by Tom Hoyle
Inside, things were more formal. “We know that Adam’s parents, unfortunately, are in hospital, so we hope that you, Mrs. James, can act as the appropriate adult.”
Things moved quickly. It was as if Adam was sliding down ice, unable to stop himself. Bland questions came first, but Adam’s answers soon led to the intruders, and then the gun. Chief Inspector Hatfield didn’t seem interested in the intruders. Adam was the one who had killed. The words then I pulled the trigger made Megan’s mum gasp. Adam stopped himself from saying twice.
After a second or two, Hatfield asked, “How many times?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Adam.
He hates me, Adam thought. He thinks I’m a wicked criminal. “Twice,” he mumbled.
Another gasp from Megan’s mum.
It was as if the police already knew all the answers. Then more questions came about the gun.
“Have you used it on anyone else?”
“Who told you how to use it?”
Then: “We found another gun.”
And: “Did you shoot your father?”
Adam felt the full influence of panic. “No. There was this man. And that’s not all . . .” He decided to explain everything, even about the festival.
But at exactly that moment Chief Inspector Hatfield decided to pause. “I think we should let Adam have a break before we continue. Mrs. James, Adam is going to have to be remanded in custody, so I’d like to keep him in a room while we adjourn.”
Mrs. James looked at the floor. “Don’t worry, Adam. I’ll see what we can do.”
Don’t worry, Adam repeated in his mind. The words were like fingernails scratching down a blackboard.
Remanded in custody meant that Adam was put in what amounted to a cell. He stared at the chipped walls and the metal letter box set at eye level within the door. After about ten minutes, Chief Inspector Hatfield returned to him with a different policewoman.
“Adam. This is a serious offense, and we have to take you to a different place for questioning. Mr. and Mrs. James and your friend Megan have to travel separately. As you know, you are under arrest.”
Adam was depressed rather than upset. He still hadn’t had a chance to explain things. When he did, it would all be okay. At least he was safe from the lunatics.
Passing a number of adults who looked away or glanced down, Adam was escorted out and into Chief Inspector Hatfield’s car.
He sat in the back with the policewoman. She looked friendly, about his mother’s age.
“The station is some distance from here, but you’ll be fine. Try to relax.”
Adam pushed himself back in the seat.
“You’re next to Officer Wright,” said the chief inspector. “But you can call her Marcia.”
Chief Inspector Hatfield started to drive.
22
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013
Megan again insisted that she stay.
This time her mother was less sympathetic. “Why don’t you go home and meet Adam later at the hospital?” Then, quieter: “Supposing he’s allowed to see his parents.”
“When Adam explains he’ll be a hero,” Megan said. “You should have more faith in him.”
“Megan!” her mother barked. “Your father and I should have cooled this . . . this . . . relationship with Adam weeks ago.”
“We’re just friends! Don’t be so stupid.” Megan glared, then stalked out, chased by her father, with her mother’s parting shout—“How dare you!”—receding into the distance.
Megan’s cell phone sat at home, dull black, unlit, unattended.
Adam breathed out slowly, gazing at cars lining up in the opposite direction. Adam only knew the name of one other London police station—Paddington Green, where terrorists were taken—so thought that his situation must be serious if he had to be transferred.
“Which station is it we’re going to?” he said to Chief Inspector Hatfield.
“Oh, one outside London that deals with minors.”
Adam noticed a sign for Brent Cross, which he knew was just by the M1, the main road heading north.
“Is it far?”
The woman next to him said, “It’s a bit of a journey, so just relax.”
Somewhere in the back of Adam’s mind a flicker of concern was briefly lit, but then he closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was somewhere, anywhere else.
Mr. James drove Megan home in aggressive silence. Worry and anger weighed heavily inside her. She leaped out as soon as the car stopped and stood impatiently by the front door.
“Megan, I’ve never known you like this,” her father said.
“No?”
As soon as the front door was open she ran to her room, slammed the door and fell onto her bed.
Lying on her left elbow, Megan could see what remained of Adam’s house. It looked like a blackened shipwreck: wooden beams poked skywards; rubble lapped round the edges. A handful of police and fire officers drifted around. Yellow tape swam in the breeze.
Megan felt her head start to spin. She looked at her clock. Nearly five.
Adam opened his eyes. The car had slowed nearly to a stop. Through the windshield he saw the back of a large green truck.
“How far now?” he said.
“Just a junction or two,” said the woman.
Adam could see fields to the left and right. “Will I be able to see my parents today?”
“Perhaps. If you’re good,” she said.
If you’re good.
The flicker of concern grew.
“Where is this police station?”
Chief Inspector Hatfield looked in the mirror at Adam. “As I said, Adam, it’s not far.”
If you’re good. That sounded odd. Where are we?
The green truck was pulling away and they were gaining speed, moving into the outside lane. A sign whisked past: Services One Mile.
“I need the toilet. Can we stop?”
Adam glanced at the clock: 5:13 p.m. It was getting late.
Megan wondered what was happening with Adam. She looked at her bedside clock: 5:13 p.m.
