Downstairs in the kitchen, Emily glanced at the large round clock on the kitchen wall. It was a replica antique French railway clock, with Roman numerals. 1.15 p.m. Louise had left because she had heard there was a special offer on large prawns at a wholesaler in Worthing, and the saving would be a good boost to the somewhat meagre profit they would be making.
She opened the fridge door and was about to take out a couple of pies for lunch for herself and Jason, when he came in, looking very pale.
‘Darling,’ she said, alarmed. ‘Are you OK? What is it?’
‘I – I need a bucket and a mop. Where can I find them?’
‘They’re in the utility room – why? What do you need them for?’
Hesitating, he said, ‘I think I just saw someone die – killed.’
She followed him up to his studio, carrying a bucket of warm soapy water and several cloths.
‘Oh God,’ he said, entering and ignoring his puke on the floor. ‘Oh Jesus, it was horrible.’ He stared across at the construction site, his face pale.
‘What?’ Emily walked over and stood beside him. She saw an orange crane, and a swarm of workers in hard hats all around it.
‘I just – just—’ He began sobbing. ‘Oh God.’
Alarmed, she put an arm around him. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I – I can’t believe what I just saw.’
‘What? What, darling? What exactly did you just see?’
‘It was horrible. Jesus, it was horrible.’
‘What, please tell me.’
‘An accident – a terrible—’ He shook his head. ‘Oh God.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I. Just. Saw. A. Man. Killed. Killed. I saw him killed.’
‘Where? There, on the site?’
He continued staring. Shaking. Without answering her.
‘Tell me what happened, what did you see?’
All the machines had stopped. There were now twenty, maybe thirty workers standing in a semi-circle. More running over to join them.
In the distance was the wail of a siren, coming ever closer.
Followed by another.
A siren screamed by, close to the house. Two paramedics ran onto the site and through a gap that opened up in the semi-circle of workers. They were closely followed by two police officers.
Jason turned away and buried his face in her neck. ‘Don’t look, Em,’ he sobbed. ‘Please don’t look. Oh God, I could have saved him, I saw – saw . . .’
‘Saw what? Please tell me, Jason, tell me. Come away from the window, come on, sit down, can I get you something?’
He shook his head.
She guided him over to the couch and got him to sit down, then joined him. ‘Please, tell me what happened, what did you see?’
It took some while before he was calm enough to speak. He told her all he’d seen.
When he had finished, Emily said, ‘You need to call the police and tell them – you might be the only witness.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I will do – oh God. I will call them. All he was doing was having a sneaky fag.’
She put her arms around him. ‘You poor darling.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘There wasn’t anything you could have done.’
‘I know.’
Emily cleaned up the vomit, went out of the room and returned a few minutes later, and stood looking at the easel.
‘The picture is beautiful – amazing how you’ve caught their personalities.’
‘Thanks.’ He gave her a weak smile, his face still sheet white.
‘It looks finished.’
‘Just about. I’ll start on the spaniel soon.’
‘Good. Call the police, then try to put it out of your mind and focus.’
‘I know.’
They both stood up.
‘I was about to make us some lunch. Do you think you could manage anything?’
‘Maybe in a while.’
As Emily went back downstairs, he looked again at the painting. After being up all night, he’d planned to crash out for a couple of hours after finishing it, before starting on the spaniel. But he was so wired, that was no longer an option.
More sirens wailed.
He walked over to the window and looked out. It was like a scene from a television crime show. An ambulance, a cluster of police cars, and a dark green van with an emblem on it, crime scene tape . . .
Squinting through the zoom lens of his camera, he closed in on the emblem.
HM CORONER. WEST SUSSEX.
He wondered whether he should dial the Emergency number, 999. But whatever emergency there might have been was over. Instead, removing his gloves and binning them, he dialled the number for non-emergency incidents: 101.
It was several minutes before a call handler answered. Jason told him what he had seen.
The man asked him for his contact details, thanked him and told him someone would be in touch.
He ended the call, turned back and carried on, applying the finishing touches to the painting. Thirty minutes later, removing the portrait of the dogs from the easel, he placed it safely and securely on the floor, face-out, to enable the paint to dry and harden.
It was 2.20 p.m. Feeling utterly shattered, but drawn by compulsion, he walked across to the window and looked out yet again. A square white tent had been placed a short distance in front of the crane. A group of people in blue oversuits and baggy overshoes stood around it, and a police officer with a clipboard stood a short distance in front of them.
Too exhausted to care right now, Jason lay down on the couch and was asleep in seconds.