Eighteen months earlier
It was one of those lazy Sunday mornings when Max couldn’t seem to get going.
He had a plan of attack for the day ahead, which included, amongst other things, having lunch with Emma at a trendy cafe in East London she had been raving about for months, having a mooch around Brick Lane Market, and then he really needed to go shopping and do some food prep for the week ahead.
At twenty-five, he thought it was time he got himself together.
Not that his life was terrible, and in fact, in many ways he was living out his teenage dreams. A junior job at the BBC, a flat share in Clapham, and a girlfriend he had been dating for six months that seemed to be “heading in the right direction”, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do better.
According to his Instagram algorithm, he should be eating healthier, and the answer, according to all the wise food influencers he followed, was food prep.
Working in London, it was too easy to just grab something for lunch from one of the many eateries within walking distance of Broadcasting House, which were usually not that healthy or too expensive, or to just eat on the go grabbing packets of crisps and chocolate bars galore, and often after-work drinks turned into an after-work McDonald’s on the train back to Clapham.
The result was that gradually over the past few years, the graduate body he had left university with, had morphed into the mid-twenties London body he had now.
Even Emma had recently poked fun at his ‘squidgy little belly’, which she claimed she liked, but he also knew she attended a gym full of men with flat, toned stomachs, which was surely better.
Not that Max was going to get a six-pack from food prepping his lunches, but it was a start.
Every journey started with a single step, or in his case, roasted chicken breast with broccoli, sweet potato and quinoa, portioned out into five separate containers.
The shower helped wipe away the cobwebs, and Max got himself dressed, looking at his outfit in the full-length mirror in his bedroom.
It was February and cold. There wasn’t rain in the forecast though, and so he had on a pair of black jeans, a T-shirt with a thick grey jumper over the top, and he would slip on a pair of New Balance trainers, and his new Barbour coat.
The coat which had cost far too much, but as he justified it to himself, it was a coat he would wear for many years to come, so worth the investment.
It wasn’t just a coat; it was a lifestyle choice.
He had recently listened to a podcast about the horrors of fast fashion, and his Barbour coat was the beginning of the fight back.
It was quality over quantity from there on out.
Max grabbed his keys, desperate for a flat white from a coffee shop on the way to the tube, opened the door of his flat, and standing outside were two police officers.
‘Oh, can I help you?’ asked a curious Max.
They looked uneasy, which instantly made him uneasy.
Had he committed a crime he wasn’t aware of?
He’d heard stories of people driving cars in their sleep, or tweeting hateful comments while in the land of nod.
Had he slept-walked into the local newsagents and robbed the place while dead to the world?
More likely they were there to ask questions about their neighbours, who were definitely drug dealers.
They had more night-time visitors than the local A&E.
‘Max Lawson?’ the male officer asked in a calm, steady voice.
‘Yes,’ replied Max, as a gradual anxiety began creeping up his spine, and settled at the base of his skull.
What were they doing there? The male officer looked to be in his early thirties, tall with dark hair and dark eyes, a neutral accent.
The female officer was a little younger, perhaps late twenties, with piercing blue green eyes.
‘Do you mind if we come in, Mr Lawson?’
‘Umm, no, not at all. Excuse the mess,’ said Max as they walked into his flat.
The problem with their flat was that it had very little storage.
It was also just that little bit too small for two grown men, one of whom loved cooking and had all sorts of paraphernalia that took up most of the space in the kitchen.
The lounge area wasn’t too bad, but Robbie was a messy person and had issues putting things away.
Instead of tidying up properly, Robbie would make small piles of things around the room, so their living area looked like some sort of unfinished Neolithic stone circle.
‘It’s fine,’ said the female officer, with a strained smile. ‘We’ve seen much worse than this.’
‘Do you want tea, or something?’ asked an uncertain Max, panicking because he didn’t know the protocol for greeting police officers on a Sunday morning in your flat. Max’s phone rumbled with a text from Emma. He ignored it.
‘We’re fine,’ replied the male officer. ‘Do you mind if we sit?’
They all looked towards the sofa. ‘Not at all,’ replied Max, quickly moving Robbie’s football bag that had been on the sofa since Friday when he had his usual five-a-side match, onto the floor.
Max noticed a fragment of a crisp that had been buried under the bag emerge, but before he could grab it, the police officers sat down. Max sat down too. ‘How can I help you?’
