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‘Different? I suppose if you mean charging over the odds for something bound by such bloody archaic rules, then I suppose we are.’ Staggering, Joe clutches Forrest’s arm.
Forrest grins. ‘You’ll see it differently in the morning.’ Seeing their taxi approach, Forrest flags it down. Opening one of the passenger doors, he shoe-horns Joe in before climbing in the other side.
Closing the door, he gives the driver the name of a bar in Chichester before sitting back. As the taxi pulls away, beside him, Joe’s already asleep. Gazing out of the window and tuning out Joe’s snores, he feels thankful that it’s Saturday tomorrow. Weather permitting, he and Joe are planning to go flying this weekend. A few hours in the open cockpit of the old biplane they share are what he needs to blow the cobwebs away.
Outside, the roads seem unusually quiet. He checks his phone. It’s still relatively early – just gone 10p.m. Placing it on the seat beside him, he turns his mind to the evening that lies ahead. An all-nighter, maybe gathering one or two friends along the way before they’ll head back to Joe’s. Playing loud music andopening a bottle of whisky, they’ll still be talking shite as the sun comes up.
Frowning slightly, he thinks about the girl he saw again earlier, regretting he hadn’t had the chance to talk to her. Maybe he’ll go back to the hotel – out of business hours. Ask her out for a drink, a night when he doesn’t have a drunk Joe in tow. Sure, it’s annoying as hell that she hasn’t agreed to a deal. But he’d kind of admired the way she’d stood her ground and seen through his attempt to bullshit her.
Up ahead, it looks like snow is falling again. The odd flake at first, turning to a flurry, before in what seemed like seconds there’s a fine white covering of them settling on the road.
As he watches, the snow intensifies until suddenly they’re caught in a swirling kaleidoscope. ‘I’d slow down a bit, mate.’ Uneasy, Forrest addresses the driver. But it’s as though he hasn’t heard.
In the glare of the headlights, the snow is coming so hard that Forrest can barely make out the road. He opens his mouth to ask the driver again to slow down, but then everything seems to happen in slow motion: the back end of the car skidding, throwing him sideways. His head cracking against the window, slewing to one side as he glances at Joe; Joe, miraculously still snoring, oblivious as the car skids again; the muffled grating of metal preceding an impact, swiftly followed by another, harder one as Forrest’s head is flung forwards. For a split second, he’s aware of glass shattering, then nothing.
As he comes to, he’s struck by the silence, broken only by the sound of birdsong. As he opens his eyes, his vision is blurred, and as he rubs them, a strange feeling comes over him. Thesnowy night has gone, in its place a warm summer evening. Gazing up at the trees in full leaf, he pinches himself, but as he makes out the shape of the small red Mini just feet away, his stomach turns over. It’s a wreck, the front buckled, the windscreen shattered.
Suddenly he realises there’s someone inside. The realisation forces him to his feet.Lori,he hears himself whisper, staggering towards the wreckage, as behind him, a car slows down and pulls up. Forrest hears the driver call out before, overcome with dizziness, his legs collapse from under him and everything goes black.
‘Can you hear me?’ The voice seems to come from far away. Opening his eyes again, Forrest is aware of a blanket draped over him. He blinks in the blue lights that are flashing.
‘You’ve been in an accident,’ the voice says. ‘Just lie still. The ambulance is on its way.’
He takes in the snow still falling as he looks around for the Mini. ‘Where’s the other car?’
‘There’s no other car,’ the voice says gently.
He feels himself reel. The Mini has to be there. He’s seen it, just now. But as he remembers there was no snow, his head starts to spin.
‘It was over there.’ Glancing around, suddenly Forrest realises he can’t see Joe. He pushes the blanket away. ‘My friend. Joe…’ he says hoarsely.
‘I’m sorry.’ Someone beside him speaks gently. ‘So sorry, but Joe didn’t make it.’
Forrest’s head starts to thump as he sits there, oblivious to the snow soaking into his jeans. All he can think about is Joe: his best friend in the world, with everything to live for, has gone.
As he glances at the taxi, it’s as if he’s in a dream as he takes in the crumpled exterior and cracked glass. It seems impossible to imagine he’s somehow got out of there. Hearing the sound of an ambulance siren, Forrest feels nauseous as the strangest feeling comes over him.
As everything starts to spin around him, Forrest feels himself slump forwards.
‘Sir?’ The voice is urgent. ‘Hold on, sir. The ambulance is coming…’
But the words are lost, the noise dimming, the lights around him fading as he feels himself floating. When he’d been sitting right beside Joe, how come when Joe has gone, he, Forrest, is still here?
6
JACK
I awaken to the sound of the radio reporting a fatal collision on the road into Arundel, of the snow that came out of nowhere, a feeling of sadness washing over me. But there are many of us who have loved and lost, just like I have. Who have no-one to spend a lazy morning with.
Other than a cat, that is. I push away the large, hairy paw on my cheek, opening my eyes. Churchill’s face is close to mine as he stares at me expectantly. Having achieved his objective, he settles down, blinking his eyes closed and purring like a moderately sized engine.
Churchill’s a bruiser of a tabby cat with a kill list as long as your arm. Snakes, bats, weasels, frogs – nothing is beyond his grasp. He belongs to my neighbour, Gertie, but considers his custodianship extends to both our houses, generally turning up whenever he’s hungry.
He also seems to know when I have a day off from work, hence his presence this Saturday morning. Shifting him slightly, I get out of bed and open the curtains to a wintery landscape with an overcast sky, the remains of last night’s snowfall alreadymelting to grey slush. It had come out of nowhere, the snow, ambushing me on my way home last night.
Yawning, I pull on jeans and a sweater. The cottage is quiet as I go downstairs and switch the kettle on, before slipping on my boots and going outside.
As the door clicks shut, a chorus of bleats starts up. My goats know my every move – and how to tell me when they’re hungry, too. My aim is to feed them before they reach that point – as I’ve learned the hard way, if I don’t, they tend to escape, and when they do, they eat absolutely everything.
