I saw him again

We’d popped into town to look for school uniform - fifty-five quid (yes really!) for a pair of sensible black leather shoes. Oh the joys of having a daughter who has inherited my wide feet!

On the way back to the car, we took the short cut through W H Smiths. I was distracted as I grumbled about the cost of the shoes. As we perused the magazines, he appeared – the man who ran my boy over. It seems most unfair that this happened twice within a fortnight. I didn’t know what to do.

He was within a foot of me as he tried to get past when our eyes met and we instantly recognised each other. I continued staring, wanting to say something cutting but equally aware that my daughter should not be subject to any more.

He averted his eyes, pressed himself back against the shelves behind him as he tried to get past me without any body contact. He walked away quickly.

I looked at my daughter who simply said, “Are you OK mum?

“Yes I’m fine – err no I’m not - but I will be.”

“Don’t say anything Mum. Just leave it.”

“I’m not going to. I just want him to feel uncomfortable.” I stood and stared as he waited in the queue for the till. He twitched and looked around nervously as he waited for his turn. His eyes kept flicking in my direction. He didn’t look directly at me but it was clear that he was aware that I was there watching. I wanted him to know that I was there.

He knew! And I felt powerful. It was wrong – I knew that – but I didn’t care. I savoured it. I savoured that feeling of power. Then my daughter took hold of my hand and said, “Come on mum – let’s get that coffee now.”

We left and she again asked me if I was OK. What could I say? “I will be – let’s get that drink.”

Once sitting down I asked her what she thought of the expression on his face when he saw me. She said, “He looked absolutely terrified.” And I felt powerful again. “Good. Because if he was scared it means that something has penetrated. Something got through to him. Maybe now he is beginning to realise just what he has done. ” I felt strangely peaceful.

Because she was there, I hadn’t said anything of what I had wanted to – mainly because she doesn’t have access to the detail that I have.

I’ve rehearsed the speech so often in my mind as I’ve been drifting off to sleep.

“How did it feel, Mr Clamp, to see my child in the road and slip the clutch and rev your engine twice and then carry on regardless? How did it feel to drive that big car towards him? Did you feel powerful? Did you want to scare him? How did it feel to smash that car into my son and drag him under the wheels for all that distance? How did it feel to see his blood splattered on the road? How did it feel to see him naked from the waist down where the wheels of your car had ripped his clothes from his body? How did it feel to see his left eye socket bleeding and sightless? How did it feel to hear those youngsters screaming in terror at what they had just witnessed? Did you feel powerful then Mr Clamp? Do you feel powerful now? How does it feel to know that a young lad’s life has been ripped away, that he has been robbed of his future, that his family have been robbed of their future with him? Where are my grandchildren now Mr Clamp? Do you have anything to say Mr Clamp?”

When I play this scenario, I am aware that my questions get louder and more strident and I end up shouting at him. And he stands sobbing and pleading for me to stop. Until that evening exactly two weeks ago, I hadn't considered any conversation with him at all. Now it plays over and over in my mind. Back then his tone of voice and attitude changed everything for me. Until then, I’d wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt but that evening, my hopes were dashed and I wanted him to suffer. Oh I knew that his learning difficulties made it hard for him to comprehend the depth of agony he had inflicted on us, but I’d just wanted some glimmer of recognition of the enormity of what he’d done. Some small sign that he really regretted his actions. Instead I was treated to a sulky, grudgingly given apology. Today he seemed more frightened than contrite and although I felt very powerful (and I’ll freely admit that felt bloody good), I began to regain some of the pity I felt for him the night that Al died.

I know that others found it difficult to understand my stance but when Al died, all I could think was that I’d want to die if I were responsible for someone else’s death. I thought that the guilt would be all-consuming and he must be suffering so much - that alone deserved my pity. And, if I’m honest, I held onto that stance even though others (family and friends) dismissed it as the ravings of a woman so distraught with grief that she was bordering on lunacy. But actually, it’s easier to pity him than to hate him. The hatred is so all-consuming. It’s exhausting. It eats me up and burns me. And I’m glad that feeling of being able to empathise a little with him is returning.

I can’t ever envisage me buying him lunch and sitting down for a cosy chat. But I’m breathing a little more easily tonight. Maybe I needed to allow myself to experience that level of hatred in order to begin to let it go. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long journey with lots of stumbling - but at least I’m finally on my way.