by John Nicholl
Dad retrieved his keys from a hook in the hall, and headed to the car with me following close behind. He reversed out of the drive, and headed for town with me acting as lookout in the front passenger seat. I can’t tell you why, but I had an undeniable sense of foreboding. The sun was shining, but there was a dark shadow hanging over my beautiful hometown. I knew something was horribly wrong.
As we entered the esplanade, oblivious to the uninterrupted scenic view of the ocean, a single dark cloud moved slowly across the sky and masked the sun, as if God were mourning humanity’s many failings and frailties. I unfastened my seatbelt, leant forwards in my seat with my nose almost touching the windscreen, and froze, statue-like, as I stared at the scene. The wide one-way street, lined by tall houses and pastel hotels, was blocked by a stationary ambulance and two police cars with blue lights flashing. Three uniformed constables and a young paramedic were standing watching a second older paramedic who was attempting to resuscitate a young man lying on the cold tarmac. I couldn’t see the boy’s face, but I knew. Life had changed in an instant. In a shake of a lamb’s tail.
If recounting these events is intended to be therapeutic, it’s certainly not working. I could quite easily tear up my notepad and hurl my pen at the wall at this stage. Maybe I’m at the shaking-the-bottle stage Mrs Martin mentioned. Maybe I’m agitating the liquid within with my emotive reminiscences. Maybe the bubbles are rising. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to the whoosh when the cork finally fires out. But, on a positive note, I should get to the settling-down stage soon after that. No pain, no gain. Or at least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. It would probably be easier to do what most of us girls do here, and escape reality via one illicit drug or another. But I’ve made a commitment. I plan to soldier on and see how things progress before resorting to a self-inflicted chemical lobotomy.
Dad parked half on the pavement, and the two of us jumped from the car and slammed the doors shut with a look of trepidation on our faces. I took a step or two in the direction of the incident, and watched along with a small crowd of gathering spectators as the older of the two paramedics’ steady rhythmic hand movements slowed, and then stopped altogether. Even at a distance, I knew it was my Steven, despite the neck brace, despite the oxygen mask covering his face. And then I noticed his hair, as if it were magnified, big, bright and sharply in focus. His beautiful black curly hair was matted with dark red blood. And his doe-brown eyes appeared to be staring into space but seeing nothing at all. A terrible split-second that will be forever etched on my mind. My legs buckled and I stumbled forwards to throw up in the gutter. Please don’t die, Steven. Please don’t die.
Dad placed an arm around my shoulder, helped me upright, and handed me a paper tissue as we walked forwards together, staring, unblinking, as the two paramedics lifted him from the road and carried him towards the ambulance. Please don’t leave me, Steven. Please don’t go.
I pulled free of Dad’s grip and ran forwards, as a dowdy female sergeant, who must have been in her fifties, appeared from behind the ambulance and turned towards me. She strode in my direction with both arms held wide and shouted, ‘Slow down little lady. Let them do their job.’
For some reason I still don’t comprehend, my frantic emotional appeals to accompany Steven on his journey to hospital, were repeatedly refused. In the end, Dad took my arm and pulled me away as I became increasingly irate and the sergeant approached us for a second time.
‘Do you know the young man, love?’
I opened my mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again, unable to find the words.
Dad, to his credit, took control, and said that we knew the patient, as I cried, attempted to deny reality, and clutched at non-existent straws. ‘He is going to be all right, isn’t he?’
‘Are you a relative, love?’
‘I’m his girlfriend, we live together. We’re going to be married.’
The officer focussed on the road for a moment before slowly raising her head. ‘Come on, love, let’s take a seat in the back of the police car. We can have a chat there. Your dad can come too if you like.’
I grabbed Dad’s hand and dragged him towards the car, parked on the other side of the road, as the ambulance began its journey towards Withybush hospital, in nearby Haverfordwest. I recall reassuring myself that they were doing things quickly. The siren was blaring. The blue lights were flashing. Those had to be good things, didn’t they? Maybe I was in denial. Unconvincing, but determined denial.
The officer waited for us to get in the back and sat in the driver’s seat. She turned to face us before speaking again. I remember her smiling thinly and briefly before the expression left her face. ‘What’s your name, love?’
‘Cynthia, Cynthia Jones, but what about Steven?’
She made a note in her pocket book with a yellow biro, and said, ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, love. The young man stopped breathing about twenty minutes ago. The paramedics managed to resuscitate him, he began breathing again, but he didn’t regain consciousness.’
Dad tightened his grip on my hand.
‘But, but they’re taking him to hospital, the doctors will…’
Dad turned to face me and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. ‘Look, Cynth, let’s just follow the ambulance and talk to the doctors when we get to the hospital. He’s going to the right place.’
I didn’t say anything in response, but nodded twice. What else was there to say? What else was there to do?
Dad provided the officer with our full names and contact details on being prompted, and asked if we could make a move. As we were leaving the vehicle, he swallowed hard and asked, ‘Do you know what happened to the boy, Sergeant?’
‘Steven, his name’s Steven!’ Why on earth did Dad’s failure to use his name upset me so very much?
‘I know, love. I know.’
