Chapter Eleven Margaret #2
‘I’m so sorry – we’re having a little trouble with a new arrival in the shop,’ Margaret explains. ‘He only came in last night from a lovely couple, who weren’t expecting a bird with such a—’
‘Wank!’
‘. . . limited vocabulary.’
Oh.
I see.
Or rather I don’t, because the bird in question is fully hidden from view – if not from hearing.
‘African grey, you understand,’ Margaret further explains. ‘They are very intelligent,’
‘Wank!’
She winces again. ‘And rather loud.’
Needless to say, in all my imagined scenarios in the thirty-three minutes in the Uber on the way over here, this was most definitely not one of them.
If it had been, I’d have had myself immediately committed.
‘That’s . . . That’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. I’m not bothered.’
Margaret gives me a grateful smile.
Which is soul-destroying, considering what I’m about to say.
‘What can I help you with?’ she asks me, thinking I’m a customer.
Just ask her if you can buy Wank the Parrot, and get out of here!
‘I . . . I came to talk to you,’ I tell Margaret, not quite able to meet her gaze.
She looks vaguely surprised. ‘Oh? What about?’
I stare at her for a minute.
The budgie. Ask if you can buy the blue budgie. You can take it home and it can damn you with its judgement for the rest of eternity.
‘Your . . . Your husband, Anthony.’
Margaret’s expression immediately changes. Because of course it does. Wank the Parrot may be a serious problem, but it takes a back seat straight away.
‘Oh? What about him?’ she asks, her eyes doing a very good job of not filling with tears.
I stare at her again. ‘I honestly don’t know how to say this,’ I mumble.
‘Say what?’
‘I was . . . I was in the accident.’
‘Oh.’
Now my eyes are filling with tears, and I don’t have Margaret’s evident self-control, because I can’t do anything to stop it.
‘I was . . . in the other car. The one that crashed into Anthony.’
‘You were?’
No, Margaret! Do not look concerned for me! I do not deserve that!
‘Yes.’ I swallow, the Sahara Desert filling my lungs. ‘I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid I was the one that caused the crash.’
The darkness is coming in again. From all sides.
And, much like the tears, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
My heart feels like it’s about to burst.
The feeling of doom washes over me.
Everything turns to cold.
I try my hardest to look at Margaret from the end of an ever-lengthening tunnel. ‘I’m the reason your husband is dead,’ I push out of my mouth, with the last of my strength.
And then, everything is gone.
‘Wank!’
I force my eyes to open. They are not happy about it.
I am lying on a lilac couch. It has seen better days. There are what I can only assume are peck marks all over it.
The room I am in is small. And made to feel even smaller by the empty bird cages piled high around me. There is a desk sat across the room from me that features a PC Lionel from The Crooked Hat would think was out of date.
At the end of the couch is a large, ornate metal perch. Upon the perch is a parrot.
What I can only assume is an African grey.
‘Wank!’ Wank the Parrot says to me, and it’s frankly quite nice to be able to put a face to the utterance. Because it is a friendly face – if parrots can ever be said to have friendly faces.
The parrot’s beak curves up in such a way as to suggest a permanent, good-natured smile. None of the judgementalness present in the budgie out the front.
The parrot is looking down at me with curiosity.
I look back at him with confusion.
I guess I fainted again. How very embarrassing. Only this time it was in front of the woman I came to issue grovelling apologies to.
I am obviously terrible at grovelling apologies.
‘Wank!’
I completely agree, my little grey friend.
The door to the office opens, and Margaret comes in, holding a glass of water. ‘Oh my!’ she says. ‘You’re awake!’
‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine,’ I tell her, sitting up.
Totally Fine.
Yes! Yes! That’s me!
‘Wank!’
No argument here, parrot. No argument here . . .
‘Will was just about to call the ambulance for you,’ Margaret continues, coming fully into the room and handing me the glass of water.
‘No!’ I say a little too sharply. I take a breath. ‘No. That’s fine. I’m fine. He doesn’t need to do that.’
‘I don’t?’ Will asks, having poked his head around the doorframe.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘I’m honestly okay. This . . . This isn’t the first time this has happened.’
He nods. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Very sure.’
‘It’s okay, Will. Go and mind the shop,’ Margaret tells him.
She sits herself down slowly on the edge of her desk, and winces. This is the first indication I’ve seen of her age troubling her in any way.
She rubs her left hip briefly, in what seems like a very familiar action.
Then she fixes me with a look that makes me wish I was still unconscious. ‘If you are feeling better – which I truly hope you are, because poor Will struggled to get you in here. I don’t think he could manage to move you again.’