She remembered her phone and reached into her bedside drawer. She switched it on. The name of the cell phone provider appeared, then a screen full of icons. Just as she was about to key in her mother’s number, it pinged several times. Two texts were from Rachel, one from the cell phone company, one from her friend Karen and one from an unknown number. It was the last message that caught her eye. It started: “Tell Adam.”
She scrolled down. Thirteen words.
“Tell Adam that Hatfield is evil. Don’t trust him. Ask for another officer.”
No name, no explanation. Evil? Not “bad”: evil.
The car sped past the services.
“I said that we need to stop,” spat Adam. “Please pull over now.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon,” said the woman, Marcia.
“Stop this bloody car—now!”
“Shut the hell up. Sit still, keep quiet. Marcia, keep him settled,” said the chief inspector.
She reached out.
“This isn’t right. I want to get out now. Get your hands off me.”
The car sped up: eighty miles per hour.
Eighty-five miles per hour.
The chief inspector laughed. “You’re welcome to open the door and get out any time you like.”
Ninety miles per hour.
Marcia looked quite different now. Intimidating, crafty, sly. “Keep quiet and I won’t have to hurt you.”
The road was clearer and the car hurtled on.
“Mum, where’s Adam?”
“The police have taken him off to investigate something. He’s with the same policeman, the nice one who was doing the interview.”
“Mum, he’s in dreadful danger.”
“Don’t be silly again, Megan. The police will look after him.”
Chief Inspector Hatfield flashed his lights and the car in front pulled into the middle lane. Adam could tell that they were tra
veling much faster than normal: the cars around them were probably going eighty and they were being overtaken with ease, each one making a zipping sound as it was passed.
Adam saw a blur that was the crash barrier.
“I’m calm. You can slow down now,” he said, pushing forward slightly. “Really. I’m calm. See?”
Adam wriggled so that he was leaning between the front seats. He could see the speedometer on the far side. Ninety miles per hour. “I’ll be good.”
His hand slipped across the back seat toward the policewoman.
“I’m calm.”
He unclicked Marcia’s seat belt.
Immediately Adam thrashed out wildly, beating at both adults: he felt his right leg and arm make contact with Marcia. But it was his left arm that he concentrated on. From his position behind the passenger’s seat, it was that arm he swung four times at Hatfield.
Adam’s first strike had the benefit of surprise: it caught the driver in the eye and made the car swerve and ride against the central barrier in a cloud of sparks. There was a crunch and a high-pitched squeak. The side mirror was beaten off and clattered into a van driving behind them. The car rattled and shook.
Adam struck again, hitting jaw—too low. The car swerved back—Hatfield overcompensating, trying to keep at least one hand on the wheel—and edged into the middle lane. A motorcycle braked sharply.
Adam’s right hand flailed at Marcia, his right foot stamped and kicked.
The third time Adam struck, his palm opened, nothing more than a slap. But with his thumb against Hatfield’s ear, he dug a finger into his eye. Desperation made Adam’s hand rigid like iron.
Both hands briefly left the steering wheel.
Adam no longer cared what happened: his fear was a bubble that hid him from logic and judgement.
The car veered to the left, crossing two lanes, and then careened back to the middle. Other drivers braked and honked.
As Hatfield turned, Adam struck a fourth time, grabbing hold of his throat. They want to kill me!
Chief Inspector Hatfield struggled to keep his right hand on the steering wheel. His foot hit the brake.
Marcia shouted something.
Time slowed.
Then the car began to drift slowly to the left, toward a truck parked on the hard shoulder.
Slowly, ever so slowly . . .
the car began to spin . . .
slowly. . . .
Just for a second, less than a second, Hatfield completely lost control of the car.
And
And
And
SMASH.
part three
23
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013
The impact was sudden. A jolt came first, then noise, then silence. The car had spun more than once and thumped into the rear of a trailer.
Metal crunched against metal; glass exploded into the car.
Adam had seen the red expanse race toward them. What first seemed slow and balletic had suddenly rushed to a thump and smash. Adam was lifted up out of his seat, and his seat belt dug into his shoulder. Marcia was thrown hard into the ceiling and door.
She died instantly, the investigators said later. No seat belt. At the impact speed of sixty-seven miles per hour she was more likely to die than to live.
Chief Inspector Hatfield, seated on the side of the impact, was probably saved by turning toward Adam, but his right shoulder and leg had been badly bruised, and blood dribbled from a head wound. Cuts on the right side of his face looked like an angry game of tic-tac-toe.
Adam couldn’t hear anything. Outside he saw a blurred world full of stationary cars and people approaching silently, like lunar explorers.
A man and a woman rushed to Adam’s door. “There’s a kid in here.” Then they saw Marcia beyond him. Quieter: “Oh no. I think his mother’s dead.”
Suddenly noise and clarity returned to Adam. “I want to get out,” he mumbled. “Get me out.”
Chief Inspector Hatfield moaned and flopped an arm toward Adam. “Stop him. Help me out. Help me.”
Gas started to fall onto the tarmac, just a drop or two at first, then a steady trickle.
