BooksBarbecue
Back Day of the Accident
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. What readers are saying about
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. Part Two
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. Part Three
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. 55
  65. 56
  66. 57
  67. 58
  68. Epilogue
  69. Acknowledgements
  70. THE NEXT THRILLER BY NUALA ELLWOOD
  71. THE BEGINNING

Thoughts of the past have left me feeling restless and panicky. I need to distract myself. I toy with the idea of turning on the TV but I know that will only make me feel worse. Then I see the diary Amanda brought back. It’s sitting on the counter, by the sink. I get out of bed and go over to the kitchen. Pouring myself a glass of water, I pick up the diary. Do I read it? It’s tempting. But then I ask myself what good will come from revisiting the horrors of what happened? So I put it down and take my glass of water back to bed.

I lie there for a couple of moments, the silence of the room seeping into my skin. I close my eyes and try to sleep but it won’t come. I sit up and look over at the diary. I’ll just read a bit of it, I tell myself, as I get out of bed, then if it gets too much I’ll stop. I take the diary over to the chair by the window. A silver beam of moonlight filters through the curtains and lights a wavering path across the room. I open the book and read the unfamiliar writing on the first page.

Hello. We hope this diary will help you to make sense of the time you spent in Intensive Care.

You were admitted to Lewes Victoria Hospital at 21.47 p.m. on 12th May 2017 suffering the effects of Near Drowning. At this stage you were unconscious as a result of hypoxia.

I look up at the wall, trying to take in the details. 21.47 p.m. Elspeth was already dead by then. ‘Dead at the scene’ is how Elms put it. Dead at the scene. I try not to let the images come but I can’t stop them: my little girl trapped in the back of that car, unable to breathe, unable to escape. She will have screamed my name and I couldn’t save her. Her mum, the person she trusted more than anyone in the world, couldn’t save her. Not only that but I had locked her in the car. The guilt presses down on my chest. I can’t bear it.

I remember how furious I had been when Sean told me what happened outside the dry-cleaner’s when Elspeth was seven. ‘How could you?’ I’d screamed at him. ‘How could you lock our child in the car like that? She was terrified.’ And yet, Sean’s actions that day were nothing compared to what I did at the river. And not one bit of it makes sense. I was always the overprotective one, the one who made sure Elspeth wore a helmet when she went bike riding, who panicked if I lost sight of her in the supermarket.