She was breathing, but unconscious. Ash thought something might be broken so he said they couldn’t put her in the recovery position. He’d worked last summer as a lifeguard at his local pool. He knew more first aid than Ian did.
Ian did what he was told. Then Ash left Ian watching over the girl, their coats wrapped around her, with strict instructions not to move her, to talk to her non-stop and to monitor her breathing. This was back in the day when very few people – and hardly any students – had mobiles, so Ash legged it to the nearest payphone, which, as luck would have it, wasn’t that far away. He called 999.
Ash couldn’t have been gone more than a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. It was late and no one else came by the whole time. When Ash got back, he said, ‘The ambulance is on its way. I expect they’ll send out a police car, too.’
‘She ran out in the road, after her dog,’ Ian said.
‘How much have you had to drink?’ Ash asked.
‘Too much. Way too much.’
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
Then Ash said, ‘Is your car insured for any driver?’
‘Aye, it is.’
Everyone in the family had used Ian’s car before he came away – his brother, his sister, his mam. Ian had worked summer and weekend jobs and paid for it, but he didn’t really need it at uni and he’d been a buck eejit to insist on taking it. Plus, it would have been far easier to take the plane than the ferry to come over to the mainland in the first place.
‘Ride my bike and meet me back at the hall,’ Ash said.
Ash was willing to take the rap for Ian. Ash was breathalysed. He was under the limit. Ian would have failed the test.
Her name was Tracey, she was seventeen and she lived with her parents in a tiny terraced house about half a mile away from where Ian had run her over. She was taking A levels that year. Ash and Ian walked her dog two or three times a week for months, even after she got out of hospital and even after the cast finally came off her leg and she could do it herself, albeit with a pronounced limp.
Tracey couldn’t remember the accident itself. Ash’s insurance sorted out compensation. Ian was terrified Tracey’s parents would sue Ash for dangerous driving; he was terrified his secret would come out in the end.
But as the weeks became months, he began to relax. Tracey and her parents had accepted Ash’s version of events and there were no witnesses. No one who could tell them that, actually, Ian was the one driving. Drink-driving.
A truncated version of all this flashes through Ian’s mind now, as he puffs on his cigarette and Ash looks at him imploringly.
‘I just thought … I didn’t think,’ Ash continues. ‘I took a glove out of the first-aid kit under the passenger’s seat and sprinted across the street and picked it up.’
‘And what do you want me to do with it?’
‘You know what I want you to do with it, Ian. I’m asking you as a friend.’
This is what Ash does. He protects those he loves like a loyal German shepherd. It’s second nature to him. But Ian can’t be part of this, even though Ash went above and beyond to save his skin. ‘Och, Ash, mate, I could lose my job.’
Ian might not have this job if it wasn’t for Ash, but although Ian has a feeling that Ash is thinking this, too, neither of them says it.
‘Dammit, Roly, she’s innocent!’
‘Then she has nothing to fear.’
‘She’s my daughter. She’s your goddaughter!’
Ash has raised his voice. He’s usually so composed. The Ashfords have been under so much stress. Ian’s afraid that’s going to all start up again before it’s really calmed down.
‘Ash, I can’t plant fake evidence,’ he says. ‘Not even for you. And we can’t frame the kids of a family who have just lost their son.’ Ian watches Ash’s face fall. ‘Even though their son was an evil bastard,’ he adds, hoping that will cushion the blow.
‘I don’t want to frame them. Not as such. I just want there to be a clue that points away from Iris.’ He emphasizes the wordaway.
‘What makes you think there’s a clue that points towards her?’
‘Come on, Roly. She had a motive. You know that as well as I do. Better than I do. What makes people kill?’
Ian takes one last drag on his cigarette, then exhales the smoke through his nose and stubs out the fag in the ashtray. ‘There are loads of reasons, Ash. Literally shitloads.’
