One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal

by Caroline Bond

  The copper with the glasses asked, ‘A male or female voice?’

  Pete closed his eyes and heard it again: that high, compressed scream, full of pain and panic. But whether it was one of the girls or the lads, he couldn’t say. ‘I don’t know.’ All he knew was that it was enough to galvanise him into action. ‘I had my phone in the pocket of my trackies. I dialled nine-nine-nine as I ran over.’

  ‘Did you see any other vehicles on the road at the time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. It was quiet.’ In truth, Pete hadn’t checked; he’d just set off running across the Tarmac, his phone clamped to his face, his words echoing back inside his head. The closer he got, the worse it had looked and the tighter his chest had become. It was a miracle he’d managed to tell the operator anything. ‘It looked like the car had smashed into the wall, then spun round. It was facing the wrong way.’

  ‘Which wall, Pete? Sorry, but we need as much detail as possible.’ The other copper this time.

  ‘The Gerard place.’ He paused, picking the facts out of the messy awfulness of it all. He wanted to make sure what he told them was accurate. ‘The passenger side had taken the worst of it. ‘

  ‘And what make was the car?’

  ‘It was a Seat. A dark-blue Seat. There was a strong smell of petrol – and something else. A scorched smell. The grass was all churned up on the verge where it had run off the road. But to be honest, I don’t think I noticed that at first. I think I saw that later, when we were waiting for the lad in the back to be cut free. I remember thinking the car must have been travelling at a hell of a lick to end up where it had.’ He checked himself. ‘Sorry. That’s not for me to say, is it? I don’t know what speed it was going. I didn’t see the actual crash.’

  ‘It’s okay, Pete. You’re doing a grand job.’ The comment made him feel pathetically grateful – for the kindness, and the praise. ‘And the casualties…the people involved in the crash. Can you tell us about them? Where they were? What kind of state were they in?’

  Pete nodded. ‘The first person I saw was the young lad. He was crouched down on the grass near the car. He didn’t seem to be that badly hurt. He was shouting, but not making much sense. I asked him if he was all right, which was a bloody stupid thing to say, in the circumstances, but he ignored me. When I put my hand on his shoulder to try and get him to come away, he lost it. Started yelling at me to “fuck off”. He was hysterical, frightened.’

  ‘Did he say anything else, apart from the abuse?’

  Pete tried to remember, but although his brain still echoed with the visceral sounds of the crying, and the noise of the car creaking and straining like a trapped animal, the lad’s actual words wouldn’t come to him. He took a few breaths, and the coppers waited. They didn’t prompt him or ask anything else, but the atmosphere in the room shifted slightly, and Pete suddenly realised the importance of what he was saying. This was an official statement to two police officers, about a crash in which people had been very badly injured, possibly killed. The lad on his knees was the driver, or so Pete had assumed. As the driver, he would be in the frame.

  He shook his head. ‘No. It was just to leave him be – he was more focused on the girl in the front seat than on me. And it wasn’t “abuse” as such; he was in a state. Anyway, I decided to see if I could get into the car. That’s when I saw that the doors on the passenger side had been ripped off, and I noticed there were other people in the car. There was a lad. He was flopped against the back seat. Upright, but not right. What I mean is…I could tell he was in a bad way. For a minute I thought he was dead, but then he kind of rolled his head towards me and opened his eyes. He was quiet. He looked at me like he didn’t understand where he was, or even that he was injured. I cleared some of the glass off the back seat and climbed in next to him. That’s when I realised his legs were pinned. There was no way I was going be able to drag him out. I didn’t think I should try to move him anyway. I don’t know what I thought I could do for any of them really, apart from let them know I was there – that help was on its way. I could see the back of the girl’s head, the one in the front seat.’ Pete stopped. The officers waited. ‘There was a lot of blood. Did she…? I mean…?’

  The younger officer glanced at the other, as if confirming some sort of protocol. ‘I’m afraid we can’t release any details about the people involved, Pete. We’re sorry—’

  But the older guy cut him off. ‘There’ve been no fatalities reported yet. The casualties are all being cared for at St Thomas’s. You ringing for the ambulances made a difference, Pete. If they’d been there longer, it would’ve been worse.’

