1
Ali’s back throbbed as the car sped along the narrow roadway towards its bleak destination. It didn’t matter how many metal pins were holding her damaged body together, nothing would prompt her to ask the driver to slow down; nothing would stop her from reaching their grim destination. She knew that this road – with its bumps, dips, and unexpectedly sharp bends – would send every damaged joint, tendon, and nerve ending jangling, but she didn’t care. She had learned to live with the pain, the morphine tablets easing her on her way.
They had started out early, taking a scenic B-road, and carrying on through Dartmoor, not even slowing to give the wild ponies a second glance. She had insisted they steer clear of tea shops and cafés. Even now, two months after the accident, she was reliant on a pair of unwieldy crutches, and there was still that scar on her cheek. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and a reassuring squeeze.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said her best friend Liz from the back seat.
Ahead of them the road snaked behind rocky tors, the stony layers stacked like gargantuan pancakes. It was still early, yet the sky was an odd, deepening, night-time blue. A gust of wind buffeted the car, and Ali found herself letting out an involuntary squeal of pain.
‘We can turn back,’ said Dane, their driver and Liz’s husband, ‘if it’s too much for you?’
‘No,’ she muttered, ‘I promised,’ and gripping the door handle indicated for him to carry on.
The crossroad appeared out of nowhere, just a rattling signpost pointing left to a single-lane road.
‘I can do this,’ she said to herself in a private mantra. The prayer beads hanging on the driver’s rear-view mirror swung across the windscreen like a hangman’s noose.
The place was exactly as she had seen in the accident photos. On one side a steep, fern-covered incline leading towards a romantically named tor, on the other, spiky gorse sloping down towards a dark, twisting river. She stared at the water, willing herself to remember … But all that came to mind were the same fragments of memory, terrifying and confused, that had haunted her for weeks: frantic screams, a furore of crunching metal, and the unforgettable stench of burning rubber. Her specialist, Dr Bhogadi, had said that it was likely some of her memories would be permanently shrouded in a haze of shock and post-traumatic confusion.
‘There’s retrograde amnesia,’ he had told her the morning of her release from the neuro-rehabilitation unit. He had been holding a life-size plastic model of a human brain in his hand. ‘One can remember some things distinctly, but for those few hours prior to the injury.’ He shrugged, suggesting it was all one great mystery. ‘Then there’s anterograde amnesia,’ he continued, ‘which involves problems with memory for information acquired after injury. This seems a more significant issue for you.’ He pointed his HB pencil at various sections of the model, explaining what parts were responsible for storing previously acquired and newly acquired information.
‘Why isn’t it grey?’ Ali asked.
‘Pardon me?’
‘The model. Why is it pink and not grey?’ She was feeling frustrated, even angry at this inconsistency, ‘considering it’s referred to as grey matter and all.’
Dr Bhogadi had suggested that maybe they had done enough for one day and booked her in for another outpatient appointment with the physiotherapist.
She felt a slight jolt as Dane eased the car into a lay-by dotted with sheep dung and daisies.
‘Shall I help you out?’ asked Liz.
‘Just give me a minute.’ Ali tried to remember the breathing exercises her therapist had taught her – in for four, hold, out for four – when all she really wanted to do was scream. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Good lass,’ said Dane in the seat next to her.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed open the door and discreetly placed a hand on her right leg to slide it across the seat and onto the ground. Liz was already waiting, crutches at hand.
‘Now you be careful,’ she said, gripping Ali’s arm to help steady her. ‘It’s wet and slippery, and there’s sheep shit everywhere. I’m right beside you if you need me.’ Ali smiled, grateful for her friend’s strong arm and supportive words. ‘Shall I get the …’ She pointed to the flowers resting on the back seat, but Ali was already making her way across the road.
‘Hold up,’ said Dane, placing a hand on hers to halt her progress. ‘There’s no way you’re going down there.’ He pointed to the steep path, wet grass, and jagged slices of granite that poked up through the soggy earth. She heard the crinkle of cellophane, and knew that Liz was beside her with the bouquet of red roses and the card that read:
‘Why don’t I ask Dane to take them down?’ said Liz. She indicated towards the gully, past the boulder still covered with flecks of Black Sapphire metallic paint, to the car’s final resting place in the river. Ali closed her eyes, reimagining the crunch of impact, the briefest of pauses, then cold water swirling at their feet. There were other glimpses, half-formed images that seemed to dissolve like fog in sunlight, but nothing she could grasp.
There had been a party to celebrate their third anniversary at a posh country house hotel on the moors, all paid for by Ali of course. The weather had been appalling for weeks, heavy rain resulting in swollen rivers and washed-out roads. Climate change at its worst. Had she and Matthew actually laughed as they negotiated the floodwater lapping onto the bridge near the hotel?
Not so funny now.
Tired, she sat down on a large square boulder by the roadside and ran her fingertips across the moss-covered edges. Below them Dane was negotiating his way down the slippery path towards a small plateau just above the river. A bouquet of sunflowers, vibrant yellow against a dull green background, had already been placed on the ground nearby.
As Liz sat down beside her, Ali caught a waft of her perfume, sparking a memory so painful, so profound, she reeled backwards as if struck.
‘I can just about remember you getting me out of the car,’ she said, turning to her friend, ‘but nothing afterwards.’ Liz gave an almost inaudible sigh, clearly anticipating what would be coming next. ‘Do you think it will ever come back to me?’
