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Authors: Amanda Jennings
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did nothing.
She’d even told him, straight out, said she wouldn’t manage it. He should have been stronger. He should have insisted she stay behind. He should never have exposed her like that. He knew how she felt about the school, how it made her feel. She hadn’t been back since the night Anna died. Not a parents’ evening, or a Christmas concert, or even to meet Lizzie after school, like she used to occasionally, when they’d walk home via Costa for three caffé lattes and two-between-three chocolate brownies. How could he have been so stupid?
Once again all Kate could hear was her own breathing, rasping in painfully deafening spasms against a silent background. What had she done? What the hell had she done?
As she walked back along the school corridors, she went over every excruciating detail, desperate to pinpoint the exact moment she had lost it. Was it when she lifted her hand to Rebecca? When she followed her out of the school hall? With Anna’s lost laugh? Maybe it was as early as sitting on her bed, trying to muster the strength to leave her room. She should have stayed at home. She’d known full well she wouldn’t cope. She should have locked herself away until Tuesday was over. She was stupid. Stupid for trusting herself.
Stephen opened the door to his office and stepped to one side to allow her through. She wondered if he might say something, but he stayed quiet, his eyes on his feet. How unlike him. He was usually the definition of cool. Like the night Anna died, when he’d stepped into the breach, taken control, calm and collected. She often wondered what she and Jon would have done if he hadn’t been there to help. He’d been such a pillar of strength and support. It was Stephen who had broken the news to them. He’d called from this very office. She looked around the room, at the bank of cheap metal shelving that held red, blue and black lever arch files. His desk, tidy and neat, in-tray, out-tray and pending, one of those executive toys with the suspended chrome balls that knocked against each other, pointless and perpetual. Then the phone, grey and cold, placed perfectly in the top right corner like a postage stamp. She pulled her eyes away from it, trying not to recall the words he’d used that night, unable to hear anything else.
‘Mrs Thorne, it’s Stephen Howe. I’m at the school. There’s been an accident. A terrible accident,’ pause, ‘it’s Anna.’ Long pause. ‘I’m sorry.’ A final pause. ‘I was too late here. She was already dead. There . . . there was nothing I could do.’
After that it was blank. No matter how hard she raked through the wreckage in her memory, there was nothing between those words and the moment she laid eyes on Anna on the concrete. She must have gone back upstairs after seeing Lizzie peering down from the landing, got out of her pyjamas, dressed, brushed her hair, thought to go to Anna’s room to grab a cardigan in case Stephen was wrong and she was alive, and, fashionably underdressed as always, was now feeling the chill. They’d have got in the car, driven to school. Parked. Walked through the school. Been led to their dead daughter’s body. There was no recollection of any of it; it was all blank.
She couldn’t have done without Stephen that night. His familiar eyes were a lifeline in amongst all those of the silent, cautious paramedics and police, who looked at her with knowing, sympathetic glances. But Stephen’s soft words, his hand on her lower back, his calm control. He’d been such a support, and not just that night, but following on, with Lizzie too. Hand-delivering the work she missed at school, checking up on her most days to see if she was coping OK, arranging for the counsellor to talk her through her grief. To see him staring at his feet, pale and twitching, unable to meet her eye, was agonizing. What she’d done to Rebecca, her inexcusable loss of control, was clearly a step beyond him, and calling the police to
She’d even told him, straight out, said she wouldn’t manage it. He should have been stronger. He should have insisted she stay behind. He should never have exposed her like that. He knew how she felt about the school, how it made her feel. She hadn’t been back since the night Anna died. Not a parents’ evening, or a Christmas concert, or even to meet Lizzie after school, like she used to occasionally, when they’d walk home via Costa for three caffé lattes and two-between-three chocolate brownies. How could he have been so stupid?
Once again all Kate could hear was her own breathing, rasping in painfully deafening spasms against a silent background. What had she done? What the hell had she done?
As she walked back along the school corridors, she went over every excruciating detail, desperate to pinpoint the exact moment she had lost it. Was it when she lifted her hand to Rebecca? When she followed her out of the school hall? With Anna’s lost laugh? Maybe it was as early as sitting on her bed, trying to muster the strength to leave her room. She should have stayed at home. She’d known full well she wouldn’t cope. She should have locked herself away until Tuesday was over. She was stupid. Stupid for trusting herself.
Stephen opened the door to his office and stepped to one side to allow her through. She wondered if he might say something, but he stayed quiet, his eyes on his feet. How unlike him. He was usually the definition of cool. Like the night Anna died, when he’d stepped into the breach, taken control, calm and collected. She often wondered what she and Jon would have done if he hadn’t been there to help. He’d been such a pillar of strength and support. It was Stephen who had broken the news to them. He’d called from this very office. She looked around the room, at the bank of cheap metal shelving that held red, blue and black lever arch files. His desk, tidy and neat, in-tray, out-tray and pending, one of those executive toys with the suspended chrome balls that knocked against each other, pointless and perpetual. Then the phone, grey and cold, placed perfectly in the top right corner like a postage stamp. She pulled her eyes away from it, trying not to recall the words he’d used that night, unable to hear anything else.
‘Mrs Thorne, it’s Stephen Howe. I’m at the school. There’s been an accident. A terrible accident,’ pause, ‘it’s Anna.’ Long pause. ‘I’m sorry.’ A final pause. ‘I was too late here. She was already dead. There . . . there was nothing I could do.’
After that it was blank. No matter how hard she raked through the wreckage in her memory, there was nothing between those words and the moment she laid eyes on Anna on the concrete. She must have gone back upstairs after seeing Lizzie peering down from the landing, got out of her pyjamas, dressed, brushed her hair, thought to go to Anna’s room to grab a cardigan in case Stephen was wrong and she was alive, and, fashionably underdressed as always, was now feeling the chill. They’d have got in the car, driven to school. Parked. Walked through the school. Been led to their dead daughter’s body. There was no recollection of any of it; it was all blank.
She couldn’t have done without Stephen that night. His familiar eyes were a lifeline in amongst all those of the silent, cautious paramedics and police, who looked at her with knowing, sympathetic glances. But Stephen’s soft words, his hand on her lower back, his calm control. He’d been such a support, and not just that night, but following on, with Lizzie too. Hand-delivering the work she missed at school, checking up on her most days to see if she was coping OK, arranging for the counsellor to talk her through her grief. To see him staring at his feet, pale and twitching, unable to meet her eye, was agonizing. What she’d done to Rebecca, her inexcusable loss of control, was clearly a step beyond him, and calling the police to
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