  Pete didn’t believe there was any way it could have been much worse, but again he was grateful for the effort to reassure him.

  ‘Are you all right to keep going?’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ He took himself back to the crash. To the sounds and the smell. To the sense of utter helplessness. ‘That’s when I heard this really awful noise. It was like an animal in pain. It wasn’t the girl in the front. She was unconscious, I think.’ He paused, uncertain if he was remembering everything accurately. ‘I climbed out – there was nothing I could do for the kids in the car – and I followed the noise, in the dark. That’s when I saw the other girl. The one I’d missed. I swear I never saw her at first. She was about fifty feet away along the verge. I don’t know how she got out of the car. She was on the grass, sort of kneeling up, rocking. She had her hands – both her hands – on her face, like this.’

  He lifted his own hands and cupped his chin, his fingertips resting against his cheekbones, just as she had. It made him remember her eyes, or at least one of her eyes. The other was lost in a black, messy pulp.

  ‘I went over. Crouched down next to her.’ He paused again. ‘She was making a lot of noise. It sounded like a pan bubbling over. I couldn’t make out anything she was saying. It sounded like she was choking. There was blood all over her hands and her clothes. I tried to…I tried, well…I tried to help. But she kept swaying back and forth. I couldn’t get her to stop. I don’t why I wanted her to keep still. She must have been in so much pain. I took my sweatshirt off and put it around her shoulders. It seemed to go on for ages: the rocking, the choking noise, the lad being hysterical over by the car. Then she suddenly pitched over. I didn’t have time to catch her. Maybe I was looking for the ambulances, I don’t remember. She didn’t put her hands out. She sort of fell forward, a dead weight. I’m assuming she blacked out. She was kind of splayed on her front, with her head skewed to one side. I didn’t dare move her.’

  Pete swallowed; his throat was still dry from the smoke and the trauma.

  ‘I bent down, checked that she was still breathing. She was, but my God, her face. It was…well, it was such a mess. I sat on the grass next to her. One of her hands was poking out from underneath her body. I held her fingers, really carefully. I didn’t know what was broken and what wasn’t. I kept talking to her. I just thought that if she was even a tiny bit aware, then at least she would know she wasn’t on her own.’ He stopped and waited, desperate for them to tell him something – anything – about how she was doing.

  The older officer took pity on him, but only so much. ‘Like I said, they’re all being well looked after.’

  That could mean anything. Pete wanted to know more, but realised it was none of his business – other than that he had been there, in the darkness, on the side of the road, before the fire crews and the police and the lights. He’d been there when it was lonely and frightening. He’d talked to her and held her hand, willed her to cope, to keep breathing, to hang on in there. After the ambulances arrived, he’d watched her being worked on by the paramedics. He’d been shocked by the seeming brutality with which they manhandled her, turning her over, taping her jaw in place, pumping something into her slim arm. He saw her being hoisted onto the stretcher and slid into the brightly lit interior of the ambulance. He’d watched it drive away, bumping down the kerb
with a thud that had made him wince. He’d looked after the flashing lights long after they disappeared.

  It was a natural point to take a breather. Instinctively all three men glanced out of the window again to the road, the endless traffic and, beyond that, the damaged wall.

  But they’re weren’t done with his statement yet. ‘You stayed on the scene for quite a while, didn’t you, Pete?’

  ‘Yeah. One of the officers asked me to stay, to give an initial witness statement. And anyway, I couldn’t leave. I needed to see them get the lad out. What I mean is, I needed to see them all into the ambulances.’ Because for that brief, seemingly endless period, between hearing the bang and the police arriving, they had been his responsibility.

  Both of the officers nodded. Then the older one asked, ‘Is there anything else that might be of use to us? Anything you saw that might have contributed to the crash. Anything at all? The road conditions, the weather, the traffic?’

  ‘No. It was a really calm, clear night. I like I said, the road was quiet, empty.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Pete suddenly felt tired, but they still weren’t finished.

