One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal

by Caroline Bond

  Pete stood in his now-tidy front garden – Claire’s influence again – feeling trapped by the sudden appearance of the mourners. He didn’t touch his tea. It didn’t seem right. He wanted to go back inside, but felt compelled to stay. Because, for all his practised avoidance of dwelling on the accident, he was intimately connected to it and, therefore, indirectly, to these people, whoever they were. Thankfully, due to the distance and the steady stream of cars, they could have no idea that once again he was playing his part as witness.

  For an awful moment it struck Pete that he couldn’t remember the name of the girl who had died. He could see her face: the flawless skin, the trendy dark glasses, the blonde, almost-white hair. A face full of energy and life, and potential. Photos of her had been everywhere after her death. On TV, online, on the placards the kids brought with them to the vigils. But her name. No. He couldn’t retrieve it.

  The night of the crash he hadn’t seen her face, just the back of her head. That night her hair hadn’t been blonde, it had been black.

  Pete suddenly felt cold.

  It came to him. She’d been called Jessica. Jess. This had to be her family. It must be an anniversary of sorts. Or perhaps it would have been her birthday – if she’d survived. Jesus! He couldn’t begin to imagine.

  The younger man went forward to lay his flowers first, his steps slow, his head hung low. When he knelt down, Pete had a strong, very clear flashback of the driver kneeling by the wreckage of the car. His name Pete hadn’t forgotten: Harry Westwood. Pete didn’t want the images in his head, but that was how memory worked, against your will, defying time and intention. He concentrated on the family on the other side of the ring road, the victims of the tragedy. For them, the past would always be part of their present. The lad stayed on his knees for a long time. He only got to his feet when the older woman touched his shoulder, summoning him back to the group. The older man and the young girl laid their flowers next, then a young couple, Jess’s friends presumably. A little way off, a bald man in a sharp suit looked on – an observer, not a participant.

  As the quiet ritual took place and the traffic flowed past, Pete stayed put, paying his respects. After the flowers were laid and the silent prayers said, the group closed in on themselves, exchanging hugs. Pete looked away. This was, after all, private grief despite the very public location. When he looked back, they had broken apart and started to walk away along the verge, all except the mother and the son. They stood close together, their arms around each other.

  Pete had seen and felt enough.

  He turned and headed back inside his house. Just as he was about to pull the door closed, he heard the blare of a car horn. His heart thudded. There was a screech of brakes. He looked up, but the traffic was flowing normally. The mother and son and the observing man were gone. He saw a flash of black-and-white streak through his garden gate.

  Cleo shot past his legs into the house.

  There went another of her nine lives.

  THIRTY-TWO DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

  PERHAPS THERE was a God after all.

  The call they’d hoped for, prayed for, feared would never happen, finally came on the morning of Wednesday 3 April. Angela didn’t recognise the number when it popped up on her phone. Of course she didn’t; they’d never phoned her before. She listened carefully as Heather, their link worker, told her that a donor had been found. Five very small, simple words. It was, apparently, an excellent match. The surgical team was being contacted as they spoke. The transplant was a definite ‘go’.

  After the call ended, Angela gave herself a few minutes to digest the news. It was happening. Becky would be in surgery before the day was out. Her diseased, failing heart was going to be taken out and replaced with a healthy one.

  They had found a donor.

  Two years on the register was a lifetime to wait for something that was such a long shot. It was a percentages game with dwindling odds, but their number had finally come up. Becky’s life would be transformed. She could – no, she would – live. And live well: without pain, without the debilitating constriction of her floundering, insufficient heart. She would be healthy and happy, at last. She would have a normal life.

  They had found a donor.

  It was the best possible news – for them.

  Angela sat on the bottom stair and allowed the shadow of that donor, and their family, to come and sit down next to her.

  Someone had died. Someone young. Someone loved. Someone who had had their whole life ahead of them – until it was snatched away. Somewhere there was a mother, a father, a brother, a sister mourning an unbearable loss. And in the midst of that devastation they’d had the humanity, and bravery, to say ‘Yes’. They had honoured the death of their loved one with the gift of life for a complete stranger.

  The enormity of it flooded through Angela.

  She sat in their narrow, silent hall and rode the waves of emotion, trying hard not to drown in the joy and the sadness.

  When she felt stable enough, she rang Noel.

