Read The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) for Free Online

wheel to avoid it, he swerved
towards a coach that should not have been in the fast lane at all.
    He registered the spin of the car as the phone, flying out
of his hand, smacked the dashboard, bouncing back, cracking against his brow
bone, just before a large four-wheel drive hit him side on, pushing him into
the rear of the coach. The steel frame of his ancient vehicle groaned
piteously. George gripped the wheel and, holding his breath, rammed his foot
against the accelerator, impulse telling him to get out of this as fast as he
could. He hit the crash barrier as the 4x4 ploughed into the driver’s door, and
the coach slammed on its brakes forcing the passenger side of George’s beloved
car to be concertinaed inwards. He clung to the steering wheel, rigid as he
gripped, holding on, determined not to let go.
    All movement stopped, it was dark, the air about him filled
with the thickest silence. George desperately searched for his voice inside his
crushed chest, he could not move, or see anything, he was starting to panic and
then he found, deep within, a tiny voice. His joy knew no bounds, he could say
his words, just a few words, he would wait, hang on until someone was there to
hear them.
    He did not know how long he had been holding on, but just as
the darkness was merging to grey and there was brightness in the distance, he
heard something beside him, the clunk of machinery, a shout. He groped around
inside his chest for breath and found just enough to say his words, as loudly
as he could.
    “Tell my darling girl, always with her, I’ll always be with
her.” Then the light ahead turned from glowing golden to searing white and
George was free. He released the steering wheel, slumping backwards, a tiny
slash of red on his brow, the slightest smile on his white lips.
    The paramedic at his side pronounced him dead at the scene,
he was sure George had felt nothing, it was instantaneous, over. Later, when he
was told that the body in the unrecognisable classic car had been an MP, quite
well-known, he remembered he had said something, he was sure of it. Something
about my darling girl but he decided not to repeat this, it had been a
nightmare of a day, the worst he had seen in nearly ten years in the job, what
good would it do? The man had died, along with the others, just another
statistic, a wasteful, senseless end.
    Paul spotted the RTA report as it flashed up on a computer screen in the newsroom. He was passing
through on his way to deliver Marianne a sludge-coloured coffee from the
machine. He stopped dead in his tracks at her office door when he heard her
repeat the words ‘classic car’ in a deadpan voice. She had been toying with
wording for the wedding invitation on her laptop. It was to be a small,
informal affair, with jazz, real ale and a fish and chip supper. She dropped
the phone, accidently hitting the delete key.
    Now, sometimes she woke in
the middle of the night, thinking she could feel his fingers in her hair, his
breath on her cheek, as he whispered his special goodnight. But George had
gone. His darling girl seemed to miss him more as time passed, not less.
    Jack touched her shoulder as he squeezed into the pew beside
her. George’s sister, Catherine, stood shoulder to shoulder with Marianne,
Catherine’s husband, Frank, beside her. Catherine took Marianne’s hand,
Marianne tried to focus, beneath the broad-brimmed hat, almond eyes stared at
her, eyes that looked just like George’s, except these eyes were dead, eyes
with the lights switched off.
    The service passed over her quite gently. Frank’s address to
the packed assembly was warm and anecdotal, even raising the odd appropriate
titter. A chief whip in the Conservative Party spoke of George’s generous and,
indeed, selfless dedication to duty. One of George’s oldest friends and a
leading light in the Jewish community, together with a Muslim colleague, read
funeral prayers from their respective Holy Books. The Reverend Pollock
concluded by