This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You Part 5

The soft wet bite of her lips, the trace of her fingers, the thin material of her skirt in your hand, the weight of her warmth against you. It was probably nothing at all.

You look up out of the water, turning to see if she's reached the top of the path. Maybe she'll hang back and wait. You're further out than you realised. It would be good to head back now, to pull yourself up on to the concrete ledge, let the sun dry the water from your back while you gather your things together and hurry along the path to join the others. You pull your arms through the water, feeling the pleasant stretch of the muscles across your shoulders and back. You kick with your legs, hard, and your feet and s.h.i.+ns slap against the surface, and you realise how long it's been since you last swam properly like this, actually covering a distance. You should do it more often, you think, stopping for a moment to tuck the snorkel into the headband of your mask, spitting out a mouthful of seawater. You launch off again, enjoying the way your body cuts through the water, the air on your back, the sea sliding across your skin. The snorkel slips out of place, spilling water into your mouth, and you have to stop again, coughing, to clear it from your throat.

You see the others on the path, and you see a bus pa.s.sing along the road, and you see the birds hanging in the warm air rising up against the side of the hill.

You take off the snorkel and mask. They're getting in the way, and you'll get back to the steps quicker without them strapped to your face. You try swimming with them held in one hand, but they slap and splash against the surface and drag you down, and you're not getting anywhere like that so you stop and tread water for a moment. You're further out than you thought.

The afternoon's quieter now. No one's jumped from the outcrop for a while. The teenagers on the ledge have started to gather their things together and drift back up the long twisting path to the road. The girl reading a book on the other bathing jetty has gone. The back of your neck feels as though it might be starting to burn. It probably would be good, after all, to catch the bus with the others. You think about just dumping the snorkel and mask, but it seems a bit over the top. There's nothing like that happening here. There's no problem. You can't be more than a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty yards from the sh.o.r.e. You tie them to the drawstring of your swimming shorts instead, and swim on.

This morning, in the old town, ducking into an art gallery to escape the glaring heat, you'd found the city's war memorial, unmarked on the tourist maps. It had looked like another room of the gallery at first, and you'd drifted into the circular s.p.a.ce expecting more vividly coloured paintings of wheat-fields and birch-woods and simple peasant-folk labouring over ploughs. But there were no paintings, only photographs. Black and white photographs from ceiling to floor. Row after row of young faces with dated haircuts, thin moustaches, leather jackets and striped tracksuit tops. The photos were blown up to more than life-size, and one or two had the inky smudge of a pa.s.sport stamp circled across them. There were names, and dates, and ages: twenty-two, fifty-seven, fifteen, nineteen, thirty-one. There were candles burning on a table in the middle of the room, a bouquet of flowers, a ragged flag. Some of the boys in the photographs had looked the same age, and had the same features, as these teenagers jumping from rocks and squirting water at girls, boys who would have been half the age they are now when the war happened. You wonder if any of them lost older brothers, cousins, uncles, fathers. You wonder whether any of them remember much about it; if they duck into that cool, whitewashed room every now and again to remind themselves, or if they prefer instead to leap from high rocks into the warm ocean, to ride motor-scooters with the sun browning their bare chests, to lie with long-limbed girls in the scented shade of aged and twisting trees.

Perhaps when you get back no one will want to go to the trouble of laying the food out on the terrace and clearing it all away again. Perhaps you'll all go to the pizzeria down by the dockside and sit at a table on the street, picking the labels off cold bottles of beer while you watch the old women offering accommodation to the tourists coming off the boats. Perhaps Jo will catch your eye and keep you talking until the others have moved on, and s.h.i.+ft her chair so that her leg touches yours.

Swimming with the mask and snorkel tied to your shorts is worse than holding them. They're dragging out between your legs like an anchor, pulling you back. You stop and tread water again, breathing heavily. You only paid a few pounds for them. They can go. You can always tell the others you left them behind by mistake. You unpick the knots and let them fall away. They hang in the water for a moment, lifting and turning in the current. You watch them sink out of view, and realise you can't see the bottom.

The others are at the top of the path now, and one of them leans out to look down at the ledge where your things are still gathered in a heap. You wave, but whoever it is turns away and steps through the gap in the railings, crossing the road to join the others at the bus stop, out of sight.

