Reunion (part 5)

It wasn’t as easy, back then, to get a flight home from the South of France. In the days before cheap flights, and the internet, normal people didn’t arrange holidays themselves they went to a travel agent. Out here, in a country where he had barely enough language to order breakfast, and scarcely any cash to pay for it, Al felt more helpless than he ever had.

He didn’t even know where the nearest airport was.

He stood there, in the hallway, holding the phone for a minute or so, after the call had ended. Amy stood nearby chewing her lip, looking worried and upset, because, presumably, that was what he looked like. Babs had disappeared, giving him some space, Al guessed.

Eventually, he put the phone back into the cradle and Amy came to him and they hugged. Al tried not to cry, but Amy’s touch melted something inside him and he was soon sobbing.

Tim appeared a couple of minutes later, as Al was drying his eyes.

“Tell me what has happened,” he said, simply. “And we’ll work out what we need to do.”

Al felt the tears well up again. He coughed, blew his nose and told Tim what he knew.

“OK,” Tim said. “I’ll talk to my travel agent back in England. He really is very good. We’ll get you on a flight,” he looked Al in the eye. “And don’t worry about the money,” he said. “This is family stuff, money is not an issue.”

Tim sent Al to pack his things, and got to work on the phone. Babs was busy in the kitchen “rustling up a bit of lunch, and a nice pot of tea”. By the time Al had finished packing - and it didn’t take long to cram all his clothes back into his suitcase - lunch was on the table, and Tim had made the necessary arrangements. There was a flight from Nice airport that evening, Al was booked on it. It was a three hour drive to the airport, Tim would take him after lunch.

Amy accompanied Al to the airport. They sat on the backseat of Tim’s Volvo Estate, close, holding hands, exchanging glances. There was a tearful farewell at the gates, and Al promised that he would phone as soon as he had some news. Tim gave Al a big hug, and a handful of notes. “When you get there, take a taxi,” he said. “Go straight to the hospital.”

Al arrived at the hospital at three in the morning. He didn’t know which ward Justin was on, and when they eventually found him, they told him it wasn’t visiting hours.

“Go home,” a tired looking nurse said. “Come back in the morning.”

Al walked the ten miles home from the hospital.

He found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. They hugged, talked, drank tea and smoked more cigarettes. When Mitch came down the stairs at eight thirty, the kitchen was fog-thick with smoke.

It turned out that Justin was OK. He was conscious, had a broken ankle and his face was bruised from where he had hit his head on the steering wheel.

But he was OK.

He was due to be discharged later today. The police had interviewed him, but Mamie didn’t know what they were going to do. It was serious. That is all she had been told. No, she didn’t really know what had happened. Not really. When interviewed by the police, Justin said that he had taken the car because he wanted to. He had gone for a drive and had got lost. Mamie said, he said he didn’t remember hitting anyone. Just the tree. Mamie said, he said he was alone. No one else was involved. She said she didn’t believe him, and she had the feeling that the police didn’t either.

Mitch had been great, Mamie said. She didn’t know what she’d have done without him.

When Mitch came down, Al barely exchanged five words with him. Al went for a shower, whilst Mamie prepared breakfast.

The hospital had a different energy about it during the day, than at night. More hustle and bustle. Doctors and nurses swam though the building as if they were sharks: as if they stopped moving they would die.

When Al, Mamie and Mitch arrived the police were already waiting: two men in uniform and a man in a suit. The man in the suit introduced himself to Al as Detective Inspector Hill. Now, Justin was well enough, he said, they were going to arrest him. Mamie burst into tears, and Mitch hugged her, telling her it would be alright.

When the police went to speak to Justin, the idiot tried to run. Even without a plaster cast on his leg, it would have been a stupid thing to do. The police tackled him and pushed him up against the glass door of the ward. Al, on the other side of the glass watched helplessly, seeing the fear and anger in his little brothers face.

Resisting arrest was added to the list of theft of a motor vehicle, driving without a licence, causing death by dangerous driving and failing to stop at the scene of an accident.

Justin was not given bail. His behaviour at the hospital led the courts to believe he might not show up for his trial: a flight risk.

“If I ever find out you had something to do with this,” Al said to Mitch, one night in the kitchen, his mother in bed upstairs, pale and exhausted.

“You’ll do what, little brother?” Mitch asked, a sneer on his face.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Al said

“I’d like to see you try,” Mitch said, laughing.

They stopped speaking after that, and a few days later Mitch moved out, to live back at the squat, with his hippy friends.

Justin was remanded to a Young Offenders Institution. Visiting was restricted, to begin with, but he phoned them twice weekly. It was hard, he told Al. There were some nasty bastards in there, and they liked to make sure the new boy knew his place. He sounded small, broken.

One evening, three weeks after he had been arrested, Justin phoned. Al answered, Mamie was in bed. He sounded brighter, more confident and relaxed. After a chat, Al asked if he should wake Mamie.

“No, don’t do that. Just give her a big hug, and tell her I love her.”

The next morning, Al was drinking tea in the kitchen, watching Mamie make toast, when the doorbell rang. Inspector Hill stood on the doorstep, a female officer by his side.

“Can I come in, Mrs Dixon?”

There was a different quality about him, a sadness. Mamie showed them into the Front Room and asked if she could get them anything, a cup of tea perhaps.

“Thank you, Mrs Dixon, but no. Would you sit down, please.”

Al took his mother to the chair opposite the sofa, and sat her down. He knelt by her side and held her hand.

“It’s about Justin,” Inspector Hill said.

...

Read the next part here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-6-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge

"Reunion (part 5)" an original work of fiction for the #365daysofwriting challenge

Reunion (part 5)