Blink of an Eye (2013) (27 page)

‘Naomi!’ Mum says it sharply, like I’ve been ignoring her. ‘Get the door!’ She’s on the phone to Evie.

Don listens, and he’s typing on his iPad like mad and he gets all the details from Mum and rings this Larry bloke there and then even though it’s late. He says who he is and why he’s calling and he tells the guy he’s a key witness and is there any chance he can come up to Manchester to make a statement.

Larry must stress about it, I think, because then Don offers to come to Birmingham if that’s easier. I make tea while this is going on. I think about that image I have of the glossy food and grope about in my head in case there’s anything after that about us leaving, about this new version of how it went, me getting in the passenger seat, Alex at the wheel, him dragging me out of the passenger side, not the driver’s side. Blank. A big fat blank.

‘Naomi, it’s stirred enough.’ Mum takes two of the cups for Dad and Don. I bring ours.

‘He’ll be here just before lunch tomorrow,’ Don says. He’s almost breathless. ‘With his account I can go to the barrister – it will almost certainly mean approaching the CPS and getting them to consider whether to proceed.’

‘But wouldn’t it just be this Larry’s word, and Alice’s, against Alex and Monica?’ I say.

‘Larry is an independent witness; that adds extra significance to his account. An independent witness has no stake, no vested interest. That goes for Alice too.’

I don’t know what I feel. Puzzled, mainly. Shell-shocked. Lost.

‘And your collarbone,’ Don says, looking across at me, ‘the left-hand side: the mark of Zorro.’
Has he lost the plot?
He draws a zigzag on his body. ‘Where the seat belt cuts into you – different depending on where you sit.’

‘And the bruising, there,’ Mum says quickly.

‘Why the hell didn’t the police consider that?’ Dad frowns. ‘Or you, Don?’

Don shrugs. ‘If it looks like a fish and it swims like a fish . . . They’d no reason to doubt Alex’s account, and nor had I. There are huge variation in injuries in these situations; for every case that proves a point, there are others that contradict it. And we’d no forensics to speak of from the car.’

‘We believed him,’ Mum says.

‘But we can add this medical evidence to the new witness evidence – even more for the CPS to consider,’ Don says.

‘I thought he loved me,’ I say. ‘He was . . .’ I blow my nose. ‘And the job and everything. Why would he do that?’

‘To save his own skin,’ Dad says.

‘And that little girl, everybody thought . . .’ I hit at my head; it feels like it’ll burst. ‘Why can’t I remember?’

‘Shush, shush.’ Mum pulls my hands down.

‘What if you had?’ Dad says. ‘There’s something weird here. Because you might have come round and it might all have been clear as day and he’d have been exposed immediately.’

‘The amnesia was a gift for him,’ Mum says, spitting mad. ‘And we told Monica, remember?’ She whips round to look at Dad. ‘That first time we went to visit, he wasn’t there but Monica was. We told her Naomi couldn’t remember anything.’

‘Everyone believed him,’ I say. ‘
I
believed him.’

We sit up very, very late after Don has gone; nobody wants to go to bed. We talk about safe stuff, old stuff from when I was little or Dad’s punk rock days. Every now and then one of them leapfrogs forward to now and the bombshell, thinking of another angle on what’s happened. Another clue we should have spotted. I don’t have any of these eureka moments. I’m stunned on top of being doped up. And I really can’t believe it. Any of it.

I can’t believe I drove the car too fast and swerved and hit the girl.

I can’t believe he did.

Or that she died.

I can’t believe he said it was my fault.

I can’t believe his mother lied too.

I can’t believe he let me think I killed her.

It’s all unravelling, but it’s like I’m watching from the sidelines, an observer, seeing myself, studying my own reactions, or lack of them.

I thought he loved me.

My first feelings were shock and sadness. Alex had lied: from the moment of impact he’d told everyone that Naomi was driving, he’d blamed everything on her. It seemed so callous, so selfish, and I found it hard to equate with what I knew of him.

I pictured his face that day at the hospital. The effort of telling the story. A story that was a sham, smoke and mirrors. On the heels of my sorrow came a roaring tide of anger. Not content with the devastation of the accident, with the cost of a nine-year-old’s life, he had then allowed Naomi to be pilloried, causing the rift with Suzanne, her own guilt and shame, her depression and unhappiness, her attempted suicide. And his bloody mother had held his hand every step of the way. Prepared to sacrifice my daughter to save her son.

