the street, and an image flashed into my mind, of honey-brown eyes and a wide, lopsided grin. I hesitated, looking one last time at the undulating river of anonymous faces. And then suddenly there he was, looking back at me.
For an endless moment time seemed to stop. I heard someone shout, and then the stranger was shouting, too. Yelling at me, eyes wide with alarm. My heart contracted as I spotted with horror the big black car that was almost upon me. Confusion overwhelmed my brain. I wanted to run, but which way? My hands reached out toward the safety of the pavement, clawing at the air, and in the instant before the car struck, my eyes found his again—too late.
I heard the thud with a vague sense of astonishment, and my body went limp as it lurched to the side. I knew horror and confusion, but no pain, just a clinical awareness of what was going on and, ridiculously, disappointment. Disappointment at never being able to see those honey-brown eyes again.
Like a broken doll, my body was flung into the street. The sound of tires squealed inside my head—or was it my own screams I heard? Pavement grated against my flesh. Something white filled my fading vision, and with the second impact came such pressure that the air was sucked from my lungs. And yet somehow everything seemed to be happening through a mist, as if to someone else. Pale, terrified faces…the cold gray street rising up to meet me…crimson blood blinding my eyes.
I felt the crack of breaking bones, but still there was no pain, just a roaring inside my head and a swirling fear, as my body crumpled, broken and bleeding, to the hard, wet street.
CHAPTER 2
Ben stood on the pavement, feeling suddenly conspicuous, wishing he had worn his usual long jogging pants instead of the stupid shorts that appeared so out of place on the busy street.
He hadn’t intended to run farther than Fletcher Park. Whenever he came to London, he always stayed at the same select guesthouse, right next to the park. The massive treetops were the first thing he saw when he woke in the morning and he loved to get up and go for a run through the small oasis of countryside in the midst of the sprawling, heaving city, taking delight in the fact that at last he could. Two years ago he would hardly have even been able to walk that distance.
He hated the city, but there was something about the park. Oak and ash and sycamore trees, tall and stately, overlooked the passers-by today, as they must have for well over a century. Nannies pushing large black baby carriages, ladies dressed in rustling silks—he liked to think that the trees had towered majestically over them all, and it gave him a sense of stability somehow to pass beneath their imposing canopy, imagining the changes they had seen, and would still see no doubt.
Ill health had made him conscious of the fragility of his own mortality, and his single-minded fight back to fitness had made him self-aware and independent. A lonely figure in a bustling world, needing no one, asking for nothing, just living day-today in his quest for survival.
Today, for once, he had broken his routine and strayed beyond the peaceful haven of the park, out into the teeming throng of cold-eyed strangers. Gray faces, office suits, a crying toddler dragged along by a pink-faced young woman with tired eyes.
He half turned, back toward the comforting sea of green that beckoned through the park gates. But something made him hesitate, some intangible inner force. Where was the girl in the crimson suit now? She was the reason he had strayed from his normal routine, and still he didn’t know why. He wasn’t one for picking up strange women in parks—or women at all, for that matter—but with her it had seemed inevitable somehow. Something about her had pulled at him—the unexpected vulnerability in her wide gray eyes, those crazy shoes, that vivid crimson suit. Even now he smiled to himself as he imagined her running across the carpet of autumn leaves, high-heeled red sandals sliding, face glowing with something he couldn’t quite place—a kind of joy, he supposed.
He scoured the pavement, frantically searching for a flash of red, and suddenly there she was, face averted from him and long dark hair blowing in the breeze as she waited on the edge of the pavement. A gap appeared in the traffic. She stepped off the curb, and Ben froze in his tracks as she hesitated, looking back. Her eyes, inevitably, met his.
For an endless moment the impatient sounds of the city disappeared into the background. A second, merely one second—that was all it was. One second that lasted a lifetime and changed his world forever.
The big black car appeared from nowhere, driving too fast around the corner, racing the lights. He yelled at her, gesturing madly, struggling to run with wooden legs. And then she saw it, too, her eyes wide with horror, her arms flailing helplessly as she tried to get away…too late.
Her eyes met his again in the moment before the vehicle struck. Before she was tossed aside like a discarded doll onto the cold wet street. And deep inside himself, Ben felt something snap, something irreparable.
Her scream cut through the hum of traffic, shattering the air, and for an endless moment the whole street froze. Horrified faces. Eyes wide with fear and confusion. A deathly hush as the young woman’s slight, crimson-clad body crumpled before the onslaught of the shiny black BMW.
The sickening thud of its impact against her soft, sweet flesh drew a heartrending gasp from a hundred helpless, shocked observers. They watched her limp form hurtle sideways to bounce helplessly into the path of an old white minibus. Its ashen-faced driver stood on his brakes, but the cumbersome vehicle just squealed in protest as it slid relentlessly on. The driver spun the wheel in desperation and the bus slewed to one side, almost, but not quite, missing her fragile body as it slithered to a halt, while the black BMW accelerated down the street into anonymity, leaving its victim broken and bleeding on the ground.
Ben was the first to breach the awesome stillness. He ran on instinct, with no conscious thought other than to get through the gathering crowd to where she lay. A dozen drawn faces glanced around uneasily, wanting to act but unsure of their actions. When he reached her, Ben fell to his knees on the pavement, eyes riveted to her lovely, ashen face. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, and a trickle of crimson, garishly matching her suit, ran down her cheek from her forehead, like a tear of blood.
Was she alive? Please let her be alive. His fingers fumbled for a pulse, then shook with relief as he felt a feather-like ripple. When it died suddenly, panic flooded his brain and he glanced around desperately. Surely there must be someone better qualified to help her. He met a sea of blank faces, all confident in his ability and relieved to be left as observers.
“Ambulance is on its way,” remarked a small, anxious-eyed woman. She held her arms securely across her ample stomach, withdrawing instantly from his pleading gaze. His trembling fingers moved once again to feel for that tiny flicker of life, but still there was nothing. He put his ear close against the girl’s fragile face, listening, willing her to breathe, a sob rising in his throat as he remembered the vibrancy that had drawn him to her in the park a lifetime ago.
He had to do something, had to help her hang on. His mind whirled, searching for the knowledge that was once at his disposal. Airways, breathing, circulation. A vague recollection of a first-aid course he had attended years ago swam into his mind. Clear the airways—that was it. Breathing. Check the pulse. Administer CPR.
Gently he rolled her onto her back, easing her slight form without moving her spine, wincing at the open wound that ran across her forehead. He carefully lifted her head and made sure that her throat was clear. Then, drawing on the information that clung to the fog inside his brain, he knelt above her with a prayer on his lips and felt for the inverted vee at the center of her rib cage.
One…two…three…How many compressions to breaths was it? Three to two? Or was it five to two? The two was important; he remembered that. Releasing his
