‘How’s that?’
‘All right, yes.’ These are things we’ve identified to help me get stronger, to avoid any extra pressure.
We have a pact, the psychiatrist and me and Mum and Dad. That if I’m going to hurt myself, I’ll ring one of the numbers on the card or tell someone here.
Mum’s cut back on her shifts so she’s around more. She helps me with some of the Jobcentre stuff when I need it, otherwise they’ll cut my benefit.
The plea and case management hearing at the Crown Court is set for a week on Monday. When I think of that, my heart burns, even with all the tranquillizers. Next week I meet the barrister. Don says he’s very good. I’m not going to give evidence at the trial, but I’ll be there in the dock.
Mum keeps on about it, pretending it’ll be okay. The girl’s family will be there, of course; I expect they’ll all come, including Robin, the one who came to our house and yelled at me.
You’re dead.
Well, I tried.
I found it hard to go past her bedroom door if she was in and it was shut. Especially at bedtime. I decided to be frank with her about it. ‘Naomi, I need to be able to check on you, if I feel worried.’
She looked at me, a whisper of alarm in her expression.
‘If I knock on your door and you answer, that’ll be fine.’
‘Okay.’
‘And if you’re asleep and don’t hear me, I’ll look in on you – if I need to. Just for now.’
She nodded once and her eyes filled with tears and she said, ‘I am sorry, Mum.’
Hugging her, warm and precious, I said, ‘I love you. I love you no matter what you’ve done, no matter what happens. You know that.’
The vigilance, the state of being on alert to any dip in her mood, continued. It was very hard to relax, though my own medication helped me to keep functioning.
The days went on. Our lives went on. One morning I found Naomi in the kitchen, checking the cupboards. ‘I’m going to the shops,’ she said. ‘Are you here for tea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have we got rice?’ She peered in the bottom cupboard. ‘Oh, yes. I think I’ll do chilli.’
‘Great.’
‘Becky rang. I’m going to go with her to look at this hotel.’
‘For the wedding?’ I said.
‘Yes. We’re doing a few and shortlisting them for Steve.’
I glanced at her. ‘Wedding planner now, are you? Steve lost interest?’
‘Think he’s lost the will to live,’ she joked.
There was this ghastly moment as we both heard what she’d said.
‘Oh God,’ she groaned, and shook her head.
And we both smiled and the danger evaporated. It felt like something had shifted. I think the counselling and the medication made a big difference. She was getting stronger, was more active and engaged. But it still felt poignant, precarious, like the last day of a holiday that has to end, or the last visit with an aged relative. Because there was still the trial to come, and a very uncertain future.
My quest had changed from recovering memories for Naomi to trying to establish if anyone had seen them leave the barbecue. And find out why they’d not intervened. Or if Naomi really had fooled everyone, Alex included, by appearing perfectly capable.
Alice, an old friend of Jonty’s from childhood, was Ollie’s godmother or the lay equivalent. She had come down to Manchester for the barbecue. She had a horsy, outdoorsy style to her. When I’d first chatted to her at Suzanne’s wedding, I hadn’t been surprised to learn she lived on a farm. She raised rare-breed sheep.
Alice was very sympathetic, full of condolences, almost gushing when I rang her. Before I even had a chance to ask her anything, she went on, ‘It was such a shock when Jonty told us. I thought Alex was driving them back. She was pretty far gone.’
‘Yes, I think a few people assumed he’d drive.’
‘Even Naomi.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Naomi said Alex would drive,’ Alice said.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. No one else had mentioned this. ‘Are you sure?’ Could Naomi have been confused about the arrangement? Then, when she realized she was too pissed to make a sensible decision, just pretended she could handle it?
‘Yes, I asked her if they were staying over. Or if they wanted to share a taxi; we were in a hotel in town. She obviously didn’t want me to think she would be driving.’
My mouth was dry, my hands clammy on the phone. ‘You couldn’t have misunderstood?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘And he was on fruit juice.’
‘What?’
‘Well, for some of the time at least. Naomi and I went in to get more wine from the ice bucket and I offered it round, but he had a glass of juice.’
I was quiet for a moment, disturbed by what she said. I remembered Martin talking about the vodka and orange.
Rocket fuel.
