Nicole
Nicole
‘Mrs Forrester. We have dashcam footage showing your son driving your car recklessly and illegally, very close to where Isla Richardson was killed, just minutes after her estimated time of death. That vehicle has subsequently been discovered abandoned on an industrial estate, showing clear signs of having been involved in a collision. Forensics experts are carrying out further tests on the car, and officers will be on their way shortly to arrest Jack and bring him in for questioning—’
‘No, please, don’t.’ Nicole hears the desperation in her voice. She cannot bear the thought of Jack being arrested; Jack being taken away in a police car, being brought here – to a soulless room like this, to be questioned – without her to support him. ‘Please, let me go with you. He’s only fifteen.’
The detective shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ll ensure he has an appropriate adult with him. But the best thing you can do for Jack now is tell the truth. You want to help him, don’t you?’
Nicole is aware that the detective is goading her, trying to trap her into betraying her son, but she is paralysed with fear, does not know what to do for the best.
Her thoughts rewind to the night it happened. Arriving home to an empty house, relieved for once that Andrew was working late, that Nathaniel was still out. Bundling Jack up the stairs, medicating him with temazepam, putting him straight to bed. Sitting beside him, stroking his hair – telling him over and over that it was going to be okay, that she knew it was just an accident, that she would look after him – until his breaths deepened and he fell into a drug-induced sleep.
She recalls Nathaniel’s return not long after, his eagle-eyed observation that her car was missing, the guilt she felt as she performed her planned charade, pretending not to know where it was. Her relief when it was Nathaniel – not her – who suggested it had been stolen, who proposed calling the police.
She remembers Andrew arriving home not long after, how it took every last vestige of her self-control not to pound him with her fists, not to shout, to swear, to scream at him for his unforgivable duplicity. Not to throttle him for the damage he had caused, or ask him if he realised what his depraved behaviour had cost them. How she let him kiss her, even as her stomach roiled with disgust for what he had done to her, to Isla, to all of them. How she knew that the best way to protect Jack was to pretend to be oblivious to Andrew’s transgressions.
She remembers – as though the scene were frozen in time – the moment Nathaniel looked up from his phone, announced that Isla was dead, that she had been killed in a hit-and-run. How Nicole’s entire body hummed with grief and panic in equal measure. How she contemplated shaking Jack awake, grabbing their passports, going to the airport, getting on the first available plane – anywhere, it didn’t matter where – to remove him from danger. How the minutes ticked by all night long as she lay awake, replaying the events of the evening in her mind, too horrified to think clearly about what to do next.
And then the following day. Waiting until Jack awoke – late, the temazepam had done its job – sitting on the side of his bed, delivering the news she knew would throw his life into perpetual turmoil. Witnessing his terror, trying to reassure him that she would make it okay, schooling him in what to say, rehearsing the narrative about a fictitious vomiting bug that may yet save him. Watching Jack’s confusion as he tried to absorb her instructions, her apprehension that he was still too much in shock, still too groggy from the temazepam to reliably remember the story. How she promised him over and over that she would look after him, that she would not let him come to any harm.
She remembers the following days and weeks as though they have been seared onto her memory. Jack retreating into himself: becoming quiet, withdrawn, pale, monosyllabic. How she oscillated between the desire to talk to him and the awareness that she did not want to pick at the scab of his anxiety. How the realisation dawned on her that perhaps she could save Jack from prosecution but she could not purge him of the crushing sense of his own culpability.
She remembers all the nights she lay awake thinking about the events of that evening, worrying whether she had done the right thing, whether she would do anything differently if time were rewound and she could live those moments again. Worrying about her car on the industrial estate, fearing she had not taken it far enough from home, had not hidden it sufficiently well, had not thought through the likelihood of it being found. And yet, at the same time, knowing it was out of her control, that she could not revisit the location, that it would be catastrophically foolish to do so.
And then there was Abby. All those hours she had sat with Abby, consoling her, comforting her, knowing what she knew. Listening to Abby rail against the monster who had killed her daughter, knowing that Abby’s monster was in his bedroom, listening to music at top volume through his headphones to drown out the torture of his own thoughts. Those repeated moments of dread every time Abby relayed how she had harangued the police in search of answers. The remorse, the shame, the guilt about her own complicity in Abby’s torment. And yet, her deep, profound belief that Isla’s death had been an accident; Jack had been reckless, impetuous, distraught but he had never meant to harm her.
And then, Abby’s discovery of the anonymous emails, her awareness of Isla’s relationship, and Nicole’s desperation that Abby would not uncover the identity of the man who had exploited her daughter. Not for Andrew’s sake; Nicole stopped caring about him the day she found out. But for Jack’s sake. Because the closer the net was trawled to their family, the greater the likelihood that Jack would be caught.
Nicole thinks now about the expression on Abby’s face earlier this evening when she admitted responsibility for Isla’s death: the unmitigated shock, horror, hatred. Nicole cannot blame her. It may not be true that she was driving the car that killed Isla, but her accountability for Abby’s suffering is almost as great.
Her memory aches as she thinks about the past eighteen years, about all that she and Abby have been through together. The pregnancies, the tribulations of early parenthood, the endless self-doubt of motherhood. The commemoration of their children’s milestones: first words, first steps, first days of school. The celebration of birthdays, Christmases, Easters, bank holidays. The sharing of countless bottles of wine, long weekends away, conversations deep into the night.
She thinks about the many times over the past five weeks she has come close to telling Abby the truth. But every time she has been on the verge of a confession, thoughts of Nathaniel and Jack have stopped her: thoughts about what would happen to them if the truth emerged, how it would destroy their lives as well as hers. She has lied not to protect herself, but out of love for her boys.
She raises her head, looks up at the detective, tears pooling in her eyes.
‘Please let me see him. He’s only fifteen.’