Mum died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.
Tilly was crushed beneath the overturned lorry, her legs shattered beyond repair.
The lorry driver emerged with a single scratch, a bead of blood tracing a line from his forehead down to his lips.
And me: somehow, my corner of the car escaped the lorry. I suffered some bruising, mild whiplash, and I pissed myself with terror. But physically I was all right.
The lucky one.
On Boxing Day, which we spent eating leftovers and staring at the TV in the traditional manner. I went on a bit about my money worries and my need to find more work, but Tilly appeared preoccupied. She kept drifting off and though she smiled when she was talking to me, a couple of times I caught her reflection and saw she was frowning, anxiety creasing her brow. But she denied that anything was wrong so I left it.
Shortly before I was due to leave, Tilly’s personal assistant, Rachel, arrived at her flat. Rachel was the woman who helped my sister do the things she couldn’t manage by herself, a person who helped her live an independent life. There had been times when I had wondered if that person should be me and had even volunteered. Tilly had point-blank refused, saying that it would ruin our relationship, that she wanted me to be her brother, not her carer. I was relieved in a guilty way.
Rachel rode a huge black and silver Harley Davison and, according to Tilly, treated it like her baby, taking it to conventions, spending every spare minute polishing and tinkering with it. She was tall with sharp cheekbones and short black hair. She looked a little like she should be the guitarist in an early-eighties all-girl rock band and had well-developed arm muscles, from lifting Tilly, that I was envious of.
She came into the flat and dropped her crash helmet on the side, handing Tilly a wrapped bottle before noticing me.
‘Hi Rachel,’ I said. ‘Good Christmas?’
She half-smiled, her hand moving towards her lips. She had a habit of concealing her mouth when she spoke, like she was ashamed of her teeth, not that I could see anything wrong with them. ‘Pretty boring, actually. Mostly sitting around listening to my mum and dad bickering. Parents, they’re such—’
She went pink as she realised what she’d said. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Tilly said and I smiled in agreement.
Rachel looked at my bag. I was going home by train. I wouldn’t drive on motorways. I didn’t really like driving at all and avoided it wherever necessary.
‘Do you need a lift to the station?’ she asked.
‘What? On your bike?’
Behind me, Tilly made clucking noises. ‘You’re such a chicken.’
‘I’ll need a helmet,’ I said and Rachel smiled behind her hand. ‘There’s one here. I got it when I took Tilly out for a ride.’
‘It was awesome,’ said Tilly, grinning at my surprised expression.
‘I guess I’ve got no excuse then. Actually, I’ve always wanted to ride a Harley.’
I bent to kiss Tilly’s cheek and said goodbye.
‘Relax, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it.’ She waved me goodbye. ‘Good luck finding work. You can always come and stay here if you can’t pay your mortgage.’
‘Thanks, sis.’
I straddled the monstrous Harley, all gleaming silver chrome and black rubber, and held on to the sides of the seat. The bike accelerated away without warning and for a moment I thought I was going to fly off the back, so was forced to cling on to Rachel as she roared through the traffic, heading into town, breaking every speed limit like the rules were designed for other, mere mortals. My heart was in my mouth, my mouth was dry, but it was exhilarating and strangely sexy, even if it was Rachel I was holding on to. I imagined what Charlie would look like wearing the leather outfit Rachel had on; pictured us racing along American highways with Charlie’s arms wrapped tight around me, the wind whipping her hair . . .
‘What did you think?’ Rachel said, flipping up her visor as I disembarked outside the station.
I was still shaking off the images off Charlie in black leather. ‘Yeah, it was fun. In a terrifying way.’
‘You can’t beat it,’ Rachel said. ‘When we all go out riding together, it’s the best feeling in the world.’
‘All?’
‘Yeah, I mean me and the rest of the chapter.’
I recognised the terminology. ‘You’re a Hells Angel?’
‘No, we’re not Angels. Not proper ones, anyway. It’s just a motorcycle club – we call it “the chapter” as a kind of joke.’
‘I see.’ I pictured the kind of men Rachel hung out with: long hair, beards, tattoos, attitude.
‘Andrew . . .’ She looked at the ground.
Uh-oh, I thought. When someone says your name like that it’s rarely good news. ‘Yes?’
‘Have you got five minutes for a chat before your train?’
‘Um.’ I checked my watch. ‘I’ve got fifteen, actually. What is it?’
She got off the bike. ‘Let’s go get a cup of tea and I’ll tell you. It’s about Tilly.’
She bought two cups of tea and we sat down at a greasy Formica table in the station cafe. Rachel’s expression and tone of voice had me worried. Was there something wrong with Tilly that I didn’t know about?
Rachel fidgeted with the zip on her leather jacket. When she spoke to me, she avoided eye contact, her focus slipping around the room. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while. But I need your word that you won’t tell Tilly I’ve spoken to you. She’d freak out and fire me.’
Now I was really concerned. ‘It depends what it’s about.’
She fidgeted some more, her hand straying repeatedly to her mouth as she spoke. ‘I’m really worried about her. I’m sure you know that she’s always been prone to black moods, days when she is snappy and down and, to be frank, feels sorry for herself. But recently it’s been getting worse and worse. The good days are less common than the bad days now.’
I was shocked. I didn’t know that Tilly suffered from black moods, beyond the occasional grump that everyone in the world suffers.
‘I think the doctor has put her on a different antidepressant, but since Jonathan dumped her . . .’
I raised my palms. ‘Whoa. Hold on. Antidepressants? And who’s Jonathan?’
She appeared genuinely shocked, meeting my eye for the first time. ‘I didn’t realise you didn’t know. I thought you and Tilly were close.’