Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“Oh, shit,” said Barney, “oh, for fuck’s sake. Oh, Emma. Emma, I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean anything I just said. Here…”

And suddenly, he was hugging her, and she was smiling up at him and hugging him back, and then she took his hand again and led him through the door and into a small room where Toby lay on a high, hard bed, struggling to smile through the confusion of his anaesthetic.

“Hello, you old fucker,” said Barney. “You really put us through it this morning, didn’t you?” And then he couldn’t say any more, because he really did start to cry, tears running down his face; and he realised both Emma and the nurse were smiling at him, and he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose very hard and said, “Well done, mate. Bloody well done.”

Freeman and Rowe had been to interview Mary Bristow that day; expecting a dotty old lady they had found themselves confronted by a razor-clear mind, and an extremely lucid account of what she had seen of the accident and, indeed, the road that day.

“Some terrible driving. Two or three lorries cutting in and out of the slow lane, moving in front of people. I have to say they were all foreign number plates. I found that reassuring, in a way. At least our drivers seem to know how to behave.”

“Any more particular cases of bad driving that you recall?”

“Well, I did notice several white vans; they’re supposed to be the worst, aren’t they? Anyway, one did particularly strike me; he’d been sitting very close behind us, and then shot past, and I noticed that he didn’t even have his back doors properly fastened. They were just held together with a bit of rope; it seemed very unwise.”

“Indeed. Did you notice any writing or anything like that on his van?”

“There were three letters on one of the back doors, obviously part of a name, but not in sequence. If you see what I mean. That is to say, not a complete word or name. The rest had come off. It wasn’t at all a well-looked-after vehicle.”

“And can you remember what the letters were?”

“I can, as a matter of fact.”

These old parties: amazing, thought Freeman. He supposed it was surviving the blitz or something…

“Yes,” she said, “they were W-D-T. In that order. I remember because we used to play a game with the children, making up words from car number plates. I’m sure you know the sort of thing. I mean B and T and W would obviously be Bristow. Although proper names were not allowed, of course.”

“Of course,” said Freeman. He was beginning to feel rather confused himself.

“So, yes, I still do it rather automatically. Ah, WDT, I thought-War Department. We used to get countless letters from them, or rather my husband did; they figured rather large in our lives at the time. I don’t suppose it’s much help, but-”

“It could be a help, Mrs. Bristow. I don’t suppose you were playing the same game with the number plate?”

“Oh-no. I’m so sorry. Not his. Some of the others, but-”

“Well, never mind. And at what point in the journey did you see this van? Shortly before the crash, or-”

“It was a good fifteen minutes before. And he was going very fast. He would have been well ahead-unless he stopped, of course, but it was after the service station; I do know that.”

“So you stopped at the service station-that would have been what time?”

“Oh, about three fifteen. We moved off in less than ten minutes. My driver-and I would like to stress that he drove quite beautifully, in the inside lane at my request, all the way-needed some chewing gum and I offered to buy it for him, as I needed to… well, to go to the ladies’. I…” She hesitated. “I feel a little guilty now. About something I did.”

“Oh, yes? I’m sure it wasn’t too bad.”

“Well, I hope not. A young man-who I now know was the poor bridegroom, and of course he was wearing the striped trousers and so on, although not his tailcoat-he was in a terrible hurry, and he asked if he could go ahead of everyone in the queue. I’m afraid I… well, I wouldn’t let him. I said he should wait his turn, that we were all in a hurry for various reasons. I do hope that didn’t affect the course of events at all. It must have delayed him, perhaps made him drive too fast. One is so aware of how tiny things can lead to greater ones. What is that called, something about butterflies…”

“The butterfly effect,” said Rowe. “Apparently a butterfly can flap its wings in the jungle somewhere and cause a hurricane three days later…”

“Perhaps we should move on,” said Sergeant Freeman. “Can you give us your account of what you saw of the collision?”

“Well, this is where I really am going to disappoint you. I fell asleep, you see, and woke up as we stopped and the car behind drove into us. It was very shocking, and of course if we hadn’t been in the inside lane, it could have been very much more serious…”

She was silent for a moment; her eyes filled with tears.

“Take your time,” Freeman said gently. “Just tell us what you remember.”

She proceeded to describe with great lucidity the position of her car related to all the others near her, and to the lorry, and what she had observed.

“Pity all our witnesses aren’t that clear in their accounts,” said Rowe, as they drove away.

“Indeed. Those letters might be a help. I’m certainly beginning to want to talk to that van driver. Maybe we could get him mentioned on the TV programme as well.”

Oh, my God. Oh, my God…

Just as well God hadn’t answered that particular prayer, then. The one about the read-through being cancelled. They still hadn’t finally cast the grandmother’s friend and wanted her to do a read-through with the two they were down to, and she’d tried to tell Linda she couldn’t do it. But Linda had told her to get a grip, and thank goodness she had or she’d never have set eyes on… on Him. Not God, but still worthy of a capital letter. The most unbelievably gorgeous bloke she’d seen for… well, she’d ever seen…

Who was he; what was he doing here…?

And he was actually- God -actually walking towards her, smiling at her, saying, “ Georgia?”

“Yes,” she said, and her voice sounded odd, slightly squeaky.

“Thought so. I’m Merlin. I’m the second assistant director on Moving Away . So we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other, once shooting starts.”

“Great!” Not the cleverest answer. But what could you say that was cool, but still friendly, in response to such a discovery? A discovery that you’d be working with someone who looked like a dollop of Orlando Bloom, a smidgeon of Johnny Depp, maybe even a sliver of Pete Doherty at his most savoury? Tall, he was, and very thin, with almost black spiky hair and dark, dark brown eyes and a rather narrow face, and really great clothes: tight black jeans and combat boots and a white collarless shirt…

“Great,” she said again, rather feebly.

“Yeah, it looks like it’ll be fun. Casting director’s been raving about you.”

Hmm. Bit of a luvvie. But then… what was wrong with that? They were in the luvvie profession, weren’t they? Her included. In which case…

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled. He smiled back. He had absolutely perfect teeth. “I’m pretty excited about it, I can tell you. Still pinching myself about getting it.”

“Have you worked with Bryn before?”

“No.”

“I have. He’s a great director. And he makes it fun too. Anyway, come on over, Georgia; everyone’s here.”

He steered her towards a group chatting together like lifelong friends. She recognised some of them-Tony, the casting director; Bryn Merrick, the director, of course; but not a rather scarily efficient-looking person called Trish, who was the producer-and smiled politely, moving round the group shaking hands, smiling nervously, saying how thrilled she was to be part of the production. She felt very shaky, partly because of being with all these brilliant people, partly because Merlin was… touching her. Even if it was only on her shoulder. Well, you had to start somewhere…