It was like turning a picture the right way up. Or seeing writing reflected in a mirror, impossible to decipher until you face the other way and see the words plain and clear. The moment when a puzzle gives up its secret: the little twist that releases the metal ring, the answer that completes a crossword, the rotation that solves the pattern on the cube.

Naomi drinking without any caution, believing Alex was driving them home. Alex apparently declining alcohol with a glass full of vodka and orange. People assuming he’d drive. And he had.

We did finally go upstairs. Phil was practically foaming at the mouth. ‘That little shit,’ he said as he got into bed.

‘I guess once he’d said it, there was no going back. He was trapped.’

‘Is that an excuse?’

‘No, just an observation,’ I said. ‘And he must have told Monica the truth pretty early on. She told us about passing them in the car and tooting the horn before we’d even seen him, remember? Setting herself up as a witness. Backing up his story.’

‘How did he ever think he’d get away with it?’

‘He did for long enough. Oh Phil, what a mess. Poor Naomi.’

I shifted over to his side and we kissed. I wrestled myself into a comfortable position, my hand on his chest, taking comfort from the beating of his heart.

W
e’ve been waiting all afternoon for Don to call, and when he’s still not been in touch by half past five, I ring him. It goes to voicemail. ‘What if the man didn’t come?’ I say to Mum. ‘Or he’s messed up his statement?’

‘I think Don would have told us,’ she says, but she doesn’t sound very definite.

We’re sitting down to eat when the door goes and Dad brings Don in.

‘I wanted to come in person,’ he says.

My heart flip-flops. It’s bad news. It must be.

‘It’s been a pretty frantic day,’ he says.

I bite my cheek hard and hold my breath.

‘I presented the eyewitness account to the barrister early this afternoon. I also put to him the statement from Alice about Alex agreeing to be the driver and the medical evidence that points to Naomi being the passenger. He felt it amounted to an overwhelming challenge to the prosecution case.’

My eyes prickle. Mum glances at me, blinking rapidly. Dad swallows.

‘The CPS case officer saw us just before the end of the day. She agreed. There are some formalities to be gone through, but all the charges against you will be dropped without prejudice.’

I gasp, a cough and a cry all mixed up.

‘Dropped?’ says Dad.

‘Yes, the charges will be withdrawn; Naomi will be in the clear.’

‘And Alex?’ says Mum.

‘Up to the CPS. But there will be further investigation and I’d say there’s a good chance of him standing trial himself. Same charges, plus attempting to pervert the course of justice. Which his mother may also face.’

It’s all I can do to nod that I understand.

‘The bastard!’ Dad thumps the table and we all jump. ‘He’d have watched you go to prison in his place. The little shit! And that fucking woman!’

Mum shakes her head, her hand pressed to her mouth.

‘Everything you’ve been through,’ Dad says, and he pulls me to him and hugs me.

‘Oh thank God,’ Mum says. ‘Oh Don, thank you so much.’

‘And you,’ Dad says, waving his hand at Mum, ‘like a bloody terrier.’

Mum pinches the top of her nose and says, ‘Don’t, you’ll make me cry.’

It’s weird, this atmosphere of relief, of celebration. But it’s not that simple. How will they feel? The Vaseys? One minute they’ve got their villain and a day in court, a chance for justice to be done, and the next it’s ripped away.

Once Don has left, we finally eat and then Dad puts Bob Marley’s
Catch a Fire
on and strums along to it. It’s been played forever in this house. Mum rings Evie and Suzanne and texts some other people.

‘Why don’t you call Becky?’ she says.

But I’m not ready for it yet. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I say.

I think of how right they are together, Mum and Dad – how I can’t ever imagine them splitting up. And how Suzanne has Jonty, who adores her. And Alex?
Oh Alex.
I thought he was the one. The love of my life. How wrong can you be?

*   *   *

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, coffee and oranges and toast. My stomach turns over.

‘How are you feeling?’ Mum’s up already. Dad’s gone to work.

‘I’m going to see Alex.’

Her eyes flare with alarm. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I can come if—’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should wait,’ she doesn’t give up, ‘until we know what’s happening with the new investigation.’

