William Grainger always said his life was totally changed in one moment: the moment when he stood, awestruck, in the field high above the side of the motorway, looking down onto it. He’d gone out to check on the heifers they’d moved that morning from the field on the other side of the farm. Usually they were untroubled by the traffic; occasionally they became nervous.
This lot seemed untroubled. They walked over to him with their swinging walk, hoping he was food; when they realised he was not, that he had brought nothing for them, they stopped and turned away, an untidy, disappointed, good-natured crowd. One of them had lifted her tail and discharged a mass of cow shit on his boots; a protest, he’d thought, cursing her, pushing his feet through the dry grass to try to get rid of the worst. And then, as he looked down at the road, shimmering in the heat haze, the air brilliantly clear again after the brief thunderstorm, he saw it and knew even as he watched that he would never forget it: all in a sickening slow motion, a lorry suddenly swerving sharply to the right, cutting across the fast lane and then failing to stop, bursting through the central median, its trailer sinking onto its side, like some great dying beast, and then discharging the deadly flotsam of its load-whatever it was; he couldn’t really see-tossed into the air and continuing on its journey into the advancing traffic. A minibus travelling westwards in the fast lane became impacted in the undercarriage of the lorry; and a black Golf immediately behind that swung sideways and rammed into one of the lorry’s wheels. A silver BMW behind the lorry, apparently out of control, spinning, twisting, across the road, coming finally to rest, rammed into the car in front of it. Cars began to swerve and skid into one another, like bumper cars in a fairground; one hit the central median; another made a small, odd leap and landed on the hard shoulder; it all went on, seemingly unstoppable in both directions of the road.
William stood, frozen with horror now, hearing the scene as well as watching it-the dreadful noise, blaring horns, and crunching metal and raw, dreadful shouting and screaming-and aware too of the dreadfully dangerous smell of burning rubber.
Instinct told him to go down to the road; common sense told him not to. He could be of no use, would add to the chaos; he reached in the pocket of his jeans for his mobile, remembered he had left it in the tractor on the other side of the fence, and started to run, waving his arms at the scene in a futile gesture, as if anyone seeing him would have understood what he was going to do.
For just a second, Jonathan was tempted to drive on, remove himself from the horror and the carnage, get to London swiftly and safely, rid himself of Abi. If he went on, he had a chance of disentangling his life; if he stayed, he had none.
He stopped the car and left his former life forever…
The car immediately ahead of him was driving steadily on as if nothing had happened; other cars coming from behind him were slewing into one another, gradually coming to a halt. Jonathan sat, fighting for breath, leaning on the steering wheel, recovering from the shock, hauling himself under control together with the car; the road ahead emptied now as the traffic went on forwards, vanishing into the haze of the heat, caught up in the doctrine of the motorway, of pushing on, of getting there, of never looking back, not getting involved, leaving him behind: and he would have given in that moment all he had to be one of them…
He opened the door, slowly and very cautiously, started to get out, and then found his legs wouldn’t hold him; he felt sick and dizzy and sat down again, his head dropping weakly onto the steering wheel.
He looked at Abi; she was green-white, staring at him, her eyes huge with fright: there was an ugly gash on the side of her head. “What happened?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I couldn’t see; the lorry seemed to lose control. Your head all right?”
She felt the gash, looked at the blood on her hand. “Yes, I think so. I’ve got some tissues somewhere; I’ll just-”
“Give me my mobile.”
“I can’t find it-I dropped it.”
“Well, give me yours then.”
He took it, dialled 999. Asked for the police and gave them the whereabouts.
“Yes, thank you, we’ve got that one,” the voice said. “Several people calling in. They’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Jonathan looked at the great mass of traffic gathering, stretching in both directions. “I hope so,” he said. “It’s pretty bad.” And then watched, disbelieving, as first one car, then another and then another, moved onto the westbound hard shoulder, accelerating and driving away.
“Stupid fucking bastards,” he said; and then got out of the car and began to walk slowly, almost against his will, towards the lorry.
It was a hideous sight. A minibus had gone straight into it, under its wheels, and had crumpled up like so much paper, and from it he could hear the hideous sound of children screaming; a Golf, desperate to avoid it, had first turned, then skidded a hundred and eighty degrees into the traffic in the middle lane; a larger car-a big Ford-had managed to miss it, but driven into the barrier and swung round before it stopped, facing the wrong way… A man was climbing out of it, shaking his head oddly, as if to rid it of what he had just seen and done; his windscreen was shattered, and blood was running down his face.
Jonathan realised the Golf’s engine was still running; turning it off seemed suddenly the most urgent thing. He scrambled over the barrier, ran to the car. The window had shattered with the impact, as had the windscreen. Jonathan looked down and into it: at a girl, or all he could see of her, a mass of long blond hair and blood, a bare brown arm with a white watch-odd how one noticed these things-flung out towards the windscreen as if warding it off; and yes, the engine still switched on. Jonathan reached in, turned the key, and then very gently lifted the arm, felt for the pulse. And found nothing.
He straightened up and found himself staring into the shocked, puzzled eyes of the driver of the Ford, and simply nodded at him, confirming the girl’s death, unable to speak.
“Oh, God,” said the man, staring round him at the carnage, “what did it… How did it happen?”
“Christ knows. You OK?”
“Seem to be. Yeah. Can’t think how. Arm hurts a bit.”
Jonathan looked at his arm; it was hanging oddly.
“Looks like it’s broken. I’ll check it later.”
They stood there for a moment, looking up at the lorry from the driver’s side; the cab was astonishingly intact. They walked round it, and as they reached the near side, they saw the door was open, and a girl was standing on the step. She jumped to the ground.
“You OK?” said Jonathan, and then, “You weren’t in there, were you?”
She stared at them both, her expression totally blank, then shook her head, turned her back on them, and vomited rather neatly onto the road. She was very young, and very pretty, Jonathan noticed; after a moment she walked, slowly but quite steadily, towards the hard shoulder, where she sat down and put her head in her arms.
“Shocked,” said Jonathan, “but she seems OK. Extraordinary.”
“She can’t have been in there, can she? Or climbed up to have a look?”
“God knows. Look-I’m going up into the cab. Make sure the engine’s turned off there. It could explode any moment.”
Oddly, he didn’t feel frightened, wasn’t aware of being brave; just knew it had to be done.
Constable Robbie Macyntyre had been dreading his first big crash. He just didn’t know how he would deal with it. He wasn’t exactly squeamish, and of course they had spelt out to them in training that things like severed limbs and worse were inevitable and shown them DVDs. It wasn’t that; more the thought of people in terrible pain, crying out, begging for help.
The first calls had come in five minutes ago; hundreds more would follow. Already two cars had left the depot, and he was in the third, with his colleague Greg Dixon. Robbie was intensely grateful that this was not Greg’s first big crash, or even his hundred and first. “Been doing this for ten years,” he’d said to Robbie when he joined the unit. “Got pretty bloody used to it. Bloody being the word, if you get my meaning.”
As far as they had been able to establish, the congestion on the road was already severe in both directions.
The main priority now, apart from clearing a way for the emergency services to get through, was to garner information and communicate it to the control room: how many casualties, how many ambulances would be required, whether the fire brigade would be needed to cut people out.
Robbie kept remembering his superintendent’s words: Gridlock on the motorway takes seconds: you’ll have a mile tailback inside a minute.
One of the main problems subsequent to a crash, he’d been told-although it didn’t sound as if it would be today-was rubbernecking. “You can get an incident entirely on one carriageway and the traffic comes to a standstill on the other,” Greg Dixon said. “Just because people slow down, even crash into the car in front at times, just to have a gawp. Good old Joe Public.”
He didn’t take a very rosy view of Joe Public; Robbie was swiftly coming to realise why.
Jonathan slithered down from the lorry’s cab; the Ford driver was still there.
“OK?”
“Yes, the engine was off. Hell of a mess up there. Windscreen’s shattered, blood everywhere. Poor bugger driving it’s not too good, though.”
“I bet he’s not. Is he… alive?”
“Just. Maybe not for long.”
“Should we get him out?”
“Christ, no.” He glanced over at the hard shoulder. “That girl OK?”
