Teri glanced at Chris, and Marcus saw the panic in her eyes. Joan seemed to have moved on to complimenting the food.
He cut across her. ‘Sorry, Joan. You’ll have to excuse me.’ He moved past her. The relief on Teri and Chris’s faces was obvious. He grabbed a spare stool and sat down. ‘Fran.’
She looked at him and continued. ‘It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Or I suppose it did – from their point of view. They established that she wasn’t just brain-damaged, but brain-dead. It was very thorough. They have to repeat the tests over a specified period of time. It’s all very tightly controlled. That’s why the final decision wasn’t taken until the end of March. They obviously have to be absolutely certain.’ Marcus put his hand on Fran’s and guided it down. He had to press quite hard. That secured her attention.
He spoke quickly, trying to acknowledge her testimony while deflecting her from saying anything more. ‘It was dreadful, as you can imagine. But the staff at the hospital were…’ He was about to say ‘kind’, but found he couldn’t. What they’d been was respectful and professional, and brutally clear that Jess was dead. ‘Supportive.’
Teri’s eyes filled and she swallowed loudly, ashamed of her show of emotion. Marcus looked away. This was agony. He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to think back to the trauma of the donation.
‘Fran, can I get you another cup of tea? Or are you ready to go home?’
She slid her hand out from under his. ‘No. Not yet. There are still a lot of people I haven’t spoken to.’ She stood up and walked off.
Teri and Chris looked after her with pity – Marcus with deep concern.
Chapter 37
SAL OPENED the door, expecting it to be Jake. He’d said he’d call round, when they saw him at the funeral. That had been more than a week ago. But it wasn’t Jake; it was Mo, holding a bunch of tulips.
‘Hello, Mrs Reynolds. I was wondering if Tish is in.’
Sal didn’t tell him that Tish was always in.
‘Yes. She’s here.’ She didn’t move. Sal knew she was being unhelpful, but her job was to protect her daughter, even if it included making Mo feel uncomfortable.
‘Could I maybe say hello? Just for a few minutes.’ He seemed to remember the flowers. ‘And give her these. I’ve also brought her a book that she might like.’
The incongruity of a book as a gift for Tish struck Sal, but at the same time the kindness of the gesture softened her. ‘Okay. Come in. Go through to the front room. I’ll go and see what she’s up to.’ Sprawled on her bed, looking at her phone, odds on. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
Sal was right. Tish was lying on her bed, still in her PJs. She didn’t look up from her screen when Sal entered. ‘Who was it?’
‘Mo.’
‘What did he want?’
‘You.’
‘You did tell him that I’m not seeing anyone, didn’t you? I don’t want him thinking it’s just him.’
‘No. I didn’t tell him that. I invited him in for a chat. He’s downstairs in the front room.’
‘Very funny.’ Tish still hadn’t looked up from her phone.
Sal turned to walk out. ‘Suit yourself. It’ll be nice for me to have someone to talk to for a change. And if you don’t want the flowers, I can always have them.’
‘You let him in!’ Tish scrambled off the bed.
Sal nodded. ‘Yes. Because you can’t hide in here for ever. And the lad has made the effort to come and see you, and bring you presents. Which is sweet of him. So it’s up to you. You can leave him in my tender clutches for the next half hour, or you can put a bra on and come downstairs.’
Sal went to the top of the stairs. The sound of Tish spraying deodorant and pulling open her underwear drawer was music to her ears.
Mo didn’t sit down. He didn’t feel he should.
He’d never been inside Tish’s house before. Their friendship took place at college and at parties. He hadn’t even been sure of her house number. He’d had to text Jake to double-check her address. That had been awkward. Jake’s ‘Why’d u want it?’ had been hard to answer. Mo had messaged back to say that he had a Get Well card from his family that he needed to drop round. It was nearly the truth.
