‘Yeah.’
‘So tell me, Tish, what part of you lying to me and going to see Harry behind my back have I got wrong?’ Sarcasm didn’t suit him.
‘The part about why I went,’ she replied.
‘Go on then.’ He pulled his jacket around him, keeping his distance.
Harley was whining, straining on his lead, wanting to be off, not hanging around outside Mo’s house. ‘Let’s walk.’
‘Okay.’
Tish hoped it was going to be easier to say what she had to say without Mo looking her full in the face. Perhaps not. There were very few people out this early on a Sunday morning. A lone jogger. A few cars. A cat, which Harley nearly pulled her arm out of its socket trying to chase. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you that I was going.’ Mo didn’t say anything. ‘I wasn’t sure, until the permission form came back, that I was actually going to go.’
‘But you did. I presume that’s why you asked all those questions about how the process worked. I’m glad I was useful.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
He made a humphing noise.
‘I decided I needed to see Harry. I had things I wanted to say – things that have been bothering me. He never got in touch after the crash. Not once. Not a single word or a message. Nothing.’
When Mo next spoke, his tone was still guarded and brusque. ‘And you wanted him to?’
‘Yes. I did.’ He flinched. ‘Because I was still a schmuck back then. I still thought I meant something to him.’
‘Then?’
They’d arrived at the park. Tish bent down and unclipped Harley. He raced off like a bullet, falling over his feet with excitement. ‘Yes… then.’ She decided that nothing but the whole truth would do. ‘We have a lot of history, me and Harry. You know that.’ Aware that she could very well be blowing it totally, she went on, ‘But what you don’t know is that we were sleeping with each other, on and off, for quite a while before the accident.’
Mo just nodded miserably.
‘When I was with Jake, and before, when I was with Lewis.’ The look on his face was awful. Not anger, but hurt. It made her feel terrible. ‘That’s the sort of person I am, Mo. That’s what was on your phone. That night at the party – I was with Harry. You filmed me trying get him away from Jess, the only way I knew how.’
He didn’t ask the questions she was expecting – about her betrayal – but that was one of the reasons she was in danger of loving him. He simply asked, ‘But why go and see him now, after all this time?’ What he meant was: after sleeping with me; after getting me to stay in York when I should’ve gone to Liverpool – the place I had my heart set on, until I got mixed up with you; after pretending you cared and that we had a future, when in reality you were treating me like rubbish, as badly as Harry treated you.
‘Because I wanted to look Harry in the eye and know for certain that he didn’t matter to me any more.’
‘And does he? Matter to you?’
‘No.’
‘Just “No”?’
She pulled him to a stop, made him look her. ‘It’s not a small thing, Mo. It’s taken me a long time to realise that Harry isn’t worth it, and that I’m worth more.’
‘No. That’s probably not a small thing.’ He watched Harley, stony-faced. ‘But neither is not trusting me enough to tell me what you were doing, and why.’
‘I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you knowing my past and thinking I was…easy.’
He shook his head. ‘What? Is that what you think I’d do? Judge you, because I’m some uptight Asian?’
‘No! What are you talking about? I didn’t want to spoil what we had…have. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I’m a whore.’
‘Is that what you think you are?’
Harley reappeared and danced around them, a big stick in his mouth. Neither of them paid him any attention.
‘No. But I let Harry use me, and I’ve let other lads…get what they wanted.’
‘Including me?’
‘That’s different?’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
Harley dropped the stick and started barking with frustration. Mo bent down, picked it up and hurled it. It flew a long way, over towards the trees, powered by his anger. He watched Harley chase after it, his ears flapping as he ran. Tish looked at Mo, waiting for him to say something.
‘Have you cheated on me?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Would you?’
‘No,’ she answered, honestly.
Harley crashed back into their orbit, barking, wanting to play. Mo bent, picked up the soggy stick and threw it again. Patience – one of his many strengths, and his weakness.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Why what?’
