My mother lets them in when they arrive. I listen as she takes their coats and asks if they’d like tea. They thank her, but refuse her offer of a drink. My heart is racing, no idea what I’m going to say. A few days ago I was just a woman recovering from a car crash. Now I’m a woman who might have been trying to commit suicide with her own child in the car. What kind of person am I?
‘Head through that way,’ I hear her say. ‘You’ll find her just in there.’
Their footsteps grow louder as they approach. They bring the scent from outside with them, that dirty smell of fog and winter that gets on your chest, delivers illness. Moments later two officers appear in the doorway, both wearing long winter coats. Their hair is damp, noses red, pink cheeks flushed against white skin. Cherries on cakes. One woman, one man.
The man is small in stature, his frame slight yet overweight. It makes him seem out of balance, leaning back like a pregnant woman might in order to keep herself upright. Did I stand like that when I was pregnant? Is that why I thought it? I vaguely remember him from the hospital, the deep parting and white-grey hair. He nods at my father. ‘Dr Daniels, good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ My father walks over and holds out his hand. They shake and my father peers around to smile at the woman arriving behind. She is so different from the first officer: tall, young, delicate features. Her bright blonde hair makes me think of Andrew and Joshua. Her face is narrow and angular; she has a cold look about her. She doesn’t smile or speak, her gaze so strong I have to look away. ‘Officer Barclay, right?’ my father says.
‘Detective Constable Barclay.’ She reaches out, shakes his hand. ‘Good morning, Chloe,’ she says as she turns to me. Her wedding ring cuts into my skin as we shake. And with that a thought rises to the surface: where is my wedding ring? ‘Nice to see that you are finally well enough to speak with us.’ Still she doesn’t smile. She makes me nervous: her attitude, the way she stands, feet firmly in place. I wring my hands together to stop them shaking.
‘Welcome to you both,’ my father says. ‘Can we arrange for some tea or coffee for you? It’s freezing out today.’ There is a light frost on the ground, and the fog in the air is thick. You can’t even see as far as the swimming pool. The chill has infiltrated the house, and despite the crackling fire, all the walls seem just that bit too far away for the atmosphere to feel cosy. I look over at Jess, sitting on a footstool, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a smart blouse: dressed as my father demanded. She is nibbling on the quick of her thumb.
‘No, we’re fine, thank you.’ The male officer turns to look at me, a warm smile spreading across his face. ‘Miss Daniels, good morning. I’m DS Gray.’ I start to get up, struggling a little with my balance as I always do. Jess rushes to help me, and with her support I get to my feet and take DS Gray’s hand. His palm feels cold and sweaty all at once. ‘Please, sit down,’ he says.
I tuck my robe under my knees as I sit, and just a moment later I notice my father pointing to my right leg. I set it back on the footstool, not sure whether it’s for the good of my health or the sake of appearances in front of the police.
‘My father tells me we have met before,’ I say.
‘Yes, twice, in the hospital,’ DC Barclay says. She pulls up a chair and sits down. ‘You don’t remember us at all?’
‘It was a difficult time for Chloe,’ my father reminds her. ‘She suffered an epidural bleed. She nearly died, Officer.’
Without looking at him she says, ‘We are well aware of Chloe’s injuries, Dr Daniels. That is, after all, why it has taken us so long to be able to speak with her, piece together her version of events.’
DS Gray takes over, lowering the tension. ‘Of course we appreciate these things take time. But I must say, you are certainly looking a lot better than you were in the hospital.’ When I study my reflection, inspect my injuries, I don’t think I look well at all; for a brief moment as I glance to my father, I wonder whether he isn’t just a little bit disappointed by DS Gray’s observation. ‘It’s a relief to finally have an opportunity to talk to you about what happened that night. We are really hoping to make some headway with this case, start to understand what happened.’ I nod, swallow hard. ‘I would like first of all, however, to offer my most sincere condolences for the loss of your son.’ I can’t look up and I don’t say anything. He must feel the tension creeping back in, because he is quick to move things on. ‘What we really want to try to establish is exactly what you remember.’
I think of my dream, the flashbacks. My certainty that they truly reflect that night. But then I think of what my father suggested: the possibility that I intended to crash.
‘I don’t remember anything,’ I tell them, taking a split-second decision to do as my father has told me. I’m not sure I could take their judgement otherwise.
DC Barclay pulls out a pen and pad, crosses her legs, tapping her kitten-heeled foot like a metronome. Tick, tick, tick. All the while she looks at me, seconds passing, waiting for me to speak. Her pen poised, her face expressionless.
‘Nothing about what happened before or after the crash,’ I add.
