do that; you’d hurt her so much.”
“No, Jonathan, it’s you who’s hurt her. Not me. So—”
Jonathan’s mobile rang sharply; he shouldn’t—he was driving—but he was in the slow lane, going very slowly … He picked it up, looked at it. It was Laura. Without thinking, wanting only to reassure her, and to somehow be safe with her, he pressed the button.
“Hello, darling—”
“Darling!” Abi was shouting, her face ugly with rage. “How can you do that, you rotten bastard? How can you talk like that? Give me that phone …”
“Hello! Hello, Jonathan, is that you?” Laura’s voice was faint, crackly “Jonathan, what’s—”
• • •
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.”
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 ofit. 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
“No, Jonathan, it’s you who’s hurt her. Not me. So—”
Jonathan’s mobile rang sharply; he shouldn’t—he was driving—but he was in the slow lane, going very slowly … He picked it up, looked at it. It was Laura. Without thinking, wanting only to reassure her, and to somehow be safe with her, he pressed the button.
“Hello, darling—”
“Darling!” Abi was shouting, her face ugly with rage. “How can you do that, you rotten bastard? How can you talk like that? Give me that phone …”
“Hello! Hello, Jonathan, is that you?” Laura’s voice was faint, crackly “Jonathan, what’s—”
• • •
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.”
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 ofit. 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
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