing in the morning, as a personal favour to me.’
Christ, even with something as awful as this, Dom’s ego muscled in. Harry felt a flicker of anger stir beneath the heavy layers of guilt and shame. He mustered up some defiance. ‘Well, if you’ve arranged an appointment with this solicitor buddy of yours for the morning, we can talk about it then, can’t we? There’s no point going over it all twice. That’s simply not an efficient use of everyone’s time, is it now, Dad? I’ll see you in the morning.’ He didn’t wait around to hear his father’s reply.
Chapter 20
BEING IN a police station was very unnerving, but Mo’s parents had insisted that they needed to go as soon as they could, to clear up his involvement in the events of Saturday night. So instead of his normal Monday morning – upper-sixth biology with Mrs Lowe – Mo found himself in an interview room with his parents and a harassed-looking police officer, who didn’t seem overly interested in taking his statement.
‘So you’re saying they drove off and left you at McDonald’s?’ she asked.
Mo’s heart rate had settled enough so that he could concentrate a little better – at least the distracting pulse in his ears seemed to have subsided. Getting through the first half of the story without stumbling too much had helped; that, and his mum and dad’s reassuring presence. They kept nodding, urging him on. In a corner of his soul, Mo felt ashamed of needing them there, for relying on them so much – it was like being little again, running to his amii because he was scared – but a far bigger part of him was grateful for their help. He still felt very rattled.
The officer was waiting.
Mo got back on track. ‘Not straight away. I followed them outside into the car park. There was an argument going on. The atmosphere had changed.’
‘How?’
Mo remembered Harry’s voice more than anything else – the anger. The memory was sharper now, brought into focus by what he now knew came afterwards. ‘Harry was leaning into the car, trying to talk to Jess, but she didn’t seem to want to hear him out. Tish was involved as well.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. But she seemed part of the row.’
‘And what was Jake doing at this point?’
‘He was dancing.’
‘Sorry – what?’
‘He was dancing around, waving his arms about, in his own little world.’
‘Was he drunk?’
Mo hesitated. Jake was drunk or high most weekends. Saturday night had been no different, but somehow saying it to the police felt like a betrayal. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t with him much at the party. He’d had a drink, but I couldn’t say whether he was drunk or not. Jake doesn’t need a drink to be daft.’ This last bit was true, at least.
The officer changed tack. ‘What was the argument between Harry and Jess about?’
‘I don’t know.’ The memory that he had been on the edge of things, yet again, made Mo feel embarrassed. ‘Harry had my phone in his hand. That’s where the music was coming from – the music that Jake was dancing to.’
‘Harry was playing music on your phone?’ The officer sounded confused, and slightly irritated.
Mo felt the sweat prickle in his armpits. ‘I think – I’m not sure – that it was the party.’ The officer’s expression grew even more clouded. Mo tried to be clearer. ‘I think it was some of the video that I’d filmed at the party, but I didn’t see, not properly, because when I walked up to the car, Harry stopped talking to Jess and he turned on me.’
‘Sorry, Mo. We need you to clarify what you mean by “he turned on me”?’
‘He started shouting.’ They waited. His mum gave a tiny nod. It still felt wrong. ‘He told me to fuck off out of it. That I’d…caused enough fucking trouble for one night. Then he rushed me. And I ran, and Harry came after me.’
‘Was there physical contact?’
‘Yeah. He shoved me in the chest.’ Again the heat of embarrassment crawled through him. ‘I fell. Landed on my backside. He leant over me.’ And Mo had thought that Harry, his friend since primary school, the person who’d stuck up for him with the inevitable, brainless dickheads who had an issue with Pakis, who he’d never seen raise his hand to anyone – even on a football pitch – was about to smack him in the face. Yes, Mo would have sworn that, in that moment, Harry was readying himself to punch his lights out.
‘And then what happened?’
‘That’s when Tish starting yelling at him.’
‘Yelling what?’
‘For him to stop. She said something about it not being my fault.’
Mo remembered seeing Jake doing his weird, spaced-out dancing around the bin, and Tish storming at Harry, shouting, her vest top shimmering in the street lights.
‘What did she mean by that?’
Mo took a breath. ‘I don’t know. Harry kinda stopped. He looked like he didn’t know what to do next.’ The option of thumping him had still been on the table, Mo was sure of that. ‘He suddenly seemed to remember that he had my phone in his hand. He lobbed it across the car park. Really launched it. I heard it hit the concrete and slide.’
‘And?’
And…Mo had still been braced for a punch. Harry still had a wild look in his eyes. ‘Harry turned round and ran back towards the car. I got up and went to look for my phone. He’d thrown it towards the containers on the far side of the car park. It must have gone under one of them, because I couldn’t find it.’
‘And while you were hunting for your phone?’ There was a hint of derision in the policewoman’s voice.
‘There was some more shouting, then the car drove off.’
‘And they left you there, in the car park?’
‘Yeah.’