“She’s disappeared,” said the man. “She was still sitting on the hard shoulder last time I looked. Nobody with her. But she’s not there now.”
“Wandered down the road, I suppose. She seemed very shocked. Oh, well. She’s the least of our worries, I have to say…”
A man was walking towards them, holding a small boy by the hand; he was crying and saying, “Mummy… Mummy…”
“Is he all right?” Jonathan said.
“He’s all right,” said the man, and he spoke so casually it was as if he was discussing the weather. “His mother’s not, though.”
He nodded in the direction of a large black car behind him; its windscreen was shattered and there was a woman lying on the road; she had clearly come through the windscreen.
“She just undid her belt, just for a second,” the man said, “to give the little fellow a drink. And she… she…”
He shook his head, turned away from them.
“I’m a doctor,” said Jonathan gently. “Would you like me to come and see her?” He knew it would be futile, but it needed to be done. The man nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind.” The man with the broken arm looked after them. “Poor bugger,” he said, “poor, poor bugger.”
Emma had just finished eating a rather dodgy BLT when the news came through: of a major crash on the M4, of a jackknifed lorry, a crushed minibus, road blocked in both directions, almost certain fatalities. And by some grisly coincidence, there was a second accident farther down the road, a continental truck with a blowout had slewed across the exit road of the next junction. Nobody was hurt there, but there was a mass of traffic behind it, and an obvious route for the emergency services to the crash, travelling the wrong way up the motorway, was temporarily, at least, out of the question.
She half ran into A &E and put in the trauma calls, the special unmistakable bleep, summoning people to A &E, removing them from their day-to-day work and rosters; she would need, she reckoned, an orthopaedist, a cardio thoracic surgeon, two general surgeons, two anaesthetists, a general surgical registrar, and ATL-hospital shorthand for advanced trauma and life support. Plus at least ten nurses.
They stood together in A &E. a group of people, some of whom knew one another only slightly, working as they did in totally different departments of the hospital, others who were in daily contact. There was a minute of formalities, of handshaking, name giving.
Alex Pritchard appeared; half an hour earlier he’d waved to her across reception, off on a clear weekend.
“Thought I’d better come back, see if I could be useful.”
Apart from the surgical registrar and Alex, there was just one other properly familiar face: Mark Collins, a young orthopaedic registrar she’d worked with a few months earlier on a ghastly multiple motorbike crash. He had been great then, calm and tireless.
“Hi, Emma. This sounds like a big one. Worse than the bikers, I fear. OK. Who’s going to be team leader?”
That had surprised Emma, on her first big incident. Somehow she’d thought everyone would just know what to do anyway. But it was essential, she had discovered, to establish a chain of control-for order and swift delegation, and to cut through the chaos and any panic; the first thing ambulance crews always asked on arrival was, “Who’s team leader?”
“You, Alex?” she said now to Pritchard.
“OK. All right with everyone? What news, Emma?”
“Well, it’s pretty bad. Jackknifed lorry, trailer on its side, driver trapped, several cars, minibus-three lanes blocked, in both directions, several fatalities. And someone just rang to say people are driving down the hard shoulder in the westward direction, so the road could be impassable pretty soon.”
“Is the driver of the truck alive?”
“So far. Amazingly, there’s a doctor right on the scene. He rang to report that the bloke was completely trapped, steering column embedded in his chest, just about conscious, pulse very weak, but definitely alive-Excuse me.” Her phone had rung-it was the first of the ambulances. “Hi. Yes. We have a full team ready. Good luck.”
Jonathan had turned his attention to the minibus; the driver’s door was jammed shut, but the one at the rear opened fairly easily. There were eight small boys inside, all miraculously unhurt, but the driver was dead, hideously so. He was about to climb in when he heard Abi’s voice: “Jonathan, what can I do?”
She was still white, but very calm; he felt a reluctant thud of admiration for her.
“Help me get these chaps out. Don’t look at the front.” She undid their seat belts, took their small hands, led them, talking encouragingly, shepherding them past the worst of it, trying to distract them from the girl in the Golf. They were dazed, obedient with shock, all white faced and shaking, many of them weeping: but astonishingly unhurt.
There was another man in the van, neatly strapped into his seat, as the boys had all been; he was staring in front of him, also unhurt, but apparently reluctant to leave the van. Jonathan urged him out onto the grass verge, where he sat down obediently, then buried his head in his arms. Post-traumatic shock, Jonathan decided, and felt at once sympathy and a totally unreasonable irritability. He could have done with some help with these poor little buggers from someone who knew them.
“Tobes,” said Barney. “Tobes, are you OK?”
He felt odd, disoriented; his ears seemed to be blocked, sound muffled. He shook his head and looked sideways out of the window, the fog of shock clearing, and saw a surreal landscape of cars, many, like them, come to rest against fridges and washing machines, others at a right angle to the crash barrier, some facing completely the wrong way. At first, as he looked, the landscape was quite still; then, like some gradually speeded-up film, it came to life as people began to climb out of cars, peer into others, clearly fearful of what they might see, talked on their mobiles, approached one another, united as survivors, members of a blessedly elite club.
And then he realised that there had been no answer from Toby, not even a groan or a grunt, and turned very slowly to look at him, frightened beyond anything.
He was lying over the steering wheel, one arm holding it, his face turned to Barney, apart from a flow of blood down his face from a head wound, utterly still. And then Barney realised that there was a far worse injury to Toby than his head; the car below the steering wheel was crumpled, collapsed inwards, and Toby’s right leg below the knee appeared crushed by the interior of the car. There was a great deal of blood flowing from it.
Slow with terror, he reached for Toby’s wrist, pushed up the new white cuff, felt for his pulse. And for an age he sat there, looking at him, just waiting for something to happen, for him to move, make a noise, groan even, for Christ’s sake. But… there was nothing.
“Oh, Tobes,” he said aloud, his thumb moving first gently, then desperately up and down Toby’s wrist. “Tobes, don’t, please… You can’t-shit, where is it-oh, God-”
And then he started to weep.
“There you are,” Jonathan said to the last little boy settling him on the grass verge. “You’re fine. What’s your name?”
“Shaun,” he said, and then, “I’m ever so thirsty.”
“I’ll get you…” said Jonathan, and then realised he couldn’t get him a drink; he and Abi between them had finished the one bottle of water he’d had in the car. And Christ, it was hot; he could have done with another litre of the stuff himself.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, reflecting with a sort of detached surprise on the fact that here, on a three-lane motorway in the twenty-first century in one of the most highly developed countries in the world, a thirsty child in blistering heat could not have a drink, and probably would not be able to for some considerable time.
He could hear a phone ringing somewhere, and wondered where it was; by the time he’d realised it was his own it had stopped. He was obviously not functioning as well as he might be; he’d better be careful.
Abi had briefly disappeared; he looked round for her, saw her scrambling over the barrier. He called her name; she turned round, scowled at him, and continued down the bank, out of sight. Where was the silly bitch going; what was she doing?
He looked rather vaguely for the girl in the cab; there was no sign of her either. Maybe Abi had seen her; maybe that was where she was going…
He looked at the missed call register; it had been Laura. Again. She must be very worried, but he couldn’t ring her back yet; he didn’t have the strength either to talk to her or even begin to think about what he might say. The extent of his own predicament was beginning to hit him: being on the wrong motorway, in very much the wrong company. How was he going to explain that, for Christ’s sake? But he was unable even to think about it yet…
His phone rang again. “Police,” said the voice. “We’re probably about half a mile from you. From your description, it sounds like the truck driver’ll need cutting free. Would you confirm that, sir?”
“Absolutely, yes,” said Jonathan.
“Thanks. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Abi had reappeared.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“I needed to pee,” she said. “And don’t talk to me like that. None of this is my fault.”
“I hope you’re not implying it’s mine.”
“Well, you were on the phone,” she said. “Police might not like that. If they knew.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he said. But he suddenly felt extremely sick.
Mary bit her lip with the pain and saw Colin turning round, his face white, but apparently perfectly all right; and then she looked out of the window and saw a scene of unimaginable chaos, right across to the other side of the motorway: cars shunted into one another, people walking and even running about, and huge white objects all over the road. As she turned round with huge and painful difficulty, she saw a large red car, half-embedded in the back of them.
