‘At least Tristan wasn’t using his phone while driving – not that he ever does, um, did – it’s here on the kitchen bench,’ Hannah said, feeling the need to defend her husband.
‘At this stage it appears a truck may have failed to stop at a red light. We won’t know exactly until a full investigation has been carried out.’
God, Hannah thought, if only I’d let Tristan buy a four-by-four last year and not said that only wankers drive them and they never go off-road.
‘Um, do you need us to come and identify them or, um, anything?’ Sam asked.
Thank god for Sam, Hannah thought.
‘Not right now. Autopsies will have to be performed. That will take a couple of days. And …’
‘How, um, badly, um. Will they, um, be, um, recognisable?’ Sam asked.
‘We’re not sure at this stage, but it is a very grim scene.’
‘Do I have to go and see them?’ Hannah asked in a whisper. ‘I don’t think I want to.’ She remembered Tristan telling her how he’d seen his brother in an open coffin at his funeral and never been able to get that last image out of his mind. One of the rare occasions he’d opened up about his brother. Hannah didn’t think she could bear to remember Tris and her parents like that.
‘They’ll need to be identified, but there are several ways we can do it. And while we’d prefer a close relative, someone who knows them well can do a visual identification – depending if this is possible, of course.’
‘Can’t you just check Tristan’s driver’s licence – he would have had it with him, wouldn’t he?’ Sam said.
‘There are a number of ways to confirm identification. But we have to be absolutely sure.’
‘Of course,’ Sam said.
‘Mum and Dad’s fingerprints will be on record because of their volunteer police checks. Would that help?’ Hannah said.
‘Thank you. It might.’
‘I could do it,’ Rob said quietly. ‘If it would help. I’ve known Tristan and Mr and Mrs White for quite a few years. I’ll give you my card,’ he added, fumbling before extracting his wallet from his back pocket. He dragged a business card out. As he handed it over, it dropped from between his forefinger and thumb.
‘God. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll get it,’ the younger of the officers said kindly, and reached down. Rob stood back, running his hands through his hair, over and over, and biting his lip.
‘Thank you, Mr Barrow. We’ll let you know. Is there anyone you’d like us to call for you, Mrs Ainsley?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Hannah said, feeling anything but fine. The truth was, she had no idea what to do. Her brain felt like it had dropped into neutral. Her words were just coming out on their own.
‘I’ll get us some tea,’ Sam said, though made no show of getting up.
‘No, I’ll get it,’ Rob said. He was still standing nearby.
‘Can you please just check on the vegetables in the oven, make sure they’re not overcooked. Pull them out if they look done,’ Hannah said. She stared at her watch while trying to remember what time she had marked down to take them out. ‘Actually, I’d better check on the meat too,’ she said, starting to get up.
‘Hann, you don’t need to worry about lunch,’ Sam said gently.
‘Well I can’t let it all burn,’ Hannah said. ‘And a stack of people will start arriving in half an hour,’ she added, frowning at her watch again. Her brain really wasn’t working correctly. Though if she could just get up she could cook – she might muddle up the timing, but the actual cooking of Christmas lunch she could do, practically with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. She pictured her to-do list – consulting it was a mere formality; it never changed from year to year.
‘Do you have everyone’s numbers, I’ll start phoning them.’
‘Oh. Well. But I …’
‘Hannah, sweetie, you can’t go on with Christmas lunch,’ Sam said, gripping Hannah’s hand tightly and staring imploringly into her friend’s eyes.
‘People will understand,’ Rob said from the doorway to the kitchen, the kettle hissing to life loudly behind him.
‘But …’
‘Hannah, Tris and your parents would understand,’ Sam said, squeezing her hand.
Hannah looked back at her friend, feeling stricken. Finally she nodded. She wasn’t sure she could even stand up. She was kidding herself if she thought Christmas could go on. Hell, she wasn’t sure she could go on. If only she’d gone with Tristan to collect her parents … She felt a couple of fresh tears squeeze out of her eyes, drop and roll down her face, and wiped them away with the ball of soggy tissues.
