‘That’s your decision to make.’ The officer looked pointedly at Harry as he said this. The officers stood – bomb dropped – ready to leave, but before they did, the older guy deposited one final piece of unwelcome advice. ‘We want to be clear,’ a last loaded pause, ‘this prosecution is going ahead. You need to prepare yourselves for that, practically and emotionally. We’ll be in touch.’ He was experienced enough not to offer his hand in farewell.
Dom showed them out without another word. His brain had already moved on, scrolling through the implications of the charge becoming public: for Harry and Martha, and for his business. Because it would get out – and soon. ‘They’ were going to have a field day with this. Final confirmation that they could pin it all on Harry. Action, not words, that was what was needed. He went into his study to retrieve his phone. First step, call the solicitors, put a fire under their arses. He insisted that the receptionist put him directly through to Ross. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off with some note-taking junior. When Ross came on the line, Dom explained the situation, stressed the need for proactivity and booked a meeting for the following day.
It was only after he ended that call that he noticed Harry had left the room without saying a single word.
Chapter 39
HARRY SLIPPED through to the garage, intending to drive away. It didn’t matter where. Just away – from the police, from his dad, from everything. Dom’s BMW was parked in the space nearest the door, low-slung, bright red, six litres. No hybrid, planet-hugging ecoawareness for his dad – at least not outside the confines of his work. Next to Dom’s M5 was a Seat Leon-sized gap. His car was gone. For a second, Harry was shocked. But of course it wasn’t there. He hadn’t really forgotten. How could he? It was simply that driving was – correction, had been – such a natural, enjoyable part of his life that his brain seemed unwilling to accept it was over. Not that he wanted his car back. He never wanted to see it again. It was too stained by the memories of that night. Even if it hadn’t been wrecked by the crash, it could never have been just a car again. It was apparently locked up in some police compound somewhere – evidence in the case against him. A case that was now definitely going to court.
He let himself out through the side-door and set off walking. The cop car was turning at the end of the street. It slid out of sight, with a blink of its indicators. Harry felt no relief at seeing it go. He knew this was only the beginning. The long weeks of waiting had been bad enough, but he knew it was going to get worse. He’d been expecting the police to charge him. The conversation with them had gone exactly as he’d imagined. The laying of guilt squarely at his feet. The direct request for him to pick it up. The temptation to do exactly that. Then the full-throttle response of his dad. Dom believed that attack was the best form of defence. And he was right, when it came to dickheads on a football pitch; but in real life it was a crap philosophy, and it clearly hadn’t gone down well with the police. Watching the senior copper and his dad square up had been depressingly predictable. As they’d butted heads, Harry had sat there, mute. He might as well not have been in the room. Their machismo performances had underlined how much the accident had taken away from him. Not least, any sense of who he was any more.
Harry walked aimlessly. He had nothing to do, no one to see, nowhere he’d be welcome. Not now. Not after what had happened to Jake and Tish and Jess. At the end of the avenue he turned right, at the junction right again, then left, then across the road, then second right. By now he knew where he was heading, knew it was stupid, knew he shouldn’t, but he kept going anyway, aware of how pathetic it was, and how risky. He’d been told to go nowhere near Marcus and Fran’s house. He understood why, but his feet kept moving and his destination grew ever closer. It was a route he’d walked so many times he could have done it with his eyes closed. In fact, he used to. When he was a little kid – walking back to Fran’s house from school – he used to pretend that he was blind. He would hold Fran’s hand and shut his eyes, squeezing his eyelids tight to ward off the temptation of peeping. Jess would sometimes play along, too. Fran used to get involved with the make-believe, warning them when they were coming up to a kerb, asking them if they could hear the cars, the birds, the ice-cream van, and so on. Harry remembered the edge of fear that came from walking along with your eyes closed, but he trusted Fran – she would never have let him walk into a lamp post or onto the road. Years later, when he and Jess were trading childhood memories, she’d laughed at Harry, saying that she’d never done it properly, but had kept peeking, to make sure she didn’t bump into anything.
