seventy miles an hour. It’s too dangerous to overtake and besides, there’s something comforting about following their red fog lights at a safe distance.
Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.
Get. Home. Get. Home.
I hear a loud, exaggerated yawn. It’s Freddy, stretching his arms above his head and shifting in his seat. ‘Anna? Can we stop at the services? I need the loo.’
‘We’re nearly in London.’
‘Can you turn the heating down?’ he adds as I glance from the rear-view mirror to the road. ‘I’m sweating like a pig.’
‘I can’t. The heater on the windscreen’s not working and it keeps fogging up.’
‘I’m going to open a window then.’
‘Freddy, don’t!’
Anger surges through me as he twists in his seat and reaches for the button.
‘Freddy, LEAVE IT!’
It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment there is a car in front of me, red tail-lights a warm, comforting glow, the next the car is gone, there’s a blur of lights and the blare of a horn – frantic and desperate – and then I’m thrown to the left as the car tips to the side and all I can hear is crunching metal, breaking glass, screaming, and then nothing at all.
TWELVE HOURS AFTER THE ACCIDENT
There’s someone in the room. My eyes are closed but I know I’m not alone. I can feel the weight of their gaze, the pinprick crawl of my skin. What are they waiting for? For me to open my eyes? I want to ignore them and go back to sleep but I can’t ignore the churning in my belly and the tightness of my skin. They want to hurt me. Malevolence binds me to the bed like a blanket. I need to wake up. I need to get up and run.
But I can’t move. There’s a weight on my chest, pinning me to the bed.
‘Anna? Anna, can you hear me?’
A voice drifts into my consciousness, then out again.
‘Yes!’ But my voice is only in my head. I can’t move my lips. I can’t get the sound to reverberate in my throat. The only part of me I can move is my eyes.
Someone’s walking towards me, their cold blue eyes fixed on mine. There’s no rise and fall of a nose and mouth, just a smooth stretch of skin, pulled tight.
‘Don’t be scared.’
They draw closer – staccato movements, like a film on freeze-frame – move, stop, move, stop. Closer and closer. I screw my eyes tightly shut. This isn’t real. It’s a dream. I need to wake up.
‘That’s right, Anna. Close your eyes and go back to sleep. Don’t fight it. Let the pain and guilt and hurt go.’
I’m dreaming. I have to be. But it’s too vivid. I saw blue curtains hanging on a white frame around my bed, a white blanket and the mound of my feet.
No! No! Stop!
I scream, but the sound of my voice doesn’t leave my head. I can’t move. I can only blink frantically – a silent SOS – as I’m grabbed by the wrist. They’re going to hurt me and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
‘Open your eyes, Anna. I know you can hear me. Anna, open your eyes!’
Alex?
He is beside me, his face pinched with worry, his eyes ringed with shadows, stubble circling his lips and stretching along his jawbone.
‘Anna?’
There’s a needle in the back of my hand. Alex catches it with his thumb as he rubs soft circles onto my skin. A sharp pain travels up the length of my arm.
Stop. The word doesn’t travel from my mind to my lips. Why can’t I speak? A wave of panic courses through me.
‘Rest, rest.’ Alex touches a hand to my shoulder, pressing me back into the bed.
Alex? Where am I?
There’s a blue curtain, hanging from a rail surrounding the bed, and a white blanket, pulled tight, pinning me to the sheet. At the end of the bed is the mound of my feet. Am I still in the dream? But it’s not a faceless stranger wrapping their fingers around my wrist, it’s Alex. I focus on my hand, resting limply on his, and tense the muscles in my forearm. My fingers contract and then I feel it, the softness of his skin under my fingertips. I’m not dreaming, I’m awake.
‘It’s okay,’ Alex says, mistaking the relief in my eyes for fear. He gingerly perches on the bed, avoiding my legs. ‘Don’t try to speak. You’ve been in an accident. You’re in the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead. You had some internal bleeding and you’ve been operated on. They had …’ he touches his throat, ‘… they had to give you some help breathing, they said your throat might hurt for a few days, but you’re going to be okay. It’s a fucking miracle that you…’ He swallows and looks away.
Survived?
The memory returns like a juggernaut, smashing into my consciousness. I close my eyes to try and block it out but it doesn’t disappear. I was in the car. I was driving and it was hailing and the windscreen wipers were going back and forth and back and—
I snatch my hands up and over my head, cradling my face with my arms as the truck slams into the side of the car. The seat belt digs into my collarbone and chest as I am thrown forward, then I am turning and spinning and twisting and my head smashes against the steering wheel, the seat rest, the window and my arms are wheeling around, my hands reaching for something, anything to anchor myself, to brace myself for impact, but there’s nothing. Nothing. Everyone is screaming and all I can do is pray.
‘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