There was a beat in which Mo felt certain they could hear the sweat dripping down his sides. Threatened by his mate – for doing something he didn’t have a clue about – defended by a girl, left stranded in a McDonald’s car park, miles from home, his phone gone: yeah, that was his Saturday night. But had it not been for that catalogue of disasters, he would have been in the car when it crashed, and he could be dead.
Chapter 21
HARRY WAS hiding. He knew it and was ashamed, but it seemed the only sensible thing to do. He hadn’t slept well. On the occasions that he had managed to nod off, he’d fallen headlong into horrible dreams that soon woke him – nightmares full of screaming, and an overwhelming sense of Jess and Tish and Martha being near, but too far away to reach. By 6 a.m. he’d given up on sleep and switched on his PS4; the mindless distraction was comforting in a way that nothing else was. As he machine-gunned his way through enemy combatants, he heard Martha getting ready for school, but he didn’t get up to say goodbye. Another fail. His phone was still blowing up with messages, but they weren’t from the people he wanted to hear from.
The solicitor was scheduled to arrive at 10 a.m. Time for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. If only he could.
He paused the game and threw down the controller. He studied the scrapes and cuts on his arms, seeing how close they came to the veins. Only the gash on his right hand had come anywhere near an artery. It made no sense that he’d escaped so lightly. He started p
icking at the corner of the dressing, lifting it with his nail. Once he had a firm grip, he ripped it off. He welcomed the sudden, intense burning sensation. The stitches were already beginning to scab over. His hand looked ugly, but his injuries were nothing really, not in comparison to the others. As he lay back on the bed, tracing his fingers over the stitches, he remembered a day in college when they’d been messing about predicting each other’s futures. Jess had got him to curl up his hand, so that she could count the folds of skin near his little finger. She claimed it was a sure-fire way to predict the number of children you were going to have. Based on this foolproof method, the prediction had been: Jake – three, or at least three he’d know about; Tish – none, she’d been pissed off about that; Jess – two; and for him – four. He’d laughed and discounted it as nonsense, but deep down the thought of four kids had made him happy.
The memory of feeling happy made Harry feel worse, which made him feel guilty, which…et cetera, et cetera. Self-pity. He was drowning in it.
It was only his dad coming into his room and telling him to get up, showered and dressed that hauled him back up to the surface.
The solicitor was already sitting at the dining-room table when Harry got downstairs. He stood up as Harry entered and extended his hand. The only time Harry ever shook hands with anyone was at cricket or football dos, usually when he was collecting a cup or a plate: ‘Players’ Player’, ‘Best Innings by an Opening Batsman’. This was not that. The man controlled the handshake, a firm grip. ‘Ross Glover. Nice to meet you, Harry. Sorry it’s in such difficult circumstances. How are you holding up?’
Harry shrugged. He could sense his dad already gearing up for a comment, but the solicitor got in first, ‘Take a seat.’
Dom chose the chair next to the solicitor, leaving Harry alone on the other side of the table. Was that deliberate? Harry was too tired to know. The man sounded ‘expensive’.
‘Now, as I’m sure your dad’s explained, my role in this situation is to protect your best interests, with regard to the police investigation. And to do that, we need to get to the bottom of what contributed to, and ultimately caused, the crash that resulted in the injuries to yourself and your friends. We obviously don’t know, and we probably won’t for a while, whether there will be any charges in relation to the incident, but we have to be prepared. It’s always better to be over- than under-prepared. Any accident of this magnitude is subject to a lot of scrutiny and, sadly, a lot of speculation, so until all the facts are established, my first piece of advice to you – and this is important, Harry – is that you are very careful about who you talk to, and what you say. The best policy, really, is to say nothing. Of course I’m not including your dad in this…’ they had obviously had a conversation about Harry’s unwillingness to ‘share’ with Dom, ‘but with anyone else – and I do mean anyone, even people you might class as close friends – it’s best to keep your own counsel.’ He pinned Harry with his stare.
Harry watched his lips moving. What a pretentious arse!
His dad was the one to provide the requested reassurance. ‘I’m sure Harry knows that he’s got to be very careful what he says, and to who. Don’t you?’ Dom could never just leave it at one instruction; he always had to hammer it home.
Harry gave the lawyer the nod his father was demanding.
The posh guy went on, ‘That includes – in fact, it’s even more important in this day and age – social media. Post nothing. Comment on nothing. “Like” nothing to do with the case,’ he paused, ‘or anything else really.’
What did he think Harry was? A fucking idiot? A fucking insensitive, heartless zombie? And what the hell did he mean by anything else?
The solicitor opened his briefcase and pulled out a yellow notepad and a pen. ‘What we need to do this morning is prepare for the interview this afternoon. So what I want is for you to talk me through exactly what happened. All of it. Warts and all. In your own words.’
Harry blinked three times, but there could be no further delay.
An hour and a half later it was all written down, in black ink on the yellow pad, with some words underlined for emphasis. A script that Harry had to stick to in the police interview.
According to Ross Glover:
• It was fine to answer questions about his relationships with the people in the car – that was a good place to start…It really wasn’t.
