Sleep

‘Anna, please.’

I am vaguely aware of someone pulling on my arms, gripping my elbows, trying to move them away from my face.

‘Anna, stop it. Please. Please, stop screaming.’

‘Anna? Anna, it’s Becca, your nurse.’

Someone touches my fingers, tightly twisted in my hair. I hold on tighter. I can’t let go. I won’t.

‘Is it my fault?’ Alex’s voice buzzes in and out of my consciousness. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the accident. Fuck. Is she going to stop? This is really … I can’t … I don’t know …’

‘It’s okay. It’s all right. She’s disorientated. One of the other nurses said she reacted violently when she came round in post-op.’ Someone pulls on my arms again. I can smell coffee. ‘Anna, sweetheart. Are you in pain? Can you open your eyes for me, please?’

‘Why is she screaming? Isn’t there something you can …’

‘Can you press the alarm button?’

‘Alarm? Why? What’s …’

‘I just need a doctor to see her. Can you just press …’

‘Is she going to be okay? She looked at me. She tried to speak. I thought—’

‘Anna. Anna, can you open your eyes? My name’s Becca Porter. I’m your nurse. You’re in hospital. Are you in any pain?’

‘Sorry, excuse me. Would you mind waiting outside the curtains for a minute. I’m Dr Nowak. Thanks, great. So, who do we have here?’

‘Anna Willis. Road traffic accident. Spleen laceration. She came round after post-op, her vitals were fine. She’s been asleep for the last hour or so. I heard screaming a few minutes ago and—’

‘Okay. Anna, I’m just going to have a look at your tummy, all right? Does it hurt when I press here?’

No. It doesn’t hurt there. It hurts here, in here, inside my head.

I know the nurses are about somewhere – I can hear the soft squeak of shoes on lino, a low cough and a murmur of voices – but I can’t see anyone. I’ve been staring around the ward for what feels like forever. Most of the other patients are asleep, reading silently or watching films on iPads. Everyone apart from the young woman opposite, who’s also awake and restless. She’s younger than me, late twenties tops, with a long, narrow face and dark hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head. The first time our eyes met we both smiled and gave a polite nod before letting our gaze drift away again, but we keep meeting each other’s eyes and it’s getting embarrassing. My throat’s still too sore to speak much above a whisper and I’d have to raise my voice to hold a conversation with her. I feel like I should apologise though. She was probably here last night when I screamed the place down. She must have been terrified. I imagine they all were. I didn’t even realise what had happened until the nurse, Becca, woke me up to check my blood pressure and asked how I was feeling. They’d rushed me away for a scan after they’d sedated me, worried that something had gone wrong with the operation and I was bleeding again. I can’t remember much about it, just a white ceiling, dotted with lights, speeding past as they pushed me down a corridor and then the low hum of the MRI machine. Apparently Alex stayed at the hospital until after the scan, then, reassured that I wasn’t in any danger, he did as the nurse suggested and went home for a sleep.

I thanked Becca for looking after me and I apologised for the screams I could only vaguely remember making. She kept a pleasant smile fixed to her face the whole time but when I asked where my colleagues were, her smile faltered.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I know the lorry driver was taken to another hospital but I don’t know about your friends. I can find out for you though.’

I didn’t see her again. The next time my blood pressure was checked it was a different nurse. Becca’s shift had ended, she said. She wouldn’t be in until tomorrow. I asked her the same question, if she knew what had happened to the others in the car. She genuinely didn’t seem to know but said she’d find out. When I saw her the next morning she said she was sorry, she hadn’t had time but the doctor would be along soon and she was sure he could answer my questions. I started to panic then. Where were Freddy, Peter and Mo? Had they been taken to a different ward? Unless they hadn’t been as badly injured as me. They might have walked away unscathed, a quick visit to hospital to be checked over and then sent straight home. But … my tender stomach tightened as I remembered what Alex had said about my recovery being a ‘miracle’.

The sound of wheels squeaking on lino makes me turn my head. A nurse has appeared in the doorway, pushing a trolley.

‘Excuse me. Nurse.’ I raise my hand and wave but she doesn’t so much as glance my way, my voice is so quiet. I watch despairingly as she turns left and walks further down the ward.

