She looked at him, stretched out her hand to take his bag and said, ‘Get in.’
Chapter 83
DOM LOOKED at his watch. If everything had gone to plan, his son would now be a free man.
He would not be there to see it.
Dom’s calendar was chock-a-block with back-to-back meetings, a normal day’s trading – which just so happened to be Harry’s release date. He was aware of the contradiction, but didn’t want to dwell on it. He’d agreed to let Fran collect Harry. It was all arranged; no reason to go changing things now. It was saving him time and a round trip to Darlington, in the middle of a busy week. What difference did a few hours make? He’d see Harry at home soon enough. They’d celebrate then. The three of them back together. There was a bottle of fizz in the fridge. It was a sensible solution all round.
Dom had been out of the house and on the road by 6.30 a.m. By 10.30 a.m. he was already on stop two, Kev Walton’s dealership over in Wallasey. They were currently going through the sales data – which was good for new cars, but less than impressive on preowned and after-sales. Kev was, as always, blaming the poor figures on the economy, which was bollocks; the reality was that he was a lazy bastard: good at selling the new models and special offers, crap at the legwork that went into turning a showroom into a real garage that people came back to. There were at the ‘butting heads and egos’ stage of the conversation, which Dom normally enjoyed, and won, but today he was only half-listening. An awareness that Kev could sense that he was off his game, and was exploiting it, pissed Dom off.
He pushed his chair away from the desk. ‘I need a slash. Back in a minute.’
In the Gents he went into a cubicle, locked the door and sat down: 11.10 a.m. Harry would be on his way home. Dom allowed himself to try and imagine his son’s feelings. Relief? Happiness? Excitement about coming home and getting back to normal? Full of plans for what he was going to do? No. Not Harry. He’d be worrying, stressing about the reception that awaited him. Harry had refused to believe Dom when he’d told him that life had moved on and no one really talked about the crash any more – today’s news, tomorrow’s chip paper.
Dom rested back against the toilet cistern. Through the thin walls he could hear the lads in the office next door working the phones, hustling, chasing up orders and closing down sales, making a good living off their wits, their dubious charms and their cheek. Harry could have wiped the floor with all of them…before the accident, before he’d fallen apart.
Watching someone you love struggle, and not being able to fix it, was awful and so frustrating. Dom had tried – he really had – but Harry had rejected his help and advice time and time again. Look where that had landed him. And every time Dom had hacked all the way up to Darlington to see him, it had been the same – the two of them sitting opposite each other, barely talking or, worse, arguing, surrounded by that collection of no-hopers. The longer it had gone on, the more the stuffing had been knocked out of both of them.
That the change had come in the shape of Fran had hurt Dom, badly. A woman’s touch. Could it really be a clichéd as that? Was that what Harry had needed all along? A surrogate mother – even if it was an irate, unstable, grieving woman whose motivations were clouded by the need for reparation. Apparently so. Because Dom had to acknowledge that the turning point had come after the restorative justice meeting. Something had clicked, or snapped, at that meeting – he still did not know what – and as a consequence Fran had changed, and so had Harry. And out of that combustion of emotions had developed a weird, but seemingly important new connection. It was a connection that Dom didn’t understand. No matter how often Martha tried to reassure him that Fran’s motives were sound, he couldn’t totally bring himself to trust what he was seeing. Fran helping the boy who had ‘killed’ her beloved daughter. It felt wrong.
But there was no denying that since Fran’s seeming change of heart, Harry’s confidence had slowly started to return. It was as if something deep down inside him had finally woken up and started fighting back.
And if it really had been a ‘mother’s’ attention that Harry had craved all along, where did that leave Dom? Out of the picture, that’s where.
Whatever he’d done, it would never have been enough.
He stood up, flushed the loo and unlocked the cubicle. He washed his hands thoroughly, stroked a hand over his bald head, straightened his tie and headed back out to the fray, determined to kick Kev Walton’s lazy arse.