Colin opened the door and climbed out and walked round to it; she heard him say, “Jesus,” and then, “Jesus Christ,” and then, “You all right, mate?” and then saw him come to the front of the car and lean onto the bonnet, shaking his head, his eyes closed.
Emma turned back to the group. “Apparently the road on the westward side is completely blocked. Some moron on the hard shoulder has broken down way ahead, and the police cars can’t get through at all at the moment. Going to be tough. And our doctor says the lorry driver is in a bad way, that it’s a neuro job. He’s impaled on the steering column, pulse fairly steady, but really slow, about forty. Injuries mainly internal, no visible haemorrhage, severe bruising on the left temple, almost certainly concussed.”
“Poor bastard’ll need fluids, morphine,” said Alex, “and it’s going to take so bloody long. We should get HEMS on the case.”
HEMS-the Helicopter Emergency Service-was called out far more than Emma would have expected: not just to bad traffic accidents, but to people stranded climbing, sailing. She had a secret yearning to be able to join them one day.
The phone rang again and Alex answered it.
“The doctor says there’s a young girl in a GTI dead, plus one other woman-and so is the driver of the minibus. Apparently there’s a load of kids on board.”
“Any of them dead?”
“Nope.”
Emma fought down an absurd rush of sorrow for the girl in the GTI.
William Grainger had returned to the vantage point at the top of his field, having called the police. He couldn’t do anything else, really, couldn’t ignore what was going on down there, couldn’t get on with any of the things that had seemed so important an hour ago. There might be something he could do when the police and ambulances arrived-although at the moment there seemed little chance of that. On the great curve of road stretching away from him backwards towards London, the traffic was solid, all three lanes motionless; and cars that had tried to escape via the hard shoulder were at a complete standstill as well. And serves them right, William thought. What kind of a selfish idiot would block that, the route so essential to the emergency services? Even as he watched, a procession came in sight, breakdown trucks preceded by police cars and followed by ambulances, coming towards him; they had obviously closed the road altogether from the next junction, reversed the normal flow of traffic.
His phone rang. “Mr. Grainger? Police here. Where are you now? As related to the accident.”
“Where I was when it happened.”
“How’s it looking from where you are?”
“Pretty… pretty bad…”
“Many people walking about?”
“Yeah, quite a lot now.”
“How would you feel about a helicopter landing in that field? An air ambulance?”
“Well, the cows wouldn’t like it. I’d have to get them moved. Otherwise, fine, of course. Just let me know.”
“OK. Could we ask you to move them anyway, as a precaution? Straightaway, if you’d be so kind. Might make a bit of a mess.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” said William. He switched off his phone, looked down at the chaos below him, increasing now, farther back in the road, perhaps two, three hundred metres or so away, as more and more people left their cars, some on mobiles, shouting into them, some with dogs on leads, barking furiously, others with small children, many of them crying, carrying them to the grass verge, all talking to one another.
Better get the cows shifted fast.
“No, he’s alive.”
Barney had never heard anything as wonderful as those words spoken by this really great bloke who’d put his head in the window as Barney sat there, helplessly still holding Toby’s wrist, said he was a doctor, and could he help?
“But he’s in a lot of trouble from that leg, I’d say, possibly his pelvis as well, and he’s probably concussed. But-”
“Shit,” Toby said suddenly. “Fuck. Holy shit.”
“There you are. Very much alive. He should be OK. I’ve certainly seen worse.”
“You OK, Tobes?” said Barney
“It hurts,” Toby said. “My leg hurts. You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“Lorry went out of control. We hit another car.”
“Oh, I see.” His eyes had closed again, at what clearly was to him an acceptable explanation; he seemed to have drifted away again.
“What should we do?” Barney was trying not to panic, but it was difficult. “Would it be better if we got him out? He might be cooler.”
“No, the best thing is to get him into the hospital. And we shouldn’t move him, and it certainly isn’t cooler outside, unfortunately.”
“So… I can’t help?”
“We can try to stop that leg bleeding. Tie something round it, make a tourniquet. Got anything we can use?”
“My shirt?” said Barney, tearing off his wedding waistcoat, ripping off the shirt.
“Good man. Now if we can just rip it into strips-that’s the way-and then I can… Yes, pass it to me… There-sorry, old chap,” he said as Toby yelled in pain. “Now what you can do is keep an eye on his pulse. Not difficult. If it starts to drop dramatically, just come and find me. I won’t be far away. Try to keep him awake, distract him if you can from the pain, just keep talking to him, tell him medical help’s on its way.”
“But how do we get the medical help?” asked Barney, his voice desperate. “The traffic’s totally solid-”
“Emergency vehicles are on their way, and the ambulances are being diverted down this wrong side of the motorway. Should be here quite soon. From a large and very good new hospital near Swindon.”
“So… so could you make sure they deal with Toby first?”
“It’s not my decision. But I will point out to them that he has serious injuries and probably needs blood urgently.”
“Why do you think the air bag didn’t work? Neither of them did.”
“No idea. Maybe because of the angle the car was struck.” He smiled almost cheerfully at Barney. “Jonathan Gilliatt. Nice to have met you. Albeit under rather unhappy circumstances.” He paused. “From the look of you, I’d say you were on the way to a wedding.”
“Yeah,” said Barney.
“Jesus! Look, I’ll come back and check on you a bit later.” His phone rang. “Hello. Oh, good. Great. Look, we have a seriously injured man in a car over on the eastbound side, up against the safety barrier, just short of the truck. Car embedded in another. Silver BMW. Pulse not bad, but probably concussed, and a very nasty leg injury. I’ve put a tourniquet on, but he’ll need blood urgently, so if you can get that message through to someone… Thanks.
“I’m going farther down the line now,” Gilliatt said. “See if there’s anything else I can do.” He put the mobile back in his pocket, smiled at Barney. “They should be here pretty soon. You heard what I said to them. Just let me know if they don’t find you, OK? Give me your phone; I’ll put my number in it for you-”
Jonathan was just setting off back through the chaos when a wild-eyed man grabbed his shoulder from behind.
“I believe you’re a doctor. It’s my wife. Could you have a look at her? Please? She’s in the car, just here.”
It was a Volvo, the car the wedding boys had struck from the rear.
“She’s… well, she’s pregnant. She’s having stomach pains, and I’m terrified she’s going into labour.”
“How pregnant?”
“Seven and a half months.”
“OK. Let’s have a look at her.”
The girl was doubled up over her stomach in the front seat, her face contorted with pain. Jonathan waited, saw the pain clearly pass, saw her relax.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m a doctor. An obstetrician, actually. So you’ve come to the right place.”
She tried to smile.
“How long have you been having the contractions?”
“Oh… about… I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“But they’re quite strong?”
“Yes.”
“And how often?”
“Every few minutes, it feels like.”
“Can I feel your tummy? Just put the seat back; that’s right. Lean back; try to relax. Now, then-”
As he felt her tummy, it tautened; the girl gasped, bit her lip, threw her head back. No doubt about it.
“Look,” he said gently, picking up her wrist, taking her pulse, “I do think that, yes, you are in labour. Brought on by the shock, I expect.”
“And the blow from behind, surely,” said the man.
“I’m sure. Your necks are OK, are they? No whiplash?”
“No, thank God.”
“Well, look. There’s not a lot I can do. The contractions are frequent, but they’re quite short. I don’t think she’s going to give birth imminently. But-”
“Oh, God.” The girl started to cry. “This is so scary. It hurts so much, and it’s much too early!”
Jonathan sat in the driver’s seat; then he took the girl’s hand and started talking to her very gently.
“Now, look, the first thing is to try to relax. I know it’s easy for me to say, but it really will help. Have you been to antenatal classes, done any breathing techniques?”
“Yes. But-”
“Well, do them. For all you’re worth. It will help you and help your baby. Now, let’s get you more comfortable. That seat go any lower?”
“Yes,” said the man.
“Good. The next thing is, seven and a half months isn’t so terribly premature. Providing we can get you to the hospital, the baby will have an extremely good chance. Promise. Now, ambulances are coming, and I’ll ring ahead and tell them about you. They can have an obstetric team ready. Oh-here comes another one,” he said, seeing the girl tense, her eyes widen with fear. “Do your breathing! Go on. That’s it. Nice and slow. Better?”
