‘I think I’ll give tonight’s meeting a miss, Jenny. I’m really not feeling it. I’m sorry.’
‘I knew you’d say that,’ Jenny says. ‘Anniversaries and birthdays are the hardest. And you’ve the two combined. Jesus, that’s tough. But it’s also the very reason you need to go tonight. You don’t want to stay cooped up in this tiny flat all alone. All those thoughts floating around your head. It’s not good for you.’
‘Actually, that’s exactly what I want. I just want to be alone. I need time to think about stuff.’
‘Well, I don’t want to be alone. Please come with me. Please?’ Jenny makes puppy dog eyes at me and she’s trying very hard to come over as adorable, but one of her eyes is twitching. I’m not sure she notices. ‘Besides, I’ve told everyone it’s your birthday,’ she adds. ‘They’ll be disappointed if you’re not there.’
‘Jesus, Jenny,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want any fuss.’
‘It’s not fuss, Susan. Just a few cards and some gifts. It’ll be nice, I promise.’ She’s bouncing on the spot, delighted with herself. ‘And I thought maybe you could finish telling me about Adam.’
‘At the meeting?’ My cheeks flush.
‘Well, yeah, that’s kind of the point of bereavement counselling. You know, to talk about your bereavement.’
‘Okay.’ I fold my arms, defiant. ‘I’ll talk about Adam, but only if Deacon agrees to talk about whoever he lost.’
‘Susan, c’mon,’ Jenny pleads. ‘You can’t force someone to talk if they don’t want to.’
‘Oh, like you’re forcing me, you mean.’
Jenny blushes. ‘Ha! Yeah. I guess you’re right. Well, I’ll tell you what, if you can get Deacon to open up tonight I’ll clean your whole flat from top to bottom. This place is absolutely filthy.’
I glance around at my messy flat. I’ve always been untidy, but without Adam here to keep my grubby habits in check the place really is bordering on disgusting.
‘Okay, deal,’ I nod.
‘Before we go,’ Jenny says, still looking around at the mess of the place, ‘what was the question you wanted to ask me?’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say. ‘I’m going to ask Deacon instead.’
Chapter Twelve
THEN
Criminally Negligent Manslaughter. The words weigh heavy in my mouth as I repeat them aloud on the steps of the courthouse eleven days before Christmas. Jenny places her arms around me and I cry. The judge used complicated language that hurt my brain to try to understand. But I understood when he said Adam’s death was a terrible tragedy, one that had impacted his family profoundly. Fourteen months after my brother’s death, someone had finally said the words out loud that have plagued my conscious and subconscious every day. Adam shouldn’t be dead. The judge said he was simply a young man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He said Adam was on the cusp of adulthood, doing what young people do – buying alcohol. He said Adam’s only mistake was assuming that the driver would stop at the pedestrian crossing. Driving conditions were horrendous because of the storm, and the driver didn’t see him in time to brake. Apparently, he had pulled over immediately and assisted Adam, flagging down passers-by to call for help. The driver hadn’t been that much over the legal limit, his barrister tried to argue. The stiff-upper-lipped barrister tried to imply that the crash was Adam’s fault for going out walking in such bad weather.
‘The conditions were treacherous,’ he said, ‘braking distance was almost non-existent.’ He shook his head, as if drink-driving during a storm somehow made more sense than walking sober. As if the weather somehow made the driver’s actions justifiable and forgivable.
Outside the courthouse, reporters line the steps like vultures waiting for the convicted drunk driver to be brought out. They will snap his picture and print it all over the papers tomorrow, as if he’s a celebrity who’s earned his notoriety.
‘Four years,’ I say, leaning against the low wall at the side of the courthouse as I struggle to breathe. My mouth is open and my chest is heaving but I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. ‘That’s all he got. Four bloody years. And God only knows how early he will be out with good behaviour. He could be a free man in just a few months.’
‘It’s shocking,’ Jenny says. ‘In four years that bastard will be out living his life again. But Adam got a life sentence. He’s never coming back. I’m so sorry, Susan. Christ, what kind of justice system do we have in this country? It’s a joke. A bloody joke, that’s what it is.’
