Day of the Accident

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Do take a seat,’ she says, pointing to one of two plastic chairs that are tucked in facing each other on either side of the brown table. ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thank you,’ I say as I take my seat. ‘I’m feeling a bit hot actually.’

  ‘Water then,’ says Grayling, and she walks over to the large plastic water dispenser that sits by the window like some bloated sea creature. She pours me a drink and comes back to the table.

  ‘Here you go,’ she says, putting the plastic cup down in front of me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a long sip. The water is icy cold and makes my teeth tingle.

  ‘So when were you discharged?’ she asks, folding her hands in front of her.

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, nodding her head. ‘And how are you feeling?’

  ‘Physically, I’m slowly getting there,’ I say. ‘Though I still can’t remember anything about the accident.’

  ‘That’s frustrating,’ she says, a frown line cutting into the middle of her forehead. ‘For you, I mean, not for us. We know it wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t beat yourself up too much about getting your memory back.’

  ‘Can you remind me,’ I say, putting the empty cup down. ‘You see, these last few days my head has got so fuzzy and I’ve been having such strange dreams I’m not sure if what I remember you told me is accurate or whether I’ve just bundled all the facts together and created a whole new version. The main thing that sticks in my head from what you told me is that I lost these gripping hold of the car.’

  I hold up my fingers. Grayling doesn’t flinch. She will have seen worse.

  ‘That bit was accurate, yes,’ she says. ‘But I totally understand your confusion. There was so much information to take in that day and you’d just come out of a coma. What we pieced together from the fire officer’s report is that it appears you parked your car behind the Plough, on the edge of the riverbank. You got out of the car, locking it with your key fob. Then the car began to roll. There’s quite a hill there. The report found that the handbrake hadn’t been engaged properly. The car gained speed and smashed through the car-park fence and rolled into the river. When you noticed we think you ran after it and tried to prise the door open. Traces of paint from the car were found on your fingers. At some point you got swept down by the current. Our conclusion and that of the coroner was that it was a tragic accident.’

  I sit for a moment, unable to get the thought of Elspeth out of my head. What must she have gone through? I remember the metallic taste of river water in my mouth, the screams, the flash of red fluttering in front of me. There’s a certainty strengthening in me with every moment. Something else was happening that day. Something the police don’t know or aren’t choosing to tell me.

  ‘Was I wearing red?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Grayling, narrowing her eyes. ‘Why?’

  I think again about that memory: the flash of red darting in front of me. And for a second I’m tempted to tell Grayling but then I stop myself.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted to ask?’ says Grayling. ‘Or anything you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I came here today because I need to find my husband and I wondered if you could help me.’

  ‘I’m afraid when it comes to that there’s not a lot we can do,’ says Grayling.

  ‘But he’s missing,’ I say. ‘He left my bedside that evening and just disappeared. Surely your officers could put out a search for him?’

  ‘Maggie, we looked into it,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘And everything pointed to the fact that your husband left of his own accord.’

  ‘But he was just going home to get changed,’ I say. ‘That’s what he told the nurses. Why would he disappear? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘That’s just it, Maggie,’ says Grayling. ‘He didn’t disappear. He gave notice to your landlord, he tendered his resignation at work, withdrew money from his bank account. These are all considered actions. The horrible fact is that he left you when you were seriously ill and that is just unimaginable but it’s not a crime. And as for searching for him, as he has done this of his own free will there’s not much we can do. I’m really sorry.’

  My chest is tightening as the anxiety I have been keeping at bay spreads through me like a virus. ‘But you must be able to do something. Check the ports, the airlines. I have a list of people you could contact. I would be out there looking for him myself but my stupid body won’t let me.’

  ‘Maggie, we would only be able to do those things if your husband had committed a crime and we had a warrant for his arrest,’ says Grayling, a hint of impatience threaded through her words. ‘As it stands he is simply a man who has left his wife and we don’t have the resources to undertake a manhunt for every person who walks out of their marriage.’

  I look down at my hands. My wedding and engagement rings glint back at me. I’ve lost so much weight they’re slipping off. I think back to the day Sean asked me to marry him. It was a Sunday afternoon and we’d gone for a walk in Battersea Park. He told me he felt tired and needed to sit down so we went into the little English Garden and sat by the pond. It was winter and the water had turned to ice. I was shivering with cold so Sean took his scarf off and wrapped it round my neck. He kissed my nose then told me he had something he wanted to ask me. I watched as he put his hand in his pocket and took out a green velvet box. Inside was a beautiful antique emerald ring. For a few moments time seemed to stand still; the whole park seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my answer. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘A thousand times yes.’ I was so happy that day. It felt like all the pain and anguish I’d suffered had led me to that moment; that I could stop punishing myself and just live. I look down at the ring now and feel utterly numb. Grayling asks me if I have any more questions but I’m unable to speak. All I can muster is a feeble shake of the head.