  ‘Can we just get you to circle back a little bit, Pete? Thinking about the young man again – the one who was kneeling next to the car.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pete added nothing else.

  ‘Any observations you want to make about him?

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘His behaviour? His level of coherence? His breath? Was there anything to indicate that he might have been drinking or taking drugs?’

  Pete paused, gave it real thought. They were all young. It was late. The girl was wearing party clothes. They’d probably been drinking. Two girls, two boys. Testosterone swirling. The temptation of an empty road. A Seat Leon – the ‘go-to car’ for boy racers.

  He opened his eyes and shook his head. ‘No.’

  He’d been young himself once, a lifetime ago.

  Chapter 14

  SHAZIA PULLED the door closed behind them and immediately knew the house was empty, because it felt empty. They often chided Mo for being noisy, complaining about his music and his big feet stomping around upstairs. It was the family joke – Mo, the klutz, an accident waiting to happen. Shazia stood in their hallway and made a pact with herself that she would never again moan about his crashing about, if he would just walk through the door, unharmed, with a credible explanation of where he had been for the past fourteen hours.

  Nihal was, once again, on his phone. She turned away, unable to watch his distress, and wearily climbed the stairs. At the top she stopped, her breathing laboured. The fear of losing Mo had aged her, overnight. She crossed the landing and went into his room. It was the usual mix of mess and manic tidiness. His clean clothes – all ironed by her – were, as always, carefully folded away in his wardrobe; he liked to look smart, ‘sharp’ in his terminology. But his worn stuff was strewn around the room, some on his chair, some on the floor, more on the end of his bed. It looked like a hurricane had passed though. In contrast, his expensive, deeply cherished trainers were all lined up in a neat row against the skirting board, laces tucked in. No, not at all of them. There was a gap. A pair was missing. His new Nikes.

  Shazia turned away. On the desk his daada had bought for him was Mo’s college work, a slew of papers, printed sheets and textbooks, all neatly annotated in his small, precise handwriting. Chaos and control in one revealing snapshot. It was odd that a boy could be made up of so many contradictions.

  Even in his room, surrounded by his things, Shazia found that she couldn’t cry – she wanted to, but she couldn’t, because she didn’t know what she was mourning. She picked up one of Mo’s sweatshirts; underneath were his only pair of smart black trousers and the branded polo shirt that he had to wear for work. Shelf-stacking at Sainsbury’s: minimum wage, hard work, good life experience. Clothes that should have gone straight into the linen basket. She scooped them up as well, along with a couple of stray socks and a towel. The towel was still damp from his shower the previous evening.

  She decided to get his uniform washed and ready for him. He would need it for his shift on Tuesday evening. She was sure they would understand about him missing today, as he was normally very diligent. He was never late; he worked hard; never, normally, dropped a shift, even if he wasn’t feeling well. He was a good employee. He was a good son. She had to have faith.

  Holding the bundle of washing to her chest, Shazia walked back downstairs, along the now-empty hallway. Nihal had had the extension built as a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary present for her three years ago. He still hadn’t lived that one down. The romance! Who needed a weekend in Paris when they had extra space for a tumble dryer and an ironing board? Her friends had teased her about it, whilst at the same time revealing glimpses of envy.

  Instinctively Shazia looked left into the kitchen as she made her way towards to the back of the house. Mo wasn’t there; of course he wasn’t, because he wasn’t anywhere. Her chest felt cold, the damp from the towel had seeped through her shirt. She unlocked the door into the utility room and that’s when she saw them – a pair of Nikes, no longer pristine, sticking out of the gap between the dryer and back wall.

  Chapter 15

  IT TOOK Shazia and Nihal a few minutes to wake Mo. When he did eventually come round, he was groggy. He struggled to his feet, stiff from having spent so long curled up in such a small space. He cracked his elbow against the dryer on his way up, but he didn’t seem to notice. They both studied him, looking for signs of injury. There were none. He was just rumpled. Close up, Shazia could smell the sweat on him, an acrid tang that reminded her of the homeless man on the bridge who she sometimes said ‘hello’ to on her way to work.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you call us? We’ve been frantic.’