You take a breath and swim, fiercely, lunging through the water, blinking against the salt sting, heaving for air, and there's a feeling running up and down the backs of your legs like the muscles being stretched tight but you keep swimming because you'll be there soon, climbing out, pulling yourself back on to solid ground, and you keep swimming because there's a chance that the current has been pus.h.i.+ng you away from the sh.o.r.e, and you keep swimming because this isn't the sort of thing that happens to someone like you, you're a good swimmer, you're young, and healthy, and the rocks aren't really all that far away and it shouldn't take long to get there and there isn't anything else you can do but now there's a pounding sensation in your head and a reddish blur in your eyes and a heavy pain in your chest as though the weight of all that water is pressing against your lungs and you can't take in enough air and so you stop again, for a moment, just to catch your breath.

One of the boys, in the memorial photographs, had had a look in his eyes. Startled. As though the flash of the camera had taken him by surprise. As though he had known what was coming. The plaque said he was seventeen. You wondered what had happened. If he really had seen it coming. You've seen pictures of an old fort on a nearby island, the walls spotted with bullet marks, the entrances surrounded by shallow craters, and you imagined that boy crouching on the roof, or in the shaded interior, holding an old rifle in his shaking hands, listening to the encircling approach of men and equipment through the trees and bushes outside. You imagined him listening to their taunts. Wiping the sweat from his eyes. Avoiding the glances of the men left with him. Wondering how they had all ended up in that place, what they could have done to avoid it, what they were going to do now. Knowing there was nothing they could do.

A bus stops on the road at the top of the hill. The others must be getting on it by now, rummaging in their pockets for change and wondering how much longer you're going to be. When you get back they'll all be sitting out on the terrace, watching the yachts gathering in the harbour for the evening, listening to children playing up and down the back streets behind the apartment. You'll take a beer from the fridge, hold the cold wet gla.s.s against the back of your sunburnt neck, and ask where the bottle-opener is. No one will be able to find it at first, and then it will turn up, under a book or a leaflet, or in the sink with some dirty plates, and you'll flip the top off the bottle and take your seat with the others.

You swim some more, and there's a feeling in your arms and legs as though the muscles have been peeled out of them, as though the bones have softened from being in the water too long, and you can't find the energy to pull yourself forward at all.

You turn on to your back for a few moments. A rest is all you need. It's been a while since you swam in open water like this, that's all. A few moments' rest and you'll be able to swim to the rocks, to the steps, and climb out. You'll be able to hang a towel over your pounding head until you get your breath back, dripping water and sweat on to the sun-bleached concrete, feeling the warm solid ground beneath you. You'll be able to gather your things and make your way along the path, pulling on your s.h.i.+rt as you go. And the gra.s.shoppers will still be calling out, and the air will be thick with rosemary and pine. The sandy soil of the path will still kick up into dusty clouds around your ankles. Your swimming trunks will be dry by the time you get to the top of the hill, and you won't have to wait long for a bus. And while you stand there the sea will be as calm and blue as ever when you look down over it, drifting out to the horizon, reaching around to other bays, other beaches, other villages and towns, other swimmers launching out into its warm and gentle embrace.

And this will be a story to tell when you get back home, sitting under the patio-heaters at the Golf Club bar, looking out over the cold North Sea and saying it was a nice holiday but I nearly never made it home. Or later this evening, sitting at some pavement cafe in a noisy bustling square with tall gla.s.ses of cold beer, telling the story of how you'd almost swum out too far. How you'd had to dump the snorkel and mask. It was a close one, you'll tell them. I called out but you didn't hear. No one heard. Best be more careful next time, someone will probably say; even when the water looks calm there are still currents. Just because it's warmer than back home doesn't mean you can treat it like a swimming pool, they'll say, and you'll laugh and say, well, I know that now. And everyone will go quiet for a moment, thinking about it, until the waiter comes past and you order another round of drinks. And raise a silent toast to all the good things. The cold wet gla.s.s against the back of your sunburnt neck. The trace of her fingers, the soft wet bite of her lips. The juice of an orange spilling down your chin. Music, and dancing, and voices colliding in the warm night air.

