‘Whatever it takes, you know that,’ Phil said. Pain harrowed his features, and he pushed his hands either side of his temples and raised his face to the sky above and groaned.
The hornet returned, droning by my face, and I waved it away.
The woman who had been on the steps of the Portakabin was walking our way. She smiled as she reached us. ‘Hello, can I help?’
I shook my head, tried to smile but failed.
‘No,’ said Phil.
‘You live locally? Did you see anything yesterday evening?’
‘No, sorry,’ said Phil. ‘Just passing.’
We didn’t want to say it; neither of us could bring ourselves to own up. It was my daughter. See the car. Her fault. Let Suzanne be wrong, please, I thought. If Naomi had been drunk, then whatever the child had done, even if she had been in the middle of the road doing handstands on her handlebars, the fact that Naomi had got into what amounted to a lethal weapon with a bottle of wine sloshing through her bloodstream meant she was the guilty one. So we did not introduce ourselves to the police officer, but turned and slunk away. I could feel the shame rippling through me, wide as a river, deep as the sea.
It was surreal, travelling home along the tree-lined roads, past the shopfronts with their pavement displays. And it was peculiar finding the house as we had left it. Almost as if I expected the very bricks and mortar, furniture and fittings to be loosened or altered by the accident. Sleep eluded me, I went through the motions – a quick shower – then lay in bed with the curtains closed. Tried to empty my mind, listened to Phil snoring, imagining the noises he made were really waves breaking on a vast tropical shore, that I was lying on the hot sand, my muscles softening in the heat. But however much I tried to relax, the images of Naomi still and silent in a hospital bed, the blackened car and the stark white tent swam to the fore. And questions, persistent as the starlings’ chatter had been: why had Alex let her drive? Why didn’t they get a taxi or stay at Suzanne’s? Where had the child been? Could Naomi have avoided her if she had been sober? Was she sober? I prayed that Naomi would be conscious when we went back, out of danger and able to explain it all to us.
CHAPTER FOUR
Naomi
Everything hurts. An awful dragging pain in my belly and deep in my bowels. Tearing me apart.
If my pain was musical, that would be the bass, and the percussion is all the things beating in my head, but there are these tight, sharp, cutting pains too, like glass daggers in my side. They’d be the strings maybe, high and off key. Like when I learnt violin for a term in Year 5.
There’s a sound like traffic, shushing on and on, and lots of computer beeps and clicks. And something like the wind, a moaning noise.
That’s me! I get it, me moaning. I’m the vocalist. I don’t know where I am or what’s going on. I could open my eyes; I consider it, but it would be very hard to do. And it might hurt, too. Then something tears inside me. Savage. Hot molten metal floods through me, and a pool of black, black oil rises, taking me down.
Carmel
The phone rang. The hospital. Naomi had deteriorated; she was in theatre again. Internal haemorrhaging. They were doing all they could.
We hurried, but there was nothing for us to do when we got there. The nurse on intensive care promised to let us know when Naomi was back. She said it like she meant it, pragmatic and positive, and it was a hope to cling to. Neither of us wanted to leave the hospital.
Phil rang Suzanne and arranged to pass on any news as soon as we heard, so she could visit again.
‘We really shouldn’t expect her to be doing this when she’s a tiny baby to cope with,’ I said.
Phil shrugged at me. ‘Wild horses, you know Suzanne. Besides,’ he exhaled loudly, ‘it’s . . . well, it’s serious, isn’t it?’
She might die, he meant, she might not recover. And her sister would need to know that she had done all she could to be with Naomi.
The girls had fought like cats in a sack when they were growing up. An endless bout of sniping and name-calling, one-upmanship and out-and-out rivalry. Any honest mistake or calamity that befell Naomi, Suzanne imbued with malicious intent – she broke the shower, she ruined my DVD, she took my plate, she knew it was mine – while Naomi complained that Suzanne was always trying to get her into trouble and boss her about. At eleven, Naomi spent several months referring to her sister as Mrs Hitler. The verbal clashes sometimes turned to physical brawls, in which Naomi, who was bigger and tougher, had the upper hand.
