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‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. Seeing her cowering in the corner, apologizing with her face covered with blood, reignited his anger. He felt nearly as hot and uncomfortable as when he’d discovered that all the beer had gone from the fridge. He’d only had a few bottles and had been expecting to find more. It was a Saturday night for fuck’s sake, and if a bloke couldn’t have a few drinks on a Saturday, what was the world coming to?
It was Rosie’s job to shop, to buy what they needed and restock what they were low on. But she hadn’t bought more beer or vodka because of some silly discussion they’d had after the last time he’d hit her about him drinking less. He couldn’t remember agreeing to that, it seemed highly unlikely, so he’d been bitterly disappointed at the lack of alcohol. He’d been anticipating a pleasant Saturday evening in with Rosie – a few beers, a takeaway, and then sex. He liked having sex with Rosie but she’d ruined it all. When he asked where the beer and vodka were she reminded him of his promise. It was the wrong thing to say; his disappointment had exploded into anger and he’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to split her lip and send splatters of blood across the white duvet cover. It had just happened.
He appreciated that she wanted space now. After they’d argued and he’d hit her she usually needed time alone to wash her face, clean up the flat and change her clothes, so that when he returned all evidence of their disagreement had gone. She would cover the bruising on her face with make-up and all traces of blood would vanish. He didn’t like any reminders of what he’d done.
‘We’re out of beer,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and buy some. Do you want anything?’ He was feeling a bit better now.
She shook her head.
‘OK. Won’t be long,’ he said jovially and left.
Chapter Two (#ulink_c974d3ac-2283-5aae-95d1-83dd90af545d)
‘Fuck! It’s raining,’ Shane said as he stepped out of the block of flats. He didn’t like the rain. Getting wet reminded him of when his mother had left him for a whole night in a bath of cold water, because he’d said something bad.
Rosie’s car was parked by the kerb. It was their car now. He used it whenever he wished. She’d given him the keys to the car and her flat when he’d come out of prison and moved in. She was good like that, he had to admit. He really shouldn’t have hit her so hard, but he’d make it up to her. He’d buy her some of her favourite chocolate, he decided as he opened the car door and tucked himself in. That would please her and make it OK. Arguments upset him and reminded him of his childhood, so a few beers for him and some chocolate for her and their evening would be back on track.
As he started the car and then switched on the windscreen wipers, he briefly wondered if he might be over the legal drink-drive limit. He’d had three premium-strength beers. Was that enough to do it? He doubted it. But just to be on the safe side he wouldn’t drive into town, he’d go to the hypermarket instead, which was along a less-used route. The police wouldn’t be patrolling out there, stopping and randomly breathalyzing motorists; they’d have more pressing matters to attend to in town on a Saturday night. It was a bit further to drive but better to be safe than sorry. He didn’t want another spell in prison. He’d already spent too much time inside and wasn’t going back there any time soon, not now his life was good and things were looking up. He liked living with Rosie in her nice flat and driving her car. It made him feel normal, someone, like others he knew. That was one of the reasons he hadn’t told her he’d already lost his licence for driving while under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He wanted to be able to hold his head proud, and then perhaps his mother would be proud of him too.
The only fly in the ointment was the age and model of Rosie’s car. It was old and small. He was a big chap and had to stoop to get in, and he could never get the driver’s seat comfortable. His head nearly touched the roof. It was a car designed for a woman or the elderly, not a man. To feel really proud a bloke needed a new car that reflected him – big and powerful – and a dark colour, not light blue. This wasn’t at all good for his image. He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful but it just wasn’t right for him, and the car was well past its use-by date. Not that Rosie minded. She loved her car, treasured it, and when he’d told her they should buy a new one, she’d said she couldn’t afford it, which had niggled him. Surely having a decent powerful car was a priority, but he supposed that was women for you. They’d rather buy clothes or a handbag. But he’d work on her and persuade her. She’d see he was right in the end.
