by TL Dyer
Chapter 6
It’s 2.45am when I’m back in my own car and pulling away from the station with another few hours until shift was officially due to end. It doesn’t seem right. But I’m exhausted. So for once I take advantage of the pass that’s on offer. Besides, Fred returned to the office before Sacha and I were done, and gave us little say in the matter. He gave us nothing else either, like how it went with the parents, only said we’d de-brief on the next shift. I’d liked to have spoken to Anna’s mum and dad myself. I don’t think that was unreasonable, in fact it would have been the professional thing to do, but Freddie gave me no choice. When I leave the station, it’s my old friend and his obstinacy I’m frustrated with.
The roads are quiet. Still. Like life’s holding its breath. Most people are in bed, getting in what rest they can before the alarm goes off and their day begins. Another day, same as the one before, same as the one after. But I can’t even think about sleep. I can’t think about home either, not with the feeling of Anna’s hand in mine still fresh in my mind, the trace of her perfume on my clothes. For a while, I drive round the city with nowhere particular to go, just driving. It’s not where I want to be, it feels too much like work. But I don’t want to be anywhere else either. I’m not sure whether I realise what I’m doing when I head down the slip road that leads back to the incident scene.
When the signs direct me, I move into the outside lane, the only one open, and pass by the yellow jackets of the crash investigators. One stands some way back with a machine mounted on a tripod that will register every nuance of the area and accurately provide them with 3D images to help determine speed, distances, and ultimately what the hell went wrong. Anna’s car is still there, but a tow truck waits to one side, its circling orange lights a sign that danger has been downgraded. The debris remains scattered over the carriageway until it’s all documented and photographed and finally cleaned away. Tomorrow it will be like nothing happened. Life goes on. I head home.
I park on the pavement outside the driveway so that Ange can get the Tiguan out in the morning. It’s colder here in Bassaleg, a couple of miles down the road from the city, and a thin frost creeps over the Tiguan’s rear windscreen. For what it’s worth, I take a can of de-icer from my car and spray it over the Volkswagen’s windows, but likely she’ll have to do it again in another few hours anyway. A thankless task.
The house is as motionless as the street when I walk in. I lay my keys soundlessly on the side table and sit on the stairs to unlace and pull off each boot. The clock ticks louder than normal in the kitchen.
‘As quick as you can.’
Charlotte’s words to Ben.
Two clean breaks. Both shins. Making Ben’s job much easier. He only needs to cut what’s left of the flesh away and she’ll be free.
She feels nothing to begin with. Maybe because she sees nothing. The doors are out, the roof off, and we’ve tilted her seat all the way down. Two other paramedics hold up a blanket like a screen – the same way they did with Ange when she had the caesarean, same way they do with horses when trying to keep them calm. I’ve rolled my seat horizontal too, making room for Charlotte, and I kneel on the headrest, my thighs and back killing me, but it means I can stay close, reassure her, tell her she’s going to be fine—
‘Steve?’
I jump up from the stair at Ange’s voice, and cover my reaction by reaching for my boots and putting them beside the door.
‘What are you doing home?’ she asks, the boards on the stairs creaking under her slow descent.
‘Early finish, love. Go back to bed.’
I walk down the hall to the kitchen and turn on the light. Rumpole raises his head and squints at me with bleary eyes. I return the gaze, equally bleary. His grey tail slaps the bed once, before he drops his chin to the cushion again, watching me for as long as he can keep his eyes open. I know how you feel, mate.
‘Everything alright?’ Ange asks over a yawn.
I flip the lid of the kettle and hold it under the tap.
‘Go back to bed,’ I repeat, snapping the lid shut, flicking the switch, and turning to the cupboard for a mug.
‘Oh my god. Steve.’
She’s stood in the kitchen doorway in her navy cotton pyjamas and fleece dressing gown, a hand hovering close to her mouth as she comes ever more awake. I glance down to see what she means, remembering about the jacket but not remembering that I’d put it on again. I slip my arms from the sleeves, fold it inside out, and throw it over a stool at the counter.
