By 2.30 a.m. the whereabouts of most of the kids was known. Most – but not all. Because, for a small handful of parents, there was no response to their frantic calls and messages. No wordless reunions and fierce hugs. These parents – the truly unlucky ones – plunged headlong into the awful realisation that their child had been involved in the night’s events.
Chapter 2
SAL REYNOLDS, Tish’s mum, was at home, on her own – as she always was nowadays – when the posts started appearing. Her instant reaction was to assume that Tish was one of those hurt. The recorded message telling her that the phone she was calling was switched off made her feel sick. Sal had little faith in fate not to dump an unfair proportion of crap into the lives of those already struggling. And Sal was used to crap happening. It was Tish and her against the world. That’s how they got by. The thought of something bad happening to her only child made Sal feel deeply, shakily afraid. She rocked, she paced, she dialled and re-dialled. Nothing. After half an hour of panic she simply couldn’t stand being trapped in her small living room, not knowing, any longer. She put on her coat and set off for the crash site, compelled to go, but terrified of what she was going to find. As she hurried through the tight grid of streets that led down to the ring road, she noticed how many of the houses had lights on. Different families – the same fear.
Sal arrived quietly, unannounced, and stood behind the police cordon with the growing congregation of horrified, curious bystanders, her stomach clenched so tightly that she had to stoop to accommodate the pain.
Jake Hammond’s three older brothers, Sonny, Charlie and Ed, also made their way down to the ring road. They drove – a couple of beers didn’t count.
The minute they’d heard about the accident they’d felt a fizzing compulsion to find out what had happened. They’d gathered back at home, summoned by the frantic calls from their mum, Anita. As she cranked herself up into a frenzy of worry, they’d offered to go and double-check that Jake wasn’t involved. Jake often stayed out until four or five in the morning; he was bound to be at a different party or in a bar somewhere. They were confident that he wouldn’t be heading home this early on a night out.
They arrived at the crash site in plenty of time for the scene to have lost little of its excitement. Their hearts thumped in response to the lights, the crackle of the police radios and the frenetic, but controlled focus of the fire and ambulance crews. The brothers were glad they’d come. People were going to be talking about this for weeks. They already felt a curious pride, knowing they’d be able to say that they were there. Instinctively they raised their phones and started taking pictures, zooming in, zooming out, trying hard to capture the drama and the scale of the carnage. Weaned as they were on the graphic simulations of Grand Theft Auto, the scene in front of them was nothing new, but what they were unprepared for was the dawning realisation that this was different – because this was real. This was what real speed did to a real car that had real passengers inside it. This was metal smashed with a bone-breaking impact, and glass exploded by the exertion of way too much force. This was the acrid smell of petrol and melted plastic, and the weird quiet of a closed road.
The car, or what was left of it, was embedded in the wall of the Gerard’s Fabrications building. A total write-off. It had once been a Seat Leon. A blue Seat Leon.
Harry Westwood drove a midnight-blue Seat Leon.
Harry was Jake’s mate – had been since primary school.
Jake and Harry went out together, a lot.
Their mum’s hysteria began to seem like a rational reaction.
Dom was driving back up to York from Birmingham after a long, tedious meeting and a late business dinner when Cheryl rang and told him about the accident. Dom’s company was looking into acquiring a new dealership group based in and around Edgbaston. It was pricey, especially given the state of the market, and the investors they had lined up were getting twitchy, but Dom thought they were being over-cautious. It was a good opportunity. The group was currently being run, badly, by a father, two sons and a nephew combo – some sort of Brummie mafia. They were stuck in the Dark Ages in terms of marketing and IT, but the showrooms were in great locations and the dealership had a large, loyal customer base. The deal had its problems, but it also offered a lot of potential. The last thing Dom needed at the end of a long day was this – whatever this was. Probably Cheryl panicking. She was a ‘molehill into a mountain’ merchant. That said, Dom drove faster after talking to her.
He instructed his hands-free to call Harry. He kept glancing at the display as it repeatedly, automatically, fruitlessly re-dialled his son’s number. Anxiety increased the pressure of his foot on the accelerator, but as he neared home he was forced to slow down. Suddenly there was traffic, which made no sense; he would normally have sailed round this section of the ring road at this time of night. The realisation that the hold-up was probably a result of the accident was sobering. Dom sat in the queue of cars and refused to allow himself to worry. Harry often ignored his phone, especially when he was out. That was the mantra Dom decided to stick to – his son’s all-round slackness, his ‘easy come/easy go’ life of friends and having a good time; Harry’s similarity to himself at that age. The phone tried again, and once again abandoned the call after eight attempts. Harry could very well have left his phone at home, dropped it down the loo – again – or just be ignoring his calls. All of which was highly likely. Dom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and blocked out any possible connection between the crash, his son and his son’s new, midnight-blue, high-spec Seat Leon.
Shazia and Nihal sat together on the sofa in their front room, taking it in turns to ring Mo, and trying to convince each other that the fact the police hadn’t contacted them was a good sign, that there was still hope. But with every slow minute, their faith weakened and warped. They didn’t know what to do, where to be, what to think – other than that they must try and not think the unthinkable. They hadn’t wanted Mo to go the party. He had work in the morning, and he was a boy who needed his sleep. Not a boy, obviously; a young man now. University in September – all being well. Leaving home. He was not just growing up, but almost grown-up. But he was still a child in their minds, especially when he was hungry or grumpy with tiredness. And he would be more than tired by now. It was late. Later than he would ever normally stay out.
Where was he? And why hadn’t he been in touch to let them know he was okay?
Half a mile away Fran and Marcus were asleep, unaware of the panic racing through their friends and neighbours. Two bottles of red wine after a hectic work week had poleaxed them both. Jess was safe and sound, round at Gabbie’s – a girls’ night in. As the messages piled up on their mobiles, they snored, sighed and rolled over beneath the duvet.
They were oblivious…until the doorbell shattered their dreams.
Chapter 3
AFTER THE awful conversations with the police, the dash to the hospital, the slap of shoes on hard surfaces, the voices directing them up here, just along this corridor, through the door on the left, please – after all the rush and clamour – the sensation of being washed up on a far-away shore, isolated from events, was deeply disconcerting. Most of them had been brought to the hospital in squad cars driven by polite but monosyllabic uniformed officers. Dom was the exception; he’d insisted on driving himself, despite the very best efforts of the female officer who’d been assigned to him. She’d stood in his hallway, her radio crackling, advising him that the shock might make driving an unwise option. He had ignored her.