Blink of an Eye (2013) by Cath Staincliffe Page B

Friday?’ he said as I laced up my shoes.
    ‘No.’ A spurt of pleasure, warm inside.
    ‘There’s a do on, the West Indian centre. Go for a curry first?’
    ‘What time?’ Feeling giddy.
    ‘’Bout eight.’ He named one of the curry houses. He offered to walk me home then, but I said there was no need.
    We kissed outside the shop.
    It was sunny, sunny and warm. The streets were busy with people going to the park opposite. I grinned all the way home. It could have been hailing stones and hurling lightning. I wouldn’t have minded.
    By summer, I’d moved in.
    *   *   *
    Wandering into the kitchen, I saw the little girl’s photograph on the front of the paper, dark hair in plaits, a plump face, chubby arms. Dumpy. Overweight. Sucked in the accompanying headline –
TRAGIC GIRL ROAD DEATH
– before I had a chance to censor myself. Felt a rush of heat, of nausea as I understood what I was looking at. ‘What on earth did you buy that for?’ I rounded on Phil.
    ‘Don’t you want to know what they’re saying about it?’ he said, sounding puzzled, a little irate.
    I gave a laugh. ‘No, obviously not.’
Perhaps she was wobbling on that bike, lost her balance, veered too close.
My mind whispering things I’d not dare to voice aloud. Sneaky things. She was wearing a polo shirt; a school photo, perhaps. An uncertainty in the smile.
    I moved to go and he caught my wrist. ‘Carmel, we don’t deal with this by pretending it’s not happening. By sticking our heads in the sand.’
    ‘So we rub our noses in it?’ My voice broke. ‘I can’t . . .’
    ‘We can’t help Naomi if we’re ignorant, blinkered.’
    I looked at him, his frank blue eyes, his beard already growing in. I closed my eyes, wanting to be blinkered; more than that, wanting to be blind and deaf and dumb to all of it.
    He hugged me and we stood like that, the heat of him warming through me, his hand moving to stroke my head.
    He was right, I knew it intellectually, but my heart was lagging behind, my instincts were off kilter. At work, with any other family, I’d have been saying something similar: face the facts, accept the truth, only then can you act on the situation. Gather all the relevant information, analyse, understand, develop a strategy, a plan.
    ‘I’ll read it,’ I said quietly. ‘I’d rather not have an audience, though.’
    ‘Hey,’ he said softly, ‘you sure about that?’
    Why was he so fucking understanding? Tears burned at the back of my eyes. I nodded miserably.
    When he left the room, I made a cup of tea and sat down at the table. Pulled the newspaper close. Stared at the photo again. Was it recent? Must be. Had she turned nine by then? The smile was small, slightly false, no teeth showing.
    I steeled myself to read the article, aware of all the questions crowding in my head, insistent and intrusive:
was she the eldest, the youngest, what was her family like, what was her name, where had she been going on her bike, who broke the news to her mother?
    My eyes slid over the type, the two short columns, reading it like some foreign language, trying not to translate it into meaning and empathy and understanding. A barrier around me like a concrete wall, unyielding.
    The nine-year-old girl tragically killed in a road accident in Sale yesterday has been named as Lily Vasey. Lily was riding her bike on Mottram Lane near the family home when she was hit by a car. Her parents Simon (37) and Tina (35) and brothers Nicholas (16) and Robin (14) are reported to be devastated. Police are currently investigating the circumstances of the accident. The two occupants of the Honda Civic, a twenty-six-year-old man and a twenty-five-year-old woman, were both injured in the collision and are undergoing treatment at Wythenshawe Hospital. Sgt John Leland of Greater Manchester Police said, ‘This is a tragic incident that has resulted in the death of a young girl and our sympathies are with her family. We would ask anybody who may have