Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

I thought he loved me.

Carmel

My first feelings were shock and sadness. Alex had lied: from the moment of impact he’d told everyone that Naomi was driving, he’d blamed everything on her. It seemed so callous, so selfish, and I found it hard to equate with what I knew of him.

I pictured his face that day at the hospital. The effort of telling the story. A story that was a sham, smoke and mirrors. On the heels of my sorrow came a roaring tide of anger. Not content with the devastation of the accident, with the cost of a nine-year-old’s life, he had then allowed Naomi to be pilloried, causing the rift with Suzanne, her own guilt and shame, her depression and unhappiness, her attempted suicide. And his bloody mother had held his hand every step of the way. Prepared to sacrifice my daughter to save her son.

It was like turning a picture the right way up. Or seeing writing reflected in a mirror, impossible to decipher until you face the other way and see the words plain and clear. The moment when a puzzle gives up its secret: the little twist that releases the metal ring, the answer that completes a crossword, the rotation that solves the pattern on the cube.

Naomi drinking without any caution, believing Alex was driving them home. Alex apparently declining alcohol with a glass full of vodka and orange. People assuming he’d drive. And he had.

We did finally go upstairs. Phil was practically foaming at the mouth. ‘That little shit,’ he said as he got into bed.

‘I guess once he’d said it, there was no going back. He was trapped.’

‘Is that an excuse?’

‘No, just an observation,’ I said. ‘And he must have told Monica the truth pretty early on. She told us about passing them in the car and tooting the horn before we’d even seen him, remember? Setting herself up as a witness. Backing up his story.’

‘How did he ever think he’d get away with it?’

‘He did for long enough. Oh Phil, what a mess. Poor Naomi.’

I shifted over to his side and we kissed. I wrestled myself into a comfortable position, my hand on his chest, taking comfort from the beating of his heart.

Naomi

We’ve been waiting all afternoon for Don to call, and when he’s still not been in touch by half past five, I ring him. It goes to voicemail. ‘What if the man didn’t come?’ I say to Mum. ‘Or he’s messed up his statement?’

‘I think Don would have told us,’ she says, but she doesn’t sound very definite.

We’re sitting down to eat when the door goes and Dad brings Don in.

‘I wanted to come in person,’ he says.

My heart flip-flops. It’s bad news. It must be.

‘It’s been a pretty frantic day,’ he says.

I bite my cheek hard and hold my breath.

‘I presented the eyewitness account to the barrister early this afternoon. I also put to him the statement from Alice about Alex agreeing to be the driver and the medical evidence that points to Naomi being the passenger. He felt it amounted to an overwhelming challenge to the prosecution case.’

My eyes prickle. Mum glances at me, blinking rapidly. Dad swallows.

‘The CPS case officer saw us just before the end of the day. She agreed. There are some formalities to be gone through, but all the charges against you will be dropped without prejudice.’

I gasp, a cough and a cry all mixed up.

‘Dropped?’ says Dad.

‘Yes, the charges will be withdrawn; Naomi will be in the clear.’

‘And Alex?’ says Mum.

‘Up to the CPS. But there will be further investigation and I’d say there’s a good chance of him standing trial himself. Same charges, plus attempting to pervert the course of justice. Which his mother may also face.’

It’s all I can do to nod that I understand.

‘The bastard!’ Dad thumps the table and we all jump. ‘He’d have watched you go to prison in his place. The little shit! And that fucking woman!’

Mum shakes her head, her hand pressed to her mouth.

‘Everything you’ve been through,’ Dad says, and he pulls me to him and hugs me.

‘Oh thank God,’ Mum says. ‘Oh Don, thank you so much.’

‘And you,’ Dad says, waving his hand at Mum, ‘like a bloody terrier.’

Mum pinches the top of her nose and says, ‘Don’t, you’ll make me cry.’

It’s weird, this atmosphere of relief, of celebration. But it’s not that simple. How will they feel? The Vaseys? One minute they’ve got their villain and a day in court, a chance for justice to be done, and the next it’s ripped away.

Once Don has left, we finally eat and then Dad puts Bob Marley’s Catch a Fire on and strums along to it. It’s been played forever in this house. Mum rings Evie and Suzanne and texts some other people.

‘Why don’t you call Becky?’ she says.

But I’m not ready for it yet. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I say.

I think of how right they are together, Mum and Dad – how I can’t ever imagine them splitting up. And how Suzanne has Jonty, who adores her. And Alex? Oh Alex. I thought he was the one. The love of my life. How wrong can you be?

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, coffee and oranges and toast. My stomach turns over.

‘How are you feeling?’ Mum’s up already. Dad’s gone to work.

‘I’m going to see Alex.’

Her eyes flare with alarm. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I can come if-’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should wait,’ she doesn’t give up, ‘until we know what’s happening with the new investigation.’

‘No!’

She gives a little sigh and starts clearing the table.

I make a cup of tea and take it upstairs to drink.

The photos that used to be up on the wall are in the bottom drawer of my desk. There are tons more on my laptop, but I’ve not looked at any of them in months. This handful were my favourites.

One of Alex, close up; he’d just turned to the camera and I snapped him. He’s laughing, his eyes bright, and he’s beautiful. I trace his face with my finger.

There’s one of us on the flume at Alton Towers, screaming our heads off, drenched. And one in a group, on our birthday, his and mine, at a club in Newcastle. He bought me the turquoise dress – I dragged him round all afternoon trying things on – and I got him a watch.

And the picture of him at the beach. His hair was longer then, and it was a grey day, windy. He’s not smiling; he looks thoughtful, his eyes wrinkled a bit because of the wind and his mouth open just a little and the sands and pine trees behind him.

Finally the blurry shot of us kissing, one that Becky took at a party.

Are they all lies, too?

It’s cold outside, and bright. The glare burns my eyes. I should have worn my shades. I can feel the bite in the air with each breath. Maybe I’m more sensitive to it since my lung collapsed.

Under the blanket of the medicine my nerves are shredded. There’s a hum at the back of my skull like a fly’s trapped in there, a bluebottle, and the dizziness forces me to walk close to the walls and hedges and take extra care stepping off the kerbs.

There’s a walk to the bus stop and then a walk at the other end.

It should be summer, but the wind is from Siberia or somewhere.

My mouth goes dry as I turn down his street. There are loads of flowers in pots and baskets outside the house, just like before. I used to think his mum was a really good gardener, but Alex said she got everything already planted up from the supermarket or the garden centre and just chucked the lot when they faded.

The car’s not there, the Honda; he must be out. Then I kick myself. The car was totalled. Idiot!