At least the engine wasn’t completely fucked, he thought as he accelerated. She still had some power in her, probably because she hadn’t done many miles. It took her a while to get up to speed but with his foot firmly down, she understood and responded. He did this a lot when he was alone in the car – pushed her to the limit. Once he’d done it with Rosie in the passenger seat, when he’d dropped her off at work. He’d put his foot down hard, making the tyres screech and the engine squeal, and the car hadn’t been the only one to protest! ‘Treat Betsy kindly, she’s getting old,’ Rosie had said. He’d laughed scornfully. Betsy! He referred to cars as ‘she’ but to give it a name was pathetic.
He’d laughed loudly, perhaps a bit harshly, but had eased his foot off the throttle. Not so much from any desire to treat Betsy kindly – cars, like women, needed to be worked – but because he’d been doing seventy in a thirty and there was a speed camera ahead. So he’d slowed to the limit. If he was caught on camera, they’d discover he was banned from driving, and that would ruin everything.
After that he never thrashed Betsy in the town or where there was any chance of being caught. He drove steadily, within the speed limit, and while not exactly courteous to other road users he made sure he kept his rage under control and didn’t draw attention to himself by getting out and thumping anyone.
Thankfully there was no need for all that polite constraint nonsense now. The road he was on didn’t have speed cameras so he could thrash Betsy to bits if he wished. And Rosie wasn’t with him to protest so everyone was happy. It gave him pleasure, a thrill; the ultimate blow job as she sucked up the road. He’d done it before on this stretch when he’d been alone. Race her, press her to the limit and see what she could do. He was a racing-car driver, the best in his field, zooming around the track. A Formula One driver leading the way and well ahead of the others in the Grand Prix. He could picture it, see the crowds waving and cheering, the look of admiration on their faces as he flashed past, skilfully taking another bend with the minimum drop in speed, the smallest deceleration required to keep him on the track and in the lead. You couldn’t let up if you wanted to stay ahead of the rest. Sometimes he swerved to avoid an oncoming car. Idiots! Didn’t they know he was in the race? The number one leader. Admired, respected and revered by men and women alike.
He swerved again, narrowly missing another oncoming car. ‘Get out the fucking way, you prick,’ he yelled, sounding his horn, and cursing their existence for slowing him up.
The road was poorly lit and the rain didn’t help; driving on full beam, he was still forced to slow to take the next bend, which was a bummer. He really would have to talk to Rosie again about getting a new car, with better roadholding. He would explain that the new models were safer as they were lower and gripped the road better. Safer for them both to drive. That was the way to tackle it – women appreciated and understood talk of safety, not powerful engines. He felt very clever for having thought of the best way to approach Rosie about the idea. Perceptive, intuitive, that’s what he was, and it made him feel smart and proud.
The windscreen wipers continued their relentless journey back and forth as he pictured himself in his new car. A black one, large, big wheels, with presence and a hint of mystery. He would have liked blacked-out windows but they were illegal now, so he’d have to settle for the darkest tint that was available. Yes, he could see himself at the wheel of that large powerful black car. He’d start visiting garages on Monday while Rosie was at work and test-drive what he liked the look of. The salesman would be so grateful when he showed interest in a decent car and then struck a deal.
Headlights came towards him. What the fuck! Was someone trying to overtake? No – it was a wide vehicle, he realized too late as he slammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel hard left to try to get out of its way. A delivery lorry. A fucking delivery lorry! He felt the whiplash in his neck at the exact moment he heard the crunch of metal and the sound of shattering glass. In a split second, almost simultaneously, the wipers stilled, his headlights went out and he felt as though he was flying through the air, up and over and then down.
‘Fuck!’ he cried as the car landed on its roof and the pain shot through him. ‘Fuck you!’ Then his world went very dark and silent as he blacked out.
Chapter Three (#ulink_a396f62e-67ec-57d9-9847-0936e5018ff3)
The lorry came to an abrupt halt, stopping as quickly as it could on the wet road. ‘Jesus!’ the driver exclaimed, his heart racing. He felt hot and cold at once. There was no way he could have avoided him. The other bloke was driving like a madman. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself.
He had broken out in a sweat and his hands shook as he cut the engine. ‘Jesus,’ he said again, and opened the cab door to survey the damage. ‘I hope the silly bugger’s all right.’