She nodded feebly.
“Good girl. Now, you just keep that up. And I’ll come back in a little while, check on you. I’ll give my number to your husband. Here.” He reached for the man’s phone. “Now, you just concentrate on what I’ve told you, and it’s my opinion you’ll have that baby in a nice delivery room at the hospital. OK?”
“OK,” said the girl. She looked much calmer.
“Good girl.” Jonathan smiled at her, got out of the car. “Try not to worry too much. Tough little things, babies. I should know.”
The helicopter was approaching; William could hear it, although he couldn’t see it. He looked at his watch: five fifteen. That poor bloke in the cab, probably dead by now, if he hadn’t been when he’d crashed. And the minibus behind, half buried in it. No one could have survived that, surely.
He could see the helicopter approaching now, see the trees bending in its path. William waved both arms furiously; the helicopter began to circle its way down towards him, then dropped dramatically onto the top of the field. The blades slowed; a man got out, waved at William, followed by another. William ran over to them.
“Hi!” he said.
“Hi. Thanks for this. Couldn’t have managed without you. The fire brigade should be here soon; they’re being sent down the carriageway from the other direction as soon as the road’s sufficiently clear. We’re almost certainly going to need them. Now, we’ll get down there, see what’s what. Thanks again for your help.”
“Can I go down? With some water, maybe? People are going to be terribly thirsty, I thought. This heat.”
“Good idea. But stay on the verge; don’t get in the way of the emergency vehicles.”
“Of course I won’t,” said William. What did they think he was? Some kind of an idiot?
People did seem to have a very low opinion of farmers’ intelligence. It was one of the many distressing things about being one.
“What do you mean, he’s not coming? Of course he’s coming; he can’t not come; it’s… well, it’s… Of course he’ll come. Just got… got held up. That’s all.”
“Tamara,” said her father, “he’s not coming. He’s got caught up in some ghastly crash on the M4. Barney just phoned.”
“Barney! Well, Barney’s an idiot. Let me have your phone, Daddy; let me call him back. There must be some way he could come, cut across country or something-we can keep the church for a couple of hours, just do everything later; yes, that’ll be all right; that’s what we should do-”
“No, my darling, it won’t be all right. I’m terribly, terribly sorry, but Toby’s… well, Toby’s been hurt-quite badly hurt, I’m afraid.
He’s concussed, and one of his legs is injured, and there’s a possibility he’s got some internal injuries as well. Apparently the car hit a load of freezers or something-Barney wasn’t making a lot of sense.”
“Freezers! Oh, now I know it’s a joke. How could a car hit a freezer? Here, give me your phone-”
“Tamara, it’s not a joke,” said her mother, “or an excuse. Toby’s badly hurt, and they’re waiting for an ambulance now to take him to the hospital.”
“No,” said Tamara, pushing back her veil and biting her fist. Tears were rising in her huge eyes. “No, that’s impossible; he was fine this morning, fine early this afternoon, even. Barney must have made a mistake; he’s-Oh, God!”
And she sat down on the front pew in the little church all bedecked with white roses, buried her head in her hands, and began to sob. And the vicar, standing quietly at the altar, asking for God’s help both to comfort her and to save the life of her young fiancé, who was clearly in grave danger of losing it, looked at this beautiful girl, her veiled head drooped in despair, her bouquet flung onto the church floor, cheated of the greatest day in her life, and thought it was a very long time since he had seen anything quite so poignantly sad.
“Excuse me. Someone said you were a doctor?”
“Yes,” said Jonathan shortly, “I am.”
“My girlfriend’s just… well, she keeps being terribly sick. She’s in a bad way. I wonder if you could-”
“I understand you’re a doctor.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But-”
“A lady here… we’re rather afraid she’s having a heart attack. She has angina; I wonder if you could-”
Jesus, Jonathan thought, exhausted now, desperate for some reprieve-what would they all have done if he hadn’t been there…?
“Miss. Miss, can you help me, miss?”
Abi felt terribly sick; she would have given anything for a drink of water, but felt that if anyone should be thirsty, anyone should suffer, she should.
She tried to smile at the little boy.
“What’s the matter?”
His eyes were big and scared as he looked at her.
“I think I’m going to have an asthma attack, miss, and I haven’t got no inhaler with me. It was in me”-he paused, clearly breathless-“in me rucksack, miss.
“Oh, Oh, I see.”
“And I’m ever so thirsty, miss.”
“Me too, miss,” said the boy next to him, and then another and another.
“Well, look, I haven’t got any water, I’m afraid. But I can go and ask in some of the other cars. Now, you, Master Asthma…”
The little boy managed to smile at her.
“Yes, miss?”
“I can’t do anything about your inhaler yet. I’m sorry. But when Jon-the doctor-comes back next time-he’s the man who got you out of the bus-I’ll see if he might have one.”
“All right, miss. But me chest feels well tight. I get it really bad, sometimes have to go to the hospital.” And he burst into tears.
“Oh, don’t be scared,” Abi said, and she sat down beside him, put her arms round him. “Very soon now the ambulances will be here and they’ll have inhalers, I’m sure. So you’ve just got to hang on a bit longer. What’s your name?”
“Shaun, miss.”
“Right, Shaun. Well, do you know when I was your age, I had asthma. If I got an attack and I didn’t have my inhaler, I used to do breathing exercises. Shall we try? Not too deep, just nice, even, slow breaths. That’s right. I’ll do it with you. While I’m counting. Ready-”
Shaun fixed his large blue eyes trustingly on her and, after about ten breaths, said, sounding more breathless still, “It’s not helping, miss. I’m that wheezy.” And he started to cry again.
“Oh, God.” Abi looked round. The heat was awful, the sun relentless, and the air close and stifling. There was an odd smell, at once sickly and sour; they might not have been outside at all, and indeed the air itself was thick, hazy, cloudy with traffic fumes. This wouldn’t be helping. She saw Jonathan walking towards them, waved at him to come over.
“You haven’t got an inhaler with you, have you? For asthma?”
“No, of course not,” he said tersely. “I’m not a walking pharmacy.”
“No. No, I realise that. But Shaun here’s getting an asthma attack, and I wondered… I just thought you might-”
“Well, you thought wrong, and I have more serious concerns than a bloody asthma attack. The driver’s bleeding to death in that truck, and the bloody medics-Oh, here they are, thank Christ-this way, please, quickly.”
“I can’t help it, miss,” said Shaun. “Why was he cross?”
“He’s just very… very worried,” said Abi, looking after Jonathan as he directed the ambulance men towards the truck. “He’s not cross.”
“My mum always says that about my dad, when he gets cross,” said another of the little boys. “Says he’s upset, not to take no notice.”
There was a general chorus of recognition at this scenario; Abi looked at them and smiled for the first time. Distracting them was clearly the best thing she could do.
“Why don’t you all tell me your names?” she said. “Just first names. I’m called Abi, short for Abigail.”
“That’s a nice name,” said Shaun carefully. His breathing was very quick and shallow, and speaking was clearly difficult.
They all told her their names, then where they lived, what they liked doing, what their mums were called. Almost cheerful. And then-
“I’m so thirsty, miss. I got to have a drink; can you get us one, miss?”
The others all joined in. A couple were crying, saying they’d never felt so thirsty, not ever. Abi looked round desperately. She felt like crying herself. Had any of this been Jonathan’s fault? He’d been on the phone; had he lost control? Had she distracted him? Abi, don’t, don’t go down there. It had been an accident, that was all, a terrible, awful accident. Concentrate on water, water… How on earth was she going to find some water?
William was working his way down the field, skirting round a small spinney of young trees, carrying his containers, when he saw her: a young girl, very pretty, very dark, with wild black hair, stumbling along just above the ditch. She was crying silently.
“Hello, can I help? Are you involved in the crash; is someone with you hurt?”
She stared at him, her dark eyes filled with panic; then she shook her head and moved on, trying to run away from him through the long, uneven grass.
William shrugged and continued on his journey. She seemed all right-not hurt, anyway. He could see more pressing claims on his attention. Odd, though; but then, this was a very odd day.
