CHAPTER 12

Gradually order was being restored: two fire crews were still working on their grim tasks, but most of the casualties had been driven away in ambulances. Robbie followed Greg as he strode amongst the wreckage on the motorway alternately talking into his radio, informing the AA and the RAC and local radio stations, taking witnesses’ names and addresses, waving their cars over for inspection, and talking to the people who were stranded.

Mostly they wanted to know when they might get away; whether they could move their cars, whether the police could help with water and, as the time wore on, food.

One woman started shouting at them, demanding water; but on the whole they were pretty calm and cooperative. Greg was calm too, reassuring them that it shouldn’t be too much longer now before they could start clearing the cars, directing them to the police car that had arrived with a huge supply of water, offering the use of his and Robbie’s mobiles where essential.

Their task now that the worst was over-although the poor sod in the lorry was still being cut free-was to keep the scene as far as possible intact until the investigation unit arrived. Measurements and photographs had to be taken, a plan of the scene, complete with details of the debris, the exact location and direction of skid marks. Only when that was completed would they begin to get the cars out. Fortunately, the road into London was more or less clear now, but two lanes were still being used for the emergency services. There were a few cars on the hard shoulder, the doctor’s-great bloke he was, fantastic help-and a rather nice middle-aged couple who’d walked back about two hundred yards: the only ones who had stopped-incredible it was, really-to see if they could do anything.

There’d been a drama with some girl who’d gone into labour. Robbie had been told to stay with her and the husband until they were safely on their way. He hadn’t liked that too much. She’d been in considerable pain, alternately moaning and panting like a dog.

“I don’t want to have it here,” she said, gripping her husband’s hand. “I’m so scared.”

“No need for that,” Robbie said, hoping it was true. “And listen-I think… yes, I can hear it now, an ambulance, here it comes now… I’ll just flag it down, make sure it stops… yes. Good. Right. Over here, quickly, please,” he called to the two paramedics, one a girl. “The lady’s here, in this car.”

As he said afterwards to his girlfriend, he’d never been quite so terrified in his entire life, not even when that young thug came at him with his knife.

“Thought she was going to have it then and there.”

The girlfriend said briskly that policemen were always delivering babies. There’d been a story in the Daily Mail only last week, and she was sure he’d have been perfectly all right. Robbie was sure he wouldn’t.

“Jonathan? Jonathan, thank God, at last-wherever are you; where have you been?”

Laura’s voice was unusually harsh; he winced at the thought of how much harsher it would become.

“I’m on the M4, darling. Sorry not to have got in touch before.”

“The M4? What on earth are you doing on the M4? Everyone’s been so worried. I rang the clinic, but they hadn’t heard from you since early afternoon, and then when I did ring you this afternoon I heard your voice, and then it was just-just an awful noise and then nothing-are you saying that wasn’t you?”

“Laura, there’s been a very bad crash on the motorway,” said Jonathan, struggling to keep his voice level, finding it-illogically-hard to believe that she didn’t know. “Really bad-I got caught up in it; lorry driver went through the barrier. At least three people killed, I’m afraid-”

“Oh, my God, Jonathan, how ghastly. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. But I’ve been doing what I could. Obviously.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. But… well, I wish you’d phoned, darling, I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m sorry. Somehow, with all that’s going on, didn’t think of it. Lot of badly injured people, one chap practically bleeding to death, old lady having a suspected heart attack; I really didn’t have time to chat.”

“No. No, of course not. How horrible for you, darling. I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted. When do you think you might get away?”

“I… don’t know. Fairly soon now, I think. Most of the casualties are on their way to the hospital, although the poor bugger in the lorry is being cut out by the fire brigade… Look-sorry, darling, got to go. The police are waiting to speak to me…”

“Come with me! Please! You gotta come with me.”

Shaun gripped Abi’s hand. He was still wheezing, fighting for breath.

She looked at the ambulance driver.

“Can I?”

“Yeah, s’pose so. Might be a long wait at the other end, though. Come on, now, mate,” he said to Shaun, “you’re not trying. Use that inhaler properly, deep breaths, that’s right.”

The man in charge of the boys was already gone to St. Marks; he’d remained very shocked, staring silently ahead of him, shaking violently from time to time. He had a suspected concussion. Abi and William had liaised over the welfare of the children; he would wait with them until they had all been taken safely away.

“OK,” she said now. “Well, William, this looks like good-bye. Thanks for everything. You’ve been great.”

“It was nothing. Wish I could have done more. Bye, Shaun.”

William watched her as she climbed into the back of the ambulance.

Right,” he said, sitting down on the grass again, next to the other boys. “We’ve just got to wait now. Shouldn’t be too long. Anyone know any good songs?”

It wasn’t until all the boys had been driven safely off by the Highways Agency that he found Abi’s mobile in the pocket of his jeans, and remembered her asking him to take it while she led the boys one by one down the bank to pee.

CHAPTER 13

Time had become irrelevant. Emma supposed she felt tired, supposed she felt upset, even; but she was not actually aware of it. She worked like an automaton, conscious only of the superb organisation that was directing everyone’s efforts. If Alex had told her to clean all the toilets she would have done it without question.

Ambulances arrived; people were brought in, were assessed and directed to the relevant station, and then on to theatre and, where necessary, intensive care. For much of the time she moved from station to station, seeing patients, trying to reassure them, administering painkillers, putting in cannulas and then intravenous drips and blood, taking blood tests, listening to chests, organising X-rays. The X-rays were portable, brought up to the beds, the machines moving round the patients, Dalek like; many people had fractures, and the simpler ones she set herself, having checked with the orthopaedic registrar-wonderful, calm, even funny Mark Collins-and she sewed up lacerations too, and butterfly-clipped minor head wounds.

Many of the cases were fairly mundane: broken ribs, fractured wrists; some more serious, mostly head injuries. There was a girl in premature labour-Emma held her hand, timing her contractions as they waited for a midwife to collect her, checking that there was someone still free to set up an epidural, soothing the wild-eyed husband. Emma was spared almost entirely her greatest dread: badly injured children; for the most part they had survived in the astonishing security of their seat belts. One small boy had a concussion, another a broken leg; a very young baby was badly dehydrated, but for the most part, they grinned at her cheerfully as she checked bumps and bruises, enjoying the excitement and drama, intrigued by her stethoscope, asking her endless questions.