Rob brought in five mugs of tea on the chopping board and put it on the coffee table, and began handing them out. His hands seemed a little steadier, though the tide was out – as her father would say. Oh god.
Looking around for a distraction, the presents on the floor caught Hannah’s attention. Christmas would never be the same again. Ever. She suddenly felt childlike, and as if she was actually shrinking back inside herself and becoming an infant again. If only. If only she could not have all these adult responsibilities to deal with, face up to.
Her whole being started to ache as the reality returned: Tristan and Mum and Dad are dead. They won’t be coming back. She looked up at the twinkling, cheery tree. Oh. My. God. Her throat caught, her chin wobbled, and then big fat tears began to fall. She brushed them away, over and over, but they continued to fall. First one after the other, then in a torrent down her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffling.
‘Don’t be. It’s a terrible time,’ the policeman closest to her said, handing her the tissue box again.
‘Thank you,’ Hannah croaked. She’d dabbed the tears away and was calm again when a mug of milky tea appeared in front of her.
‘Have some tea,’ Rob said.
‘Thanks.’ She hoped tea really did make everything feel better like the movies and television shows would have you believe. Though nothing was going to bring her family back, was it?
She wished the tears would stop. The wads of tissues she held were doing nothing to stem the flow and her face was beginning to burn from all the salt. They were silently sipping their tea when the doorbell sounded again.
‘I’ll get it,’ Rob said.
Hannah strained to hear the hushed voices. Poor Rob was clearly having trouble getting rid of whoever it was. Moments later Elizabeth Potts, a dear old family friend Hannah had always called Auntie Beth, was in the room and rushing to Hannah’s side.
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I saw the police car. I hope I’m not intruding …’ she said. Sam vacated her seat for the old lady to sit down.
‘Never. Oh, Auntie Beth, I’m so glad you’re here,’ Hannah said, clutching the old lady as her chin wobbled again and a new flood of tears started. I really need to go and put some face cream on to stop the burning. Oh, what does it matter, three – maybe more people are dead? Hannah realised she hadn’t thought to ask if the truck driver had survived. She couldn’t bring herself to ask now. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, she just didn’t have the energy to ask.
‘What can I do?’ Auntie Beth asked, looking around the small group.
‘We were about to start calling people to tell them not to come for lunch,’ Sam said.
‘We’ll leave you to your family and friends,’ the younger policeman said, getting up and putting his almost full mug back on the chopping board that Rob had used as a tray. The second policeman followed suit.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hannah said, ‘do I need to do anything for you?’
‘We’ll need a statement from you at some point – sooner would be better, but when you’re up to it.’
‘A statement about what? Obviously I didn’t see anything – I was here.’
‘It will be useful for us if you can provide details such as what your husband was wearing, when he left home, et cetera – as you might have been the last to
see him.’
‘Darling, why don’t you do that now while we deal with the food and letting the guests know?’ Beth said, patting Hannah’s hand. ‘Then it will be out of the way and one less horrible thing to deal with down the track. I’m sure it will be helpful to these nice fellows.’
Hannah nodded. As dreadful as all this was, she felt a glimmer of relief at having her kind but no-nonsense Auntie Beth helping to take charge. Not to dismiss Sam and Rob, of course.
‘Only if you feel up to it,’ both policemen said at once.
‘I’ll try. I’m really sorry, but I’ve forgotten your names,’ Hannah said, frowning and blinking. Did they even tell me?
‘That’s quite all right.’
‘Completely understandable, Mrs Ainsley. I’m Sergeant Patrick O’Brien,’ the younger policeman said, ‘and this is Sergeant Barry Dwyer.’
‘Please, call me Hannah.’
‘Darling, Sam and Rob and I will go and sort things out in the kitchen,’ Auntie Beth said, releasing Hannah’s hands and getting up. ‘Will you be okay for a bit?’
‘I’m fine.’ Why are two policemen in my house again?
