control. The police closed off the road in both directions and rerouted the traffic. Portable spot lamps flooded the scene and the fire crew quickly established that there was one male in the vehicle, then set about cutting him free. Sparks flew as they worked and the man and the woman who’d stopped to help told the officers what they knew, which wasn’t a lot as neither had actually witnessed the accident. However, the woman did tell them about the driver who’d overtaken her on a blind bend, and the police officer included it in his notes. Once she and the man had given their statements and contact details, they were allowed to leave.
The lorry driver meanwhile was in a patrol car giving his statement. The police had already completed an initial safety check of his lorry and had found nothing untoward. They’d also looked at his driving licence and insurance, breathalyzed him, and checked his mobile phone, all of which they said was now standard practice at the scene of a road traffic accident. Everything had been in order and the last call he’d made had been before he’d left the hypermarket. As he finished making his statement, they saw the fire crew finally cut the driver free from the now backless car. They laid him on the waiting stretcher where the paramedics took over. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose and a line ran from his arm to a bottle held up by one of the paramedics. As they prepared to load the stretcher into the ambulance, the lorry driver turned to the officer beside him and asked, ‘Do you think you could find out how he is?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied helpfully.
The driver watched through the windscreen as the officer went over and spoke to two of his colleagues. It had stopped raining now but a damp mist hung over the scene. They talked and nodded and at one point smiled. The ambulance sped away, its siren wailing and light flashing.
‘He’s got a broken leg and arm and a head injury,’ the officer said on his return. ‘They’ll know more once he’s at the hospital, but it seems he’s lucky to be alive.’ He paused, then added, ‘He’s known to us. He’s already lost his licence and there’s alcohol in his blood.’
The lorry driver let out a sigh of relief. He was very sorry that the accident had happened at all, but it could have been a lot worse. Supposing there’d been a seriously injured woman or child in the car – or even someone killed? He’d never have forgiven himself.
Rosie had almost stopped shaking now. She’d had to force herself to appear calm. Shane would be back at any moment – indeed she had expected him sooner – and he hated to see her crying and trembling. She looked silly, pathetic, he always said, like a scared-shitless rabbit. It reignited his anger if he saw her in a state.
‘Surely you’re not scared of me!’ he would say, and she’d tell him she wasn’t, trying to keep her voice steady to belie how frightened she truly was. Of course she wasn’t scared of him. She loved him. While this was true some of the time, those moments were now few and far between. Even when she wasn’t in fear of him she was on her guard, walking on eggshells, constantly making sure she didn’t upset or disappoint him. It was hard work keeping him happy and the strain was taking its toll, so much so that she wasn’t sure what was worse: being attacked or anticipating it. Life was so confusing now, especially when he apologized and told her how much he loved her and that it would never happen again.
When did her life become this difficult? She knew the answer. A week after he moved in.
Rosie had wiped the blood from her face and cleaned the vomit from the floor, scrubbing the carpet with disinfectant until the smell of sick had gone. She often vomited after he attacked her; she thought it was from shock and the pain of being punched in the stomach. She never used to be sick – not before. She’d been very healthy and happy back then, before he’d moved in. But now even thinking about his anger and what he might do to her caused her stomach to contract and the bile to rise to her throat.
Shane liked everything to be back to normal with no trace of ‘their fight’ when he returned, so she’d also changed out of her blood- and vomit-splashed clothes. They were in the washing machine. The duvet cover would go in once the first load had finished, and she’d already put a fresh cover on the bed. The only sign of their fight now was her swollen lip. She’d managed to stop the bleeding by pressing a wet tissue on the cut, and make-up had covered the redness and bruising around her mouth and on her cheek, but it couldn’t hide the swelling. In fact, if anything, it accentuated it.
Had she really deserved the beating? she wondered as she examined her face again in the bathroom mirror. Was it really always her fault? Did she provoke him beyond reason as he accused her of doing? She honestly didn’t know. So much of her life had changed in the last six months that she barely recognized herself any more. Work colleagues and her mother had noticed the change in her too and had commented. Her mother, aware of Shane’s past, had never liked him and refused to have him in her house, saying he was a ‘bad lot’ and that a leopard never changed its spots. Her friends, even her best friend Eva at work, had never met Shane because she no longer went out socially. Shane didn’t like it. Rosie wished she could have confided in Eva or her mother. They might have been able to offer a fresh perspective and make some suggestions on how to help, but she knew that was out of the question. Shane had told her plenty of times that if she went blubbering to anyone he’d have to kill her, and she believed him.
The doorbell rang, making her start. Shane? Why didn’t he use his key? Had he lost it? Quickly checking her appearance in the mirror again she glanced around the living room, making sure everything was back to normal, then gingerly went into the hall and opened the front door. Two uniformed police officers stood side by side.
‘Rosie Jones?’ the woman police officer asked.
Rosie nodded, a sinking feeling hitting the pit of her stomach. Shane had promised to keep out of trouble.
‘I’m PC Linda Simpson and this is my colleague PC Tim Marshall. I believe you own a car with the registration number BA06 FYS?’
Rosie’s mouth went dry and her legs began to tremble. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. May we come in?’
Rosie stared at them, not fully understanding. She’d been expecting Shane and now this? ‘What sort of accident?’
‘I think it would be better if we came in to explain,’ Linda said.
Rosie moved aside to let them in.
‘In here?’ the policewoman asked, nodding to the living room.
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, and followed them in.
She sat on the sofa and Linda sat beside her, while Tim took the single armchair: Shane’s chair. She saw them glancing around. Were they looking for something? Her lip began throbbing.
‘Your car was involved in an accident earlier tonight along Bells Lane,’ Linda said, turning slightly so she could look at Rosie. ‘A person called Shane Smith was driving. Do you know him?’
Rosie nodded. ‘He’s my boyfriend. He lives here.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s injured and is being treated at St Mary’s Hospital,’ Linda continued. ‘He has a nasty head injury but it isn’t thought to be life-threatening, so he’s been quite lucky considering the state of the car. You’ll be able to find out how he is later.’ Rosie nodded. ‘You knew Shane was driving your car? You gave him permission
