Around him, he distantly hears screams and yells and sees passers-by frozen in horror as they understand what is about to happen.
He’s so near – near enough to see her. To see Jess, eyes closed, a small smile on her face, listening to the radio. No clue about the disaster squealing in her direction.
He wills himself faster. He stretches his arms out as far as he can, almost falling as he pushes forward, feeling as though he’s wading slow-motion through treacle.
He tries, so very hard – but he doesn’t make it.
The Volvo crashes into his car with an almighty crunch, a sickening scream of metal on metal and glass shattering and tons of blunt force colliding. The two cars seem to dance, the bulk of the bigger car spinning the Fiesta around, onto the pavement, into a lamp post.
They settle, a tangled mass of steel and paint, a car horn shrieking on one constant mournful note amid the chaos.
Joe is there, scrabbling over the bonnet of the Volvo, climbing and scraping his way over a twisted bumper, slicing his hands and knees on the jagged windscreen, sliding across hot metal in a crazed attempt to reach them.
Please let them be all right, he prays to a God he’s willing to sacrifice anything to. Please let them be all right. Let my girls be all right, and let me hold them in my arms again.
The side of the Fiesta has folded in on itself, crumpled like a Coke can that’s been squeezed by the hand of a giant, the nose of the Volvo concertinaed into it, a thrusting wedge of intrusion.
There’s a world of madness around him, people yelling, someone climbing over with him, the nostril-burning smell of petrol and smoke and scorched rubber. The street light is leaning over them, bent and broken, its bulb shining through the snow-dappled sky.
He gets as far as he can, and scrapes away the broken glass of the Fiesta’s window, the adrenalin and fear blocking out the pain as the skin of his fingers is sliced open.
Jess is screaming, her seatbelt stuck and gnarled, twisted in her seat, tearing at the belt and shouting Grace’s name over and over and over again. He glances into the back, and sees his baby girl. So small. So still.
‘Joe! Help her! Get her out! Joe!’ shouts Jess when she spots him. She’s contorting her body in an attempt to get free, but the monstrous metal cocoon of the broken car is holding her in. Her nails are broken and bleeding from her frantic tearing, and he tries to break through to reach them.
He can see her, and see Gracie, and he starts to crawl through the shattered window, knowing that if he can just get to them, maybe he can make everything right again. Maybe he can make Gracie whole again.
Somebody grabs his legs, pulls him back.
‘No, mate – you can’t! It’s not safe! Come on, come away … the fire brigade are coming, they’ll get them out! There’s a fire – it’s not safe!’
Joe kicks out at him, not caring who it is or if they’re trying to help – in his mind all they’re doing is stopping him from getting to Jess, to Grace, from saving them.
He feels firm hands grip his shoulders, and he is physically hauled away, his hands clutching onto the frame of the car window, desperate to break free. To help.
He’s dragged back over the smashed car, held hard, struggling in their grip and oblivious to calm words from men in uniform.
‘Leave it, son,’ one of them says, kindly. ‘You’ll only make it worse.’
He breathes, eyes wide as he takes in the carnage around him. The police moving people back. The flashing blue lights of the fire engine just arriving, a red behemoth. The sound of sirens as ambulances approach. The sobs and shouts of the crowd.
He breaks loose, and makes a dash around to the other side of the car – the side that is splayed onto the pavement, beneath the bent overhang of the street lamp. He crouches down, looks inside. Jess has twisted herself so far it looks like she’s snapped in two. Grace is still, her Minnie Mouse flung to the floor. She looks like a crumpled doll, her tiny blonde head shining red, the metal of the rear door crushed into the side of her car seat.
He holds his hands onto the window, screaming Jess’s name once more before he is again pulled away, leaving nothing but bloodied handprints on the cracked glass.
They take him away, telling him the firemen need space to work. Telling him he needs to calm down. Telling him that his girls are in safe hands, that it will all be all right.
Except he knows it won’t. He knows that nothing will ever be all right again. He collapses in on himself, bruised and bleeding and broken, as they take him to the ambulance, wrap him in a foil blanket. He stands in the darkness, face striped by the flashing lights, as the emergency services take over.
They put out the flames. They try to talk to Jess. A paramedic gives her an oxygen mask, while the firefighters get out their cutting equipment.
Someone, somewhere, is crying. It might be him.
A policeman walks towards him, holds out the fluffy bunny he bought a lifetime ago. He hands it to Joe, and he crushes its wine-soaked body into his as he sobs helplessly.
Chapter 16
It’s not far to walk, and as I do I picture the scene back at the office. Picture Belinda telling that sad story to my cousin. I wonder if I should have stayed, borne witness, forced myself to hear a recreation of events that I’ve blocked out over the years.
That would be the noble thing to do. The strong thing to do. But I’m just not ready for that yet – and this is challenge enough.
When I arrive, I see that the street has been done up a bit, like Belinda said – but some things always stay the same.
Their house still has a car on bricks in the driveway, and an assortment of rusty toys in the front garden, and a collection of kids that look like street urchin extras from a period drama playing outside.
There’s still a dog – there was always a dog – on a long chain at the side of the house. This one looks old, some kind of German Shepherd cross, and it looks up at me half-heartedly as I approach. I wonder if it’s going to try and protect its territory, but frankly it doesn’t seem to have the energy. It trots towards me, tail between its legs, ears pricked.
I hold out a cautious hand for it to sniff, then once we’ve become friends, give it a scratch and a stroke. It licks my fingers, then lies down again, back against the brick wall to make the most of the shade.
I skirt past the car on bricks, knowing that someone will already have clocked my arrival, and that the turrets will be armed. As I look relatively smart and respectable, they will assume I am possibly something to do with The Man, and will be frantically tidying away anything incriminating.
Right on cue, as I’m about to knock, the front door opens. There’s a concrete ramp in front of it, and it soon becomes apparent why – Father Bunch greets me, in a wheelchair.
I back up as he rolls down it, and we inspect each other. He’s obviously much older now, and the years have not treated him kindly. His hair is streaked through with yellowing grey that looks like nicotine stains, tied back into a loose ponytail that might have been passable on a man two decades younger.
His jeans are stained, and he has his ever-present pack of Benson & Hedges tucked into a pocket on the front of his denim shirt.
I loathe this man. I loathed him then, and I loathe him now. I stare at him, taking in the disability and the decay and the fact that he is struggling to breathe, and I don’t have it in me to feel sympathy. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.