Hannah looked blankly at the uniformed men sitting on the couch opposite her, suddenly wondering why they were still there. Didn’t they have criminals to catch, crimes to be off fighting instead of sitting here with her drinking cups of tea? Oh, but that’s right, she was a victim. They were providing victim liaison services, or whatever they were called.
Oh, that’s right, they’re waiting for me to make a statement. They’re very patient.
Chapter Three
Hannah wasn’t exactly sure what the sergeants wanted to know, so she started at when she and Tristan had woken up. She told them everything she could think of in minute detail, right through to when they knocked on her door.
She was exhausted, completely spent, when she finally said quietly, ‘And then you arrived with the terrible news.’
‘Thank you for being so brave. And so thorough,’ Sergeant O’Brien said.
‘Yes, we appreciate it. It’ll be a real help,’ Sergeant Dwyer added.
Now she’d stopped speaking and concentrating so hard on what she said, the voices from the kitchen became clear.
‘But, Mum, I’m hungry,’ she heard one of the twins say.
‘Me too,’ the other said.
‘Soon, darling,’ she heard Sam reply.
‘We’ll leave you to your friends now. Here are our contact details if you need anything,’ Sergeant Dwyer said, placing a business card on the coffee table before standing up. Sergeant O’Brien got up too and Hannah tried to follow suit. But her legs refused to obey.
‘Please don’t get up. We can see ourselves out,’ Sergeant O’Brien said.
‘Thank you. You’ve been really kind. I’m so sorry you had to knock on my door and deliver such news. Especially on Christmas Day. It must be terrible for you to have to do that …’
Hannah realised she was babbling and stopped abruptly. She felt weird, like she was losing her grip on a life preserver that was slowly being eased away from her as the two men were making their way from her lounge room. While she’d been a mess of tears and sadness, she’d felt a certain comfort in having them there; their uniforms, their calm manner. She didn’t like the feeling that their leaving was casting her adrift to deal with it all alone. Having Sam and Rob and Auntie Beth there was different somehow. Hannah almost cried after them, ‘No, don’t go. Please,’ but the tightness in her chest and the lump in her throat stopped her.
She sat staring into space, not seeing. She knew she should get up and check on what was happening in the kitchen, but she couldn’t make herself care or move.
The pain in her chest and throat seeped away and left behind a numb emptiness. She felt as if her heart and soul hadn’t just been shattered, but that they had been taken from her completely, along with her whole family.
She noticed some movement and looked over to find Beth hovering nearby, wringing her hands and nibbling her bottom lip as if undecided about something. She frowned. What now?
Beth sat beside her on the couch and gently clasped Hannah’s hands.
‘What’s wrong?’ Well, apart from the obvious.
‘Lunch is ready and …’
‘Thanks, but I can’t …’ There’s no way I can eat, I can barely breathe.
‘I know. It’s just …’
‘What?’
‘The boys, the dear little things, they … Oh, sweetheart …’ Beth started to cry. Hannah wanted to do something, but couldn’t do anything but stare like an unfeeling, expressionless pillar of stone. Beth swallowed hard and visibly tried to pull herself together.
Suddenly Hannah felt something – a sharp pain somewhere deep within her. The boys, her darling, innocent little de-facto nephews needed her. They must be so worried, confused, bewildered.
She wasn’t sure where the strength came from, but she struggled to her feet. And then on legs she wasn’t sure were even connected to her and with Beth’s help she managed to make her way slowly to the dining room.
The mingling scents of Christmas lunch greeted her and she felt the bile rise in her throat. Putting both her hands over her mouth, she tried to swallow the burning acid, but it kept coming.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped, and stumbled from the room. Halfway down the hall to the bathroom she erupted, macerated nuts and champagne spewing down her front and onto the carpet. Her legs collapsed and she sank down to her knees. She couldn’t make herself care that she was in the mess. She moaned and began to sob. And then she heard an unrecognisable, unearthly wail bounce off the walls. Had that come from her?
Arms came around her from behind and held her close. She gagged again and her stomach heaved over and over. There was nothing left.