DS Gray smiles, nods his head, as if my response has satisfied his expectations. ‘Of course, we understand, Miss Daniels. But it is our job to try and glean from you what might seem like the most insignificant of details, and turn them into a case against the person we believe was driving the second car.’
I nod too, feel the need to reassure him, to come up with something. Funny how the police can make you do that. I feel like a child in the classroom, desperate to find the right answer, whatever that is.
My mother walks in, a tray of tea in her hands, and I’m grateful for the distraction. She sets it down on the table and pours two mugs, topping both with a splash of milk. We are all silent, watching her actions as if they are ceremonial.
‘It’ll warm you up,’ she says as she hands both officers a cup. They thank her, take a sip, before setting the mugs down on the table. She looks to my father for approval, finds it in a curt nod of his head. DS Gray turns to me as my mother takes up position alongside Jess.
‘All I’d like to do is pose a few simple questions, see what you can recall and what we can jog back into memory, OK?’ I nod again and he smiles, flashing a set of crooked, stained teeth. DC Barclay seems to be noting down my every move, her pen scribbling frenziedly even when I’m not saying anything to warrant it. I try to keep still, avoid giving anything away. I realise I’m thinking as if I’m guilty. ‘So, I’ll start by asking if you can remember anything about the lead-up to the crash: where you were going and what you were doing on Ditchling Road.’
I try to think of Brighton and the roads I must have driven around time and time again. I think of our trip back from the hospital, know there was nothing that seemed familiar on that day. I only know what my father has told me: that I left this house desperate and upset. ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s like I said, DS Gray, I really don’t remember anything.’ I can feel my head pulsating, the throb of my brain against my fractured skull.
‘You don’t remember if you were upset or angry when you got in the car? I need to try to establish your mood, the conditions leading up to the crash.’ He flicks through his notepad. ‘Your father told me that you left here sometime after seven in the evening. Is that correct?’
‘If that’s what he said, then I suppose so.’
‘And you can’t remember where you were going? What kind of mood you were in?’
‘Um…’ I hesitate, glancing across at my father standing behind the officers with one arm on the fireplace. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I know what he wants from me. Silence. ‘No,’ I tell DS Gray. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Do you remember anything about a second car?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Whether it hit you or not?’
‘No.’ I bring my left hand up to my head, give my temple a rub. I’m struggling to find the words. The questions are coming too fast. The memory of driving recklessly on that night flies into my mind. I watch DC Barclay’s tapping foot. I can’t keep up. Tick, tick, tick go the seconds, slowing to a painful pace. I can hear her pen scratching against the surface of the pad.
‘Everything all right, Chloe?’ My father’s voice. I nod, my eyes down. Jess edges alongside me, squeezes my right hand, but I don’t grip it back. You’re a liar, I think as I glance at her. You knew I had a son and said nothing. She smiles, but my face doesn’t change. You’re all liars, I think again.
‘Chloe?’ asks DS Gray.
‘I’m fine.’ I look up at him, then to DC Barclay. ‘I’m really sorry that I can’t be more helpful.’
DS Gray pauses for a sip of his tea, and DC Barclay takes over. ‘Do you remember if you went anywhere between leaving here and arriving at the site of the crash?’
‘I don’t know.’ I think of the flashback, of me driving in the rain. Where was I going? Was I crying? I feel like I was crying.
‘And what about Damien Treadstone? Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘No.’ I answer fast. She makes me nervous, as though I need to get this over with. Damien Treadstone isn’t a name I know. But then again, when I woke up I couldn’t even remember my own name. ‘Who is he?’
‘Damien Treadstone is the registered keeper of the second car found at the scene. He has been charged with dangerous driving. There is evidence to suggest he was trying to overtake on a section of the road where it would have been clearly dangerous to do so.’ Her foot continues to tap and my heart beats faster and harder. I feel sick.
‘What sort of evidence?’
‘Tyre tracks, paint transfer from his car to yours. He is currently out on bail and denies all charges. But he hasn’t got an alibi for his whereabouts that night. That’s why it’s so important we get your version of events, Chloe. Your testimony could make all the difference. He would have been driving a black BMW 3 Series sedan.’ She waits for me to think. I reach for a tissue, wipe my eyes as I shake my head. ‘There’s no doubt that his car hit yours. If you could remember anything at all, it might really help our case.’
I can feel a lump in my throat, the bruising inside me swelling and choking. ‘I don’t know him, or anything about what happened.’
‘And you’re quite positive that you didn’t have any sort of relationship with Mr Treadstone prior to the accident?’
‘What sort of relationship?’ my father asks, incredulous. They both ignore him.
‘I don’t even know who he is,’ I tell her.
She reaches inside her pocket and hands me a photograph. It’s a mug shot, a young man, bleary-eyed, with messy hair. I hand it back.
