Gillian Jackson - The Accident

Hannah couldn’t breathe; it was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She sat up, her nightdress soaked with perspiration, her jaw stiff and twisted, and her fingers clawing at the sheets. On one level she knew that she was awake and in her bedroom but in the disorientation which so often follows sleep, she was inside her little Ford Focus. The room was hot but she felt as cold as the ice had been on that fateful day.

Was she dreaming, or was she actually remembering those events which her mind had so stubbornly blocked from her consciousness? Looking at the clock, the digits flashed 4.30am and she knew there would be no more sleep that night. The house was silent; the twins must still be sleeping, so the scream, which had been so real to her only moments ago, had probably just been in her head.

When Hannah’s breathing slowed and the blood stopped pounding through her temples, she reached for her prosthesis and pulled it on. She made her way downstairs and into the kitchen where she occupied her trembling hands with the mundane task of making coffee. A shiver ran through her body, and even though the early morning sun had already warmed the kitchen to a comfortable temperature, it was as if ice was running through her veins.

Wrapping her hands around the hot mug soothed her and she began to think rationally, analysing what had just happened. Had it been a dream, or was she remembering the accident? How the hell was she supposed to know the difference? Could it be what they call ‘false memories’ or just a dream based on other people’s accounts of what occurred that day? Her mind was spinning, and she was unsure what to think, what to believe.

As the caffeine reinvigorated her body, her mind began to clear. The images had been too vivid to be only a dream and now as they again played through her mind, Hannah became convinced that she was experiencing a memory.

In her mind’s eye, she saw herself leaving for work that morning, exchanging a few words with Rosie and hurrying into the car, out of the bitter cold weather. These were things no one else could have told her, they must be genuine memories. Up until this ‘dream’ she hadn’t even remembered speaking to Rosie that morning but now she could even recall what their brief exchange had been about and how bad she felt at letting her friend down.

A mental picture of herself, down to what she was wearing that morning, lodged in her mind; she couldn’t have heard that at the inquest. She remembered it all, the panic of being thrust towards the motorway, the unresponsive brakes of the car and the sheer terror of being powerless to prevent the inevitable. The movements of her car felt like a ballet being danced in slow motion, a deadly choreography which she was powerless to stop, but the approaching vehicles on the motorway were travelling at speed.

Hannah braced herself for the collision, her little Ford Focus spinning round as it reached the motorway, and smashing into the back of a lorry. For a split second everything was still. She became suddenly aware of the terrified faces of a man and a woman heading straight towards her, and then everything went black.

It was a memory, a sombre, mournful memory but also a relief. It hadn’t been her fault! The more Hannah thought about it, the more she could see that there was nothing at all she could possibly have done to prevent the sequence of events that had occurred that morning. The control of her car was irrevocably taken out of her hands; she was at the mercy of the elements, as was everyone else involved in the collision. Fate took over, remorseless fate, cruel, harsh, severe.

Hannah couldn’t possibly have prevented the accident and there was nothing she had done to cause it either. It was as if a weight was suddenly lifted from her as she sat at the kitchen table and actually smiled. For the first time since the accident she knew with certitude that she had no culpability in the awful events of that day, a certainty she’d longed for. The knowledge brought with it freedom and she knew that she could now go on living without the burden of guilt and shame which had haunted her since the accident. She was at last released from such debilitating emotions.

Hannah had no idea how long she had sat there but when Sam appeared in the kitchen doorway she grinned at him.

‘It’s only six o’clock, Mum, what are you doing up?’

‘Couldn’t sleep; what’s your excuse?’

‘I’m on early shift at the centre. Any chance of a lift, seeing as how you’re up?’

‘I can think of nothing I’d like to do more than give my handsome son a lift to work! Grab some breakfast while I get dressed!’

It took almost two weeks for Joe’s bruised and swollen face to look anything like normal again. The colours changed from yellow to black, then yellow again and his hip and shoulder were still quite sore. Taking Liffey out was good exercise, although he slowed his pace accordingly, as he didn’t want to seize up and he’d had enough of recuperating after the accident in February.

If he didn’t keep busy, Joe’s thoughts ran away with him. It would be so easy to fall into the trap of self-pity after the dramas which had befallen him of late but he steadfastly refused to go there. The year was certainly turning out like no other he’d ever experienced. Losing Alison was more than enough to bear but David’s murder had also hit him hard.

It was still an ongoing investigation, but the police had charged Pamela with the stabbing and it looked as if it she might even confess. When he received another call from DS Armstrong wanting to interview him again, he could no longer put off a visit to Eastleigh. Joe was hoping that his involvement might simply amount to arranging the funeral, but he was aware there was the matter of the flat to consider.

The drive was uncomfortable as Joe’s hip was still sore but he’d decided to travel after work on Friday night; he’d already taken more time off work than he’d have liked, and the traffic was mercifully light. He’d arranged to meet DS Armstrong at 9.00am on the Saturday; and so he’d booked a room in a Premier Inn for the night.

The hotel was clean and comfortable and surprisingly Joe slept like a baby, thoroughly exhausted.

After a hearty breakfast in hotel restaurant, Joe set off to meet DS Armstrong. There was no police station in Eastleigh, so he travelled the five miles to Southampton Central, where the detective was based. He was greeted cordially and offered coffee, which he accepted gratefully, and then Armstrong began to update him.

‘Mrs Parker has pleaded guilty to manslaughter, her plea being that her mind was disturbed due to her husband’s constant abuse.’

Joe was shocked. ‘Constant abuse? Is she trying to say that David abused her throughout the marriage?’

‘Yes, apparently. She’s citing physical abuse and mental cruelty.’ Armstrong watched Joe carefully for his reaction, and then asked, ‘Do you buy that?’

‘No! I can’t claim to have been close to David, especially in later years, but I’m pretty certain that he wouldn’t have been violent towards her.’

‘You think that, even though he tried to kill you?’

‘I know it seems incongruent, but if you’d told me it was the other way round, that she abused him, I’d find that much easier to believe. During our last encounter, David appeared almost penitent for his actions, she was certainly the more hostile of the two, and I got the distinct impression that she’d been the driving force behind his attempt to kill me.’ Joe couldn’t be certain but that’s the way he’d read it at the time.

‘Sadly impressions count for nothing in a court of law, Mr Parker. Her defence will be thorough and the prosecution are currently looking for witnesses to disprove her story, but rather unsuccessfully, I’m afraid. Your brother and his wife seem to have kept themselves to themselves.’