‘Jesus,’ she adds, somewhere between a word and a breath, as she steps into the kitchen.
‘It’s nothing. Just go back to bed.’
I get my coffee mug from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer. But she’s not listening. Her hand touches my forearm and I snap in response. ‘Look, it’s alright, love,’ I insist, holding the spoon up between us. ‘I told you. Go to bed. You’ve got work in a few hours.’
‘What happened?’
‘An RTC, that’s all.’
I drag the coffee tin over the counter and wish the water would hurry up and boil. But the longer it takes, the more her stillness beside me grows heavy, robbing me of air. With a concentrated effort, I frown at my abruptness and gesture down at myself. ‘I just need to wash. Have some caffeine to clear my head, and take a shower.’
She reaches for the sugar tin. ‘Why don’t you let me—’
‘Ange, please.’ I softly thump my fist against the counter. ‘Honestly. I’ve got it. Go back to bed. Please.’
I look at her, pretending I can’t see the sad rejection pulling on her eyes, because I don’t have the energy for it right now. She knows I’ve done this Christ knows how many times before. Anna’s not my first RTC fatality, and she certainly won’t be my last. All I want is a bit of space. Five minutes to bloody think.
She lays a gentle hand on my waist and reaches up to press a kiss to my cheek. Her lips are dry and her hair brushes my face when she turns to leave. I stare at the steam rising from the kettle and dispersing in clouds beneath the underside of the kitchen cupboards, and wait until I hear the bedroom door click shut. When it does, I drop the spoon on the counter and go upstairs to the bathroom. I flick the lock across, reach into the shower cubicle and spin the dial to full, then sit on the edge of the bath while the water warms up.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters, Anna?’
‘Sister.’
She squeezes her hand in mine and I squeeze back. She’s numb to what they’re doing to her, but she’s more scared than she’s ever been in her life. More scared than most people will ever experience. And the only person she’s got right now in the entire world is me. A stranger.
‘I always wanted a brother or sister,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t to be. Guess I was more than enough on my own. Trouble, that is.’
The right side of her mouth twitches, and I recognise this as her attempt at a smile. ‘Little sisters are annoying,’ she says through dry lips.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Sienna.’
‘Sienna and Anna. That’s nice.’
‘It’s not.’ Her chin trembles, teeth begin to chatter. ‘It’s terrible.’
‘Charlotte, do you have more blankets?’ I say over my shoulder. Then back to Anna, ‘Well, I think it’s nice. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you both.’
She attempts an eye roll but doesn’t quite make it. Charlotte taps at my arm and I take the blanket she offers, unfolding it with one hand and spreading it over the top of my work jacket.
‘Thank you,’ she says, and just then her eyes are so clear when they find mine, that I’m sure she’ll make it.
Her body rocks from the movement of the car with all of us in it, and with the motions Ben makes trying to free her. Instructions from Charlotte are hushed, but once in a while I hear Ben’s inhale and imagine his adrenaline is skyrocketing right now. He’s not old, but not young either, and I wonder how many times he’s had to do this. Maybe never.
‘Who shall we call, Anna?’ I ask. ‘Mum? Dad? Boyfriend?’
Her breath quickens, though I’m not sure over what – the thought of her family or what’s happening to her, what they’re doing to her. But something tells me this latter hasn’t registered yet. She’s in shock. She has been since the moment she opened her eyes.
‘My phone,’ she says.
‘Where is it?’ I ask, leaning closer so that all she’s aware of is me and not the other voices in front of us, not the boots running over the ground, the quiet urgency, the droning from the fire engines and their generator for the cutting equipment. All I want her to see is me.
‘Don’t know. Here somewhere. Don’t know.’ Her voice splinters under the panic. Charlotte mumbles a concern about rising BP.
‘Alright, love,’ I say. ‘I’ll find it. Don’t worry about that at the minute.’
‘Need it.’ Her fingernails dig into my hand with a strength she hasn’t shown until now.
‘Anna, listen to me. I’ll find it, I promise you. But it’s more important we get you out of here...’ I almost say ‘in one piece’ but stop myself in time. That would be a promise too far.