You swim, and you rest. It won't take long now. It's not too far. You look up, past the headland and into the next bay along, and you swim and you rest a little more. Sometimes it happens like this.

Supplementary Notes To The Testimony Of Appellants B & E.

Ba.s.singham, Haddington.

i. Ba.s.singham is a small village situated on the eastern bank of the River Witham, upstream from the major population centre of Lincoln. Agriculture was the major economic activity in the area, along with a range of small businesses a.s.sociated with the sector: repair-yards, feed merchants, packing-houses and the like. The agriculture was predominantly arable, with a range of cereal, salad and root crops; there was also, prior to the period in question, a sizeable dairy and beef industry in the area, with cattle grazing mainly taking place on the low-lying fields along the river valleys. The population of Ba.s.singham, when last surveyed, stood at 700, although the figure is probably now lower. There are two public houses, a church, and a bridge which carried the road towards Thurlby and Witham St Hughs. The rebuilding of the bridge is nearing completion at the time of writing. There are currently no official school buildings. During the period in question, with formal education suspended due to security concerns, the majority of children in the area were engaged in a.s.sisting older family members with the movement and management of livestock, in addition to more informal occupations such as swimming, ball-sports, courts.h.i.+p rituals and evacuation drills.

ii. Not proven.

iii. Haddington is a small hamlet of residential and agricultural buildings, situated approximately 300 metres north of the River Witham and a mile south of the ancient Roman road to Lincoln, known as the Fosse Way, which is now a major highway. Satellite imagery suggests that the walk from Haddington to Ba.s.singham would take approximately 45 minutes, via either the Thurlby Road or Bridge Road bridges. It would also be possible, and within the stated context significantly safer, either to cross by the weir at the end of Mill Lane or to ford the river at one of its narrower points and make one's way to Ba.s.singham's outskirts through the low-lying fields in which, reportedly, the crops sometimes grew to above head-height.

iv. The veracity of a claim such as this is not within this report's remit. It is sufficient to observe that, in common with many similar accounts, this section of the transcript serves to demonstrate that the appellants perceived a high enough level of risk for their covert evacuation to be organised by older members of the community.

v. The nearest government military installation to Ba.s.singham/Haddington is at RAF Waddington, six miles to the east; this equates to approximately 90 minutes' walk, or 30 seconds' flight time. Squadrons based at RAF Waddington are predominantly surveillance-oriented; the nearest ground-attack aircraft are based instead at RAF Coningsby, which is a further twenty-one miles a or 60 seconds' flight time a to the east. Aircraft based here include the Eurofighter Typhoon, which carries the Paveway IV laser-guided bomb system (using a modified Mk-82 general-purpose bomb with increased penetrative abilities and an optional air-burst fusing system) as well as the Mauser BK-27 revolver cannon and AGM-65 Maverick, AGM-88 HARM, Storm Shadow and Brimstone air-to-surface missiles.

vi. Satellite imagery does in fact indicate that between Haddington and the river lie the remains of what is believed to be a former manor or grange, with a series of raised earthworks, ditches, ponds and a former medieval dovecote providing few clues as to the original form or function of the building, or to the ident.i.ty of its once wealthy inhabitants. There is however no current evidence to support these claims of recent excavation, or burial.

vii. Understood to be a reference to the Prince William of Gloucester (PWOG) barracks, located on high ground to the east of Grantham, overlooking both the town and all major northasouth routes. The base, while also serving as a logistics and training centre, is home to five squadrons of government army reservists known as the *Territorial Army'. These are soldiers not ordinarily resident within the barracks, but rather spread widely across the region, embedded in civilian positions and not uniformed until such time as their services are required. They are available to be called into service at very short notice, and can move to active patrol readiness within a matter of hours.

viii. Unconfirmed.

ix. Due to their ages at the time, and the lack of independent verification from the period in question, the exact route taken by the appellants and their a.s.sociates/guardians is impossible to verify. But it can be noted here that a walking route directly south from Ba.s.singham and Haddington would pa.s.s close by the PWOG barracks, and in any case through territory where any civilians may have been unidentified *Territorial Army' personnel. An alternative route is likely therefore to have led through the area around North and South Raunceby, heading towards the fens which run alongside Forty Foot Drain. On this route, visibility could have been clear as far as the coast, and any approach would have been observed from some distance. There are also in this area numerous culverts and ditches which serve to drain the fields, as well as a.s.sorted agricultural buildings such as sheds, workshops and barns, any of which may have been suitable as hiding places or places of shelter or refuge.

