Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

‘I think she’s getting more like Michael.’

‘What, moody and hormonal?’

Pete grinned. ‘He spoke today. A whole sentence.’

‘Can I have some money?’

‘No,’ he paused for effect, ‘I need some new trainers.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll sort him out,’ he added.

She began to yawn. ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She glanced up. Pete was watching her. She sensed a shift in the atmosphere before he even spoke.

‘Janine… I’ve been thinking… I seem to be here most of the time as it is… and things… I know after everything that happened…’

She felt her pulse quicken with adrenalin. Had the urge to run away – the flight or fight syndrome.

‘… well, you probably don’t, won’t… but when all’s said and done, eighteen years… and I still.’

She stood, raising her palms to stop him talking. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late?’ She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her mouth dry. Part of her still hurt, was still hurting. He had left her, broken their marriage, walked out on his children. How could he imagine that he could reverse all that?

He cleared his throat. ‘Since we had Charlotte – I was here for the others… the nights, everything. And it’s not just missing them… there’s you.’

‘And Tina,’ she said quietly.

‘Maybe I was wrong.’

She was angry with him, wanted to push him, shout, break things. She ran her hand though her hair, turned away, then back. ‘I can’t cope with this now.’

He gave a brief nod and backed away, buttoning up his coat. She folded her arms, waited until she heard the front door close after him. Then swore softly, several times.

Chris sat in the dark in the back room. He hadn’t bothered drawing the curtains; he saw the rain lash against the glass and heard the occasional whoop of police cars.

Debbie had been relieved that he was an innocent man. Some cold, cruel part of him was amused. She understood so little.

He hadn’t been able to protect his daughter while she was alive and now she’d been taken from them he couldn’t even avenge her death. All he had was failure. While Debbie was striving for some all-forgiving bloody Christian sainthood – Ann-Marie the martyr to her cause – he felt only fury and loathing. He couldn’t read the cards that kept coming, couldn’t bear the hushed condolences of people who called at the house. All wallowing in some orgy of sadness. Sad, sad, so sad. It wasn’t sad – it was a fucking outrage. He still hadn’t cried. He didn’t want to weep and choose bouquets, he wanted to get hold of those who had killed her and beat them to a pulp. Break their faces and their teeth and burst their inner organs. But he’d had his chance and he had wavered and thought of a dozen reasons why not when there was only really one good reason – because he wasn’t man enough.

Breadwinner, yes. Was that all he amounted to? If he’d known that she’d be taken so young… he could have made more time. Debbie had been the main one to stay home. She hadn’t gone back to nursing full-time but once Ann-Marie was sleeping through she’d signed on the bank, taking one or two shifts a week to cover for sickness or holidays or the ongoing shortages. They probably could have managed without, especially as Chris’s business was going well. He had work booked in up to six months ahead plus emergency work now and then. And he could name his own price. They had enough for holidays abroad, nowhere that exotic but Crete or Cyprus or, one year, Madeira. Last summer, when Ann-Marie was six they’d splashed out and gone to Disneyworld in Florida.

When Ann-Marie started school Debbie had got a part-time job at Christie’s, the cancer hospital, but the school holidays were a problem. Chris could look after her but it was a bit of a daft set-up when he was making three or four times as much a day as Debbie. In the end, she went back on the bank. ‘I have to do something Chris, I can’t just vegetate.’ And she did voluntary stuff at school too. Came home and told him stories of how this child was really struggling or the disasters that had befallen patients on the ward and the implication was always clear; we are so lucky.

And now, all over the area, families would be talking about them, the Chinleys – terrible tragedy, did you hear, the poor parents, how do you deal with something like that?

‘Mum?’ Janine was switching things off downstairs when Eleanor came down sounding worried.

‘What?’

‘It’s Friday tomorrow.’

Janine groaned, ‘Domestic science.’

‘Food technology,’ Eleanor corrected her impatiently.

‘It’s a bit late now, Ellie. What are you making?’

‘Pineapple upside down cake…’

Yummy, thought Janine.

‘I’ve got the ingredients,’ she said. ‘Connie got them for me but my apron’s got all gunk on. I forgot.’

‘Gunk?’

‘I can’t wear it like that.’

‘Take another.’

‘No!’ Anguished. ‘I want the right one.’ Desperate to fit in, not to get laughed at. And when Janine thought about the aprons in the house, jokey cartoons on them, she could see her point.

Janine sighed. ‘If I hand wash it now…’

‘Can you? Oh, thank you Mum, you’re so kind.’ Eleanor effused.

‘Bring it here – and remember next time.’

‘I will, I promise.’

After she had washed and rinsed and wrung the apron out, she placed it over one of the central heating radiators in the hall to dry

Upstairs she looked in on Tom who was fast asleep and said goodnight to Michael who was still up, playing on his PS2. ‘Mum, I need some trainers.’

‘Your dad said. He can take you at the weekend.’ She looked at him: wrists and ankles sticking out of the chill-out suit he wore to sleep in. ‘You’re growing out of those,’ she told him, ‘you’d better get some new ones – in a bigger size – while you’re in town, and anything else that doesn’t fit. You’re going to be enormous.’

He grinned, ducked his head with pleasure. It was such a funny age, she thought, boyish one minute and struggling to be treated as an adult the next.

In her own room, she sorted out her clothes for the following day, not bothering about noise. If Charlotte woke now and had a feed then she might go through till morning. But the infant slumbered steadily on.

Janine’s mind was weaving around work: imagining Stone firing at his friend, Rosa bundled into the car boot, hearing Debbie Chinley weeping, wondering about Butchers’ brother. What age had he been? And was Butchers younger or older? Had Butchers witnessed the accident? She heard the front door, Connie coming in. Janine got into her bed, sighing in appreciation at the prospect of sleep. She turned off the light and drifted off within minutes. When Charlotte woke in the night, only the once thank God, Janine got up on auto-pilot, her limbs heavy her head thick with sleep. The baby went back down without much fuss and Janine crawled back to bed.

As she opened her eyes to first light the next morning, Janine felt a skinny arm brush against hers. Tom had joined her during the night. Now he smiled at her, his eyes alert. She leant over to kiss him and he squealed. ‘Watch out, you’ll squash Frank.’

Oh, for pity’s sake. ‘Tell him to shove over, then.’

‘Frank can fly,’ Tom said seriously. ‘He’s like me, ‘cept he can fly.’

Janine grunted.

‘You know in heaven,’ Tom said, ‘do you stay with your family?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, would Dad be with us?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What if you had two Dads?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘And Tina? Would she go with us?’

Relentless logic. Janine had had enough of this conversation. ‘I think the idea of heaven is that everybody’s happy and everybody gets on.’