Alex had been drinking but had made it look like he wasn’t. And at the hospital, when he’d first told us the awful details, asking him if Naomi was drunk. His response:
No, I’d never have let her
.
She’d offered to drive, I was celebrating. She was fine with it
. Denying she was drunk. Was
he
too drunk to tell?
‘If only they’d stuck to the plan,’ Alice said.
Don was very interested in what I’d heard from Alice. ‘It raises questions,’ he said, ‘and that’s good for us. Why did Naomi say that and Alex say something different? It also helps us with a very first plank of the case – was Naomi driving the car? Was she expecting Alex to? Was he complicit? Did he ask her to? Did she just offer?’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘You know alcohol loosens inhibitions. People imagine that their abilities are not impaired. Serial drink-drivers will boast that they drive even better after a couple of drinks. It’s bullshit. But it’s not impossible to imagine Alex and Naomi reaching the car and her offering, downplaying the number of drinks she’s had. A journey she’s made dozens of times, a fine evening.’
‘Except she’s never driven like that before.’ I was still sceptical. ‘If only someone had seen them getting in the car.’
‘At present, with this little gem, the prosecution will find it hard to prove she was driving,’ Don said.
‘But if she wasn’t, that implies that Alex might have . . . but Alex saved her life.’
He held up a hand. ‘We don’t imply
anything
,’ he emphasized the word, ‘other than doubt. That’s the bottom line. Uncertainty, lack of surety. Niggling doubt. Was Naomi behind the wheel? No one saw her. Was the car being driven dangerously or carelessly; was it even an acceptable standard? A young woman, unblemished history, no previous offences whatsoever, not even a speeding ticket. The prosecution will find it very hard to get a jury to convict, to say there is no shred of doubt that she committed the offence.’
There was hope. But I couldn’t help thinking of Lily Vasey and where that left her family. I asked Don. He replied with the words I used so often in trying to comfort my daughter: an accident. Tragic, unforeseen, random, an accident.
I
pictured Alex and Naomi leaving. They’d parked opposite, outside the second of the detached houses on the cul-de-sac, not the one that had been sold. Julia had said something about Fraser helping the neighbours, the dog people, to move some stuff. Had he noticed Naomi leaving? I rang to ask him. He hadn’t – he’d gone home by then, the bulk of the job done. The couple, the Langhams, had given up their kennels and moved to the coast, Blackpool. Setting up a bespoke holiday company for people wanting something special from a weekend in the resort beyond a trip to the Pleasure Beach and a stick of rock. It seemed like a bizarre switch of field. Julia didn’t have their number, but she gave me the business name and I found them online.
As soon as Mrs Langham realized I was not a potential customer, she became impatient. I imagined they were under considerable pressure, the first few weeks into running a new business, especially as the recession showed no sign of abating. And the leisure industry relied on people with disposable income, which was in ever shorter supply for most of us.
No, she said, she hadn’t noticed the car, or anyone driving off in it. She exhibited absolutely no interest or curiosity about my call.
I asked to speak to her husband. ‘Neville’s out,’ she said.
‘I can ring back.’
She gave a gusty sigh and told me to try after eight. I did, and finally got to speak to him. He wasn’t as brusque as his wife, but he was sorry he couldn’t remember anything particular. He’d been ferrying their furniture to the new house much of the time. Disappointment rolled over me like a bank of cloud. I was thanking him prior to hanging up when he said, ‘Did you already talk to Larry?’
‘Larry? No.’
‘My brother-in-law. He was giving us a hand.’
Larry lived in Birmingham. He sounded suspicious at first: as soon as I introduced myself, he launched into a spiel about not wanting cold callers. Then he cottoned on to what I was asking: had he seen a couple drive away in a Honda Civic, the day of the removals, about eight in the evening?
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘bloody idiot nearly pranged my rear end. Had to brake sharp, like. It was a hire van, so the last thing I needed was shelling out the excess on the insurance. I’m a loss-adjuster myself, but these van hire firms, there’s no leeway if you cause any damage.’
Oh, Naomi. If only she
had
bumped his van. The ensuing kerfuffle would have delayed them leaving, Larry or Alex would have seen she was unfit, and Lily Vasey would still be playing out and giggling with her schoolmates and watching telly or having bedtime stories with her family.
