It was purgatory.
After what felt like an eternity or perhaps no time at all, the door opened and the coordinator came back into the room. She spoke softly, but firmly, forcing momentum upon them. ‘The team’s waiting. When you’re ready, I’ll take you up to the office and we can talk through the next steps.’
More silence, more excruciating inaction. Marcus caught her look towards the frosted-glass door and give a nod, some sort of signal. Two people in scrubs entered the room. They went to the workbench and began quietly moving equipment around. Part of the retrieval team? The reality of that word – its literal, violent meaning – hit Marcus in his stomach. There was no ‘not knowing’ what they were about to do. It had been explained to them, in detail – all part of the process of briefing and counselling that had led them to this point. They must leave Jess with the surgical team. They must let them take what they wanted. It was what they had agreed.
No.
Yes. They must. Jess was gone, never to come back to them. She was dead. This wasn’t her. It was a body.
But it was all they had left.
It was agony.
It had to end.
The coordinator moved to stand beside Fran. ‘Fran. Shall we?’ Her voice was kind, but firm. She placed her hand near, but not on, Fran’s arm – respect and insistence in one tiny gesture. It worked. Fran bent over the bed and gently kissed Jess on the forehead. She let go of the bed rails and stumbled backwards. The coordinator put out her hand to steady her. Fran leant against her and allowed herself to be half-guided, half-pushed out of the room.
Then there was just Marcus and Jess. Alone, together, at the end. Choking on a goodbye he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, he touched his daughter’s hand, for the last time, ever, then turned and abandoned her.
Chapter 33
THE FIRST bunch of flowers was already there on the grass, in the lee of the factory wall, when Pete set off for work the following morning, but he didn’t notice them. He was in a rush. Claire was coming round to the house for the first time that evening. Calling in before they went off to the cinema – just a casual arrangement, nothing special. He had, however, spent two hours thoroughly cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom, just in case she had time for a drink before they set off.
When he returned that evening, early – time for a shower and brush-up – there was no missing the mound of flowers, teddies and candles that were piled up against the wall. He parked and got out of his car with a clenched stomach. Across the road a group of youngsters were adding their own tributes. One of the boys was obviously crying. His friends threaded their arms round him in support as they read the messages on the cards that other people had left. Even with the noise of the traffic, Pete could hear the cellophane on the bouquets crackling in the breeze.
So one of the girls had died. After all this time.
Pete let himself into the house and closed the door, but that didn’t stop the swill of bitter memories. A quick search online confirmed that it was the blonde girl who was in the front of the car. The article gave scant information. It just rehashed the details of the crash, confirmed her death and gave her age. She had been seventeen years old. At the top of the article there was photo. A close-up. In the photo the blonde girl was laughing, full of life. Her name was Jess Beaumont – someone’s daughter, sister, girlfriend.
Pete sat on the sofa and felt cold. He should have done more.
He rang Claire and cancelled – said he felt he was coming down with something. Then he stood by his lounge window and watched as the pile of tributes grew.
Chapter 34
THERE WERE a couple of casseroles on the doorstep when they arrived home. Fran picked them up and brought them through to the kitchen. She put them on the side – they would never eat them. She could sense Marcus standing behind her. The longer the silence went on, the harder it became to say anything. The pressure built. Fran’s headache worsened.
‘I’ll walk to the shop and get some basics.’ Marcus grabbed his keys and fled. The relief of getting away from each other was profound.
With Marcus gone, Fran was released. She walked through the rooms, touching the dusty surfaces, absorbing everything. Jess’s jacket on the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen; her college bag on the floor in the hall; the book she was halfway through reading in the lounge. Fran took the stairs slowly. On the landing her courage failed her. She turned and went into the bathroom, purely because it had a lock on the door and only a small, frosted-glass window, with no view. The bathroom was the closest thing to a safe room or a cell that they had. She pushed the lock across. She scanned the room slowly. A tube of Clearasil, her hairbrush, a pair of hoop earrings, her retainers on the shelf by the sink. Clear plastic moulds of her teeth. Two years of braces – worth all the cost and the effort. Her teeth had become much straighter, nearly perfect. She’d been happy with the result, more willing to smile in photos.
Fran looked around again, checking that she had noted everything. This was what she was going to have to do with the whole house: map every single thing in order to neutralise the power of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of everyday items. Only then might she be able to breathe in the space that her daughter no longer inhabited. The sudden need to pee caught Fran off-guard. She debated simply standing there and wetting herself, but the imperative to actually do something, however basic, won out. She tugged down her trousers and her knickers in one clumsy move and used the loo. Then, on a whim, she stripped off the rest of her clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was cold. She gasped. As it warmed, she heard her breathing gulp and swoop around the small room. The water pooled in the bottom of the shower, swirled around her feet, a fragile tether. It took quite a while before her breathing settled.
Marcus let himself back into the house and was relieved that Fran wasn’t still in the kitchen. He put the bread and milk away, went through to the lounge and flopped down. He stared over at the corner of the room. They had all had their favourite spots. His ‘space’ was on the far right; Fran’s on the left; Jess normally sat on the floor. The lead for her laptop was still plugged in at the wall socket. She used to sit there all the time, shopping online, watching hours of mindless videos that would make her smile and laugh unselfconsciously, filling in forms for college, uni open-days, temp jobs: all the steps for the next stage of a life that she would never get to live.
The realisation shook him upright.
It was here in this room that she’d done it, sitting with her laptop on her knee and a plate of toast and blackcurrant jam next to her on the carpet. And Marcus had seen her. He’d watched her, blissfully unaware, as she’d completed her application for her provisional licence. He remembered thinking that she’d get the keyboard sticky, and being irritated with her.
‘Done!’ She’d closed the lid and picked up a doorstep of toast.
‘God help us!’ he’d said.
‘Thanks.’ She’d chewed and swallowed, before announcing, ‘I think I’ll be a good driver.’
‘Based on?’
‘On the fact that I’m quite calm.’
He’d laughed. ‘Calm!’
‘I am, most of the time.’ She’d licked butter off her fingers. ‘Compared to my friends. Think about it – who would you rather have pulling up behind you at the traffic lights: me or Jake or Harry?’ She’d made a balancing gesture with her hands, taken another bite of toast and spoken with her mouth full. ‘Will you take me out? Once I’ve had some lessons?’