CHAPTER 45
The letters arrived after Christmas. Their presence would be required as witnesses at an inquest on February 19 into the deaths of Sarah Tomkins, Jennifer Marks, and Edward Barnes which occurred on August 22, on the M4 motorway. Details of the time and place of the inquest were also given; and the letter was signed by the coroner’s officer.
“Well, thank God it didn’t come before Christmas,” said Maeve. “It would have cast a bit of a blight. Not that you’ve got anything to worry about. But still… good to have it over. A line drawn.”
Patrick nodded; he actually felt he had quite a lot to worry about, however much he’d been reassured that the accident had in no way been his fault. The fact remained that his lorry had gone sprawling across the motorway, bursting through the crash barrier, and the result had been three deaths and dozens of injuries, some of them major. Every time he thought about the inquest, he felt the old, panicky fear…
Abi found the thought of the inquest pretty scary also; she had, after all, lied to the police, albeit about nothing to do with the crash, and she still had nightmares about them charging her in connection with drug offences. She had actually taken legal advice on this; the solicitor had told her that since she had not been in possession of any drugs, either at the time the police talked to her or later, they were extremely unlikely to press charges.
Nevertheless she was a major witness; she would have to stand in the dock or whatever they had at inquests and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the bloody truth, and it could well transpire that she had lied the first time around, and in front of all those people. It was a complete nightmare.
But at least Christmas was over. Abi hated Christmas usually; she had a few misfit friends, equally at odds with their families, and they would spend the day together, drinking mostly, although they’d cobble a meal together-Christmas odds and sods from M &S and Tesco-and pull some crackers, and even occasionally play charades before the evening really disintegrated, but she was always hugely relieved when it, and its insistence that everyone was part of one great big, happy family, was over.
The best thing that had happened all Christmas was a text from William that she’d got on Christmas night: Happy Xmas, hope it’s a good one, mine isn’t. William, x. She struggled not to read too much into it, not to presume his wasn’t good because he wasn’t with her, and that the kiss was simply what anyone would put at the end of a text on Christmas Day; but the fact remained that he’d been thinking of her enough to send it. She texted back, Happy one to u2, not bad, thanx, gd 2 hear from you. Abi, and after that a kiss also. She’d put gt at first instead of gd, but that looked a bit keen.
And now, astonishingly, she was seeing quite a bit of him, albeit on a completely platonic basis…
She was extremely excited about Georgia’s concert. It had been her idea that it should be held at the farm, festival-style. She had actually suggested something similar to William once before, when he had been talking about diversifications and moneymaking schemes; and he had been surprisingly receptive to the idea then. It really hadn’t been too difficult-amazingly easy, in fact-to repersuade him.
It was very scary-on a professional basis-and she wasn’t even sure they would be able to pull it off; but if they did… she could launch her party-planning career on the back of it. And see lots of William in the bargain.
The first meeting about the concert had been… well, it had been extraordinary. An absolutely violent tangle of emotions. She’d expected the tangle, of course, had expected it to be awkward, had expected it to be painful seeing William; in fact, she’d been so scared the few days before she’d almost decided to pull out of the whole thing, to put Georgia-and him-in touch with a friend who was a party planner. But she didn’t.
They’d agreed to meet in a pub in Bristol on a Saturday afternoon; Abi had arrived far too early and had spent at least fifteen minutes in the loo to avoid sitting waiting for them and looking like a complete loser. When she came out William was sitting at a table with a very pretty black girl, which rattled her considerably at first, until she realised she must be Georgia. And she stood there, just staring at him, drinking him in; and she felt a wave of emotion so violent, so charged with regret and love and intense physical memory, it quite literally took her breath away.
She must just stay really cool, she thought, refuse to see it as anything but a business arrangement, as William being kind and good and wanting to help both her and Georgia in a venture that would clearly seem relevant to him as well as to them.
And then, as she stood there, still watching, he saw her; and he stood up, with those bloody old-fashioned manners of his, pulled out a chair, and beckoned to her to join them.
“Hi,” she said, walking over, hearing her own voice, calm and steady, not weak and breathless as she was afraid it might be, smiling at him, kissing him briefly, coolly on the cheek-how could she do that when she wanted to kiss him endlessly, desperately?-and then turned swiftly to Georgia.
“You must be Georgia. Hi. I’m Abi.”
“Hi, Abi. It’s so good of you to come. William-Mr. Grainger-has been telling me all about you. How you’ve done this sort of thing before, and how you can tell me how to go about it…”
“Well… I hope so. It’s a huge project, Georgia; I hope you realise just how huge.”
“I probably don’t. But I’m ready for anything. I’m so, so determined to do it.”
Georgia smiled; she was sweet, pretty, rather earnest. It would be fun working with her. “Good,” was all Abi said.
Gradually, the emotional situation eased as they discussed the form of the thing-“I did once suggest a rock festival to William, didn’t I? But I think maybe you’ve got more of a single concert in mind”-possible lead times, possible dates, the vast amount of time and planning it would absorb, how, with the best will in the world, they would need many more people on board-“Don’t look so frightened; it’s for charity-we can get mostly volunteers. It’s a wonderful project, Georgia; I’m really excited about it.”
Not about working with William, not about having endless access to William; that was out of the equation. Entirely.
Georgia said they could at least look at a festival.
“Tell us more what it might entail…”
Abi told them more: much more. Probably too much more, she thought afterwards. When she started outlining the need for security guards, parking facilities, police involvement, and the infrastructure required, William became visibly worried.
“A road! Abi, I can’t start building roads.”
“Well, you might have to. The contractors-”
“What contractors?” said Georgia.
“The ones building the stage, setting up the sound systems, all that sort of thing. You’ve got to think big, or it won’t work. Anyway, the contractors and the punters, come to that, need to know they’re not going to get stuck in the mud. You do realise it will rain, don’t you?”
“No, why?” said William.
“It just always does. Part of the package.”
“Oh,” said William.
Georgia looked at him and then said rather nervously that maybe they should just stick to the idea of a concert. “An open-air one, in the evening, next summer-it could be lovely.”
Abi said a concert would be all right, but it would be hard to make nearly so much of it. “I think a festival would be much more exciting. You’d get far more publicity, for a start, and a much bigger crowd, something where families could come, bring their kids, camp just for one night, have a few bands playing, dance. People really love that sort of thing; it’s like a miniholiday, and it’s so cool at the moment. That way you’d probably end up with a couple of thousand people… and make a fair bit of money. Even quite big bands bring their fee down if they know it’s for charity. Anyway, whatever the size of the thing, you have to have a stage and audio equipment, and loos, of course. William, are you really up for all this? And are your parents all right about it?”