‘Not as yet, Mr Jones. The boy had some serious head injuries; it’s likely he was hit by a car, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions. They’ll tell you more at Withybush. Can you give me the name and address of the boy’s parents? A telephone number would be useful.’
‘I’ve no idea, but Cynth…’
I can recall realising that I had absolutely no idea where Steven’s parents lived, or how to contact them. I remember the realisation hitting me in the gut like a physical blow. How could I have been so ignorant of his history? I felt I’d let him down. I tell myself that I was young, that I was living in the moment, but it seems a feeble excuse for my shortcomings. He knew so much about me, and I knew so little of him. What does that say about me? I don’t like myself very much when I think about it now. Maybe it’s best if I move on and tell you what happened next.
Dad drove a lot faster than was sensible on my insistence, and we caught up with the ambulance about five miles from Tenby. We arrived at the hospital in a little under half an hour, and watched from the car as Steven was transferred into the busy casualty department. I had never felt so helpless.
Dad found a parking space a minute or two later, and we rushed into reception just in time to witness Steven being taken away on a trolley bed by a young porter and two staff nurses in blue uniforms. At least he was getting immediate attention. That’s what I told myself. Please don’t die, Steven. Please don’t die.
Dad spoke to the officious middle-aged woman sitting behind the reception desk, but she couldn’t tell him very much at all. It annoyed the hell out of me at the time, but looking back, she had little information and even less authority. In the end, she resorted to saying, ‘Take a seat, and I’ll try to find someone to speak to you.’ I had never felt so ridiculously grateful for being treated with basic courtesy.
Dad and I sat in the small WRVS café adjoining the waiting room, drinking tea, and waited. I paced the floor, tugged at my hair, checked my watch repeatedly, and wondered why the hands were moving so very slowly. About forty minutes later, a young Asian doctor dressed in theatre scrubs appeared, and spoke briefly to the rece
ption assistant who pointed in our direction. We stood as he approached us with a sullen look on his face that told me what he was about to say before he opened his mouth.
‘Take a seat, please. I need to talk to you.’
Dad grabbed my arm as the room became an impressionist blur, and guided me towards a seat a few feet behind me. It only took the doctor a minute or two to shatter my world. He spelt it out in clear, unequivocal words that I will never forget, ‘I am sorry to tell you that your partner is dead.’ You see, words are important. Just eleven words, and my life was devastated. There was no room for hope, no room for bargaining, no room for denial and no room for pleading. A light had gone out and would never shine again.
But why? I needed answers. He was out running. Just running! A thousand unwelcome questions invaded my mind. For some reason I still can’t explain, I wrote down everything the doctor said, word for word, when we arrived back at the house an hour or so later. I read it and reread it so often, that I can still recount his words like a dark poem learnt by heart for an exam.
‘I regret to inform you that Steven suffered a ruptured spleen as the result of a severe blow to the abdomen. We operated, but he had already lost a great deal of blood. There was nothing we could do to save him. He died on the operating table. I am very sorry for your loss.’
And that was it. One minute he was alive, breathing, with his heart pumping and the blood surging through his veins, and the next, he wasn’t. He was gone. I’d lost him. Steven had left this world forever. If there is a heaven, I know he’s there. He had a gentle soul. Whether I’ll join him, however, is far less certain.
Give me a moment. I need to calm myself before I write something I later regret. The last thing I want to do is offend Mrs Martin. I know she’s trying her best to help me and can’t work miracles. But, open the box when you’re ready to deal with the contents. Really? How do I keep the lid on until then? What do I do in the wee small hours when I relive the nightmare as if it were happening in real time? Do you think she’d have an adequate answer if I asked her at my next appointment? No? I didn’t think so. I’m going to take a break now. I need some time to rest my thoughts in the interests of my mental health. This part of my story wasn’t easy to immortalise on paper. It makes it all the more real, somehow, writing it down. All the more emotive. I was beginning to wonder if writing this journal was such a good idea after all, but maybe, just maybe, lifting the lid and peeping in will help me in the end. I’m not particularly optimistic by nature, but I’m telling myself it will. There’s a lot more to say, of course. A great deal more happened, and I will recount it all when I’m ready, I can promise you that. But now is not the time.
6
I’ve learnt a little more about Sheila. Not directly from her, as she remains tight-lipped despite my efforts to communicate. It’s reliable information, however, sourced from a needy guard, who I’ve got to know pretty well over the years. She’s one of those people who wants to be liked. The guard, I mean, not Sheila. I get the distinct impression that Sheila doesn’t give a toss what people think about her.
Anyway, it seems that Sheila and I haven’t got that much in common after all. She’s a lifer, like me, that’s true. Not so very different up to this point, I can picture you saying. But I like to think that the circumstances that led us here were extremely dissimilar. Sheila poisoned her mother in an attempt to obtain her inheritance, as the sole beneficiary of her will. She was hoping to spend her life living in perpetual sunshine, but instead she’s sharing a concrete box with me. And that’s a problem. It’s a real problem. She makes me nervous. Very nervous. She’s a cold, calculating killer. Everything I did was in the heat of the moment. For good reasons. There was no planning, no calculation, no potential material gain. Do you think that makes us different, or are we two sides of the same coin? I hope that when you know more, you will empathise with my actions, and agree that people convicted of the same crime can carry varying degrees of guilt. I’ll leave you to think about that whilst I continue my story.
