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PROLOGUE

2003

Everything is silent and for a second I think I must be dead. But then I hear a deafening screech and I don’t know who or where it’s come from, I only know I haven’t made the noise because somehow I am okay. I want to turn my head to check what’s left of the wreckage, but I can’t move because pain is shooting through my neck, warm blood trickling down my face.

There is a strange smell: burnt rubber mixed with petrol and something far, far worse. The scent of death. I don’t need to look around to know that I am the only person breathing in this car.

Panic sets in, crushing my chest, worse than the physical injuries I have sustained. This can’t be real.

Cracks spread across the windscreen like a gigantic spider’s web, and through the maze of lines I can see lights, still and flashing, blue and yellow and red, and faces peering in, their mouths forming circles, trying to make sense of what’s happened. The panicky yells and shouts are muffled to me, as if I’m in a bubble, catching only waves of sound. But I know that whoever is out there, they, like I, will remember this moment for the rest of their lives.

The steering wheel digs into my ribs but I can’t move. Or perhaps I don’t want to because it’s safer in here than out there, having to face whatever is next. I know already what I can expect: some sympathy because accidents happen, but mostly blame and hatred because I am the driver so I must take the responsibility for this.

Someone manages to haul my door open and strong, uniformed arms lift me out and place me onto what must be a stretcher. It’s thin and hard but at least I am flat now. I close my eyes and wonder how it’s possible I haven’t died.