‘No!’

She gives a little sigh and starts clearing the table.

I make a cup of tea and take it upstairs to drink.

The photos that used to be up on the wall are in the bottom drawer of my desk. There are tons more on my laptop, but I’ve not looked at any of them in months. This handful were my favourites.

One of Alex, close up; he’d just turned to the camera and I snapped him. He’s laughing, his eyes bright, and he’s beautiful. I trace his face with my finger.

There’s one of us on the flume at Alton Towers, screaming our heads off, drenched. And one in a group, on our birthday, his and mine, at a club in Newcastle. He bought me the turquoise dress – I dragged him round all afternoon trying things on – and I got him a watch.

And the picture of him at the beach. His hair was longer then, and it was a grey day, windy. He’s not smiling; he looks thoughtful, his eyes wrinkled a bit because of the wind and his mouth open just a little and the sands and pine trees behind him.

Finally the blurry shot of us kissing, one that Becky took at a party.

Are they all lies, too?

*   *   *

It’s cold outside, and bright. The glare burns my eyes. I should have worn my shades. I can feel the bite in the air with each breath. Maybe I’m more sensitive to it since my lung collapsed.

Under the blanket of the medicine my nerves are shredded. There’s a hum at the back of my skull like a fly’s trapped in there, a bluebottle, and the dizziness forces me to walk close to the walls and hedges and take extra care stepping off the kerbs.

There’s a walk to the bus stop and then a walk at the other end.

It should be summer, but the wind is from Siberia or somewhere.

My mouth goes dry as I turn down his street. There are loads of flowers in pots and baskets outside the house, just like before. I used to think his mum was a really good gardener, but Alex said she got everything already planted up from the supermarket or the garden centre and just chucked the lot when they faded.

The car’s not there, the Honda; he must be out. Then I kick myself. The car was totalled. Idiot!

I ring the bell and fight the urge to run away. I have to see him. I need to know.

He opens the door and my chest hurts. He startles like I’ve slapped him or something and his face goes white, really white, like he’s seen a ghost. I am the ghost. The girlfriend that was.

‘Hey,’ he says. He is so tense I can feel it coming off him like a smell.

‘Can I come in?’ I say, like a vampire asking permission.

‘Er . . . yes.’ He lets me in and we go in the living room, all open-plan. No sign of his mum. His plaster casts have gone; he looks fine. Pale but fine.

‘You want a drink?’ he says, his voice sounding creaky, uneven.

‘No thanks.’ My nails are hurting my hands. I open my fingers, look at the new-moon marks.

‘You okay?’ he asks.

‘You were driving,’ I say, sounding more uncertain than I meant to.

He looks at me, gives a little fake laugh like I’ve said something not very funny. Then his eyes start to change, darken. ‘No,’ he smiles, putting me straight, ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

‘Someone saw you.’

‘I wasn’t driving, you were driving. What the fuck are you—’

‘You were driving and you said it was me.’

‘You’re off your head.’ He glares at me.

‘Why did you lie, Alex? About me?’ Stupid tears stop me going on.

‘I wasn’t driving!’ Outraged, like I am ridiculous.

‘They saw you!’ I yell.

A spasm tightens his face. ‘No!’ he says. ‘No,’ he repeats vehemently, shaking his head. ‘No fucking way!’

‘They saw you get in the car. You ran her over.’

He doesn’t speak. His breath is noisy and harsh. I gulp and swallow and try to work out what to say.

‘I loved you.’ I stand up. ‘I loved you so much and you, you bastard, you fucking bastard . . .’ I’m shaking so much it breaks the words up like a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat.

‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ He says it in a pleading way, as if he’s begging me to believe him. But I don’t. Oh God, I don’t.

He’s on his feet too, his hands on his head, clutching at his temples.

‘You knocked her down,’ I shout. ‘You did it. How could you lie?’ I can’t breathe, all the snot in my nose, and I’m blubbing and snorting.

‘Naomi,’ he says, and he’s twisting and turning his body like I’m wringing it out of him. Except that’s all he says, just my name.

‘I could have been locked up for that.’

He’s frowning hard, his mouth shut tight. He flinches, rubs his nose with his hand, starts to talk, but I carry on. ‘I thought I had done it. I believed you, you and Monica. I tried to kill myself.’