Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

Phil stroked my arm and I smiled at him. My back was aching from the tension of the last few days and fatigue rinsed through me. The beer was making me feel sleepy. ‘I love you,’ I told him.

He gripped my hand, kissed my knuckles. I rubbed at my neck; another prick from one of the gnats.

We walked back in the twilight, holding hands all the way. I caught the scent of barbecued meat at one point, plunging me back to that Sunday and the sweet happiness of the party. And on one of the cul-de-sacs near our house, two kids played out on their bikes. Just the sight of them was like a cold shower, extinguishing the tiny glow of peace I’d had in the simple pleasure of the walk and the quiet waterside drinks in Phil’s company.

Phil put some music on when we got home, an old blues compilation that seemed to suit our mood, Billie Holiday and Muddy Waters making magic out of misery. I concentrated on writing a list of all the things that needed sorting out while Naomi was in hospital: everything from notifying the Jobcentre that she was incapacitated to checking that her bank account wasn’t going to go over her overdraft limit and land her with mounting debts. I’d check her appointments diary, in case there were arrangements to cancel, and work out what to do about her phone contract, given that the phone had been destroyed when the car caught fire.

I assumed Alex would be dealing with the car insurance and so on, as he was the registered owner, though Naomi was a named driver. Their premium was astronomical, as they were young drivers. It made some sort of sick sense now, though, Naomi one of the faces behind the statistics about risks and demographics.

I went up to her room and gathered together Alex’s clothes so I could return them. Would he be fit enough to start his new job? If he was, would there be any problem with the job offer given that he had been in the accident? I drew the curtains, thinking about it. They couldn’t penalize him for being a passenger, surely. I remembered reading about one case where a passenger had been prosecuted because he had known the driver was over the limit and failed to stop him.

But Alex was adamant that Naomi was sober; he’d never have got into the car if he’d thought she was pissed.

I woke at three in the morning, slathered in sweat, my pyjamas twisted into tourniquets round my legs, my heart pounding. The tatters of the dream fading like smoke. An ancient prison cell, underground, dank, dark, a stone slab. The walls wet with seepage, the smell of earth and decay. Naomi there, her pale fingers clenched round the bars at the front, her face contorted and wild. Screaming ‘Let me out, let me out!’ On the slab behind her a child, still and waxen, lips and eyelids deepest blue, limbs mottled. A doll child. Head turning, eyes opening, empty sockets, savage black holes staring at me, swallowing me.

Naomi

He’s here! Alex. He’s here. There are bruises on his face and a cut over his eye and he comes on a crutch, with one arm and one foot in plaster, and sick gathers at the back of my throat.

He says my name, like he still loves me, but all I can say is sorry, sorry, sorry. ‘Sorry, I never meant for this to happen.’

‘I know that,’ he says. ‘Don’t be daft.’

‘The little girl,’ I say, because it seems important to be honest and say it out loud.

‘I know.’ He looks so sad, his mouth turning down at the corners. He manages to sit down, and the crutch crashes to the floor with a clatter and the woman in the far bed makes a huffing noise, complaining.

I wish the curtains were drawn round the bed and we could have some privacy, but I can’t do it. I can’t even stand up yet, and I can’t ask Alex to hop about. He can barely walk.

‘You pulled me clear.’ My voice breaks on the last word and I rub at my eyes. There’s no point in bawling. I need to talk to him, to apologize.

‘You remember?’ he says. He picks up my hand, traces the line of my thumb. There are flecks and marks on his hand, cuts healing.

‘No, none of it really. I’m so glad you’re okay… well…’ Okay doesn’t quite cover it. He’s all bandaged and broken.

‘Me too – you,’ he says. ‘They’re discharging me, so I must be doing all right.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘for… you know – and I’m so sorry. I’d do anything…’ I run out of words, my throat too tight, and I can’t stop the tears. I reach for the tissues. Then I have a drink. ‘Sorry,’ I say again.

He nods, his eyes shining. I’ve never seen him cry and he doesn’t now. This is probably as close as it gets. Some people are like that, not just men either. Suzanne doesn’t cry, not really, not that big, messy sobbing and letting go and her nose going all red and snotty. Sometimes she’ll get like maybe three tears and they sort of squirt out; more like tears of fury when she’s spitting mad, and that’s your lot. Mum cries like a tap. But she must be able to turn it off for work. Lots of the situations she deals with are really sad and she’d be no use to anyone if she went to pieces all the time. Dad rarely cries, but when he does, his eyes go pink and he makes a strange noise in his throat.

‘I can’t remember anything,’ I say. ‘The last thing I remember was you telling me about the job.’ I have a clutch of anxiety then. ‘They’ll still take you, won’t they? Is there a physical or anything?’

‘Should be okay,’ he says, knitting his fingers through mine, ‘though I might need to negotiate a later start date, put it back a couple of weeks.’

At least that was going to be okay, then.

‘And you kissed me, I remember that – were we arriving or leaving? We were at the side of their house.’

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘we’d just got there.’

‘That’s all there is,’ I say. I take a breath, feel the stabbing pain in my side. ‘Was I going too fast – speeding?’ I wait for him to answer. He squeezes my hand.

‘Maybe a bit, yeah.’

The guy with the tea trolley pitches up and I feel like asking him to come back later. But we accept a cup each, and once he moves away, it feels safe to talk again. ‘I can’t have seen her, can I? Did I say anything?’

He shakes his head, frowning. I can tell how hard it is for him to talk about it; it’s not just me. ‘No, it happened so quickly. One minute we were coming out of the bend and sort of skidding, and then this massive bang. The bike ended up on the railings by the school.’

And the girl? Oh my God. The image of her impaled, like a rag doll. I have to know. ‘And her?’

‘She landed in the middle of the road. I didn’t really see her after.’ He swallows. ‘We hit the gatepost and flipped over on to the roof. It was so fast.’ He pauses.

‘Who called the ambulance?’

‘Me. There was no one else around. You weren’t breathing,’ he says.

It must have been so frightening for him.

I think about it after he has gone. The car on fire, roaring with flames, like a special-effects stunt, the little girl and me on the road. Alex all alone, no one driving up or walking past – like some apocalypse movie.

Carmel

Phil told Naomi we’d found a solicitor to come and talk to her.

‘What have the police said?’ she asked. ‘What’ll happen?’

‘Nothing yet. We don’t know exactly,’ Phil said. ‘That’s why we’ve asked Don to come and see you. He’s an expert, he deals with this sort of thing all the time; he’ll have an idea of what to expect and what to do about it.’

She put her hand to her head, her fingers knotted in her hair. The bandage was gone, the bruising round her eyes faded to mustard yellow. The big bruise on the left of her neck by the collarbone sling was more vivid. The graze on her cheek a large rust-coloured scab. ‘I keep thinking it can’t be true,’ she said. ‘I’ll wake up and it’ll all go away. But it won’t.’