Callum still isn’t home, even though I have now left him half a dozen messages asking him to call me. By the time the police leave it is well after midnight, and I can see that for Georgia the shock has given way to exhaustion. I begin to follow her up the stairs but she scurries away, calling behind her, ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll be okay,’ and I understand that it is her way of telling me not to come any further.
I ignore that, and traipse up after her. ‘You need to take it easy for a few days,’ I say to her back.
She swings around. ‘I can’t. I have the race on Saturday.’ And she waits, daring me to respond.
The interschool fell-running championships. My heart sinks at the thought of Georgia taking on a gruelling eight-kilometre run in less than forty-eight hours, but I catch her expression and manage to stop myself from saying anything. The race is the culmination of a year’s hard work, and Georgia could be the first girl ever to take the title three years in a row. If she does, there’s a sponsorship deal waiting that will take her to the British championships, possibly beyond. I’m in awe of how seriously she takes her training – how can I tell her not to run? But at the same time, allowing my injured, traumatised girl to take part is hardly responsible parenting.
I have no idea what to do. All I know for sure is that I don’t want any arguments with her tonight. I just take in as much as I can of her beautiful, sorrowful little face before she closes the door on me.
Once Georgia has disappeared into her room, I knock softly on Zac’s door. After seeing his sister was all right he had disappeared with barely a word. When there is no answer, I peep in to see he has fallen asleep on top of his covers with his clothes on. I feel guilty for not checking on him earlier. He had looked pale and out of sorts when we’d first come in, but of course he did, he’s had as big a fright as the rest of us.
An hour ago I had perched awkwardly on the arm of the sofa and listened while two female police officers quizzed my daughter. I was so proud of Georgia as she answered their questions quietly but articulately, only getting upset when she described seeing Sophia unconscious on the road. Georgia had barely glanced at me, except when she admitted she had been drinking. I could tell she felt guilty, but I wasn’t cross at her answer, only indignant at the question. I had almost asked how that was relevant since they were the victims, but then I realised it might make them less reliable witnesses. I’d spent the next few minutes trying to catch Georgia’s eye so I could smile reassuringly and show her I wasn’t angry, but she wouldn’t look my way.
A few minutes later, the two policewomen had asked me, very politely, to wait in another room. I could have made a fuss – technically she’s a minor – but I knew that would embarrass Georgia, and they were only doing their job. Perhaps they had always had questions in mind that would preclude me, or maybe they sensed a change in the atmosphere. But the message was clear: There are things Georgia might not say in front of you.
I would lay down my life for her, and yet I know she finds it difficult to talk to me. When had it begun, that disparity? The highs and lows of our relationship were easy to recall – the celebrations, the arguments, the bereavements. But it’s more than that: the connection between us has stealthily shifted within a million small moments, in ways only visible in hindsight.