The sound of metal crunching. Tyres screeching along asphalt. A scream, maybe from me, maybe from my passenger.
The last noise he ever made.
In a head on-collision, passengers rarely survive. You have more chance of living if you are the driver. The steering block protects you, you protect yourself as something in your brain tells you what is approaching and you can brace.
This time, the car also contained my nephews. They were chattering before the impact happened, arguing over what to play. And then the slam came and what I dreamed was not a dream, but reality, my brain yet again trying to process what had occurred, not knowing what to do with the memories.
The crash was not my fault. It wasn’t me driving drunk down a road the wrong way. It wasn’t me who was speeding. It wasn’t me who had a blood alcohol level of something so fucking stupid they shouldn’t have found a fucking brain in there when they did the post-mortem examination.
But it was me who survived.
The only survivor.
I’d never believed in survivor’s guilt before, but I could now testify that it was a real thing. My best mate, Ryan, had been in the car next to me as we drove home from an awards dinner. Our trophies were in the back. We’d gone through seven years of university together, both training to be architects. He had just dated the same girl on three consecutive nights; I’d shagged her sister but he didn’t know that because he probably would’ve killed me. He never found out though because by the time the car had stopped spinning he was dead.
And every time I was tired to the point of unconsciousness I dreamed about it. My brain taking advantage of exhaustion to push forward the things I needed to deal with but couldn’t.
I pushed back the sheets. I was sweating, a light coating across my skin. The air in the barn was still cool, the light from outside shooting in through gaps between the boards in the doors. Turning over, I moved onto my stomach and breathed into my pillow, only smelling the stuff I used on my own hair and not that of a woman.
My breathing was still laboured and disorientation lingered. Janie had been on at me to see a therapist, so I’d found a place that didn’t have one. And I didn’t drive, unless it was a boat, so there was no chance of me finding one to talk through what had happened.
I got out of bed and pulled on a fresh pair of grey sweats, barely using the ladders to get down. My hair was a rat’s nest and I’d need to brave the bathroom in the house to get rid of the paint and sweat before my next contact with a human, but now I wanted twenty minutes just to add to my painting.
I built up Anya’s silhouette, adding light to the ends of her hair. In my memory of last night, she had glowed and I wanted to capture that, how I had seen her. Twenty minutes became an hour, which became two and I was lost on a different plane.
This was my therapy. It was where I created space and processed what had happened.
By early afternoon I had saturated myself. I went into the dilapidated house and found the bathroom that had been installed somewhere in the mid-sixties. Credit to the plumbing job, it still worked and although the shower was questionable in what other life forms it hosted, it was powerful and hot.
I’d promised Helen that I would repair the summer house on their land. It’s was a large wooden building, erected a decade ago. The structure was still sound, but it needed repairs. She wanted to kit it out so that kids staying there could use it as a den, somewhere to play hide and seek or shelter when it rained. It had a couple of storeys and she knew enough about my previous career to understand that I could make sure there would be no law suits brought against her. There was also the incentive that if the summer house was there, it was a place where my nephews could hang out and give their mum a chance to read or even sleep.
I ran along the beach, my trainers in a backpack that contained a few tools I figured I’d need to start with. If I said I didn’t think about Anya sunbathing somewhere I’d have been a liar, although I wasn’t tempted to run over to Lligwy beach and see if she was there. She couldn’t be what I needed. Unless what she needed was simply a man with a good sized cock capable of knocking out a few decent orgasms, because that was all I was capable of right now.
The steps up to the guesthouse were slippery from the sea fret the night before. I ran up them two, three at a time, ignoring the slight twinge in my leg. The surgery had been brutal, the rehab worse, but I functioned. Not as well as I had done, but better than if I was dead.
Helen was pruning the roses, wearing thick rubber gloves and handling a pair of cutters like she was about to torture the plant instead and was meaning to enjoy every fucking moment of it.
“I thought I’d start on the summer house.” I stayed silent until I was sure she was aware of me being there. I had no intention of surprising her while she had something almost sharper than her wit.
“Good.” She turned around, brandishing the cutters. “We’ve a rake of kids staying next week and I could really do with having it usable by then so I can stuff the buggers inside if they get on my nerves. Is that possible?”
“Just about. I’m not on the boats for another week.”
“Covering holidays?” She started to prune again. “You’ll need cloning.”
“Pretty much. Do you want me to take over?”
She shook her head. “I want you to go sort my summer house. Make a start. Then tomorrow, I’ll need some help sorting the barbecue out.”
That was me put in my place. No point in arguing.
I liked the woman. She wasn’t the sort of cuddly old lady my grandmother was. She was to the point and sharp, no nonsense. I figured that what had happened with the car crash was common knowledge around these parts, someone had googled my name when I wasn’t giving up much information. It would’ve been there, a handful of articles about the death of the driver who caused it and the death of Ryan, before there was one about my award for environmentally friendly architecture.
I’d never divulged any of the details though because no one needed those and no one had asked. Helen was the last person to ask; and if she had known, she’d have just told me that life carried on, pretty much like I’d heard her telling someone about her granddaughter, I’d just never had all the context about Anya.
The summerhouse was situated on decking and built into a tree. It was more of a posh tree house that needed patching up. I’d ordered wood the week before and found it inside where I’d left it, along with a few other bits and pieces I hoarded there. Although I was an architect, and my trade had lent itself to drawings and plans rather than the getting dirty, I’d fallen into it because of my dad.
He was a handyman. His background was as a joiner, but along the way he’d picked up qualifications so he could do the plumbing and electrics as well, meaning that he didn’t have to outsource to other tradesman and could keep a job cheaper. I’d spent summers helping him, fascinated with how a house was put together and from that, I’d gone into designing them, always wanting to find different ways to make a statement about where somebody would live.
