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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.
I take one last, long look at the plot then nod silently, but Alex is already halfway down the path.
My boyfriend is behind the wheel, hunched over his phone as I reach for the passenger door handle. It’s splattered with mud; the whole side of the car is. I’ll offer to pay for a valet when we get back to London. It’s the least I can…
It’s so small I almost didn’t notice it.
SLEEP
Written just above the front wheel arch, like someone’s wet their finger and carved the word into the mud.
‘Alex.’ He looks up from his phone as I tap on the window, surprise then irritation registering on his face. I beckon him with one hand and point towards the wheel arch with the other. ‘Something weird.’
He sighs silently and opens his door.
‘What?’ he says as he steps out.
‘Someone’s written something on the car.’
‘What!’ His irritation turns to fury in an instant.
‘It’s not damaged. It’s just weird. Look.’
He joins me and looks where I’m pointing.
‘SLEEP?’ He’s nonplussed.
‘Don’t you think it’s weird?’
‘A bit.’
‘What do you think it means?’
He shrugs. ‘That some teenager was bored? It’s more original than clean me, anyway.’
‘But it’s not funny. It’s not witty. It’s not … anything.’ I glance back towards the church – I just had the strongest sensation that we were being watched – but the churchyard is still deserted.
‘Exactly. It’s nothing to worry about.’ Alex wanders back to his side of the car and pulls on the door handle. He smiles as our eyes meet over the top of the car. ‘I won’t be losing sleep about it, anyway.’ He laughs. ‘Losing sleep. Get it?’
‘Yeah.’ I close my eyes tightly and think about ‘SLEEP’ and what it could mean, all the way home.
Chapter 6
Anna
EIGHT WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT
Thursday 26th April
I feel like a balloon on a string, floating above the pavement. Alex’s hand is wrapped tightly around mine but I can’t feel the pressure of his fingers on my skin. I can’t feel anything. Not the pavement under my feet, not the wind on my cheeks, not even my laboured breath in my throat. Tony, my stepdad, is walking ahead of us, his white hair waving this way and that as the wind lifts and shakes it. His black suit is too tight across his shoulders and every now and then he tugs at the hem. When he isn’t pulling at his clothes he’s glancing back at me, over his shoulder.
‘All right?’ he mouths.
I nod, even though it feels like he’s looking straight through me, talking to someone further down the street. I barely recognised the woman who stared back at me from the mirror this morning as she pulled on the white blouse, grey suit and black heels that had been laid out on the bed for her. I knew it was me in the mirror but it was like looking at a photograph of myself as a child. I could see the similarity in the eyes, the lips and the stance but there was a disconnection. Me, and not me, all at the same time. I barely slept last night. While Alex snored softly beside me, curled up and hugging a pillow, I lay on my back and stared at the dark ceiling. When I did fall asleep, sometime after three, it wasn’t for long. I woke suddenly at five, gasping, shrieking and clawing at the duvet. I’d had my hospital dream again, the one about the faceless person staring at me.
‘It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,’ Mum says now, trotting along beside me, her cheeks flushed red, the thin skin around her eyes creased with worry. When we got out of the car she took my right hand and Alex took my left. I felt like a child, about to be swung into the air but with fear in my belly rather than glee. At some point Mum must have let me go because now her hands are clenched into fists at her sides.
‘Anna.’ Mum’s gloved hand brushes the arm of my coat. ‘This isn’t about you, love. You’re not the one on trial. You’re a witness. Just tell the court what happened.’
Just the court: the judge, the jury, the lorry driver, the public, the press, and the family and friends of my colleagues. I need to stand up in front of all of those people and relive what happened eight weeks ago. If I didn’t feel so numb, I’d be terrified.
‘Anna!’
‘Over here!’
‘Anna!’
‘Mr Laing!’
‘Mr Khan!’
The noise overwhelms me before the bodies do. Everywhere I look there are people, necks craned, arms reaching in the air – some with microphones, others with cameras – and they’re all shouting. My stepdad wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close.