The little boys’ distress and thirst were growing. Abi began to feel panicky. She mustn’t panic; it would be fatal-it would spread. She saw a woman walking towards her with a golden retriever, and pointed him out to the boys by way of distraction; they crowded round, stroking him, asking the woman what his name was.
“Jasper.”
“That’s me brother’s name,” said Shaun. “My mum’s boyfriend says it’s a poof’s name.”
“Oh, really?” said Abi, smiling at the woman. She didn’t smile back; indeed, she glared at Shaun. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any water?” Abi said. “By any amazing chance?”
“If I had any I’d give it to this poor fellow,” the woman said firmly. “He’s beside himself. We’re going to try in the woods.”
“OK,” said Abi carefully, “fine.”
“But I need a drink!” One of the biggest boys was getting angry now. “I really, really need one. I’ll die if I don’t. We all will.”
“No, you won’t,” said Abi. “People can live for quite a long time without water; you’d be surprised. However thirsty you are.”
“But, miss-”
How on earth could she get them a drink? How could normal life have disappeared so swiftly?
And then: “Need any help?” said a voice. And like some kind of divine visitation came a man, very tanned, with brown, rather shaggy hair, wearing baggy-and filthy-jeans, a checked shirt that had clearly left the shop many years earlier, and some very heavy dusty boots. And he was carrying-yes, he was actually carrying two very large plastic containers. Containing-
“Oh, my God!” said Abi. “Water! How amazing. Can’t be true.”
“It certainly is. Was last time I looked, anyway.” He grinned at her; he had the widest, sweetest grin she had ever seen. She smiled back.
“And I’ve even got some paper cups. Here, kids. Careful, one at a time-you’ll knock it over if you’re not careful. That’s better.” He held out a cup to Abi. “You want some?”
“No, no,” she said, “they really need it.”
“So do you, by the look of you. That’s a horrible cut on your head. How did you do that?”
“Oh, I hit it as we stopped. It was pretty sudden.”
“Yeah? It looks nasty. Here, take a cup. Let me-”
“Could I have some of that? For the dog; he’s desperate. I’ve got a container-here, look.”
It was the woman Abi had approached earlier.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the young man. “There’re a lot of people here in terrible need. Sorry about the dog, but he’ll be OK. Get him into the shade; I would-Hello, young chap,” he said to a toddler clinging to his father’s hand. “Need some water? Here we are.”
He stood there on the roadside doling out his precious water, cup by cup, firmly refusing second comers.
“Just for now it’s got to be one cup per person Not fair otherwise. Only person who can have two is Shaun here, because he’s not very well.”
“Where did you come from, then?” said Abi, looking at him in a kind of wonder.
“I live in a farm, just behind the hill there. The chopper’s on our land. I saw it happen, actually.” His voice was very quiet, rather slow, surprisingly posh. You didn’t expect farmers to be posh. “I was standing up there with the cows, just moved them, and there it was, everything breaking up. Or seeming to be.”
“Yes? So what… what happened exactly? Do you think?”
“Well, the lorry just swerved, really hard, and went through the barrier. No apparent reason. And then the load just… well, it was as if it had burst, came out of the doors at the back, the sides, out the top even-did you see any of it?”
“Not-not really. I… We were just ahead of the… of it all.”
“Scary, isn’t it? Terrible things, accidents. One minute everything’s perfectly fine, under control, the next… well, it’s not. Lives ruined, all these people hurt through no fault of their own. Through nobody’s fault, really.”
“Yes. Terrible.” She smiled at him and sipped the water, the cool, wonderful water. She ought to get some to Jonathan, really.
Mary looked across at Colin; he was sitting on the bonnet of the car, lighting yet another cigarette. That was his sixth since the accident. Not that it mattered, and it was probably helping him, but she wished she could do something so simple that would make her feel better. She felt terrible, sick and exhausted, her neck and her head very painful. Colin had found her some painkillers, but they hadn’t really taken the edge off the pain.
The people in the car behind, Janet and John Brown, which had rammed into her, were being very kind too. The driver, a man, had hurt his wrist very badly, but apart from that they were fine.
They had produced a rug from the car, some picnic chairs and a thermos, sat Mary down, given her a cup of tea. Which had been very welcome, but if she’d thought a bit longer, she would have refused it. It had gone straight through her…
She looked at her watch: nearly five. Just an hour until Russell’s plane landed. Obviously now she couldn’t possibly get there. What would he think; what could she do…? Keep calm, Mary, keep calm.
She was desperate now to go to the lavatory. She wondered if she could enlist Janet Brown’s help, ask her to hold up the blanket, perhaps, but decided she didn’t know her well enough.
Her bladder stabbed at her; it was agony. And something else stabbed at her: the horribly familiar sense of squeezing pressure on her chest that signalled an attack of angina.
She felt absolutely terrified suddenly. For her nitrate spray was in the crumpled boot of the car…
Mary began to cry.
Gradually order was being restored: two fire crews were still working on their grim tasks, but most of the casualties had been driven away in ambulances. Robbie followed Greg as he strode amongst the wreckage on the motorway alternately talking into his radio, informing the AA and the RAC and local radio stations, taking witnesses’ names and addresses, waving their cars over for inspection, and talking to the people who were stranded.
Mostly they wanted to know when they might get away; whether they could move their cars, whether the police could help with water and, as the time wore on, food.
One woman started shouting at them, demanding water; but on the whole they were pretty calm and cooperative. Greg was calm too, reassuring them that it shouldn’t be too much longer now before they could start clearing the cars, directing them to the police car that had arrived with a huge supply of water, offering the use of his and Robbie’s mobiles where essential.
Their task now that the worst was over-although the poor sod in the lorry was still being cut free-was to keep the scene as far as possible intact until the investigation unit arrived. Measurements and photographs had to be taken, a plan of the scene, complete with details of the debris, the exact location and direction of skid marks. Only when that was completed would they begin to get the cars out. Fortunately, the road into London was more or less clear now, but two lanes were still being used for the emergency services. There were a few cars on the hard shoulder, the doctor’s-great bloke he was, fantastic help-and a rather nice middle-aged couple who’d walked back about two hundred yards: the only ones who had stopped-incredible it was, really-to see if they could do anything.
There’d been a drama with some girl who’d gone into labour. Robbie had been told to stay with her and the husband until they were safely on their way. He hadn’t liked that too much. She’d been in considerable pain, alternately moaning and panting like a dog.
“I don’t want to have it here,” she said, gripping her husband’s hand. “I’m so scared.”
“No need for that,” Robbie said, hoping it was true. “And listen-I think… yes, I can hear it now, an ambulance, here it comes now… I’ll just flag it down, make sure it stops… yes. Good. Right. Over here, quickly, please,” he called to the two paramedics, one a girl. “The lady’s here, in this car.”
As he said afterwards to his girlfriend, he’d never been quite so terrified in his entire life, not even when that young thug came at him with his knife.
“Thought she was going to have it then and there.”
The girlfriend said briskly that policemen were always delivering babies. There’d been a story in the Daily Mail only last week, and she was sure he’d have been perfectly all right. Robbie was sure he wouldn’t.
“Jonathan? Jonathan, thank God, at last-wherever are you; where have you been?”
Laura’s voice was unusually harsh; he winced at the thought of how much harsher it would become.
“I’m on the M4, darling. Sorry not to have got in touch before.”
“The M4? What on earth are you doing on the M4? Everyone’s been so worried. I rang the clinic, but they hadn’t heard from you since early afternoon, and then when I did ring you this afternoon I heard your voice, and then it was just-just an awful noise and then nothing-are you saying that wasn’t you?”
“Laura, there’s been a very bad crash on the motorway,” said Jonathan, struggling to keep his voice level, finding it-illogically-hard to believe that she didn’t know. “Really bad-I got caught up in it; lorry driver went through the barrier. At least three people killed, I’m afraid-”
“Oh, my God, Jonathan, how ghastly. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. But I’ve been doing what I could. Obviously.”
“Yes, of course. I understand. But… well, I wish you’d phoned, darling, I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m sorry. Somehow, with all that’s going on, didn’t think of it. Lot of badly injured people, one chap practically bleeding to death, old lady having a suspected heart attack; I really didn’t have time to chat.”
