Blink of an Eye (2013) (14 page)

‘Julia,’ I told him.

‘And a couple, Australians,’ he said. ‘They knew Jonty from golf.’ One of the peculiar pastimes my son-in-law pursues when he isn’t filming ruins or sourcing organic cheese. ‘There were other people coming and going too,’ he added.

‘Did you see Alex and Naomi leave?’

He thought. ‘Alex went out to fetch her. That’s all.’

I was disappointed. Nothing much there to add to the picture I was building for her. On the train home I looked through the list of other party guests. After the fruitless meeting with Martin, I’d decided to establish over the phone whether people had been in the garden with Naomi for any length of time, and only if that was the case would I arrange to meet them face to face.

For all my concern and good intentions about attending the Ivy Cottesloe hearing and saying my piece, when I was actually there I found it claustrophobic and couldn’t wait for it to be over.

I didn’t know anyone else, which was a relief, and if anyone linked me to the accident they didn’t let on. There were jugs of coffee, and hot water for tea, before we convened. I got a tea bag, added water and a splash of milk. Took a biscuit. But when I came to drink it, there was a foul taste of stale coffee, bitter and oily.

The chairman was the sort of character who likes the sound of his own voice and never uses one word when a paragraph will do. His laboured introductions and summations at every micro stage of the process were excruciating and had me grinding my teeth. And of course everything took far longer than it should.

I’d submitted a written report months previously which had been circulated, along with other contributions, to those attending. When it came to my part there weren’t any questions. Things became marginally more energized as we attempted to agree on where mistakes had been made – the failings in the system – and on the wording of our recommendations as a result. The general view was that human error had led to Ivy slipping through the net. Either someone in the hospital discharge team had failed to pass her case through to the community social workers, or the office for the community social workers had failed to allocate Ivy to one of the staff. If existing procedures had been followed, she would have been safe.

Human error. My thoughts kept spinning back to Naomi. Was it simple human error that had caused her to accelerate when she should have slowed, to misjudge the curve of the bend and find herself on the wrong side of the road, wrench the steering wheel in a jolt of shock then, too late, see the figure on the bicycle, feel the thump of impact, the punishing lurch as the car tumbled over, hanging upside down, flung about, the force breaking bones and rupturing soft tissue?

After the hearing concluded, I called into the office. I’d arranged to go for a bite to eat and a catch-up with Evie. She waggled her fingers at me, phone pressed to her ear, and I waited for her to finish the call.

‘How was it?’ she asked.

‘Grim, glad it’s done.’

She retrieved her bag from her desk and we walked across the square to a little deli with a few tables outside. The city was bathed in golden heat. It seemed peculiar that there was this balmy, bright backdrop to the misery of the accident, to the fate of Ivy Cottesloe. I said as much to Evie, who nodded. ‘Yeah, should be pissing it down really. Oh, yeah!’ She feigned surprise. ‘Usually is.’

I laughed.

‘Look at this.’ She stabbed her finger at the freckles on her arm; Evie’s fair-skinned, red-haired and the sun really brings her freckles out. ‘Few more days and they’ll all join together and I’ll look like I’ve got a tan.’

She asked after Naomi again and I told her about Don. Every so often a bus or a taxi lumbered past, making it difficult to hear.

‘It’s hard on Suzanne, too,’ I said. ‘New baby and all. It’s a tough time and suddenly all the attention’s on her little sister. And Jonty’s away again. Of course Suzanne says she’s fine with Ollie – doesn’t know what all the fuss is about.’

‘You believe her?’

‘Well – you know Suzanne: Mrs Capable.’ I groaned. ‘Oh, that sounds mean. It’s just she never puts a foot wrong.’

‘Which might not be such a great reputation to have. Lot of pressure living like that, trying to be perfect all the time. Can’t let your guard down.’

I put my glass down. ‘You think we fucked her up?’

‘Course you did,’ she teased me. ‘It’s what families are for. But honestly,’ she sat forward, ‘there she is being so great at everything, getting praise and respect from all quarters: how can she ever fail? How can she ever ask for help?’

‘I know. I’m run ragged with Naomi and hospital and the lawyer and I’m not giving Suzanne as much time as I want to.’

‘Make it clear. Tell her. Unless you’d rather write,’ she added flippantly.