‘EXCUSE ME! NURSE!’ The woman in the bed opposite shouts so loudly that all heads turn in her direction, including the nurse’s. She waggles her hand in my direction as the nurse approaches, still pushing the trolley. ‘The woman over there was trying to get your attention.’

I smile gratefully and attempt to sit up as the nurse comes over, but I feel as though my stomach muscles have been slashed and the most I can manage is a vague craning of my neck.

‘Everything okay?’ Up close I can see that it’s Becca, the nurse who was so kind to me yesterday.

‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’m going mad here. I need to know what’s happened to my team … the … the people who were in the car with me. I need to know they’re all right.’

Her eyes cloud as she gazes at me. A shutter’s come down; she doesn’t want me to see what she’s feeling. She glances down at the watch hanging on her uniform.

‘Your partner will be here in about half an hour. Maybe it would be best if he were—’

‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Please just tell me. It’s bad news, isn’t it? You can tell me. I can take it.’

She looks at me as though she’s not entirely sure that I can, then she sighs and takes a shallow breath.

‘One of your colleagues is in a pretty bad way,’ she says softly. ‘He’s broken his back in several places.’

I press a hand to my mouth but it doesn’t mask my gasp.

‘But he’s stable,’ Becca adds. ‘He should pull through.’

‘Who is it?’

She grimaces, like she’s already regretting talking to me. Or perhaps it’s confidential information.

‘Please. Please tell me who it is.’

‘It’s Mohammed Khan.’

‘And the others? Peter Cross? Freddy Laing?’

As she lowers her gaze, my eyes fill with tears. No. No. Please. Please don’t let them … please …

She takes my hand and squeezes it tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Anna. We did everything we could.’

Chapter 4

Mohammed

Mohammed’s brain feels dull and woolly, as though it’s not pain-relieving meds that are flowing through his veins and capillaries but a thick, dark fog. He likes the fog because, as well as anaesthetising the ache in his limbs, it has stupefied his brain. Whenever he tries to latch on to an emotion – anger, regret, fear – it twirls away on a cloud of smoke. As a teenager, wrestling with his hormones and the pressure of exams, Mohammed had looked longingly at his dog, Sonic, curled up on the floor by his desk, and wished he could swap places. What would it be like, he wondered, to be a dog; to find joy in base behaviours – food, play, affection – and not overload your brain thinking about the future, death, the nature of an infinite universe, global warming, war and disease. It didn’t take much to make a dog happy – running around outside, catching a ball, a scratch behind the ears. What made him happy? Hanging out with his mates, staying up late, watching films, his PlayStation. Dogs lived in the moment but he didn’t. He was studying for exams, the outcome of which would shape his future.

He feels a bit like Sonic now, lying around, not thinking, just waiting, although what he’s waiting for he isn’t entirely sure. Movement in the corner of his eye makes him turn his head. He doesn’t recognise the short, suited, middle-aged man standing in the doorway of the ward but he watches him, vaguely registering the way his eyebrows knit together in frustration, as he scans the supine bodies in their metal beds. He’s obviously a visitor, looking for his loved one. The consultants look much more assured when they enter the ward. Two new emotions appear in the fog of Mohammed’s thoughts but, instead of disappearing, they twist together, travel down to his chest and curl around his heart. Disappointment and regret.

He turns his head away from the door and closes his eyes, half listening to the slap, clack of leather soled shoes on the ward floor, so different from the soft pad of the nurses’ shoes. The sound grows louder and louder, then there’s a soft cough.

‘Mohammed?’

He opens his eyes. The short, suited, middle-aged man is standing at the end of his bed, hands in his pockets and an anxious but determined look on his face. There’s something about his prominent nose, strong jaw and deep-set eyes that looks vaguely familiar but he’s too tired to work out why.

Instead he says, ‘Yes, I’m Mohammed. Who are you?’

‘Mind if I …’ The man gestures at the chair beside the bed and, with no reason to say no, Mohammed nods for him to sit down.

‘Steve,’ the man says, pulling at the thick material of his suit trousers as he takes a seat. He’s thickset – muscle rather than fat, Mohammed thinks bitterly as he instinctively glances at the shape of his own legs beneath the tightly tucked hospital bedding. ‘Steve Laing, Freddy’s dad.’

