Whatever his wife shouts from the front door, it’s just noise. A flat, monotonal, noise. Like every time she speaks to him. He opens his mouth but can only summon a croak. Tastes stale brandy. The front door slams.

​

He drops the paper onto the table and crosses to the window. Pauses, and retraces his steps. Turns the paper face down.

At the window, he hooks the curtain aside with a finger. Sees his wife frown and drop to her haunches, rubbing at the car’s front wing. He steps back and lets the curtain fall as she turns around.

​

If he was still looking, he’d see her check her watch, shake her head, hurry up the path, closing the gate behind her.

But he doesn’t. He remains frozen to the spot, back to the window, eyes screwed shut and mouth like it’s full of sawdust. Wonders how it ended up like this.

Why me?

The laptop stutters and whirs as it fires up. Tears blur his vision. A swipe smears wet across his face. A couple of clicks and the website fills the screen. Sniffs noisily. A fat teardrop explodes on his hand.

‘Essex Police are appealing for witnesses today after an apparent hit and run left a cyclist and dad of three fighting for his life. Daniel Robbins, 43 ...’

Slams the laptop shut. Doesn’t want to know his name.

It’s ok. He’s gonna be ok.

Walks to the sink and runs the tap. The water is cold on his face and helps clear his mind. Picks up the phone. Listens to the dial tone. It’s impatient, challenging him to make the call. The handset is slippery in his hand. Puts the phone down and runs his palms against his trousers. Back to the laptop. Refreshes the page. Website still the same. Daniel still in ICU. Thinks about refreshing again.

Schrodinger’s Daniel. As long as I don’t refresh the page, he’s alive.

Shakes his head to quieten his mind.

This is bloody stupid!

He marches to the phone with a strength of purpose he doesn’t feel. Lifts it to his ear. Deep breath. A bead of sweat traces from his hairline, down his cheek. The phone bursts into life. A shrill, high-pitched pealing. Makes him jump.

He waits. It continues to scream at him. Gives in.

“… Hello?”

“What happened with the car?” His wife. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He doesn’t speak. His breath is heavy down the line.

“Lee? You there?”

Closes his eyes. “I .. I hit a fox.”

“Bloody idiot. You know we’ve got a five-hundred-pound excess?”

He swallows. He knows what he must do but the words escape him.

Her voice softens. “Lee? Are you ok?”

The phone goes back into the cradle, and he returns to the computer. No change with Daniel Robbins, 43-year-old father of three.

Considers calling his oldest friend, Matthew, a senior policeman. Friends since school. But he knows what he’d say. Can even hear the words in his voice. Also, wouldn’t want to compromise him.

No. This is all on him.

Why just drive off like that you bloody fool?!?

He takes the phone into the conservatory. Closes the door behind him. Takes a seat in his reading chair and sinks into it, head slumping back. The chair sighs. Chubby clouds chase each other across a darkening sky. Birds wheel in a dogfight high above. Next door’s cat leaps onto the fence and stares at him accusingly.

A storm is coming.

The phone rings again, the small screen announcing his wife. Lets it fall into his lap. The call goes to voicemail. Her message broadcast through the house. It strikes him how difficult it is to tell where the beep ends, and his wife begins.

I MUST HAVE DRIVEN HARWICH ROAD A THOUSAND TIMES!!

Fear turns to anger. He strides back into the kitchen, phone clattering to the floor.

Stabs at the laptop with a pointed finger. No change. He opens another tab.

‘What is the sentence for vehicular manslaughter?’ Presses return.

The page is soon filled with accident reports. Closes the tab. He’d rather not know.

He can feel the newspaper calling to him. Slowly, he turns it over and Daniel Robbins, 43-year-old father of three looks back. He’s tanned, sitting on a sunbed around a pool, toasting the photographer with a beer. Warm almond eyes, softened with laughter lines. Hair, running to salt and pepper, swept back. A friendly face. Next to him on the sunbed is a dog-eared paperback and a pair of bright-red armbands.

Father of three.

Imagines the family. Waiting for news in a brightly lit corridor. Hanging onto each other, faces streaked with tears. Eyes red. A door opens. They all turn in unison, faces open and expectant ...

Once more, the ringing phone saves him from his thoughts. He drops the paper and rubs his face. The voice, fresh after the tone, he doesn’t recognise.

“Mr Garland? This is DC Berry from Clacton CID … Can you please give me a call on ...”

He doesn’t wait to hear the number. Runs to the conservatory but the call is finished by the time he finds the phone under his chair.

Blood throbs in his temples. Fear tickles the back of his throat. Lurches to the window. A police car slows outside his house.

This time he walks back to the laptop, limbs suddenly heavy. A crushing tiredness descends. Before he refreshes the screen, he knows what he’s going to find.

But he does it anyway.

He lowers his head into his hands. Fingers threaded through thinning hair. A new weight pushing down on his chest. Blue strobe flashes on the ceiling. Tries to ignore the knocking on the front door.