The Accident: The bestselling psychological thriller

Three weeks after her accident, my shock finally dissipated and with it my insistence that Charlotte’s room remain untouched. Instead of seeing the mess as a sign of normality it became a morbid shrine. My daughter wasn’t dead – she was just ill – so I tidied up, ready for her return. And that’s when I found the diary.

I throw open the wardrobe doors and root around in the pockets of some of her clothes. There are several items I’ve never seen before – a jacket that looks like it’s Vivienne Westwood and an expensively cut dress with a VB label. I stare at it for several seconds. What’s Charlotte doing with a Victoria Beckham dress? I push it along the rack and turn my attention to the pockets of a pair of Diesel jeans instead. I’ll have to have a word with Oli the next time I see him.

I close the wardrobe door. The bus driver didn’t mention anything about a mobile phone and neither did any of the other eye witnesses and the police immediately cordoned off the area so if it was lying crushed or broken nearby they’d have found it. So it must be in the house somewhere.

Charlotte must have deliberately hidden it. And if she did that then maybe she had something to hide.

I yank open Charlotte’s sock drawer and root around at the back. Nothing. I tip up the box of folders and school work under her desk and sift through the papers. No phone. It’s not hidden in any of her shoes or boots or secreted behind the novels on her bookshelf. I return to the sock drawer, squeezing each bundle but still find nothing. I search the room for fifteen, twenty minutes, going through every drawer, bag and shoebox but there’s no sign of her mobile.

Where is it?

I reach under the pillow for her diary and flick through the pages. I must have read it ten, twenty times but whatever secret she was keeping, she didn’t share it with her diary. She shared other worries – anxieties about her weight, nervousness about sleeping with Liam for the first time, concern about exam results and indecisiveness about the career she wanted but nothing huge, nothing so terrible she’d consider taking her own life.

I close the book and tuck it back under her pillow. There are no answers here, maybe Liam will have some.

White Street is completely deserted apart from a bad-tempered ginger tom who hisses at us as we walk past. I’ve been to Liam’s house dozens of times but I rarely go in. I normally sit in the car, engine running, as Charlotte rushes in to grab him so I can take them bowling or to the cinema. She never stayed overnight with him and he never stayed at ours but I told her that, if she was still with Liam when she turned sixteen, I’d accompany her to the doctor so she could go on the pill. Then, once it was safe, her father and I would go out for the evening and she and Liam could have the house to themselves. I thought I was being very reasonable (or ‘ridiculously liberal’ according to Brian) but Charlotte told me it was the ‘grossest thing she’d ever heard’ and that, if she wanted her parents to know when she was having sex she’d put an advert in the local paper.

I open the gate of the blue house at number fifty-five. The front garden looks lovely – the beds are awash with colour, not a single weed to be seen. Claire, Liam’s mum, must have been very busy. What I’d give for her green fingers.

I knock lightly when I reach the front door. The curtains are closed in the living room but I can make out the shadowy shape of a person moving about. I knock again, louder this time, and keep an eye on the curtains. A moment later they twitch and a pair of bright blue eyes peers out at me then they’re swiftly pulled shut again. I hear the sound of a wooden floor creaking and then the front door swings open. Liam Hutchinson, Charlotte’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend, stands in front of me in nothing but his navy and white striped boxer shorts. He looks confused, so I smile warmly.

‘Hello, Liam.’

He nods. ‘Mrs Jackson.’

‘Could I come in? I was wondering if we could have a little chat?’

It feels strange to be sitting in the Hutchinson’s living room. I’ve never been in here before and I can’t stop myself from staring around, drinking in the unusual lithograph prints on the walls, the colour-coordinated scatter cushions and the large, expensive-looking rug in front of the original Victorian fireplace. Liam is slumped on the sofa on the other side of the room, his knees spread wide. If he finds this situation odd he isn’t letting on. We’ve been sitting here, sneaking looks at each other, for the last couple of minutes, neither of us saying a word. I rehearsed my opening line dozens of times on my way over but now the time has come to say it, my mouth has gone dry.

‘So …’ I manage at last. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’

He shrugs. ‘Something to do with Charlotte?’