‘It’s so unfair.’ I’m shaking all over.
A young journalist notices us huddled in the corner. I recognise her as she breaks away from the other reporters and photographers and crosses the steps to approach us. She’s a girl from Adam’s journalism class. I can’t remember her name right now, but I definitely know her. She’s been to parties in my flat. She was Adam’s friend.
Jenny steps in front of me like a protective mamma bear as the girl gets close. Jenny isn’t much taller or broader than me. I can’t hide in her shadow, even though I want to. Nonetheless, I step to the side valiantly and lock eyes with the girl, whose name is on the tip of my tongue.
‘Susan. Susan Arnold,’ she says, shoving a small silver voice recorder towards me. ‘Do you have any comment for us? How are you feeling? You must be disappointed by the lenient sentencing?’
I shake my head. I thought she was going to say something kind. Something about Adam, about what a good friend he was, or how he was a much-loved classmate. I wasn’t expecting a barrage of cold, professional questions.
‘Are you disappointed?’ I ask, straight-faced. ‘Adam was your friend, wasn’t he?’
Her eyes glass over and there is a fleeting moment when I think her professional façade will crack and she’ll wrap her arms around me, tell me how much she misses Adam and suggest we grab a coffee soon or something. But she turns her head towards the group of huddled reporters. None of them even glance our way. They don’t know I’m Adam’s sister. That advantage is reserved solely for . . . Rebecca, yes, that’s her name. I remember now. Becky Clarke. What a huge advantage it must be over her senior colleagues to personally know the sister of the victim. She must be so confident she’ll scoop the story. She’ll stop at nothing for an exclusive. I know; Adam was the same.
Becky turns her head back. Her eyes meet mine and she half smiles. ‘Surely you must have some comment, Susan? Take this chance to have your say. Tell the world how you’re feeling.’
Becky’s professionalism is impressive. She certainly looks the part of a well-groomed reporter, complete with tailored outfit and designer glasses. She works hard on her image, no doubt. This is a very different Becky to the girl throwing up tequila shots in my bathroom last year. She did well to land a job straight out of college. I have no doubt that story she wrote exposing the university president’s sordid affairs with senior students earned her a cushy internship with a national paper. But Adam’s name should have been on that story. He’d been rambling on about our president’s inappropriate behaviour – piecing together clues, seeking out sources and snapping candid photos. I’ve no doubt Adam was the one who tipped Becky off about the story, and after he died she ran with it, doing the whole sordid affair spectacular justice. But she never gave Adam any credit. She doesn’t give a shit about Adam, she’s just after another great story. Well, her greed stops here.
I was going to comment. I was going to tell Becky how much I miss Adam and how miserable I am without him. But if a so-called friend cares more about a juicy story than about missing Adam, I quickly realise that the world doesn’t care either. Sure, my words might make the front page. The story might pull at the heartstrings of some empathetic strangers over their morning coffee. People will devour his story on their commute to work and then toss the paper in a bin or leave it behind on the train. For the general public, Adam’s name is synonymous with tragedy. They will forget my brother’s name almost as soon as they’ve read it. But for me, and my mother, Ada
m’s name is all we have left.
‘Have you anything you want to say to the man who took Adam’s life?’ Becky asks, placing her hand on my shoulder. ‘Surely there must be something you want to say to him. For Adam, Susan. Say the words now that Adam can’t.’
I want him dead. I want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze every last breath out of him. I want to watch him kick and buck and struggle for air that I won’t allow him. I want to watch him die. And most of all, I want him to go to hell for what he’s done. I shake my head as salty tears trickle down my cheeks. ‘Words won’t bring my brother back,’ I say.
‘You heard her. She said she has no comment, okay?’ Jenny growls. ‘Jesus. Let it go. Have you no heart? Can’t you see how upset she is? C’mon, Susan. Let’s go.’ Jenny drapes her arm around my shoulder. ‘Let’s get you home.’