‘Give her some space!’ He raises an arm and swipes at a camera that’s just been shoved in my face. ‘Out of the way! Just get out of the bloody way, you imbeciles.’
As Tony angles me out of the crowd I search desperately for Mum and Alex but they’re still trapped in the throng of people by the courthouse entrance.
‘Anna! Anna!’ A blonde woman in her early forties in a pink blouse and a puffy black gilet presses up against me and holds a digital Dictaphone just under my chin. ‘Are you satisfied with the verdict? A two-year sentence and two of your colleagues are dead?’
I stare at her, too shocked to speak, but she registers the turn of my head as interest and continues to question me.
‘Will you go back to work at Tornado Media? Was that your boyfriend you were with?’
‘You’re having trouble sleeping, aren’t you?’ a different voice asks.
I twist round to see who asked the question but there’s a sea of people following us down the steps – dozens of men in suits, photographers in jeans and anoraks, a dark-haired woman in a bright red jacket, an older lady with permed white hair, my mother – pink-cheeked and worried – and, on the other side of the group from her, the thin, anxious shape of my boyfriend.
The blonde to my right nudges me. ‘Anna, do you feel responsible in any way?’
‘What?’ Somehow, in the roar, Tony heard her question. Someone behind me bumps against me as my stepdad stops sharply. ‘You bloody what?’
It’s like a film, freeze-framed, the way the crowd around us suddenly falls silent and stops moving.
The blonde smiles tightly at Tony. ‘Mr Willis, is it?’
‘Mr Fielding actually, who’s asking?’
‘Anabelle Chance, Evening Standard. I was just asking your daughter if she felt in any way responsible for what happened.’
The skin on my stepdad’s neck flushes red above the white collar of his shirt. ‘Are you bloody kidding me?’ He stares around at the crowd. ‘Can she actually say that?’
‘It was just a question, Mr Fielding. Anna’ – she tries to hand me a business card – ‘if you’d ever like to chat then give me a—’
He knocks her hand away. ‘You’re treading a very fine line. Now, get out of our way, before I make you.’
Mum and Alex wrap around us like a protective shield, Alex beside me, Mum next to Tony, as we hurry away from the noise and chaos of the courtroom.
‘Have you got a tissue, love?’ Mum asks as we reach the car. ‘You’ve got mascara all down your face.’
I touch a hand to my cheeks, surprised to find that they’re wet.
‘Yes, I’ve …’ I reach a hand into my suit pocket and feel the soft squish of a packet of Kleenex. But there’s something else beside them, something hard with sharp corners, something I don’t remember putting into my pocket when I got ready this morning. It’s a postcard. The background is blue with white words forming the shape of a dagger. The words turn red as they near the point of the blade and a single drop of blood drips onto the title: The Tragedy of Macbeth.
‘What’s that?’ Mum asks as I flip the card over.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know.’
There are two words written on the back, in large, looping letters:
For Anna
I look from Mum, to Dad and then to Alex. ‘Did one of you put this in my pocket?’
When they all shake their heads, I flip it back over and read the quote:
Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep’ – the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
I know this quote from studying Macbeth at A-level. It’s Macbeth talking to Lady Macbeth about the frightening things that have happened since he murdered King Duncan.
‘Anna?’ Alex says. ‘Are you okay? You’ve gone very pale.’
I glance back towards the courthouse and the throng of faceless people milling around.
‘Someone put this in my pocket.’
‘It wasn’t that bloody journalist, was it?’ Tony says. ‘Because I’ll get on the phone to her editor if I need to. I won’t have her harassing you like this.’
‘Let me see that.’ Alex leans over my shoulder and peers at the card. ‘Is that a quote from Shakespeare?’
‘It’s Macbeth telling Lady Macbeth about a voice he heard telling him he’ll never sleep again.’
‘Oh, that’s horrible.’ Mum runs her hands up and down her arms. ‘Who’d give you something like that?’
‘Here, give me that.’ Tony takes the card from my fingers, rips it into tiny pieces and then drops them into a drain. ‘There. Gone. Don’t give it a second thought, love.’
No one mentions it all the way home but the words rest in my brain like a weight.
