Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

She cried, not making much noise. I stroked her back, my own face wet, aching for her. Eventually I broke the rhythm. ‘Come on, have a drink and blow your nose.’

She did as I said, numbly, her face muddy with misery.

There was little more conversation.

Naomi was lost in her thoughts, trying to disentangle what we’d said.

‘Suzanne’s coming later,’ I said eventually.

‘I don’t want her to.’ Naomi’s face crumpled. ‘I don’t want to see her today, Mum.’

‘Okay, I’ll tell her you’re not feeling up to it.’

She cried again as we hugged goodbye. ‘I can’t believe it, it’s unreal.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. There was only one crumb of comfort I could offer her, a tiny thing to help her feel less terrible. ‘It was an accident,’ I said, ‘an awful accident.’

‘But it was my fault,’ she said, distraught.

All I could say was, ‘We don’t know all the ins and outs yet.’

And she wiped her eyes and slowly shook her head in defeat.

As I waited at traffic lights on my way to work one day, two and a half weeks after the accident, a funeral party drove past; it wasn’t far to Southern Cemetery. I saw the flowers in the hearse first, spelling out the name LILY, then took in the white coffin. My stomach fell. A long, slow procession of cars followed. When the lights changed, I stalled the car, broke into a sweat, cursing as the driver behind impatiently blared his horn at me.

My heart went out to them, her poor, poor parents. I pictured their devastation. The empty bedroom, the absence of Lily that must feel like the withdrawal of air or the loss of light. Aching arms where she should be, missing her laughter and her foibles and the sight of her entering a room. The loss that would last for ever. The wound in their hearts that would never heal over. A yoke of grief. Not to be overcome but simply to be borne. And I was bitterly ashamed that there was no word or deed I could gift to lighten the burden of sorrow. It was not fair. It was so very cruel.

LITTLE LILY LAID TO REST. The front page of the local free paper. I felt the slap of recognition when I saw the photograph. A picture of her grieving family in their black clothes. The parents were the couple I had noticed with the policeman outside the A&E department on the evening of the accident: he’d had his arm around her; her head was buried in his chest.

The article included a statement from the police: The investigation into the accident is ongoing and our sympathy is with the family at this difficult time. The piece concluded with a quote from her father, Simon Vasey: Lily was the light of our lives, a friendly, cheeky, loving little girl who completed our family. It is beyond devastating to lose her like this, but we hope that one day we will see justice done .

I took a breath. Felt a wellspring of grief for them, sick and sorry.

Friendly, cheeky, loving. That could have been Naomi. Naomi as she was. I wasn’t sure she was still that girl. This had changed her. There’s often some depression after major surgery, but I didn’t think she’d smiled since it happened. Only the occasional wry half-smile, an expression of resignation or deprecation, not humour, certainly not pleasure or joy.

Naomi

It’s hard to take it in. The terrible thing I’ve done. I feel filthy. Disgusted at myself, and still incredulous. The ugly truth is lodged in my head like a dense, dark lump. A clot or a tumour, heavy as lead. I keep repeating it like a chant. I crashed into a little girl and killed her. I crashed into a little girl and killed her. It sets off a current of panic that swirls and surges through me. If only I could run away, run from it all, outpace it until I was on safe ground and free of the sin, free of the deed. How can I ever make this right? Why was I so stupid? Why was I driving too fast? Why?

I wish I could freeze everything and turn back time and change something so I’d never got in the car and put my foot on the pedal. Change the past so we’d missed the barbecue. Or even that Alex didn’t get the job so we weren’t feeling up to going. Or go further back so I’d never met Alex, never been to uni, never got my A levels. I’d give all that up to save the little girl. I know I’m howling for the moon. What can I do? What can I possibly do?

Carmel

‘I think we should talk to a solicitor,’ I said to Phil.

‘What?’ He set down his fork.

‘Get some advice for Naomi. They’re likely to charge her, the police,’ I said. ‘It’d be better to talk to someone now rather than wait. She could go to prison.’ I’d lost my appetite, stared at the slivers of vegetables on my plate, the grains of rice stained by curry sauce. ‘I could ask at work,’ I said. Plenty of our clients needed legal representation. ‘Evie might know someone.’

‘What about Hugh’s bloke?’ he said. ‘Don, he does criminal law.’ Hugh was the saxophone player in Phil’s band. We’d met Don a few times, but like me, he didn’t go to their gigs very often any more.

‘Try him,’ I said, ‘and if it’s not his sort of thing, I’ll call Evie.’

Phil got Don’s number from Hugh and managed to get through to him on his first go. I found it hard to sit still as I listened to him sum up the situation, so I ended up pacing round the room, stopping each time Phil spoke to hear what he said.

‘Still in hospital… Yes, for some time, they say. Next Monday? Yes… If they move her to another ward I can drop you a text… Thanks, that’s great.’

‘Well?’

‘He wants to see her. He does deal with driving offences and he wants to find out what her instructions are. And he says if the police show up before then she’s not to talk to them without him there.’

‘Okay.’

Phil started clearing up and I turned on my laptop. There were dozens of emails in my inbox but I hadn’t the will to open any. Instead I googled death and driving , the page of links loaded and I went to the criminal justice website.

My eyes flew over the definitions, and the table of sentencing guidelines. Death by dangerous driving, twelve months where there are no aggravating circumstances. Seven to fourteen years for the most serious culpability. Further down the page a list of aggravating factors, among them alcohol and excessive speed.

Phil came and looked over my shoulder. I heard him sigh as he saw what I was reading. ‘Up to fourteen years,’ I said.

He put his arm round my shoulders. ‘Worst-case scenario,’ he said, ‘if she gets convicted. She might get off. We’ve no idea. Don’t think the worst.’

‘I know.’ I closed the laptop. ‘You’re right. And if her driving was fine when Monica passed them, then perhaps there was a problem with the car, with the accelerator or the brakes.’

‘Go down to the river?’ he suggested. ‘It’s lovely out there.’

There’s a short cut behind the school playing fields and then it’s a fifteen-minute walk to the Swan, a little riverside pub that has a large beer garden facing the water. The place itself was surprisingly quiet, although there were joggers and dog-walkers and people strolling and cyclists passing in a steady stream.

We stopped for a drink, had two. Hoppy beers brewed on the premises. The midges were out and I felt a nip or two on my neck. Phil never suffered. The surface of the river looked serene, silky, a shining ribbon of brown rippling between the banks. But this whole stretch had been used as a dumping ground for years. Building waste, litter, chemicals and rubbish chucked into it. Even after three decades of sustained clean-up, there would be all sorts lurking down there: old mattresses and paint tins, slabs of concrete, car wheels, shopping trolleys and bread trays.