In Too Deep (20 page)

The phone call came just before 5 p.m. on the last day of September. I was driving back to the office after showing a couple round a house, and I just managed to fish my phone from my bag and answer on hands-free before it stopped ringing.

I wouldn’t normally take a call in the car, but I was hopeful of a full-price offer on another property I’d been wanting to close before the end of the month. Commission was going to be tight in the run-up to Christmas as things naturally slowed down, and Rick and I could really have done with the money.

‘Hello,’ I said cheerily, without checking the number. If I had, I would have seen
No Caller
ID
on my screen.

‘Is that Mrs Forrester?’ a man’s voice said. He was hesitant, or perhaps it was because the reception was poor. He didn’t sound like my client.

‘Hello?’ I replied. The line was cutting in and out. ‘Can you hear me?’

There was white noise and crackling, broken-up pieces of unintelligible words. He asked me if I was somewhere private, if I was driving, and I swear I heard the word ‘police’, but then we got cut off. That’s when I pulled over
and saw there was no caller ID. I held my phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.

‘Hi, Steph,’ I said when Tina at the office put me through to her extension. ‘Did you or anyone else just try to call me?’ I knew they hadn’t because their number hadn’t shown up. I just didn’t want to face the reality of what I thought I’d heard.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Not that I know of.’

I ended the call, deciding that if someone needed to get hold of me urgently they’d phone back. It was when I arrived home that I saw the police car parked outside my house, two uniformed officers standing at my door. They looked as if they’d only just arrived.

‘Mrs Forrester?’ the man said. I saw pity on his face, though didn’t recognise what it might have meant. And I didn’t link it to the failed call earlier.

‘Yes, that’s me.’ I took my keys from my bag and went to open the door. My heart was hammering in my chest, though I hardly felt it. Everything was already numb.

‘May we come in?’ the other officer, a woman, said. ‘I’m afraid we have some news. Some bad news. It’s best if we go inside.’

‘Of course,’ I said. My mind felt as though it was drenched in liquid tar.

‘You’re going to need some support, Mrs Forrester,’ one of the officers said. I can’t remember which. ‘But we will help you with that. Shall we go and sit down?’

‘My husband’s away. He’s back tomorrow.’ It was only
a quick three-day job in Shropshire, but still far enough to make it worthwhile staying over. I led them through to the living room, telling them to make themselves comfortable. I did the same.

‘There’s been an accident,’ the man said.

My hand went over my mouth. ‘Oh my God, Rick.’ My knees pressed together. ‘Is that why he didn’t phone or text me last night? Christ, is he OK? Please, tell me . . .’ I felt as though I was going to wet myself, as if all control had gone.

‘It’s not your husband, Mrs Forrester. It’s your son.’

My face crumpled, bracing itself against whatever horror they were about to deliver. Broken bones, a bad fall, concussion, meningitis, or perhaps he’d not turned up at school. My mind plundered every possibility. Not one of them was right.

‘It’s the worst news to have to bring you, I’m afraid.’ The woman spoke softly. She reached out to my arm and rested her hand there. ‘Your son was in a road traffic accident. He passed away earlier this afternoon. I’m so very sorry.’

Cold. That’s how I felt. Utterly, comprehensively frozen from the inside out, as if I’d been immersed in ice. As if life had stopped.

‘What . . . ?’ It was a barely formed word. A thin whisper. Not from my mouth. Just somewhere in the air.

I was shaking. Uncontrollably.

‘What are you talking about? No, you must have the wrong person. Jacob took the bus home. He’ll be up in his room.’

I stood up, wanting to go into the hallway to call upstairs and prove myself correct, but I was too dizzy and fell back down into the chair.

‘Formal identification needs to take place, of course, but I’m afraid we believe the deceased is your son.’

I couldn’t stop shaking my head. Little sideways flicks. If I kept doing it, none of it would be true.

‘I don’t . . .
no
, this isn’t happening. What are you talking about?’ I choked out a disbelieving noise somewhere between a laugh and a wail.

The room was dark and light at the same time. Nothing was real. I felt suddenly angry, driven by a fire.

‘Your son was on the school bus, but from what we’ve ascertained from witnesses so far, he got on the wrong one. When he realised, he begged the driver to stop and let him off.’

