The Accident. C.L. Taylor

on. I reply for her by forcing a smile.

      ‘She’ll be fine,’ I say.

      Brian looks from me to Charlotte and back again. There’s no mistaking the look on his face – it’s the same wretched expression I’ve worn for the last six weeks whenever I’ve left Charlotte’s side – terror she might die the second we leave the room.

      ‘She’ll be fine,’ I repeat, more gently this time. ‘I’ll be here.’

      Brian’s rigid posture relaxes, ever so slightly, and he nods. ‘Back soon.’

      I watch as he crosses the room, gently shutting the door with a click as he leaves, then release the handbag from my chest and rest it on my lap. I keep my eyes fixed on the door for what seems like an eternity. Brian has never been able to leave the house without rushing back in seconds later to retrieve his keys, his phone or his sunglasses or to ask a ‘quick question’. When I am sure he has gone I turn back to Charlotte. I half expect to see her eyelids flutter or her fingers twitch, some sign that she realises what I am about to say but nothing has changed. She is still ‘asleep’. The doctors have no idea when, or even if, Charlotte will ever wake up. She’s been subjected to a whole battery of tests – CAT scans, MRIs, the works – with more to come, and her brain function appears normal. There’s no medical reason why she shouldn’t come round.

      ‘Darling,’ I take Charlotte’s diary out of my handbag, fumble it open and turn to the page I’ve already memorised. ‘Please don’t be angry with me but …’ I glance at my daughter to monitor her expression. ‘… I found your diary when I was tidying your room yesterday.’

      Nothing. Not a sound, not a flicker, not a tic or a twinge. And the heart monitor continues its relentless bleep-bleep-bleeping. It is a lie of course, the confession about finding her diary. I found it years ago when I was changing her sheets. She’d hidden it under her mattress, exactly where I’d hidden my own teenaged journal so many years before. I didn’t read it though, back then, I had no reason to. Yesterday I did.

      ‘In the last entry,’ I say, pausing to lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, ‘you mention a secret.’

      Charlotte says nothing.

      ‘You said keeping it was killing you.’

      Bleep-bleep-bleep.

      ‘Is that why …’

      Bleep-bleep-bleep.

      ‘… you stepped in front of the bus?’

      Still nothing.

      Brian calls what happened an accident and has invented several theories to support this belief: she saw a friend on the other side of the street and didn’t look both ways as she ran across the road; she tried to help an injured animal; she stumbled and tripped when she was texting or maybe she was just in her own little world and didn’t look where she was walking.

      Plausible, all of them. Apart from the fact the bus driver told the police she caught his eye then deliberately stepped into the road, straight into his path. Brian thinks he’s lying, covering his own back because he’ll lose his job if he gets convicted of dangerous driving. I don’t.

      Yesterday, when Brian was at work and I was on bed watch, I asked the doctor if she had carried out a pregnancy test on Charlotte. She looked at me suspiciously and asked why, did I have any reason to think she might be? I replied that I didn’t know but I thought it might explain a thing or two. I waited as she checked the notes. No, she said, she wasn’t.

      ‘Charlotte,’ I shuffle my chair forward so it’s pressed up against the bed and wrap my fingers around my daughter’s. ‘Nothing you say or do could ever stop me from loving you. You can tell me anything. Anything at all.’

      Charlotte says nothing.

      ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s about you, one of your friends, me or your dad.’ I pause. ‘Is the secret something to do with your dad? Squeeze my fingers if it is.’

      I hold my breath, praying she doesn’t.

       Friday 2nd September 1990

       It’s 5.41 a.m. and I’m sitting in the living room, glass of red in one hand, a cigarette in the other, wondering if the last eight hours of my life really happened.

       I finally rang James on Wednesday evening, after an hour’s worth of abortive attempts and several glasses of wine. The phone rang and rang and I started to think that maybe he was out when it suddenly stopped.

       ‘Hello?’

       I could barely say hello back I was so nervous but then:

       ‘Susan, is that you? Gosh. You actually called.’

       His voice sounded different – thinner, breathy – like he was nervous too, and I joked that he sounded relieved to hear from me.

       ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I thought there was no way you’d call after what I did. Sorry, I’m not normally such a twat but I was so pleased to run into you alone backstage that I … Anyway, sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I should have just asked you out like a normal person …’

       He tailed off, embarrassed.

       ‘Actually,’ I said, feeling a sudden rush of affection towards him. ‘I thought it was funny. No one’s ever thrown a business card at me and shouted “Call me” before. I was almost flattered.’

       ‘Flattered? I’m the one that should be flattered. You called! Oh God,’ he paused, ‘you are calling to arrange a drink, aren’t you? You’re not ringing to tell me I’m an absolute prat?’

       ‘I did consider that option,’ I laughed, ‘but no, I happen to be unusually thirsty today so if you’d like to take me out for a drink that could be arranged.’

       ‘God, of course. Whenever and wherever you want to go. All drinks on me, even the expensive ones.’ He laughed too. ‘I want to prove to you that I’m not … well, I’ll let you make your own mind up. When are you free?’

       I was tempted to say NOW but played it cool instead, as Hels had ordered me to do, and suggested Friday (tonight) night. James immediately agreed and we arranged to meet in the Dublin Castle.

       I tried on dozens of different outfits before I went out, immediately discarding anything that made me look, or feel, fat and frumpy, but I needn’t have worried. The second I was within grabbing distance, James pulled me against him and whispered ‘You look beautiful’ in my ear. I was just about to reply when he abruptly released me, grabbed my hand and said, ‘I’ve got something amazing to show you,’ and led me out of the pub, through the throng of Camden revellers, down a side street and into a kebab shop. I gave him a questioning look but he said, ‘trust me’ and shepherded me through the shop and out a door at the back. I expected to end up in the kitchen or the toilets. Instead I stumbled into a cacophony of sound and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the smoky darkness. James pointed out a four-piece jazz band in the corner of the room and shouted, ‘They’re the Grey Notes – London’s best-kept secret’ then led me to a table in the corner and held out a battered wooden chair for me to sit down.

       ‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘I can’t listen to jazz without it. You want one?’

       I nodded, even though I’m not a fan then lit up a cigarette as James made his way to the bar. There was something so self-assured about the way he moved, it was almost hypnotic. I’d noticed it the first time I’d seen him on stage.

       James couldn’t