Emma fought down an absurd rush of sorrow for the girl in the GTI.
William Grainger had returned to the vantage point at the top of his field, having called the police. He couldn’t do anything else, really, couldn’t ignore what was going on down there, couldn’t get on with any of the things that had seemed so important an hour ago. There might be something he could do when the police and ambulances arrived-although at the moment there seemed little chance of that. On the great curve of road stretching away from him backwards towards London, the traffic was solid, all three lanes motionless; and cars that had tried to escape via the hard shoulder were at a complete standstill as well. And serves them right, William thought. What kind of a selfish idiot would block that, the route so essential to the emergency services? Even as he watched, a procession came in sight, breakdown trucks preceded by police cars and followed by ambulances, coming towards him; they had obviously closed the road altogether from the next junction, reversed the normal flow of traffic.
His phone rang. “Mr. Grainger? Police here. Where are you now? As related to the accident.”
“Where I was when it happened.”
“How’s it looking from where you are?”
“Pretty… pretty bad…”
“Many people walking about?”
“Yeah, quite a lot now.”
“How would you feel about a helicopter landing in that field? An air ambulance?”
“Well, the cows wouldn’t like it. I’d have to get them moved. Otherwise, fine, of course. Just let me know.”
“OK. Could we ask you to move them anyway, as a precaution? Straightaway, if you’d be so kind. Might make a bit of a mess.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” said William. He switched off his phone, looked down at the chaos below him, increasing now, farther back in the road, perhaps two, three hundred metres or so away, as more and more people left their cars, some on mobiles, shouting into them, some with dogs on leads, barking furiously, others with small children, many of them crying, carrying them to the grass verge, all talking to one another.
Better get the cows shifted fast.
CHAPTER 11
“No, he’s alive.”
Barney had never heard anything as wonderful as those words spoken by this really great bloke who’d put his head in the window as Barney sat there, helplessly still holding Toby’s wrist, said he was a doctor, and could he help?
“But he’s in a lot of trouble from that leg, I’d say, possibly his pelvis as well, and he’s probably concussed. But-”
“Shit,” Toby said suddenly. “Fuck. Holy shit.”
“There you are. Very much alive. He should be OK. I’ve certainly seen worse.”
“You OK, Tobes?” said Barney
“It hurts,” Toby said. “My leg hurts. You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“Lorry went out of control. We hit another car.”
“Oh, I see.” His eyes had closed again, at what clearly was to him an acceptable explanation; he seemed to have drifted away again.
“What should we do?” Barney was trying not to panic, but it was difficult. “Would it be better if we got him out? He might be cooler.”
“No, the best thing is to get him into the hospital. And we shouldn’t move him, and it certainly isn’t cooler outside, unfortunately.”
“So… I can’t help?”
“We can try to stop that leg bleeding. Tie something round it, make a tourniquet. Got anything we can use?”
“My shirt?” said Barney, tearing off his wedding waistcoat, ripping off the shirt.
“Good man. Now if we can just rip it into strips-that’s the way-and then I can… Yes, pass it to me… There-sorry, old chap,” he said as Toby yelled in pain. “Now what you can do is keep an eye on his pulse. Not difficult. If it starts to drop dramatically, just come and find me. I won’t be far away. Try to keep him awake, distract him if you can from the pain, just keep talking to him, tell him medical help’s on its way.”
“But how do we get the medical help?” asked Barney, his voice desperate. “The traffic’s totally solid-”
“Emergency vehicles are on their way, and the ambulances are being diverted down this wrong side of the motorway. Should be here quite soon. From a large and very good new hospital near Swindon.”
“So… so could you make sure they deal with Toby first?”
“It’s not my decision. But I will point out to them that he has serious injuries and probably needs blood urgently.”
“Why do you think the air bag didn’t work? Neither of them did.”
“No idea. Maybe because of the angle the car was struck.” He smiled almost cheerfully at Barney. “Jonathan Gilliatt. Nice to have met you. Albeit under rather unhappy circumstances.” He paused. “From the look of you, I’d say you were on the way to a wedding.”
“Yeah,” said Barney.
“Jesus! Look, I’ll come back and check on you a bit later.” His phone rang. “Hello. Oh, good. Great. Look, we have a seriously injured man in a car over on the eastbound side, up against the safety barrier, just short of the truck. Car embedded in another. Silver BMW. Pulse not bad, but probably concussed, and a very nasty leg injury. I’ve put a tourniquet on, but he’ll need blood urgently, so if you can get that message through to someone… Thanks.
“I’m going farther down the line now,” Gilliatt said. “See if there’s anything else I can do.” He put the mobile back in his pocket, smiled at Barney. “They should be here pretty soon. You heard what I said to them. Just let me know if they don’t find you, OK? Give me your phone; I’ll put my number in it for you-”
Jonathan was just setting off back through the chaos when a wild-eyed man grabbed his shoulder from behind.
“I believe you’re a doctor. It’s my wife. Could you have a look at her? Please? She’s in the car, just here.”
It was a Volvo, the car the wedding boys had struck from the rear.
“She’s… well, she’s pregnant. She’s having stomach pains, and I’m terrified she’s going into labour.”
“How pregnant?”
“Seven and a half months.”
“OK. Let’s have a look at her.”
The girl was doubled up over her stomach in the front seat, her face contorted with pain. Jonathan waited, saw the pain clearly pass, saw her relax.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m a doctor. An obstetrician, actually. So you’ve come to the right place.”
She tried to smile.
“How long have you been having the contractions?”
“Oh… about… I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“But they’re quite strong?”
“Yes.”
“And how often?”
“Every few minutes, it feels like.”
“Can I feel your tummy? Just put the seat back; that’s right. Lean back; try to relax. Now, then-”
As he felt her tummy, it tautened; the girl gasped, bit her lip, threw her head back. No doubt about it.
“Look,” he said gently, picking up her wrist, taking her pulse, “I do think that, yes, you are in labour. Brought on by the shock, I expect.”
“And the blow from behind, surely,” said the man.
“I’m sure. Your necks are OK, are they? No whiplash?”
“No, thank God.”
“Well, look. There’s not a lot I can do. The contractions are frequent, but they’re quite short. I don’t think she’s going to give birth imminently. But-”
“Oh, God.” The girl started to cry. “This is so scary. It hurts so much, and it’s much too early!”
Jonathan sat in the driver’s seat; then he took the girl’s hand and started talking to her very gently.
“Now, look, the first thing is to try to relax. I know it’s easy for me to say, but it really will help. Have you been to antenatal classes, done any breathing techniques?”
“Yes. But-”