He turned to face her, squaring up, readying himself for her reply. ‘Why wouldn’t you cheat on me?’
‘Because it’s different with you.’
‘Why?’
Tish looked at him, knowing he was demanding that she answer him properly. All the way back from Darlington on the coach she’d been thinking about being with Mo, and why it wasn’t the same as being with anyone else. Why it was better, so much better. How the sex was part of it – an important part – but how it wasn’t the whole of it. ‘Because you love me, and they didn’t.’
Still he didn’t soften. He kept his eyes on her, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a clear signal that he was reserving judgement. ‘That’s not enough, Tish.’
The realisation that he could be about to dump her induced a stomach-shifting rush of panic. It sounded like she was taking him for granted, assuming it was her right to be loved by him, when in reality nothing could be further from the truth. Tish knew how lucky she was to have Mo in her life. That’s when it dawned on her what he needed her to say – what she wanted to say. ‘And,’ she stepped as close to him as Harley would allow, ‘because I love you. And I promise that I’ll never muck you about, ever. Oh, for God’s sake, Harley, get down.’ He was such a pain.
And at last Mo smiled, a real smile. ‘Good…because I love you too. Not as much as Harley, obviously.’ He bent and scratched Harley’s head, sending him into paroxysms of joy. ‘But as you come as a pair, I suppose I’ll have to put up with both of you.’
Chapter 64
THE REQUEST was relayed to Harry by Jim, his key worker. Jim broached it carefully in one of their mentoring sessions. He talked – a lot – about the principles of the restorative justice process, the pros and cons, the list of things that Harry should take time to consider before deciding whether to agree to participate. It was a barrage of words, which Harry was not required to respond to. He knew that Jim’s verbal diarrhoea was a technique designed to make him feel less pressurised, less on-the-spot. The officers’ treatment of him was not the same as their treatment of the other inmates; his dad had been right about that. It was as if they thought that because he was quiet, polite, with a brain and an ability to speak in coherent sentences, he was different – better somehow – not your commonplace con. He wished they would stop making such a distinction. Prison was supposed to be a punishment. He was no better than the other guys; in many ways, he was worse. None of them, as far as he could tell, had killed anybody.
In reality, the officers’ determination to care was one of the biggest pressures of being inside. The consideration of his feelings, the understanding, the kindness, even from a battle-hardened old screw like Jim – who had more tattoos and worse language than many of the inmates – made Harry very uncomfortable. He knew there were concerns that he was losing it: ‘going under’, to use their term for it. December was apparently the month that saw the highest number of suicide attempts amongst inmates. Hence all this concerted effort to keep him on track, to keep him focused on his studies, to make him socialise, to remind him endlessly that he had his whole life in front of him, after he finished his sentence. It was curiously exhausting.
Jim was still talking. ‘Y
ou’d best you speak to your dad about it next time you call him. I can talk to him as well, if you want me to. And remember, you’re not under any obligation to say yes.’
‘What – other than the fact that I killed their daughter!’ That shut him up for a few seconds.
‘Harry, speak to your dad, please. Take some time to reflect. My advice, for what it’s worth, is that there can be benefits from doing it, but you need to be in the right frame of mind; and you’ve got to be prepared for the fact that they can be very unpredictable sessions. With the best will in the world, no matter how well we all do the groundwork, you don’t really know – not until you get into the room – how people are going to react.’
‘I’ve had seven months to “reflect”.’ That was the problem. All he could do was think. It was time he apologised – inadequate as that might be. ‘I want to do it. Get back to them and say I’ll do it.’
‘I really think—’
Harry stood up. ‘I said I’ll do it. Please, Jim. Just get the thing organised.’
Chapter 65
BEING BACK into the routine of work, after the barren despair of Christmas, was helping – a bit. The skills required to perform her job came back readily enough and the daily grind filled the days, but it didn’t change the way Fran felt. That wasn’t a surprise. It was other people who seemed to want her to feel different. A new year, a new start. She knew that was an impossibility.