‘Okay,’ Becky nods, slipping her hand into her trouser pocket to pull out a business card, ‘but if you change your mind and you’d like to talk, my email and mobile number are on this. Please do get in touch anytime.’
Becky forces the crisp card into my hand.
‘I really hope you’ll be okay, Susan,’ she says. ‘Adam was a great guy. And a good friend. He is missed very much.’
I watch as she walks away and rejoins her colleagues. I crumple the card in my hand and my eyes search for a bin. But I’m distracted by an angry mob gathering at the foot of the steps. There aren’t more than twenty people but they chant so loudly it seems like there are hundreds of voices.
‘Murderer. Scumbag. Bastard,’ they shout.
Some of them are waving their hands in the air and others are stomping their feet. They’ve attracted the attention of the camera crew among the newspaper reporters. The mob’s voices grow even louder and their faces seem angrier once the camera is on them.
‘What are they doing?’ I ask, moving to the side to make sure I’m out of camera shot.
‘Showing their support,’ Jenny says, stepping the other way to make sure she is in camera shot. ‘Look.’ She points to one particularly boisterous shouter. ‘Someone has made a Down With Drink Driving poster. That’s awesome.’
My heart aches.
The camera pulls away from the crowd as quickly as it appeared, much to their disappointment. There’s a sudden silence before boos and roars resume, even louder than before.
‘What’s happening?’ I say, overwhelmed.
‘They must be bringing him out now,’ Jenny says, reaching for my hand to squeeze it gently.
My tummy somersaults.
The journalists race around the corner with their microphones poised and ready. Their enthusiasm makes me sick.
‘Do you want to watch them take him away?’ Jenny asks. ‘It might help to see him go. To finally see him get what he deserves.’
This isn’t what he deserves. ‘It won’t help.’ I press my hands against my ears, trying to block out the shouting from the protesters.
‘I don’t want him to see me,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to look into his eyes. I can’t.’ I begin to cry.
I sat at the back of the courtroom today. My mother was up front, with her legal team. Every so often she would glance over her shoulder and check I was still there. I would nod and smile, but I couldn’t bring myself to get any closer. Not when I noticed her shoulders shake and I knew she was crying. Not when the judge read out the sentence and I watched her break down completely. And especially not when she let the man who took Adam away from us see her heartbroken and weak. She let that monster see how devastated she is; she let him have that power over her. I can’t do that – not ever. I can’t let him look into my eyes and try to offer me an apology that I don’t want to hear. I can’t give him anything more than he has already taken from me.
More commotion ensues on the steps. I spin round and see my mother has appeared at the main doors. Her legal team surrounds her like the Knights of the Round Table. Their expensive suits are modern-day armour. They are valiant and brave, or cocky and arrogant, depending on which side of their argument you stand on.
The reporters who held their ground on the steps are rewarded as my mother speaks at length about what a wonderful person Adam was. I find myself nodding as I listen. Her eyes are on a piece of paper she’s holding, but her hands are trembling badly. She can’t possibly be reading from such an unsteady page, and I wonder how often she has mulled over these words, certainly often enough to know them by heart. She speaks for about three minutes, faltering only to choke back tears. I wish she’d spoken longer, said more wonderful things about Adam, but it’s long enough to give the tabloids plenty to print tomorrow. Finally, as my mother wipes her eyes and looks up, she notices me and we share a smile. I know she’ll probably be flying back to Provence tomorrow, but I hope she comes by the flat later for a chat. I miss my mother as much as I miss Adam.
When that drunk bastard smashed his car into my brother he didn’t just steal Adam, he stole my mother too. He took my entire family away from me in one foul blow. I wish he was dead.
Chapter Thirteen
NOW
Helen and I sit at the edge of the lake, our toes daringly close to the water lapping the shore. It’s getting dark. The sun has disappeared behind thick clouds, which is a pity as I long to watch it set over the horizon. I pull myself to my feet and take a couple of steps backwards. The sway of the water is making me dizzy and I realise I’ve forgotten to eat again today.
‘We should get back,’ I say.
‘What? Why?’ Helen says. ‘We only just got here.’
