The Accident: The bestselling psychological thriller. C.L. Taylor

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      I squeeze his shoulder and he reaches a hand around and lays it on mine. The warmth of his palm on my skin has an immediate calming effect and I exhale heavily.

      ‘Okay?’ Brian says, his eyes searching mine.

      I’m about to nod, to pull him close for a hug, to lose myself in the warm, musky scent of him when a thought hits me.

      ‘Was the pool busy?’ I ask. ‘When you went for your swim?’

      Brian looks confused then smiles a split second later. ‘Rammed. Bloody kids everywhere. Half term isn’t it, so what did I expect?’

      I don’t know what you expected, I think as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, but I’d have expected it to be pretty damned empty considering it closed for renovations two weeks ago.

      We sit by Charlotte’s bedside in silence; Brian holding one of her hands, me holding the other. The heart monitor bleeps steadily in the corner of her room. We didn’t speak on the way in but we often keep a companionable silence in the car, particularly when the radio’s on, and Brian had no reason to think there was anything unusual about the fact I spent the whole journey staring out of the window. I was trying to decide what to do – to confront him about his swimming pool lie or bite my tongue and pretend everything is fine. I chose the latter – for now.

      ‘They still haven’t fixed the emergency button,’ I say. My voice sounds horribly loud in the small room.

      Brian looks at the grubby yellow tape covering the red button above Charlotte’s bed. ‘Typical. I don’t suppose they’ve sorted the TV either.’

      I reach for the remote control and press a button. The TV flickers to life and we watch Bargain Hunt for all of thirty seconds before the screen fills with white noise. I turn it off again.

      ‘It’s a bloody joke.’ Brian shakes his head. ‘I’ve campaigned for – and achieved – a three-fold budget increase for this hospital and it’s still falling down around our ears. And don’t even get me started on MRSA. Have you seen the grime on the windowsill? What do the cleaners actually do here? Mist each room with eau de bleach then go for a fag?’

      ‘That’s a bit harsh.’ I pull an antiseptic wipe out of the packet on Charlotte’s bedside table and wipe down the windowsill, then the frame of Charlotte’s bed and the door handle. ‘I think they’re just overstretched.’

      ‘They should still fix that bloody button. What are we supposed to do in an emergency? Wave a white flag out the window?’

      Brian sighs and shakes out his newspaper. Sometimes he reads the more interesting or controversial articles aloud. They have no effect on Charlotte but it helps fill the visit.

      With the cleaning done I turn my attention to our daughter. I straighten her sheet, untucking then re-tucking it, then I brush her hair, wipe her face with damp cotton wool and rub moisturizer into her hands then hover at the side of the bed, my hands twisting uselessly in front of me. Charlotte’s hair wasn’t tangled, her face wasn’t dirty and her hands weren’t dry but what else can I do? I could hold her hand. I could tell her how much I love her. I could beg her to please, please open her eyes and come back to us. I could cry. I could wait until I was all alone in the room, lean over the bed, gather her in my arms and ask her why. Why didn’t I notice she was in so much pain she’d rather die than live one more day? My own child. My baby. How could I not know? How could I not sense that?

      I could plea bargain with God. I could beg him to let me switch places with her so she could smile again, laugh again, go shopping, chat with her friends, watch films and spend too much time on the internet. So she could live instead of me.

      But I’ve done all of those things. I’ve done them so many times over the last six weeks that I’ve lost count and nothing, nothing has brought her back to me.

      ‘I’m sorry, we can only allow a maximum of three visitors at a time. I’m afraid one of you will have to—’

      I twist round to see who’s speaking. A nurse is standing with a young couple, just outside the door. I recognize the tall, blond man she’s talking to. It’s Danny Argent, one of Oliver’s friends. I don’t recognize the girl with him.

      ‘But—’ His eyes meet mine. ‘Hi Sue.’

      ‘Danny.’ I glance at Brian. He’s frowning. ‘What are you doing here?’

      He takes a step into the room. The nurse tuts loudly but he ignores her.

      ‘We,’ he glances back at the attractive mixed-race girl in the corridor, ‘Keisha and me, we wanted to see Charlotte. Is that okay?’

      Brian clears his throat. He’s had a problem with Danny ever since we were called to A&E to witness Oli having his stomach pumped after a teenaged drinking binge. Brian went white when he saw his son lying semi-conscious on a hospital trolley, then purple when he spotted Danny leaning against the wall nearby, one grubby trainer on the paintwork, the other kicking the wheel of the trolley. He’s never forgiven him for getting his son so drunk he was hospitalized but Oli won’t hear a bad word said against his best friend. As far as he’s concerned, nightclub promoter Danny can do no wrong.

      ‘Sue?’ Danny says again. He jerks his head towards Keisha who smiles hopefully at me.

      I look at Brian. To an outsider he looks perfectly normal but I know what’s going on behind his eyes. He’s wondering if Danny’s got anything to do with Charlotte’s accident. His protective hackles are rising just seeing him in the same room as his daughter. I’ve got nothing against Danny. He’s vain, self-obsessed and materialistic – and he’s not someone I’d choose to be Oli’s best friend – but he’s not a bad person, he’s not dangerous. He’s always treated Charlotte like a kid sister, much to her disdain, but I can’t go against Brian on this, even suspecting what I do. This is about what’s best for Charlotte, not the two of us.

      ‘I’m not sure …’ I start, my eyes flicking from Danny to Brian and back. ‘I don’t know if—’

      Brian’s chair squeaks on the bleached lino as he stands up. ‘I need a coffee.’ He shoots me a meaningful look. ‘I’ll get you one, Sue. You stay here.’

      Danny looks as surprised as I feel as Brian gives him a cursory nod and then leaves the room. Several silent seconds pass as we all wait for someone to decide what happens next.

      ‘Come in, come in,’ I say at last, waving my hand to beckon Keisha in. She falters then drifts towards Danny and stands as close to him as she can without knocking him over. I’ve seen Milly do the same with Brian. She’ll press herself so tightly against his knees he struggles to stay upright. With Milly it’s a sign of her utter devotion and, from the look on Keisha’s face, I’m fairly certain the motivation is the same.

      Danny barely acknowledges his girlfriend’s presence. If it wasn’t for the fact he just swung an arm around her shoulders and rested a hand on the back of her neck I’d say he wasn’t even aware she was in the same room. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Charlotte for the last five minutes.

      ‘How is she?’ he asks.

      I shrug. It’s a well-practiced response – half hopeful, half realistic. ‘The doctors say the worst of her injuries are healing well.’

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