The opticians’ branch where she worked was in the centre of York, so it necessitated getting up, early, getting dressed, smartly, then catching the bus like other folk, and joining the shuffling wodge of bodies heading into their jobs. The whole process could, she discovered, be done on automatic pilot. Even the customer interactions, the sight tests and glaucoma checks, the mindless small talk and complicated lens equations could all be performed competently by the version of Fran that still looked, spoke and behaved like any other rational, professional, middle-aged woman. The other staff were kind, bringing her extra cups of tea, spacing out her appointments, dropping their voices and shutting off any laughter when she went out to the front desk. The part of her that registered such consideration appreciated it, but it didn’t really help. If anything, it made her feel more under pressure to put on a good show.
She was sitting in the examination room, staring at her hands, when Eileen knocked softly at the door. Fran composed her face, expecting yet another brew. ‘Come in.’
Eileen stuck her head round the door, but didn’t enter the room. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Fran, but we have a bit of a situation with a young lady in reception. I wouldn’t normally bother you, but…’ She waited. ‘She has a sight test booked, but she’s only fourteen and she’s come along on her own. I’ve explained that she needs an adult with her, but she’s insisting on being seen.’
Fran stood. ‘That’s okay. I’ll come and speak to her.’ Eileen looked relieved.
After the cocooning gloom of the examination room, the shop was uncomfortably bright. Fran’s eyes took a moment to adjust. The girl was sitting on the seats by the designer frames display, hunched forward.
Martha.
Fran walked over. Cautious and confused. ‘Martha?’
‘Lucy!’ Martha stared at Fran, challenging her to disagree. Lucy White – the name against the appointment booking.
Eileen was watching the exchange with a puzzled expression.
‘Sorry. Yes. Lucy.’ Fran stumbled over her own inept pretence. ‘It’s okay, Eileen. I know this young lady. She’s a family friend.’ Not true. Not any more. ‘Do you want to come through, Lucy?’ Martha stood and gathered her coat and bag. ‘Would you like one of the girls to be present while I conduct your examination?’
Martha looked stricken for a second or two, but she recovered enough to mutter, ‘No. Thank you.’
Fran pointed her in the right direction and plastered on a smile. ‘Okay. Well, come on through.’ Neither of them looked at Eileen as they walked past the desk, both of them acutely aware of their clumsy performances.
Fran closed the door behind them and gestured to the chair that real clients sat in. Martha didn’t resist. She climbed up into it and sat clutching her coat to her chest. Fran perched on her stool. ‘So?’
Martha was silent for a long time.
Professionalism was all Fran could offer her. ‘Have you been having problems with your eyesight?’
Martha blinked. ‘No.’
‘And yet you want a sight test?’ The answer to this was presumably ‘No’, but after a long pause Martha opted for ‘Yes’. Because there seemed no other alternative, Fran went into her usual spiel. ‘Okay.’ She reached for the glasses and fitted them onto Martha’s face. Martha sat like a statue, neither helping nor resisting, as Fran tucked the earpieces into place and adjusted the fit. She slid in the trial lens, dimmed the lights and clicked on the light box. ‘Okay, if you could read as much as you can for me, please.’
Martha blinked and started, ‘R O K Z D.’ She took a breath that sounded shaky and went on, ‘K V D R O.’ She kept going. ‘C H S D N…I think.’ This was said in a rush, as if getting it wrong was a crime.
The optician in Fran briefly wondered if there might be an astigmatism in Martha’s left eye and was about to reach for the black lens to cover it and begin a thorough check. Then she snapped out of it.
‘Martha, why are you really here?’ She leant back, demonstrating that the charade was at an end.
Martha slowly took the glasses off. ‘I wanted to see you.’
‘But why go to all this effort? Why not just come to the house, or text me?’