  ‘I’ll see you out then,’ she says, pushing back her chair and walking to the door.

  I get up and follow her out, down the dark corridor, past the posters.

  See it. Say it. Sorted.

  When we reach the reception area Grayling stops. ‘I really am sorry for everything you’ve been through,’ she says, placing a hand on my arm. ‘And if we could do more to help we would but …’

  ‘It’s fine. I understand,’ I say brusquely. I really want to get out of here now.

  ‘Are you going to be all right walking home?’ says Grayling. ‘I can call you a taxi if you like.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, flinching as a siren squeals past the front door. ‘I don’t have far to go.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I am, thank you.’

  I turn to go but then Grayling calls my name.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ she says, squinting into the afternoon sun. ‘Your question about what you were wearing that day, whether you were wearing red. Is there anything I should know?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say, swallowing down my fear. I need to figure out what it is I’m remembering before I tell anyone. ‘I’m still trying to piece things together, that’s all.’

  Grayling nods and I turn to go but as I make my way across the car park I can feel her eyes on me. Sweat gathers on my forehead. I go to wipe it away but as I do my rings catch my skin. Yanking them off my finger, I slip them into my pocket and with a sick feeling in my stomach make my way back to the B & B.

  26

  Dear Mummy,

  The most amazing thing happened today. I had a visitor. Saturday is grocery day here and Weasel Face had taken me into town to go to the supermarket. When we got back Zoe came to the door and said there was someone here to see me. My first thought was that it was you, that you’d come to get me, but when I went into the living room I saw a woman with blonde hair sitting on the sofa. She jumped to her feet when she saw me and said I looked so much l
ike my daddy. I just stood and stared at her for a moment. She was really beautiful. She was wearing a long pale-pink coat and a cream polo-neck jumper and her eyes, when she looked up at me, were the strangest colour – a mix of green and gold, like autumn leaves. She told me to sit down then she said that she had come to see if I was okay. She said she was a friend of Daddy’s and that he had sent her with some presents for me. Then she reached down into her bag and handed me a parcel. The wrapping paper was covered in Disney characters. Inside there was a pack of coloured pencils, a Barbie doll and a bag of sweets. I said thank you and she smiled. Then I asked her why my daddy hadn’t come and she said he wanted to but it was complicated and that he’d sent her instead. I asked if she knew you and she went all funny, like she’d caught a bad smell. I asked if you were coming to get me and she said she didn’t know. When she said that I started crying and she put her hand on my shoulder and said she was sorry, she hadn’t wanted to upset me. Then Zoe came in with cups of tea but the woman said she couldn’t stay, that she had to get back. I asked her where she lived and she said it was a ‘long long way away’ and by the sea. When she stood up to go I told her to tell Daddy to come and get me. She said she would try her best. Then she told me to be a good girl and that she’d come back and see me again soon. As she went to leave I realized I hadn’t asked her name. She looked a bit flustered, when I said that, like she couldn’t remember it or something. But then she shook my hand and said, ‘Just call me Freya.’

  When she left I sat on the sofa and shared my sweets with Zoe. I told her about Freya and how she knew my daddy and that it meant he must be coming for me soon but Zoe just rolled her eyes and said that she’s seen hundreds of visitors like her, that they’re just do-gooders who get their kicks from bringing presents to kids like us, that she probably doesn’t even know my dad. I got sad then and couldn’t finish my sweets.

  I hope she’s wrong, Mummy.

  I love you.

  Your lovely daughter xxx

  27

  I sit on the wicker chair by the window staring at the spider’s web that has appeared on the glass.

  It’s odd to see one in August. Perhaps the rain has made it visible. Yet, with the cool temperature and the brooding grey sky, you could be forgiven for thinking it was autumn out there.

  Elspeth loved the autumn. She used to call it ‘cobweb season’. Not only because the shops and houses in the village would be festooned with Halloween paraphernalia but because, unlike them, our windows at Larkfields would be adorned with the real thing. As I sit here looking at the web, the dew and moisture clinging to it like tiny diamonds, I think of Elspeth weaving her dream catcher. Why hadn’t I helped her properly when she asked me to sit with her that night? Why did I always want to be somewhere else?

  I look at the web again. Its centre is straining with the weight of the rainwater, but the spider that created this masterpiece is nowhere to be seen. The web is its only legacy.

  I’m driven from the memory by a buzzing noise. At first I think it’s the smoke alarm but then I see my new phone on the floor, its screen illuminated. Fully charged.

  Seeing as the police won’t help me, this phone is the one tool I have to help me find Sean. My meeting with Grayling left me feeling uneasy and I’ve spent most of the afternoon staring at the wall. Now, as evening approaches, I feel a bit brighter. Maybe the pills are starting to work.