The house was visible as soon as he turned the corner. Halfway up the hill. A red-brick box slotted into a row of very similar boxes. Solid, square, not special. A blue front door, a white porch. Fran’s old Audi parked up behind Marcus’s Renault out front. So they were home on a midweek morning. No one, and nothing, was back to normal.
Harry slowed, wanting to get closer, but afraid to. Jess’s bedroom faced onto the back. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t actually see her window; he could imagine her room easily enough, he’d been in it hundreds of times. Her pinboard of mementoes – she was a believer in all that ‘making memories’ mush. Her collection of cacti – such a Jess thing. They’re cute, but spiky. Like me, she’d joked. Her ‘hurt your eyeballs’ choice in duvet covers. Psychedelic, hippy-dippy patterns – she called it having eclectic tastes. The smell – a nice, girly, fresh scent. Her bedroom door that didn’t quite shut properly, because it caught on the carpet. A safe, Jess-styled haven.
He’d tried to summon up Jess so many times since the accident, wanting desperately to travel back in time to a point of ordinary happiness, but he’d always failed. Now, walking towards the one place where he’d always felt safe, Harry could. It was as if being near her house had unlocked the part of his brain that had been stubbornly, resolutely closed off to him.
Jess. Alive and whole. And full of it. Lying crossways on her bed, on her stomach, her feet jigging around in the air behind her. Jess talking. Always talking. Enthusiasm for this, passion for that, indignation about something or other. Full of energy. He hadn’t always listened. How many times had he sprawled in the chair, looking at his phone, flicking through mindless crap that – at the time – had been more deserving of his attention than her? He’d sometimes laughed, at the wrong moment; offended Jess with his indifference or his mockery. He’d had slippers, rulers, pillows – any missile that came to hand – hurled at him in his time. Her hairbrush once caught him slap bang in between the eyes. She’d been horrified. Scrambled off the bed in a panic as he faked concussion. He’d hammed it up, claiming to feel dizzy, seeing stars, demanding sympathy. She’d laid him down on her bed, fetched a damp flannel for his head. Happy times.
Seduced by his daydream, Harry hadn’t been paying attention. He found that he’d drifted up the road and was standing right outside her house. It was not what he’d intended. Yet it was so hard to walk on by. He stood still, swaying slightly. More than anything he wanted to open the gate, walk up the short path, knock at the door. Have Fran open it, welcome him in, offer him a snack – she knew Harry was always hungry. Have Jess bounce downstairs, smiling, then lead him upstairs to the one place he’d always felt ‘right’. If only that could happen.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the door opened and Harry heard her. ‘I’ll see you later. Bye.’ The same inflection, the same voice – coming from Fran.
He bolted. Broke into a run. Kept going until he was off their street.
Was he a danger to others? A threat to their happiness and wholeness?
Yes. Guilty as charged.
Chapter 40
SAL WAS very reluctant to agree to the police coming to the house, but the alternative was a trip to the station, and that was out of the question. Their refusal to say why they needed to see Tish was worrying.
When she told Tish the police wanted to speak to her again about the accident, she swore, slid back down the bed and pulled the duvet up arou
nd her. But given that refusing to get up, not washing, hardly eating or talking in single-word sentences was still normal behaviour most days, her reaction didn’t really surprise Sal.
At least it meant that on the morning of the visit Tish had to get up and dressed, after a fashion. She appeared downstairs in sweat pants and a T-shirt, hair tied back – to Sal’s surprise – emphasising the damage to her face. Her mood was, as ever, low, with an edge of nerves. They both stared at the TV, waiting for the police to arrive, neither of them really watching, but it was better than silence.
Eventually there was a knock at the door. The officers came in and sat down. Sal didn’t offer them tea. They weren’t welcome guests.
‘Thank you for letting us come and talk to you again, Tish. How are you getting on?’