‘Because I wasn’t sure you’d speak to me. Not after everything’s that’s happened.’ At least she had some grasp of the gulf that now existed between their families. Martha shuffled in the seat when Fran didn’t help her out by saying something. ‘And because I didn’t want Dad to know.’
Fran stuck to a simple, direct ‘Why?’
This finally provoked a flicker of defiance in Martha. ‘You know why.’
Fran couldn’t be bothered with working out the riddle of Dom and his family. Not any more. She held her silence. Martha fiddled with the glasses. Fran somewhat roughly snatched them out of her hands. They were expensive; she didn’t want Martha breaking them.
Under pressure, Martha blurted out, ‘I know you’re thinking about going to see Harry.’ How the hell had she found that out? Martha answered Fran’s unspoken question. ‘Dad told me that you’ve applied for a visit. Well,’ she paused, compelled to be truthful, ‘he didn’t actually tell me – I heard him talking to Harry about it. Harry said you could visit him, didn’t he?’ Fran was taken aback that Martha was so well informed about something that was so intensely private. ‘I want to come with you.’
Fran saw that Martha was serious. She was actually asking Fran to take her to the prison to see her brother – as if it was a reasonable request. ‘It’s not appropriate.’ What did Martha think Fran was going to see Harry for? A reunion?
‘Please, Fran. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. I want to see him in the flesh, to check he’s okay. I appreciate that you’d want to talk to him on your own. I just need a few minutes with him.’
‘No.’ Fran stood up, signalling that their ridiculous conversation was over.
But Martha didn’t budge. ‘Please. Dad won’t take me.’
‘That’s between you and your dad. I’m not going up there to have a nice, cosy little chat.’ She could hear the flint in her voice.
Martha flinched, but didn’t back down. ‘Please. I can’t bear not seeing him. When I talk to Harry on the phone, he sounds so down. It was awful over Christmas. Just awful. I’m worried about him. Really worried about him.’
Fran could see how distressed she was. She understood why. The Westwood household wasn’t the only family missing its beating heart. Looking at Martha’s pinched, thin little face, Fran could feel the desperation emanating from her, but she felt absolutely no responsibility to alleviate it. �
�Martha, there is no way I’m going to take you up to Darlington to see your brother. Not next week or any other time. It’s something you need to sort out with your dad. You need to leave. Now.’
Martha looked confused. ‘Fran?’ She reached out to touch Fran’s arm, as if wanting to check that this woman who was so coldly dismissing her was the same person who had always been so warm and open.
Fran instinctively pushed her stool back out of reach. She stood up, walked over to the door and opened it. The sound of the outer shop drifted into the room. There was nothing left to say.
Chapter 66
MARCUS TRIED to cling onto sleep, but it slipped away from him, unconsciousness denied. Regardless, he lay still. Another day lay in wait, but he was in no rush to face it. Better to stay, flat on his stomach, his eyes blind in the pillow. Fran was not next to him. He heard a couple of cars pass the house. He lifted his head. His phone showed 6.40 a.m. He had had a full eight hours’ sleep, but he still felt tired out. He rolled onto this back. It was still dark in the bedroom. It took a huge effort to push himself upright. He got out of bed. Fran was in the kitchen. When he entered, she smiled and flicked the kettle on, opened the cupboard and took out his mug. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning.’
‘How did you sleep?’
‘Not bad. You?
‘Better than last night.’
They weaved around each other, making toast, pouring cereal. The overhead light bounced off the surfaces. Armed with his breakfast, Marcus went to go through to the lounge, on his own.
Fran had other ideas. ‘Will you come and sit with me?’
It was an oddly formal invitation. ‘Yes, of course.’
They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, crunching, swallowing, eating breakfast. Fran’s silence sat at odds with her request for him to join her. Marcus’s mind turned to work, and the day ahead. It took an act of will and disciplined determination to summon up the energy to face a school full of kids. Tuesday was especially bad, given that he had no PPA time. He would have to be ‘on’ all day.
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 23