There were moments in life when something happened, and you knew that terrible news was about to follow.
It could be a split-second look between two people, the ever so subtle change in a facial expression, or the tone of someone’s voice, but on that Sunday morning it was all three.
After Max had asked how he could help, the officers looked at each other for the briefest moment, their expressions changed, their skin seemed to tighten, and then the female officer spoke. Careful, measured and serious.
‘Mr Lawson, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
After her joke about them seeing worse flats than theirs, it was clear the tone of her voice had shifted to that of someone delivering life-changing news.
She had obviously been trained for moments like that.
She looked at Max, as he felt all the blood drain from his face, and he could see the pity in her brilliant blue green eyes.
Max wanted to speak, to ask what had happened, but he couldn’t.
His voice was caught somewhere inside of him.
There was a split-second when he was aware that the life he had, the one he knew and loved, might never be the same again.
‘This morning, your parents, Phillip and Susan Lawson, were involved in a road traffic collision on the M4. I’m sorry to say, but they were both pronounced dead at the scene.’
For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning, and time stood still.
The shock of the news gripped him, and it felt all at once like he was collapsing onto the ground and yet he hadn’t moved a muscle.
His body felt distant, as though he was watching himself from above.
In moments like that, our bodies go into fight-or-flight mode, and Max felt his heart rate surging, and then like he couldn’t breathe.
He had to take small shallow breaths, and then he felt his chest tighten. Was he going to have a heart attack?
‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ said the male officer, standing up.
‘Just try breathing,’ said the woman. ‘Look at me, Mr Lawson. A deep breath in, and then out. In and then out. That’s good. Stay with me. Look at me. OK, that’s it. Deep breaths in and then out. Good. You’re doing good.’
The male officer returned, passing him a glass of water.
Max tried to hold the glass, but his hands were shaking too much, and so the female officer helped him and he managed a few small sips.
Max couldn’t believe the words that had come out of her mouth.
His parents had been killed in a car crash on the M4.
Max was an only child, and so he had always been close with his parents.
Growing up in St Albans, they had given him everything, had always been so supportive and loving, and when he went to university in Leeds, he had met so many people who hadn’t been so lucky.
But now suddenly, just like that, they were gone.
His heart couldn’t stand the pain, and his mind couldn’t comprehend what would come next.
For years, Max thought he had everything planned out, a bright, wonderful future, and now all of it meant nothing.
‘Do you have someone we can call? A friend? A family member?’ said the female officer softly, but suddenly something popped into his head, like a crack of thunder in the dead of night.
‘Where did you say it happened?’ asked Max. He still hadn’t cried, which he didn’t understand, but perhaps it was the shock. His body was pulling everything in rather than letting it out.
‘On the M4,’ replied the female officer.
‘Where on the M4?’
‘Just before Swindon.’
‘Leigh Delamere. They always stop at Leigh Delamere,’ mumbled Max, who stood up, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone.
He had forgotten to check, but he remembered that his mum had left him a voicemail earlier while he slept.
He had seen the notification when he woke up, but he hadn’t listened to it yet.
He went to his voicemails, and there it was. A message from his mum.
‘She left me a voicemail this morning. Should I play it?’
‘You should sit down first,’ said the male officer.
Max sat down, and a part of him didn’t want to hear what it said because it would be the last thing either of his parents would ever say to him.
Their final words, recorded on his phone forever.
He looked at the officers, and they both gave him encouraging smiles, and so Max pressed to play the recording.
‘Max, it’s your mum. We’ve just stopped at Leigh Delamere.
Your fathers in the loo, and I’m getting a coffee from Costa.
We should be home within two hours. The map thing says one hour and forty-five, but I know it’s two hours.
It’s always two hours from Leigh Delamere.
Oh, here comes your Lordship. I just wanted to let you know we’re on the way home.
Cornwall was lovely. Say something Phil. ’
‘Who is it?’
‘Who do you think? It’s Max.’
‘Oh, right. You all right, son? Love you.’
‘Okay, that’s it. I just wanted to say hello. Jesus, your dads already wandered off. It’s like herding sheep! Honestly. Anyway, love you. See you soon.’
Then it went dead, and all of a sudden Max started crying and he wasn’t sure he would ever stop. The pain like a crushing weight fell on him, and it would take such a long time for it to be lifted.