Just as I had grown younger, so had she, and far from beingthe confident young woman I had first known, she now seemed barely more than achild taking her first steps into the adult world.
She had only been at university for one term when her motherdied, and she had not been able to face going back for the next one. She hadeventually returned in February, and I knew that I faced a January full oftears and heartbreak.
To have her mother ripped away from her so suddenly andcruelly had completely devastated her world. I comforted her as best I could,but there was nothing I could do until the fateful day arrived.
The hurt and pain she was suffering built up anger withinmyself, and I was determined that I was going to stop the man who had causedit, no matter how far I had to go.
I knew everything I needed to know about him. His name wasMark Tompkins; he was 34 years old and lived on an estate in East Oxford. Allthe details had come out during the trial, after which he had been sentenced tofourteen years in prison for causing death by dangerous driving.
Although that was the maximum the law allowed, it stillwasn’t enough in my opinion.
Ironically, despite the hatred I felt towards the man, whatI was planning to do was going to save him from that prison sentence.
It wasn’t just enough to make sure that Sarah wasn’t on thezebra crossing to be mown down at the appointed place and time. If I did that,there was nothing to prevent him carrying on his drink-driving and killing someother poor family’s mother, father or child. He needed to be stopped.
How far could I go? Some dark thoughts clouded my mind. Whatwould happen if I killed him during the day of the accident?
No one would have any reason to suspect me. If I killed himbefore he killed Sarah, there would be no possible connection. She would live,and he wouldn’t be able to stagger drunk into his car ever again.
Ultimately, I dismissed this thought. I couldn’t really seemyself killing someone in cold blood. Instead I worked out a plan that wouldresolve everything to my satisfaction and got it ready to put into operation.Before any of that could happen, though, there was the funeral and Christmas toget through.
December 2017
Christmas 2017 was an awful, miserable time in our house.Sarah had been killed on the night of the 22nd, so close to the big day thatthe house was already decked out for the occasion.
The turkey was in the fridge and the tree was decorated,with presents wrapped and laid out beneath it. Sarah’s were destined never tobe opened. The day had been spent wallowing in grief and self-pity.
Although I knew that all of this was going to be put right,I couldn’t cope with the sheer emotion of the situation, in particular Stacey’sanguish: so traumatic that I found myself also breaking down and sobbing. Ithought the funeral which had taken place five days later had been bad enough,but nothing could compare to that awful Christmas Day.
Somehow we got through it, and then there was one furtherday of suffering on Christmas Eve. After that came the 23rd, the day afterSarah’s death, when I had been steeling myself for more of the same, but as ithappened, things turned out differently to how I had been expecting.
I woke up alone in bed on what was to be my last day as awidower. I went downstairs to the kitchen where Stacey was already makingbreakfast. Two pieces of bread popped up from the toaster as I entered theroom, and she keenly turned round to me and said, “Hi, Dad, where’s Mum?”
I had become pretty good at anticipating things that mighthappen on a daily basis, but it hadn’t crossed my mind to think that she mightnot be aware yet of her mother’s death.
“Oh, she had to go out early,” I said, thinking on the spotas I so often had to in my crazy life. “A bit of last-minute Christmasshopping, I think.”
“Cool,” replied Stacey, as she grabbed a knife from the drawerand began to spread some butter on her toast. “I still need to do a bitmyself,” she added.
I hadn’t seen her like this for months. She was quite herold self, a bubbly, cheerful eighteen-year-old girl looking forward toChristmas.
At that moment, I made a snap decision. I had absolutely noneed to tell her of her mother’s death. I couldn’t bear the thought ofinflicting that misery and pain on her. There had been more than enough of thatover the past few weeks to last a lifetime. I had made up my mind. We weregetting out of the city for the day.
“As it happens, I still need to do a bit, too,” I said. “Infact, as it’s the weekend, and Mum’s going to be busy getting everything readyfor Christmas, why don’t you and I go shopping together? It’ll be fun.”
“I’d love that!” said Stacey. “You haven’t taken me shoppingfor years. It’ll be like when I was little and you used to push me around inthe trolley.”
“Apart from the fact that I don’t think you’ll fit in thereanymore,” I joked. “Tell you what, let’s make a real day of it and go toLondon.”
“Fantastic,” replied Stacey. “Do you think Mum will want tocome?”
“She’s going to be too busy today,” I replied. “She won’tmind us going. I’ll text her and let her know.”
I had to make sure that no one could get in touch withStacey. The last thing I wanted was someone contacting her with a text messagealong the lines of “Sorry to hear about your mum”. So, while she wasupstairs getting ready, I took her mobile out of her handbag and hid it downthe side of the sofa.
I hurried Stacey out of the house as quickly as I could anddown to Oxford railway station where we caught a train to Paddington. Once wewere in London, we shopped like there was no tomorrow at Harrods, Selfridgesand Fortnum & Mason. By the time we’d finished, it was already getting darkand it was time to
