Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Have you time for a coffee?’

‘Yes, if…’ I looked at the girl.

‘I’m leaving Lauren here, work experience,’ Julia said.

I waited while she said her goodbyes to Lauren, then we crossed to the nearest coffee shop further down the high street and took our drinks to a quiet corner at the back.

‘How is Naomi?’

Broken, I thought. But I tried to be less pessimistic. ‘Still reeling; she was quite badly injured.’

Julia nodded. I imagined Suzanne had told her some of what was going on.

‘And of course with, you know…’ It was still so hard to frame the words, to release them into the air, stark and forbidding. With the death… with the little girl dead. I shook my head, ‘She still can’t really remember anything,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping to find out stuff for her, talk to people who were at the barbecue and see if I can help her get her memory back. Did you see much of her?’

‘A bit. We talked about festivals,’ Julia said. ‘She and Alex couldn’t afford to go to anything and she was telling me how you and Phil took the two of them when they were younger.’

‘For years. I’m getting a bit past it now. I like my own bed. But Phil would sleep on a bed of nails if he got to hear some decent bands. Do you remember anything else?’

‘Her arriving with the champagne?’

But I’d seen that myself.

‘What happens now?’ Julia said.

I told her about the legal stages. She was sympathetic and non-judgemental while other people were avoiding us. I wondered where that came from.

I returned to the party. ‘What time were you there till?’

‘About half four. Collette was getting ratty and Fraser had promised to give Neville over the way a hand. Did you ever meet Neville?’

I frowned, not sure who she meant.

‘The dog people.’

I smiled. ‘Oh, right.’ The neighbours immediately across the road, in one of the new houses, trained dogs and had a kennels half a mile away.

‘They were moving, Fraser was giving them a lift.’

‘What are the new people like?’

‘Not seen them much yet. Youngish, out at work all hours. Makes you wonder if we’ve got it all wrong. There’s millions with no work and those that have jobs are working themselves to breaking point.’

Walking home, I considered who to talk to next, who else Naomi might have socialized with between five, when we’d left, and eight, when she had.

Naomi

There’s a saying somewhere, China or India, that if you save a person’s life you are responsible for them for the rest of your days. Which seems a pretty heavy-duty burden and might put you off in the first place. And it’s beginning to feel like that is how it is between me and Alex.

He visits and it’s as if he thinks we can go on like before. I don’t know. The accident has poisoned everything. It’s this horrible event that’s there, a dense shadow over our heads.

I can’t shift the guilt inside me, and the nicer Alex is, the worse I feel. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him. Why did I ever think we were right for each other? He’s got an amazing degree, he’s got ambition and a job to go to, and I’m just not in the same league. Imagine it, when he’s hanging around with all the legal types, going for drinks after work and staying up late cramming his textbooks, and I’m in a call centre or stacking shelves (if I’m lucky) or behind bars in prison (if I’m not).

Carmel

As I was starting work, an evening shift, one of the community social workers I’d not met before called in to follow up on a client.

The social worker, Ricky Clarke, had an easy way about him. Late twenties, a local lad, he was relaxed and friendly. I warmed to him. We covered what we needed to, then as he was leaving he paused and said, ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking, but I think you used to know my mum. Geraldine Clarke, was O’Dwyer.’

Good God! Petey’s sister. ‘Yes!’

‘And my uncle-’

‘Petey.’

‘Yeah, he was in a band…’ he said, sounding uncertain.

‘That’s right, the Blaggards, with my husband Phil.’ Geraldine, known as Dino. This was her son. Oh God. I was smiling, but suddenly I found it painful to remember and I didn’t know how much he’d been told. He was tiny when it happened. ‘Say hello to your mum,’ I said. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s good, yeah. I will.’ He grinned, and I saw a sudden flash of Petey in the way he tilted his head. Then he left.

Petey . Feeling shaken, I sat down.

He’d moved in with Dino in 1983. She was the one member of his family we’d all met, as she was closest in age to Petey and came to quite a few gigs. But she wouldn’t give the drums house room. She had a new baby. So the kit stayed at the shop.

He’d been living with her almost a year when it happened. We’d seen him on the Saturday. The Smiths were on at the Hacienda and we’d had a brilliant night. Phil and me, Ged and his girlfriend, and Petey. We walked partway home, oblivious to the steady rain, and stopped for a curry on the main drag in Rusholme. Ged and his girlfriend left and the three of us went back to Platt Lane. We stayed up another couple of hours, drinking and smoking and talking about all sorts. Phil was excited by the idea of setting up a gig for the Blaggards at the Capri Ballroom further down the road.

The next day was dry but clouded over, a hangover-type day. We ate sausages and beans for breakfast, drank loads of coffee and got smashed. Petey came to the park, where we had a chaotic game of frisbee and got stared at and called names by a bunch of scrappy kids.

He went off to get the bus from there. He had a loping walk, always had his hands in his pockets and leant forward as if he was struggling into a headwind. When he reached the end of Platt Lane, he turned and raised a fist, an ebullient wave, and we waved back, jumping and larking about. We were still kids, really, twenty-three and twenty-four. So young.

Dino rang the shop on the Monday morning. I was upstairs getting ready for work, on the rota for a double sleepover at the children’s home and intending to go shopping for some food before then.

Phil came into the room, his face ashen.

‘Phil?’ A shiver ran through me.

His mouth trembled as he spoke. ‘It’s Petey, he’s dead. Been killed.’

‘What!’

‘Run over.’

‘Oh my God. Where… when?’

‘Last night, Regent Road.’ One of the major roads in Salford. ‘The guy stopped. They breathalysed him, apparently. He was drunk.’

‘Petey. Oh, fuck.’ I dropped the top I was ironing and began to cry.

The shock was overwhelming.

I wondered who the driver was. Some flashy business guy who’d been drinking at one of the private members’ clubs or entertaining clients before leaving for home? Or a local lad tanked up on cheap cider? Was the driver on his own? Was he hurt? The lack of any detail was infuriating.

I still went into work, muddled through in a daze.

A couple of days later I rang Dino to ask about the funeral arrangements. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I told her. ‘We all are.’ The news had spread quickly around our circle of friends and acquaintances.

‘We’ve had the police round again,’ she said. ‘They say Petey walked into the traffic on purpose.’

‘What?’ I thought I’d misheard.

‘He walked into the road and just stood there. He wanted it to happen.’ Her voice was ragged, tired, hopeless.

‘No,’ I said, my stomach twisting and a shock of cold dropping through me.

‘There were witnesses; they’ve got it on camera, too.’

‘Oh, Dino.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Her voice broke and I got a lump in my throat. I had no answer.