Their heart-to-heart was interrupted by Dane’s grunts and quiet curses as he climbed his way back up the slope towards them.
‘It looks like Emma got here before us,’ he said, indicating to the sunflowers on the plateau below.
‘She left first thing,’ said Ali. ‘I asked if she wanted to wait and come with us, but she was determined to do it on her own.’
Dane and Liz exchanged glances. It was no secret that Ali’s daughter Emma wasn’t happy about her mother’s remarriage three years ago, particularly to a man eight years her junior.
‘He’s only after your money,’ Emma had said the night Ali told her of their engagement, and then added the very well targeted: ‘What would Dad think?’
Your father has been dead for seven years, Ali had wanted to reply, but she held her tongue, knowing how hard Emma had struggled following Rory’s death. Matthew, too, was sympathetic. ‘I won’t try and replace your father,’ he had said to her, ‘just try and be like a sort of friend.’
Emma had laughed bitterly and giving him a razor-sharp glare said, ‘Don’t you mean older brother?’
‘Are you okay?’ Liz and Dane were watching her closely. ‘We lost you for a second there.’
‘I’m fine. It’s just all a bit …’
‘Confusing?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’ A cold wind blew, and Ali zipped her jacket up to just under her chin. ‘There are still these fiery sparks of memory from before the accident: Matthew and me picnicking on the hillside—’ she lifted a shaky hand and pointed ‘—just over there. How he slipped the engagement ring into my plastic glass of champagne.’ She blinked repeatedly as if trying to reboot her scrambled brain. ‘But when I try to actually remember what happened that night—’
‘You shouldn’t stress yourself,’ interjected Liz, once again acting as Ali’s fierce protector.
‘Her memories are important,’ said Dane gently.
‘Not if they cause her distress.’
Ali turned away, unable to face their sympathy.
‘If only things were clearer.’
‘It will come,’ said Liz. ‘Just give it time.’
‘But there isn’t time!’ replied Ali, impassioned. ‘Matthew is still out there somewhere – traumatised, injured, frightened. I need to find him, and the only way I can do that is by trying to remember what happened!’
The sky darkened, and in the distance they could see rainfall.
‘Better get you back into the car,’ said Dane, helping Ali to her feet. ‘You’re still recuperating after all.’
She frowned at his words. Recuperating suggested positive outcomes, getting better. Her bones might heal, the scar would fade, but without Matthew …
In the distance the low hum of an approaching car made them turn. It took a few seconds before the black BMW Coupé came into view.
‘Christ,’ muttered Dane. ‘Timing is everything.’
They watched as the driver continued past, oblivious to their stares.
‘It’s just a car,’ whispered Ali, but she couldn’t help looking back down towards the gully, to where her husband’s car – the exact same model – had ended up in the river – thinking of her and Matthew trapped inside, the sound of rushing water, of wanting to be safely out no matter what the cost. An image flashed in her mind; that secret in the car park sparking a response so primal, so ferocious. Of her digging her fingernails into Matthew’s forearm as she grabbed for the steering wheel.
‘Do you think it was my fault?’ she asked. ‘The accident?’
‘Of course not,’ said Liz. ‘It was just that: an accident. It was dark, the road conditions were terrible—’
‘But—’
‘No buts,’ replied Liz. ‘It was a terrible thing that happened.’ Her voice was tight with emotion. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Ali smiled weakly, grateful for the words of support even though she could tell her dearest friend in the world was lying through her teeth.
2
‘There we go.’
Dane gently eased Ali onto the settee and rested her crutches nearby.
‘Cup of tea?’ asked Liz.
‘Looking at her face, I think a painkiller is what’s called for,’ said Dane.
Ali nodded. ‘There’s a packet on my bedside table.’
Liz went to get a glass of water and then sat down beside her.
‘How are you feeling?’
Ali rested her neck on the back of the settee. ‘There’s just so much going on in my head, but none of it seems to make any sense. I have so many questions.’
‘Of course you do honey, but I really think you should try and give yourself a break. Stressing yourself out about it won’t do any good.’
‘The police said that from the skid marks on the road it was clear Matthew was speeding,’ continued Ali, ignoring Liz’s advice. ‘You and Dane were following right behind us, so you would know.’
Liz seemed unusually interested in the vase of freesias on the coffee table. ‘It was dark,’ she replied, ‘raining. I could barely see your taillights in front of me.’
‘But?’
‘Okay, yes. It was clear he was going too fast.’
‘I should have called a taxi,’ said Ali, shaking her head in self-reproach.
‘Why does all of this have to be your fault?’ said Liz, now plainly angry. ‘Matthew was an adult, a grown-up; he should have been sensible enough to know not to drive if he’d had too much to drink.’
Ali was surprised at Liz’s uncharacteristic criticism of her husband.
‘He did prove he wasn’t over the limit though.’
‘Do you mean that spectacle of him walking the white line in the car park?’
‘He was only teasing me,’ said Ali, feeling defensive. ‘I did have a few drinks too, you know, a few drinks too many.’
‘You weren’t driving,’ said Liz firmly.
‘Maybe I should have been.’
‘Maybe if the weather had been better, the roads less slick,’ countered Liz. ‘Maybe if the council had done that bloody road resurfacing work like they’d promised.’ Ali wasn’t used to seeing her best friend this irate. ‘And maybe if Matthew hadn’t been such an idiot and driving so recklessly, none of this would have happened!’
Ali stared at Liz, shocked by her ire.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Liz, still obviously upset. ‘I’m ...