‘Yes. Have you been to see her? I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths.’

‘No.’ He picks at the ivory and gold throw covering his chair, plucking out the metallic threads and then dropping them on the floor. His mother will have a fit when she gets home. ‘I haven’t seen her. I didn’t think I’d be allowed.’

‘Really?’ I sit forward. ‘Because you’re not a relative? That’s fine. Friends and family are allowed in and,’ I smile warmly, ‘you’re more than a friend.’

He shifts in his seat. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Sorry. I meant – you’re her boyfriend.’

‘No. I’m not.’

I frown, certain I must have misheard him. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you just said—’

‘We’re not going out any more.’ He glances away, as though embarrassed. ‘Charlotte dumped me.’

‘No!’

I can’t believe it. Charlotteended it? Charlotte did? I felt sure that if anyone had called time on the relationship it would have been Liam. She idolized him. Tall, dark, two years older than her, handsome in a scruffy hair-in-his-eyes sort of way and in a band, she’d almost collapsed with excitement a year ago when one of his friends approached one of her friends in the school canteen to tell her that Liam thought she was ‘fit’.

She didn’t give the slightest hint anything was wrong in their relationship although … I look from Liam to the clock on the mantelpiece, distracted by the tick-tick-tick filling the room … and time slips away.

It’s three weeks before Charlotte’s accident – a Saturday afternoon – and she’s just returned from a shopping trip in town. I’m in the living room, reading, when I hear the door to the porch open. I call out, asking her if she’s bought anything nice but I’m ignored. I don’t ask again but I do keep an eye on the open living room door. Seconds later Charlotte slams up the stairs looking white as a ghost. I call after her, asking if she’s okay but the only reply I receive is the sound of a bedroom door slamming. I half-rise from the sofa, unsure what to do. Charlotte’s not one for mollycoddling, especially when she’s upset. She won’t let me hug her and flinches if I so much as stroke her arm. She’s stressed, all the kids are. You just have to stand at the school gates for a couple of minutes to work that out. Their GCSEs are fast approaching and coursework is mounting up. Charlotte even had to go into school in the holidays so her teacher could help her complete it on time. I sink back into the sofa. I haven’t been sleeping well recently. My nightmares have returned and the last thing I need is a screaming match with a fifteen-year-old. She knows where I am, I think as I pick my book back up again.

‘Did you split up on a Saturday?’ I ask Liam. ‘About nine weeks ago?’

He runs a hand over his face. ‘No, it was …’ he pauses and I sense that he’s struggling to suppress his emotions, ‘… she ended it the day before her accident.’

‘Why?’ I lean forward in my seat, my hands gripping my knees. Why didn’t I contact him sooner? It’s as though I’ve been sleepwalking since Charlotte’s accident – longer than that – and I’m only just waking up. Splitting up with her boyfriend has to be the reason she stepped in front of the bus. You never feel heartache as keenly as you do when you’re young. You think it’ll destroy you and that you will never love, or be loved, again. She didn’t write about it in her diary though.

Liam stands up, crosses the room and picks up his guitar from the stand next to the bookcase. He sits back down and strums a few chords.

‘Liam?’ It’s as though he’s forgotten I’m in the room. ‘Why did Charlotte end your relationship? How was she?’

He looks at me blankly.

‘When she ended your relationship, how was she?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there.’

‘Sorry?’

He looks back at his guitar, strums a few more chords then slaps the strings with the palm of his hand, silencing the sound, then looks across at me. ‘She dumped me by text.’

I can sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it. That he wants me to leave. But I can’t. ‘What did she say? In her text? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Not much.’ He reaches into the side of the sofa and Milly starts to her feet as a small, black, plastic object whizzes through the air and lands on the sofa beside me. Liam’s phone. I look at him, to check it’s okay for me to go through it. He nods then looks back at his guitar.

Charlotte the open message is titled. I read it then look at Liam in surprise.

‘That’s it?’

He nods.

I look back at the text message:

It’s over between us Liam. If you love me you’ll never contact me again.

‘Did you ask why?’

Liam doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the carpet, tapping his foot repeatedly.

‘Liam?’

‘What?’ He doesn’t look up.