NO KEYS, NO RADIO

TUESDAY NOVEMBER 29TH 2022. FIVE MILES FROM HMP NAYLAND.

8pm

Julia could hear the police officer’s voice. He had opened her car door and was leaning in, telling her something. She should try to pay attention, but there was nothing she needed to know. In an attempt to block him out, she moved her head to the left, to the right, down to her chest and up again, pretending to assess for whiplash. Assessment complete, she focused on the airbag resting against her chest. This was the first time she had seen one deployed. Deflated and misshapen, it reminded her of tree fungus. Parasitic white stained with red. James’ blood, not hers. No airbag on his side due to the make and age of the car, which had belonged to her grandad. Yet another twist of fate.

The ringing in her ears made it hard to discern what the officer was saying. He was bending down, his head almost level with hers, one hand on the doorframe. She pressed both thumbs against the shard of glass she was holding in her lap. Locatable pain, preferable to the nausea. She stared straight ahead at the clump of oak trees on the edge of the wood. Covered by a thin veil of fog, they resembled ghostly aces of spades.

Getting the crack in the windscreen repaired after work last night might have made a difference. If she had done quite a few things differently, James O’Connell would be back at Nayland, watching TV in his cell, instead of motionless in the seat beside her. Even with her body angled away, she could see his upper torso lying across the dashboard. Arms by his sides. top of his head sticking through the hole in the windscreen as if he had been fired out of a faulty cannon.