“No. No, of course not. How horrible for you, darling. I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted. When do you think you might get away?”
“I… don’t know. Fairly soon now, I think. Most of the casualties are on their way to the hospital, although the poor bugger in the lorry is being cut out by the fire brigade… Look-sorry, darling, got to go. The police are waiting to speak to me…”
“Come with me! Please! You gotta come with me.”
Shaun gripped Abi’s hand. He was still wheezing, fighting for breath.
She looked at the ambulance driver.
“Can I?”
“Yeah, s’pose so. Might be a long wait at the other end, though. Come on, now, mate,” he said to Shaun, “you’re not trying. Use that inhaler properly, deep breaths, that’s right.”
The man in charge of the boys was already gone to St. Marks; he’d remained very shocked, staring silently ahead of him, shaking violently from time to time. He had a suspected concussion. Abi and William had liaised over the welfare of the children; he would wait with them until they had all been taken safely away.
“OK,” she said now. “Well, William, this looks like good-bye. Thanks for everything. You’ve been great.”
“It was nothing. Wish I could have done more. Bye, Shaun.”
William watched her as she climbed into the back of the ambulance.
Right,” he said, sitting down on the grass again, next to the other boys. “We’ve just got to wait now. Shouldn’t be too long. Anyone know any good songs?”
It wasn’t until all the boys had been driven safely off by the Highways Agency that he found Abi’s mobile in the pocket of his jeans, and remembered her asking him to take it while she led the boys one by one down the bank to pee.
Time had become irrelevant. Emma supposed she felt tired, supposed she felt upset, even; but she was not actually aware of it. She worked like an automaton, conscious only of the superb organisation that was directing everyone’s efforts. If Alex had told her to clean all the toilets she would have done it without question.
Ambulances arrived; people were brought in, were assessed and directed to the relevant station, and then on to theatre and, where necessary, intensive care. For much of the time she moved from station to station, seeing patients, trying to reassure them, administering painkillers, putting in cannulas and then intravenous drips and blood, taking blood tests, listening to chests, organising X-rays. The X-rays were portable, brought up to the beds, the machines moving round the patients, Dalek like; many people had fractures, and the simpler ones she set herself, having checked with the orthopaedic registrar-wonderful, calm, even funny Mark Collins-and she sewed up lacerations too, and butterfly-clipped minor head wounds.
Many of the cases were fairly mundane: broken ribs, fractured wrists; some more serious, mostly head injuries. There was a girl in premature labour-Emma held her hand, timing her contractions as they waited for a midwife to collect her, checking that there was someone still free to set up an epidural, soothing the wild-eyed husband. Emma was spared almost entirely her greatest dread: badly injured children; for the most part they had survived in the astonishing security of their seat belts. One small boy had a concussion, another a broken leg; a very young baby was badly dehydrated, but for the most part, they grinned at her cheerfully as she checked bumps and bruises, enjoying the excitement and drama, intrigued by her stethoscope, asking her endless questions.
A middle-aged man in considerable pain was frantic that his wife should not be contacted: “She has a heart condition; I don’t want her panicking.”
He proved to have several fractured ribs, one of which had punctured his lung. “Nothing we can’t fix pretty quickly. You can go home tomorrow; tell your wife you’ve got in a fight,” said Emma cheerfully, setting up a chest drain.
“Oh, bless you,” he said, patting her hand, and then, “You don’t look like a doctor, you know.”
“I do know,” she said.
One case was particularly poignant: a young man was stretchered in, covered in blood, his equally blood-soaked friend walking beside him.
“They were on their way to the injured guy’s wedding,” Mark told her when she met him outside the theatre. “How cruel is that?”
“Bad as he looks?”
“Not sure. Head injury fairly superficial, but horrible mess, that leg-we’re not sure yet if we can fix it. Going to try to pin it, but it’s extremely complex…”
Russell looked at his watch; he kept looking at it, willing it to stay still, stop making it later, stop Mary failing him. But it was moving relentlessly on, ignoring his bewilderment and his unhappiness: Seven forty-five, it said now. A whole sixty minutes late. An hour. Surely, surely she’d have got a message to him if she’d been held up somewhere. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult…
He’d come through to arrivals at a half run, he’d been so excited, his heart thudding as he pulled his flight bag behind him. The rest of his luggage had been FedExed to the hotel.
Although he’d instructed her to wait at the Hertz desk, he’d still wondered if she mightn’t walk over to where everyone else was waiting, leaning on the barrier. He scanned the row of people: scruffy, for the most part, generally young, lots of children sitting on their father’s shoulders, pulling on their mothers’ hands, people holding banners saying things like, Welcome Home, Mum and the rows of dark-suited drivers, with their signs neatly filled with people’s names. He had been met all over the world by such people; automatically he scanned the boards now… But there was no neat, smiling white-haired lady, waving as she had been in the wildest of his wildest dreams, calling out, “Russell! Over here!”
Mary had written in her last letter that there’d be no risk of bad holdups, because she’d be travelling against the traffic.
“And I shall allow lots of time, Russell; you can be sure of that. Was I ever late for you?”
And she wasn’t; somehow she had always been on time, working her way briskly across London, hopping from bus to bus, often walking if the traffic was bad. Well, she had been, once, terribly late-two and a half hours-but she had turned up safely just the same, had run into the bar where he’d agreed to meet her, flushed and flustered. “The siren went off, Russell; I had to go down to the tube and wait for the all-clear. I’m so sorry.”
It had been his last night before being moved to a new base; he wouldn’t be able to stay long, he warned her, but she’d said she’d get away from work early specially.
“I might not see you again for… for a long time. I mean, you never know. I don’t want to waste our last evening together, Russell, not seeing you.
“I’m so, so glad you were still here,” she said, smiling as he kissed her, and he said of course he was still there; he’d have waited for her for all night if need be, risked getting into every kind of trouble. As he would now. And this had been only an hour…
The lorry driver had been brought in by helicopter, Alex told Emma, the last casualty to arrive, and taken straight to the theatre. His chances were not rated very high. She had expected him to be old, but apparently he was in his early thirties, with a young family.
“He fielded most of the steering column,” said Alex, “poor chap. You name it, he’s got it: fractured ribs and sternum, tension pneumothorax, contusions of his heart, and then a few more minor things”-he grinned at her-“ruptured spleen, some liver injury. They’ve worked wonders on him, though. He’s very much alive. At the moment. Amazing the punishment the human body can take.”
“And… spinal injuries?”
“Not established yet. Poor bugger. Wife’s on the way, apparently.”
“I hope someone’s with her,” said Emma. “She’ll be terrified.” And then suddenly she found she had to sit down.
“God,” she said, “it’s ten o’clock. How did that happen?”
“Tired?”
“A bit. Any idea at all yet what caused this?”
“Not yet. But the lorry was at the front of it all, went through the barrier. Could have been him, fell asleep, skidded, whatever.”
“Well, if it was, he’s been well punished for it,” said Emma soberly.
Abi and Shaun were still waiting in A &E. They’d arrived almost two hours ago, and Abi was beginning to feel as if they might be there forever.
The relief of reaching St. Marks had been intense. It was a vast, pristine building, gleaming in the evening sun, only four storeys high, but Abi felt suddenly nervous. What on earth might be going on in there? Maybe they could wait outside. She felt she had seen enough blood and guts for one day-literally.
It was very noisy, ambulance sirens cutting endlessly through the air, and a lot of shouting. Ambulances were pulling up constantly, porters running out with wheeled stretchers, nurses following them.
“Right, my love, follow me; let’s get you registered.”
Abi took a deep breath and braced herself for a scene like something out of ER.
But inside it more closely resembled Waterloo station in rush hour than ER: a huge room with a large raised desk by the entrance with three women sitting at it, and an electronic sign that said, Welcome to St. Marks. Approximate waiting time from arrival is now five hours, fifteen minutes. This changed even as she watched it to five hours, thirty minutes. People were crammed onto chairs, standing three deep at the desk, pestering for information any nurse reckless enough to appear. Children were crying, running about, being shouted at; mobiles were ringing constantly, despite stern written instructions not use them, and the three women at the desk were astonishingly calm as they fielded questions, issued directions (mostly to sit down and wait), put out calls for people to go for assessment, and handed out admission forms to newcomers.
