The Best of Times (33 page)

“This is the first indication that there might have been a passenger in the cab. The police refuse to confirm or deny it, and there have been no further reports. If such a person does exist, then he or she could clearly have valuable information that would go a long way
towards establishing the original cause of the crash, something police are very eager to settle.

“Although many of the injured are recovering in the hospital and some have returned home, there is still anxiety over the fate of Toby Weston, the young bridegroom who sustained serious injuries in the pileup, and never reached his wedding. The bride, Tamara Lloyd, told our reporter she was ‘absolutely distraught with worry’

“The crash, which is still being investigated by the police, was one of the worst in years.

“There have been several calls recently for lorry drivers’ hours to be more strictly regulated. While British drivers adhere strictly, for the most part, to the rules, drivers from the continent often drive twice as many miles in a week, and break the speed limit for heavy vehicles. This can lead to acute tiredness and dangerous driving. The lorry driver in question was British …”

• • •

“Very carefully written,” said Freeman to Rowe, when it was brought to his attention. “Plenty of suggestion that the crash was caused by dangerous driving on the part of the driver, without actually saying so. Nothing we could actually object to.”

“It’s disgraceful,” said Rowe, “hardly going to make the poor sod feel better, is it?”

“No,” said Freeman, “but it’ll probably make the TV people more interested in our case.”

“The PR people were more interested in the dog,” said Rowe.

• • •

Toby was very low: two days to go. He’d rung Barney in the office; Barney had decided to go down that evening. He found him sitting in bed, pale and morose.

“I’m shit scared,” Toby said.

Tears formed in his eyes, rolled slowly down his face; Barney reached out and gripped his hand.

“Oh, Tobes. You’ll be all right. I know you will.”

“I don’t. Oh, God. Barney, what am I going to do; how am I going to face it? It’s so fucking unfair. Just five more minutes and we’d have been OK. We should have left earlier, shouldn’t we? Tamara keeps saying that.”

“Oh, really?”
Cow. Bitch. How helpful. How totally helpful …

“Still, you did your best, I know.”

“Yeah, I did. And, Toby, we couldn’t have left much earlier.”

“We couldn’t?”

“No. Course not.”

“Why?”

“Toby, you had to go and see that girl—”

Toby suddenly looked different: wary, almost suspicious.

“Barney, that so didn’t happen. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, its OK, Toby; don’t worry, mate. “He drew his finger across his throat, grinned at him determinedly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“It’s not funny,” said Toby. “Not a joke. OK?”

“Yes, OK.”

“Just … didn’t happen.”

“No, all right.” Barney began to feel mildly resentful. What did Toby think he was going to do, tell Tamara, his parents?

“But, Tobes, there is something else. The tyre. You remember?”

“What tyre?”

“The one that blew.”

“Oh … yes.”

“I didn’t … well, I didn’t say—to the police, that is—about its being soft.”

“Was it?”

“You know it was. And we didn’t put any air in; you didn’t want to wait—”

“Oh … Christ, no. We don’t want to tell them that. Start looking for trouble—”

“No. Good. Well, I just thought … they’re bound to interview
you when you’re out of here. Important we’re singing from the same song sheet.”

“Yeah, OK. Pretty obvious, I’d have thought.”

“Right.” He felt irritated suddenly, almost angry. He’d been making himself sick with worry over this whole business, and Toby was treating him with something close to arrogance.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Look, Toby, I must go. Got to get back. But I will be here on Wednesday. Promise.”

“Yeah, I know. Oh, Barney … you’re … well, you’re all right, you know that?”

He reached across the bed and shook Barney’s hand; the sheer stiff-upper-lipness of the gesture made them both grin, slightly embarrassed.

“Right. See you then. You won’t be here much longer. We’ll have a party, Tobes, biggest fucking party ever, when you get out of here. We’ll have you dancing on the tables …”

• • •

Barney felt very upset as he left the hospital, almost physically dizzy at the horror of what might lie ahead, and—he had to be honest with himself—Toby’s behaviour. Of course, he was ill and scared shitless, but he didn’t have to treat him like some kind of wanker who was going to sell him down the river. He sat down suddenly on the steps, trying to pull himself together, fumbling in his pockets for his cigarettes.

And then: “Barney?”

She was standing above him, her huge eyes concerned; she had no makeup on, and she looked absurdly younger than ever. And absurdly lovely …

“Oh—hello, Emma.”

“You OK?”

“Yes. No. Well—just left Toby. He’s … he’s … well, got to have
this final washout thing on Wednesday. And they’ve told him he might … might lose his leg. Or part of it.”

“Oh, Barney. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She sat down beside him abruptly, her blue eyes full of sympathy.

“But … it’s not certain, is it? They’re still hopeful?”

“Toby doesn’t seem very hopeful. Anyway, I’m going to come down again on Wednesday. Be with him. Before and so on. And … and after.”

“That’ll help him a lot.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes. Positive support is really important on these occasions. What about his fiancée?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know.” He was unable to disguise the contempt in his voice. “Toby says it would upset her.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I feel like shit,” he said suddenly.

“I’m sure you do. You’re so fond of Toby, and—”

“No, no. More than that. I feel awful a lot of the time. About the accident. About us having that blowout, hitting the other car, that girl and her baby, all those people killed, Toby’s leg—and look at me, not a scratch. Doesn’t seem right.”