The living room was small. A bit shabby, but cosy. There were a lot of photos in different frames, singles and triples, and individual snaps propped up on the shelves. Tish from babyhood to the present day. Well, very nearly. There were quite a few of Tish with her mum. They definitely had a look of each other. It felt odd seeing Tish as toddler, round-faced and square-bodied – she’d been a proper little chubber; even stranger to see her at about twelve in a pair of chronically untrendy trousers and a terrible blouse with a big floppy collar.
A noise upstairs frightened Mo back into the middle of the room. If she caught him looking at the photos, she’d have his head off. He couldn’t hear their conversation, just the buzz of words. Tish was at least definitely in. What wasn’t as obvious was whether she wanted to see him. He switched the bag with the flowers. The cellophane felt slippy in his hands. He really didn’t want sweaty palms. Though no one would know. He wasn’t likely to be shaking hands with Tish or her mum.
Footsteps. Tish’s mum re-entered the room. ‘Do you fancy a cuppa?’
So he was staying. ‘Yes please.’ He would’ve preferred a Coke, but was too embarrassed to say.
From the kitchen Tish’s mum shouted, ‘Are you all right with dogs?’
Again he said ‘yes’, although the thought of an Alsatian or a huge Labrador bursting into the room was a bit unsettling. He heard the back door opening and the scrabble of claws.
‘This is Harley.’
A lump of curly black fur with four loopy spaghetti-legs cannoned towards him. The puppy jumped around and sniffed at his trainers while Mo stood stock-still, terrified that he was going to stand on it. Thankfully, Tish’s mum came into the room carrying three mugs. One of the mugs had a straw in. The sight of it worried Mo. Sal misinterpreted his anxiety.
‘He doesn’t bite. Or bark. Or do much at all really, except pee. You can sit down, you know.’ Sal went to pass Mo his tea, but his hands were full. ‘Pop them on the side, love.’ He did as instructed, then took the only single chair. The dog immediately leapt up onto his lap. ‘Get down, Harley.’ The puppy ignored her, turned a full circle then collapsed on Mo’s lap and snuffled its nose against his fingers. ‘Just shove him off if he’s being a pest.’ Sal took a drink of her tea. ‘Tish won’t be long.’
‘Thank you.’
The dog was actually chewing Mo’s fingers. It had small, needle-sharp teeth. He surreptitiously pulled his fingers free and reached for his mug, before realising that there was dog-drool on his hand. He left his mug on the table. He was beginning to regret coming.
Sal gave small talk a go. ‘How’s college going?’
‘Okay.’ Certainly not good. Mo was lonely at break times. Self-conscious in the cafeteria. Glad to get through his lessons, focus on his upcoming exams. The whole of his life Mo had got by, quite happily, by flying under the radar. That wasn’t possible any more. He was ‘famous’ now. The one that got away. Conversations stopped when Mo walked into rooms or appeared around corners, whether it was because they were implicating, criticising or pitying him, he didn’t know. Not that the gossip really mattered, in the grand scheme of things. He knew he’d been lucky, but it was still difficult.
Footsteps. Tish.
At the sound of her, the dog pricked up its ears, its little body quivering, then it launched itself off his knee. Tish entered the room, bent down, scooped up the dog and held his furry, wriggling little body close to her face. Mo saw a flash of Harley’s pink-and-brown mottled belly. As distractions went, it was a welcome one. Mo stood up, then sat back down again, totally awkwardly.
Sal smiled, picked up her mug and said, ‘I’ll be out back, if you want anything.’
The ‘dog love-in’ went on for a few seconds. Eventually Tish put Harley down and he ran out of the room after
Sal. Mo wished that he’d stayed. A focus of attention.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Mum made you a drink?’ Her words sounded odd, like she was talking through clenched teeth.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
Tish sat on the sofa. ‘It’s nice of you to call round.’ It seemed such an effort for her to get the words out. Mo was worried that it was hurting her.
‘Yeah. Well.’ His mouth furred with anxiety. ‘Oh, I brought you these.’ He stood, reached for the flowers and passed them to her.