Mohammed looks back at him, eyes widening in surprise. For a second or two he is lost in confusion. He was told that Freddy had died in the crash. Why would Steve Laing be in the hospital? Unless … he feels a flicker of hope in his heart … unless Freddy isn’t really dead. Could they have made a mistake? Could he have? Maybe he was too out of it to take in what the nurse told him. Maybe …

His hope evaporates, leaving an empty chasm in his chest. There was no mistake. He cried when he heard. He cried for a very long time. Not just for Freddy and Peter but for himself too.

‘I brought you some magazines,’ Steve Laing says, reaching into his bag and plonking a pile of film and music magazines onto Mo’s bedside table along with a bar of Galaxy, a packet of Skittles and some jelly babies, ‘and some chocolates and stuff.’

‘Thanks.’

They stare at each other, just long enough for it to become awkward, then Steve looks down at his lap and runs his palms back and forth on his knees.

‘It’s good to see you looking so …’ He shakes his head sharply and looks back up at Mo. ‘Nah, I’m sorry, mate. I could give you that sugar-coated shit about you looking well and all that but that’s not who I am. I tell it like it is and I imagine you’ve had quite enough of people tiptoeing around you and telling you to think positive and all that.’ He pauses, but not long enough for Mo to reply. ‘The truth is that what happened to you, what happened to Peter and my Freddy, was a fucking travesty. A tragedy. It never should have happened, Mo. Never should have fucking …’ He turns his head sharply as tears well in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mo says, his throat tightening. ‘About Freddy. He was a really good bloke.’

‘Too right.’ Steve Laing drags the back of his hand over his eyes and looks back at him, lips pursed.

‘I …’ The words dry up on Mohammed’s tongue. He wants to tell Freddy’s dad how he tries not to think about his son because, each time he imagines Freddy’s death and the fact that he’s gone forever, he feels completely disconnected from his body, spinning a thousand miles above the earth, untethered, fearful and out of control. He wants to tell him that but he won’t. Because that’s not the sort of thing you say, especially not to someone you only just met.

Instead he says, ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you.’

Steve nods sharply and the pain in his eyes seems to lessen. They’re back on safe ground, social niceties and surface pleasantries.

‘The thing is, Mo, the reason I’m here is to ask you what happened. Not details,’ he adds quickly, sensing Mo’s mounting discomfort. ‘I don’t want you to talk me through the crash. No, mate, that would be cruel and I’m not a cruel person. You lived through that once, no need to do it again. Unless …’ He tails off.

Mo’s heart thunders in his chest. ‘Unless what?’

‘Unless you were a witness at the court case but, from speaking to your parents, I’m not sure you’ll be out of here in time.’ He pulls a face. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m not trying to be insensitive.’

‘You spoke to my parents?’

‘Yeah, your big boss … Tim something … put me in touch with them. That’s not a problem, is it?’

‘No, of course not.’

Another pause widens between the two men, then Steve clears his throat.

‘I’m trying to get a picture, Mo, of what happened that day. I know the police are doing their own investigation but this is for me, for my own peace of mind.’

‘Of course.’

‘Let’s start with Anna Willis. What’s your take on her?’

Mohammed closes his eyes, just for a split second, then opens them again. ‘What do you want to know about her?’

Steve raises his eyebrows. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’

Chapter 5

Anna

THREE WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

Wednesday 14th March

In the last half an hour the churchyard has transformed from a quiet, peaceful oasis in the heart of West Sussex to a thoroughfare for grief. I must have watched seventy, maybe a hundred mourners, all dressed in black with bowed heads and downturned eyes and matching mouths, walk the gravel path from the gate to the open door of the church. My stomach rumbles angrily and I press a clenched fist to my abdomen to silence it. I forgot to eat breakfast, again.

I didn’t eat for two days after the nurse told me that two of my team were dead. How could I spoon cereal into my mouth and slurp down tea like nothing had happened? How could I laugh and chat with the nurses when Peter and Freddy were lying in the mortuary? Instead I cried. I cried and I cried and I turned my head away from everyone who came to visit me, screwing up my eyes to block out faces creased with concern that I didn’t deserve. Only when Dr Nowak told me that if I didn’t eat something they’d fit me with a feeding tube did I finally agree to try half a slice of toast.