My parents were very supportive on the evening of Steven’s death. They tried their best, but nothing they could have said or done would have alleviated my sorrow even to the slightest degree. I was despondent, dejected and desolate and the world was a colder, darker, lonelier place.
There was no rationale to my grief-fuelled rage. I was angry with God, angry with Steven for leaving me, angry with my parents for existing, for living, angry with everyone and everything. I smashed things that mattered to them, I broke things that mattered to me, and I said things they didn’t deserve to hear, things I soon regretted, but could never take back or delete from their minds. I said that I wished it was them who had died rather than him. What a ghastly thoughtless thing to say to people who love you. I hope they understood that my harsh words were the product of a traumatised mind. I like to think that they did.
I retreated to my childhood bedroom at some point during the evening, and wailed helplessly into my pillow until exhaustion intervened, and I slept until I was awoken early the next morning by the shrill sound of the doorbell. I listened with only half interest as Dad opened the door, and entered into conversation with a man whose gruff Welsh voice I didn’t recognise. I was about to close my eyes again, in an attempt to escape my gloom, when I heard the man say Steven’s name. It was as if a bolt of electricity were surging through my body. Why was a stranger talking about my love?
I leapt from bed, pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a white cotton tee-shirt, and hurried downstairs, two or three steps at a time, just as two men were following Dad into the lounge. Dad was inviting them to sit and offering tea or coffee in his usual convivial manner when I rushed into the room.
This is a critical part of my story, and I think it’s probably advisable if I outline who said what and to whom in the style of a novel, rather than prioritise some facts above others.
Dad looked at me with a forlorn expression on his face as I walked into the lounge, and said, ‘Good morning, love, these two gentlemen are from the local police.’
I stared at the older of the two officers, a dishevelled-looking individual of fifty-something, wearing a tweed jacket, stained tie and brown slip-on shoes that were urgently in need of polish. Despite everything, he had an easy air of authority about him, and I correctly surmised that he was the senior of the two men.
He met my gaze, rose to his feet, held out a hand in greeting, and said, ‘You must be Cynthia. I’m Detective Inspector Gravel, local CID. I’m here to talk to you about Steven’s death.’
We shook hands and sat, whilst Dad called to Mum, who had retreated to the kitchen, requesting four coffees.
My mind was racing, my head was pounding, and I needed answers. ‘Do you know how the accident happened, Inspector?’
DI Gravel scratched his veined nose, and adopted a reflective expression, which suggested he was choosing his words carefully. ‘We aren’t entirely sure what we’re dealing with. The investigation’s ongoing, to use the jargon. This may seem a strange question, but did Steven have any enemies that you know of?’
Enemies? Why on earth was he talking about enemies? I moved to the very edge of my seat. ‘No, no, of course not. He was a student. Just a student! Everyone liked him. Why would anyone want to hurt him?’
I must have sounded more than a little irate, because the younger man, who I later discovered was Detective Sergeant Clive Rankin, smiled thinly, and said, ‘We’re just covering all the bases, love. There are some unusual circumstances surrounding the boy’s death. You do want us to get this right, don’t you?’
I felt like screaming, I felt like stomping around the room like a petulant two-year-old child, and tears of frustration welled in my eyes and ran down my face. I tried to control myself, but my grief got the better of me and I shouted, ‘Yes, yes, of course I do! Why wouldn’t I? What the fuck are you talking about?’
Mum appeared from the kitchen carrying a silver-plated tray laden with four coffees and a plate of
dark chocolate digestive biscuits reserved for visitors. She had a look of genuine shock on her face, and I remember thinking that she looked suddenly older. Extreme stress can sometimes do that. One of the women here literally went grey overnight when told her son had died after a late night bar brawl. I don’t think I would have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.
Anyway, Mum offered the refreshments to the two officers, and glared at Dad, imploring him to say or do something to alleviate the obvious tension.
Dad stood, approached my seat, placed a supportive hand on my shoulder and patted my back gently. ‘What’s the answer to my daughter’s question, Inspector? She deserves to know the truth.’
I could have hugged him. But I just sat and stared at the inspector, waiting for his response.
DI Gravel cleared his throat, took a gulp of coffee, wiped the milky moustache from his top lip with a grubby sleeve, and said, ‘Steven was hit by a vehicle. I say vehicle because we don’t know what type it was as yet. There are no cameras in the area, and up to this point no witnesses have been identified. The driver, whoever he or she was, didn’t call an ambulance or the police. We know from the severity of Steven’s injuries that he was hit at speed. He was obviously very badly hurt. It was dry, there was excellent visibility, the esplanade is a one-way street and there were no skid marks left on the tarmac, which strongly suggests the driver made no effort to slow down before hitting him.’
I shook my head incredulously. ‘What? Why would anyone do that?’
‘It’s early days, Cynthia, enquiries are ongoing.’
‘I know Tenby’s quiet at this time of year, but somebody must have seen something, surely?’