gripping the seat belt so tightly. Now, I press my cheek against the passenger side window. It’s cool beneath my burning cheek but it does nothing to calm my churning, aching guts.
‘I can’t go in there, Alex. What do I … what do I say to his parents?’
‘What people normally say – I’m so sorry for your loss, et cetera, et cetera, or nothing at all. You rang them last week, Anna. You don’t have to go through all that again.’
It took me two days to work up the courage to ring Maureen and Arnold Cross. I was Peter’s boss. It was only right that I rang them. But I was also the person who drove the car that rolled off the verge of the M25 and killed him. If I’d have been concentrating properly, if I’d have checked my side mirrors instead of glaring at Freddy in the rear-view mirror, I would have seen the half-ton truck drift towards us from the middle lane. I could have taken corrective action, moved us out of its path. And Peter would still be alive. If I’d let Freddy open the window, if I hadn’t let my irritation about what he’d said the night before distract me, then the lives of three people, and everyone who loved them, wouldn’t be destroyed.
A family friend answered the Cross family’s landline. He repeated my name loudly, as though announcing it to the room. There was a pause, then a woman said softly, ‘I don’t want to talk to her.’ When an elderly man added, ‘I will,’ I felt faint with fear. Peter’s dad. I couldn’t speak for several seconds after he said hello, my throat was so tight. I’m sorry, that’s what I said, over and over. I’m so, so sorry. I can never forgive myself. There was a pause, a silence that seemed to stretch forever and I braced myself for his fury. It was what I deserved. Instead he said simply, ‘We miss him,’ and silent tears rolled down my cheeks. ‘We both do,’ he added. ‘Every time the phone rings we think it’s him, checking if Maureen’s sciatica is any better or asking me for gardening advice. Sometimes we …’ His voice quivered and he coughed, then sniffed loudly. ‘They say the lorry driver who ploughed into you fell asleep at the wheel. No alcohol or drugs. A micro-sleep, they reckon, less than thirty seconds long. Tell me Peter didn’t suffer,’ he begged. ‘Just tell me that.’
‘Anna.’ Alex nudges me gently. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’
‘No, sorry. I was—’
‘They don’t blame you for what happened, Anna. No one does.’
‘Freddy’s dad does.’
‘He was angry. His son has just died. Sorry,’ he apologises quickly as I turn sharply. ‘I know, I know.’
I couldn’t face another call straight after I’d spoken to Peter’s dad, so I waited until the next day to call Steve Laing. My hand still shook as I picked up the phone, but I didn’t feel the blind panic I’d felt the day before. I knew what was coming – pain, sadness, grief and disbelief – and I determined to be more of a comfort this time around. I’d tell him how popular Freddy had been on the team, talk about his achievements and take my time answering any questions Steve Laing might want to ask me.
Only he was nothing like Arnold Cross. When I introduced myself, he exploded down the phone at me. How dare I ring him while he was grieving? It was down to my negligence that his son was dead – mine and the company I worked for. Did I have children? Did I have any idea of the hell he was going through, his child dying before him? I tried to apologise but he shouted over me. Had I ever driven a car in such treacherous conditions before? Did I have any points on my licence? Had I ever been caught speeding or made a claim on my insurance? All I could do was stare in horror at the white patch of wall in front of me as he ranted and raged and took all his anger and grief out on me.
I didn’t ring Mo or his parents. When I was still in hospital I asked a nurse if I could use a wheelchair to go and see him, but she told me he didn’t want any visitors. When I asked again a couple of days later I was told that Mo didn’t want to see me and it would probably be for the best if I didn’t ask again.
‘The CPS aren’t pressing charges against you,’ Alex says now. ‘It’s the lorry driver they’re gunning for.’
‘But maybe Steve Laing was right. I hadn’t driven on the motorway when it was that icy before and—’
‘We’re going home.’ Alex starts the engine. ‘Coming here was a mistake.’
‘No!’ I rest my hand on the steering wheel. ‘I need to do this.’
It’s standing room only and we’re crushed up against strangers in the back of the church. Alex is pressed against my right shoulder and a tall man with a bald head keeps bumping my left. The people at the front of the church are bundled up tightly in their hats, coats and scarves despite the orange glow of Calor gas heaters dotted at the end of the pews. Tim, my boss, is sitting in a pew near the back, but it’s the woman in the row at the very front that I can’t take my eyes off. I can only see the back of her grey hair but, from the way it’s resting on the shoulder of the man beside her, it can only be Peter’s mother. A fresh wave of guilt tears through me. If it weren’t for me, none of us would be here now and Peter would be…
A shadow falls across my face and all the air is knocked from my lungs. The coffin, lifted high on the shoulders of six grim-faced men, appears in the entrance to the church. The gentle murmuring of the congregation stops suddenly, as though someone has sharply twisted the volume control to the left, and Alex tightens his grip on my hand, pulling me after him as he takes a step back to make way. I want to look at him, at my shoes, anywhere but at the shiny wooden box that moves past me, but I keep my chin tipped up and my gaze steady. I need to face the reality of the devastation I caused. I owe Peter that. But my bravery doesn’t last long. The moment the coffin turns into the aisle I collapse against Alex.
‘I need to get out,’ I whisper between sobs. ‘I need some air.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’ I touch him on the arm. ‘I won’t be long. I just need to be alone for a few minutes.’
I feel the weight of his gaze as I slide past him and move through the mourners but he lets me go.
Out in the fresh March air I pull off the hat, coat and scarf that make me feel suffocated and I inhale deeply, sucking cold air into my lungs, pushing out the damp, sorrowful scent of the church. My stomach clenches violently, bile touching the back of my tongue and, for one horrifying moment, I think I’m going to be sick. I fight the sensation, breathing shallowly and staring at the cloudless grey sky until it passes, then I start to walk. I drift from gravestone to gravestone, reading the inscriptions, looking at the dates, noting the flowers – or lack of them. As a distraction it only partially works. I feel lost in a fog of sadness and regret whenever I pass someone who died young. There’s one grave that particularly upsets me. A man and a woman are listed on one stone, John and Elizabeth Oakes. He died aged fifty-nine in 1876. She died twenty years later aged seventy-six. Their children are listed below them – Albert, Emily, Charlotte, Edward, Martha and Thomas. Six children and not one of them made it past their fifth birthday. The grave is old and uncared for; moss clings to the children’s names and the angel that sits atop the stone is chipped, her face worn away with age. I scan the cold, hard ground around the grave, looking for daisies or dandelions that I can bunch together with blades of grass. A clump of bowed snowdrops at the base of a tree catches my eye.
I crouch down beside the flowers and pinch one of the stems between my index finger and thumb, then pause, mid-snap. Someone’s watching. I can feel their gaze resting on me, like a weight across my shoulder blades. I turn sharply, expecting to see a photographer behind a gravestone, or a journalist dressed in black
