Elle
PAST
My memories of getting home from St. John’s Wood that day were vague.
I remembered careering into people hurrying toward the scene of the accident as I ran away from it.
I remembered someone grabbing my arm, telling me to slow down, someone else asking if I was all right as I rushed past them.
It was only when I was sitting on the tube that I realized I was sobbing.
A woman sitting across from me cast anxious glances my way and I avoided eye contact, not wanting to be asked if I needed help.
The next thing I remembered was fumbling with my keys, trying to open the door to Jaz’s apartment and barely managing because I was shaking so much. And then, lying in bed, shaking with shock, weeping and praying that Brett Parker would be all right.
Sometime later, there was a buzz on the intercom and I knew instinctively that it was DC Moss. I didn’t answer, and I imagined the DC trying other flats, and hoped no one would let her into the building. But someone must have, because shortly after there was a knock on the door.
“Elle, it’s DC Moss. If you’re there, can you let me in, please?”
The sound of her voice sent my stress levels soaring. I buried myself deeper in the bed.
“Elle, we need to talk.”
I rammed my fingers into my ears to block out the sound of her voice, hoping that Jaz wouldn’t arrive home from his weekend away and let her in.
But he only returned later that night, long after DC Moss had left and when he opened the bedroom door, I pretended to be asleep, knowing he’d be wondering why I was sleeping in the bedroom when I’d been sleeping on the sofa for the last couple of months.
He eventually closed the door, deciding to leave me where I was, and a part of me wanted to call him back and tell him what had happened.
But I was afraid of what I might see on his face when I told him Brett Parker had been hit by a car because of me.
All I could hope was that he hadn’t been badly hurt.
I must have dropped off because I was brusquely awakened from an uneasy sleep by the slamming of the bedroom door against the wall as it was flung open. Disoriented, I emerged from under the covers. Jaz was standing in the doorway, looking as if he too had been pulled abruptly from sleep.
“Elle, what the hell is going on? There are people outside in the street, I think they’re reporters. They’ve been ringing on the doorbell, didn’t you hear them?”
“Reporters?” I looked at him dazedly. Through the open bedroom door I heard a clamor of voices from the road.
“Yes.” Jaz ran his hand through his hair, a sign of his agitation. “They’re shouting your name and something about Brett Parker. They’re saying he’s dead. Why are they telling you that he’s dead?”
“Dead?” I stared at him wide-eyed. “Brett Parker is dead?”
“Yes, Elle, dead.” He looked suddenly frightened. “What have you done, Elle? What the hell have you done?”