‘You saw them get in the car?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Could you tell she was drunk?’
‘She was, by the looks of it. But the way he shot backwards, he wasn’t exactly sober himself. Or maybe he’d not passed his test.’
My heart stood still and there was a roaring in my ears. ‘He was driving?’ I said, dozens of objections crowding in the back of my head.
‘Yes. Why?’
I began to cry, and poor Larry didn’t know what to do.
‘I’m sorry,’ I squeaked. ‘I’ll have to go, but I’ll be in touch. Please, remember what you’ve just told me.’
Phil was in the living room, the day’s paper, crossword almost completed, on the floor beside his chair. Eyes closed. ‘Phil?’
He heard me and stirred, came to. ‘Yeah,’ sleep thick in his voice. He must have seen how I was shaking; his manner abruptly changed. He shot to his feet. ‘What?’ Came towards me. ‘Carmel what is it?’
The words were like a clot in my throat, painful, filthy.
Phil’s face was riddled with incomprehension.
I began to explain, tripping over phrases and fighting against the chattering of my teeth.
He made me sit down and poured me a glass of water. ‘Have a drink.’
Tears were streaming down my face.
‘Naomi’s still out?’ I checked, anxiously.
He nodded. ‘Back soon.’ Becky and Steve had taken her to see
The Artist
, an award-winning homage to silent film. Something safe; so many things were treacherous nowadays. You never notice how much death is in our stories and films and dramas until you try avoiding the topic.
After. When the world turned sour and the scales fell from our eyes.
‘Alex was driving!’
‘What?’
Mum’s face is livid with intensity and her eyes are blazing. ‘Alex was driving – one of the people moving out across the road, they saw him. He got in the driving seat.’
What the fuck? My guts cramp and I feel sick in the back of my throat. Suddenly I wobble, nearly fall. She grabs me, pulls out a chair and sits me down. Blood thunders in my ears.
Alex was driving? So . . . I wasn’t? I wasn’t driving? It wasn’t me who . . .
Something collapses inside me, falls away.
I stare at her, the words all bitty and choppy in my mouth. ‘But Alex said—’
‘He lied,’ she says, crouching down, her hands on my knees. ‘He lied, Naomi, he blamed you.’ She starts to cry, then tries to stop, half laughing and wiping at her face with the heel of her hand. ‘And Monica lied too.’
I feel giddy, darkness filling my eyes, confusion like choking smoke.
He loves me. No, Mum’s got it wrong, she’s raving, she’s desperate.
‘He wouldn’t do that. How can you say that?’
‘It’s true!’ And she talks fast, all about how things fit together. ‘It makes sense, darling, don’t you see. You told Alice he was driving and you kept on drinking, you didn’t care because
you weren’t going to drive
. And Alex – he made it look like he was abstaining . . . like he was on fruit juice, but he’d got vodka in it . . .’
She gets up now, talking even faster, and I’m finding it hard to take it all in. ‘He was drinking secretly because he must have promised he’d drive back.’
A little glow of heat grows in me, small and uncertain as a birthday candle, barely alive, but there’s also a gale blowing, a gale of horror and bewilderment.
He lied? My Alex. My lovely Alex. He blamed me and he told them all, all the world
.
Dad looks at me, disbelief bright in his eyes, as if I can give him the nod and say,
Yes, that’s right, I was the passenger
. But how can I? I can’t frigging remember.
Then Mum’s calling Don and he promises to come round. There’s this tension in the air and Dad just keeps shaking his head. And I really do feel sick. I just get to the toilet in time. Puke my guts up, till my throat is sore and there’s a bitter taste that doesn’t go even when I’ve brushed my teeth.
Everything’s so unsteady. Like I’m standing on dry land after months at sea and the ground is roiling beneath my feet. Balance shot. That fleeting look of relief I saw when I broke up with him – was that because of this, because it would be easier to keep up the act without me by his side?
No. She must be wrong. There must be a mistake. Alex – he just would not do that. He’s a good person. Perhaps we stopped on the way and changed seats? The person who saw us might have got the wrong end of the stick – like if Alex opened the car door for me and the guy assumed he was going to get in but Alex gave me the keys. That would make sense. And so Monica did see—