The traffic was very thick; a huge lorry was alongside them, travelling at the same speed, the red car in front pulling ahead now-nice, that old Jag; he’d love something like that-the one behind too close on their tail, really, all of them part of a great orderly mass of power, riding the highway in the dazzling sun: he took it in with some strange detachment, trying to think, absurdly, what to say… And then…

“Jonathan, be careful, look out, the lorry, what’s happening to it-”

“Patrick, look out, look out, what’s happening, what is it, be careful, look out-oh God-”

“Shit! Fuck! Jesus Christ.”

“Toby, stop, hold it, for Christ’s sake, hold it.”

Part Two. The Accident

CHAPTER 9

William Grainger always said his life was totally changed in one moment: the moment when he stood, awestruck, in the field high above the side of the motorway, looking down onto it. He’d gone out to check on the heifers they’d moved that morning from the field on the other side of the farm. Usually they were untroubled by the traffic; occasionally they became nervous.

This lot seemed untroubled. They walked over to him with their swinging walk, hoping he was food; when they realised he was not, that he had brought nothing for them, they stopped and turned away, an untidy, disappointed, good-natured crowd. One of them had lifted her tail and discharged a mass of cow shit on his boots; a protest, he’d thought, cursing her, pushing his feet through the dry grass to try to get rid of the worst. And then, as he looked down at the road, shimmering in the heat haze, the air brilliantly clear again after the brief thunderstorm, he saw it and knew even as he watched that he would never forget it: all in a sickening slow motion, a lorry suddenly swerving sharply to the right, cutting across the fast lane and then failing to stop, bursting through the central median, its trailer sinking onto its side, like some great dying beast, and then discharging the deadly flotsam of its load-whatever it was; he couldn’t really see-tossed into the air and continuing on its journey into the advancing traffic. A minibus travelling westwards in the fast lane became impacted in the undercarriage of the lorry; and a black Golf immediately behind that swung sideways and rammed into one of the lorry’s wheels. A silver BMW behind the lorry, apparently out of control, spinning, twisting, across the road, coming finally to rest, rammed into the car in front of it. Cars began to swerve and skid into one another, like bumper cars in a fairground; one hit the central median; another made a small, odd leap and landed on the hard shoulder; it all went on, seemingly unstoppable in both directions of the road.

William stood, frozen with horror now, hearing the scene as well as watching it-the dreadful noise, blaring horns, and crunching metal and raw, dreadful shouting and screaming-and aware too of the dreadfully dangerous smell of burning rubber.

Instinct told him to go down to the road; common sense told him not to. He could be of no use, would add to the chaos; he reached in the pocket of his jeans for his mobile, remembered he had left it in the tractor on the other side of the fence, and started to run, waving his arms at the scene in a futile gesture, as if anyone seeing him would have understood what he was going to do.

CHAPTER 10

For just a second, Jonathan was tempted to drive on, remove himself from the horror and the carnage, get to London swiftly and safely, rid himself of Abi. If he went on, he had a chance of disentangling his life; if he stayed, he had none.

He stopped the car and left his former life forever…

The car immediately ahead of him was driving steadily on as if nothing had happened; other cars coming from behind him were slewing into one another, gradually coming to a halt. Jonathan sat, fighting for breath, leaning on the steering wheel, recovering from the shock, hauling himself under control together with the car; the road ahead emptied now as the traffic went on forwards, vanishing into the haze of the heat, caught up in the doctrine of the motorway, of pushing on, of getting there, of never looking back, not getting involved, leaving him behind: and he would have given in that moment all he had to be one of them…

He opened the door, slowly and very cautiously, started to get out, and then found his legs wouldn’t hold him; he felt sick and dizzy and sat down again, his head dropping weakly onto the steering wheel.

He looked at Abi; she was green-white, staring at him, her eyes huge with fright: there was an ugly gash on the side of her head. “What happened?” she said. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I couldn’t see; the lorry seemed to lose control. Your head all right?”

She felt the gash, looked at the blood on her hand. “Yes, I think so. I’ve got some tissues somewhere; I’ll just-”

“Give me my mobile.”

“I can’t find it-I dropped it.”

“Well, give me yours then.”

He took it, dialled 999. Asked for the police and gave them the whereabouts.

“Yes, thank you, we’ve got that one,” the voice said. “Several people calling in. They’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Jonathan looked at the great mass of traffic gathering, stretching in both directions. “I hope so,” he said. “It’s pretty bad.” And then watched, disbelieving, as first one car, then another and then another, moved onto the westbound hard shoulder, accelerating and driving away.

“Stupid fucking bastards,” he said; and then got out of the car and began to walk slowly, almost against his will, towards the lorry.

It was a hideous sight. A minibus had gone straight into it, under its wheels, and had crumpled up like so much paper, and from it he could hear the hideous sound of children screaming; a Golf, desperate to avoid it, had first turned, then skidded a hundred and eighty degrees into the traffic in the middle lane; a larger car-a big Ford-had managed to miss it, but driven into the barrier and swung round before it stopped, facing the wrong way… A man was climbing out of it, shaking his head oddly, as if to rid it of what he had just seen and done; his windscreen was shattered, and blood was running down his face.

Jonathan realised the Golf’s engine was still running; turning it off seemed suddenly the most urgent thing. He scrambled over the barrier, ran to the car. The window had shattered with the impact, as had the windscreen. Jonathan looked down and into it: at a girl, or all he could see of her, a mass of long blond hair and blood, a bare brown arm with a white watch-odd how one noticed these things-flung out towards the windscreen as if warding it off; and yes, the engine still switched on. Jonathan reached in, turned the key, and then very gently lifted the arm, felt for the pulse. And found nothing.

He straightened up and found himself staring into the shocked, puzzled eyes of the driver of the Ford, and simply nodded at him, confirming the girl’s death, unable to speak.

“Oh, God,” said the man, staring round him at the carnage, “what did it… How did it happen?”

“Christ knows. You OK?”

“Seem to be. Yeah. Can’t think how. Arm hurts a bit.”

Jonathan looked at his arm; it was hanging oddly.