‘Anna.’ Alex touches my shoulder. ‘I think we should go in now. It’s due to start.’

It took me fifteen minutes to get out of the flat and into the car, and now we’re parked up I don’t want to get out again. Everything about driving terrifies me now: the motion, the proximity of other cars, swerving around roundabouts. I only made it home from the hospital because I kept my eyes tightly shut the whole way while Alex played my favourite album on loop. When we finally drew up outside our flat the tips of my fingers were red and numb from gripping the seat belt so tightly. Now, I press my cheek against the passenger side window. It’s cool beneath my burning cheek but it does nothing to calm my churning, aching guts.

‘I can’t go in there, Alex. What do I … what do I say to his parents?’

‘What people normally say – I’m so sorry for your loss, et cetera, et cetera, or nothing at all. You rang them last week, Anna. You don’t have to go through all that again.’

It took me two days to work up the courage to ring Maureen and Arnold Cross. I was Peter’s boss. It was only right that I rang them. But I was also the person who drove the car that rolled off the verge of the M25 and killed him. If I’d have been concentrating properly, if I’d have checked my side mirrors instead of glaring at Freddy in the rear-view mirror, I would have seen the half-ton truck drift towards us from the middle lane. I could have taken corrective action, moved us out of its path. And Peter would still be alive. If I’d let Freddy open the window, if I hadn’t let my irritation about what he’d said the night before distract me, then the lives of three people, and everyone who loved them, wouldn’t be destroyed.

A family friend answered the Cross family’s landline. He repeated my name loudly, as though announcing it to the room. There was a pause, then a woman said softly, ‘I don’t want to talk to her.’ When an elderly man added, ‘I will,’ I felt faint with fear. Peter’s dad. I couldn’t speak for several seconds after he said hello, my throat was so tight. I’m sorry, that’s what I said, over and over. I’m so, so sorry. I can never forgive myself. There was a pause, a silence that seemed to stretch forever and I braced myself for his fury. It was what I deserved. Instead he said simply, ‘We miss him,’ and silent tears rolled down my cheeks. ‘We both do,’ he added. ‘Every time the phone rings we think it’s him, checking if Maureen’s sciatica is any better or asking me for gardening advice. Sometimes we …’ His voice quivered and he coughed, then sniffed loudly. ‘They say the lorry driver who ploughed into you fell asleep at the wheel. No alcohol or drugs. A micro-sleep, they reckon, less than thirty seconds long. Tell me Peter didn’t suffer,’ he begged. ‘Just tell me that.’

‘Anna.’ Alex nudges me gently. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

‘No, sorry. I was—’

‘They don’t blame you for what happened, Anna. No one does.’

‘Freddy’s dad does.’

‘He was angry. His son has just died. Sorry,’ he apologises quickly as I turn sharply. ‘I know, I know.’

I couldn’t face another call straight after I’d spoken to Peter’s dad, so I waited until the next day to call Steve Laing. My hand still shook as I picked up the phone, but I didn’t feel the blind panic I’d felt the day before. I knew what was coming – pain, sadness, grief and disbelief – and I determined to be more of a comfort this time around. I’d tell him how popular Freddy had been on the team, talk about his achievements and take my time answering any questions Steve Laing might want to ask me.

Only he was nothing like Arnold Cross. When I introduced myself, he exploded down the phone at me. How dare I ring him while he was grieving? It was down to my negligence that his son was dead – mine and the company I worked for. Did I have children? Did I have any idea of the hell he was going through, his child dying before him? I tried to apologise but he shouted over me. Had I ever driven a car in such treacherous conditions before? Did I have any points on my licence? Had I ever been caught speeding or made a claim on my insurance? All I could do was stare in horror at the white patch of wall in front of me as he ranted and raged and took all his anger and grief out on me.

I didn’t ring Mo or his parents. When I was still in hospital I asked a nurse if I could use a wheelchair to go and see him, but she told me he didn’t want any visitors. When I asked again a couple of days later I was told that Mo didn’t want to see me and it would probably be for the best if I didn’t ask again.

‘The CPS aren’t pressing charges against you,’ Alex says now. ‘It’s the lorry driver they’re gunning for.’

