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‘Do you think she knew who you were?’
‘Johnny, I was standing by Billy’s headstone talking to him like a lunatic! I’m sure she knew who I was.’ Flora laughed at the thought of that. ‘Poor thing, she must have felt terrible.’ She shook her head.
Johnny topped up her wine glass. ‘Hey, why don’t you take this and go and run a bath. I’ll make us something to eat. Go on, you’ve had a long day.’
‘Eventful, that’s for sure.’ Flora smiled at Johnny. ‘Well, I’m not going to pass that offer up, thank you.’
As she lay in the bath, her limbs flushed pink by the hot water, she kept thinking of the woman on the bench. She remembered the hair, the cheeks, the thick coat and scarf. But most of all she recognised the look on her face, that of someone haunted by something terrible.
* * *
‘Mum?’
Denise closed the door gently behind her. She took off her coat and hung it on its peg, putting her handbag over the top of it.
‘Just a minute.’ She peered at her face in the mirror on the wall, wiping at the streaked mascara on her cheeks.
‘Where’ve you been? You didn’t say you’d be out all day. I was worried.’ Stephen looked up from where he was sitting at the table by the window. The flat was almost in darkness save for a small circle of light from a lamp in the corner.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was quite such a long way.’
‘Who were you seeing again?’ Stephen knew the answer but there was something about the way his mother had been behaving that made him wonder if she wasn’t telling him the truth.
‘I told you, I went with Jenny to see her sister.’ Denise walked over to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘Where?’
‘I’m not quite sure exactly where it was, to be honest. I can’t remember the name of the village.’ Denise busied herself making a cup of tea, hoping Stephen wouldn’t ask too many more questions.
‘Right. So, how was she?’
‘Who?’
‘Jenny’s sister.’
‘Oh, fine. It was just good to get out, have a change of scene. She wanted the company on the drive. And I knew her sister years ago. We were at school together.’ Denise hoped the questions would stop. She hated having to lie but she knew she couldn’t tell Stephen where she’d really been. She knew he wouldn’t understand.
Ever since Stephen had been charged with careless driving shortly after the accident, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the man who had been killed, about his family. Night after night she lay awake in bed, thoughts of their anguish and suffering almost crushing her. She’d seen a photo of the man, who was not that much older than her own son. His face had smiled out at her from the picture in the paper, his eyes kind. Denise couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d had no idea what lay ahead that night as he drove home.
Over and over again she’d wished she’d stopped Stephen sooner. Not just going out that night – she knew that what he was doing wasn’t right – but stopped him from seeing those people. They weren’t his friends. He’d been too keen to please, desperate for them to like him. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say that to him. He was her son. And now it was too late.
Just like it was too late for the man he had killed, who was someone’s son.
Finally, unable to bear it alone, Denise had confided to her friend and neighbour how she felt, and Jenny had agreed to Denise’s request to drive her to visit the grave of the young man. Of course, Denise hadn’t told Stephen; he had been in a terrible way since the accident. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, certainly not with her. Not that he saw anyone else, in fact had refused to see anyone since it happened. It just sat between them, an unbearable truth that neither knew how to deal with. She certainly didn’t expect him to understand her need to do this.
Jenny had tried to talk her out of it, but Denise was adamant. ‘I just want to go there, to say I’m sorry.’ And so Jenny had agreed to drive her friend to the churchyard in the village where the family was from. Denise had seen the name in the paper and she guessed the grave would be there. No one else had to know; no one had to see her. That had been the plan, anyway.
Denise had felt quite calm on the journey there, watching the view through the car window change from the suburbs where they lived to open countryside. But then the rain started falling and by the time they got there it was pouring. She made her way alone to the churchyard, leaving Jenny in the car, in the car park. There wasn’t another soul to be seen.
The fresh flowers on the ground gave away the location of those whose ashes were most recently interred and soon Denise found herself standing near the stone bearing the name of the man killed by her son. She looked at it for a while, from a slight distance, her feet rooted to the spot. She felt absolutely wretched for this man and furious with her son all at the same time.
Rain dripped from Denise’s face, her hair sticking to her forehead. She moved to sit on a bench under a tree to collect her thoughts. She looked up, spotting a figure walking towards the churchyard. The woman had her head down, eyes averted. Whether she was avoiding Denise or simply hadn’t seen her, Denise couldn’t tell, but she watched with horror as the woman walked across the grass, straight towards the headstone near where she’d been standing moments before. Denise looked at her, wrapped in a long dark padded coat, a pink woollen scarf around her neck. The woman turned and smiled. Denise waited until her back was again turned, then stood and walked as fast as she could back towards the car.
‘Can we go?’
‘Are you OK, Den?’
‘Please, can we go?’ Denise did up her seat belt.