“Lots of people feel like that,” she said. “It’s the whole thing about people dying, you getting off without a scratch. It’s very common.”

“Really?”

“Really. It wasn’t your fault, Barney, any of it. You can’t start thinking that.”

“I have started thinking it, though,” he said, “I think it all the time. It’s … well, it’s horrible.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone about it. Someone who could help.”

She looked at him, her eyes so full of sympathy and concern he felt suddenly better.

“Oh … no, thanks. I’m sorry, Emma. I hate that sort of stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Oh, you know, what I call
Guardian
stuff. Counselling, all that crap. I’m fine, honestly. I’ll just have a fag; that’ll cure me.”

She laughed.

“Look, I’ve got to go now. But I’m here on Wednesday. On duty. Come and find me in A and E while he’s … well, in the theatre. If I’m not too busy, we could have a coffee or something, pass the time. If that’d be a help at all.”

Barney looked at her; her expression was sweetly earnest. Seemingly unable to help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“That is so, so kind of you, Emma,” he said, “and of course it would be a help. Thank you.”

“Good, it’s a date then. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m late already.” She smiled at him, jumped up, half ran across the car park. Of course. She was off to meet the boyfriend, no doubt.
Lucky bastard. Lucky, lucky bastard
.

CHAPTER 26

“There’s a letter for you, Mum.”

Christine smiled at her briefly, but it was a polite, rather cool smile, the one she had been using ever since Mary had told her about Russell.

Mary had phoned Russell the day after their conversation, when Christine was out, to explain; he had been surprisingly agreeable about it, had said he was sure she’d come round in a day or two. As the two became three and then four, he was growing impatient. And it was so hard to talk to him at all; she had to wait for the phone until Christine was out. Well, only another week, and then she’d be in her
own home; and she had booked a cab to take her over to the hotel on Saturday, when Christine would be out for the day and wouldn’t know. But the long-term prognosis was not good.

She took the letter from Christine—it was written in that unmistakable American handwriting—and went upstairs with it. “My darling Little Sparrow,” the letter began. “How hard this new separation is …”

• • •

That afternoon, Maeve walked quietly into Patrick’s room; he was sitting staring straight ahead of him; he had become very pale and thin in his two weeks’ incarceration.

“Hello, Patrick.”

He scarcely looked at her, just sighed and said, “Hello, Maeve.”

“How are you today?”

“I’m how you’d think,” he said, and his voice was heavy. “I am sick of being here in this bed. I’m in pain, I can’t sleep, I’m going to be here for the rest of my life, and no doubt people would say I deserve all of that, and I would say it of myself. I’m a murderer; I killed all those people—”

“Patrick, hush.” She went over to the bed, put her arms round him, kissed his cheek. “Patrick, you don’t know that. You have to try to keep faith with yourself; something else might have happened … You can’t remember—”

“I remember enough,” he said, “enough to know I was desperate for sleep, biting my own fists, counting backwards from a thousand—”

“You don’t … you don’t remember this other person being there with you? It’s not … not clearing at all?”

“No,” he said, his voice bitter. “If anything it’s going farther away. I’m beginning to think it was some kind of hallucination, wishful thinking …” He reached for a tissue, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. “How are the boys?”

“They’re fine. They want to come and see you so much. Callum
has done you a fine picture, look, and Liam says I have to give you fifty kisses—shall I bring them in tomorrow, Patrick? Mum says she’ll drive us all down.”

“I don’t want to see them,” he said. “I want them to forget about me.”

“Forget about you? And what sort of a child will forget his own father? As fine a one as you? And why should he?”

“If the father is a killer, if he’s been responsible for the deaths of many people, he’s better forgotten, Maeve. I wish only one thing now: that I had been killed myself, that I had died in that cab—”

“Patrick Connell, will you just shut up now?”

The seemingly endless strain and exhaustion finally defeated Maeve; she felt angry with him, angry not for what he had done—or not done—but for his willingness to give in, to turn his back on the children.

“How dare you talk like that, how dare you, when the finest doctors in this hospital have worked so hard to save you, when your own children cry every night, they want to see you so much, when I feel so tired I could just lie down on that floor and sleep for all eternity myself. But I can’t, Patrick, because someone has to keep going. Someone has to see after the children, and visit you every day, and work so hard to cheer you, and—”

He turned his head to look at her, and his expression was quite blank, his eyes dull and disinterested.

“You don’t have to come,” he said. “It would be much better if you didn’t.”

Maeve straightened up, looked at him very briefly, and then picked up her bag and walked out of the room.

• • •

Russell’s letter had been to tell Mary that she wasn’t to worry about him; they had the rest of their lives together, after all, but to concentrate her efforts on making her peace with her daughter.

“That really is the most important thing right now. How extraordinary
this all is! I’ve started to worry about my children’s reactions as well. Maybe we should run away together to Gretna Green and get married with just a couple of witnesses. But it’s not what I want, of course: I want all our friends and family there; I want everyone to watch us being married, you becoming Mary Mackenzie. After all these years.”

But Mary could see that both their families might find this a little difficult. And she was sure Russell’s rather grand family would look down on her. What had seemed incredibly romantic and exciting suddenly was turning into a depressing mess.