x. This chronology is supported by an extract from the testimony of Appellant F, in section 24.5 of transcript 72: *I was worried about it, yeah. Of course. I knew we weren't going to be back for like a long time. My mum was all worried because I was so young, and she was scared of what might happen on the way, and plus it was such a long way. Yeah, so. She asked me not to go. But everyone else was going, so we all got like up for it and that and we went. This was November that year like. I was eleven, yeah? We were just walking, yeah?'

xi. This appears to refer to a route taken through the areas formerly known as Cambridges.h.i.+re, Bedfords.h.i.+re, Hertfords.h.i.+re and Ess.e.x. The route is unlikely to have been direct, being influenced by local militia movements during the period in question as well as by the uncertain motives and navigational abilities of the appellants' guardians. The landscape along this route is for the most part of gently undulating farmland, dotted with quiet villages and isolated settlements and intersected by a network of river and ca.n.a.l systems. The relatively level terrain would have enabled the appellants and their a.s.sociates to cover larger distances than might otherwise have been expected, depending on the security conditions and the available diet.

xii. It may be pertinent here to reproduce an instructional leaflet which was apparently in wide circulation during the period in question [Archival Reference LNS-2029-ff-201.01]: *Careful preparations should be made before setting out. Appropriate clothing should be worn, including proper stout and waterproof boots. Clothing necessary to keeping warm and dry should be worn or carried. Dressing in layers is recommended. Sun-cream and a sun-hat should be carried, as well as waterproof jacket and trousers. [...] Take a small first-aid kit, and know how to use it: incidents may occur many miles from the nearest house or village, and even five miles can be a long way to walk with a broken ankle, shattered pelvis, or projectile wound. Never travel alone [...], even for short periods of time. Take care when lighting fires. Always boil drinking water. Keep out of watercourses or flooded areas wherever possible. Note local information on landmine placement and other UXO or IED hazard, where such information can be trusted. [...] Be very wary of strangers. Take careful note of weather forecasts and changing security conditions and be prepared to alter your plans accordingly. Never tell anyone where you are going. [...]'

xiii. Some notes on landmines and other explosive devices follow, and may serve to ill.u.s.trate this particular section of Appellant B's testimony (which remains unverified, if compelling). With acknowledgments to the Explosive Hazards Advisory Group. Landmines are a cheap and effective weapon which can be deployed across large areas by relatively untrained combatants. Whilst the injuries caused by landmines are often, by design, not immediately fatal, they can lead to death unless rapid medical a.s.sistance is provided. Injuries typically include the severing or partial severing of limbs, evisceration, concussion, and severe loss of blood. Unless the victim is evacuated to an established medical centre, wounds sustained in the field will be vulnerable to infection. Some types of mine will be immediately fatal; these include those targeted at vehicles, as well as the *bounding' type of mine designed to propel itself upwards before detonating its main explosive charge at a height of around three to five feet (i.e. waist- or chest-height). It should be noted that the strategic impact of landmines, and of Improvised Explosive Devices, is as much psychological as it is material; the loss of morale can be substantial, and the impact on the local civilian population is usually significant. Unauthorised movement of goods and personnel, and unwarranted refugee movements, can thus be easily prevented. When looking for landmines, visual clues can include ground colour distortion, depressions in the ground surface, variations in vegetation growth patterns, disturbed topsoil or even protruding elements of the device itself. A tactical understanding of the mine deployment can also provide clues. However, no path or area should be considered safe until it has been systematically checked, cleared, and declared as such.

xiv. See also the public testimonies collected in the publication, Some of the Boys Didn't Make It [Committee for the Support of Returnees, Edinburgh Free Press, Edinburgh].