Chapter 84
‘IT’S GOING to feel really weird, isn’t it – him being home?’ Mo watched Harley disappear under some bushes, hunting real or imaginary squirrels. ‘It’s like he’s been stuck on pause while everyone else has kept going.’ Mo was into his second year at York, and Tish – despite her great A-level results and plenty of uni offers – was in a job she loved, working for the tourism department of the council, earning, spending, travelling, coming home to Mo full of enthusiasm and grand plans: Japan in the summer, then a flat together, by autumn at the latest.
Tish bounced along the path, trying to keep warm. ‘Well, that is the point of prison.’
Mo was more reflective. ‘Harry’s served his time.’ He could testify to that. Mo had been true to his word and kept hacking up to Darlington to visit Harry as often as his course and his budget would allow. They were friends, and that’s what friends did: stuck around when the going got tough, even when it became complicated. Mo didn’t let himself think about Tish and Harry being together. Or, at least, he tried very hard not to. ‘Do you feel all right about seeing him again?’ he ventured.
Tish hurried on, brisk steps, blowing on her fingers to warm them up. ‘Yep. Totally fine.’
Harley reappeared with a beard full of leaves and mud and started dancing around them, demanding attention. Mo threw him an imaginary stick, and Harley was daft enough to hare off after it.
Tish stopped yomping ahead. She fell back into step with Mo, slipped her arm through his and pulled him close to her. ‘Hey. Quit worrying, will you? Besides, if you think about it, it’s down to Harry and the accident that we’re even together.’
‘Are you saying you wouldn’t have looked at me twice otherwise?’ Mo asked, only semi-seriously.
Tish laughed. ‘Twice! Not even once!’ She pulled him to a stop. Planted a full-on kiss on his cold lips, then thumped him hard on the arm. ‘Don’t go all “complex” on me about this. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Nothing is going to change between us – ever. So stop being such a doofus.’
Mo smiled. ‘Thanks for that. Your eloquent expression of affection makes all the difference.’
She laughed. ‘Hey, mate. If you want poetry, you’d better find yourself some nerdy chick at uni to wax lyrical over your lovely arse and your tortured soul.’ She kissed him again, then ran off across the grass, chasing a barking, bonkers Harley, and Mo raced after her.
Chapter 85
FRAN PULLED over to let a white van past. Harry kept his eyes on the fields blurring by – it was soothingly hypnotic. Perhaps she would keep driving, down the A1, on and on until they ran out of road. Harry wished she would. But of course she didn’t. He heard the tick-tick of her indicator. They took the exit. He had another twenty minutes, tops, before he was home.
‘It’ll be all right.’ She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Kept her eyes on the road. He studied her profile. She was so familiar, and yet she was a completely different person now, just like him.
‘Um.’ He wasn’t convinced by her determinedly positive perspective.
‘It will. You being back might raise eyebrows for a day or two, but that’ll be it.’ She pulled up at the lights. Handbrake on. ‘Old Harry’ would’ve been irritated by that – he’d have seen it as typical middle-aged-woman driving.
‘Have you heard back from any of the colleges?’ She obviously wasn’t going to give up on the ‘what’s next?’ questioning.
He wanted to lie to her, but couldn’t. ‘I haven’t put in my application yet.’
/>
‘Harry!’ She moved off smoothly – first, through second into third. ‘You promised.’
‘I didn’t have time.’ His own poor attempt to lighten the mood was ignored.
‘You have to. You’ve got your grades. Otherwise all that study will be a waste.’
He knew what she was thinking. She was thinking of another total waste. Jess would have aced her exams, had her pick of Manchester or Edinburgh or Lancaster, would be well into her second year by now, would have dumped him for someone more her level – just as she should have done. She would be alive and happy and with someone who would have appreciated her and kept her safe.
‘Harry!’
‘Sorry. All right. I’ll think about it.’
‘Okay.’
