Autumn

1
    Carl Henshawe

    I was almost home by the time I knew that it had happened.
    It was still early - about half-eight I think - and I’d been out of the house since just after four. Looking back I was glad I hadn’t been home. It was bad enough seeing Sarah and Gemma lying there after it had happened to them. Christ, I wouldn’t have coped seeing it get them both. I just couldn’t have stood seeing them both suffer like that. I couldn’t have done anything for either of them. It hurts too much to even think about it. Better that they were gone and it was over by the time I got home.
    I’d been out on a maintenance call at Carter and Jameson’s factory five miles north of Billhampton. I usually ended up going there once or twice a month, and usually in the middle of the night. The bastard that was in charge of the place was too tight to pay for new machinery and too bloody smart to get his own men repairing the system when he knew that he could call us out. Didn’t matter what went wrong or when, he always got us out. He knew the maintenance contract better than I did.
    I was six miles short of Northwich when I first realised that something was wrong. I’d stopped at the services to get a cup of coffee and something to eat and I was just coming off the motorway when the radio started playing up. Nothing unusual about that - the electric's in the van had a mind of their own - but this was different. One minute there was the usual music and talking, the next nothing but silence. Not even static. Just silence. I tried to tune in to a couple of other stations but I couldn’t get anything.
    Like an idiot I kept driving and trying to sort out the radio at the same time. I only had one eye on the road, and the sun kept flashing through the tops of the trees. The sky was clear and blue and the morning sun was huge and blinding. I wanted to get back home so I kept my foot down. I didn’t see the bend in the road until I was half way round and I didn’t see the other car until it was almost too late.
    I slammed my foot on the brake when I saw it. It was a small mustard-yellow coloured car and its driver was obviously as distracted as I was. He was coming straight at me, and I had to yank the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid hitting him. I must have missed him by only a couple of feet.
    There was something about the way the car was moving that didn’t seem right. I slowed down and watched it in my rear view mirror. Instead of following the bend that I had just come round, it just kept going forward in a straight line, still going at the same speed. It left the road and smashed up the kerb. The passenger-side door scraped against the trunk of a heavy oak tree and then the car stopped dead when the centre of the bonnet wrapped itself around another tree trunk.
    There was no-one else about. I stopped and then turned the van around in the road and drove back towards the crash. All I could think was the driver was going to blame the way I was driving and it would be his word against mine and Christ, if he took me to court he’d probably have a good case. I kept thinking that I was going to lose my job and that I’d have to explain what had happened to the boss and...and bloody hell, I didn’t even stop to think that the other driver might be hurt until I saw him slumped over his steering wheel.
    I stopped my car a few feet behind the crash and got out to help. My legs felt heavy - I didn’t want to look but I knew that I had to. As I got closer I could see the full extent of the damage to the car. It had hit the tree at such a bloody speed that the bonnet was almost wrapped right around it.
    I opened the driver’s door (it was jammed shut and it took me a while to get it open). The driver looked about thirty-five years old, and I didn’t need to touch him to know that he was dead. His face had been slammed hard against the steering wheel, crushing his nose. His dead eyes gazed up at me, giving me a cold stare which made me feel as if he was blaming me for what had just happened. Blood was pouring from what was left of his nose and from his mouth which hung wide open. It wasn’t dripping; for the best part of a minute the thick crimson blood was literally pouring from the body and pooling on the floor around the dead man’s feet.
    I didn’t have a fucking clue what to do. For a few seconds I just stood there like a bloody fool, first looking up and down the silent road and then staring at the jet of steam