‘No, honestly, I’m not going to faint again,’ I assure her.
She nods curtly. ‘Good. In that case, as you are feeling better, could you please explain what you meant before you fainted? What on earth did you mean by saying you’re the reason my husband is dead?’
I blink at her matter-of-fact turn of phrase. This is obviously not a person who beats around the bush.
I sit up slowly and take a rather large gulp of water.
With my head down and my eyes firmly fixed on the floor, I begin to recite the speech I constructed in the thirty-three minutes it took to get me here.
It takes me barely thirty-three seconds to say it in the end.
So much weight, in so little time. It shouldn’t be possible.
‘I should have never taken that call,’ I finish, feeling comprehensively exhausted the second the words are all out of my mouth.
I can’t bring myself to look up at her.
There will be rage. There will be sorrow. There will be hate.
Here sits the monster who destroyed her life.
I force myself to look up at her. Force myself to confront my guilt face on. I have to. This is how this has to end.
Margaret looks . . . confused.
Oh God. Did I not explain myself properly? Was I not clear? I’m pretty sure I was. I’m fairly certain I got all the awful, salient details out. But maybe my brain got in the way again? Maybe it’s still trying to protect me, and in reality, I just came out with a load of nonsensical babble?
‘Did you . . . Did you understand me?’ I ask in a terrified voice. I honestly don’t think I can go through that again.
‘You think . . . you were responsible for the crash?’ Margaret says. ‘Because you were on your phone?’
I nod. ‘Yes, yes. That’s what happened.’ I shift forward on the couch.
If I didn’t think it would be too much, I’d drop to my knees.
‘I’m so, so sorry! I should never have done it!
I should never have been on that call! Once I’m done here, I’ll turn myself in.
I’ll take whatever punishment I deserve! ’
Margaret regards me with the tears still very much held back in her own eyes. She then rubs her hip again, clears her throat and comes over to sit down next to me on the couch.
She then rummages around in one pocket of her slacks, and pulls out a cashew nut.
Wank the Parrot immediately jumps down off the perch and onto the arm of the couch. Margaret feeds him the cashew very deliberately, her face thoughtful and considerate.
Oh God.
Is she about to sic Wank the Parrot on me? Is that going to be her revenge? You kill my husband, and I let an African grey savage your face?
I’m prepared to go to jail for my crimes, but I don’t particularly want my eyeballs popped out by a sweary parrot. That might be a step too far, even for my level of guilt.
I have to resist the temptation to put my arms up over my face.
‘Charlie . . . That was your name, wasn’t it?’ Margaret asks.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
Or, it used to be me. I don’t quite know who this person is.
Her eyes widen. ‘Is that so? Sounds like you’ve been through a lot.’
Oh Christ! Did I say that last part out loud? I must have! Am I saying this part out loud too?
‘Sorry. I’m sorry. Yes, I guess I have.’
‘Well, Charlie, what you’re saying about you being on the phone may be true.’ She fixes me with a stern gaze. ‘But you are not responsible for my husband’s death.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I insist.
‘No. You’re not,’ she insists right back.
‘Um . . . I . . .’
I have no idea what to say. She’s in denial, I suppose? This wasn’t what I expected at all. She’s supposed to be on the phone to the police, or sending Wank the Attack Parrot after me.
But instead, she’s arguing with me.
‘Wank!’
You’re not helping, pal.
‘Charlie . . . my Anthony died of a heart attack,’ Margaret tells me.
‘His second heart attack, to be more precise. The incident report was quite clear. The heart attack had started before the accident itself. There was mention of other people involved, but certainly nothing about any guilt on anyone else’s part. ’
‘But . . . But I was on the phone,’ I persist. ‘It was my fault.’
She shakes her head slowly. ‘No, Charlie. It was nobody’s fault.’ Her face clouds. ‘Except for maybe Anthony’s.’
I sit back a little. ‘How could it possibly have been his fault?’
Her lips purse in a thin line for a second. ‘It was his second heart attack, Charlie. He should never have been driving. He was told not to, in no uncertain terms.’
‘Then . . . why did he?’ I ask, still utterly confounded by what I’m being told.
Margaret then rolls her eyes. ‘Because he was the kind of man who always thought he was perfectly okay. Totally recovered from whatever it was that ailed him,’ she says. ‘Always thought he knew best.’
‘What?’
‘He was stubborn. Never went to the doctor unless I threatened to leave him.’ The loss in her eyes is mixed with a great deal of frustration. ‘He should never have been driving that car. But that was Anthony for you. Always insisted he was totally fine.’
‘Totally fine,’ I repeat, in what feels like a dreamlike tone.