They were close now. Back on his old patch. As Fran drove along the familiar roads, Harry’s sense of claustrophobia increased. He’d so wanted to get out, to get away from the insistent noise and unremitting boredom, but the thought of trying to pick up where he’d left off made him feel panicky. Because where he’d been before the crash was in a mess – which is what had led to the tragedy. And if it had been bad back then, why would it be any better now? His relationship with his dad was still crap, his friends had all dumped or forgotten about him, except Mo – he couldn’t blame them for that, it’s what he’d have done in the same situation – and Jess was gone. He didn’t see that he had much of a future left. If it hadn’t been for Martha, and Fran and Marcus, he might not have come home at all.
Fran cut into his self-pity by indicating and pulling the car over to the kerb. She parked and turned to face him properly. They were five minutes from home, and three minutes from the ring road.
‘Harry. You need to listen to me. It will get better; or at least it will get easier and then it will begin to get better. It’s a process. Just like surviving inside was. Being outside is no different. You have to make a positive choice. You have to do the thing in front of you, then the next thing after that, and then the next. And that way it’ll slowly start to feel normal. And you’ve got to let yourself feel normal. It’s allowed. Even I’ve learnt that. And if I can learn something that seemed so impossible and beyond me, then you can. You must. That’s your responsibility. And it’s not all about you. So stop being so self-obsessed. Martha needs her brother back, and Dom needs his son.’
Fran leant into the back of the car and grabbed her bag. She fished out her phone. ‘Can you just give me a minute?’ He nodded and watched her compose a text, send it and get a response. She reached to open the car door.
Harry was confused. ‘What’s going on?’
She ignored his question. ‘Come on.’
There was no option but to get out of the car. Fran opened the boot. ‘Your choice, Harry.’
He walked to the rear of the car. There were two small bunches of snowdrops, wrapped in damp tissue, lying in the boot. Harry started shaking his head.
Fran looked at him steadily, calmly, kindly. ‘Martha helped me pick these this morning from our garden.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’
Chapter 86
IT HURT, being this close to the scene of the crash. It still had the power to upend time and push Fran back into the grief, the sense of loss, the awfulness of their daughter’s pointless death. God was still absent from the world, but at least now there was no rage.
It was an accident.
It was a tragedy for them all.
Martha was there with Marcus, waiting for them, as planned. When she spotted her brother she ran, full pelt along the verge, into him. As they hugged, Fran met Marcus’s eye. He nodded in greeting, but her husband knew her well enough not to reach out and take her hand. He would hold her later, in the privacy of their home. They would cry together, probably not for the last time, in the house they were no longer selling. They didn’t want to get away from their memories of Jess any more; they wanted to hold them as close as possible. And they were crying less, and living more. Marcus was right. It was what Jess would’ve wanted. Love always, and happiness, at least some of the time.
Standing behind Marcus – hanging back, as if uncertain of their role – were Tish and Mo. They were holding hands. Fran felt a flare of pleasure. They looked right together. Happy. In love. Fran didn’t begrudge them that. Not any more. Out of tragedy, et cetera, et cetera. Tish was holding a single white gerbera. Fran approved of her choice.
Martha untangled herself from her brother and took a step backwards, leaving Harry rooted to the spot, the flowers gripped in his hands. Fran knew it was down to her to orchestrate what happened next. But Harry was stuck. She smiled, encouraging him. ‘You first.’ Harry gathered himself and set off. Everyone fell into step behind him. As they neared the site, his footsteps grew slower. Had it not been for Martha, he would probably have turned round, but she pushed him forward, encouraging and cajoling in equal measure.
Eventually they made it to the spot.
The proposed memorial to commemorate the crash had never been bought. It had never been engraved in the cursive script that Fran had, after weeks of deliberation, eventually chosen. The plaque had never been erected on the rebuilt wall of the factory. Never been photographed by the local press. Never been shared on social media. And as a result, it had never become a shrine. After Fran had come back to her senses, she realised she didn’t want Jess commemorated for her death. She didn’t want their daughter held up to the community as a memento mori – a grim warning of the risks of growing up and having a life. Yes, Jess was dead, but before her death she had been full of life and love, and that was how Fran and Marcus wanted to remember their daughter. Or at least that was how they were going to try and remember her.