A small corner with a low green fence round it-marked, Children’s Play Area-was empty of both children and toys; there were several battered model animals and Thomas the Tank Engines being fought over in various parts of the room.
Bureaucracy took over; Abi was handed a form to fill in and had to leave most of it blank, having no idea who Shaun’s next of kin was, apart from its being clearly his mother, nor his address, nor even his religion. She elicited such information from Shaun as she could, but it was patchy. She sat down obediently with Shaun-having taken him, wildly protesting, into the ladies’ when he wanted to pee-and played Hangman and Join the Dots with him until he slumped into an exhausted stupor.
A white-faced young woman next to her, with a small girl on her lap, sat staring at the door; she looked as if she was about to cry. Abi smiled at her.
“You OK?”
“Not really. I’m worried out of my wits. My other little girl’s out there somewhere with her dad; she’s been hurt and they’re waiting for an ambulance.”
“I’m sorry,” said Abi. “Is she badly injured?”
“Not according to him, but he wouldn’t know bad if it hit him in the eye. He says it’s just a banged head, but that could be anything, couldn’t it? He’d been to collect her from her nan’s; they were late leaving. I said to him, if he’d been on time for once in his life, she’d be home tucked up safely in bed by now, but no, he had to go and check on a job he was doing first.”
“That’s the thing about accidents, though, isn’t it?” said Abi. “It’s all bits of chance and fate, muddled up together. I’m sure she won’t be long; there are so many ambulances out there, and they’ve cleared a way right through the traffic, apparently.”
A man with his arm in a makeshift sling was sitting staring into space, grey faced, opposite Abi; he started chatting to her, clearly glad of the distraction.
“Car hit one of the fridges. Front’s pretty well stove in. The wife’s coming to get me, but we live in Manchester, so bit of a way.” He shifted, winced. “Glad to get this set-”
A nurse appeared, called out, “Brian Timpson.”
He stood up. “Well, nice talking to you. See you later.”
Almost immediately his place was taken by a hard-faced young man carrying a notebook; he’d been talking to several people, she’d noticed, some had been more receptive than others. “Hi,” he said, “Bob Mason, Daily Sketch. Wonder if you’d mind if I chatted to you for a bit. You were out there in the crash, I take it?”
Rage shot through Abi.
“I was,” she said coldly, “and I’d mind very much if you chatted to me, actually. Just piss off, will you?”
“OK, OK,” he said, “sorry to have troubled you.”
Every so often she wondered vaguely what Jonathan was doing, what complex lies he might be telling Laura; that was as far as her curiosity-or indeed her emotions-extended towards him. He seemed to belong in an entirely different point in her life; the accident had, in some strange way, restructured everything.
She was just considering moving into a corner seat, where she might be able to doze, at least, only it would mean waking Shaun, when a young man, looking deeply distressed, walked dazedly in, slumped down in the chair next to her, and put his head in his hands. He was naked from the waist up and his trousers were held up with red braces. Poor bloke had obviously had a very tough time. She could scarcely believe it when the reporter sat down on his other side and said, “Hi. Bob Mason, Daily Sketch. Mind if I talk to you? I’m just-”
The man lifted his head out of his hands, stared at him for moment; then he said, “Yes, I bloody well do.”
“Parasites,” she said, as Mason walked away. “They shouldn’t be allowed in.”
He said nothing, stood up still looking dazed, and walked over to the watercooler, filled a cup of water for himself.
As he stood drinking it, a nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Fraser? Yes, the doctor will talk to you now.”
Mr. Fraser half ran out of the room.
“Such a sad story,” said a middle-aged woman sitting opposite her. “He was here much earlier; he was on his way to be best man at a wedding. The bridegroom’s been very badly hurt.”
“God,” said Abi, “that’s so terrible.”
She felt freshly shocked; fate was certainly having a field day.
Linda was beginning to feel extremely worried. Something quite serious must have happened to Georgia. She’d been so upbeat, so grateful to Linda for rescheduling her audition. And suddenly… she appeared to have vanished. Linda had tried ringing her twice, but her phone was on voice mail. That was unlike her, too- Georgia never missed an opportunity to chatter. And it was well into the evening. But Georgia didn’t have to be anywhere until the morning; there was plenty of time. Get a life, Linda, for God’s sake.
She tried Georgia ’s phone just once more and then started clearing her desk preparatory to leaving it. Linda could no more have left an uncleared desk than she would have left home in a crumpled skirt or shoes in need of heeling.
But Georgia was still not picking up.
Abi was half-asleep, her head lolling onto Shaun’s, when she was jerked awake by a voice saying, “Shaun! Shaun, where are you?” And he sat up, rubbing his eyes, and then shot off towards the direction of a pallid, overweight young woman, yelling, “Mum, mum,” and pushed himself into her slightly reluctant arms.
She was accompanied by two other small children and an equally overweight older woman whom Abi assumed was her mother; they all came over to Abi, who started to tell Shaun’s mother how brave he’d been and how proud of him she should be.
She stared at her rather blankly and then said, “You’re all right, are you?” to Shaun, interrupting the little speech.
“I think he’s OK,” Abi said rather tentatively. “He had an asthma attack, as I expect you know, but he’s been checked over by the doctor here and given some Ventolin, and all he needs now is you, I should think.”
“Yeah, well, thanks. Who can I ask about him?” The girl sounded hostile.
“Well, I’m not sure,” Abi said. “They’re pretty busy, as you can see. I suppose the women over there on the desk would be best. But a doctor did return him to me saying he was fine-”
“Yeah, well, I want to hear it from them,” she said. “What’s he doing with you, anyway?”
“Well, I was involved in the crash,” Abi said. “I was with a friend and we weren’t hurt, and he got the boys out of the minibus and left me in charge of them while he went to see if there was anything else he could do. And then when the ambulance came for… for your little boy, he wanted me to go with him. So I did. We’d become friends by then, hadn’t we, Shaun?”
Shaun nodded, tentatively putting out his hand again, into hers.
“Oh, yeah. Well-thanks anyway.” His mother spoke begrudgingly looking Abi up and down, clearly taking in her tight trousers and her spike-heeled boots. “Give over, Shaun; don’t hang on to me like that-I can’t hardly breathe.”
Abi felt a rush of rage. “He’s had a horrible time, you know. Really horrible. the… the driver of the minibus was… well, he didn’t survive, and I think Shaun needs lots of reassurance, you know?”
“Mum, it was horrible,” Shaun said. “Mr. Douglas, he was killed; he was all covered with blood and-”
“I don’t really want to hear,” said the girl. “Just try not to think about it, Shaun; that’s the best thing. Come on, say good-bye to the lady and let’s go and try to find a doctor, make sure you’re all right.”
“Bye, Abi,” Shaun said. “Thanks for looking after me and the singing; I liked the singing.”
“Singing!” said the girl as they moved off. “What on earth you been singing for? Whose daft idea was that? Come on, and you, Mum, over here…”
Shaun was led away, and Abi wearily walked over to the desk.
“Any chance of a taxi to the nearest station, would you think?” she said.
“You could try,” said one of the women. “Don’t rate your chances.”
She handed Abi a few cards; Abi rummaged in her bag for her phone. It wasn’t there.
“How are you feeling now?” The nurse smiled into Mary’s eyes. “Bit better?”
“Yes. A little. Very tired, that’s the worst thing. So tired…”
“Well, that’s quite usual, considering what you’ve been through. They’ll be taking you to the theatre in a minute.”
“The theatre? I don’t need surgery; I haven’t been injured.”
“Of course not, dear. But they’re going to have a look at that heart of yours; it’s not working too well just at the moment. Dr. Phillips wants to be quite sure.”
“Who’s Dr. Phillips? And what isn’t he sure about?”
“He’s one of the cardiologists. He’ll be along in a minute, and you can ask him yourself.”
“Honestly,” said Mary, “I’m fine. I keep telling you. And I have to get out of here; I’m so worried.”