Sal felt a sudden, strong impulse to intervene and actually answer their question with the truth. They hadn’t been near for weeks – very few people had. This woman didn’t really want to know whether Tish was coping; it was one of those stepping-stone questions they put down, in order to tempt you to cross the river.
Tish touched her face self-consciously. ‘Okay, I suppose.’ That was all she was going to give them. Good on her.
‘The reason we needed to come and speak to you is that we want to ask a few more questions about what happened the night of the crash.’
Though Sal had known this was why they’d come, the thought of reopening old wounds made her anxious. Rehashing everything wasn’t going to do Tish any good. How could it?
‘She’s given her statement. Twice. And she’s checked through the written version of it. You said that would be it!’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I’m afraid we need to revisit a few things, in the light of some additional information that has emerged.’ The officer turned her attention to Tish. ‘Before we get started, can I check that you’re okay with your mum staying with us while we talk?’
Sal was taken aback. She’d been at Tish’s side throughout this whole nightmare, and they had the cheek to suggest that her daughter might be uncomfortable talking in her presence. They hadn’t a clue. She and Tish had gone past the point of having any secrets from each other a long time ago.
‘Look, we said you could come and ask your questions. We didn’t have to agree to it. Tish still isn’t fully recovered, and this isn’t helping. I really think that—’
Tish quietly but firmly interrupted her. ‘Mum, please.’ She shuffled in her seat, composing herself. ‘What do you want to know?’
The officer dived straight in. ‘Firstly, we’d like you to go back to before the crash – to the party at Alice Mitcham’s house. We want you to think again about what was going on. It is important. Are you sure you can’t recall any disagreements, any arguments, Tish? Any tensions between the five of you? I mean, before the altercation at McDonald’s.’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Other people who were present say differently.’
Tish said nothing.
The officer pressed on. ‘So, as far as you are aware, nothing happened at the party? Nothing that might have caused any trouble?’
Tish said ‘No’ again, but more quietly.
‘Okay.’ The woman moved on, seemingly reluctantly. ‘Can you tell us anything more about what Jess and Harry were fighting about in the car park?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
She referred to her notes. ‘And you said in your statement that you didn’t know what set Harry off, with regard to his fight with Mo?’
‘I wouldn’t call it a fight?’
‘What would you call it?’
‘I don’t know. A bit of a ruck.’
‘A ruck…which was caused by what?’
‘Like I said before, I don’t know.’
Sal didn’t like the shift in tone in the questioning.
The officer went on. ‘Are you sure, Tish? The thing that’s troubling us is that you seem to have been oblivious to everything that was going on that night. And yet you were there. These people were your close friends. You seem unable to remember very much at all.’
Tish shifted in her seat. When she next spoke, her voice sounded strained. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t remember. I said I wasn’t involved.’
This comment seemed to prompt a change of tack. The officer put her notepad aside. She bent down, pulled a laptop out of her bag and rested it on her knee. Sal concentrated her attention on Tish, aware of something shifting. She saw a change in her eyes, a flicker of some new, different anxiety that had not been there before.
The woman looked up. ‘Okay, Tish,’ but she said it as if she meant the exact opposite. ‘There’s something we’d like you to see.’ She tapped at the keyboard. ‘Mo’s phone was eventually retrieved from the car park at McDonald’s. There’s some video footage on it that we feel may be relevant to the case.’
Tish stiffened so much that Sal heard her spine crack.
‘We’d like you to take a look at it. Is that okay with you?’
Tish mumbled ‘Yes’, but her body language said ‘No.’
The officer passed the open laptop to Tish.
She glanced at the screen and said, ‘Mum, do you mind?’
Sal didn’t get it. Mind what? Then she did. Her face burnt as she got up and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Chapter 41
THE DOORBELL went at 7.15 a.m. Dom opened up, expecting it to be the postman, a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. Fran was standing on the doorstep. They stared at each other.
Dom swallowed, ‘Fran.’