Fran pulled herself back to the task in hand. They were all looking to her for their cues. Chief mourner. The mother without her daughter. The one who had lost the most. And yet that wasn’t true. They had all lost. She knew that now. Felt it. It was this knowledge that had saved Fran. Her grief had been soaringly, destructively egotistical. It had cut her off from everyone, and everything, that mattered. But the only thing that made grief bearable was company. The meeting with Harry had had the desired effect, but not in the way she’d imagined. It had made her recognise that her grief was not unique. The crash had smashed into all their lives, causing damage and pain in ways that she couldn’t deny and couldn’t ignore. The truth was they were all connected by the crash, and by Jess. That legacy of friendship, affection and love had to be honoured, not discarded. She had needed these people to help her feel anything other than bitterness and anger. Just as Harry – and Marcus and Martha – needed her to navigate their loss and their debilitating sadness. Being alone was simply not an option.
Martha, having got her brother as far as she could, stepped away. They all waited. Fran put her hand in the small of Harry’s back. She could feel the tension in him. His body was rigid with memories that were worse than her own, and as deeply felt.
‘She loved you. You loved her.’ Gently she pushed Harry forward. ‘It was an accident.’
Because it was. A dreadful, life-changing accident, which had taken Jess and shattered the rest of them.
Harry hung his head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I know.’
One more nudge and he managed to move. He walked the small distance to the spot slowly, watched by them all, forgiven by them all.
The traffic flowed by and the cold sun shone, and life went on as normal as Harry knelt and finally laid down his guilt.
Chapter 87
PETE WAS decorating. Claire had been dropping hints about the bedroom needing freshening up for a while. Finally, in a direct move Pete had been unable to ignore, she’d left a paint chart, with the circled options, on the kitchen table. It had made him smile. Many things about Claire made him smile. Her laugh; her robust views on…well, most things; the way she walked as if there was a fire somewhere that she needed to put out; her open-hearted kindness; her Yorkshire puddin
gs. The radio was on, the windows open, fresh air mingled with the paint fumes. Pete was happy, pleased with his efforts. She’d been right – the room had needed an overhaul.
He got up and arched his back. Time for a brew. A last bit of cutting-in, then the room would be finished. It would be dry by the morning. Blind up, furniture back in, new bed linen on. All ready for Thursday. They had a long weekend together planned. It was amazing how time that used to drag now zoomed by.
Tea brewed, Pete decided to reward himself for his labours with ten minutes outside. He opened the front door, intending to sit on the wall. The back yard was in shade in the afternoon and, cold as it was, he wanted the sun on his face.
He saw them straight away.
It was such a long time since anyone had visited the spot that Pete was taken aback. He succeeded in not remembering the crash and the aftermath – most of the time. Things had changed so much for the better for him since that night that he’d been able to file it away in a locked drawer inside his head. He hadn’t spoken to Claire about what had happened, he hadn’t wanted to. He knew it was probably stupid, but he didn’t want to take the risk of her associating his little house with anything bad, or him with anything so dark. Deep down, he knew that if he did speak to her about it, she would be sympathetic; that was her nature – she might even be a little bit proud of him. But he didn’t want to nix their developing relationship with something so horrible.
Pete watched the people across the road with a tightness in his throat.
It was a small gathering. Not like the crowds that had congregated on the verge in the weeks after the girl’s death. The sight of them had upset Pete at the time. The clusters of teenagers sprawling on the grass, playing sad songs, hugging each other and drinking, had been a very visible reminder of what had happened – and the consequences of it. The drinking in particular had bothered him. How they could pass round a bottle at the very spot where the consequences of drink-driving had been so spectacularly and terribly demonstrated, was beyond him. He’d been relieved when the vigils had dwindled and eventually stopped; pleased when the council removed the mound of dead floral tributes. He wanted the road to be just the ring road. His house, just a house. Himself, just a bloke who lived in a house near the ring road.
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 29