‘Please.’ Her pale eyes get lost to the tears that hang there, blotting out their colour. ‘They can’t... I can’t...’
‘She needs to be out now,’ Charlotte announces to those working both inside and outside the car, her fingers gripping the monitor. ‘Everybody ready, please.’
I turn back to Anna. ‘Time to get you out of here, darling. Here we go. You ready?’ I ask, but she’s not listening. I know she’s not, I can tell by the way she’s looking right into me. Almost through me, it feels like. And with a strength that comes from Christ knows where, she pulls herself up and says just loud enough for me to hear her insistence, ‘They can’t know.’
Steam fills the bathroom and creeps down my throat. I get up from the bathtub, peel off the polo shirt, undo the belt buckle and trousers and let them drop to the floor. Then as I’m pulling off my underwear, I see the bloodstains across my stomach and thighs from where her blood has soaked through my clothing to my skin. I stand and stare, knowing that once I wash it away, I’ll have to wash my head of everything else too. Tomorrow’s another day and the shift starts again. There’s no time to hold on to things like this. Tomorrow it’ll be done and passed, same as it always is. I only have right now to think about it, get rid of it, and move on.
I step into the shower and close the cubicle door. The water’s warm and comforting and I haven’t realised until now that I’ve been shivering. I’m still shivering as the spray hits my head, my neck, slides down my spine. Something sharp stings my right hand, and I look down to see that above and below the knuckle of my little finger is scuffed and red. Anna’s fingernails must have broken through the skin. Blood and water flow down my calves and circle my feet. And then, without warning, I brace my palm against the tiles as I hear again Anna’s cry, long and brutal and from somewhere deep in her gut...
It’s unexpected, and it tears right through me in much the same way Ben’s knife is tearing through her limbs. She’s not shown any inclination of pain before. On the one hand, it’s a good sign. On another, it means she’s suffering now and suffering means distress. Her heart rate goes off the scale. I grip her hand tighter and tell her she’s done amazingly but it’s time to get out of here.
Everyone moves fast. The second crew of paramedics already waiting with the stretcher and braced to rush her to the ambulance; the firefighters ensuring the route is clear for a quick getaway. Their organisation is astounding and I’m thinking if she survives this it’ll be because we’ve all worked so well together, done something incredible. But if she doesn’t, which one of us will question what we could have done better?
She doesn’t cry out again, but tears pour down her white cheeks as they lift her unceremoniously onto the stretcher and dash with her to the ambulance. No time for dignity or trauma reduction, only saving her life.
I’ve barely climbed out of the car after them, trying to force movement back into my numbed and cramping legs, when Charlotte’s calling my name.
‘Her phone,’ she shouts, and jabbing a finger in the car’s direction. ‘She’s asking for her phone.’
‘Typical teenager,’ Graham says, as he and his team clear away their equipment. I might have smiled, I don’t remember, but I look at what’s left of her Fiat and wonder how the fuck I’ll find anything in that.
‘Steve, the crash team’s here.’ Sacha stands on the other side of the car, her notebook and pen still in hand from where she’s been collecting information from witnesses.
‘Talk them through what you’ve got, you probably know more than me. I’ll go with her,’ I say, shining my flashlight over the rear seats. I rest one knee on the driver’s seat to check the side pockets, over the glass and metal debris on the dash, the rear floor. As soon as she’s hooked up in the ambulance, they’ll have to move. I’m about to give up and go without it when I think of something.
I don’t want to do it, but Anna is asking and if it’ll make her feel any better until we get her to the hospital... I pull on a latex glove I take from my back pocket and reach down into the driver’s footwell. It’s not the jagged metal or bits of glass that worry me, it’s everything else. Like the canvas of a shoe my fingers touch. I know what’s inside it, but pass quickly over and stay focused on what my task is. Sometimes that’s the only way. Micro task by micro task. Deal with what’s right in front of you and nothing more.
I don’t expect to find it, but I do. ‘Got it,’ I shout to anyone who can hear me as I run to the ambulance, yanking another glove from my back pocket and dropping the device inside it.