xv. Historically, the depopulated areas of eastern Ess.e.x were celebrated for their attraction to the leisure rambler and wildlife enthusiast; reference is made in published guidebooks from shortly before the period in question to *an ancient landscape of windblown salt-marshes, home to many thousands of over-wintering birds as well as a variety of vegetation such as bee orchid, yellow-wort, southern marsh orchid, sea buckthorn, teasel and trefoil, where footpaths wind along flood-defence banks, pa.s.sing concrete pillboxes with rusting gun emplacements and an entrancing view of the coast.' Although it has been noted that during the period in question this area would have seen a population increase as a result of displacement from the urban centres, the appellants' claims in this section of the transcript do appear feasible and thus are considered valid for the purposes of appeal.

xvi. Verified. Note this reference, from the same guidebook referred to in FN xv: *Remember to bring your binoculars. Remember, also, that while this landscape can be evocative and memorable, it can also be disorientating, with many of the smaller paths and creeks not being marked on the map and tidal flows dramatically changing the topography within the s.p.a.ce of a few hours.' While the a.s.sociates and guardians travelling with Appellants B and E would have been familiar with wetlands and tidal flows as a result of their geographical origins, it is indeed likely that groups moving through the area from other parts of the country may well have made navigational errors, with results as described in this section of the testimony.

xvii. See also the testimony of Appellant F, section 27.3 of transcript 72: *Yeah but actually they wouldn't let us go and help. It was too dangerous and that. They told us we had to keep going.'

xviii. Much of this traffic was conducted not by political sympathisers but simply by economic opportunists, mainly drawn from a local population of fis.h.i.+ng crews and ferrymen whose economic activity had been curtailed by the security situation. The boats were often not suited to cross-Channel pa.s.sage, being typically overloaded and not stocked with life-jackets, food rations or other emergency supplies; pa.s.sengers were expected to bring any supplies they deemed necessary for the voyage. It is not known how many boats failed to complete the voyages, which were usually conducted by night, but the testimony here does imply that the proportion of failures was known or believed to be high.

xix. Disputed by Prisoner J.

xx. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxi. The following notes are drawn from an International Red Cross report referring to the period in question, and also from an account published in the Observer newspaper, with acknowledgments. The refugee centre on the outskirts of Sangatte, northern France, was based around a large warehouse building originally used by the builders of the now-defunct Channel Tunnel. Upwards of 1,600 people were housed there, in an International Red Cross operation which attracted much controversy. (It is perhaps worth noting in pa.s.sing that the centre was itself a successor to an earlier incarnation, many years prior to the period in question, which served to house the mainly African refugees and economic migrants attempting to gain entry to the UK.) The refugees slept in tents erected inside the warehouse, with newcomers or those for whom there simply wasn't room sleeping on the concrete floor in the s.p.a.ces between the tents. Toilet and was.h.i.+ng facilities were rudimentary, and often in a poor state of repair. Food rations, usually consisting of bread, soup and hot drinks, were served each day. The refugees were free to come and go, and often made the long walk along a busy road into the town, looking for work, or to make phone calls, or simply for something to do. The refugees tended to organise themselves into groups by nationality, and as their residence became longer-term tensions naturally arose between the different groups. Periodically, the centre was closed down or heavily restricted by the authorities, resulting in large numbers of refugees retreating to the woodland which lay along the high ground overlooking the coast.

xxii. Disputed by Prisoner J, in trial evidence which was ruled proven following sealed submission made by Control Order Subject 00345/B. [Archival Reference HC/7825/P34.03.87; viewing by application only.]

xxiii. This section of the testimony, referring to the forced clearance of all northern refugee sites by French militias believed to have been funded by rogue elements within the French government, is well supported by numerous doc.u.mentary sources both contemporaneous and retrospective. [See, primarily, vols 2a5 of The Displacement Testimonies, De Waarheids Uitgeverij, The Hague: a well-annotated collection of eyewitness accounts and official memoranda, in Dutch and English.]

xxiv. See also testimony of Appellant F, section 32.4 of transcript 72: *Yeah, they came with guns, with tanks, they killed loads of people, [...] some people.'

xxv. See also testimony of Appellant F, section 32.6 of transcript 72: *And loads of people were like abducted, captured yeah? I don't know what happened to them, I don't know what happened to them even now like.'

xxvi. See also testimony of Appellant F, section 32.9 of transcript 72: *The ones who could swim, they swam like. They weren't even [...] there was an attack [...] everyone got in and loads of people, they like I guess they drowned or something, they couldn't swim yeah? It weren't even that far to the boats, it was just like a few hundred metres or something. But I knew how to swim from when I was a kid [...]'

