Jason steps towards me, his boots crunching on the stones of the cemetery path. For a moment, I’m back on the side of the road with David treading over the splintered windscreen. I still think of David sometimes, wondering what happened to him. The papers called him a hero and he was to me. I wrote him a letter, thanking him for saving me. I’m not sure if he ever got it because I never had his actual address. I gave it to the police officer who’d taken all my statements and she said she’d make sure he got it. If she did get it to him, then he never wrote back. He wasn’t someone who’d gone to my school, not even a local resident. He’d been visiting a penpal girlfriend he’d met through a letter-writing club at his university. He was driving home when he’d stumbled across the horror movie at the side of the road. It’s no wonder he was scared. I used to think about whether he carried on the next day as if all was normal, or if he had similar nightmares to me. They offered me therapy and perhaps he had the same suggestion. He might have taken them up on the offer.

I wish I had.

I said no at the time because asking for help would have admitted there was a problem. Sometimes, in the darkest moments, I see David’s wide eyes staring across me. His eyelashes are long, his pupils expanding and contracting in the gloom of those early hours. He’s an angel I’d never met before and haven’t seen since.

Something touches my lower back and I wince away. Jason withdraws his hand and apologises but I say it’s not him.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Jason says. ‘You weren’t the one driving too fast.’

I stare down at Wayne Ringo Leveson and shrug. Twenty-three years and there are times I can remember it like it was a moment ago. The memory is as sharp as the shards of glass that littered the road.

‘Watching someone do something bad or reckless isn’t the same as doing it yourself,’ Jason says.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I know a bit about this.’

‘So do I.’

‘Not like me.’

Jason touches my lower back again and I don’t stop him this time. It’s comforting. Ellie stands unmovingly, staring at her twin’s headstone.

‘Culpability,’ I say. ‘That’s what they call it. There’s a degree of culpability to everything. The law says that there are some crimes where bystanders are as culpable as the individual who actually commits the act.’

‘Not with this. You didn’t know what would happen because he was driving too fast. People break speed limits all the time. It wasn’t a premeditated thing.’

He sounds so unlike himself, or unlike the Jason I knew. The Jason of before would’ve never known the phrase ‘premeditated’, let alone used it.

‘It was his pride and joy,’ Jason says.

‘What was?’

‘His car. You remember? He spent all his money on it. Begged, borrowed, probably stole. We’d go bin-dipping at the back of the MOT garage in case they chucked anything out that was useful. That’s why I reckon he’d have had his own garage now. He’d still have a side project; probably restoring some old sports car, something like that. He’d have bought the chassis and then rebuilt the rest himself.’

It’s an awkward silence now. I don’t know what to say and Ellie clearly doesn’t want to hear this type of thing. Her shoulders have slumped as she stares down at the grave. Jason finally seems to realise he’s at risk of upsetting his sister as he takes a small step away and stops talking.

The situation is starting to feel uncomfortable. Ellie and I only usually spend a couple of minutes here and then walk away. She’s laid flowers in the past but I think it was more that she felt that’s what she should do, rather than anything Wayne might have wanted. The matchbox car Jason has left is something far more apt than either of us have ever managed – and we’ve been doing this for more than twenty years.

Ellie turns and fixes me in her gaze. Her eyes are grey but bright. ‘Do you remember it?’ she asks.

‘The funeral?’

A shake of the head. ‘The crash.’

I blink, not sure she’s ever asked me this. Nobody’s asked me this in a long time. I start to say something and then stop myself, stumbling over nonsensical syllables. ‘Not really,’ I manage.

‘You must remember something?’

‘Only flashes. Like photographs but not the full set of moving images.’

‘Do you remember David?’

The mention of the name is so surprising that I actually stagger. It’s the gentlest of wobbles, a flinch in my knees, barely noticeable. It’s partly because I was thinking of him moments ago and it’s as if Ellie has read my mind – but it’s also because I’m stunned she remembers his name.

‘David…?’

I say it like a question, mainly because of the shock.

‘The man who pulled you out of the car.’

‘I know… I just… I’m surprised you remember his name.’

Ellie shrugs. ‘You talked about him enough.’

That’s true. I’d elevated him to this mythical figure as if he actually was an angel, instead of someone in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place at the wrong time.

‘Of course I remember him,’ I reply. ‘I wrote to him but he never wrote back.’

Ellie nods slowly, as if it’s her memory too. She stares off into the distance, lost among row after row of this morbidness.

‘I remember the hospital,’ I add. ‘Mum was at my bedside saying she’d never let me get in another car.’

‘You were eighteen.’

‘I know. I don’t think anyone was thinking straight. They didn’t want to let me out for the funeral.’

‘But you came…’

A nod. ‘My mum was carrying around this airbag thing in case I hyperventilated.’

Ellie stands, listening for a moment, but then she loops her arm into mine and starts to walk back towards the arch at the front of the church. Jason trails a few steps behind.

When we get to the exit, I stop, asking Ellie if I can have a minute alone with her brother. She looks between us but doesn’t ask why, turning and walking off towards the car park.

I leave it a moment, taking a step until we’re completely out of the graveyard. ‘Was everything all right this morning?’ I ask.

Jason’s hands are in his pockets, his shoulders arched forward and angular, like a bird on a perch. ‘Aye.’

‘Thank you for helping.’

‘No problem.’

I should ask him if he’s been walking past the house regularly; probably ask him to stop – but it’s not the time.

He motions towards the car park. ‘I’ve gotta meet my probation officer,’ he says. ‘Can’t be late.’ He steps away and then turns back. ‘You shouldn’t say you’d rather it was you who died. It’s a sort of karma, isn’t it? I believe that. I saw it in prison. People get what they deserve.’

Jason pierces me with his stare and I’m frozen to the spot. It’s only for a moment but, for the first time in a very long time, I remember that I was once scared of him. Scared of what he could do and the way he looked at me.

As quickly as it started, it’s over. He puts his hands back into his pockets, turns, and walks away.