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CHAPTER SEVEN

PRESENT DAY

Lana, 3.10 pm

‘So, now you know,’ he whispers. ‘Now you know what happened to the boy.’

I pause for breath before continuing to speak, sit silently, open-mouthed, the cogs in my brain working overtime as I try to slot the pieces together.

‘So, the boy, the one in the crash…?’

‘That’s right,’ he replies sombrely. ‘The boy in the crash is currently upstairs, fast asleep in his dinosaur bed.’

‘But…’ I stutter. ‘That means…’ My speech stops and starts as my mouth tries to say what my brain has already figured out. ‘So that means you married the boy’s mother? That means that…’ I allow my question to evaporate, suddenly nervous of causing offence. It doesn’t matter, though – he’s read my mind.

‘That’s right,’ he sighs. ‘Elliott is not my biological son. But I adopted him.’

His voice suddenly breaks as he speaks, the pain of it ripping through my eardrum.

‘Please…’ I beg. ‘Tell me more.’

Liam’s Story, April 2009

In the intensive-care unit at the Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital, there were thirteen beds; not the best number if you’re superstitious. You’d perhaps expect a hive of activity: consultants rushing around with anxious, exhausted nurses on their tails, downing shots of espresso with Pro-Plus, while comforting visitors who are crying hysterically and chaining themselves to their children’s beds.

That’s what you’d expect, but that wasn’t what was happening.

Instead, a deathly silence had descended upon the ward; the only sounds that could be heard were the intermittent beeps of machines and the hushed tones of nurses going about their daily rounds.

Jessica squeezed my hand tightly and I stroked hers in return. Not a word passed between us; it didn’t need to.

Since the day at the funeral, three months previously, I’d initially not heard anything else from Jessica. I’d tried and failed to track her down, desperate to know how Elliott was faring. I’d called the hospital repeatedly but, without even a last name to go on, my search had been futile. It was by pure chance that, four weeks after the funeral, I’d had a doctor’s appointment to pick up some more pain medication for my broken arm. I had noticed her instantly in the waiting room, her shiny blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall at sunset. She smiled meekly up at me, before gesturing for me to take a seat. When she’d asked if I’d like to visit Elliott in response to my barrage of questions, I’d felt compelled to accept.

She’d picked me up the day after in her courtesy car, had been polite and chatted about nothing in particular all the way to the hospital. I had been sick with nerves, my left leg shaking involuntarily the whole way there. If she noticed, she didn’t say.

Walking through the ward on that first visit was surreal. I had felt like a man on death row about to face his victims before being given the lethal injection.

‘Here he is,’ Jessica had whispered, drawing back the hospital curtain.

Tears had sprung into my eyes as I’d seen the tiny, fragile boy lying helplessly in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines and wires that beeped rhythmically. The whole place seemed cold and sterile, lacking warmth and affection. Poor Elliott lay motionless, his curly blond hair hidden under rolls of thick bandage; his inquisitive blue eyes concealed behind heavy, bruised eyelids. His skin was almost translucent, apart from his cheeks, which flushed ever so slightly – perhaps the only physical sign that he was still alive.

‘Oh, dear God, I’m so sorry.’ I had almost fallen to my knees, the endless heartache of the last few weeks threatening to literally knock me off my feet. Jessica had steadied me, guided me to the visitor’s chair and placed her hand on my shoulder as I’d sobbed openly.

‘Don’t, Liam,’ she had soothed. ‘It was an accident.’

Grateful for her words, I’d stood up and pulled her into an embrace, her hair as soft as silk and smelling of apple blossom as she hugged me back. Her words faded away as we stood there in an embrace that neither of us pulled away from.

Weeks later, I’d become a regular visitor at Elliott’s bedside. I had to know that Elliott was going to be all right. I couldn’t simply walk away from him, from Jessica and Amy, when I’d caused all of their suffering. I was still consumed with the torturous pain of Alice and Summer’s deaths. An agony so severe that I would often wake up unable to breathe. And now I had this extra layer of pain scraped on top: the sickening realisation that I had caused this innocent family’s suffering. It’s crazy, I know, but part of me stayed by Elliott’s bedside in those early days because I wanted to punish myself. I felt I deserved the pain of seeing him lying there, helplessly and in pain. If I didn’t look, it didn’t mean it wasn’t happening, and I needed to feel the punishment because that was what I deserved, for being so careless.

But even more than that… I wanted to make things right. If I could make things right for them, then maybe my life hadn’t been a total waste.

‘Hi, mate,’ I said to Elliott as he opened his eyes, pulling me away from my thoughts. He had awoken from his coma a few weeks previously but was still unresponsive. He looked up at me, his eyes flittering from side to side as he tried to concentrate on my facial features.

‘Jess,’ I choked out. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s got some kind of brain damage. He can’t focus.’

‘I know.’ Tears sprang into her eyes as she spoke, and she looked over at me, as if gauging my reaction. My lip began to wobble as the realisation of what I had done hit me. I gripped hold of her arm tightly for support, scared I might faint.

‘I’m so sorry, Jess,’ I cried, not caring how ungraceful I looked. ‘I will make it up to you, to him… I promise.’

‘It’s okay, Liam,’ she soothed. ‘It’s not your fault. I’m just glad you are here… we need you.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I vowed.

And I meant it, I truly meant it.