Harry blinked three times, but there could be no further delay.
An hour and a half later it was all written down, in black ink on the yellow pad, with some words underlined for emphasis. A script that Harry had to stick to in the police interview.
According to Ross Glover:
• It was fine to answer questions about his relationships with the people in the car – that was a good place to start…It really wasn’t.
• It was okay to talk about his actions on the night: to describe the journey to the party, the party itself, driving to McDonald’s, stopping to get something to eat, et cetera, but he must keep it simple and factual – it would demonstrate a clear memory of the events, which was beneficial…He didn’t want to remember what had happened.
• It was okay, in fact it was good, to tell them about Jess shouting about the cat in the road; it would set up a cause for the accident and counter ‘driver error’ arguments, which was essential…He couldn’t bear to think about his role in the crash.
• It was okay to tell the police what he remembered of the crash itself: how the car spun, the impact, et cetera – this would highlight Harry as a victim, as well as the other casualties, which was useful…No, he had got off way too lightly.
• It was good to go into as much detail as possible about staying with the car and how he had tried ‘so desperately’ to help his friends – this would feed into Harry being ‘of good character’ – which might, if they ended up in court, be influential…The thought made him feel sick.
What Harry must not answer any questions about, at this stage, was his alcohol consumption. Ross said it would, undoubtedly, be a line of questioning. He instructed Harry to pause, as if thinking about his answer, and let Ross intervene. He promised to ‘handle any and all questions’ about Harry’s drinking on the night, at the pub and at the party. He stressed that he needed time to explore the circumstances of the taking of the blood sample, to see if the results could be ruled out, on the basis of consent.
It was all very thorough, and decisive and depressing. When they’d finished, Ross capped his pen and actually smiled. ‘Great. Well, that’s me up to speed – if you’ll pardon the pun.’
If Harry hadn’t him hated before, he did after that comment.
Chapter 22
AS ALWAYS, when any of the staff approached the bay, Fran tensed. They’d only been on the unit for three days, but already they’d become wary and defensive. Although they hung on every word from the doctors and nurses, Fran and Marcus both dreaded their attention. Time at the bedside always meant more tests, more physical interventions, more treatment of the girls as objects that required maintenance and correction, rather than as human beings. None of which had led to any breakthroughs – yet. Being asked to step outside, or invited to stay, while they did whatever they had to do, was always bad – neither option felt right. They were way past the point of respecting the girls’ privacy.
This time it was the ward manager, Adam, who approached them, not a member of the medical team, which was a relief. On the other side of the room Sal looked up, alerted by the soft crackle of Adam’s tunic. When you’re on edge, you’re aware of everything that might signal a new problem. Seeing Sal look up, Adam beckoned her over.
‘Thanks. I might as well speak to you together. Now, please, you must feel free to take a bit of time to think about this. There’s no need for an immediate reaction.’
What now? was all Fran could think.
‘I wanted to let you know that we’ve had a request from one of the young men who was in the car. He would like to come and visit the girls. Just a very brief visit.’
Simultaneously Sal and Fran said, ‘Harry?’
Adam checked the piece of paper that he had clipped on his board. ‘No. A Jake Hammond.’
Fran looked at Sal, and Sal looked at Marcus.
‘I thought he was laid up with his leg,’ Marcus said.
‘His consultant has said it’s okay to come for a short visit. And his family have agreed. One of them, or a member of staff if you’d prefer, would bring Jake across from the orthopaedic ward – with your permission, of course. But as I said, you don’t need to decide now. Have a think about it, and let me know when you’re ready. Apparently he’s been asking, a lot.’
They deferred to Sal, who said, ‘I’m not sure Jake seeing Tish like this is going to help.’
In the end they agreed to give it another twenty-four hours, to see if there was any change. None of them voiced whether they meant for the better or for the worse.
In the morning, after another restless, noisy night for Tish and another silent night for Jess, they agreed to the visit. At the last minute Sal asked that Jake be brought down by a member of staff. ‘I just can’t face Anita. Not at the moment. Is that awful of me?’
Fran reassured her that it wasn’t. The thought of Anita’s full-wattage emotion was too much to contemplate amidst the cautious, considered atmosphere of the ICU. Here calm was the commodity that held desperation at bay.
That said, the prospect of Jake’s visit added a curious air of expectation to the day. It was something different to ‘look forward’ to as the minutes crawled by, measured by the bleep of the machines.
Sal had a soft spot for Jake. Despite her daughter’s frequent, less-than-complimentary comments about his many shortcomings, he seemed a decent enough lad at heart – a bit daft, but harmless. He reminded Sal of a couple of her early boyfriends. Like mother, like daughter: they both seemed to have a weakness for cheeky chaps who weren’t the most reliable boyfriend material, but were fun and funny.
She looked at Tish, lying trapped in a web of wires and tubes, drugged to high heaven. Tish kept drifting in and out of consciousness. By now Sal didn’t know which was worse – the periods of wakefulness, which seemed to signal the hope of recovery, but came with the distress of seeing her daughter panicked, in pain and unable to talk, because of all the wires and pins in her jaw; or the patches of deep sleep when, although Tish was calm, she was gone. Sal cleared her throat, set her mind to positive and started to tell Tish about Jake coming to visit her. Behaving as if life was normal – it was the only thing she could do to make it so.
Sal apologised for allowing the visit. Tish wouldn’t usually let anyone see her without her ‘full face’ on, her hair fixed and something stylish ‘just thrown on’. She would hate people seeing her like this, so stripped of her identity and her defences – but these were special circumstances. As a token gesture on the appearance front, Sal fetched her hairbrush from her bag and very gently began brushing the edges of Tish’s hair, taking infinite care not to go anywhere near any of the dressings that were obscuring her daughter’s once-beautiful face. When Tish opened her eyes and blinked a few times, before closing them again, Sal chose to interpret it as permission for the visit.
She had agreed to Jake’s visit, for a number of reasons.
The first was the sliver of hope that Jake’s presence – his voice, his touch – might somehow help to coax Tish back permanently from the tumultuous twilight world of pain where she currently seemed to be trapped. Sal had seen and read enough woken from a coma by a favourite song or saved by the kiss of a lover stories to be prepared to give it a try. She suspected that Jake wasn’t the love of her daughter’s life, but it had to be worth a shot. Didn’t it?