Absolution(59)

Jack nodded, bewildered. He indicated the beers as he slipped the cash back into his pocket. “Thanks.”

Harry moved on to take the next order and Jack turned to find Dave had vanished. Making his way back through the crowd to Ally, he set the beers down on the table between them.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“I saw you talking to Dave.”

He took a sip of beer and tried to shrug off the whole experience. “He was telling me how sorry he was to hear about Dad.”

“Was that all?” she asked. “I saw your face. It didn’t look like he was just passing on his condolences.”

Jack smiled tightly. “You know Dave. He never knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

Ally looked down at the beer bottle in front of her and dragged it closer, picking at the label absentmindedly.

“Hey,” he leaned forward. “It’s fine – don’t worry. I won’t self-combust if someone looks at me sideways.”

She glanced up, concern furrowing her brow as her eyes flitted over the healing cuts and bruises on his face. “It’s not the fact that they’re looking at you sideways that bothers me.”

He shrugged casually, trying to set her mind at ease.

“You’re acting like you’re not surprised by any of this,” she said.

“I’m not. Why would I be? I’m the villain here. I deserve it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“You’re not a villain, you’re a human being. You made a mistake, that’s all. You’re not the only one who’s ever made a mistake. The important thing is that you’re here now, and you’re trying to make up for it. What you deserve is a break – from Dave, from Callum, and from yourself.”

He gripped the beer bottle in his hand so tightly, he thought he might crush it.

“Point taken,” he said, taking a quick sip to hide his discomfort.

He stared out over the crowded bar. Did she have any idea what she was asking him to do? She made it sound easy, like forgiving himself was just a check-box on a shopping list. Make a mistake: check. Get over it: check.

Ally placed her hand over his. “Stop beating yourself up,” she said, loud enough that he could hear above the noise. “Everyone makes mistakes. The key is learning what not to do next time, then moving on. You can’t wallow. It’ll kill you – trust me, I know.”

“I wish it was that simple,” he said, before he had time to engage his brain.

“It is. You just have to try harder.”

She released his hand and picked up her beer as a million questions raced around inside his head.

“A toast,” she said, raising her bottle before he could ask any of them. “To Tom.”

“To Dad,” he agreed sombrely, lifting his bottle to gently clink it against hers.

They both took a sip and his peripheral vision seemed to return in a rush. The music seemed louder, he could make out snippets of conversations going on around them and he almost felt like he was trapped in some kind of time warp. Sitting across from her like this, it was as if the last four years had never happened. He smiled over at her, determined to live in the moment.



Three Years Earlier



Ally sat on the floor of her studio, surrounded by tubes of paint, dirty brushes and cloths and a finished canvas. The hollow eyes in the painting stared back at her. She felt a chill work its way up her spine, from the point of injury, where sensation below ceased, right up to the base of her skull.

I can’t do this.

The phrase echoed in her head relentlessly.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

The canvas blurred in front of her and she blinked, hurriedly stemming the flow of tears while she still could.

The twelve-month check-up with her neurologist had arrived like a storm-front, dark and foreboding. Now that it was over, she just felt empty. The hope she had been hanging onto, and the fear she had been desperately trying to keep at bay, had simultaneously deserted her and slammed into her, leaving her reeling.

She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Going to bed had seemed a fruitless exercise, so she hadn’t, choosing to paint instead. She had stopped answering the phone. All that mattered was getting this out of her head and onto canvas before it drove her mad.

Staring at the canvas now, she realised she had nothing left. She wasn’t angry anymore, she wasn’t even depressed – she was just hollow. For the first time since the accident, there was nothing. Nothing to fight for, nothing to aim for, nothing to cling to. Just a big, black hole of nothing that was consuming her, piece by piece.