His legs felt unsteady as he climbed out and then stood in the rain and examined the damage to the offside wing of his lorry. It wasn’t much but that didn’t mean the car had escaped as lightly. The lorry was far more robust and built of stronger stuff. He looked down the road to where he’d hit the car, or rather it had hit him. There was a significant difference – he wasn’t responsible for the impact. But there was nothing to be seen on the dark and wet road, apart from something that could have been glass glinting in the light of his headlamps. There was no sign of the vehicle.
A car came towards him from the opposite direction. It was going slowly, the driver proceeding with caution, just as one should on this narrow slippery road. It came to a halt and he went over. The woman driving peered at him through her window and then lowered it a little.
‘Have you broken down?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve been involved in an accident. Just now,’ he said anxiously, nodding down the road to where it had happened.
‘Are you OK?’.
‘A bit shaken,’ he admitted. ‘He was driving like a maniac.’
‘Not that small Fiat?’
‘It might have been.’
‘It overtook me back there. Blaring its horn, flashing its lights. I’m not surprised it’s been involved in an accident. He nearly killed me.’
The lorry driver began to feel a little better knowing that someone else had been subjected to the driver’s dangerous manoeuvres. ‘I’ve no idea where the car is now,’ he said, frowning. ‘There’s some damage to my lorry but I can’t see the car. I’m going to fetch my torch from the cab and take a look.’
‘Perhaps he’s driven off?’ the woman suggested, opening her car door.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. But he doubted it, not from the strength of the impact. And if he wasn’t mistaken he thought he might have caught sight of the car in his wing mirror just after it had hit him, spiralling towards the edge of the road. He couldn’t be sure though, since it had all happened so quickly and in the dark and the rain.
Without being asked, the woman got out and offered to help him look. He thanked her and she switched on her hazard warning lights, pulled up the hood on her coat, and went with him to his lorry. He took his torch and anorak from the cab and slipped on his jacket. With the torch held in front he led the way past the lorry in the direction the car had been going. Further up the road they came across a pile of broken glass and a piece of chrome almost certainly from a car’s bumper. But there was no sign of the car. He swept the torch around, scanning as far as the beam fell, left, right and in front. A car came from the direction of the hypermarket, slowed and pulled over. Lowering his window, the driver asked. ‘What’s up? You OK, mate?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ he said. ‘Did you pass a small car just now? Possibly a Fiat?’
‘No,’ the man said, and glanced at the woman seated beside him. She shook her head.
‘I think it could be in the ditch,’ the lorry driver said.
The man immediately got out and joined in their search, while his wife stayed in the car. The torch beam shone brightly into the dark, sweeping through the drizzle to the bare trees and grassy banks which flanked the ditches either side of the road. The three of them moved forward in silence, watching and listening, the air quiet, save for the sound of their shoes on the tarmac and the rain dripping from the trees. Then, further up the road, the beam fell on the outline of something more solid, something partially raised and sticking out above the ditch.
‘Over there!’ the lorry driver cried, and the three of them ran to the spot.
‘Jesus!’ he gasped.
‘Bloody hell,’ the man said.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ the woman said, taking out her phone.
The car was completely upside down in the ditch, fitting in so exactly it was almost as if it had been made for it. The doors and windows were compacted against the sides of the bank; only the underneath of the car and the bottom of the doors were visible. It was as though the car had been turned upside down and then dropped in directly from above to fit in so precisely, the lorry driver thought. And in a way it had, for the impact had flipped it over and sent it flying to land squarely in the ditch.
‘There’s no way we can get into that,’ the man said, and the lorry driver nodded.
As the woman spoke on her phone, giving details of their location to the emergency services, the man from the car began knocking on the metal of the upturned car and calling, ‘Anyone in there? Can you hear me?’
But there was no reply.
‘I suppose he could have been thrown clear,’ the lorry driver said.
‘It’s possible,’ the man from the car agreed. Together they began walking slowly up the road, peering where the torch beam shone – on either side of the road, into the ditches and up the bank, but there was no sign of anybody, dead or alive.
