Jacob dead.
Clare badly injured.
Jesus.
***
I don’t remember much about the ride to the Royal Lancaster Infirmary. Perhaps the only way I could push the bike anywhere near fast enough was simply not to think about what I was doing.
Jacob Nash and Clare Elliot. I’d known them more than five years but never separately, couldn’t think of them any other way than together. Two halves of a whole.
I’d been so caught up with the renovations to the cottage that the last time I’d seen the pair of them was nearly a month ago. They’d been the same as ever, teasing, happy, vibrantly alive. Thinking of either of them dead sent me reeling into panic and denial.
Not that I was any stranger to death. I’d seen it, touched it and smelled it, more times than was good for me to remember. I’d even felt it come for me, for those I loved, and then swing away almost on a whim.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t truly believe the news about Jacob. Why I was making this near-suicidal dash to the hospital. Until I knew for certain that it was hopeless and he was truly gone, I would try to bind him to this life by sheer effort of will.
My mind kept running over and over what might have happened, but Sam had only arrived after the event, so he hadn’t been a direct witness. Clare had been asking for me, he’d been told, and he was the one who’d volunteered to try and track me down from scrappy bits of information and hearsay. Just about anything, by his way of thinking, was better than hanging around at the hospital.
The very fact that at one point after the crash Clare had obviously been conscious and lucid filled me with a small measure of hope but I shied away from the possible nature of her injuries.
Besides, what was she going to do without Jacob? Did she even know that he was dead?
I couldn’t imagine what kind of self-induced error had brought the pair of them down. Jacob was a seriously fast rider, had raced bikes in his younger days and still pushed hard on the road. He had skill I couldn’t even begin to match and a seeming sixth sense for dangers lurking round the next blind bend.
And Clare had too much respect for her classic Ducati 851 Strada to be reckless. In biking, as in all things, Clare just had too much style to do something as untidy as crashing.
So what the hell had gone wrong?
***
Lancaster on a Sunday was fairly quiet and I totally disregarded the posted speed limits all the way through town. Sam was right behind me when I finally pulled into the car park at the RLI and dived into a space marked ‘reserved for consultants only’.
For once I didn’t chain the bike up, or even check to see that it was settled fully onto its side-stand. Taking the keys out of the ignition was the most I could manage. Having Sam there made me try for composure, so we walked, rather than ran, into the building itself.
Nevertheless, I hit the entrance doors to Accident & Emergency shoulder first without slowing, punching them open and woe betide anyone unlucky enough to be standing on the other side.
Sam bypassed the reception desk and trotted off down a corridor. I wanted to stop and ask, but at the same time I didn’t want to let him out of sight, so I hurried after him with barely a break in stride.
It had been around ten months since my last visit to the RLI – only that time I’d arrived on a stretcher. I felt the familiar tightness in my chest that being inside the place again always brought on. They say the body doesn’t remember pain. They lie.
After a couple of corners the corridor opened out into a large recess that formed a waiting area. The three walls were lined with a rake of squat cloth chairs pushed together into benches. In the centre was a low table covered with nervously dog-eared magazines.
There were already half a dozen people in occupation. Most of them looked awkward and uncomfortable in their full race-replica leathers. A row of helmets sat like trophy skulls across the end run of seats.
I had time to wonder who they all were, these strangers. I didn’t think I’d been away long enough to be so completely out of touch. Nobody looked immediately familiar but I didn’t have time for a thorough inspection.
As soon as we appeared, a middle-aged woman who’d been sitting in a corner jumped to her feet and launched herself in my direction.
Before I knew it I’d been enveloped in a motherly embrace of such ferocity I barely knew how to react. Aggression I can deal with in my sleep. Affection defeats me every time.
I gave in long enough to hug her in return, then managed to lever myself back far enough to be able to breathe unrestricted.
“Pauline?” I said, suddenly grateful to see her. “What are you doing here?”
“Sam got them to call me,” she said gently. “He thought Clare might appreciate a friendly face.”
I’d known Pauline Jamieson since she started coming to the self-defence classes I was teaching around Lancaster a couple of years ago. Then, when those came to a somewhat abrupt end, she stuck by me as a friend.
After I’d introduced them, Pauline had got to know Jacob and Clare almost as well as I did. So, of course she would be here. Unaccountably, for the first time my voice wobbled and threatened to take the rest of my face down with it.
Pauline took one look at me and wrapped me in a big hug again. She was wearing a strappy summer dress that was a bit of a fashion mistake with her ample figure but she had the self-confidence to carry it off regardless. Her hair was a vivid shade of burgundy and she smelt of apples and peppermint.
“Clare will make it,” she said, eyeing me intently. Just when I thought her firm tone meant she’d had an updated report, she dashed my hopes by adding, “You’ve got to keep telling yourself that.”
“How is she? Have they told you anything?”
“Only that both her legs are broken,” Pauline said. She was one of the most matter-of-fact people I knew, but just saying the words even she winced. “Pelvis too, I think. I’m still waiting to hear.”
I blanked my mind to the image of Clare’s long artlessly perfect legs in pieces like a jigsaw puzzle.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “Does she know about Jacob?”
“Jacob?” Pauline frowned and glanced at Sam, then her eyebrows shot up and she let go of me just long enough to put her hands to her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she said, a little faintly. “That wasn’t who she was on the bike with, Charlie. I thought so initially – everybody did – but we were wrong, thank heavens. It wasn’t Jacob.”
Parts of my brain overloaded and shut down. Anger sparked and flashed over. A gut instinct response, like the irate mother of a just-found missing child. The relief was so strong it actually hurt.
“Oh thank Christ for that,” I moaned, pulling away from Pauline’s arms to sink onto the nearest chair with my head in my hands.
“You might want to rethink the celebration a little, or at least tone it down,” said a voice above me, tight with compressed emotion. “It might not be your mate who’s cashed in his chips, but it was one of ours.”