But when it really mattered, the animosity dissolved like salt in water. Naomi insisted on seeing Suzanne when she had meningitis, and was distraught when she had to wait until the antibiotics we had all been given kicked in and safeguarded her against contracting the infection herself. When she finally got there, she sat stroking Suzanne’s cheek with a sticky hand and making little cooing sounds, promising to give her all her worldly goods when she got better and came home. Phil and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
When Naomi broke up with her first serious boyfriend and become very low, it was Suzanne who took the time to provide some treats and distractions: a makeover by one of the stylists at work, some casual shifts helping towards a charity fund-raiser that Suzanne was planning. And further back, when Suzanne was just starting school, I’d opened the door to an upset neighbour brandishing a note and holding a weeping child by the hand. The note, in Suzanne’s purple felt tip, on Barbie notepaper, read: dont be so mean or I will killl you, from Suzanne. I think the extra ‘l’ added feeling.
I’d called Suzanne in from the back garden.
‘What is this all about?’
‘He was mean,’ she said disdainfully, ‘lots of times.’
‘Glenn is smaller than you,’ I scolded her. ‘He doesn’t understand yet.’
‘Not mean to me,’ she said scornfully. ‘He’s horrible to Naomi and she’s more smaller.’
We had a talk there and then about death threats and bullying and how to ask for help, then I made Suzanne apologize and got her to tear the note up in front of the boy.
‘It’s not nice when anyone is mean,’ I said, hoping his mother would get the message and maybe pull him up on his treatment of Naomi, but she just looked at me with a humourless smile and said goodbye. Maybe she did it later, behind closed doors. Secretly I was pleased that Suzanne had tried to protect her sister, even if her methods were a bit full-on. It reassured me that she cared for Naomi when so much of the time they acted like sworn enemies.
I was getting a stream of calls from friends and colleagues who knew only that Naomi had been in a car crash and was seriously injured. I hadn’t the energy or inclination to reply to them yet. Though I did call my closest friend Evie, who also works in my department. She’d pass on any stuff for public consumption and keep quiet about anything I wanted to remain confidential. She listened while I gave a summary of what had happened.
‘Oh God,’ she said, then, ‘Okay, what needs doing?’ Her practical, social-worker side kicking in. ‘Shopping, cleaning, dog-walking?’
‘Idiot.’ We don’t have a dog. ‘We’re fine at home, but the office . . .’
‘Yep.’ I could see her, poised to write, snazzy glasses on, blonde curls wild. Often as not she’d scrawl notes on her arm if there wasn’t paper to hand. It drove her partner Lucy mad. ‘The last thing I want when things are getting romantic is to read about a court date or a custody hearing,’ Lucy once complained.
‘Get somebody to cover my shifts. I’m on tomorrow and Wednesday. And can you check the diary? I think there’s something pencilled in during the next couple of weeks.’
‘Call me when she’s out of theatre,’ Evie said.
‘Promise.’
‘She’ll be all right,’ Evie said. How could she say that? She should know better. It was there in all our training. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Only offer what you can realistically deliver. I prayed for Naomi’s deliverance, but to speak the thought aloud would be reckless,
dangerous, tempting fate. I felt a prick of anger, hot beneath my breastbone. ‘I’d better go,’ I said.
‘Take care,’ she said, and hung up.
It was another two hours before we had news. Naomi had come through surgery; further repairs had been made to her lower bowel. She would be moved back to the ward once she had come round from the anaesthetic.
We waited outside intensive care and were there when the porter appeared pushing the trolley with her on. She was awake but barely with it, groggy. She had a cut on her lip which was bleeding. I asked the nurse about it as they settled Naomi back on the ward, attaching a saline drip and the pulse monitor to her finger. ‘It’ll be from the anaesthetic; it’s not unusual for there to be minor damage to the mouth, broken teeth even.’
‘What do they use?’ Phil muttered. ‘A hammer?’
The nurse laughed. ‘We are a bit more advanced than that. Now, she’s still nil-by-mouth, but if she gets thirsty we can bring some mouth swabs for her to suck.’