Other vehicles began joining the slow-moving queues forming in both directions from the hypermarket. Some of the drivers wound down their windows and asked what had happened, and, their curiosity satisfied, continued around the lorry and parked cars, driving over the glass which crackled like ice. The two men, having found nothing, returned to the woman, who said the emergency services were on their way. The men began tapping on the metal of the upturned car, calling out, ‘Anyone in there? Help is coming.’ Just for a moment they thought they might have heard something, possibly a groan, but then another car passed and sirens sounded in the distance, after which they heard nothing further from the wrecked vehicle.
Police, ambulance, and fire tenders arrived within minutes of each other and the officers immediately took control. The police closed off the road in both directions and rerouted the traffic. Portable spot lamps flooded the scene and the fire crew quickly established that there was one male in the vehicle, then set about cutting him free. Sparks flew as they worked and the man and the woman who’d stopped to help told the officers what they knew, which wasn’t a lot as neither had actually witnessed the accident. However, the woman did tell them about the driver who’d overtaken her on a blind bend, and the police officer included it in his notes. Once she and the man had given their statements and contact details, they were allowed to leave.
The lorry driver meanwhile was in a patrol car giving his statement. The police had already completed an initial safety check of his lorry and had found nothing untoward. They’d also looked at his driving licence and insurance, breathalyzed him, and checked his mobile phone, all of which they said was now standard practice at the scene of a road traffic accident. Everything had been in order and the last call he’d made had been before he’d left the hypermarket. As he finished making his statement, they saw the fire crew finally cut the driver free from the now backless car. They laid him on the waiting stretcher where the paramedics took over. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose and a line ran from his arm to a bottle held up by one of the paramedics. As they prepared to load the stretcher into the ambulance, the lorry driver turned to the officer beside him and asked, ‘Do you think you could find out how he is?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied helpfully.
The driver watched through the windscreen as the officer went over and spoke to two of his colleagues. It had stopped raining now but a damp mist hung over the scene. They talked and nodded and at one point smiled. The ambulance sped away, its siren wailing and light flashing.
‘He’s got a broken leg and arm and a head injury,’ the officer said on his return. ‘They’ll know more once he’s at the hospital, but it seems he’s lucky to be alive.’ He paused, then added, ‘He’s known to us. He’s already lost his licence and there’s alcohol in his blood.’
The lorry driver let out a sigh of relief. He was very sorry that the accident had happened at all, but it could have been a lot worse. Supposing there’d been a seriously injured woman or child in the car – or even someone killed? He’d never have forgiven himself.
Chapter Four (#ulink_291b20be-34f6-5834-b269-b58dd49dae3c)
Rosie had almost stopped shaking now. She’d had to force herself to appear calm. Shane would be back at any moment – indeed she had expected him sooner – and he hated to see her crying and trembling. She looked silly, pathetic, he always said, like a scared-shitless rabbit. It reignited his anger if he saw her in a state.
‘Surely you’re not scared of me!’ he would say, and she’d tell him she wasn’t, trying to keep her voice steady to belie how frightened she truly was. Of course she wasn’t scared of him. She loved him. While this was true some of the time, those moments were now few and far between. Even when she wasn’t in fear of him she was on her guard, walking on eggshells, constantly making sure she didn’t upset or disappoint him. It was hard work keeping him happy and the strain was taking its toll, so much so that she wasn’t sure what was worse: being attacked or anticipating it. Life was so confusing now, especially when he apologized and told her how much he loved her and that it would never happen again.
When did her life become this difficult? She knew the answer. A week after he moved in.
Rosie had wiped the blood from her face and cleaned the vomit from the floor, scrubbing the carpet with disinfectant until the smell of sick had gone. She often vomited after he attacked her; she thought it was from shock and the pain of being punched in the stomach. She never used to be sick – not before. She’d been very healthy and happy back then, before he’d moved in. But now even thinking about his anger and what he might do to her caused her stomach to contract and the bile to rise to her throat.
Shane liked everything to be back to normal with no trace of ‘their fight’ when he returned, so she’d also changed out of her blood- and vomit-splashed clothes. They were in the washing machine. The duvet cover would go in once the first load had finished, and she’d already put a fresh cover on the bed. The only sign of their fight now was her swollen lip. She’d managed to stop the bleeding by pressing a wet tissue on the cut, and make-up had covered the redness and bruising around her mouth and on her cheek, but it couldn’t hide the swelling. In fact, if anything, it accentuated it.
