Eleanor didn’t dare breathe; she simply sat and stared at her old friend.
‘I told myself the moment had passed,’ he continued sadly. ‘We were young and stupid and we didn’t know a thing about the world. We’d both moved on and it would be wrong to find him again. I was married. I had awife.’ The words were flowing freely, as though every one spoken relieved him of some heavy burden. ‘I thought about him every day. Every single day, and yet I did nothing until it was too late.’ He shook his head and gave a small, weary laugh.
Questions exploded in her mind, all firing at once so that she couldn’t hold on to one long enough before another erupted and distracted her.
‘Reggie,’ she managed feebly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Her friend looked at her and smiled, his eyes so tiny buried under the folds of papery skin. ‘Eleanor, the only thing you need to be sorry about is making the same mistake as this old fool.’
‘But … did you … did your wife ever find ou—’
‘I need to finish painting.’ Reggie turned his attention back to the canvas, shutting down the conversation immediately.
‘OK. Yes, of course,’ Eleanor replied, blushing at her insensitive and inappropriate questioning. ‘I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark.’
‘I’ve told you the only thing you need to be sorry about, Eleanor.’ The old man smiled but his voice was firm and serious. ‘Speak to your friend. Please, before it’s too late.’
*
The moment Eleanor got home she dialled his number.
Voicemail.
‘Come on, Fin …’ she urged, trying again. ‘We can’t keep doing this for ever.’
Maybe he’s gone back to America.
Maybe he was calling to say goodbye.
‘Argh, pick up!’ she groaned as the sound of his answering machine greeted her yet again.
Eleanor hung up and began scrolling through her phone to her own unanswered messages. She dialled the number and waited.
‘You have three new messages. First message received Tuesday, 3 April at 2.45 a.m. from Finley Taylor.’
Eleanor began to pace up and down, nervous energy forcing her to move. The moment the message played, her body froze in fear.
‘Hello?’ A lady’s voice was shouting over the deafening sound of sirens. ‘Hello, I hope you can hear me.’ She sounded scared. Who even was she? Why did she have Fin’s phone? Questions fired through Eleanor’s mind but she tried to focus her attention on the stranger’s voice.
‘My name is Emma and … and I’m with your friend. You’re the first person I could find on his call list. Please, as soon as you get this, go to St Joseph’s Hospital. He’s been in an accident. There’s been an accident.’
Eleanor felt the entire world shift beneath her.
‘Second message received Tuesday, 3 April at 3 a.m.’
‘Hello.’ This time a deep, gruff male voice spoke. ‘Is this Eleanor Levy? My name is Mike Cardoza and I’m a paramedic. Your friend Fin has been hurt in an accident and we need you to head to St Joseph’s Hospital as soon as you get this.’
She couldn’t breathe.
It’s too late.
Oh my God … I’ve left it too late.
Eleanor didn’t even wait to listen to the third message. There was simply no time.
Fin
It was funny, he thought, as he lay in the middle of the road, watching the blood collect in deep red pools around him. Funny that this should be the way he went. After all these years and everything he’d been through, he’d die sober, after being hit by a Ford Fiesta, smashed to pieces in the middle of the road. Fin closed his eyes, the flashing lights and screech of sirens like shards of glass crunching through his brain. He was aware of panicked voices and concerned whisperings. People poking and prodding him tentatively, as though he may crack at their touch. Didn’t they know he was already too broken for that?