‘I don’t know this man.’
‘And you can’t tell us why you were driving along the Ditchling Road that night?’
‘No.’
She takes a sharp breath in, lets it go. The fire crackles. ‘Are you sure you’re not keeping anything from us, Chloe? Protecting somebody?’
All at once my father steps out in front of her, putting a blockade between me and the police. Jess hugs me close as I begin to cry. I don’t push her away; I welcome the comfort. I’m crying because DC Barclay is right. I am protecting somebody. Myself.
‘I think that’s quite enough,’ my father tells the officers. ‘Can’t you see what this is doing to her?’
‘OK, let’s leave it there.’ DS Gray stands up, turns to his partner, who puts her notebook away. They both appear annoyed. She’s nursing a dissatisfied look, the corners of her mouth turned down in a frown. She has skinny lips, the kind that are particularly good at expressing distaste; she can’t hide how much she hates me, how little she believes the things I say. ‘I’m sorry to have to come here and go over everything like this,’ Gray says, ‘but the CPS is pushing for a prosecution, and anything you remember has the potential to be useful at trial.’ He smiles at me, just enough to let me know that he is, in theory at least, on my side. ‘It must have been a very nasty knock that you took.’
I sniffle back the tears. ‘So they tell me.’ Right now, my head feels like it is going to explode.
‘Well, just focus on your recovery, but if you do remember anything, I want you to let me know. Your doctor at the hospital told us that sometimes memory comes back in flashes, and over time. Really, Chloe, if there’s anything at all you just give me a call at the station.’ He hands me a card with his telephone number on it before he looks towards Jess, points a finger. ‘You look after your sister now, won’t you?’ I slip the card in the pocket of the robe.
They turn to leave, walk through to the hallway. Just as I hear them arriving at the door I push myself out of the chair to hurry after them. Jess follows, anxious to stop me. By the time I reach the hallway DC Barclay is already outside, shrouded in fog and standing on the driveway. DS Gray is just moving through the front door.
‘DS Gray,’ I call, and he stops, turns back towards me. I feel the cold air hit, waking me up, drying my tears. ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’
He closes his lips tight, lets out a breath through his nose. ‘Damien Treadstone?’ I nod. ‘Twenty-eight years old. Medical rep. Married. Not from around here. Lives in Maidstone, Kent.’
‘Does he have children?’
He looks away, considers whether to tell me or not. He seems like he cares, like he doesn’t want to cause me unnecessary pain. ‘Yes. A son, two years old,’ he tells me.
After they leave, my father comes back through to the lounge, loosening his tie, letting go of the tension in his breath. My cheeks are warm from the fire, yet still my body feels cold. The name Damien Treadstone rolls around my head, a mixture of anger and sadness. Whose fault was it? Mine, or his?
My father sits down on the arm of the sofa, looks to my mother, who is sitting with her hands in her lap, not saying anything. ‘That went very well, I think,’ he suggests, and she nods her head like a dutiful dog. I realise I know, sadly, that of course she would do that. Jess was right. It’s not easy between them, never was, my father always in control. He looks to me before setting a heavy hand on my knee. I glance up at his face, find him smiling, relieved, as if the worst of it is over. He winks at me, buoys me up with a quick squeeze. ‘That was a very good start, Chloe.’
That night dinner is silent, the minced beef and mashed potato of a tasteless cottage pie sticking in my throat. Nobody is sure what to say, and every mouthful makes me feel sick. All I can think about is that I had a life I can’t remember, and the people who should be helping me have done nothing but lie to me about it. They tried to keep my past a secret. How can I trust them with my future if I can’t even trust them with the things that have already happened?
Mum begins clearing away the plates, her hands shaky and her focus lost, something I’m starting to see as normal. She knocks back the rest of her wine under my father’s watchful eye before leaving the room, slightly off balance, the wine going straight to her head. She’s been edgy ever since the police were here, her eyes darting all over the place, unable to settle. Jess too is up on her feet, helping with the napkins and place settings. They don’t want to be around me, I realise, so they don’t have to explain themselves. They are embarrassed, I think, guilt-ridden. Seconds later I am alone with my father.
‘I know you are still angry that I kept the truth from you, Chloe.’ I give him a sideways glance, lost for words. Still angry? Does he think it’s that simple? I am experiencing every emotion right now. I don’t even know how I feel. ‘But please, do try to see it from our perspective. It was a terrible situation for us to be in.’ He settles back in his chair, slips off his glasses. His other hand taps at the table. ‘You must learn to forgive us, Chloe, so that we can help you move on. After all,’ he adds, and this time I notice that his mouth curls up into a strange, affected smile, ‘we are the only family you’ve got left.’