Lifesaving for Beginners
Read Lifesaving for Beginners Online
Authors: Ciara Geraghty
Also by Ciara Geraghty
Saving Grace
Becoming Scarlett
Finding Mr Flood
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Ciara Geraghty 2012
The right of Ciara Geraghty to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 848 94486 2
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For my parents, Breda and Don Geraghty,
with all my love
Contents
Prologue
1 June 2011; Dublin
He knows he is driving too fast.
Not over the speed limit.
Never over the speed limit.
But too fast for the way he feels.
The tiredness.
It’s in his bones.
It has seeped into his blood.
It’s in his fingers that are wrapped round the steering wheel of the truck.
It’s in the weight of his head on his neck.
He feels himself sagging.
He straightens and slaps his face.
He blinks, over and over, training his eyes on the road ahead.
He’ll be home soon.
He turns on the radio and takes a long drink from the can of Red Bull on the dashboard.
The sun has warmed it but he finishes it anyway.
‘A Pair of Brown Eyes’.
He turns up the volume and thinks about Brigitta.
The truck roars down the motorway.
Later, he will deny that he fell asleep at the wheel.
But afterwards, in the stillness of night, when he sits up in bed and wonders why he is shaking, he will concede that it’s possible – just possible – that he closed his eyes.
Briefly.
Just for a moment.
A second.
Perhaps two.
Sometimes that’s all it takes.
He can’t remember how long he’d been driving when it happened.
Too long.
He should have pulled over.
Climbed into the back of the cab for a rest.
Splashed cold water on his face in a worn-out toilet cubicle at the back of a petrol station.
He should have done a lot of things, he admits to himself when he sits up in bed in the middle of the night and wonders why he is shaking.
Instead, he drives on.
The conditions are near perfect.
The road is dry, the sun, a perfect circle of light against the innocent blue of the sky.
It looks like a picture Ania draws for him with her crayons.
She folds the pictures inside his lunchbox.
‘So you won’t miss us when you’re far away, Papa.’
A yellow sun.
A blue sky.
Four matchstick people.His face relaxes into a smile.
He thinks perhaps this is when it happened.
This is when he might have closed his eyes.
Briefly.
Just for a moment.
A second.
Perhaps two.
When he sees it, the deer is already in the middle of the road.
Some things are cemented in his memory.
He remembers the beauty of the thing, the sun glancing against its dappled side as it runs its last run.
The fear in the liquid brown eyes.
Human almost, the fear.
He’s never seen a deer on the road before.
He’s seen the signs.
The warning signs.
But this is the first time he’s seen one on the road.
He knows he shouldn’t try to avoid it.
Shouldn’t swerve.
He wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t been so tired.
He wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t taken on the extra shift.
The Christmas-fund shift.
He started it last January.
Julija needs a new bike.
And then Ania will want one.
She always wants what her big sister has.
He grabs the steering wheel and swerves, glancing in the mirror only afterwards to check the lane is clear.
The lane is not clear.
The thud as the front of the truck hits the animal.
Hits it anyway.
The sound of his brakes, screeching, the crash of the gears as he wrestles them down.
He remembers the car.
A bright yellow car.
There’s a suitcase on the back seat.
Held together with a leather belt.
The truck gaining on the car.
The sound when he hits it.
The sound.
His body shoots forward but is wrenched back by the seatbelt.
Later, there will be a line of bruises from his shoulder to his hip.
The airbag explodes in his face and he will have to admit to the judge that he doesn’t know what happened next.
The witness will know.
He will describe how the car, the bright yellow car, is tossed in the air like a bag of feathers, rolling and turning until it lands in the shallow ditch the workmen have been excavating.
The technical expert will know.
He will talk about the truck.
How it jackknives as it swerves, hitting two cars, causing one to roll and turn and end up in a ditch and embedding the other against the crash barrier, like a nut caught in the steely grip of pliers.
The technical expert will present these facts with the calm monotone of a man who never wakes in the darkest part of the night and wonders why he is shaking.
The judge will say it’s a miracle.
That more people weren’t killed.
That woman in the Mazda, for example.
The thirty-nine-year-old woman.
A hairline fracture on one rib after being cut out of the car embedded against the crash barrier.
That she will live to tell another tale is nothing short of a miracle.
That’s what the judge will say.
And Brigitta.
His beautiful Brigitta.
She will be in the courtroom.
Somewhere behind him.
She will have asked Petra to mind the children for the day.