‘Jacob wouldn’t get on the wrong bus. I told him which one to take. He’s upstairs in his room.’

This time I made it to the hallway. I yelled out my son’s name. There was no reply. I ran upstairs and flung open his bedroom door. His pyjamas were strewn on his unmade bed. The curtains were half open. It still smelled of him, but Jacob wasn’t there.

The officers led me back downstairs.

‘The bus driver will be interviewed, of course, but we believe he stopped the bus and let Jacob off. They were down a country lane heading to the western villages. We think Jacob might have started walking back towards school. The car was going very fast.’

‘What car?’ My voice shook.

I didn’t believe any of it. Why were they telling me?

‘Your son was hit by a car, Mrs Forrester. I’m so sorry. I know it’s distressing to hear terrible news, and hard to take it in.’

‘What . . .
car
?’ I said. My chest hurt, as if a strap was pulling tight around it. ‘Tell me!’

‘A car was driving along the lane and it hit your son. They didn’t stop. Another driver found him later and called for help. Jacob was taken to hospital, where he was pronounced dead. He’d suffered severe head injuries. I’m so sorry.’ The female officer was matter-of-fact, and there was sympathy in her voice, but any kindness bounced off me.

‘What other driver? What car?’

My head swam with questions, all of them blending together.

‘Who was driving? Where is Jacob? Why are you lying to me?’

Then I remembered Hannah.

‘Where’s my daughter? Where
is
she?’ I leaped from the chair, ignoring the dizziness, and dashed into the hall screaming her name. I came to rest at the bottom of the stairs, collapsing on to my hands, then my face. Tears were pouring from my eyes as I sobbed.

‘Come on, Mrs Forrester. Let’s get you back in the living room where you’ll be safe.’

‘I want my daughter. I want Hannah. Where is she?’

I knew . . . I
knew
where she was. I just couldn’t place it. My mind wouldn’t work.

I can’t recall what happened next, but the male officer was putting a cup of tea in front of me, telling me to drink, asking if he could help, if there was anyone he could call for me.

‘Jacob,’ I said, trying to think rationally and practically. ‘Call Jacob.’

‘Mrs Forrester . . .’ the woman said.

I ignored her. I grabbed my phone from my bag and dialled my son. It rang, but there was no answer. Then I heard his voice asking me to leave a message.

‘It’s Mum. Call me back, Jakey. It’s urgent. Love you.’ My voice was tarnished and bitter. I knew he would never receive the message, but I called again and again, leaving dozens of them just to make sure.

Then I called Hannah.

‘Mum, you know I’m out riding with Kaye after school today.’ I heard the clop of hooves in the background, the sound of the wind. Her voice grounded me. ‘Kaye’s mum said I can stay for tea, too. Can I?
Please?
’

It was a relief to know she was safe, still oblivious, existing in the perfectly normal place that I was in only half an hour earlier. ‘Of course, love,’ I said, trying not to sound upset, though my voice was knotted and tight. ‘I’ll fetch you later.’

I didn’t tell her.
Couldn’t
tell her. Not yet. The police said they’d help me with logistics.

Then I broke down again.

‘Would you like me to call your husband for you?’ the female officer asked, seeing I was in no fit state. I nodded,
wiping my face on my sleeve. There was no way I could break the news to him. It already felt like my fault. I pulled up Rick’s number and handed her my phone.

The officer dialled, staring at the floor with a kind and patient expression as she waited for an answer. Eventually, she gave a little shake of her head.

‘Hello, Mr Forrester, I’m a police officer and I’m with your wife right now. Would you please call back on this number as soon as possible? Thank you.’ She gave me back my phone.

‘He’s in Shropshire working,’ I told her in a moment of clarity. ‘He’s filming in a remote place.’ I hadn’t been able to reach him either, not that I often bothered him when he was away working, but it was nice to hear his voice from time to time. That was one of those times.

‘How about I call a relative or friend for you?’ the officer said. ‘Then we need to think about going to the hospital. I’m sure your husband will call back very soon.’

I nodded, staring at her, praying my phone would ring. But it didn’t. Not until much later.

