**No One’s Fault, or 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 music and the clamour of tipsy voices. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights flickered, a winding chain of streetlamps threading through the darkness toward it.
“You look pale… Should we get a taxi after all?” asked Emily.
“Don’t need one. We’ll manage. Just a bit warm in there, that’s all. I’ll cool down, and we’ll drive home.” James wrapped an arm around her.
“But you’ve had a drink…” Emily pressed.
“Hardly anything, and that was hours ago. It’s out of my system. Besides, the roads are quiet at this hour. Don’t worry,” he reassured her.
“Mum called. Ben won’t go to sleep without us,” Emily sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Let’s head off then? Half an hour, and we’ll be home.” James fished his car keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob. Somewhere in the car park, their Ford responded with a beep and a flash of its headlights.
James steered out of the country pub’s car park, guiding the car confidently toward the city. On the passenger side, Emily stretched her tired legs and let her head fall back against the headrest—no need to fuss over her hair now.
“Tom’s wedding was nice, wasn’t it? Though ours was better,” James said, glancing at the pub’s receding lights in the rearview mirror.
“Honestly, I barely remember ours,” Emily replied, closing her eyes.
“Me neither,” James admitted.
“No one remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why it seems better than everyone else’s,” Emily murmured.
“True enough,” James chuckled.
“Do you think Mum should stay the night? By the time we get home, then you drive her back…” Emily yawned.
“Of course, she can stay. I’m half-asleep myself.”
“I told you we should’ve taken a taxi. You never listen to me,” Emily said weakly.
“Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back here tomorrow to fetch the car.”
Emily didn’t answer. She sat with her eyes shut, longing to get home, change out of her tight shoes—which had rubbed her feet raw—sink into her slippers, and shower…
If she’d opened her eyes, she’d have seen James gripping the wheel, his knuckles white, his forehead damp with sweat as he strained to focus on the road ahead. His breath came unevenly. Emily noticed none of it.
James didn’t admit it, but he already regretted driving. His chest ached, his heart pounding painfully with every beat. Each breath grew harder. Pull over? No, better to push on, get home, lie down…
The trees flanking the road loomed like shadows, the city teasing him, never drawing closer but seeming to slip further away. He pressed the accelerator—then agony ripped through his chest, darkness swallowing his vision. The crash shattered the stillness of the sleeping outskirts, but James didn’t hear it.
The lorry driver scrambled from his cab, sprinting toward the crumpled car pinned beneath his front wheels. He knew at once the driver was dead. The woman beside him—he yanked at the door. Jammed. Reaching through the shattered window, his trembling fingers fumbled for a pulse. Nothing.
He dialled 999 and waited.
He was cleared. The toxicology report showed alcohol in the Ford driver’s blood, and the autopsy confirmed he’d died of a massive heart attack before the collision, sending the car veering into oncoming traffic…
The lorry driver visited the hospital to check on the woman. Two surgeries down, but she needed another—a hip replacement—or she’d never walk again. The procedure wasn’t covered. It cost money.
***
“Ian, finally! I found the perfect flat. Exactly what we wanted—fifth floor, lift, city centre, great layout. Needs work, but I haggled the price down. We’ll view it tomorrow. How much do we have saved? If you haven’t touched it, it should cover it,” Sophie babbled as Ian washed his hands in the bathroom.
She blocked his path, searching his face.
“Hold on, Sophie,” Ian sidestepped her and walked out.
“Hold on? This place will go fast! I got the owner to hold it. I tried calling—your phone was off.” Sophie dogged his steps.
“I don’t answer when I’m driving. You know that.” Ian slumped at the kitchen table. “Just let me eat,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
Sophie grabbed a plate, lifted the frying pan lid, then froze.
“You changed your mind about the flat?” She spun to face him. “Or have your plans changed? You quit a good job to drive a cab for pennies… Is there someone else? Why won’t you answer me?”
“Don’t be daft. There’s no one. And no money either,” Ian said quietly.
“What?” Sophie dropped into a chair, clutching the empty plate. “Where is it? Did you buy your mistress a flat?”
“Enough!” Ian snapped. “I gave it to that woman—the hospital, for her surgery.”
“The one whose husband died in the crash? But you were cleared! It wasn’t your fault. I don’t understand.”
“No one’s fault. Wrong place, wrong time. He died, she’s disabled, and there’s a kid…”
“So you took pity. What about us? Years of saving, you never home. We’ve lived in this tiny flat our whole lives. I found the perfect place, picked out furniture… You’ve lost it.” She slammed the plate down and stormed out.
Ian sighed, following her. She sat stiffly on the sofa, arms folded, staring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder. She shrugged him off.
“Sorry I didn’t ask you. But I earned that money—it was my call. We’re alive and well. She’s crippled, raising a child alone. I had to. I couldn’t live knowing—”
“Why you?” Sophie’s voice trembled.
“I just had to.”
“We’ll never save that much again,” she sniffed.
“Why do we need a big flat? If we’d had kids…”
“Are you blaming me? I wanted to adopt!” Sophie sobbed.
“At our age? I’m nearly fifty. I should be a grandad, not a father. And you’re not far behind.”
Sophie screamed, hurled things, then thrust a pillow at him and banished him to the cramped kitchen sofa.
Ian lay awake, tossing. How could he explain? He was tired—tired of long hauls, sleepless nights. Age had caught up. The court had cleared him, but guilt lingered. He replayed the crash endlessly.
He’d been leaving the city, merging onto the ring road. The road was clear—then the car was there. He’d slammed the brakes, but the lorry couldn’t stop in time. What else could he’ve done? The other driver was already dead.
After that, he quit. Started driving a cab. Less money, but peace of mind.
He’d visited the hospital, seen the woman. She slept often—sedated, probably. The doctor said they’d done all they could, but she’d never walk without the op. It wasn’t done locally—she’d need specialists from London, but moving her was risky. The London team would come, for a price.
So he’d sent the money. Every penny. Even rehab wasn’t covered. He asked them not to tell her it was from him.
He knew her address. But he couldn’t bring himself to go. What would he say? Would she even want his comfort? Or would she blame him? He was alive; her husband wasn’t. He’d driven past her house countless times, never stopping.
Two weeks after the fight, Sophie still cooked, cleaned, but refused to speak. He remained on the kitchen sofa. Then one evening, he came home to a suitcase in the hall. He’d expected it.
Sophie left on her own. Called him a failure, a fool. Later, he heard she’d moved in with a mutual friend—a widower.
One Saturday in August, he drove to the woman’s house again. Why? He didn’t know. The rowan trees in her yard blazed orange.
He got out, staring at the building, trying to guess which window was hers. Then she appeared—limping, leaning on a stick, pleading with a boy to hand over a heavy bag.
“Need a hand?” Ian stepped forward.
“Who are you?” she asked warily.
“Ian Wilson. The lorry driver.” He took the bag. “Yes, that crash.”
She flinched at his name.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Just thought I’d help.”
She let him carry the bag, limping behind. “Your building’s the second one?”
“YesThey lingered by the door, the weight of shared grief and quiet understanding filling the silence, until she finally opened the door a little wider and said, “Come in for tea”—and so he did.