‘It’s okay. It’s okay. Let it out.’ It was Sam.
She clutched at Sam’s arms across her chest and pulled her friend closer and began sobbing so hard she thought she might actually cough up her lungs. She thought her bowels might have let go too, but she couldn’t make herself care about that either.
After what seemed like hours huddled on the floor with Sam, Hannah felt herself slowly coming back to the present.
‘Oh god,’ she said, looking around her.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sam rubbed her back.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed one of the twins curled around the doorframe to the dining room, watching on – a terrified look on his face.
‘The boys,’ she croaked, nodding her head in the direction of the little boy.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sam said. But in the next breath she called out, ‘Olly, darling, go back to Daddy. Rob!’
As Hannah stared at the little boy, a whole new worry washed over her: This could traumatise them for life. It took all of her strength, but she forced herself onto her knees and then onto her feet. She made her way to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, unsure of what to do next and unsure if she could do anything beyond just standing there. And then she remembered the little boy’s face blinking at her in the hall. She dragged at her dress covered in vomit, struggled, gave up and let her hands drop.
‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,’ Sam said, pushing the door closed behind them, her tone suddenly all commanding and full of purpose. Hannah stood and lifted her arms for her dress to be removed, and then her bra. Hannah knew she should be embarrassed but she couldn’t feel or do anything. She continued to stand while Sam washed her chest all over with a damp flannel and then dried her off with a towel.
‘Back in a sec,’ Sam said, and disappeared. Moments later she returned with a bra, t-shirt and track pants. Hannah watched and stood and behaved every bit the obedient child as Sam redressed her.
‘Thanks.’
‘Your hair’s probably a bit rank, so we’d better tie it back.’ The words and tone caused Hannah to smile. It was the one normal thing – Sam being Sam – in this whole sorry mess that had become Christ
mas. When her thick, dark hair was tied back with the band that Sam had found on the vanity top, Hannah rinsed her mouth out and having done so thought she might even feel ever so slightly better – more stable.
‘Come on, I’ve held up lunch long enough,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ Sam told her friend.
‘I know. But I’m going to try.’
‘Okay. Good girl,’ Sam said, patting her shoulder.
Hannah steeled herself before entering the dining room where Rob and Beth and the twins were seated at one end of the long table. Plates of food were laid out in front of them. Thankfully she was done with throwing up. Now she just felt empty and a strange mix of pain and numbness. She sat and looked away from the plate of food in front of her. She was relieved to see that instead of the customary bottles of wine there was a large pitcher of water with slices of lemon and mint leaves floating in it and each place had a glass of water in front of it. She probably really would throw up if she added more alcohol to the mix. Her stomach was already beginning to turn again. But there was nothing there so she would just swallow it down and keep breathing. She must, if not for her, then for the two little boys sitting there as good as can be. She owed it to them to make an effort to salvage a little of the Christmas spirit and not have the twins completely scarred for life.
The adults at the table exchanged sympathetic tight smiles that were more grimaces. The Whites weren’t religious so didn’t say grace, but every year they did raise their glasses to make a toast. Tristan had done it since they’d moved into what had been Hannah’s parents’ house. Now she supposed that fell to her, like everything else would from now on. She felt suddenly weighed down with the burden of that thought. She stared down at her plate with revulsion. She couldn’t do it. A few tense moments passed.
Hearing Rob clear his throat gently, she looked up. He raised his glass.
‘Um. To Tris, Daph and Dan,’ he said quietly and awkwardly. ‘We’re here for you, Hann, anything you need – you only have to ask,’ he added with a snuffle.
Hannah’s chin wobbled as she looked at his red, tear-filled eyes and streaked face. Her heart went out to him. Bless him for having the strength to say it – someone had needed to say something. For the first time she realised the magnitude of the loss for everyone sitting at this table – not only her. They were a close-knit group – had spent many years together navigating various ups and downs. Though, of course, nothing like this. Still, Hannah felt the slightest glimmer of comfort that she wasn’t completely alone.
Finding Hannah Page 3