He hadn’t seen Tish to talk to at Jess’s funeral. She’d stayed out of the way, giving the impression that she wanted to be left alone. He had respected that. She and Sal hadn’t come back to the rugby club after the service. He understood why. Close up, her face was a shock. Mo saw the line of dark stitches embedded in the puckered skin on the left side. They ran all the way round her chin up the side of her cheek. Her left eye also looked wrong, kind of tight and droopy at the same time. The eye itself was badly bloodshot.
Tish lowered her face into the flowers and breathed in. And, like the totally inadequate human being he was, Mo made it worse by saying, ‘Sorry, I’m not sure they smell of anything.’ He wanted to take it back, but it was too late.
She looked up and made him meet her eyes. Her right eye was okay. Unhurt. She let him off his crassness. ‘So what’s in the bag then? More stuff for me?’
He fumbled with it. ‘A book and a card.’ He pulled out both. ‘From my mum and dad…and me.’
‘Cheers.’ She took them from him, but didn’t open the card. Why should she? What use was a card. ‘Get well!’ Or a helium balloon, for that matter. The memory of it made him cringe. He really should ignore his mum’s advice more often. What a stupid thing to tell someone in Tish’s position. It was like saying ‘Get Over It’. There was no way he was giving her the oil that his mum had sent, but his attempt to stow the bag behind his back must have been too obvious because Tish said, ‘Hey. Is there more?’
He reached into the bag and took out the little bottle. ‘It’s from my mum.’ Blame her. ‘She said it’s really good.’ He sounded like he was bigging up his mum. That wasn’t it at all. He was trying to explain why he’d brought Tish something so bloody insensitive.
She took the little brown bottle from him and studied it. Restorative Oil. The name made it worse. She didn’t say anything.
‘Tish. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll be going.’ He turned to leave, tangled in too much embarrassment to stay.
‘Stop being such a wuss! It’s nice of her.’ He turned back round. ‘Though I think it’s gonna have to heal some more before I can use it.’ She was actually reading the label on the back of the bottle. She patted the sofa next to her.
Mo went and sat beside Tish, on her damaged side. She kept reading, letting him look at her face. And the more he looked, the more it upset him and the more it made him want to do something – anything – to make her feel…not better, that was going to take a long, long time, but at least okay.
Tish was still reading the instructions on the oil. ‘I thought your mum was a midwife.’
‘She is.’
‘Ah. Stretch-marks and scars. Buggered skin! I get it.’ Tish put the bottle on the table and picked up her coffee. The straw in it swung away from her and she had to chase it around the mug. ‘Once the last of the stitches and clips come out, I should be able to talk and drink like a normal person again.’ She sucked up a little coffee.
Mo could see how difficult it was. ‘What about eating?’
She put her mug down. ‘No Big Macs – unfortunately. I’m on a pulped diet. It’s like Slimming World, but worse. Everything tastes the same when you mash it up. Proper pukey!’ She did look thinner, fragile in a way that just wasn’t Tish.
Mo’s face must have given him away.
She mustered up some old-style Tish defiance. ‘Hey. I’m okay. I needed to lose some junk.’
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t believe that for one second.
‘I am okay, really.’ She lifted her chin, as much as she could, given the scar tissue. ‘Or I’m gonna be.’ After her attempt at bravery, she went quiet.
‘Sure you don’t want me to go?’ Mo asked. Part of him wanted to get out. She shook her head. He took a drink of his cold tea as a signal of his commitment to stay.
‘Thanks. I’ve not had many visitors, apart from family.’ She touched the top of his hand with her fingertips for a second.
What to say? His mind was a yawning blank. College gossip. The stuff Tish used to thrive on. Not that he had his finger on the pulse, but he could elaborate on what snippets he had observed and overheard. ‘So do you want me to tell you what’s going down at college? Who’s having hysterics about the exams?’
She pulled a blanket across her knees and snuggled down, settling in. ‘Yeah. Dish the dirt.’
And so he did.
In the kitchen Sal listened to them, feeling the first tiny, but very real lift in her spirits for weeks.