  They were a team. That’s how they got through stuff. They stuck together, no matter what. They took it in turns being chief cheerleader when Becky had had enough and couldn’t face yet another necessary procedure or drugs regime change, with all the attendant side-effects. They shared the time off work, the sleeplessness, the anger, the endless hope-peddling and the despair-denial. They had stomped and stamped and jumped on the right side of the scales for their daughter, determined to balance out the dragging weight of her chronic heart condition, for so long that it had become a way of life. No more.

  They had found a donor.

  Noel shouted, actually shouted with excitement, when she told him the news. Then he burst into tears. The sound of his colleagues cheering and whooping in the background very nearly tipped Angela over the edge herself, but there was no time for that. They needed to get to the hospital. Between snotty, manly sobs, Noel said he’d get home as soon as he could. They would wake Becky and tell her the news together.

  The last thing Angela said to Noel was to drive carefully.

  He promised that he would.

  Questions for Book Clubs

  ‘Any observations you want to make about the young man?’

  Pete paused and gave the officer’s question about ‘the state’ of the driver real thought.

  They were all young. It was late. The girl was wearing party clothes. They’d probably been drinking. Two girls, two boys. Testosterone swirling. The temptation of an empty road. A Seat Leon – the ‘go-to car’ for boy racers.

  He opened his eyes and shook his head. ‘No.’

  He’d been young himself once, a lifetime ago.

  1. Is Pete, the witness, right? Is the only ‘crime’ in the novel that of being young and foolish?

  2. Which character did you sympathise with most, and why?

  3. Who did you dislike, and why?

  4. Where is happiness/comfort to be found in the book?

  5. What, or who, ‘saves’ Fran from her all-consuming grief?

  6. What does the book have to say about justice? Is it different for different people? Would you ever consider going through the restorative justice process?

  7. What good comes out of the tragedy?

  8. Could you, or would you, make the same decision Fran and Marcus do with regard to organ donation, if it was someone you loved?

  The traffic flowed by and the cold sun shone, and life went on as normal as Harry knelt and finally laid down his guilt.

  9. Should Harry be ‘allowed’ to lay down his guilt?

  10. Did you find the ending hopeful or sad?

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowledgments are odd things to write. I never know who reads them, other than family members and aspiring writers seeking out the names of agents and publishers.

  But here goes…

  If you want a good agent who knows the industry inside out and backwards and will, occasionally – when it is most needed – give you the adv
ice and momentum to keep going, then Judith Murray at Greene and Heaton is an excellent choice.

  If you are seeking a publisher who treats you like a real person and takes care over every book they publish, then Corvus/Atlantic are the guys to approach. One Split Second has been greatly improved by the editorial skills of Sarah Hodgson, Publishing Director, at Corvus. We are on the same wavelength when it comes to telling stories. I hope this book is the start of a long, happy working relationship. The manuscript was professionally ‘cleaned’ by my copy-editor, Mandy Greenfield. She purged it of a sea of redundant ‘that’s’ and pointed out that I had failed, in one instance, to count to six correctly! Lastly and importantly, this book will only find its way into the hands of readers and onto their Kindles through the efforts of Poppy, Clive, Kirsty, Jamie, and the rest of the sales and marketing team at Corvus. Thank you to you all.

  But it’s important to acknowledge that I wouldn’t have been commissioned to write One Split Second if people hadn’t bought my first two books. They did so because of the efforts of book bloggers, online book clubs, book shops and the many readers who were kind enough, and motivated enough, to write a review. Thank you to everyone who bothered!

  I have also been ‘lucky’ in my life to spend time with a range of people involved in the NHS, police, criminal justice and prison systems – both professionals and participants. I hope my time with these individuals is reflected in this story.

  The personal bit is always about family and friends. In my case, my nearest and dearest love me, cheer me on and leave me alone when I’m writing, fretting and thinking. I don’t think you can ask for more than that. It is, after all, my obsession, not theirs.

  Then there is Kath Burrow, who has, once again, supported me in the writing of this book. She will get a name check for as long as she can bear to keep reading rough drafts of my books and having conversations about characters who do not exist – though they feel real to me.

  Finally, I want to end with a plea for us all to discuss the issue of organ donation with the people we love. Organ donation transforms lives, and not just those of the recipients.

  https://www.organdonation.nhs.uk