‘But maybe Steve Laing was right. I hadn’t driven on the motorway when it was that icy before and—’

‘We’re going home.’ Alex starts the engine. ‘Coming here was a mistake.’

‘No!’ I rest my hand on the steering wheel. ‘I need to do this.’

It’s standing room only and we’re crushed up against strangers in the back of the church. Alex is pressed against my right shoulder and a tall man with a bald head keeps bumping my left. The people at the front of the church are bundled up tightly in their hats, coats and scarves despite the orange glow of Calor gas heaters dotted at the end of the pews. Tim, my boss, is sitting in a pew near the back, but it’s the woman in the row at the very front that I can’t take my eyes off. I can only see the back of her grey hair but, from the way it’s resting on the shoulder of the man beside her, it can only be Peter’s mother. A fresh wave of guilt tears through me. If it weren’t for me, none of us would be here now and Peter would be…

A shadow falls across my face and all the air is knocked from my lungs. The coffin, lifted high on the shoulders of six grim-faced men, appears in the entrance to the church. The gentle murmuring of the congregation stops suddenly, as though someone has sharply twisted the volume control to the left, and Alex tightens his grip on my hand, pulling me after him as he takes a step back to make way. I want to look at him, at my shoes, anywhere but at the shiny wooden box that moves past me, but I keep my chin tipped up and my gaze steady. I need to face the reality of the devastation I caused. I owe Peter that. But my bravery doesn’t last long. The moment the coffin turns into the aisle I collapse against Alex.

‘I need to get out,’ I whisper between sobs. ‘I need some air.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No.’ I touch him on the arm. ‘I won’t be long. I just need to be alone for a few minutes.’

I feel the weight of his gaze as I slide past him and move through the mourners but he lets me go.

Out in the fresh March air I pull off the hat, coat and scarf that make me feel suffocated and I inhale deeply, sucking cold air into my lungs, pushing out the damp, sorrowful scent of the church. My stomach clenches violently, bile touching the back of my tongue and, for one horrifying moment, I think I’m going to be sick. I fight the sensation, breathing shallowly and staring at the cloudless grey sky until it passes, then I start to walk. I drift from gravestone to gravestone, reading the inscriptions, looking at the dates, noting the flowers – or lack of them. As a distraction it only partially works. I feel lost in a fog of sadness and regret whenever I pass someone who died young. There’s one grave that particularly upsets me. A man and a woman are listed on one stone, John and Elizabeth Oakes. He died aged fifty-nine in 1876. She died twenty years later aged seventy-six. Their children are listed below them – Albert, Emily, Charlotte, Edward, Martha and Thomas. Six children and not one of them made it past their fifth birthday. The grave is old and uncared for; moss clings to the children’s names and the angel that sits atop the stone is chipped, her face worn away with age. I scan the cold, hard ground around the grave, looking for daisies or dandelions that I can bunch together with blades of grass. A clump of bowed snowdrops at the base of a tree catches my eye.

I crouch down beside the flowers and pinch one of the stems between my index finger and thumb, then pause, mid-snap. Someone’s watching. I can feel their gaze resting on me, like a weight across my shoulder blades. I turn sharply, expecting to see a photographer behind a gravestone, or a journalist dressed in black with a faux-sad expression. The local press have been hounding me for an interview since I left hospital.

But whoever was watching me isn’t interested in a chat. I catch a glimpse of a black coat or jacket disappearing around the side of the church and then they’re gone. I abandon the clump of bright snowdrops – the idea of plucking them so they can wither and die on a gravestone suddenly feels wrong – and walk back towards the church. As I approach the leaf-strewn porch, the door opens and Alex slides out to the piped opening chords of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.

‘Okay?’ His eyes search my face.

‘Not really, no.’

‘Do you want to go back in?’

I glance towards the side of the church, where the figure in black disappeared. There’s no one there now. Just row after row of grey gravestones, some aged, some new and – my breath catches in my throat as I notice it for the first time – a large hole in the ground, with green, sack-like material surrounding it. Peter’s plot. Alex turns his head, following my line of sight, and his hands twitch at his side. For one second I think he’s going to reach for me. Instead he shoves his hands into his pockets and shivers.

‘It’s cold out here. Shall we go?’ He inclines his head in the direction of the car.