Things like this didn’t happen to Sandra. She was too respectable, too grey and boring. Her upbringing had been sheltered: an only child pampered by her parents and poorly equipped for adversity. As a result, she lacked the experience required to respond sensibly when life deviated from its usual path.

Naturally, she ought to contact the police. Criminals couldn’t be allowed to get off simply because people didn’t dare to or have the energy to report them. But she sat at the kitchen table with the phone in front of her and couldn’t bring herself to call. Not the police, not her parents, not anyone else.

She couldn’t think clearly, let alone express herself in a composed and comprehensible manner. So what should she do? What would tomorrow be like if she didn’t do the right thing today?

Her body was throbbing and aching—should she at least seek care?

No, not today. Her body and soul were too lacerated. She didn’t have it in her to be examined or patched up, let alone explain herself, accounting for what had happened. Because that would certainly mean the police would be brought in, and she would be called to account: Why hadn’t she raised the alarm sooner? Why hadn’t she done anything? How could she let it happen? The smell of alcohol in the car should surely have been some kind of red flag?

Sandra knew she lacked the ability to make wise decisions and take control of her life. Not just today, but every day. So how was she supposed to change that right now when life was showing its very worst side?

Outside it was already dark. The snow was whirling down in huge flakes, and the thermometer in the window was showing several degrees below zero. Her gaze moved to the kitchen counter and lingered on the whisky bottle.

She eventually mastered her listlessness and got up. Then she stumbled to the kitchen counter, grabbed hold of the bottle and raised it to her mouth. She tipped back a considerable amount of what was left in the bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before putting the bottle in the larder. Then she went to the bathroom and got into the shower.

6

Jeanette

SHE REPEATED the same thing in her head over and over again: “it wouldn’t have made any difference, because he was already dead.” Occasionally with the addition of “or as good as.” Because she couldn’t be one hundred percent certain what condition he had been in when she had made her decision. Her selfish decision. When she had decided to leave him down there in the ravine to meet her new—and hopefully lighter—fate.

When she got home, she had pretended nothing had happened, which was easier said than done with a torn coat and muddy shoes. But her husband accepted her vague references to changeable weather and slippery pavements, and she babbled about the bathroom renovation, largely because the last normal, everyday conversation she had had before the accident had been about those bloody tiles.