‘Oh God, Richard . . .
finally
. . .’ my mother said down the line late that night after she answered the call for me. I simply couldn’t do it. She tried but failed to conceal the wobble in her voice. ‘You need to get home as soon as possible.’

She always called him Richard. Never Rick.

‘There’s been a terrible accident. The police tried to contact you earlier, but couldn’t reach you.’ Mum was fighting back the tears. We’d already cried solid for two hours, Hannah included after I’d brought her back from Kaye’s house and broken the news to her. I’d since managed patches of utter stillness. Quiet disbelief. The police had gone by then. I’d never felt so alone.

A police support officer had visited briefly during the evening, not long after my parents arrived. Mum was a mess, though Dad remained stoic and emotionless. His actions were quiet and methodical, taking care of things that no one else would even have been thinking about,
let alone actually done. Everyone slipped into a role as the days took on a new shape.

Earlier, before I’d left for the hospital, I’d phoned Kaye’s mum, confirming it was actually OK for Hannah to stay after supper if needed as I wasn’t able to give an exact time to pick her up. Somehow, I’d managed to withhold the news from her, drag myself through the thickness of my voice, now convinced there’d been a mix-up with identification. The thought had been keeping me going. There was no need to upset my daughter unnecessarily, and besides, I needed to see for myself first. The two officers who’d delivered the news escorted me to the hospital, where I was met by a doctor. He took me into a small office, while the police officers waited outside.

I can’t recall what the doctor looked like, even though I spent half an hour with him before and after seeing Jacob. I think he had grey hair, he was pleasant and mild-mannered, but as with many things of that day, I simply can’t remember. It’s locked up in a place I never want to revisit.

‘Your son suffered massive head injuries, Mrs Forrester. If it’s any consolation whatsoever, it would have been swift. We believe he had already passed away when the other driver found him.’

I remember wondering why I wasn’t a hysterical mess on the floor, what was wrong with me that I was still sitting upright, listening to the doctor, nodding in all the right places. Surely a woman who’d just lost her son shouldn’t be so composed? But I was numb from head to toe, I
remember that, filled with empty space where feeling once had been. My skin was as dead as if it had been ripped from me; my sight and hearing warped and wrung out.

The doctor explained about brain death and other immediate and horrific bodily malfunctions Jacob would have suffered, though he made it sound as if it wasn’t suffering, as if what had happened to him was as natural as falling asleep. I was grateful to him for that.

Then he took me into a room – an antechamber off another room which was decorated almost like a chapel, though without being of any particular religion.

‘Is this his funeral?’ I recall asking, then feeling immediately foolish. My mind was playing tricks on me. There was a nurse there with me, as well as an officer and the doctor.

‘No, love. You agreed to identify your son. Is this still something you can do?’ The nurse spoke gently. ‘I’ll be right beside you, as well as the police officers. Then they’ll want to do a post-mortem on Jacob, just to be sure.’

‘To be sure he’s dead?’ There was hope in my voice. My fingers twisted together in a painful white knot.

‘No. We know he’s dead, love. This is to be sure how he died.’ She gave me a smile filled with pity. One of thousands I was doomed to receive from that day on.

I nodded and then I went in. Jacob was under a sheet. A little hillock. Much smaller than I remembered from when I’d seen him that morning.

That morning when I insisted he take the bus.

‘Keep your eyes peeled for Susan’s son,’ I say, teasing Hannah as we arrive back at the hotel. I lock the car and glance at the time on my phone, wondering if I can get away with a quick gin and tonic in the bar. It’ll help me relax, and 5 p.m. isn’t so bad. Our afternoon of sightseeing was pleasant but tiring, though Hannah has other ideas.

‘Don’t be so bashful,’ I call after her as she dashes through reception and charges up the stairs.

‘Mum, shush,’ she growls from the half-landing, scurrying away.

Not relishing being alone, I go into the bar and order a drink. There’s a free table beside the window overlooking the lawn, and several other guests relaxing with books and newspapers, some idly chatting, laughing, enjoying each other’s company. I feel utterly dejected and wistful.

And angry as hell at Rick for not being here with me.

I open a newspaper that’s been left lying on the table, but my eyes don’t focus on the words. I sip my drink, enjoying the bitter tang as it hits the back of my throat.