‘Ha ha! Will she listen?’

‘That’s up to her, but you’ll have said it.’

‘It’s you and Russell, isn’t it?’ Evie had been the well-behaved big sister to her wayward brother Russell. Their parents were always getting drawn into helping Russell with the endless mishaps and mistakes that dogged his life. Evie was left to get on with it. When she actually did crave their support – going through months of infertility treatment with IVF and failing to get pregnant – they were too wrapped up in Russell’s latest melodrama – an ill-advised and tempestuous marriage to a Estonian waitress – to respond to her.

‘Yes,’ she said, mockingly, ‘I have lived the dream. Look, Suzanne isn’t me and you’re not my parents.’ She shivered. ‘And no way is Naomi anything like Russell. But just because Suzanne is so adamantly self-reliant doesn’t mean—’

‘I know,’ I broke in, ‘and you’re right. We can’t just be fixated on Naomi; we need to try and create some sort of normality.’

As I walked back to the tram, I thought about what Evie had said. Even as little kids it was Naomi who demanded most care, a keener eye. She’d wander off, caught up in the moment, forgetting rules and cautions simply because of the novelty and excitement. When she was seven, we’d been at Glastonbury, camping. It wasn’t as big a festival back then, but still not somewhere you’d want to lose a child.

It had rained all night, so there was mud everywhere. We’d come equipped with wellies and waterproofs. The kids actually had all-in-one waterproofs, little PVC boiler suits, which had been a boon and also helped us keep track of them; Suzanne’s was red and Naomi’s bright yellow. We’d had breakfast and managed the toilets, although Suzanne was outraged at the state of them and said she was not going again until we were safely home. We spent a few hours exploring, then went back to the tent to eat. I fancied seeing Gil Scott-Heron, who was on the NME stage, and we told the kids we would walk over there in a few minutes.

The next time I put my head out of the tent, Suzanne was sitting on a folding stool, her head in a book, and there was no sign of Naomi.

‘Where’s your sister?’

She glanced up, looked right and left, then shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘Naomi?’ I called, panic nipping at the back of my neck. ‘Naomi?’

Phil got back from the toilets then, loo roll in hand. ‘What’s up?’

‘Naomi, don’t know where she is.’

He blanched, ran his hand through his hair. ‘You wait here in case she comes back, I’ll find the lost children’s tent.’

He seemed to be gone ages. Suzanne got snippy when I pressed her to remember exactly where she had last seen her sister and which way Naomi had been facing.

‘I don’t know. Don’t you think I’d have told you if I had any idea?’ Sounding like some grumpy fifty-year-old rather than a child.

Reassurances flitted though my mind: they were a nice crowd here, someone would be looking after her; she’d be back any second. Behind them, swelling with menace, were my dark fears: abduction, molestation, murder.

Phil came back alone. He had alerted the festival staff and some were already actively searching. They suggested we split up and look for her.

‘One of us should stay here,’ I said.

‘Take turns then,’ he agreed. ‘You might as well start at the stage.’

I pulled a face. I was hardly going to be taking in the music.

‘Go.’

‘Suzanne, do you want to come, or stay with Dad?’

‘Stay,’ Suzanne said. She wasn’t worried.
Why
wasn’t she worried?

Weaving my way through the campsite and the fields, my eyes seized on any scrap of yellow. And there was plenty of it: oilskins and hats, pennants and balloons, scarves and jumpers.

There was a sizeable crowd in front of the stage, the band already playing, and in spite of my anxiety, my heart warmed as I made out a song. I’d got the binoculars and I scanned the audience, sweeping slowly from one side to the other, trying to be systematic. It was fine weather, the air warm, the sun high, just a few streaky clouds melting away. There! No – it was a man’s jacket. I swept on. Nothing.

I lowered the binoculars, my throat aching, eyes stinging, and had turned to retrace my steps when something bumped my knees.

‘Mummy!’ She grabbed me round the waist. ‘You were ages.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Here, you said come here.’

‘We were all coming together.’ I stooped and picked her up. ‘You’re not meant to go anywhere on your own, you know that.’

Her smile fell, her eyes dimmed. ‘Oh.’

‘We were worried. You were lost.’

‘I wasn’t lost,’ she said. ‘I was here. It’s all right.’ She nodded.

