The silver BMW slammed side on into a row of three parked cars outside the Bella Donna Care Home, sending care workers and relatives scurrying outside to see what the commotion was, and then racing to help, shouting to each other to bring towels, blankets. Call for help. The horn, held down by Frank’s bleeding skull, continued to sound, cutting through the noise of everything else. Frank, feeling now like he could barely move at all, tried to reach his mobile phone, which was in his coat pocket. He fumbled with the fabric, trying and failing to push his fingers into the space. His door was opened at the side of him, and people were talking to him. Asking him questions, telling him not to move, that help was coming. He wanted to speak, to tell them that something was wrong, so very wrong, but the words eluded him. They floated like mischievous pixies in his head. Every time he reached for one, they flew off and nothing that came from his lips made sense. Frank was lost and utterly terrified. He thought of the little boy in the backpack, and a tear fell from his slack cheek.
‘Don’t move, okay Mr Sommersby?’ Marilyn’s son. Frank couldn’t answer him. He didn’t know how. When he felt Jamie’s hand on his, he squeezed it as hard as he could. ‘Over here! He’s touching my hand! Quickly!’ Jamie’s voice sounded strangled, panicked, and Frank wanted to tell him to shush. Not to make a fuss. It was okay. It wasn’t, but he felt so very confused. So very weary. ‘Mam, have you called for help?’
He could sense someone else there now, and he felt something on his arm. Warm. It pervaded his numbness somehow, and he tried to turn his head towards the warmth.
‘No, don’t move Frank. It’s okay, we’re here. Help is on the way. You hang in there, you hear me?’ Frank recognised the female voice, but he couldn’t conjure up the name or the face in his head. Just the feeling of the voice. The way it made his body respond. It kept the fear at bay, a little at least. He tried to focus, to flex his fingers. He had no way of knowing if his digits had responded, and the voices didn’t comment. They weren’t silent though, and he could hear other noises too. The toot of a car … thingy, and the loud herald of sirens. Help. That’s what that sound meant. He didn’t remember what a horn was, or the name of the woman holding his hand and whispering pleas to cling on, but he knew that help was here. The sad thing was, Frank’s life had already flashed before his eyes, and what he had seen had made him want to let go. Give in. His eyelids fluttered closed, but a voice shrieked at the side of him, waking him up.
‘That’s it!’ the voice said, shakily strong. ‘No more baps from me if you leave Frank, so hang on in there.’
‘Mam,’ another voice. ‘Mam, is he answering?’
‘No son,’ the first voice scolded. ‘He knows what to do though. He’ll be fine. That’s the end of it.’ The sirens grew closer, the noise of the commotion growing ever louder still. Frank would have hated all the fuss normally, all the people put out because of him. He’d have apologised, had he been able to, but he was stuck with one image in his head. The little brown-haired boy in the backpack, that made his tired heart clench. He could still hear voices now, but he couldn’t make sense of them. They were so loud, and he was in so much pain. He went to say something, but his body was no longer his to control. Trying one last time to squeeze the hand that was holding his, he gave a long sigh, and gave in.
Chapter 1
Sometimes, when everyone is seemingly out there in the world, being happy, joyful, and full of life, a woman just wants to tell them all to sod off and die in a pit of fire. That was the first thought that entered Rebecca’s head that morning, and it was probably the most upbeat thought she’d had since she awoke. The twinge in her lower back always made her a little grumpy first thing on a morning. Sometimes she would still wake in an odd position, wracked with a sudden spasm. As though her muscle memory had stored that feeling of horrendous pain. As though it wanted to remind her what could go wrong when you reached for the stars. Falling from the heavens wasn’t without injury. Pieces breaking off. It wasn’t so much the pain anymore. It was the memory that haunted her the most. The feeling of falling, tumbling, breaking. Hearing her own bones snap. It was enough to make anyone a little bit jaded about the world. Her nan used to call her arthritic early morning pain the ‘crabby hour’. Now, reflecting on her current early morning mood, she understood just what her old nan meant. Why
