Hit and Run Maria Frankland (general ebook reader .txt) 📖

I flop onto a wall. All around me life continues. A toddler trotting alongside her mother. A woman pushing a pram along as she laughs into her phone. A pair of teenagers hand-in-hand.

This is the Co-Operative Funeral Service, the first message says. We have had notification that your husband is due for release later today or tomorrow. Please telephone at your earliest convenience to confirm arrangements. Bloody hell. That was quick. They must have nearly done everything they needed to.

The next one is from Christina. Are you OK? You know where I am if you need anything.

And lastly, the mortgage company. We have tried without success to contact you. Please get in touch as a matter of urgency quoting reference three seven one five. I don’t like the sound of this one. I can’t understand why they would ring me. I paid my half share of the house with one lump sum when we bought it. Although I had agreed to act as guarantor for Rob’s half as he was already financially over committed. I hope to God that he’s been keeping up his payments. I’m realising now that I handed over far too much power to him. But it worked for us. I kept the house nice and cooked for him. He worked hard and handled the finances. We both took care of Jack.

I can’t face ringing the mortgage company back yet.

By the time I set off, the playground has emptied and most of the other mothers have driven away. There’s a couple left, leaning towards each other at the school gate. It’s now day three since I lost Rob and life around me is going on as though nothing has happened.

The women glance towards my Jeep as the engine starts with a roar. I’m glad of the blacked-out windows so they can’t see me from the outside. That’s her. They’ll be saying. The one whose husband was a victim of a hit and run.

That’s the headline now. Hit and run. Although it’s more a case of send a person hurtling into the air at sixty miles an hour, see how they fly, and drive off. If it hadn’t been for the farmer being nearby, Rob could have lain dead for hours in the field. The police are appealing for people to be on the lookout for a possibly damaged car. They’re saying that you can’t hit a cyclist at that speed without damage, even though they don’t seem to have recovered much from the scene. They’ve also expressed surprise that the driver could regain control so quickly after the impact and drive away.

The farmer didn’t see the car. I watched this morning, as he gave a brief interview to a news reporter. The car, he said, was long gone by the time he’d got to where he could see the road. He only heard the noise which he said wasn’t even loud enough to raise too much alarm.

Eventually, I’ll contact him. Thank him for ringing the ambulance and trying to resuscitate Rob. It’s comforting to know that in his final moments, Rob wasn’t alone.

Without ever intending to, I find myself, once again, at the crash site. Not that there’s much evidence of it being a crash site; the wall is intact, and the only clue that someone has died here are the bunches of flowers that have been laid. I park up and walk towards them.

Simone has left some. The card says ‘Daddy.’ At ten years old, surely, she’s a bit old to have still called him Daddy.

A bouquet of lilies has been left by the cycle club. The card reads. RIP to our friend Rob. Our outings will never be the same without you.

White roses have been laid beside them. I flick the card over Bx. No prizes for guessing who has left that one. I’m going to give it another day or two to see if the police turn anything up and then I am going to pay the husband-stealing bitch a visit.

It’s another scorcher today, but I can’t get warm. I must be the only person in Yorkshire to be wearing jeans and a jumper. Rob always used to call me a reptile. I’ll miss being able to warm my cold feet on him in the winter. Well, at any time of the year. As I look again at the flattened patch of grass where he finished up, I shiver. I remember a saying Grandma used to come out with, it’s like someone has walked over my grave. I don’t know why I came here. It will not change a thing.

As I return to the car, I notice a sign the police have left. It’s one of those Accident. Please help signs. Monday 8th June. 10:30 am. Contact 111. I have only seen them before at the scene of fatal accidents. They’ve always stopped me in my tracks, compelling me to consider the human tragedy behind them. I could never have imagined that one day they would tell a story I’m a character in.

This is partly why I keep myself to myself in life. If you don’t get close to anyone, you can’t get hurt. Grief is the price you pay for love. I could go further than that and say, betrayal is the price you pay for trust, and abandonment is what you pay for loyalty, but that would show how cynical I’ve become. With a life like I’ve had, it’s no wonder.

I’m certainly worse since I had Jack. I struggled to bond with him at first. But luckily, I had an insight into myself and knew I was suffering from postnatal depression. I told them about my mother’s experience of it, so they kept a close eye on me. They told me that Mum must have suffered from a severe form – postpartum psychosis.

Thank God I never got that bad, but I really thought either something would happen to Jack if