“Get them out!” someone shouted. But the doors would not open.
Smoke and steam rose from the hood.
A man leaned in through the passenger window. Hatfield was already dragging himself across and was hauled out. Adam put his arms up and was halfway through his window. He wished that his body wasn’t so floppy.
Underneath the car, gas started to snake toward the tiny sparks that dropped from the engine.
“Son, you’re going to be fine,” a man’s voice said. Adam was shaken; scratches and bruises covered him, but adrenaline still ran in torrents. He stood up, tottering at first, but then, with his legs further apart, more steadily.
Voices came at him:
“You’re in shock, lad. You should sit down.”
“Keep him away from the car.”
“His mother’s in there.”
Hatfield was laid on the ground. Adam could hear him saying the words police and stop, but in his civilian clothes the man looked like a delirious and anxious father.
Fire again tried to reach Adam. One little spark hit the thin finger of gasoline, and the line of flames started heading back toward the gas tank.
Hatfield, still on the ground, stretched his arm across the highway. “Fire—there will be a fire.”
Adam edged away from the car.
There was a panicked flurry of activity; requests and warnings were shouted with concern and sometimes excitement; three people appeared with fire extinguishers and sprayed the car, unevenly but effectively.
All attention was on the immediate entertainment.
Adam looked across to the other lane. Traffic crawled past, faces turned toward the drama. Free theater.
He staggered toward the barrier that ran down the median.
“Are you okay?” asked a woman, wandering over.
“Yes, yes. I need some air, that’s all,” said Adam.
In the distance a siren wailed. People looked down the lines of vehicles to see a police car threading its way toward the scene, followed by an ambulance. Another distraction.
Adam sat on the central crash barrier. Further along he could see it had buckled and was surrounded by small pieces of debris, but here it was smooth and cool to his touch. As more people came forward Adam could see the scene becoming confused, individuals growing more interested in the event and less in the specifics of helping.
Another woman perched next to him and said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I just want to sit away from what has happened, quietly. Please let me go over there.” Adam nodded toward the far side of the highway, across the opposite lane, away from the accident. “Please.”
People rarely refuse children’s requests. They usually help kids in trouble. Anxious, she glanced over at the crashed car, but who was she to stop the boy? She only made a half-hearted effort.
Pushing her arm away, Adam quickly dragged himself over the barrier, then lurched between the traffic edging south, the direction he had traveled from.
Chief Inspector Hatfield turned to look for Adam. He sat up, wincing. “Adam? Where is Adam?” he asked.
“Who?”
He thought for a second, cunning slipping into his mind. “My son. I want my son brought here.”
Someone spotted Adam on the opposite lane. He was being hooted at by cars, then a bus obscured him from view.
“Help me up,” said Hatfield. “Help me up now.” He shuffled forward like a drunk. “I want that boy back here!”
Adam glanced back after the coach had passed, still standing between two lines of crawling traffic. He could see Hatfield rising and pointing.
A red Nissan Micra passed in front of Adam as he reached the very far side of the road. Six lanes separated him from Hatfield now, but their eyes still met through the traffic and the crowd.
“Get that boy!” sc
reamed Hatfield. Thoughts of what Coron would do were beginning to well up in his mind, half formed, but preceded by acute desperation coated in fear. “He is not my son. I am a police officer.” Hatfield poked around inside his jacket and pulled out ID, waving it vigorously in front of those around him.
A police car and an ambulance were stopping nearby.
Adam stared back as a tractor-trailer began to rumble past, the cab pulling a long white tank bearing a skull-and-crossbones symbol. He was hidden for a few seconds.
Hatfield shouted at the police officers who leaped from their car. “I am Chief Inspector Hatfield. Get that boy, now!”
The police looked across the lanes of traffic as the white trailer with its hazardous-chemicals symbol left their line of sight.
Adam wasn’t there.
“He’s over there somewhere. Check the trees. Call for support. Anything. I need that boy caught.” Panic’s bony fingers clawed at Hatfield’s insides as he hobbled forward, staring up and down the highway for any sign of Adam.
“Adam!” he shouted. “Adam! Adam! Adam!”
The ambulance crew looked around from their place by the crumpled car and one of them went across to Hatfield. “Sir . . .”
The police officers ran, leaping in front of the cars and running up the bank. Small trees dotted the area, but Adam wasn’t behind any of them. They reached the top of the slope. On the far side was a field scattered with cows.
“This is stupid,” said one. “He can’t be there. He must be on this bank. You go left and I’ll go right.”
Hatfield hobbled toward the center of the road, brushing off the paramedics trying to stop him.
After running for a couple of hundred yards in either direction, the policemen on the bank turned to the chief inspector, shrugged and held up their hands in a gesture of defeat. The boy had disappeared.
“Adam!” cried Hatfield uselessly into the pale sky.
Meanwhile, Adam was crouched down, grimacing as he clung to the back of the white tractor-trailer cab, as the road whistled past at fifty miles per hour. He held on to two thin strips of metal with stiff fingers, his legs vibrating between two precarious footholds. He was cold and felt faint.