Naomi’s eyes were closed; she hadn’t even acknowledged us yet. Did she know who we were? Was there any brain damage? The thought hit me like a cold shower. They’d have said, surely? Warned us?
‘Naomi?’ I said quietly.
She opened her eyes a little, scowling as though the light was too harsh for her. She looked at me, then her eyes moved to Phil at the other side of the bed. She gave a small sigh but still didn’t speak. In her gaze I saw the same blunt indifference that I found in my mother’s. My stomach tightened.
‘You’re in hospital,’ Phil said. ‘You’ve been in an accident, love.’
‘What?’ she whispered.
‘A crash,’ he said.
She looked numb, still woozy. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said, and closed her eyes. I tried to read her face and failed. Was she thinking, processing the information? The nurse came back then, depositing a pot of pale blue foam lollipops on the bedside table.
‘I think she’s gone to sleep,’ I said.
‘Best medicine,’ the nurse replied. ‘If she does all right, she’ll be transferred to another ward in a few days’ time. She’s doing really great,’ she added, ‘but she’s not going to be up to much for a while.’
‘Is she in any pain?’ I asked.
‘We’ll be keeping an eye on that. There’s always some discomfort after surgery. Especially given the amount she’s had.’
My hands in the latex gloves felt hot and sticky; the apron was full of static and the skirt section stuck to my arms.
Naomi
It’s a labyrinth; the tunnels run through the earth, the smell of mud is strong. The roots of trees, knotted and gnarled, poke from the soil like fingers or bones. I have to crawl, the roof is so low, and when I come to the end of the passage, it is blocked off. A dead end. There is no space to turn, so I have to shuffle back the way I came, my hands and knees raw, stinging from the pieces of grit, the grains of dirt.
I don’t sense the chasm, don’t notice any change in the air until I’m in it, falling, falling upwards and . . .
Awake. Dim light. Mum, her face all funny and . . . I can’t see all of him properly, but enough to know Dad’s there too. There is something I should tell them. Is there? Then a whooshing comes and the ink races through the tunnels, leaping up the walls, rising to take me back, lapping at me.
Carmel
A little later, Suzanne and Jonty arrived, calling to us from the doorway to the room. There were only meant to be two visitors to a bed, so we said we’d come out and see them. We took off our protective clothing and put it in the bin, and left the room to meet them in the corridor. The sight of Suzanne made me feel wobbly again. I held her close, then Phil did the same.
‘How is she?’ Suzanne asked.
We told them. Jonty looked embarrassed, awkward. I wondered if he had a thing about hospitals. He kept rocking on his feet, up on his toes and down, his eyes wandering over the posters and notices.
‘We can’t stay long,’ Suzanne said apologetically. ‘Left Ollie with Julia down the road.’
‘She’s sleeping anyway.’
‘You both look shocking,’ Suzanne said with her customary honesty. ‘You should get some sleep yourselves. There’s stuff in your fridge,’ she added. ‘We’d loads left over.’
‘Oh, Suzanne, that’s so—’
‘Well, you won’t feel like cooking,’ she said, cutting me off.
‘We’ll just say goodbye to Naomi,’ I told her. Hand gel. Another pair of gloves, another apron. I bent close over Naomi and kissed her cheek. ‘We’re going home for a bit, darling. See you later. I love you,’ I added. It wasn’t something we habitually said aloud, but now it seemed important.
Back in the corridor, I hugged Suzanne again. As we stepped apart, she caught my elbows in her hands. ‘Mum, you need to know. It’s in the paper. The accident, the little girl.’
‘On the local news, too,’ Jonty said.
I nodded quickly, avoiding her eyes. I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to hear.
We made our way to Alex’s ward and found Monica in the waiting area just outside the ward itself. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘Carmel, Phil – how’s Naomi?’
‘She’s had more surgery,’ I said. ‘Internal bleeding. She’s back now. She came round for a minute but she couldn’t remember anything about the accident – didn’t seem to know what we were talking about. What about Alex? We’ve not managed to see him yet.’