  I put the phone down on the table then take the list I made the other day out of my bag. I start with Rob. After typing his name and the name of the company into the search engine I get his office landline number. I type it in and wait. It rings five times then goes to voicemail. Clearing my throat, I start to leave a message, telling him that it’s Sean’s wife and could he please call me back on this number. What number? My brain stalls. I don’t know the number of the new phone. I splutter my apologies to Rob Daniels’ voicemail then quickly end the call, my palms sweating.

  I stand up and try to locate the box that the phone came in then I remember Sonia saying something about taking it to put in the recycling when she left. I throw myself on to the bed, my head spinning with the pills and the stress of having to think like a normal person. It’s hopeless, I think to myself as the blown vinyl wallpaper on the ceiling swirls and loops in front of my eyes. I’m clutching at ridiculous straws. Sean was a bloody loner. There is no way he would have gone to any of those people for help. He never confided in people, not even me; if he had then I would have known that the house I thought we owned was a rental.

  And then, through my cloudy head, a thought occurs. When Sean gave his notice to the landlords, he would have surely given reasons, perhaps even a forwarding address. I sit up and go back to the window, taking the phone and opening up the search engine.

  What was the name of the company again? BH2 property, that’s it. Strange how my memory of recent events is so much better than those from further in the past. The results dance in front of my eyes like confetti. There is a raft of property listings in Bournemouth with a BH2 postcode. By the third page I give up and search again, adding ‘Rodmell, Sussex’ to the name. This time I just get a list of properties for sale in Rodmell. One last try, I think to myself as I search ‘BH2 Properties Rodmell Sussex Larkfields’. The results flash up. The first few are properties for sale. Then, halfway down the page, I see the name Larkfields and ‘House to rent’. My heart feels loose in my chest as I click on the link but there is just a holding page stating that ‘This property is no longer on the market’. I go to close the page then I see the name of the estate agent and a phone number printed at the bottom: Kingsland Farley Properties.

  I stare at the number for a moment then at the clock. It’s just coming up to 5.30. They might still be open. It’s worth a try at least. My head is jumbled and I have no idea what I’m going to say but I type the number into the phone anyway and wait. After a couple of rings a young woman answers.

  ‘Kingsland Farley Properties. How may I help you?’

  ‘Oh … hello,’ I say, my voice catching in my throat. ‘Erm … my name is Maggie Allan. My house – I mean the house I was living in – was leased through your agency a few months ago and – well, I was in hospital, very ill, and – my husband –’

  I’m not making any kind of sense. My head feels like a sponge and I’m finding it difficult to form the correct words.

  ‘Sorry,’ says the girl. ‘I only caught a bit of that. You said you want to rent out your house while you go into hospital?’

  ‘No,’ I say impatiently. ‘I said you had a house on the market – my house – a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, dragging the word out. ‘So you’re the vendor?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no, erm, my husband, he … we were renting.’

  The girl sighs loudly down the phone.

  ‘And how can I help you today?’

  The question slurs through my foggy brain. How can she help me? What did I ring for?

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say, sitting up straight in the hope that the lost words will spring back into my head. ‘Well, you see, my house, the house, was put up for rent by your agency a couple of months back.’

  ‘What was the address?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, the address … well, it’s a name actually.’

  ‘What was the name then?’

  ‘Larkfields,’ I say, reassured that I can at least remember that name.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ says the girl. ‘I know it. The Gothic lodge house on the outskirts of Rodmell.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘We rented that out, ooh, about six weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say. ‘My husband, Sean Allan – well, we – were the previous tenants.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says the girl. ‘So how can I help you?’

  I take a deep breath. I have to get the story right.

  ‘Well,’ I say, keeping my voice bright and brisk. ‘We need to get hold of our former landlords, BH2 Properties? Er, we have a f
riend who has a house that they’d like to sell and we thought BH2 might be interested in, er, buying it.’

  There is silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I say. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ says the girl. ‘My colleague was just asking me a question. You said you wanted to contact who?’

  ‘BH2 Properties,’ I say. ‘The owners of Larkfields. I just wondered if you had their details.’

  ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to give that information out without consulting my boss and she’s just gone home,’ says the girl. ‘If you leave me your number I can get her to call you back tomorrow.’

  My number. The bloody number. I don’t have it.

  ‘Oh, gosh,’ I say. ‘It’s completely slipped my mind. Erm …’

  ‘Are you Mr Allan’s partner?’ asks the girl.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m his wife.’

  ‘Well then, I think I’ve got your number here on our system.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I’ve just brought up all the contact details for that property,’ she says, her voice a drawl. ‘And I have your husband’s number as a first contact and then Freya Nielssen, which must be you.’

  My whole body goes cold. Who? What is she talking about? I try to keep calm, try to stem the sickening dread that is rising through my stomach and up to my throat.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, laughing awkwardly. ‘That’s me. Which number have you got there? I’ll just check it’s the right one.’

  The girl recites the mobile number and I scribble it on to the cheap notepad, my hand trembling so badly I almost drop the pencil.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s my old one I’m afraid.’

  ‘Right, well if you give me your new number I’ll pass it on.’