Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

Shortly before four a.m. I wake to the sound of a bird. This confuses me; I’m sure the bird is in some kind of distress, has been stolen from its nest in the middle of the night. But no; as I listen, I realise it is simply singing. It seems like another lifetime when I heard birdsong at four a.m. It is bright by seven, the air is still, no wind, no rain, it is pleasant, Mother Nature looking as though butter wouldn’t melt, while around the country people deal with the devastation and destruction she heaped on them during the night.

With a cup of coffee in hand I survey my front garden, glad that I had laid most of the turf when I did. The remaining rolls of grass lie destroyed, broken and ripped apart, caught under the wheel of my car.

The moment you see me, your door opens and you cross the road, as though you’ve been waiting for me to open the door all night.

‘Is he okay?’ you ask, concern etched across your face. I genuinely feel sorry for you.

‘He’s still asleep. He was up all night being sick.’

You nod as you digest that, a faraway look on your face. ‘Good. Good.’

‘Good?’

‘Means he’ll be less eager to do it again.’

I survey the broken grass scattered around the ground.

‘All your hard work,’ you say.

I shrug, as if it’s no big deal, embarrassed still that you witnessed my hard work, which could also have been described as a complete meltdown. My garden is flat but slopes to a lower level, which runs to the side and back of my house. The second level is paved in the same stone as the driveway, but the slope is an ugly mess, devoid of grass. I hadn’t managed to do that part. Another job not finished. I think of Larry and I get hot and angry inside.

‘You could make a rockery with those,’ you say, indicating the broken stones in the skip. ‘My grandparents had a hill in their garden. They turned the entire thing into a rockery. Planted in between it. I could get Fionn to help. They’re probably heavy.’

My head runs through a dozen sarcastic, ungrateful things to say to that, frankly, ludicrous idea, but I bite my tongue.

You are looking past me into the house, hoping for an invitation.

‘You should let him sleep it off,’ I say.

‘I know. I would, but his mum is coming soon.’

‘Oh. When?’

You look at your watch. ‘Fifteen minutes. He’s got a rugby match.’

‘Not a great day for a hangover.’ That’s one more thing Belvedere won’t be too happy about. ‘What happened?’ I don’t want to know, but at the same time I do.

‘I was supposed to pick him up from rugby yesterday. He wasn’t there when I arrived. Went out with his friends. Came home last night, high as a kite. Well, not high, drunk. I think.’ You frown again then, looking into my house. ‘Started having a go at me.’

‘Look, we’ve all been there,’ I say, remembering the times I’d overdone it as a teenager. Why I offer you solace is beyond me. You, the man who’s rolled home having had too much to drink more times than he’s had a cooked breakfast, but you seem to appreciate the gesture. ‘Look,’ I clear my throat, ‘I still have that letter—’

Suddenly Amy’s car pulls up in front of your house. You stiffen.

‘He’s in the spare bedroom, upstairs on the left.’

‘Thanks.’ You head into the house.

I watch her go into your house and the door closes and all is silent. Moments later, you come down the stairs, closely followed by Fionn, who looks shocking. A brown-black bruise on his nose, dried blood caked around it. Despite my best efforts to clean him up, it must have bled again during the night. He looks white and drawn, exhausted and hungover. As soon as the light from the open door hits him, he winces. His clothes are crumpled and I’m sure I’ll find the NYPD T-shirt hasn’t been slept in. He shuffles along behind you and your wife appears at the front door of your house with her hands on her hips.

I don’t want to see any more. I don’t want to be drawn in to give my side of the story, I want to stay out of your life, but somehow I keep being pulled in. Once indoors, I listen nervously for the doorbell, afraid you’ll call over to continue the battle here, but then I see an image on the television which makes me freeze.

It’s the little girl. From the hotel yesterday. The four-year-old wispy blonde with her pixie face, blue eyes, button nose, who wanted to make a toast. The television is muted so I could listen out for Fionn, so I don’t know what they’re saying, but it can’t be good. Her photo is followed by an image of her mother. Big smiles from both of them, the little girl – Lily, I recall – is sitting on her mother’s knee, her mother’s arms wrapped around her daughter; they look at the camera as though somebody has said something funny. Behind them is a Christmas tree from a few weeks ago. And then there is an image of a car and a truck on the motorway, the car crushed, the truck overturned, and I have to sit down. I turn up the volume and listen to the facts – both dead, the driver of the truck critical – and I am wracked with grief.

When the doorbell rings I ignore it, still listening to the news. It rings again. And again. Still crying, and angry about the intrusion, I charge to the door and pull it open. I am confronted with three startled faces.

‘I’m sorry,’ Amy, your wife, says. ‘I’ve called at a bad time.’ The anger I sense from her immediately dissipates.

‘No … I just … I just saw some bad news.’

They look over my shoulder. I’ve left the door to the living room open and the television is still switched to the news. ‘Oh, I know. Isn’t it awful? They only live around the corner – Steven Warren’s wife.’ She looks at you. ‘Did you hear? Rebecca died. And the little girl …’

‘Lily,’ I say, her name catching in my throat.

‘I hadn’t heard,’ you say.

We’re all lost in our silent thoughts for a moment. Fionn, thinking this is his cue to speak, blurts out in a croaky voice, ‘Eh, thanks for last night.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I tell him, unsure what exactly Amy believes went down.

Relieved to be out of the firing line, Fionn wanders back across the road to the house, dragging his feet, his crumpled trousers dropping low beneath his boxers. You and your wife are still looking past me at the television. Amy is actually watching it, you are trying to figure something else out entirely.

‘I saw them yesterday afternoon – Rebecca and Lily,’ I say their names as if I know them, which feels like a lie, but it’s the truth.

‘It happened yesterday afternoon. You must have been one of the last to see them,’ Amy says, and that statement does something to me. It’s not an accusation, I know that, it’s not really anything, she is merely thinking aloud, but it gives me a sense of responsibility. I’m not sure what to do with that. It’s as if I have some form of ownership over them, over the last moment of their lives. Should I share it with people, so that the right people have the moment with them that I had? Put it back to the way it should have been. I am over-analysing this, I know, while you are standing there, looking at me, but I suppose that is what shock does. And I am tired, having not slept very much for fear Fionn would collapse, hit his head, choke on his own vomit, or up and leave in the middle of the night and then I’d be in trouble for losing a minor.

‘Matt, you know them too.’ Amy turns to you.

‘I don’t really—’

‘You do, you used to play badminton with him.’

Of all the things I could have heard, this makes me raise an eyebrow at you.

‘A long time ago.’

‘He always asks for you.’ She turns to me. ‘Matt will go round there with you,’ she offers.