Chapter 38
THE POLICE rang to say they needed to come to the house. Dom asked why, though in his heart he knew. The investigating officer said they would prefer to explain in person.
What Dom didn’t understand was why police officers always travelled in twos, like animals entering the Ark. Out of nowhere, he suddenly remembered that Harry used to have a Noah’s Ark play set when he was little: elephants, zebras, camels, even a pair of green-and-yellow snakes and one tiger. The tiger had lost his mate early on – gone the way of so many toys, into the inner recesses of the car, or into the rubble of small pieces of plastic at the bottom of the toy box. When the set was handed on to Martha, she’d insisted on pairing the tiger up with a spare lioness, she hadn’t liked it being on its own.
What the fuck was he doing, thinking about toys at a time like this? He really needed to focus. The senior officer was looking serious. It was serious. It felt wrong having the police in the house. Dom’s life was not one that was supposed to have criminal investigations and statements and defence lawyers and big, chunky coppers with their kit-laden uniforms in it. He had worked hard to make Harry and Martha’s lives comfortable, insulated from hardship and unpleasantness; safe – or so Dom had thought – from the general nastiness of the world. But since the accident, nothing had felt secure. The good life that had taken him so long, and so much effort, to build after Adele’s departure was under threat. It made him anxious. It was Harry who had brought all this into their home. Harry who sat next to him now, chewing at the skin alongside his thumbnail and staring through the patio doors.
The officer said, ‘As you know, the file has been with the CPS for a while, but they’ve now made a decision.’
Pause. Why did people pause? Why not just spit it out? Too much TV drama.
‘They are bringing charges.’ Harry didn’t react, but carried on worrying away at his thumb. ‘The key factors are the presence of alcohol in Harry’s bloodstream, the estimated speed the car was travelling when it left the road, and the injuries the passengers suffered.’ Nothing from Harry, not a comment or a flinch. ‘The formal charge is going to be…causing death by dangerous driving, with an additional charge of driving under the influence. Do you understand what I’m saying, Harry?’ the officer asked. They all waited.
Harry let his hand drop, nodded, but not a single word of denial or defence emerged from his mouth.
What the hell was wrong with him? It fell to Dom to respond. ‘It was an accident, for God’s sake. It could’ve been any of them driving that car. You’re telling me that Harry’s the one who is going to be punished for taking responsibility that night. He was the most sober of all of them. Jake was off his head! Both the girls had been drinking! Was it Jess dying that tipped the scales?’
The senior officer adjusted his jacket. ‘No. That’s not influenced the decision to prosecute, though it has had a bearing on the charge. As with every case, it’s down to the evidence.’
‘So, you’re saying that even if Jess had survived, you’d still be hounding my son.’
Harry had gone back to gnawing on his thumb.
‘Mr Westwood, we’re not “hounding” anyone. We are duty-bound to investigate every incident and ascertain responsibility and culpability, in the public interest. And in this case there is evidence that Harry’s behaviour on the night in question was a substantial contributory factor in the car crashing, and the subsequent serious injuries suffered by those involved and in the death of Jess Beaumont.’
Dom made a disgusted noise.
The officer sat up straighter, chest out, shoulders back. One alpha male fronting up up another. ‘Mr Westwood! Please. This isn’t personal. It’s the law. I suggest that you calm down a little.’ He continued, ‘The reality is that things could be worse. The CPS could have gone for the more serious charge of manslaughter, for which the penalties are much stiffer. “Dangerous driving” often does carry a custodial sentence, but any mitigating circumstances will be taken into consideration.’ The implication that Harry was somehow getting off lightly did not help to placate Dom. ‘We advise that you speak to your legal representatives, now that the case is going to trial. They will be able to explain the process and advise you on the next steps. You will need to enter a plea, in response to the charge.’
Dom cut across him. ‘Oh, don’t you worry. We’ll be taking advice all right – and we will be fighting the charge. I won’t have my son’s life ruined by this, not if I can prevent it.’
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 13