I want to stop the car, I’m certain I do. I’m supposed to. I’ve been a lovely hostess and I’ve spoken carefully and I’ve worn navy blue, I know if I turn the wheel again now there is still time, the merest fraction of a second, for instance Elise stepping up to stand beside Tom on the summer day by the lake and me walking ahead, the boats on the bright water, the fluttering of birds. All that is required is that I turn back to him. All that is required is that I allow the neurological signal from my brain to travel to my hands so that they may turn, turn the steering wheel hard to the left. But there is only Tom leaning in to hear Elise, her hands upon the air, and so I drive on, I keep going, I drive on, straight on.
I drive straight on.
And I see the fluttering dress as the little girl flies into my vision, a demented angel falling from the sky with her mouth rounded into an ‘O’ of surprise, and she hits the windshield and the glass shatters, tinkling, tinkling like bells, sparkling like snow, and the child in the red, flowered dress lifts back up into space; the wires connecting her to heaven retrieve her and she disappears from me and I feel oh a great gurning loss that she has been taken. I saw her face and she did not know that she was dying, did not know I was killing her.
STREBEL
It was raining. It always rained when these things happened, though Strebel knew this was just his impression, that the memories were collecting, cramming together into one rainy day. The benefit of rain was fewer rubberneckers, fewer bystanders, and therefore fewer people to come forward later with completely useless information.
Strebel got back in his car and sat for a moment, the rain battering, obscuring. It had just started an hour ago. If the rain had begun earlier, the accident would not have happened. The woman with the dog would have stayed at home. The rain would have washed away the slick, invisible residue of oil that accumulates on tarmac and the car would have driven — skidded — differently.
He could go on. He knew the parents would. Those itchy little ifs, like earwigs, burrowing into their brains. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be involved — essentially this was a traffic incident. But his boss knew very well what it could turn into, given the driver wasn’t Swiss. Given the victims were photogenic children. At least the driver was American, not a Muslim or an illegal immigrant. He was confident he could control the outcome.
The children had been on their way to the Fun Park, they’d been thinking about sweets and rides that tossed them in the air, they’d been happy, excited. Strebel rubbed his face and turned on the engine. He drove to the hospital in Bern. There had been talk of airlifting one of the children — the little girl — to Zurich. But not any more. The traffic was appalling, due to the rain, and he considered putting on the siren. But there was no rush now, no rush at all.
In the parking lot he looked out at the hospital, a rectangular block, as if the building was trying to hide in blandness. It might not be noticed, might not remind people that there was always a bed with their name on it. He thought about what he needed to say. The words always sounded wrong. It was impossible to convey the sorrow he genuinely felt, a sorrow that never abated. A sorrow that made no difference at all. He looked through his notes at the name. The name had to be right. He had to know ahead of time if there was an odd pronunciation or inflection. Sometimes he had to practice with foreign names so that he didn’t stumble. Sophie. Not Sophia. Sophie Leila Koppler. Was that Ley-la or Lie-la? Was it Middle Eastern? He’d have to ask Caspary.
Strebel got out into the rain and let it pummel him. It was better if he looked wet and bedraggled; his sympathy would appear more authentic. Next of kin didn’t need some wide-eyed optimist.
Inside the hospital, the wet soles of his shoes squeaked on the white floor and a drip from his hair ran down the back of his neck. He knew the way to the trauma unit and wished he didn’t. In the lobby, he saw Caspary who pointed to a middle-aged man in a dark blue raincoat, standing by a potted plant.
‘He only just got here,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Is there anyone else?’ Strebel asked. ‘The mother?’
Caspary shook her head. ‘She died of cancer last year.’
Child and mother, both in one year. Well done, God, Strebel thought and turned to watch a nurse hand Sophie Koppler’s father coffee in a styrofoam cup. He didn’t drink the coffee, but stood with the cup in his hand. When he finally noticed it, he seemed baffled. Who had given him the coffee? And what was he doing here?
I come into people’s lives at the worst possible time, Strebel thought. He started toward Mr Koppler, then turned back to Caspary. ‘Ley-la or Lie-la?’
‘Lie-la.’
Mr Koppler didn’t notice him approach, even though Strebel was walking directly at him. Strebel gently touched his elbow. ‘Please sit down, Mr Koppler.’
Mr Koppler complied, almost spilling the coffee; Strebel took it from him, placed it on the floor.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Paul Strebel,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry to tell you that your daughter Sophie has passed away.’
‘Sophie?’ Mr Koppler looked at him, bewildered.
‘There was a car accident.’
‘But she wasn’t in a car.’
‘She was hit by a car. On the side of the road. At the bus stop below Arnau.’
‘Sophie?’
‘Yes. Sophie Leila. Your daughter. She’s been killed.’
‘But she wasn’t in a car. We walked.’
‘Mr Koppler, I’m so sorry, but we need you to identify her body.’
‘She was taking the bus.’
Strebel sat quietly. People in these circumstances attacked him. A woman whose young son had been battered to death by her boyfriend hit Strebel so hard that her ring split his cheek and he needed half a dozen stitches. Or people collapsed; their internal scaffolding gave way and they fell to the ground like detonated buildings. Or, like Mr Koppler, they seemed not to hear, not to comprehend.
‘She wasn’t in a car.’
‘She was waiting at the bus stand with Mattias Scheffer and Markus Emptmann. A driver coming downhill lost control of her car and hit the bus stand,’ Strebel explained in a soft voice. ‘All three children were killed.’
Mr Koppler nodded vaguely, and after a moment he stood and they walked slowly down another corridor to the chapel, where Sophie lay, cleaned of blood and glass, under a white sheet. But you could never imagine she was asleep. This was always when the pretending stopped, all possibility of error eliminated.
‘But how,’ her father said, looking through the glass. ‘She wasn’t in a car.’
* * *
Ingrid was clearing away the dishes. She said, ‘The downstairs toilet is broken again. The plumber promises to come tomorrow, but you know how they are.’
Strebel glanced over at his wife and felt a sudden rush of hatred, like a blast of wind. He wanted to run over and slam her hand into the rubbish disposal and hear her scream, and pull up the mangled appendage, bloody and battered, then say, ‘Look, look at this, blood and bone and gristle. It’s all we are, all that’s ever left.’
In horror he got up and retreated to the living room, then turned on the TV. People were laughing, he had no idea what about. His whole body felt odd, as though his blood was fizzing. His breath wouldn’t quite come, but knotted in his throat. Was he having a heart attack? He checked himself for symptoms but there was no numbness or pain in his left arm, no tightness in his chest — nothing specific, just this internal heat and profound anxiety at the rage he’d just felt against his wife. He sat on the sofa and tried to make sense of the TV. The actors were running around, chasing someone — something? each other? — laughing. A poor imitation of laughter.