No One’s Fault, or Just the Way the Stars Aligned
James held the restaurant door open, letting his wife step through first. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the thump of music and the clamour of tipsy chatter. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights flickered, and a winding trail of streetlamps stretched through the darkness.
“You look pale… Maybe we *should* take a taxi?” asked Louise.
“Don’t need one. It’s just hot in there, that’s all. I’ll cool down, and we’ll be fine.” James wrapped an arm around her.
“But you’ve been drinking,” Louise pressed.
“Hardly anything, and that was hours ago. It’s out of my system. Traffic’s light at this hour. Stop worrying,” he reassured her.
“Mum called. Timmy won’t go to sleep without us,” Louise sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Right, let’s go then. Half an hour and we’re home.” James fished the keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob.
Somewhere in the car park, their Nissan beeped and blinked its headlights twice.
James steered out of the posh countryside restaurant’s car park, guiding the car smoothly toward the city. Louise stretched her tired legs, leaned her head back—no need to worry about her hair now.
“Decent wedding, wasn’t it? Ours was better, though,” James said, watching the restaurant lights shrink in the rearview mirror.
“Honestly? I barely remember ours,” Louise mumbled, eyelids drooping.
“Neither do I.”
“No one remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why they all seem better than everyone else’s.”
“True,” James chuckled.
“Maybe Mum should stay the night. By the time we get back, then drive her home…” Louise yawned.
“Course, let her stay. I’m knackered too.”
“Told you we should’ve taken a taxi. You never listen,” Louise muttered weakly.
“Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back for the car tomorrow.”
Louise didn’t answer. Eyes closed, she dreamed of getting home, peeling off her tight shoes—her poor, blistered feet—slipping into fluffy slippers, showering…
If she’d opened her eyes, she’d have seen James white-knuckling the wheel, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead, breath uneven. But she didn’t.
James hadn’t admitted it, but he regretted driving. His chest ached, each heartbeat sharper, breath harder. Pull over? No—just get home, lie down…
The road stretched on, trees a dark wall beside them. The city lights taunted him, not getting closer, almost receding. He pressed the accelerator—then pain exploded in his chest, his vision blackened. The crash rocked the sleeping suburbs, but James didn’t hear it.
The lorry driver scrambled from his cab, sprinting toward the crumpled car. One glance and he knew—the driver was gone. The woman beside him? The door wouldn’t budge. He reached through the shattered window, fingers trembling too much to find a pulse.
He called an ambulance and waited.
He was cleared. The Nissan driver’s blood showed alcohol; the autopsy confirmed he’d died of a massive heart attack *before* swerving into the lorry’s path…
The lorry driver visited the hospital. The woman had two surgeries already, needed another—a hip replacement. Without it, she’d never walk again. But that cost money.
***
“Ed, finally! I found the *perfect* flat. Fifth floor, lift, central location, great layout. Needs work, but I haggled hard. We’re viewing tomorrow. How much do we have saved? If you haven’t touched it, it should cover it,” Zoe babbled, trailing Ed as he washed his hands.
She blocked his path, searching his face.
“Hold on, Zoe,” Ed nudged her aside.
“Hold on? This’ll be gone! I convinced the seller to hold it. Your phone was off—again!”
“I don’t answer when I’m driving. You know that.” Ed slumped at the table. “Just feed me first,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
Zoe grabbed a plate, lifted the pan lid—then froze.
“Changed your mind about the flat?” she spun. “Got *other* plans? Quit a good job to drive for pennies… Got someone else? *Talk!*”
“Don’t be daft. No one else. No money either,” Ed said quietly.
*”What?”* Zoe dropped onto a chair, gaping. “Where is it? You bought *her* a flat?”
“Enough!” Ed snapped. “I gave it to that woman—the hospital. For her surgery.”
“The one whose husband died? But you *weren’t* at fault! I don’t understand!”
“I wasn’t. Neither was he. Wrong place, wrong time. He’s dead, she’s disabled, they’ve a kid…”
“So you *pitied* her. And us? Years of saving, you never home! We’ve lived in a shoebox! I *found* us a place… You’re *mad*.” Zoe slammed the plate down and fled.
Ed followed. She sat stiffly, arms crossed, staring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder. She shook him off.
“Sorry I didn’t ask. But *I* earned that money. We’re alive, healthy. She’s crippled, raising a kid alone. I *had* to. Don’t you see?”
“Why *you?*” Zoe’s voice cracked.
“Because I decided.”
“We’ll *never* save that again!”
“What do we need a big flat for? No kids…”
“*That’s* a dig? I *said* we could adopt!”
“Zoe, I’m nearly fifty. Too old for nappies. And you’re not far behind.”
She screamed, hurled things, called him selfish, then shoved a pillow at him—banished to the cramped kitchen sofa.
Ed tossed all night. How could he explain? The long hauls, sleepless drives—he was too old. Cleared in court, but guilt clung. He replayed the crash endlessly.
He’d been merging onto the ring road. Clear ahead—then *that car* appeared. He’d slammed the brakes, but lorries don’t stop fast. What else could he’ve done? Wrong place, wrong time. The other driver was already dead.
He quit, started taxiing. Less pay, more peace.
He’d visited her in hospital. Sedated, always asleep. The doctor said she’d never walk without surgery—London specialists would come, for a price. So he sent every penny. Asked them not to tell her.
He knew her address. But what would he say? Would she blame him? He *lived*; her husband didn’t. He’d driven past, never knocked.
Two weeks post-row, Zoe barely spoke. Then one evening, a suitcase waited in the hall. He’d expected it.
She’d left. Called him a loser, a fool. Moved in with their widowed friend.
One Saturday in August, he drove to *her* street. Why? He didn’t know. Bright orange rowan berries blazed in her front garden.
He lingered, guessing her window, too scared to knock. Then a woman limped into view, leaning on a stick, arguing with a boy lugging a heavy bag.
“Tim, *give* it here—you’ll hurt yourself!”
“Need help?” Ed stepped forward.
“Who’re you?” She tensed.
“Ed Wilson.” Her flinch said she knew the name. “Yes—*that* Ed. The lorry.” He took the bag. *Heavy.*
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Just helping. Second block?”
She nodded, trailing him.
“You still limp? Surgery didn’t work?”
“It helped. Needs another. Waiting for funding. Sick of hospitals.”
“Your lad’s a trooper. How’s school, champ?”
Tim scowled.
“I know you weren’t at fault. *I* should’ve insisted on a taxi. He looked ill, and I *let* him drive. Fell asleep…”
“No one’s fault. Just the way the stars aligned.”
At her door, Tim fumbled the key. A folded note fluttered out.
“Handyman came. Note says we were out,” Tim said.
“Oh, *blimey*—I forgot! Who knows when he’ll be back…”
They lingered. No invitation inside. Ed understood—he’d helped, now *leave.*
He set the bag down, turned to go.
“Wait!” she called. “The tap drips. Could you…?”
“Course.”
He fiddled with the tap. “Washer’s shot. I’ve patched it, but needs replacing. I’ll come tomorrow.”
Silence.
“Right, I’ll go then—”
Ed returned the next day, and though neither of them had planned it, he never really left.