xxvii. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxviii. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxix. The appellants' chronology is inconsistent with the historical record here, although it should be noted that such confusion on the part of returning refugees is not unusual. It appears likely that the appellants spent a period of eight or nine years (following the five years in the area of Sangatte) in a series of displaced persons camps in the Netherlands. Their return to the former UK appears to have been prompted by the Dutch government's declaration that the draft peace agreement was in force and that displaced persons would no longer be supported within the territory of the Netherlands. It is likely that the appellants' return was via one of the cargo s.h.i.+ps which was utilised for ma.s.s repatriation at this time, disembarking at Tilbury (which was held, under the terms of the draft peace agreement, by opposition groups).

x.x.x. The following extract from a widely circulated public information sheet on internal travel, archived during the later stages of the period in question, may serve to illuminate this section of the appellants' testimony: *When declaring a lift-share request, choose a spot where approaching vehicles have both sufficient time to see you and sufficient s.p.a.ce to stop safely. Consider routes leading away from the roadside in the event of possible threat. Make eye contact with pa.s.sing drivers, but maintain a neutral expression. Be patient. Once a lift has been offered, briefly discuss your destination and that of the driver's while a.s.sessing the condition of the vehicle and state of the driver and other occupants. Whilst in the vehicle, make light conversation as prompted by the driver, taking care to avoid politics, religion or the recent security situation. Familiarise yourself with the door and window mechanisms adjacent to your seat; if the central locking has been activated you may still be able to effect an exit using the window.'

x.x.xi. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

x.x.xii. This seems likely. a.s.suming the appellants' lift-share arrangement left them deposited at the Newark/Winthorpe junction, Ba.s.singham would have been approximately ten miles distant, well within the scope of a day's walk if taking a route via Stapleford Wood and Norton Disney. However, given the changes in the local landscape (felled trees, demolished or partly destroyed buildings, new and significantly enlarged watercourses, earthworks, embankments, etc) which would have taken place during the fourteen years of the appellants' absence, the complex access-rights situation, and the expansion of military bases in the area, the appellants' claim that this journey took three days is presumed valid for the purposes of this appeal.

x.x.xiii. Reference to the military training area which spreads north from the A17 along both banks of the River Witham.

x.x.xiv. Aerial surveillance records have confirmed that on this date there was in fact a house on the northern outskirts of Ba.s.singham to which banners and ribbons had been fastened and in which an irregular number of persons had gathered. Haddington, of course, was not habitable at this time.

x.x.xv. Note that in common with many appellants and their dependants, a confusion has arisen here between military personnel and host officers from the security services. Records confirm that interception in this case was carried out by the latter.

x.x.xvi. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

x.x.xvii. The appellants appear unaware at this point that further appeal against the secure relocation process has been refused.

x.x.xviii. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

x.x.xix. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xl. Disputed by Prisoner J.

Thoughtful.

Newark.

She threw her pint gla.s.s across the garden and told him to just shut up. She threw the ashtray as well. b.l.o.o.d.y just shut up, she told him. He looked at her. He didn't say anything. He moved his drink away from her side of the table. She stood up and went to fetch the pint gla.s.s and the ashtray, tucking them both under her arm while she plucked the cigarette-ends from the damp gra.s.s and collected them in the palm of her hand.

She was thoughtful like that.

The Singing.

Thurlby.

She lay very still, trying not to let the sound of the singing slip away. It was so vivid, and yet so distant. This kept happening. She could never make out the words, if there were any, nor even quite a tune. She wasn't sure, really, whether it could properly be called singing. The sound was almost beyond hearing, but it seemed to bear some relation to falling drops of water, or to something molten. Something whispered, or filled with breath. She thought it was probably beautiful, and she missed it as soon as it was gone. This was what happened. She lay very still. She listened. She could hear her own breathing. The sound of the hot water in the central-heating pipes. The rush of pa.s.sing vehicles on the road. A tractor in the fields. Nothing that sounded like a song. It was gone already. It would bother her now for the rest of the day, she knew. Her chest ached from the effort of holding it still. Her eyes felt as though they'd been weighed shut, pressed down with b.a.l.l.s of cold dough and pennies. She tried to move her fingers. They felt rigid. She heard her breath like a whisper. She felt her blood moving thickly through her.