‘It’s getting dark.’
‘So?’ Helen dismisses. ‘I love the dark.’
‘I don’t,’ I say.
Helen unscrews the cap on the wine bottle tucked between her legs. She takes a swig. Then another. And another. She finally drags the bottle away from her lips and reaches her arm out towards me. ‘Want some?’
‘No.’
Helen shrugs, unfazed. ‘More for me, so.’
I watch her guzzle like a rebellious teenager, except she’s my forty-something neighbour with a smart blonde bob, sensible walking shoes and a figure you can tell was once enviable but that she’s noticeably let go over the years. Despite all my time attending a bereavement group, Helen is the saddest person I’ve ever met. I’m wondering if I should give her a hug, when I’m distracted by something rustling in the trees behind us.
‘What’s that?’ I jump.
Helen shakes her head. ‘Oh Susan,’ she sniggers, ‘it’s just a bird. Or a mouse maybe. Don’t worry.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I twitch, unnerved. ‘I’m still not used to the sounds of the countryside. Especially when it’s getting dark.’
I walk back to the water’s edge, distancing myself from the disturbing rustling behind me. I crouch on my hunkers and dip my fingers into the water. The icy bite against my skin startles me and I want to pull my hand out instantly, but for some reason I don’t.
‘It’s cold,’ Helen says, as if I can’t feel for myself.
‘I thought it would be warmer,’ I say, feeling stupid. ‘It’s summer.’
‘It leads out to the Atlantic, Susan,’ Helen says. ‘No amount of miserable Irish sunshine can heat it up.’
I stare at the water in front of me. It’s blue-grey close to the shore but it darkens into a depressing navy-black as you cast your eyes further out, and I can tell it gets deep quickly. Locals call this spot the beach. But that’s ridiculously optimistic and totally overselling it. It’s nothing more than a picturesque horseshoe where the sea has eaten away at the rocks over the years to form tiny pebbles that long to be sand but fail miserably.
‘You know they say once you get to a certain point of cold your muscles just seize up and you can’t feel anything. You just go numb, so it doesn’t hurt,’ Helen says.
‘What doesn’t hurt?’ I turn my head to glare into her glassy eyes. I doubt she notices my frustration.
‘They say it’s just like falling asleep,’ He
len continues. ‘Amelia wouldn’t have felt any pain, Susan. It would have been just like going for a nap. I can see the way you look into the water and I can understand that your heart is breaking, but take some comfort in knowing that she would have slipped away peacefully at the end.’
My anger bubbles to spilling point and I’m about to scream in Helen’s stupid face when the rustling behind the tree grows louder and more unwavering. I snatch the wine bottle from her hand. I turn it upside down and spill the remaining wine all over the ground.
‘Where are you doing?’ she says, swaying on her drunken feet.
‘I need this.’ I raise the bottle above my head. ‘Someone’s hiding behind that tree. They’re watching us.’
A sudden snap hangs in the air from a stick breaking underfoot and I hear a deep, low voice like a hum. A male voice.
‘Be careful,’ Helen says. ‘Be careful.’
I edge towards the tree slowly. My grip on the bottle tightens.
‘Who’s there?’ Helen shouts from behind me. ‘We’re not afraid of you.’ The tremor in her voice says otherwise.
There’s more rustling and a high-pitched squeal that lasts less than a second.
‘Jesus, Susan. Who is it?’ Helen says, grabbing on to me and making it hard to move. ‘I’m scared.’
I shake her off.
Something black moves behind the tree. I’m ready to bring the bottle down. Helen grabs me once more and I can feel her hot, drunken breath on the back of my neck. She’s not as easy to wriggle free from this time.
Dusk is falling quickly and it’s hard to make out the exact shape behind the tree. The large black figure bends forward, scoops something small and wriggling into its arms and runs away. The crunch of stones and leaves underfoot is unmistakable. It’s definitely something on two feet, a person and not an animal.
‘Oh my God,’ Helen says, finally letting go of me to flap her arms about unhelpfully. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe it. I just can’t. Did you see that?’
Under Lying Page 11