“Now, why are you worried? Your family have been notified; they’re all fine; they’re on their way-”
“No, not my family. I was meant to be meeting an old friend at the airport, and… oh, dear. He’ll still be waiting. Can we get a message to him somehow, please-”
“I’m sure we can. Do you have a number for him, a mobile, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mary, and started to cry. “I lost it in the crash. I was supposed to be meeting him at the Hertz desk, at Heathrow.”
“And then where were you going? Home?”
“No, no, to a hotel. The Dorchester.”
“Well, maybe we could call there.”
“Oh, that would be very kind. Would you?” Mary gave the nurse Russell’s name.
“Of course. Straightaway. Now you try to have a little rest. Just until Dr. Phillips comes.”
She bustled away, and Mary relaxed a little.
Unfortunately, as the nurse reached the nursing station a new patient arrived from the theatre, after which yet another elderly lady was brought straight up from A &E, deeply distressed; Mary’s call was first postponed and then forgotten.
“Emma, why don’t you go home? Everyone’s done, either on the wards or in ITU.”
“I want to check on the baby, the preemie one, caught in the crash, see if it’s OK.”
She made her way to maternity. The baby was a lusty four-pound boy, in an incubator, but the prognosis was excellent.
The father was sitting by his wife’s bed, holding her hand; she was asleep.
“Thank you so much,” he said, smiling up at Emma. “You really helped her down there. I’m so grateful.”
“It was nothing. I’m sorry I couldn’t have stayed with her longer; obstetrics is my specialty. Or will be. But I’m on A and E at the moment, and there was rather a lot to do. Well, take care of both of them.”
“I will…”
In the corridor, she saw a young man and a middle-aged couple standing looking very distressed.
“Hi,” she said. “Can I help; are you looking for someone?”
“Our son,” said the woman. “He was in that accident today, you know-”
“I do know,” said Emma, “I work in A and E.”
“Oh, my goodness. Well, perhaps you know what’s happened to him. We were told he’d been taken to the theatre, but that was hours ago, and now we’ve been sent up here… Oh, dear…”
She started to cry; Emma put her hand on her arm.
“Tell me his name, and I’ll see what I can find out for you. Everyone’s been so busy today.”
“Of course. We appreciate that,” said the man. “Weston’s his name, Toby Weston.”
“Right. Look, there’s a waiting room down there; it’s got a coffee machine, and you’ll be more comfortable. I’ll get back to you as soon as I possibly can, hopefully in a few minutes.”
The ward sister was very brisk; she was clearly exhausted.
“He’s only just been brought here… Holding his own, that’s all I can say. No chest injuries, and his neck’s OK. CT scan showed that. And quite a mild concussion, but that leg is a mess. The main danger is infection. I don’t need to tell you that. He’s on a morphine drip, pretty out of it, poor lad. Tell them his condition’s serious but stable; that’s always a good one. Don’t want to get their hopes up too much; don’t want to scare them.”
“Thanks, Sister. I’m going home now, but I’ll tell the Westons what you said. Can they see him? They seem very sensible.”
“Maybe in an hour or so, for a few minutes.”
The young man was standing in the doorway of the waiting room when Emma went back; he was rather curiously dressed, in slightly baggy striped trousers with braces hanging down and a T-shirt. He was white faced and looked completely exhausted.
“Hi,” he said. “What… that is, any news?”
“Well… he’s stable. Serious, but stable. And if he’s stable then he’s coping. But still quite ill. So what happened? Were you there?”
“I was in the car with him,” he said. “We were going to his wedding.”
“That was you, was it? How awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. Look, I’d better go and tell his parents. They’re in a terrible state.”
“I’ll come and tell them if you like,” she said. “People always prefer to hear from doctors directly.”
She went in, smiling her professional smile.
“Hello, again. Well, the news isn’t too bad. He is seriously ill, lost a lot of blood, and the wound to his leg is quite extensive, but he is stable.”
“Oh, thank God,” said the man. He blew his nose rather hard. “There you are, darling, what did I tell you?”
“Can we see him?” asked Mrs. Weston.
“Well… not yet. Sister says she’d rather you waited for another hour or so. Then you can see him, but only for a few minutes. And he may not be properly awake even then. Oh, and I should warn you, they’ve fitted his leg with an external fixator: that’s a sort of cagelike frame outside the leg, with pins going through to the bone. It may look a bit alarming, but don’t worry.”
“We don’t mind,” said Mrs. Weston, wiping her eyes. “We don’t mind anything. We just want to see him. Thank you so much… er-”
“Dr. King,” said Emma, smiling.
“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” said Mr. Weston.
Emma smiled at him determinedly; that was the variation of not looking like one. It usually came from older men.
“’Fraid I am,” she said. “Anyway, I’m leaving now. I’m off duty tomorrow, but I’ll be back on Sunday and I’ll see how he is then. Try not to worry. It sounds like he should be OK.”
“Thank you so much,” said Mrs. Weston.
“I think I might come down with you,” said the young man, “if that’s all right. I… well, I could do with a bit of fresh air. I won’t be long,” he said to the Westons.
“You take your time, Barney. We’re not going anywhere.”
“What I could really do with,” he said to Emma once they were in the lift, “is a fag. I expect you think that’s terrible.”
“Of course I don’t. I still smoke myself occasionally. When I’m out.”
“Yeah?” He grinned at her. “Well… I plan to give up one day. Very soon.”
“Great. Right now I should think you need one. So what happened? Or don’t you want to talk about it?”
“I… don’t have that clear an idea,” he said. “This lorry suddenly swerved in front of us. Went right through the barrier. And we… we had a… a blowout. I think. Trying to stop. And then… well, then it’s all a bit of a blur. We finished up embedded in another car. I don’t know why I didn’t catch it as well. I… Oh, shit sorry.” His voice quavered; he dashed his hand across his eyes. “It was pretty bloody scary. The whole thing.”
They had reached the ground floor; she ushered him to the main door; he stood leaning against the glass, taking deep breaths.
“Look-sit down here for a bit. You’re obviously pretty shattered.”
“Yeah. I feel a bit… sick actually. Sorry. I-”
He bolted for some bushes, was gone for a while, came back looking shamefaced.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, sinking down beside her on the steps. “Not very cool.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll get you some water; stay there.”
When she came back, he still had his head in his hands.
“Thanks,” he said, “you’re very kind.”
“All part of the service.”
“What sort of a doctor are you, then?”
“I’m going to be a surgeon, I hope. An obstetric surgeon.”
“Sounds very impressive. Did you see Tobes when he arrived?”
“I did, yes, but only very briefly. It’s been a nightmare day.”
“I bet.” He held out his hand. “Barney Fraser.”
“Hi, Barney. Were you going to be the best man?”
“Yup. I was.”
“How’s the bride; how’s she coping?”
“Pretty badly, I think,” said Barney. His tone was dismissive. “She’s too upset to come tonight, apparently.”
“I see. Well, I’d better go. I’m quite… tired.”
“I bet you are. Thanks so much, Dr. King.”
“Emma, actually. Bye, then, Barney. Good luck. And… I know it’s nothing to do with me, but you should take it easy for a couple of days. You’ve had an awful shock. Don’t expect to just feel fine because it’s over.”
Thinking about him as she drove her car out of the hospital, she reflected that he was really rather good-looking, with his spiky brown hair and sort of hazel eyes with darker flecks in them and that gorgeous smile. She wondered if he had a girlfriend; and then mentally slapped herself. Emma, you’re obsessed. You’ve got a perfectly good boyfriend of your own. Get a grip.
Linda was just going to bed when she decided she couldn’t ignore the fact any longer that Georgia might have been caught up in the crash that had filled the evening news.
With some reluctance and a strong feeling of dread, she called the Linley household, bracing herself for the worst.
“Bea, I’m sorry to call so late. Linda Di-Marcello here. I wonder… if you’ve heard from Georgia.”
“Oh, hello, Linda. Yes, she’s arrived home safely. Bit weary. And very disappointed she didn’t get the part, of course. But I’ve told her there’s always another time, and I’m sure you’d say the same. She’s asleep, but I’ll tell her you called. It’s very kind of you, thank you so much.”
Georgia was lying under the covers, her pillow over her face to smother the sound of her weeping. It was a terrible thing she’d done: so terrible. And how was she ever going to put it right?