Had she really deserved the beating? she wondered as she examined her face again in the bathroom mirror. Was it really always her fault? Did she provoke him beyond reason as he accused her of doing? She honestly didn’t know. So much of her life had changed in the last six months that she barely recognized herself any more. Work colleagues and her mother had noticed the change in her too and had commented. Her mother, aware of Shane’s past, had never liked him and refused to have him in her house, saying he was a ‘bad lot’ and that a leopard never changed its spots. Her friends, even her best friend Eva at work, had never met Shane because she no longer went out socially. Shane didn’t like it. Rosie wished she could have confided in Eva or her mother. They might have been able to offer a fresh perspective and make some suggestions on how to help, but she knew that was out of the question. Shane had told her plenty of times that if she went blubbering to anyone he’d have to kill her, and she believed him.
The doorbell rang, making her start. Shane? Why didn’t he use his key? Had he lost it? Quickly checking her appearance in the mirror again she glanced around the living room, making sure everything was back to normal, then gingerly went into the hall and opened the front door. Two uniformed police officers stood side by side.
‘Rosie Jones?’ the woman police officer asked.
Rosie nodded, a sinking feeling hitting the pit of her stomach. Shane had promised to keep out of trouble.
‘I’m PC Linda Simpson and this is my colleague PC Tim Marshall. I believe you own a car with the registration number BA06 FYS?’
Rosie’s mouth went dry and her legs began to tremble. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. May we come in?’
Rosie stared at them, not fully understanding. She’d been expecting Shane and now this? ‘What sort of accident?’
‘I think it would be better if we came in to explain,’ Linda said.
Rosie moved aside to let them in.
‘In here?’ the policewoman asked, nodding to the living room.
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, and followed them in.
She sat on the sofa and Linda sat beside her, while Tim took the single armchair: Shane’s chair. She saw them glancing around. Were they looking for something? Her lip began throbbing.
‘Your car was involved in an accident earlier tonight along Bells Lane,’ Linda said, turning slightly so she could look at Rosie. ‘A person called Shane Smith was driving. Do you know him?’
Rosie nodded. ‘He’s my boyfriend. He lives here.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s injured and is being treated at St Mary’s Hospital,’ Linda continued. ‘He has a nasty head injury but it isn’t thought to be life-threatening, so he’s been quite lucky considering the state of the car. You’ll be able to find out how he is later.’ Rosie nodded. ‘You knew Shane was driving your car? You gave him permission to do so?’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, her voice unsteady. ‘He has a key.’
Linda touched her arm, concerned. ‘Are you OK, love? You’re very pale. Can I get you a drink of water?’
‘No, I’ll be all right.’
‘He’s been well looked after,’ Linda reassured her. ‘But I’m afraid the car’s a write-off. He seems to have escaped with some broken bones and a head injury, but it could have been a lot worse. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘No,’ Rosie said. PC Tim Marshall took out his notepad and pen.
‘How long have you known Shane?’
‘Not long. He went to my school for a while.’ Rosie tried to keep her voice steady. ‘But I hadn’t seen him for years.’
‘And how long has he been living here?’
‘Four months.’
‘So you hadn’t been in touch with him before you became a couple and moved in together?’
‘No,’ Rosie confirmed. ‘I met him by chance and he had nowhere to live.’
‘Where was he before he came here, do you know?’ Linda looked at her carefully.
‘He was in prison, for something he didn’t do,’ Rosie said, and saw the look the police exchanged. Her cheeks burned.
‘So he came straight here then after his release?’ Linda asked.
‘He went to his mother’s first but she didn’t want him there.’
Linda nodded. ‘Did he tell you why he was in prison?’
‘No. He didn’t like talking about it. He wanted to put it behind him and make a fresh start.’
‘It was for GBH – grievous bodily harm. Were you aware he’d lost his driving licence for drink-driving offences? Shane wasn’t allowed to drive.’
‘Oh,’ Rosie said, genuinely shocked. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘To allow someone to drive your vehicle if they are banned is a criminal offence,’ Tim added.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Rosie said again. ‘I put him on my insurance,’ she added, hoping this would make it better.