She had expected days like this, to begin with. That would seem to be the way things were. But she hadn't expected these days to continue for as long as they had, or to come so often and with such weight. She had thought she would find a way to accommodate this. But instead it had only seemed to grow.

She stood at the window. The light outside was thin. The cars on the road came one at a time, with great s.p.a.ces between them, moving too quickly, and the sounds they left behind were like smears. The light seemed to tremble in the distance, towards the horizon, where the day had already begun. She could see dust rising behind a line of tractors, where they were ploughing in the stubble. She could see birds heading out towards the sea. She thought she could see flames from a burning barn or haystack, but she couldn't be sure.

She turned back into the room. It was quiet. There were so many things to be done, and no one now to do them for.

Wires.

Messingham.

It was a sugar-beet, presumably, since that was a sugar-beet lorry in front of her and this thing turning in the air at something like sixty miles an hour had just fallen off it. It looked like a giant turnip, and was covered in mud, and basically looked more or less like whatever she would have imagined a sugar-beet to look like if she'd given it any thought before now. Which she didn't think she had. It was totally filthy. They didn't make sugar out of that, did they? What did they do, grind it? Cook it?

Regardless, whatever, it was coming straight for her.

Meaning this was, what, one of those time-slows-down moments or something. Her life was presumably going to start flas.h.i.+ng in front of her eyes right about now. She wondered why she hadn't screamed or anything. *Oh' seemed to be about as much as she'd managed. But in the time it had taken to say *Oh' she'd apparently had the time to make a list of all the things she was having the time to think about, like, ie Item One, how she'd said *Oh' without any panic or fear, and did that mean she was repressed or just calm or collected or what; Item Two, what would Marcus say when he found out, would he try and find someone to blame, such as herself for driving too close or even for driving on her own at all, or such as the lorry driver for overloading the lorry, or such as her, again, for not having joined the union like he'd told her to, like anyone was in a union these days, especially anyone with a part-time job who was still at uni and not actually all that bothered about pension rights or legal representation; Item Three, but she couldn't possibly be thinking all this in the time it was taking for the sugar-beet to turn in the air and crash through the windscreen, if that's what it was going to do, and what then, meaning this must be like a neural-pathway illusion or something; Item Four, actually Marcus did go on sometimes, he did reckon himself, and how come she thought things like that about him so often, maybe she was being unfair, because they were good together, people had told her they were good together, but basically she was confused and she didn't know where she stood; Item Five, a witty and deadpan way of mentioning this on her status update would be something like, Emily Wilkinson is sweet enough already thanks without a sugar-beet in the face, although actually she wouldn't be able to put that, if that's what was actually going to happen, thinking about it logically; Item Six, although did she really even know what a neural pathway was, or was it just something she'd heard someone else talk about and decided to start saying?

Item Seven was just, basically, wtf.

Meanwhile: before she had time to do anything useful, like eg swerve or brake or duck or throw her arms up in front of her face, the sugar-beet smashed through the windscreen and thumped into the pa.s.senger seat beside her. There was a roar of cold air. And now she swerved, only now, once there was no need and it just made things more dangerous, into the middle lane and back again into the slow lane. It was totally instinctive, and totally useless, and basically made her think of her great-grandad saying G.o.d help us if there's a war on. She saw other people looking at her, or she thought she did, all shocked faces and big mouths; a woman pulling at her boyfriend's arm and pointing, a man swearing and reaching for his phone, another man in a blue van waving her over to the hard shoulder. But she might have imagined this, or invented it afterwards. Marcus was always saying that people didn't look at her as much as she thought they did. She never knew whether he meant this to rea.s.sure her or if he was saying she reckoned herself too much.

Anyway. Point being. Status update: Emily Wilkinson is still alive.

She pulled over to the hard shoulder and came to a stop. The blue van pulled over in front of her. She put her hazard lights on and listened to the clicking sound they made. When she looked up the people in the pa.s.sing cars already had no idea what had happened. The drama was over. The traffic was back to full speed, the lorry was already miles down the road. She wondered if she was supposed to start crying. She didn't feel like crying.

