Page 110 of The Interview
“Only two things in this world I ever knew to get Maca worked up: my sister and traffic,” Marley says. “He became a different man behind the wheel. Zero patience.”
I smile because it’s true.
“Without Sean knowing,” I continue, “I’d had a pushchair custom-made by the shop on the high street in Brentwood. The store is actually still there.”
“It is,” Jim confirms. “My girls have just ordered their prams from them.”
“I was thirty-six weeks by then and felt we were at the point that, if anything happened at this stage, our baby would still be delivered healthy and well, so it was okay to let Sean see the pushchair. After what had happened before, I was a bit paranoid and superstitious, so I had left a lot of things till the last minute. Anyway, snow had started to fall, and Sean was worried about the path being slippery, so he got Mi to drop us right out front before he went to find a parking space.”
I feel warm and tingly as I talk. My arms feel weirdly heavy. I cross my legs and angle my body towards Cam. His arm is resting along the back of the sofa, and his hand finds its way to the back of my neck, his fingers gently stroking across my skin.
“Sean absolutely loved the pushchair. It was a pram really, I suppose, but one of those that came with the pushchair attachment for when your baby gets bigger.” I know I’m being too descriptive, because in my mind, I’m right there, back in that shop, watching the absolute pure joy on my husband’s face as he pushes the pram around. He was ecstatic.
“It was red and black—the band’s—colours, and on the apron that covered the front, it had ‘My Daddy Rocks’ embroidered onit. Each of the black wheels had BFM on them: Beau Francis McCarthy.” I sob out my son’s name.
I was trying so hard not to cry, but I can no longer hold it in, and why should I? Why fucking should I be ashamed of letting the world see me?
The press is so quick to paint me in a certain way, the public so quick to believe it, so here you go. Here’s the fucking truth.
Using the heels of my palms, I wipe away my tears.
“You know,” I continue, “Sean walked around that baby shop like that pram was the best thing on Earth, and it didn’t even have our baby in it yet. When I think about it now, it was more than just hope and joy. It was an expectation. We’d got that far; nothing could stop us now. I was thirty-six weeks. We were in the safe zone. After everything we’d been through to get to that point, we just…” I shake my head.
I can hear my family crying all around me.
Another hand appears over my shoulder, holding a wad of tissues again. I know it’s Harry this time when I see his thumb ring.
“Thank you,” I whisper, then dab at my face before draining the contents of my glass.
Lennon, my handsome big brother, stands and refills it. “You’ve got this, little sister Georgia. So fucking proud of you,” he says as he hands me my drink.
Once he’s back in his seat, I continue.
“Because, like I said, I was a bit paranoid and superstitious, I didn’t want the pram to come home with us until after the baby was born. So, after posing for photos with the shop staff, Sean called Milo to come and pick us up, and we went outside to wait. ‘Hold on to me, G,’ Sean told me. There was fresh snow on the pavement. It had settled on the ice that had been there before. Milo had to park up the street and was on his way back to us, and while we waited, Sean pulled me in as close as he could withmy belly between us. I watched an elderly couple shuffle their way to an old Mercedes parked on the road. The parking was at an angle, so you pulled in facing the path and the shops, then backed out onto the road,” I explain, again, right there out on that freezing cold street, but painting a picture so anyone not familiar with the area will understand why things happened the way they did.
“I watched them, worried about them slipping on the ice, feeling the cold, driving home safely in these conditions. He held the door open for her, and I smiled, wondering if Sean would do that for me when we were old. It seemed to take forever for the old man to get to the driver’s side and get in. Sean was going on about being hungry. For a skinny bloke, he was always hungry and asking what I fancied for dinner. I was half listening as I watched the old man start the car and adjust his rear-view mirror. I was half listening. They were some of the last words he would ever say, and I was only half listening.”
I look at Cam. “I didn’t know.” I almost heave the words out. “I didn’t know,” I repeat. “I was thinking about dinner, where we could stop off on our way home, and watching the old couple, then suddenly, instead of reversing, the engine roared and the car shot forward. I don’t remember it actually hitting us. I think I remember Sean blocking me with his arm before it did, and I have a vague recollection of being thrown into the air. I hit the… my belly hit the side of the bonnet, like the wing of the car before I hit the pavement. I cracked my head as I landed, and I think I might’ve been knocked out for a bit. When I opened my eyes, Sean was next to me. His eyes were open.”
“We had this thing—and sorry, Mum, Dad, kids—right from when we were younger, before every gig, before he went on stage, or wherever, he’d say, ‘I love ya, Georgia Rae. Show us ya tits,’ and I’d flash him my boobs. And I didn’t remember this at first, but there was blood. His nose was bleeding, and there wasblood on the pavement below the side of his head, and I wanted to ask him if he was okay, but I couldn’t get the words out. I think I was having trouble breathing, but then he spoke, and he said the words that let me know he was okay, we’d be okay: ‘I love ya, Georgia Rae. Show us ya tits.’
“And when he closed his eyes, I thought it was a concussion or something, and I remembered you’re supposed to keep someone awake if they hit their head, and I was trying to say his name, but I was floating. I felt like I was floating away into or towards nothing, just black. And that’s all I remember till I woke up in the hospital. “And do you know what they did then? Do you know what the doctor did? He took that away, too. They took my husband. They took my little boy, and then they took away those words, his words, his last words.” I pause, draw in breath, then continue.
“Sean’s last words, ‘I love you, Georgia Rae’, the doctor took them away when he told me it would’ve been impossible for him to say that. That his injury was catastrophic or some bullshit, and it was unlikely he would’ve been capable of speech.”
I’m breathing with my mouth open, trying to catch my breath through my sobs, determined to finish what I want to say.
“They couldn’t even let me have that. As if taking my husband and baby wasn’t enough, they took his words away too,” I whisper.
From choking sobs, I’m now still, silent. Sitting with my thoughts, my grief, I sip my drink. Not to numb my pain. I don’t want to do that. I want to feel it, drown in it. I don’t often allow myself these moments, but when I do, I allow it to be a fully-immersive experience.
“How did the rest of you find out?” Daniel asks quietly, now holding his own drink in his hand.
The details of that day will do that to you.
“Milo saw the whole thing. He was waiting to pull into the space he thought the old couple were going to pull out of. He called for an ambulance while running to help,” Lennon explains. “George was in and out of consciousness. Maca…”
I look along the sofa to where Len leans forward in a chair, legs spread, elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together as he shakes his head. “Maca still had a pulse, but barely. George was bleeding. From what he told me, there was nothing he could do. Thankfully, paramedics were there pretty quickly. Two air ambulances were called. I think one from Essex, one from The Royal London, but they were both taken to The Royal Free.”