‘He’s just gone down to have his casts done. The fractures are pretty straightforward, so he shouldn’t need any operations. He’ll need to use a crutch for a while.’
‘Is it his leg?’
‘Ankle and wrist. He was lucky.’
‘Yes,’ I said. It was relative, wasn’t it?
‘It’s still such a shock,’ she said. ‘Alex said she took the bend too fast. If only . . . I passed them,’ she shook her head, ‘driving back from the gym. Tooted and waved, like you do . . .’
I nodded.
‘Her driving was fine then, honestly, she wasn’t speeding. If only I’d . . . Oh, I don’t know.’ She blinked fast.
What could she have done? Flagged them over? She’d had no reason to.
‘I do hope she’s all right,’ Monica said. ‘You’ll let me know – and Alex wants to see her as soon as . . .’
‘Yes. Thanks.’ The words about Naomi maybe drinking before they drove home were in my mouth, lodged there. I should mention it, I knew I should, but I said nothing. I prayed Suzanne was wrong, that Naomi had switched from wine to soft drinks not long after we left the barbecue and her greatest sin was not watching her speed.
Phil stayed quiet, saying nothing either.
‘There’ll be an investigation,’ Monica said. ‘The police are going to talk to Alex tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ My mouth was dry.
‘I’ll give you my mobile number,’ Monica said.
I took her number and we said our goodbyes, and still I kept silent. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her; I couldn’t face her reaction.
And it was only Suzanne’s word after all, wasn’t it?
Evie and I spoke before I went to bed. I shared everything with her. And she listened. She didn’t make excuses for Naomi, or dodge the sheer ugliness of what I was telling her, and this time, thank God, she didn’t tell me it was all going to be all right. I think I’d have hung up if she had come out with any stupid platitudes like that. Because whatever happened, there was no gain saying that this was a tragedy, maybe plain and simple, maybe complicated, but an awful, awful tragedy. At the heart of it a nine-year-old, mown down on a Sunday evening as she cycled along the side of the road. Mown down by my daughter
I am used to other people’s crises. It’s what I do, how I earn my living. Social worker – emergency duty team. When someone’s life is turned upside down and it’s an emergency and out of hours (evenings, nights, weekends, bank holidays), the phone rings in my office. I do a rotating pattern of night shifts and back shifts (
afternoon till midnight), and get one weekend off in four. I am the person who sorts things out: the admission to a mental health unit, the emergency accommodation, the removal to a place of safety. I act as an appropriate adult when a teenager is arrested in town, and am there for all the victims of fire or flood or explosion who find themselves suddenly homeless. I’m the person who can bridge the gap, hold your hand and list the steps that need to be taken the following morning or at the start of the week when normal service is resumed. I don’t panic or freeze or lose my temper. My training has equipped me with all I need to support you through the calamity in a calm and professional manner. I am objective, detached. If something about your particular case upsets or enrages me, you won’t have a clue. I will save it for my report and assessment, for my recommendations, which feed into a cycle of monitoring and improvements.
The bulk of my work, the real routine, is child protection. An unending catalogue of cruelty, neglect and misery. From the child with the mark of a hot iron branded into his back to the six-year-old turning up at school on a weekend in an attempt to escape her stepfather’s sexual abuse.
Of course there are some situations that stick with me, stark memories most of them of the cruel and desperate straits that people find themselves in. Like the little boy who survived the wholesale slaughter of his family by his father, or the elderly woman found wandering on the main London to Manchester railway line, abandoned by her son and his wife, or the young Somali woman who one evening escaped from the shed where her owners kept her as a domestic slave, running barefoot in a city thick with snow. But other memorable encounters are funny or heart-warming, because of the people, their tenacity and courage, and the kindness of strangers. Humanity in all its messy, mucky, glorious, beautiful colours. Like the young mother of a foundling baby boy who was traced and who went on, with support from her stepdad, to make a loving home for herself and her son. Or the retired head teacher who opened his house to a recovering drug addict and ended up adopting her. Or the lad poised to jump from his gran’s roof because his medication sent him loopy. He teaches boxing now, mentors others.
Blink of an Eye (2013) Page 4