No One’s Fault, or the Way the Stars Align
James held the restaurant door open, letting his wife step through first. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the rhythm of the music and the din of drunken voices. In the distance, the uneven line of city lights flickered, a winding chain of lampposts stretching through the darkness toward it.
“You look pale… Maybe we should get a taxi?” asked Emily.
“Don’t need one. We’ll manage. Just got too hot in there. I’ll cool off, and we’ll drive,” James pulled her close.
“But you’ve been drinking,” Emily persisted.
“Hardly anything, and that was early in the evening. It’s out of my system now. And the roads are quiet. Don’t worry,” James reassured her.
“Mum called. Billy won’t sleep without us, he’s waiting,” Emily sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Let’s go, then? Half an hour and we’ll be home.” James fished the keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob.
Somewhere deep in the car park, their Vauxhall beeped in response, headlights flashing twice.
James eased the car out of the lot behind the trendy countryside restaurant, steering confidently toward the city. In the passenger seat, Emily stretched her tired legs, resting her head against the seat—no need to fuss over her hair now.
“Tom’s wedding was nice, wasn’t it? But ours was better,” James said, glancing at the retreating restaurant lights in the rearview mirror.
“Honestly, I barely remember it,” Emily admitted, closing her eyes.
“Neither do I.”
“Nobody remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why it seems better than everyone else’s,” she murmured.
“True,” James chuckled.
“I think Mum should stay over tonight. By the time we get home, then you drive her back…” Emily yawned.
“Course, she can stay. I’m knackered too.”
“I told you we should’ve taken a taxi. You never listen,” Emily muttered weakly.
“Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back tomorrow to fetch the car.”
Emily didn’t answer. She sat with her eyes shut, dreaming of getting home, changing out of her tight shoes—her feet sore from them—slipping into soft slippers, taking a shower…
If she’d opened her eyes, she might’ve noticed James gripping the wheel, his knuckles white, peering intently at the road ahead. His forehead glistened with sweat, his breathing uneven. Emily saw none of it.
James hadn’t told her, but he already regretted driving. His chest ached, his heart pounding painfully with each beat. The pain sharpened with every breath. Should he pull over? No—better to get home, lie down…
Trees lined the road like a dark wall, the city teasing him, not getting closer but seeming to slip further away. James pressed the accelerator, but a searing pain tore through his chest, his vision darkening. The crash jolted the sleeping outskirts of the city, but James never heard it.
The lorry driver scrambled from his cab, sprinting toward the crumpled car pinned under his front wheels. He knew instantly the driver was dead. The woman beside him—he yanked at the door, but it was jammed. Reaching through the shattered window, he fumbled for a pulse on her neck. His hands shook too much to tell.
He dialled 999 and waited.
They cleared him. The Vauxhall driver’s blood showed alcohol; the autopsy confirmed he’d died of a massive heart attack before the collision, sending the car careening into oncoming traffic…
The lorry driver visited the hospital to check on the woman. Two surgeries down, but she needed another—a hip replacement. Without it, she’d never walk again. But the procedure cost a fortune.
***
“Daniel, finally. I found the perfect flat. Just like we dreamed—fifth floor, service lift, city centre, great layout. Needs work, obviously, but I haggled hard. We’re viewing it tomorrow. How much do we have saved? If you haven’t touched it, it should cover it,” Sarah babbled excitedly as Daniel washed his hands in the bathroom.
She stood in his way, searching his face.
“Wait, Sarah,” Daniel gently moved her aside and stepped out.
“What’s there to wait for? A place like this won’t last. I convinced the owner not to show anyone else. I couldn’t reach you—your phone was off,” she followed him to the kitchen.
“I don’t answer when I’m driving, you know that,” Daniel sat at the table. “Just let me eat,” he sighed, avoiding her gaze.
Sarah grabbed a plate from the sink, lifted the pan lid, then froze.
“You changed your mind about the flat?” She spun to face him. “Or maybe your plans changed? You quit a well-paid job to drive a cab for pennies… Found someone else? Why won’t you talk?”
“Don’t be daft. There’s no one. And there’s no money,” Daniel added quietly.
“What?” Sarah sat heavily, clutching the empty plate. “Where is it? Did you buy your mistress a flat?”
“Enough!” Daniel snapped. “I gave it to that woman—well, to the hospital, for her surgery.”
“The one whose husband died in the crash? But you were cleared. It’s not your fault. I don’t get it.”
“It’s no one’s fault. Wrong place, wrong time. He’s dead, she’s disabled, and she’s got a son…”
“So you felt sorry for her. What about me? About us? We scrimped for years, you worked non-stop. We’ve lived in this shoebox our whole lives. I found the perfect place—such a deal… You’ve lost it.” She slammed the plate down and stormed out.
Daniel sighed, following. She sat on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder. She jerked away.
“Sorry I didn’t ask you. But I earned that money—it was mine to spend. We’re alive, we’re healthy. She’s crippled, raising a kid alone. I had to do it. Can’t you understand?”
“Why you?” Sarah’s voice cracked.
“It’s just how I felt.”
“We’ll never save that much again,” she sniffed.
“Why do we need a big flat? If we had kids…”
“Are you blaming me for that? I wanted to adopt!” Sarah shouted, her shoulders shaking.
“At our age? I’m nearly fifty—should be a grandad by now. And you’re not far behind.”
Sarah screamed, hurled accusations, threw things. Then shoved a pillow at him and banished him to the cramped kitchen sofa.
Daniel tossed and turned, sighing. How could he explain? He was tired of long hauls, sleepless nights behind the wheel. Too old for this. They’d cleared him, but he couldn’t absolve himself. He replayed the crash in his head a thousand times.
He’d been leaving the city, about to merge onto the ring road. The road was clear—where had that car come from? All he’d managed was to slam the brakes, but the lorry took forever to stop. What else could he have done? Just bad luck. Turned out the other driver was already dead.
After that, he quit. Started driving a cab. Less money, but easier on his conscience.
He visited the hospital, saw the woman. She was always asleep—probably sedated. The doctor said they’d done all they could, but she’d never walk without a hip replacement. They couldn’t do it there—she’d need to go to London, but moving her was risky. A London surgeon agreed to come, but it cost a fortune.
So he transferred every penny he’d saved. Even rehab would need funding. He asked them not to tell her it was him.
He knew her address, where she lived with her son. But he was afraid to go. What would he say? Would she even want his apologies? Or would she blame him—alive while her husband was dead? He’d driven past her house countless times but never knocked.
Two weeks after the fight, Sarah packed her things. He wasn’t surprised when he found the suitcase by the door.
She left on her own. Called him a failure, a fool. Later, he heard she’d moved in with an old friend—a widower.
One day, he drove to the woman’s house again. Why? He didn’t know. A Saturday in August. Bright orange rowan berries blazed in her front garden.
Daniel stepped out, staring at the house, trying to guess which window was hers. Too afraid to knock. Then a woman with a cane came into the yard, arguing with a boy about a heavy bag.
“Billy, give it here—you’ll hurt yourself.”
“Hello. Need a hand?” Daniel stepped forward.
“Who are you?” she tensed.
“Daniel Carter.” Her flinch told him she knew the name. “Yes, the lorry driver. TheHe took the bag from the boy, carried it upstairs, and stayed for tea—and in the end, he stayed for a lifetime, because sometimes the wrong turns lead exactly where you’re meant to be.