Someone was standing next to the car. *b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he said. He peered in at her through the hole in the windscreen. He looked like a mechanic or a breakdown man or something. He was wearing a waxed jacket with rips in the elbows, and jeans. He looked tired; his eyes were puffy and dark and his breathing was heavy. He rested his hand on the bonnet and leaned in closer. *b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he said again, raising his voice against the traffic; *you all right, love?' She smiled, and nodded, and shrugged, which was weird, which meant was she for some reason apologising for his concern? *b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he said for a third time. *You could have been killed.'

Thanks. Great. This was, what, news?

She looked down at the sugar-beet, which was sitting on a heap of gla.s.s on the pa.s.senger seat beside her. The bits of gla.s.s were small and lumpy, like gravel. She noticed more bits of gla.s.s on the floor, and the dashboard, and spread across her lap. She noticed that her left arm was scratched, and that she was still holding on to the steering wheel, and that maybe she wasn't breathing quite as much as she should have been, although that happened whenever she thought about her breathing, it going wrong like that, too deep or too shallow or too quick, although that wasn't just her though, surely, it was one of those well-known paradoxes, like a Buddhist thing or something. Total mindlessness. Mindfulness. Just breathe.

*The police are on their way,' someone else said. She looked up and saw another man, a younger man in a sweats.h.i.+rt and jeans, holding up a silver phone. *I just called the police,' he said. *They're on their way.' He seemed pleased to have a phone with him, the way he was holding it, like this was his first one or something. Which there was no way. His jeans had gra.s.s-stains on the knees, and his boots were thick with mud.

*You called them, did you?' the older man asked. The younger man nodded, and put his phone in his pocket, and looked at her. She sat there, waiting for the two of them to catch up. Like: yes, a sugar-beet had come through the windscreen; no, she wasn't hurt; yes, this other guy did phone the police. Any further questions? I can email you the notes? The younger man looked through the hole in the windscreen, and at the windscreen itself, and whistled. Actually whistled: this long descending note like the sound-effect of a rock falling towards someone's head in an old film. What was that?

*You all right?' he asked her. *You cut or anything? You in shock?' She shook her head. Not that she knew how she would know she was in shock. She was pretty sure one of the symptoms of being in shock would be not thinking you were in shock. Like with hypothermia, when you take off your clothes and roll around laughing in the snow. She'd read that somewhere. He looked at the sugar-beet and whistled again. *I mean,' he said, and now she didn't know if he was talking to her or to the other man; *that could've been fatal, couldn't it?' The other man nodded and said something in agreement. They both looked at her again. *You could have been killed,' the younger man said. It was good of him to clarify that for her. She wondered what she was supposed to say. They looked as if they were waiting for her to ask something, to ask for help in some way.

*Well. Thanks for stopping,' she said. They could probably go now, really, if they'd called the police. There was no need to wait. She thought she probably wanted them to go now.

*Oh no, it's nothing, don't be daft,' the older man said.

*Couldn't just leave you like that, could we?' the younger man said. He looked at her arm. *You're bleeding,' he said. *Look.' He pointed to the scratches on her arm, and she looked down at herself. She could see the blood, but she couldn't feel anything. There wasn't much of it. It could be someone else's, couldn't it? But there wasn't anyone else. It must be hers. But she couldn't feel anything. She looked back at the younger man.

*It's fine,' she said. *It's nothing. Really. Thanks.'

*No, it might be though,' he said, *it might get infected. You have to be careful with things like that. There's a first-aid box in the van. Hang on.' He turned and walked back to the van, a blue Transit with the name and number of a landscape gardening company painted across the back, and a little cartoon gardener with a speech bubble saying no job was too small. The doors were tied shut with a length of orange rope. The number-plate was splattered with mud, but it looked like a K-reg. K450 something, although she wasn't sure if that was 0 the number or O the letter. The older man turned and smiled at her, while they were waiting, and she supposed that was him trying to be rea.s.suring but to be honest it looked a bit weird. Although he probably couldn't help it. He probably had some kind of condition. Like a degenerative eye condition, maybe? And then on top of that, which would be painful enough, he had to put up with people like her thinking he looked creepy when he was just trying to be nice. She smiled back; she didn't want him thinking she'd been thinking all that about him looking creepy or weird.