  He hung his head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t have my phone. I had to walk home, and it was really late. I came in the back, but the inside door was locked. I didn’t want to wake you, so I decided to kip down in here. I’m sorry – I thought you were in bed.’

  ‘We’ve been at the hospital all night. We thought you were in the car.’ As he said it, Nihal realised that his son didn’t know what had happened. He and Shazia exchanged a look of concern, and confusion. What the hell was going on?

  They shepherded Mo through to the kitchen. Wanting to be somewhere safe and warm before they broke the news to him. Habit dictated that Shazia put on the kettle and Nihal fetch the cookie jar. Once the water had boiled, Shazia passed them each a mug of hot, sweet tea and they sat round the table, as they had thousands of times before.

  Calmly and clearly Nihal told Mo about the crash, the police and the dreadful night they’d spent at the hospital, thinking he was one of the casualties.

  Mo looked like he was going to cry. ‘How badly hurt are they?’ His voice wavered.

  Nihal shared what little they knew. Most of their information was coming from Anita’s texts.

  ‘Harry’s okay – apparently. Minor injuries, cuts and bruises. A bit of a miracle actually. Jake’s been more badly hurt. His right leg took a lot of the impact. Multiple fractures. Some broken ribs as well.’

  Mo looked wild. ‘And the girls? What about Tish and Jess?’

  Shazia gently touched his sleeve. Nihal spoke softly, as if whispering would somehow lessen the blow. ‘They’re both in intensive care. We don’t know any more than that.’

  For a while the only sounds were the hum of the fridge and Mo’s uneven breathing. They waited, watching their son struggle to absorb what had happened to his friends.

  The tale, when he did eventually start talking, came out in a series of disconnected chunks, which was confusing, but they knew their son well enough to follow his circuitous route to the truth. It was a rush of stumbled words and emotion, which began with, ‘We were having such a good night.’

  ‘At the party?’ Shazia prompted. The frustration of not knowing what had happened was eating her up, but Mo’s glazed expression worried her. Sh
e didn’t feel able to demand answers; not like she would normally have done.

  ‘Yeah. At Alice’s. It was the usual crowd.’

  ‘Were you drinking?’ Nihal shot Shazia a warning look, but they needed to know.

  ‘No.’

  They wanted to believe him – Mo wouldn’t lie about something like that, though an unfamiliar flicker of doubt rippled through Shazia.

  ‘We were just hanging out, dancing, talking.’ He even swayed a little, as if the music still echoed through him. ‘I got hot…with the dancing. I went out into the garden. Harry was there, with Jess, chilling. It was nice. I don’t know how long we were out there. It was Harry who decided we should leave. I don’t know why. It wasn’t late.’

  ‘What time was it?’ It was Nihal this time, edging the story forward.

  ‘I’m not sure; about twelve, maybe earlier.’ Not late in the teenage play-book. ‘We went back into the house to find Jake and Tish. Jake was going for it – jumping around like a loony. Tish kinda appeared from somewhere. I don’t really remember. Jake wouldn’t come at first. He was having too much of a good time. He had a bit of a standoff with Harry, nothing major. Just the usual banter, but he was being a bit of a prat. In the end Harry said we were going, and if Jake didn’t come, he’d have to get home on his own. That got through. Jake followed us out and we all got in the car.’

  At the mention of the car Shazia’s stomach knotted. So Mo had been in the car. ‘Then what?’ she asked.

  ‘We drove to McDonald’s.’ They both blinked, thrown by the banality of his answer. Mo went on. ‘That was Jake, again. He said he was starving. Once he’d started banging on about cheeseburgers, we all wanted something.’

  It was called ‘the munchies’; Shazia wasn’t stupid, she knew the effect alcohol – and drugs – had on appetites. Mo experimenting with drugs? No. He wouldn’t. Would he? But he would always – normally – text, to let them know where he was and what time he’d be back. He was a good like that. Normally. Mo and drugs? No. It didn’t compute. She decided to stick to the chain of events. ‘The McDonald’s near the roundabout, on the ring road?’