‘Jump in, Steve,’ Charlotte says, getting ready to close the doors. No questions, no debate. No kind gesture either; as an officer in attendance at the scene, I’m required to accompany the evidence from a crime scene wherever it goes until it’s secured, and right now this particular evidence is Anna. Priority is saving her life, next is finding out what happened, and that’ll mean testing her blood for alcohol and other substances. And besides, I’m still that friendly copper she can trust. The one promising her she’ll be home watching Love Island before she knows it.
As the ambulance picks up speed and sirens scream, I focus on Anna’s face and not what Charlotte and another paramedic are busy with further down. The nineteen-year-old is whiter than the sheet wrapped around her, and her eyelids are heavy from the motion of the ambulance, but she seeks me out all the same. I wonder if her blue eyes are always that pale, or whether it’s just that the colour and life are seeping from them with each passing minute. Her hair lies damp and limp across the pillow, and there’s a sheen over her forehead and cheeks that makes her look as if she’s made of porcelain. Like a doll.
Leaning as close as I can, I tell her I have her phone and I’ll take care of it for her, but only if she promises to stay awake. I smile and warn her not to get too bloody comfortable. But there are no twitching lips in response this time. Her eyes go to my hands where I grip the glove with the phone in it, and she says something I don’t catch. She tries again, but speaking is a real effort for her now. It’s only when I crouch closer and feel her lips scratch my earlobe, the rasp of her breath against my skin, that the words become clear.
‘Please. I’m begging you. Delete messages.’
When I pull back enough to gauge her meaning, sorrow-stricken eyes that already know their fate plead with me again. She’s the saddest looking doll I’ve ever seen...
I’m on the floor of the shower. I don’t remember how I got here or when I started trembling. The scorching water batters my feet, and where it swirls around the drain, it’s not bloody any more but clear, and I wonder if I made the right decision. Because it was only after, sat alone in the hospital corridor with her phone in my hands and the lit screen hurting my eyes and making my head thud, that I finally understood what she meant.
Chapter 7
Ange’s hand on my shoulder pulls me from a deep sleep. I’m on the sofa in nothing but my boxers and the blanket from the back of the chair. She tells me to go to bed and I listen, do as she says. I don’t have to be on shift until tonight and despite my early finish last night I’m exhausted, the muscles of my torso and thighs bruised, like they’ve had a good workout. I get under the duvet, and a little while later think I hear the click of the front door as Ange leaves. It’s still dark in the room.
*
There’s a small piece about the accident on the Welsh news, but nothing much. No mention of her name yet, no standard sound bite from an inspector or chief inspector, no suspicious circumstances. A camera pans down the length of the motorway from east to west, then cuts to a shot of the tyre grooves in the ditch at the side of the road where the car ended up. A site too dangerous to lay flowers. Another cut to the bridge a quarter of a mile down the carriageway and a handful of bouquets there. The newsreader back in the studio is all smiles and it’s over to the weather. I mute the TV but leave it on.
The toast is like rubber in my mouth, and the coffee when I get to it is tepid and weak. It’s 11.15am and my body doesn’t know which way up it is. It’s always the same on late shifts. I should still be sleeping, but I got in a solid five hours and now I’m wide awake.
In the kitchen I make another pot of coffee and rinse the breakfast dishes while I wait for it to percolate. I think about going in early tonight, catch up on some admin, try to get ahead of myself for once.
When the coffee’s done, I take it to the table and lift the lid on Ange’s laptop, power it up. You get more news from the internet than the TV these days. But after ten minutes of browsing, I come up with little more than was broadcast earlier, a one-car fatality just not sensational enough.
The stairs groan under the weight of heavy footfalls and I freeze with the mug halfway to my mouth. What day is it? Who would be home? For some reason, I look to the dog. Rumpole is a seven-year-old, slightly overweight, grey and white Staffie. He’s laid back and loving and good with children. He’s a shit guard dog. Not even an ear pricks at the sound of shuffling on the stairs, but his chin rests on his paws and he looks up at me with a blink that says one of us is in trouble.