‘I just want to talk,’ she said.
Neither of them moved. Impasse.
One, two, three seconds. It felt longer. Dom waited, blocking her path. He did not invite her inside.
That seemed to infuriate Fran. She brushed past him into the house. Dom was so shocked that he didn’t try and stop her. She went straight through into the kitchen, Dom in pursuit. It was empty.
‘Fran, what is it that you want?’ Dom kept his voice low, pitched at ‘calm’.
‘I need to know what’s going on. I need you to tell me what Harry’s said to you? I need the truth.’
‘You know I can’t discuss anything to do with the case with you.’
She glared. ‘Can’t! You mean “won’t”! Ignoring my messages, my texts, keeping us at arm’s length, refusing to let us speak to Harry – it’s not right! Did you think we’d give up and go away, once she died? Is that what you were banking on?’’
‘Fran, please.’ Dom searched her face for the friend he used to know, the woman who had helped him more than any other human being on the planet; who had hauled him out of the pit he was in, after Adele left; the Fran who had helped him be the best dad he could be. That Fran, who was warm and full of good advice, and humour and love. But she wasn’t there. All those weeks in hospital, Jess’s death, the funeral and now the decision to charge Harry – it had changed her, it had erased the woman she used to be.
It was tragic. It was awful. He got that. But imagining that he would choose her over his son! That wasn’t rational. Dom tried to placate her. ‘I know this whole thing is an appalling mess. That it has screwed everything up between us. And for that, I am truly sorry. But you know Harry can’t talk to you, Fran. Not now there’s this prosecution pending. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. It’s a legal matter now, which Harry is caught up in the middle of. I have to think of him. I think it’s best if you leave.’
‘No.’ One word. Spat out.
Dom’s tone hardened. ‘Please, Fran. Don’t. This is only making a bad situation worse. I don’t want to fight with you.’
‘You don’t want a fight!’ she mocked. ‘You don’t want an upset.’ Her voice rose. Loud enough to wake Harry and Martha? Dom hoped not. ‘What about what I want, Dom? I want some answers. No one is telling us anything. Can you even imagine what that feels like? Can you imag
ine knowing that everyone else knows more than you do, about your own child’s death? Harry, Jake, Tish, the police, the lawyers, you! I’m her mother, for God’s sake!’ Her voice was raspy with grief, and resolve. She turned her back on him. ‘If you won’t tell me anything, then I’ll have to ask him myself.’ She made a move, as if intending to go upstairs. Dom grabbed her arm, gripped it tightly, holding her back. They struggled, locked in a tug of war that neither had any intention of losing.
Dom’s patience finally snapped. ‘Fran, stop it. You’re not seeing Harry. You have to leave him, and us, alone. It’s up to the court now.’ She twisted in his grip. The last time he’d held her had been at the hospital, the day after the accident, when they’d hugged and he’d felt the grief washing through her. Now all he could feel was sinew and rage. ‘Fran. You can’t talk to him.’ He hated having to say it, but she needed to know there was a barrier, and that she’d crossed it by coming into his home in such a rage. ‘And I wouldn’t let you, even if I could. Not in the state you’re in. You need to calm down. And leave. If you refuse, I will call the police.’
Suddenly Fran stopped struggling. The tension between them went slack. Dom held on, uncertain of her intentions. She was breathing erratically. Calming or gathering herself? It was impossible to tell. Then she looked up at him. Her face uncomfortably close to his. He waited for her to say something. Saw the turmoil in her eyes. Felt for her.
‘This is unbearable,’ she whispered. Her voice was old, stripped of every shred of hope.
‘I know.’ He loosened, but didn’t let go of his hold on her.
‘What am I supposed to do, Dom?’ she asked.
He was fighting for his son. He had no idea what Fran had left to fight for. ‘I don’t know, Fran. I’m sorry, but I don’t know.’
‘Is everything all right?’ Martha’s voice startled them both.
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 14