When they lead him away, he won’t look for her.
His eyes, open now, will be trained on the floor.
He will be a long time getting home.
1 June 2011; Brighton
Mam says, ‘Milo, you gave me a fright.
What are you doing up at this hour?’
I say, ‘I set my alarm.’
‘Ah love, you shouldn’t have.
It’s five o’clock in the morning.
You’ll be falling asleep in Miss Williams’s class.’
‘No way.
We’re making papier-mâché masks.
If everyone knows their spellings.’
‘And do you know your spellings?’
‘Course.’
‘Sorry for asking, Einstein.’
The kitchen is colder than usual.
Probably because the sun’s not properly up yet.
Mam stands at the counter, with her hands wrapped round the mug I got her last Christmas.
It says ‘World’s Best Mum’.
I tried to find one that said ‘Mam’ but I couldn’t.
They probably sell them in Ireland, where Mam is from.
Still, she drinks out of it all the time.
She says she doesn’t mind about the Mum bit.
‘What time is the ferry?’
Mam looks at her watch.
‘I’d better go if I’m going to catch it.’
Her suitcase is on the floor beside the table.
It’s still got Dad’s old leather belt tied round it.
She was supposed to get a new case ages ago.
She must have forgotton.
The sticker on it says ‘Elizabeth McIntyre’ but everyone calls her Beth.
‘I’ll put your suitcase in the boot.’
She smiles.
‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll do it.
Besides, the boot is full.
I forgot to take out the boxes of flyers I got for the café the other day.
I’ll put the case on the back seat.
It’ll be grand.’
I hand her the car keys and look out the window.
There have been a few car robberies lately but Mam’s car is still there.
I don’t think anyone would steal it.
We call it the bananamobile.
It’s bright yellow.
The writing is pink.
Shocking pink, Mam calls it.
It says ‘The Funky Banana’, which happens to be the name of Mam’s café.
‘So when are you coming home?’
‘I’ve told you a million times already.
I’ll be home on Sunday.’
‘I wish I could come to Auntie May’s with you.’
‘There’s the small matter of school, remember.
Anyway, you’ll have a great time with your sister.’
That’s true.
Faith doesn’t know how to cook so we won’t have to eat vegetables and things like that.
And Rob always gives me money to get DVDs and sweets when they have to go to Faith’s room to talk.
They’re always going to Faith’s room to talk.
Mam puts on her coat and hat.
It’s a beret, which is a French word and that’s why you can’t pronounce the t at the end.
Her lips are red on account of the lipstick.
She doesn’t wear half as much make-up as Faith but she still looks nice.
For an adult, I mean.
She puts her hand on my head.
‘Don’t forget to brush that mop before you go to school, mister.’
I say, ‘I won’t,’ even though I probably will forget.
‘And you’ve got lifesaving class after school today, remember?’
‘My bag’s in the hall.’
As if anyone would ever forget about that.
I’m still in the beginners’ class but Coach says if I keep on doing well, she’ll move me up to intermediate next year.
‘OK, so, see ya Sunday.’
‘Yeah, see ya Sunday.’
‘Are you gettin’ too big to give yer auld mam a kiss?’
Mam’s mad about kissing.
So is Damo.
He says he’s done it loads of times with girls but I don’t believe him.
I mean, he’s my best friend and everything, but sometimes he makes stuff up.
His mam says she wouldn’t believe him if he told her the time.
And last summer, he said he climbed Mount Everest but when I asked him where it was, he said it was in Spain.
Near Santa Ponza.
Mam holds out her arms.
Before I can duck, she squeezes me so tightly I can barely move.
Her hair tickles my face.
She smells like soap and toothpaste.
She’ll probably tell me not to forget to brush my teeth.
She kisses me on the cheek and I rub it away with the back of my hand.
‘Be good.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I mean it, Milo.
No messin’ with Damien Sullivan, OK?’
She’s only saying that because of what happened the last time she went to Ireland.
And that was only an accident.
Damo’s eyebrows have nearly grown back now.
‘And make sure you brush your teeth.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll ring you tonight, OK?’
‘Promise?’
She presses the palm of her hand against her heart.
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
She picks up her suitcase with the leather belt wrapped round it and that’s when I have the idea.
About buying her a new case for Christmas.
I still have most of my First Holy Communion money in the post office.
I’ll buy her a green one.
Green is her favourite colour.
I stay at the window until she drives up the road and I can’t see her anymore.
