“Whose wife?”
“The man who has died. Rob. The cyclist. I need to see what has happened.”
“I’m really sorry. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t let you through.”
He steps back from me, so I break into a run. He shouts after me. I turn, expecting him giving chase but he doesn’t. He’s tilting the radio on his shoulder towards his face. I’ll probably be intercepted when I get there, but at least I’ll get a glimpse of the scene. I get to the sharp bend and stop, now able to see a hive of activity further up the road, through the gaps in the bushes. If I go any further, I will definitely be caught and frogmarched back to the cordon.
There are people all over, in white suits, measuring things, taking photographs, writing things down. There’s no sign of Rob’s bike.
There’s not too much damage to the dry stone wall from what I can see, from the distance I’m at, and I can’t see any skid marks in the road from where I am. Of course, I will come back and take a closer look. Maybe lay some flowers. Apart from a low hum of voices, all is quiet. I close my eyes, allowing the sunshine onto my face and the sound of birdsong to wash over me. It could be just another day.
* * *
The scene keeps replaying.
I’ll never forget the sight of him flying through the air.
I imagine the crumpled body as bone and flesh connected with earth.
Chapter 8
By the time I leave the hospital, it is what I used to call wine o’clock. I’m tempted to have a drink, and no one would blame me if I did. It’s not as if I have to answer to Rob anymore, is it? I hate myself for thinking this. However, I know drink won’t do me any favours, so I’m going to try other things to get through this. I just haven’t worked out what yet.
The mortuary staff have stamped my parking ticket, so I don’t have to pay. DI Green got someone to make me another sweet tea whilst they asked more questions. They didn’t ask anything out of the ordinary, just routine stuff. But the patrol officer was right. It is being investigated as a crime. There were apparently no skid marks in the road, just a wheel dent where the car ran into a large stone. They’re saying that whoever hit Rob did not even try to stop afterwards.
It’s the second time I have seen a dead body. The first was Grandma, ten years ago. I was the only one who went to see her. It helped me accept it. I don’t know what I feel after seeing Rob. I only glanced at him. A sheet was pulled up to his neck. I looked at his face and said, “yes, that’s him.” He apparently died quickly. They haven’t worked out the exact cause of death yet, but think it was damage to his brain stem. The forensic post-mortem will confirm that, and whether he had taken anything that might have caused an accident. After seeing me, they were speaking to the farmer that was there when he died.
I couldn’t even cry when I saw Rob’s body. In fact, I have only cried this afternoon. That might have been more to do with Mum’s indifference. And then Christina being nice to me. I guess, in time, the lot will come tumbling out. But I’ve Jack to break the news to first. I’ve got to stay strong for him.
I tug my phone from the glove box and search through my messages for Sam’s mum’s number. She texted me a couple of months ago about yet another birthday party. Jack’s got a ten times better social life than I have. He seems to go to a different party every week. I haven’t saved her number – she’s not exactly what I’d call a friend, but at least she gives me the time of day, not like the other cliques of mothers at the school gates. They used to stare and whisper when I’d walked up to collect Jack, a little worse for wear. Since I’ve sobered up, they still eye me with the same suspicion. Pious hypocrites if you ask me. I bet they all have their own wine o’clock routine.
The call connects immediately. “Is that Sam’s mum?” I don’t even know her name.
“Speaking. Hi Fiona.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I’ve got your number saved.”
“I’m sorry. I’m all over the place right now. You must remind me of your name. I can’t keep calling you Sam’s mum.” Here I go again, having a normal conversation. Even though I’ve just identified my husband’s body. People will think I’m heartless.
“It’s Lynne. Don’t worry. Is everything OK?”
“Not really.” I steel myself to say the words out loud. I guess I’m going to have to get used to telling people. “It’s Jack’s dad – my husband. He’s…” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice DI Green and PC Robinson, as they drive out of the police parking bay, towards the exit barrier. They’re laughing. How can they laugh after what they’ve just dealt with?
“He’s what?”
“He’s been in an accident. On his bike this morning.”
“The one on Denton Road? Oh, my goodness! I’ve just heard something on the local news. Please tell me it wasn’t your husband!”
“I’ve just identified his body.”
The line is quiet. What can she possibly say? Heat springs to the back of my eyes as I imagine her face – etched with shock and sympathy. Maybe the other mums at the school gates will acknowledge me now. Or perhaps they will treat me even more like a leper. As if the death of one’s husband is something that can be transmitted.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Fiona. I don’t know what to say. Do you want us to keep hold of Jack tonight? He can borrow some of Sam’s pyjamas. I’ll wash his clothes ready
