‘Then you know exactly. I spent my life cancelling on my friends, my family. I practically never spent time with my nephew. Sally – my sister – she insisted I commit to a weekend with them, to take Toby out for the day while they went to a wedding. But my boss was equally insistent I come into the office on Saturday, to finish up work on a contract. I told him I couldn’t, that I’d finish the document on the Friday evening and there was no way I could work longer. But I was so stressed, I fucked it up. I mean, fucked up completely.’
Tom nods again.
‘I couldn’t bear it. As soon as I realised what I’d done, I walked out. I went to the nearest pub and drank myself stupid. I don’t even know where the night went. I came round in my flat on the sofa, with my sister calling me to wake me up. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have agreed to drive. But I’d let them down so many times before . . .’
‘Those years I was at Linklaters were the worst in my life,’ Tom says.
A humourless laugh. ‘I’d have said that before I went to prison.’
He doesn’t reply.
Anna suppresses a feeling of guilt – he’s trying to be understanding.
Now for the hardest bit. ‘I got to Oxford, got straight into the car with him. I was meant to be taking him to a bird sanctuary near Chipping Norton that he loved. I didn’t check the car seat properly. So when I lost control of the car on one of those country roads, he wasn’t strapped in.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I was knocked out by the impact. The other driver said that I was well over on the other side of the road, going too fast for the bend. It was a head-on collision. Because the car seat wasn’t properly secured, he went through the windscreen. He broke his neck in the impact – they told us he’ll never walk again. Not to mention the other injuries he suffered. He might never even regain consciousness.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Toby,’ she says, barely forcing the word out.
Tom reaches out, takes her hand in his. She pushes it away but he persists, taking hold of her again.
‘You don’t have to be nice to me,’ she says. ‘I don’t deserve it.’
‘I can’t imagine having to live with something like that.’
She stares at his hand, the shape of the veins under the skin, the dark hairs on his wrist.
‘I don’t know if I can,’ she says, her voice lower still. There’s a long silence. She’s looking at Tom, but it’s not him she’s seeing: it’s Toby, smiling at her from the back seat of the car as they drove off. It’s his grieving, angry parents immediately after she was sentenced to six years for her part in his injuries.
‘Do you know what you’re going to do now?’ Tom says. ‘Now that you’re out.’
She starts laughing, can’t stop, a choking sound more like tears. There’s a long pause. ‘There isn’t much family. Only my sister Sally. My dad died years ago, and my mum just after I went into prison.’ She pauses, swallows. ‘My fault, too – Sally told me, the last letter she sent me. I haven’t heard for years how Toby is doing. He could be dead for all I know. It’s unbearable.’
Abruptly, she pushes herself up to her feet and empties the contents of her holdall on to the hallway floor. Pausing only to tuck the miniature mobile phone into a pair of socks, she picks up the sheaf of letters she’s kept tied up with string, takes it into the kitchen.
‘This is what my family thinks of me,’ she says, unfolding the letters one by one, placing them in front of him, her actions stiffer and stiffer as the poison from the words leaks on to her fingers, back into her bloodstream.
IT’S YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT
YOU DESTROYED HIS LIFE
NO ONE WILL CARE IF YOU KILL YOURSELF
I WANT TO KILL YOU
Tom looks through them, his expression grave. He pulls out the last one, puts it on the table in front of him.
‘That car last night? Do you think . . .’ He taps the letter, not finishing the sentence.
Anna bites her lip. She’s been avoiding the thought. For a moment the headlights shine in her mind, heading straight for her. She shakes her head.
‘No,’ she says. ‘It was an accident. It wasn’t deliberate.’
He raises an eyebrow but she shakes her head. ‘I refuse to accept it. He’s not a killer. Nor my sister. They’re family. They’re furious, but they wouldn’t try and hurt me.’ She’s not sure she believes it – saying it may make it so.