‘Yes,’ I said, stupid tears blurring my vision, ‘it is.’

‘Put me down,’ she said. ‘You like this one.’ The band had launched into the intro to ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’.

‘I know but we have to tell Dad and the festival people that you’re okay.’

She sighed.

‘Here.’ I held out my hand and she grabbed it and we ran all the way back. Outpacing the monsters and the ghouls and racing to claim the day.

A flash of red. A thumping, then a squeal. One thump, then another,
boom pause boom
. Like a slow heartbeat. And then the shriek.

It’s coming back! Is it? Oh God.

It’s night on the ward and the woman opposite has a dreadful cough. Much worse than mine. She coughs so hard she starts to choke. She’s fallen quiet now but it won’t last long.

A flash of red. I try and find a shape to it, and when that fails I focus on defining the colour. Crimson. Not red like fire, not orange, but deeper, bluer, closer to dark pink. It could be anything: the colour from the inside of my eyelids, or some of the food at the party. Cherries or beetroot. But before now, that flashback to the food, if it was a flashback, has always been lots of different colours, not just crimson. I’m not sure if it’s significant.

But the thump and that shrieking sound, surely that’s from the moment when we crashed. The thud that drove through me like a jackhammer.
Poom!
Then again.
Poom!
One for the first impact, and the next when we hit the school gatepost and flipped over. And the shrieking, that must be the car roof as it scraped on the road.

The red. Did she bleed? Was there blood on the windscreen? It’s a horrible thought, but I force myself to consider it. After all, flies and things leave little smears like that on the glass. Oh God. My stomach churns. Alex must know; I’ll ask him next time he comes. But if I’ve remembered this, then maybe I’ll remember more. I feel a flush of excitement. I want to tell someone, wake someone up and tell them.

What if I forget again? Could that happen? My blood turns cold at the thought. Surely memories wouldn’t just come and go. If these are memories – and I’m pretty sure they must be.

I
t’s awkward asking him about the accident. He doesn’t really like to talk about it because he knows how ashamed and horrible I feel about it and he doesn’t want me to feel bad. So we avoid it a lot of the time. Now I come right out and say it: ‘I need to ask you something about the crash.’

‘Okay,’ he says, and waits for me to go on.

‘I think I remember the noise, the sound, when I hit her and when we went into the gatepost and turned over: a bang then another and a horrible screeching. Is that right?’

‘Something like that. It was all so fast, but you’re right about the screeching.’

I nod, thankful, even though it’s such a small fragment.

‘And there was something else. Well – I’m not sure if it’s from the accident or not.’ I feel so clumsy saying this. ‘Did she hit the windscreen, was there any blood?’ I bite my lip, suddenly shaky again; it’s important to talk about this and not collapse in tears. I sniff hard.

‘No.’ He shakes his head.

‘I think I remember red, dark cherry red. Her bike?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head again, and his green eyes hold mine. He blinks. ‘She was wearing a red dress.’

I gulp, my neck burning, my pulse bumpy. ‘A red dress?’

‘Yes.’ He looks at me.

‘That must be it,’ I say.
Oh God, I have remembered.

Oh God.

It’s hard to talk much after that, but I do make an effort, asking about the rest of his day and how he’s managing with the crutch. And he asks me how I feel about him starting to look for a flat for us soon. The notion of me leaving hospital and our lives going on seems totally unreal. The police might press charges. It’s likely they will. But I say that’s fine and to get somewhere near a tram stop because it would be good for work. His work. The firm are based in town, off Deansgate.

That night before I sleep, I centre my thoughts on that glimpse of red, poring over it, willing it to evolve, unfold and show me more.

I will remember.

I will.

I uploaded the pictures from Phil’s camera and the ones Jonty had copied for me and then made a selection of those that I thought might best help Naomi. There’s a lovely one Phil took of Naomi holding Ollie. She is staring down at him, solemn-faced, and he’s gazing back up at her. Both their faces are in profile and Phil has just caught the moment.

And I continued to work through the list of barbecue guests. I met Gordy at a café in Prestwich, up in north Manchester, close to where he lived. He was my sort of age and had a substantial paunch and sounded breathless all the time. I asked him to tell me everything he could remember about Naomi at the barbecue, and took notes as he spoke.