• It was okay to talk about his actions on the night: to describe the journey to the party, the party itself, driving to McDonald’s, stopping to get something to eat, et cetera, but he must keep it simple and factual – it would demonstrate a clear memory of the events, which was beneficial…He didn’t want to remember what had happened.
• It was okay, in fact it was good, to tell them about Jess shouting about the cat in the road; it would set up a cause for the accident and counter ‘driver error’ arguments, which was essential…He couldn’t bear to think about his role in the crash.
• It was okay to tell the police what he remembered of the crash itself: how the car spun, the impact, et cetera – this would highlight Harry as a victim, as well as the other casualties, which was useful…No, he had got off way too lightly.
• It was good to go into as much detail as possible about staying with the car and how he had tried ‘so desperately’ to help his friends – this would feed into Harry being ‘of good character’ – which might, if they ended up in court, be influential…The thought made him feel sick.
What Harry must not answer any questions about, at this stage, was his alcohol consumption. Ross said it would, undoubtedly, be a line of questioning. He instructed Harry to pause, as if thinking about his answer, and let Ross intervene. He promised to ‘handle any and all questions’ about Harry’s drinking on the night, at the pub and at the party. He stressed that he needed time to explore the circumstances of the taking of the blood sample, to see if the results could be ruled out, on the basis of consent.
It was all very thorough, and decisive and depressing. When they’d finished, Ross capped his pen and actually smiled. ‘Great. Well, that’s me up to speed – if you’ll pardon the pun.’
If Harry hadn’t him hated before, he did after that comment.
Chapter 22
AS ALWAYS, when any of the staff approached the bay, Fran tensed. They’d only been on the unit for three days, but already they’d become wary and defensive. Although they hung on every word from the doctors and nurses, Fran and Marcus both dreaded their attention. Time at the bedside always meant more tests, more physical interventions, more treatment of the girls as objects that required maintenance and correction, rather than as human beings. None of which had led to any breakthroughs – yet. Being asked to step outside, or invited to stay, while they did whatever they had to do, was always bad – neither option felt right. They were way past the point of respecting the girls’ privacy.
This time it was the ward manager, Adam, who approached them, not a member of the medical team, which was a relief. On the other side of the room Sal looked up, alerted by the soft crackle of Adam’s tunic. When you’re on edge, you’re aware of everything that might signal a new problem. Seeing Sal look up, Adam beckoned her over.
‘Thanks. I might as well speak to you together. Now, please, you must feel free to take a bit of time to think about this. There’s no need for an immediate reaction.’
What now? was all Fran could think.
‘I wanted to let you know that we’ve had a request from one of the young men who was in the car. He would like to come and visit the girls. Just a very brief visit.’
Simultaneously Sal and Fran said, ‘Harry?’
Adam checked the piece of paper that he had clipped on his board. ‘No. A Jake Hammond.’
Fran looked at Sal, and Sal looked at Marcus.
‘I thought he was laid up with his leg,’ Marcus said.
‘His consultant has said it’s okay to come for a short visit. And his family have agreed. One of them, or a member
of staff if you’d prefer, would bring Jake across from the orthopaedic ward – with your permission, of course. But as I said, you don’t need to decide now. Have a think about it, and let me know when you’re ready. Apparently he’s been asking, a lot.’
They deferred to Sal, who said, ‘I’m not sure Jake seeing Tish like this is going to help.’
In the end they agreed to give it another twenty-four hours, to see if there was any change. None of them voiced whether they meant for the better or for the worse.
In the morning, after another restless, noisy night for Tish and another silent night for Jess, they agreed to the visit. At the last minute Sal asked that Jake be brought down by a member of staff. ‘I just can’t face Anita. Not at the moment. Is that awful of me?’
Fran reassured her that it wasn’t. The thought of Anita’s full-wattage emotion was too much to contemplate amidst the cautious, considered atmosphere of the ICU. Here calm was the commodity that held desperation at bay.
That said, the prospect of Jake’s visit added a curious air of expectation to the day. It was something different to ‘look forward’ to as the minutes crawled by, measured by the bleep of the machines.
Sal had a soft spot for Jake. Despite her daughter’s frequent, less-than-complimentary comments about his many shortcomings, he seemed a decent enough lad at heart – a bit daft, but harmless. He reminded Sal of a couple of her early boyfriends. Like mother, like daughter: they both seemed to have a weakness for cheeky chaps who weren’t the most reliable boyfriend material, but were fun and funny.
She looked at Tish, lying trapped in a web of wires and tubes, drugged to high heaven. Tish kept drifting in and out of consciousness. By now Sal didn’t know which was worse – the periods of wakefulness, which seemed to signal the hope of recovery, but came with the distress of seeing her daughter panicked, in pain and unable to talk, because of all the wires and pins in her jaw; or the patches of deep sleep when, although Tish was calm, she was gone. Sal cleared her throat, set her mind to positive and started to tell Tish about Jake coming to visit her. Behaving as if life was normal – it was the only thing she could do to make it so.
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 7