No One’s Fault, or The Way the Stars Align
Oliver held the restaurant door open for his wife to step through. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the thump of music and the clamour of tipsy voices. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights flickered, with a winding trail of streetlamps stretching toward it through the darkness.
“You look pale… Maybe we should get a taxi after all?” asked Emily.
“Don’t need one. We’ll manage. Just a bit stuffy in there—I’ll cool down in a minute, then we’ll drive,” Oliver reassured her, pulling her close.
“But you’ve had a drink…” Emily pressed.
“Hardly anything, and that was hours ago. It’s all out of my system. Besides, the roads are dead at this hour. Relax,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
“Mum called. Alfie won’t sleep without us—he’s waiting up,” Emily sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Then let’s go? Half an hour and we’ll be home.” Oliver fished his keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob. Somewhere in the car park, their Vauxhall beeped and flashed its headlights twice.
Oliver eased out of the car park of the countryside gastropub, steering confidently toward the city. In the passenger seat, Emily stretched her tired legs and let her head loll back—no need to fuss over her hair now.
“Good wedding, though, yeah? Ours was better,” Oliver remarked, glancing at the receding pub lights in the rearview mirror.
“Honestly? I barely remember ours,” Emily admitted, closing her eyes.
“Neither do I.”
“Nobody remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why they always seem better than everyone else’s,” Emily mused.
“True,” Oliver chuckled.
“Think Mum should stay over tonight. By the time we get back, then you drive her home…” Emily yawned.
“Course, she can crash with us. I’m knackered too.”
“Told you we should’ve taken a taxi. You never listen,” Emily murmured weakly.
“Too late now—we’re already moving. Don’t fancy trekking back tomorrow to fetch the car.”
Emily didn’t answer. She sat with her eyes shut, dreaming of home—peeling off her tight shoes (which had mercilessly rubbed her feet raw), slipping into fluffy slippers, showering…
Had she opened her eyes, she’d have noticed Oliver’s white-knuckled grip on the wheel, his strained focus on the unspooling road. His forehead gleamed with sweat, his breathing uneven. But Emily saw none of it.
Oliver didn’t admit it, but he regretted driving. His chest ached, his heart labouring to push blood through his veins. With each beat, the pain sharpened; each breath grew harder. Pull over? No—better to get home and lie down…
Trees loomed like a wall along the roadside, the city tauntingly distant, as if sliding farther away. Oliver pressed the accelerator—just as agony tore through his chest. Darkness swallowed his vision. The crash shook the sleeping suburb, but Oliver didn’t hear it.
The lorry driver leapt from his cab and sprinted toward the crumpled car pinned beneath his front wheels. One glance told him the driver was gone. The figure beside him—a woman. He yanked the door. Jammed. Reaching through the shattered window, he fumbled for a pulse. His hands shook too much to tell.
He dialled 999 and waited.
He was cleared. The Vauxhall 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 to check on the woman. Two surgeries down, but she needed another—a prosthetic hip joint. Without it, she’d never walk again. The procedure wasn’t cheap.
***
“James, finally! I found this flat—it’s perfect. Fifth floor, service lift, central location, brilliant layout. Needs work, obviously, but I haggled hard. We’re viewing tomorrow. How much’s in the account? If you haven’t touched it, we’ve got enough,” Sophie babbled excitedly as James washed his hands in the bathroom.
She hovered in his path, searching his face.
“Hold on, Soph,” James sidestepped her and trudged to the kitchen.
“Why wait? This place’ll go fast. I convinced the owner not to show anyone else. Couldn’t reach you—your phone was off.” Sophie dogged his steps.
“I don’t take calls while driving, you know that.” James slumped at the table. “Just feed me,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
Sophie grabbed a plate, lifted the pan lid—then froze, spoon mid-air.
“Changed your mind about the flat?” She spun to face him. “Or is there a new plan? Quit a decent job to drive for pennies… Got someone else? Why won’t you talk?”
“Don’t be daft. There’s no one. There’s also no money,” he added quietly.
“What?” Sophie dropped onto a chair, empty plate clutched. “Where is it? You bought your mistress a flat?”
“Enough!” James snapped. “I gave it to that woman—well, to the hospital. For her surgery.”
“The one whose husband died in the crash? But it wasn’t your fault! The court cleared you. I don’t get it.”
“Not my fault. Not his. Just wrong place, wrong time. He died, she’s disabled, they’ve got a kid…”
“So you pitied her. What about us? Years of saving, you never home. Stuck in this tiny flat. I’ve been measuring curtains! This place was… No, you’ve lost it.” Sophie flung the plate onto the table and stormed out.
James sighed, followed. She sat stiffly on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at the darkening window. When he touched her shoulder, she shrugged him off.
“Sorry I didn’t discuss it. But I earned that money—it was mine to spend. We’re alive and well. She’s in a wheelchair, raising a boy alone. I had to. How could I live knowing—”
“Why you?” Sophie’s voice cracked.
“Because I decided. That’s all.”
“We’ll never save that much again,” she sniffed.
“Do we even need a big place? If we had kids…”
“Now it’s my fault we’re childless? I suggested adopting!” Sophie shrieked, trembling.
“Kids? I’m nearly fifty! Should be worrying about grandkids, not nappies. And you’re not far behind.”
The row raged—accusations, flung objects, a pillow shoved into his arms before being banished to the lumpy kitchen sofa.
James lay awake, tossing. How to explain? The exhaustion of long hauls, sleepless nights. Age creeping in. Cleared by court, but not by guilt. He replayed the crash endlessly—the empty road, the car’s sudden swerve. He’d slammed the brakes, but lorries don’t stop on a dime.
He visited the hospital. The woman slept constantly—sedated, probably. The surgeon said they’d done their best, but she’d never walk without a new hip. The procedure required specialists from London, and the prosthetic cost a fortune. So he’d transferred every penny. Asked them not to name him.
He knew her address. But going there? What would he say? Would she even want his apologies? Or blame him for living while her husband didn’t? He’d circled the block countless times, never knocking.
Two weeks passed in stony silence. Sophie cooked, cleaned, ignored him. Then one evening, he found a suitcase by the door. Expected, yet still a gut punch.
She left for an old friend—a widower. Called James a fool, a failure, on her way out.
One Saturday in August, he drove to her estate again. Why? He didn’t know. Bright orange rowan berries blazed in the courtyard.
He lingered by the car, squinting at windows, wrestling with the urge to knock. Then she appeared—leaning on a stick, coaxing a ten-year-old boy to surrender an overstuffed bag.
“Alfie, love, you’ll strain yourself—give it here.”
“Need a hand?” James stepped forward.
She startled. “Who’re you?”
“James Wilson.” Her flinch told him she recognised the name. “Yes, the lorry driver. Here—let me.” He took the bag (heavy, no wonder).
“I don’t want anything from you. Just… helping. Second stairwell?”
“Yes.” She limped after him.
“Still struggling? The surgery didn’t fix it?”
“Helped, but I need another. Waiting for funding. Sick of hospitals.”
“Your lad’s a trooper. Doing alright at school, mate?”
Alfie scowled, silent.
“I know you’re not to blame,” she said softly. “I should’They sat together through the long, quiet winter, and by spring, the three of them had become something like a family.
